He dreamed: cold snow, cold wind, crystal-black nights and needle-bright stars. He dreamed of ribbons of auroral color above the blank skyline, of the Soviet murals that decorated the foyers of the underground. He dreamed of good vodka and good friends.

When he woke up, he found that he’d left all that behind and exchanged it for a pale cream room with hospital bed, polarizing filters on the window and an amazonian nun in the corner. Perhaps the nun was optional; then again, for one to come as standard made as much sense as anything in his life ever did.

“How long?” he asked.

“Hour, maybe,” she said. She stood by his bed and looked around. “This must cost a fortune.”

“More than my modest insurance could afford.” Petrovitch pushed himself up with his hands and accepted the automatic movement of his pillows. Sister Madeleine looked down to see what her hands were doing—shaping and plumping—and she consciously stopped herself.

“So?”

Petrovitch leaned back. He could feel the tightness in his chest, but no pain. That was good. “Miss Sonja wanted to know who I was. The only way she could do that was to pick up the tab on my hospital bill. It’ll be no more than small change for someone like her, and she’ll consider herself clever because she’s found out who I am.”

Sister Madeleine shrugged. “You got something out of it too.”

“Yeah. Why do you think I didn’t tell her my name?”

She saw his sly smile. “You were dying, and you saw the opportunity to get a room upgrade?”

“And a private ambulance. I didn’t need her gratitude, I needed her influence. And look: I’m still alive.”

Her eyes grew large. “That’s, that’s…”

“What?” Petrovitch was nonplussed by her reaction. “Just because you didn’t work it out.”

“Why? Why would someone like you want to help someone like her?” She put her hands on her hips and waited for Petrovitch to answer. When he didn’t, she said: “You know what? I don’t care. I haven’t got the energy to waste on it. You know where to find me if you want your little box of tricks back.”

She strode to the door, the second time that day a pretty woman had turned her back on him and walked away.

“I don’t,” he said. “I don’t know where to find you. I wasn’t aware of where I was for the last five minutes or so of the chase.”

She faced the closed door. “So you want me to tell you? What if I don’t? What then?”

“I’ll work it out. It can’t be that difficult. Five minutes, maybe. Ten, then—tops. All I want is my bag back. Really.” He had no idea why he was having this conversation. “Sister?”