Eight
Moving carefully, I locked the car. Then I straightened up and turned around. I could see the shadowy figure of someone standing beneath a tree.
“I prefer to see the person I’m speaking to,” I said. “If you don’t care to show yourself, I will go to my apartment. It is late and I have much work to do tomorrow.”
He chuckled and stepped out where the streetlight showed his face. I sighed, partly from relief and partly from anger. It was the man Irina had pointed out to me in the restaurant.
“I am Grigory Masinov,” he said, “of the KGB.”
“That’s very interesting,” I said, “but I fail to see what it has to do with me.”
“I am also sometimes known as Tolstoy. And you are Uncle Vanya.”
“Thanks,” I said dryly. “Tell me some more. Like why you come up to me with this story and why you’r
