CHAPTER THREEHis note was still on the table at home.
Mother, unaware where he’d been or how long he’d be gone, had written a kind of answer on it: Men in regular clothes with red badges and a local policeman came to see you. What is going on son?
The writing was devoid of any punctuation, and because of this Sasha sensed his mother’s bitter tone even more acutely. He put the note out of sight.
He touched a match to the burner and mechanically brought the kettle, having judged it full by weight, to the stove. Sasha was trying to determine his next move, and this is how he froze — kettle in hand — when the doorbell rang.
He felt weak and queasy, his mouth filled with cold and sour saliva, and his healing lip began to sting.
The flat was located on the fourth floor, and it was impossibl
