Elena was sleeping with a pillow over her head, and never budged. Alex tried to ignore it, but the hammering grew more obnoxiously insistent, until he could stand it no longer. He slipped on his bathrobe and tiptoed quietly to the door. He peered through the peephole. A middle-aged stranger in a cheap blue suit stood there, nervously looking around. Definitely FBI, Alex thought, though the demeanor was flagrantly different than the agents who tumbled their apartment on Saturday. This man appeared tentative, actually afraid. Alex opened the door. The man inspected Alex’s face, then asked in a low, raspy whisper, “You’re Konevitch, right?” “You know that or you wouldn’t be here.” “Yeah, guess I do.” “Should I invite you in or would you rather just burst inside like your comrades? There’s not much left to damage. A few chairs in the dining room. Two pictures we put back on the walls.
