‘Will you walk with me?’ Coyne asked. ‘My hotel is not far from here.’ ‘Which hotel?’ ‘The Marco Polo. It’s just off the Tverskaya Ulitsa. Do you know it?’ ‘That’s a little close to the Militia headquarters for my taste,’ I said. ‘Oh but it’s opulent, the Marco Polo. It’s new, you know. It’s a symbol of the coming Russia. Of the coming, opulent Russia.’ ‘It sounds too expensive for the likes of me,’ I said. ‘The hotel?’ ‘The new Russia.’ He coughed. ‘[Expense,]’ he said in English, adding a word that I did not recognise, but which might have been a reference to Smolensk. ‘I’m American!’ he beamed. ‘I have a reputation to keep up! Come back to the hotel and I’ll show you. Perhaps a drink of vodka before we turn in for the night?’ ‘I don’t drink vodka.’ ‘I forgot. You and Saltykov, the only two adult human beings in the entire Soviet Union who don’t drink vodka. But perhaps you’ll have a coffee? Or a glass of water?’ ‘People seem strangely eager to press hospitality upon me today.’ ‘A testament to your sociability!
