He pulled the first bolt, then the second, working his way around the door. Finally, he gripped the handle and pulled.

Sorenson stumbled in, shoe in hand. Petrovitch shoved him hard toward the far wall and glanced outside. Everyone there was staring at him. He let fly with yob materi vashi and slammed the door shut again.

“What the chyort are you doing here?”

Sorenson stared at him wild-eyed. He was in the same clothes—shirt and shorts—that he’d worn yesterday, and Petrovitch guessed that he’d not been back to his hotel at all.

“You were right,” he muttered. “So now I need your help.”

“You want what?” said Petrovitch. He reached for his trousers and dragged them on. “Why do you think I’d be either willing or able to help you? And how the huy did you get my address?”

Sorenson walked toward the chair and looked like he was about to sit down.

“No. You’re not staying.” Petrovitch jammed his feet into his boots and started to lace them with controlled savagery. “Who told you where I live?”

“Chain.” Sorenson stuck his hands in his back pockets. “I went to see him.”

“And you just happened to mention my name. Thanks, pidaras!”

“He wouldn’t give me anything otherwise. Then he said he’d arrest me for money laundering if I took so much as one red cent off Oshicora. So I’ve come to you: we’ve got some planning to do.”

“We?” Petrovitch threw on his jacket and his courier bag. “Let me say this in words even you might understand: I wouldn’t plan so much as a piss-up in a brewery with you because you’re a fucking idiot.”

Sorenson winced.

“What? Your little Reconstructionist soul shrinking at the bad language the nasty Russian is using? Get used to it, because you’ll be hearing plenty more.” He stamped to the door. “Get your shoe on, you raspizdyai kolhoznii. Now tell me you have money.”

“I’ve money.” Sorenson dropped his shoe and shuffled his foot into it.

“Good. Now get going: you’re buying breakfast.” Petrovitch hauled his door open, shoved Sorenson out into the corridor and heaved the door shut. He waited for the bolts to clang back into place, before blazing a trail down toward the first stairwell.

Eventually, Sorenson caught up. “Petrovitch, what is this place?”

“Domiks, after the shipping containers used to build them. It’s where refugees like me live.”

“I thought you were a student.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not a refugee. Now,” said Petrovitch, shouldering a fire door, “straight to the bottom, and if you value what’s left of your life, don’t look at anyone.”

“I made it up here all right.” Sorenson blustered.

“All it means is that they’re waiting for you on the way down. Go, and keep your mouth shut. Yankees aren’t exactly flavor of the month.”