But he didn’t ask that. He wasn’t an i***t.
Gorshkov arrived on a horse, heavily dismounting to the ground.
You could tell by his look that he had spent no less than half the night with Eichmanis at the same table.
“Sit down, Gorshkov,” said Eichmanis.
He sat down, looking at Artiom with surprise, who this time poured the vodka without being asked.
Gorshkov was, as most other Chekists were, a fat-faced, large fellow. Their breed, Artiom had long noticed, had amazing cheeks — such a cheek you definitely could not pinch. The meat on those cheeks was tight, hardened in constant work, as though these mugs only did one thing — sucked the marrow out of the toughest bones.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Eichmanis to Artiom, once again drinking without clinking classes and paying absolu
