"Which is why I don't mind not getting thanked," Peggy said. "It's fear keeps us going, not a pat on the rump. Vigilance is its own reward. That's how Keith felt."

George looked at her in the rearview mirror. There wasn't a hint of nostalgia in her voice for her dead lover, nor did he see the loss in her eyes. Maybe she was one of those people who didn't cry in public, or perhaps not at all. He wondered how she would react when they reached the building where Keith had died.

There were at least three thousand people scattered across the large checkerboard of the Palace Square. They were facing a low stage and podium that had been erected in front of the General Staff Arch. Police were directing traffic away from the square, and Peggy told Private George to pull over before they reached them. He parked next to an outdoor café with brown umbrellas over every table, each umbrella advertising a different brand of beer or wine.

"The marketers didn't waste any time coming here," he grunted disapprovingly to Peggy as they stood side by side.

"They never do," she replied, then noticed that one of the police officers was looking at them.

George noticed him too. "They'll ID the car," he said.

"They won't expect us to stay in the area, though," Peggy said. "As far as they know, we've completed our mission."

"Don't you think our friend Ronash has already given them physical descriptions which are being faxed all over St. Petersburg?"

"Not quite yet," she said. "But we do have to get out of these uniforms anyway if we're going to leave as tourists." Peggy checked her watch. "We've got to meet Volko in an hour and ten minutes. I suggest we go inside. If we get stopped on the way I'll tell them we're from the Admiralty, which is a block to the east. I'll say we're just watching to make sure the crowd doesn't spill over. Once we're inside, we'll change, pose as a young couple in love, and make our way to the Raphael."

"Finally, a masquerade I can relate to," George said as they started toward the square.

"Don't like it too much," Peggy said. "We're going to have a little spat inside so I can stalk off and strike a conversation with Volko.

George grinned. "I'm married. I can relate to that too." The grin broadened. "Strikers among strikers," he whispered. "I like the irony."

Peggy didn't return his smile as they went around the fringes of the crowd in the Palace Square. George wondered if she'd even heard him as she looked at the orderly mob, at the sculptural grouping over the General Staff Arch, at her feet-- anywhere but the Hermitage itself and the river beyond, on whose banks Keith Fields-Hutton had died. He thought he saw dampness in the corners of her eyes and a heaviness in her step that he had not seen before.