12
In the morning, a sluggish Merinos once again bore down on the telephone, bearlike, stuffing his fat fingers into the dial.
“Alpheyev. Aleksandr, Leonid, Peter… Yes, that’s right. He’s called Konstantin Borisovich. From Moscow. Run a check, just in case.”
They promised to ring back the next day if they found anything. And indeed they did.
“Seems the KGB gang have their eye on your Alpheyev. He’s on their books, apparently.”
“Really?” Merinos was surprised. “What’s he done?”
“I don’t know. Anyway, expect visitors.”
And the phone rang again almost immediately.
“Faddey Savostyanovich?” his name echoed hollowly in the handset as if it were coming from the toilet. Merinos hated to be called by his name and patronymic; he winced silently. “I’m calling from the Komitet Gosudarstvennoi
