Free The Sisters by Robert Littell Page A

timing. For the old man had been the hostage that kept Piotr Borisovich on the straight and narrow. With him gone, the Potter would be free to betray his last, his best sleeper-and then, if he moved rapidly, save him from the results of that betrayal.
    Carroll's cheeks were swollen from having swallowed a candy with finely chopped walnuts in it, and Thursday had trouble making out what he said.
    Francis provided a running translation. "He says you are to touch base with the West Germans. He says it is a matter of protocol."
    Carroll said, ". . . eason hern ang ound en u alk otter."
    "He says there's no reason for them to hang around when you talk to the Potter."
    "In other words," Thursday said, "I'm to skim off the cream, as we say in the trade, and leave the milk for them."
    "Ite," Carrol! mumbled.
    "Right," Francis repeated.
    "I'm to get three items from him," continued Thursday. He wanted to show that he had memorized his instructions. He ticked off the items.
    ". . . r ack eeee oes," said Carroll.
    "Or back he goes," translated Francis.
    "If he doesn't come across with the aforementioned items," repeated Thursday, "back he goes, on the next plane out, wife and all."
    "Ite." Carroll nodded, touching an inflamed cheek with his fingertips to make contact with his twitching
    nerve.
    "Right," Francis interpreted.
    "Un ore ing," muttered Carroll.
    "I got that," said Thursday, smiling brightly- "He said, 'One more thing.'
    Carroll glared at him over his half-empty box of candy. In the Company's early days, a good man Friday was seen and not heard. Still, they were lucky to have one as thick as Thursday. If anyone could carry out instructions without really understanding what he was doing, it was him.
    "Ve ev-ing," Carrol! said, "u unicate ith ol'ody, ot ven eetor. out is."
    Francis raised a pencil and tapped Thursday on the shoulder as if he were knighting him. "He says, above everything, you communicate with nobody, not even the Director, about this."
    Thursday giggled excitedly. "Mum's the word," he said.
    "You what?"
    "Svetochka couldn't abandon them like that, Feliks," she pleaded. "They would die of dehydration."
    The Potter strained to control himself. No matter how many times he went over it with her, she still didn't seem to grasp the situation. They had to walk out of the house as if they were coming back in two hours, and avoid at all costs making it appear that they were going away for a long time. Not to mention forever! "What exactly did you tell them?"
    "Svetochka didn't tell them anything," she insisted, fighting back tears. "Svetochka only asked them to water the plants."
    Above all, he must not make her nervous, he reminded himself. "It is not serious," he told her. "They may think we are going to visit the old man in Peredelkino for a day or so."
    Svetochka breathed a sigh of relief. "About my sister," she started to say, but the Potter cut her off.
    "Not a word," he ordered. "News travels fast. If you tell her, she will phone up her husband, and his brother works as a Merchant for the Center and will immediately suspect something if he hears I am leaving the country. You can always send her a picture postcard from Paris," he added.
    "Paris," she repeated wistfully, her round face relaxing into a distant smile. "Will she be jealous!"
    It wasn't the easiest thing in the world to turn your back and walk away from everything you had, you knew, you were. The Potter understood this more than most people. He had discussed it at great length with Piotr Borisovieh before he had turned Iris back (albeit on assignment). They had come to the conclusion that you had to bring something with you from your past, no matter how insignificant it was, in order to get a hook into the future. It provided a transition. It helped you keep your sanity when you finally realized that none of what was happening to yon was a dream-or a nightmare. When his time came to leave, Piotr Borisovieh had taken with him a small, well-thumbed