He was relieved to be again among the Russians. Nothing to do with his head, or even his heart, but in his soul: some kind of internal alignment or tessellation. He looked up at the clock on the wall above the brown lift doors. He'd lost two hours with the delays. But the London panic had given way to cool urgency, a calculating haste. There would be the visa and passport queues. There would be the usual wrangle with the taxi driver - unless he agreed up front to pay the tourist price. And then there would be traffic on Moskovsky. . . An hour and a quarter and he should be there.
- From Pravda by Edward Docx
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