Babel, meanwhile, had the inward-looking smile of a man committing to memory each detail of their encounter, and it made Korolev feel trapped, that small smile; as though Korolev were in the middle of a story still being written and over which he had no control. Perhaps it was that sense of powerlessness, or perhaps something more sinister, but he suddenly had a vivid sensation of imminent danger. Looking round the crowd, he could see nothing untoward, but the feeling persisted, and if seven years of war had taught him anything at all it was that such a feeling shouldn’t be ignored. He took Babel’s arm in a strong grip.“We’re getting out of here,” Korolev said and began to direct him toward the exit. The strength of Korolev’s hold seemed to shock Babel and he threw him an indignant look, which Korolev chose to ignore. Instead, he shoved at the backs in front of them and dragged the writer along, observing Babel’s confusion with some satisfaction.“Watch where you’re going, friend,”
