forward. 'Very much . . . regrettable . . .' he stuttered in heavily accented English. 'No permission . . . here . . . war base.' He waved at the floor again.
'Sit . please.'
When they still hesitated, the officer lost his patience and they were shoved down against the wall by the soldiers. Three remained, rifles ready, while the others withdrew to the far side of the room. At a brief word from the officer, they relaxed, dug, cigarettes out of their parkas and lit up. One of the soldiers, a corporal from the markings on his hat, stepped forward and tossed a pack across the room to Leycock. Leycock looked at Jones, who shrugged. Leycock dug one out and handed the pack to Gillon, who took one and motioned to his pocket for a match. The soldier shook his head in warning and produced a small box of wooden matches, which he tossed across the room. Gillon caught it and lit the thin, flattened tube and inhaled the heavy, greasy smoke, thinking that the cancer potential must be fantastic. Stowe, still angry, hurled the cigarettes back across the room.
'Damn it, this is ridiculous. There's got to be somebody in the place who speaks English
. . . or something besides Russian. This is nothing more than a lousy Communist stall . .
'Shut up, Stowe, before you get your head blown off. These people aren't fooling.' Jones sat back against the wall and stretched his legs out comfortably. But Gillon noticed that the hands he shoved into the parka's pockets were shaking slightly.
'You might as well make the best of it, because until someone comes to bail us out ..
'Maybe you think so . . .' Stowe started to get to his feet. The racketing blast of a carbine smashed through the room and splinters burst from the wall above Stowe's head. He sat down abruptly. The Tartar soldier that he had knocked down lowered the muzzle until it was pointing directly at Stowe's head, smiling in expectation. Gillon relaxed slowly and settled back against the wall, being very careful that he made no sudden moves. Jones, too, half on his knees, hands pressed against the floor to spring, subsided as the machine gun waved in his direction. Stowe leaned forward slowly, then turned back to stare at the line of splintered bullet holes just above his head. For once, he was completely speechless. The Soviet officer had been halfway across the room when the firing started; now he turned slowly, as if afraid of what he might see. His gaze raced over the four Americans and he exhaled in relief as he realized that the shots had been fired in warning. Before he could react further, the door on the far side of the narrow room was flung open and a second Russian officer strode in. He took in the room in one quick glance and without breaking stride, walked across to the young officer. His voice was quiet enough as he spoke in Russian, but it was too carefully controlled, his anger too obviously suppressed. The soldiers, surprised by the sudden shots and the even more sudden entry of the officer, were galvanized into action. The one with the carbine snapped to attention and the others retreated as fast as they could to the far side of the room. The first officer came quickly to attention, his face burning as he tried to explain. Apparently, he was successful, as far as Gillon could tell, because the newcomer nodded and snapped a single word. Both the soldier and the young officer were visibly relieved as he turned and strode across the room to stare down at the Americans.
`You are Americans?' he asked abruptly.
Jones nodded. 'Yes, we are Americans.'
Ànd what are you doing in the Soviet Union?'
Gillon could detect no trace of accent in his well-modulated voice. He could have grown up in any one of the northern mid-western states; the only fault Gillon could detect was the too exact pronunciation.
`What the devil do you mean, what are we doing in the Soviet Union? We are on a toppriority joint mission and our orders require us to report to a Colonel Andre
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