PART THREE

I’m still hiding out here in Moscow, still unable to leave. The police are on the lookout: they’re searching for us persistently. I gave up my rooms in the hotel and have changed my disguise for the third time. I’m no longer Frol Semyonov, nor the Englishman George O’Brien. I live invisibly—without a name and without a home. During the day I wander around Moscow; toward nightfall I search for lodging. I spend the night wherever I can: today in a hotel, tomorrow on the street, the day after with some strangers whom I don’t even know—merchants, civil