The young fellow said he was from the American government’s famous Federal Bureau of Investigation. Vladimir had worked for certain investigative services himself, back when he was a rising star in the Soviet hierarchy, and he knew what an inquisitor should look like. This frail boy fresh from college with his wire rim glasses and clean white shirt did not look like he could intimidate a child into telling the truth. Back home there had been KGB and State Militia who could butt down doors with their foreheads and toss a suspect around a prison cell the way hyenas toss about the last dirty scrap of meat. This skinny chap looked as though he should be decorating rooms for artistically inclined rich women. Petrovski had served the fellow tea, and the young agent had asked for a saucer. Then for a napkin. “A napkeen?” Petrovski had asked, aghast at the depths American decadence had reached. Back in Russia a member of the secret police would have eaten off the floor if he had to.
