Massey didn't reply, just stood theresilently, then picked up the other Tokarev, silencer and magazine and handedthem across.

"For your friend. Let's not wasteany more time."

The telephone rang on Lukin's desk. Hepicked it up. Rizov's voice. "Major Lukin?"

"This is Lukin."

"I've done as you asked. One of theTurkmenistans claims he sold a bottle of ether to a woman two days ago at theKazan market."

Lukin grabbed a pencil and reached forthe pad on his desk. "Did he get a description of the woman?"

"Late thirties. Matronly build.Good-looking. Dark hair. Reasonably well dressed. The man I spoke to sometimessells anesthetics and drugs to the illegal abortion clinics, but this womanwasn't one of his usual customers. And she seemed to have no shortage ofrubles."

"What about the woman's name?"

"Are you joking?"

Lukin sighed. "Come on, Rizov, therehas to be more. That description could fit a quarter of the women inMoscow."

"The man never saw her before,that's what made him remember. He remembers seeing her getting into a CzechSkoda parked across the street. Also, the woman bought another drug. Adrenalin.And a single hypodermic syringe. He thought that was odd. That's all I'vegot."

Lukin thought for a moment. He knew ashot of Adrenalin could be used to give a person an energy boost to overcomeexhaustion. He had seen it used during the war. Someone in Stanski's positionmight need such a drug, to ward off tiredness. His pulse quickened. "Wasthere anyone else in the Skoda?"

"The man didn't notice."

"The color of the car?"

"Gray."

"License number?"

Rizov snorted. "Major, theseTurkmenistans in the black market can buy and sell like nobody's business, butthey can hardly read and write. License numbers they don't notice."

"There's nothing else your friendremembers?"

"Nothing, I swear it."

Lukin tore the sheet from the pad. Heknew Rizov was telling the truth, but it was still little to go on. It mightnot even be the connection he was looking for, but it had to be investigated,and fast. He sighed with tiredness and frustration. "It's not much. But Iowe you a favor."

"I suppose an exit visa would be toomuch to ask?"

"Don't joke, Rizov. I'm not in themood."

He slammed down the phone. He was alreadymoving toward the door when the telephone jangled again. He went back andlifted the receiver. It was Pasha's voice. "We need to talk, Yuri."

"It'll have to wait. I thought Itold you to rest."

"No, it can't wait. It'simportant." There was a pause, then Pasha said urgently, "It's aboutthe Wolf. It's about Stanski."

"What do you mean? What abouthim?"

There was another pause. "Meet me inthe Sandunov bathhouse in ten minutes. Ask for me at the door."

"Can't you come here?"

Pasha ignored the question. The lineclicked dead.

The faded wooden sign above the blackenedgranite building said "Sanciunov Public Baths."

The double oak doors were closed andlocked, but Lukin saw a splinter of light showing at the bottom. He knockedhard and waited.

He glimpsed back down the cobbled lane.It was deserted. He had left the car parked outside the Berlin Hotel around thenext corner and walked.

What the hell was Pasha playing at?

And why meet here; at this hour? Sandunovwas one of Moscow's oldest public bathhouses. Pasha had been coming here foralmost twenty years, and usually when in the evening, the steam rooms werequiet and he could have some privacy.

He heard the rattle of bolts behind theoak doors and turned.

A middle-aged woman wearina a blue smockstood in the doorway. Her hair was tied in a bun and her huge breasts seemed tounbalance her. "We're closed. Come back tomorrow."

"I believe Pasha Kokunko isexpecting me."

The woman hesitated. She studied himcarefully for several moments, then looked out into the lane before shegestured for Lukin to enter.

He stepped into a warm tiled hallway. Thewoman closed the door and slid the bolts.

Most of the lights in the entrance hallwere switched off, but across the hallway Lukin saw the cracked stone stepsthat led down to the bathhouse and the sweat rooms.

The woman crossed to the glass booth inthe lobby and came back with a thick white cotton towel and a bunch of birchtwigs tied with string. "Go down the steps and take the first door on theright. You'll find Pasha in the sweat room."

Lukin took the towel and birch twigs. Thewoman went to sit behind the glass booth and began counting a small mountain ofkopeck coins and stacking them in neat Piles.

Lukin went down the stone steps.

He stopped halfway and sucked in a deepbreath. He felt the warm steam mixed with a sharp fragrance of mint reach deepinto the pit of his lungs, and it instantly soothed him. At the bottom of thesteps he noticed that a glass door on the right was half open.

He stepped inside, He was in a dressingroom lined with metal lockers. Wooden benches were set in a square around thecenter. Off to the left, another glass-fronted door, fogged with steam, led toone of the sweat rooms. Behind the fogged glass he saw a moving blur of fleshand heard a faint swishing sound.

There were three stages to the ritual ofcleansing in the bathhouse.

First came the sweat room, where yousteamed and flayed your body with birch twigs until it burned red and the poresopened. Afterwards you washed your body with hot sponges to cleanse your skin.Then you plunged into the icy water pools once it became too hot. And finally,you relaxed in the refreshment lounge.

Lukin could feel a wave of heat from thenext room, pleasant after the icy air in the freczina streets outside. On oneof the wooden benches were Pasha's clothes. On another lay an enamel basin ofhot steaming water, obviously left for Lukin.

He undressed and laid his clothes neatlyon one of the benches. He left the metal hook strapped to his arm; it lookedugly and awkward. He placed the cotton towel over his head and soaked the birchleaves in the basin of hot water.

Then he opened the glass door and steppedinto the scented mist.

Pasha lay naked on a damp stone bench,looking terribly pale, a white cotton towel around his shoulders, a patch ofblood on his bandaged wound.

A bearded, elderly Uzbek wearing a towelaround his waist stood over him. The Uzbek was vigorously flaying Pasha'ssweating legs and buttocks with a bundle of damp birch leaves.

On the floor lay a small enamel tub ofhot water, fresh sponges and a small pile of mint leaves laid out on a woodentray. Next to the tray was a bottle of vodka and two glasses, and beside themPasha's worn leather briefcase. The Uzbek stopped flaying and looked around atLukin. Slit eyes squinted out of a cautious yellow face.

Pasha stirred and raised his bodypainfully from the stone bench. He saw Lukin and turned to the Uzbek.

"Leave us, Itzkhan."

The Uzbek nodded and went out. Pashawaited until he heard the outer door close, then gestured to one of the stonebenches.

"Sit down, Yuri."

There was something odd in his tone, butLukin removed the towel from his head and put it around his waist, then sat ona bench opposite. The steam room was hot. He put down the birch leaves; he wastoo tired to flay his skin. He watched as Pasha picked up one of the spongesand soaked it in hot water and began to sponge himself, his face strained withpain, although he seemed in no hurry.

Lukin said impatiently, "You saidthis was important, Pasha."

Pasha studied his face. "You looklike you haven't slept in a week.