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led from the Hotel Europa to street level.
    A tall, serious-faced man of thirty-eight, Winthrop was described in his passport as a writer, but writing can hardly have been on his mind as he checked his watch and walked out of the Hotel Europa. 2.55 pm. Reaching street level, he turned left and began trudging through the snow towards Nevsky Prospekt.
    Overhead the sky was swollen with the threat of more snow to come and there were very few people about; in this northern latitude it would be dark within thirty minutes. In fact, the street lamps were already glowing, their light re flecting weirdly off the snow as Winthrop arrived on Nevsky Prospekt and glanced cautiously along the broad avenue in both directions. He gave the impression of a man unsure whether it was safe to cross, but really he was checking three cars parked on the far side of the avenue.
    The Intourist guide, Madame Vollin, who had accompanied him on each trip to the Hermitage since he had arrived from Helsinki five days ago was nowhere to be seen - not inside one of the parked cars, not gazing into any of the dimly-lit shop windows behind the vehicles, so she must have accepted his word that he wouldn't be going back to the Hermitage today, that he was too tired to look at any more Rubens. He hesitated, waited until a trolley-bus was close, which gave him another excuse to wait a little longer, to double check.
    On the far side of the almost-deserted avenue a youth in a black leather jacket rushed round a corner, rammed a key into a car door, opened it and then waited as a girl followed him round the corner. A red-haired girl, she wore a tight-fitting mini coat, and she began punching the youth as soon as she got close to him. Winthrop smiled dryly as the trolley-bus rumbled past, the traction flashing blue sparks off the ice-coated wire: even the Russians had a juvenile problem, especially when the juveniles were offspring of high-up Party officials. He began to cross the wide street.
    Not by chance, Winthrop could easily have been mis taken for a Russian: he was wearing a fur coat, a fur hat and knee-length boots purchased from the GUM store three days after his arrival. 'I didn't realize it would be as cold as this,' he explained to Madame Vollin. As he reached the far side and walked past the young couple who were still arguing, he checked his watch.
    2.58 pm. Two minutes to the meeting-place he could see as he walked, the little tree-lined park further down the Nevsky. He trudged along the avenue with his gloved hands thrust deep inside his coat pockets, the art catalogue tucked under his arm, taking the same route to the Hermitage Museum at the Winter Palace lie had followed for five days with Madame Vollin at his side. The little tree-lined park came closer. He could see the statue of Lenin by the path and in the distance a short, stocky figure had turned off the Nevsky, was already inside the park. Was this the seaman? Winthrop entered the park.
    Winthrop had never met Peter Gorov, the brother of Michael Gorov, the oceanographer, and he strained his eyes to check three details before the man reached him. The duffle bag - carried under the arm instead of over the shoulder, the normal way Soviet seamen carried it. Check. A red scarf wrapped round his neck. Check. But there was one further detail and the light was fading badly. Winthrop kept his slow, casual pace. The third detail was a button, a single white button at the top of the coat while the other buttons would be dark-coloured. Jesus, he couldn't see that at all. A militiaman - a policeman - trudged into the park from the far end and started walking up behind the seaman.
    Winthrop's heart skipped a beat but he maintained the same pace. It had happened - the unforeseen factor which could ruin everything, make the contact impossible. A fresh fear tingled Winthrop's nerves - was the policeman follow ing Gorov? It didn't seem likely: it was too open a tag. Get a grip on yourself, man! Helsinki,