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Friday, 5:50 P.M., St. Petersburg
“Pavel,” said Piotr Volodya, “I don’t understand.”
Pavel Odina squeezed the steering wheel tightly. He looked
unpleasantly at the man sitting next to him in the passenger’s
seat of the van. “You don’t understand what, Piotr?”
“You forgive the French,” Piotr replied, scratching a wool y
sideburn, “so why not the Germans? Both of them have invaded
Pavel frowned. “If you can’t see the difference, Piotr, you’re a
“That’s not an answer,” said Ivan, one of four men seated in the back.
“It happens to be true,” grinned Eduard, who was seated
beside him, “but Ivan is right. It isn’t an answer. ”
Pavel shifted gears. This was the part of the nightly, half-hour
commute to the Nepokorennykh Prospekt apartments that he
hated most. Just two minutes out from the Hermitage, they had
to slow as they neared the bottleneck at the Neva River. They
were mired in traffic while his political nemeses were
proceeding at ful speed.
Pavel pul ed a neatly rol ed cigarette from his shirt pocket and
Piotr lit it for him.
“You stil haven’t answered me,” Piotr said.
“I wil ,” Pavel insisted, “when we’ve gotten onto the bridge. I can’t think and curse at the same time.”
Pavel swung the van suddenly from the center lane to the left
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