The husband, he saw once: a small mole of a man, spectacles perched on his greying head, scurrying to the bank in the centre of town; Estonian bankers could act as conduits to Swiss lenders, and he worked for members of the party; Communist wealth secreted away in the West. Hence all the money; it was from the estates of White Russians, he thought, of princes and counts. Well, so be it. Vladek—or Yuri, as he currently thought of himself—believed in the survival of the fittest.

He considered killing the banker. But it was too dangerous. The man was not a fat buffoon he could dump under the snow like Ivan. He would be missed; people would talk. A shame, since Yuri hated the thought of that slug pawing at his woman, his property. He wanted to live in the townhouse, openly. He wanted to spend that money without it coming from Natasha. Why should the banker have a right to it? He was a thief, too, except he did it via telegram and Swiss francs.

After a few months, he sensed danger. People in the square—not talking openly, but he sensed the glances, the whispers when he and Natasha walked by. That was enough; Yuri prided himself on his escape skills. He had no need to be warned twice. Besides, it was already time to move on. Not from Natasha; he felt generous towards her; she was still his woman and swore she loved him. No, he would take her, even though the supple curves of her body were starting to lose some of their charms. The tiniest lines around her eyes were minutely deepening; the tone of her skin fading, just a little, but he noticed it all. Yet she pleased him, and he determined to keep her. But it was time to leave Tallinn. It had served its purpose. He was no longer a street rat, an urchin with scuffed shoes and ragged hair. He was now well-dressed, -bathed, and -clad; he was on the way to the man he would become; he had taken the first steps to his great destiny.

Estonia—all the lands of the Soviets—had nothing for him now. It was time for London, for Washington, or for Rome. Great men did not live here. Perhaps Moscow ... but even Moscow was cold and dark, not enough of a theatre for him.

Yuri never doubted himself. And so insistent was he on escape, that Natasha did not doubt him either. After one conversation, she passionately committed herself. She would flee with him, north, over the wastes, into Finland. He warned her that she risked torture and death if caught. She answered that she did not care, that life without him would be the cruellest torture.

It was a good answer. He set their plans in motion.

Chapter 38

Chapter 38