He made his way through the congratulatory crowd, answering their hoots with a spare nod. An eddy of heat rose from his stomach; he was thinking about Erich Franke and the closeness of it. He put the crowd behind him and advanced toward the officials-only car park with the hard sun in his face. Someone spoke to him and he replied with detached courtesy without breaking stride. He saw two people silhouetted beside the gate; he said, “Well then—this is a surprise,” but he was too washed-out to put inflection in it. Irina Markova’s eyes were kind; it was an unusual expression on her. “Was that deliberate—what the German tried to do?” “Yes.” He shook hands with Alex Danilov. Alex’s long face seemed distracted. “I need a word with you.” The tone of his voice made it more than an idle invitation. He glanced into the car park. Drivers and pfficials were pulling out. He said, “Have you got a car with you?” “Yes.” “I was going to borrow DeFeo’s to get to the airport.
