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Presidium and called Krupskaya and his associates a band of maniacal killers. That was not true; there was never any mania in the work of the Istrebiteli, it was too methodical. Regardless, suddenly one day Aleksie Krupskaya was no longer seen at the Lubyanka.
    Yet there were other rumors. Those that spoke of documents prepared by Krupskaya, hidden in some remote place, that were his guarantees to a personal old age. It was said these documents incriminated various leaders of the Kremlin in scores of killings—reported, unreported, and disguised. So it was presumed that Aleksie Krupskaya was living out his life somewhere north of Grasnov, on a
fverma,
perhaps, growing crops and keeping his mouth shut.
    He had been the finest teacher Vasili had ever had; without the old master’s patient instructions, Taleniekov would have been killed years ago. “Where is he?” asked Vasili.
    “We brought him down to our flat. He kept pounding on the floor—our ceiling. We ran up and found him.”
    “We?”
    “My sister and I. He’s a good old man. He’s been good to my sister and me. Our parents are dead. And I think he will soon be dead, too. Please, hurry, sir!”
    The old man on the bed was not the Aleksie Krupskaya Taleniekov remembered. The close-cropped hair and the clean shaven face that once displayed such strength were no more. The skin was pale and stretched, wrinkled beneath the white beard, and his long white hair was a bird’s nest of tiny thin strings, matted, separated, revealing splotches of grayish flesh that was Krupskaya’s gaunt skull. The man was dying and could barely speak. He lowered the covers briefly and lifted a blood-soaked cloth away from the perforated flesh of a bullet wound.
    Virtually no time was spent on greetings; the respect and affection in each man’s eyes were sufficient.
    “I widened my pupils into the death-stare,” said Krupskaya, smiling weakly. “He thought I was dead. He had done his job and ran.”
    “Who was it?”
    “An assassin. Sent by the Corsicans.”
    “The Corsicans? What Corsicans?”
    The old man took a long, painful breath, gesturing for Vasili to lean closer. “I will be dead before the hour is gone, and there are things you must be told. No one else will tell you; you are the best we have and you
must
be told. Above all men, you have the skills to match their skills. You and another, one from each side. You may be all that’s left.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “The Matarese.”
    “The
what?
”
    “The Matarese. They know I know … what they are doing, what they are about to do. I am the only one left who would recognize them, who would dare speak of them. I stopped the contacts once, but I had neither the courage nor the ambition to expose them.”
    “I can’t understand you.”
    “I will try to explain.” Krupskaya paused, gathering strength. “A short while ago, a general named Blackburn was killed in America.”
    “Yes, I know. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. We were not involved, Aleksie.”
    “Are you aware that
you
were the one the Americans believed the most likely assassin?”
    “No one told me. It’s ridiculous.”
    “No one tells you much anymore, do they?”
    “I don’t fool myself, old friend. I’ve given. I don’t know how much more I have to give. Grasnov is not far distant, perhaps.”
    “If it is permitted,” interrupted Krupskaya.
    “I think it will be.”
    “No matter.… Last month, the scientist, Yurievich. He was murdered while on holiday up in a Provasoto
dacha,
along with Colonel Drigorin and the man, Brunov, from Industrial Planning.”
    “I heard about it,” said Taleniekov. “I gather it was horrible.”
    “Did you read the report?”
    “What report?”
    “The one compiled by VKR—”
    “Madmen and fools,” interjected Taleniekov.
    “Not always,” corrected Krupskaya. “In this case they have specific facts, accurate as far as they go.”
    “What are these supposedly accurate