How he got back to his room, Gleb never knew. When he found himself there, he went over and sat that the desk and rested his head in his hands. He had not been sitting for more than a few seconds when he abruptly straightened up again. It came to him like a clap of thunder that it would be impossible for him to go back to Russia. He would be killed almost at once. The word that he had failed to fulfill his mission would get out no matter how carefully he guarded it.

If he had been calm and composed, Gleb would have sat and coolly surveyed his options. As it was, in his current state, he simply returned his head to his hands. To make things worse, he suddenly realized that if he didn't go back immediately, then it was almost certain that he would never see Russia again. Russia was the only place that he had ever called home, the place where he had grown up, where all his memories were. Gleb felt damp on his hand and he lifted his head impatiently. This was no time to be acting like a little child! He stood up abruptly, shaking his head, and when over to his suitcase. With a sigh, he opened one of the inner pockets, and drew out the writing materials that he had brought along. If he wasn't going back to Russia, at least his superior would have an explanation.

-xxxx-

It was nearly midnight. The feeble gas light shone faintly over the desk and the pile of crumpled papers that surrounded it. Gleb sighed in frustration. H reached over and turned up the flame, then returned his focus to the letter. His adjustment to the gas did little to improve the dusky state of the desk. Finally, at quarter after twelve he gave up. Pushing back his chair, he got up and went over to the bed.

"I need light to think," he muttered. "These Parisians don't seem to know what it means."

He was at it again by quarter to seven the next morning. Finally finishing the letter to his satisfaction, he signed it, sat back, and read it through:

Deputy Commissioner of Leningrad Gleb Vaganov to Commissioner of Leningrad Borislave Gorlinsky

Comrade:

Upon thorough examination of the case of the supposed Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova impersonator, I have, by my authority as Deputy Commissioner of Leningrad, cleared the woman in question, Anya, of the charges of impersonation of royalty that where laid against her.

While it is my hope, comrade, that this report reaches you, I cannot promise the same for myself. Through circumstances that I cannot speak of at present, my situation here has become complicated. It will be difficult or impossible for me to return in the near future. If there are any changes in my situation that allow my return, I will be certain to communicate them to you to the best of my ability. At present, I can see no hope of this. I am as always

Respectfully,

Deputy Commissioner of Leningrad Gleb Vaganov

Gleb sighed. It was all true. His situation in Paris had deteriorated rapidly. Even worse, it was because of his own stupidity. He was angry with himself, angry with Anya, and angry at the Romanovs for refusing to stay dead. If their legacy could not be destroyed by a Bolshevik firing squad, how could a silly idiot like himself finish it? The knowledge that this was an excuse for a failing that was entirely his fault, did not improve his mood. Neither did the fact that he had eaten nothing since his hurried lunch the previous day.

Not daring to venture far from his hotel, Gleb ordered breakfast from the kitchen. He surveyed it rather coldly when it first arrived, but he was far too hungry to care for long. Over breakfast, Gleb took out the map that he had brought with him and surveyed the countries around France. He could go to Germany, he mused, or Spain. Then he frowned. While he spoke passable French, his knowledge of German was limited to such phrases as "hello", "goodbye", and "where can I find a bathroom?". These, while useful, would not be enough to go by and Germany was still a little too close to Russia for comfort. On the opposite side of France, however, he encountered the same problem. He knew even less of English than of German and of Spanish, he knew nothing at all.

I suppose I can get a language book and study my brains to pieces for a few days, he thought, but the longer I stay, the more dangerous it becomes and the harder it will be to get out. I must get out of Paris at least. I'll go south. At least that is facing away from Russia. The thought pricked like a thorn.

Several hours later, Gleb stood on the station platform, his collar up and his hat pulled low over his face. The weather had changed, and though it was spring in Paris, a fine, cold rain was falling steadily. The station loudspeaker announced the departure of his train and Gleb clambered aboard among the press of chicly dressed, dripping people. He noticed uncomfortably that his well-built frame, considered very tall in Russia, caused him to practically tower above these fancy French people. He hunched down in his seat, hoping that his posture would make him less noticeable, but he felt miserably certain that he still stuck out like a sore thumb, if only for his clothes.

Before he left for Paris, appropriate clothes had been procured for him, but one did not exactly travel in fancy dinner clothes and he had been forced to wear his rather plainer traveling costume from early on in his route from Leningrad to Paris. It was wool, of course, and the extra warmth that had been so friendly before now only served to add to his discomfort. He stared morosely out of the window.

By the time the train reached the town where he had decided to stay the night, Gleb was cramped, cross, and had a headache from the strong perfume that the woman next to him wore. She had desperately tried to make conversation with him at first, but finding him unresponsive to her efforts, she attacked the man on her other side who received her attentions with a more affable attitude. Her fastidious accent and chirping voice, as well as her perfume, were cloying. She also seemed to vastly enjoy turning to Gleb and asking his opinion on something she had said and then winking flirtatiously, until he had to fight the urge to either scream or order her to stop. Not that either would do much good, of course, he mused bitterly, and both would draw unwanted attention.

Nothing had ever sounded more welcome to Gleb Vaganov than the voice announcing his stop. He picked up his small bag and stood up. Glancing down, he saw the disappointed face of the perfume-covered lady.

"Partez-vous si vite?" she asked with an air of petulant disappointment. He gritted his teeth in annoyance and didn't answer. As he tried to step over her she grabbed his arm. Gleb's patience snapped. He jerked his arm away and glared at her fiercely. He had not been in a military position most of his life for nothing. The woman sunk back in her seat, lowering her eyes, and muttered something under her breath. Not waiting for more, Gleb stepped over her legs and those of the man on the aisle seat and walked toward the entrance as briskly as the general push and his stiff limbs allowed.

...

Partez-vous si vite - Are you leaving so soon?