Khartov's cigarette almost dropped out of his mouth when he opened it to speak, but he caught it hastily in long, strong fingers and stubbed it out on a magazine.

"What?" he said, bemused and unsure. "The...you mean Barshai? What do you want with him?"

He ran a hand over his head.

"Is Major Isaev concerned? Did he tell you to check up on me? The dancer is fine, comrade- the picture of health. You're the one who wrecked his face- I've guarded him just like I was ordered."