There was an almighty harsh metalliccrash as the MIL yawed into the massive pylon and then the noise of the bladesdied abruptly and the helicopter sank in a burst of flame.

Leningrad. February 27th The tram haltedon the Nevsky Prospect and Anna and Stanski climbed down.

It was early afternoon and trafficclogged Leningrad's broad main street. He took Anna's hand as they walked alongthe lengthy crowded avenue. It had started to snow and the entire stretch was achaos of noise and pedestrians.

The Alexander column in the Winter Palaceand the magnificent dome of St. Isaac's Cathedral rose behind them in thedistance. The lime-colored Tsarist buildings lining the canals that ran eitherside of the Nevsky Prospect looked dazzling in the snow, easing the generalimpression of grayness. But on almost every side street there were still ruinsstanding from the war, blackened shells of buildings half demolished orsupported precariously with struts of heavy timber, testament to a siege thathad lasted almost a year, destroyed nearly half the city, and cost the lives ofover half a million of its inhabitants.

Strung across Nevsky Prospect was a giantbanner of a beaming Joseph Stalin, smiling down at the traffic trundling past:trucks and cars, buses and trolley cars and trams; German BMWS and Volkswagensand Opels, surrendered or abandoned by a defeated Nazi enemy and gratefullyconfiscated by the city's wrathful population.

Stanski stared up at the banner ofStalin, then turned to Anna as they walked through the crowd. She was tired andpale and there was a look of tension in her eyes.

They had abandoned the Emka on a sidestreet in the suburb of Udeinay, ten kilometers away, taken a bus to the edgeof the city and then one of the yellow city trams the rest of the way. Withinhalf an hour they were in the center of Leningrad.

When they reached the corner opposite themain railway station for Moscow, Stanski found a telephone coin box and dialedthe number.

The thin-faced man placed three tumblersof vodka on the shabby table, He drank one quickly and looked at the man andwoman before wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve and smiling over.

"Drink up. You're going to needit."

The man was middle-aged, and his dark,lean face showed no sign of nervousness.

He was a Ukrainian nationalist, and afterthe war he had lived in Paris as a refugee, working as a photographer, untilthe Americans had helped send him into Russia with the identity of a Sovietprisoner-of-war caught up in the advancing Allied lines at G6ttingen. Once hehad been handed over with hundreds of other Russian soldiers there had beenweeks of brutal interrogation at the hands of the KGB, and even then he had toendure two years in the Gulag for his supposed mistake of being caught by theGermans.

After that it was easy.

He got a job in the photography studionear the Petrograd Embankment and took flattering photographs of seniorofficers from the Leningrad Naval Academy. They were so pleased they came backto him with their friends and families and now and then he took shots of themand their comrades at naval functions.

Every month he delivered copies andbiographies of interest to an immigrant agent in Leningrad, to be passed ondown the line to the immigrant office in Paris, and eventually to theAmericans.

A dangerous job. But he was getting hisown back at the Reds for what they had inflicted on his country.

He had met the couple in the park nearthe Winter Palace an hour after the phone call to his studio. He took them onseveral roundabout tram rides back to his home, not testing until they sat inthe filthy two-roomed tenement off an alleyway along the Moika Canal nearNevsky Prospect.

"What's the problem?" askedStanski.

"Everything you've told me suggestsa problem. You're both fucked, or my name isn't Vladimir Rykov." He looked,it Anna and shrugged as he blew out smoke and offered the pack to his guests."There's really no other way of putting it, I'm afraid, my dear."

As Stanski accepted a cigarette, suddenlyacross the landing a couple could be heard arguing at the tops of their voices,swearing at each other, doors banging and voices raised. A scream curdled theair; there was the sound of someone being slapped and a voice boomed, "Getyour hands off me, you filthy pig!"

Vladimir raised his eyes toward the doorand half smiled. "Love. Where would we be without it? Russians like toargue and throw things. What they can't do to authority they do at home."He nodded toward the door. "Don't worry about those two, they're at itnight and day. Any moment you'll hear the door banging, the husband will callhis wife a bitch, and then he'll be off to get drunk."

At that moment a door slammed, an angryvoice shouted, "Bitch!" and footsteps clattered down the stairs.

Vladimir laughed. "See? If onlyeverything in life was as reliable as my neighbors." Stanski said,"You were about to tell us why we're in trouble."

The man looked back and sucked on hiscigarette. "For two reasons. Number one, from what you told me the KGB andmilitia are doubtless going to be looking for you. Number two, whatever routeyou take is going to be difficult."

"We could leave if you'reworried," Stanski offered. "But we've nowhere else to go."

Vladimir shook his head resignedly."Don't worry about me.

My worry went out the door with the war.I lost my wife and family. There's only me left. What is there to worryabout?"

He stood and reached for the vodka."Let the bastards shoot me if they want."

He refilled his glass as Stanski stoodand crossed to the window and looked down. There was a small courtyard belowthat led in from an archway on the street. At one end of the courtyard wall wasa line of padlocked wooden doors belonging to what looked like outside storagerooms for the tiny flats. The yard was littered with refuse and patrolled byscrawny, scavenging cats.

Stanski had explained about the incidentwith Lukin, the KGB major. Not because he wanted to but because whateverhappened from now on would affect their journey and perhaps put Vladimir indanger. But he had been surprisingly unruffled by the information.

Stanski looked back at him. "We haveto get to Moscow somehow."

Vladimir stubbed out his cigarette, torea hunk of bread off the loaf and chewed. Then he washed it down with a mouthfulof vodka and wiped his mouth.

"Easier said than done. By rail,there's the Red Star express. It runs overnight between Leningrad and Moscowand takes twelve hours. But given what you've told me the railway station willprobably be watched. Flying's the quickest way. Aeroflot flies to Moscow everytwo hours. But tickets are hard to come by and you'd,probably have to wait acouple of days to get them, and that's if you're lucky. And no doubt the KGBand militia will be watching the airport too, just like the railway stations.Of course, you could always steal a car and drive, but that takes a day and ahalf allowing for rest stops and you'd be only asking for trouble if you werestopped at a checkpoint in a stolen car."

"What about traveling by bus?"

Vladimir shook his head. "There'sbus service, of course, but no direct one to Moscow. You'd have to change everyso often and the journey could take days. It's damned awkward if you don't knowyour way."

Stanski looked over at Anna and sighed inexasperation. She stared back at him, then she said to Vladimir, "Theremust be some other way?"

Vladimir grinned and spat a fleck oftobacco on the floor. "Maybe." He thought a moment, then looked atthem. "I've got an idea, It may work. Come, I'll show you."

He headed toward the door and Stanski andAnna followed.