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That was when the door to the hall burst open with a crack like a rifle shot。
Sato found his guest in the garden。 In the rain。
〃My dear friend；〃 he called from the dry sanctuary of his study； 〃you'll catch your death of cold out there。〃
Nicholas did not answer at once。 His shoulders were slumped as he sat on the stone seat； facing the swaying branches of the boxwood。 There was a fat gray plover strutting impatiently back and forth along a dry patch near the wide bole。 Every so often it cocked its head upward； its glaring eye seeming to curse the foul elements。
As for Nicholas； he barely noticed the wetness。 The kimono was soaked through and there was not a part of him that was dry。 It did not matter。 He knew now that Akiko and Yukio were two separate entities。
Deceit could only be taken so far。 A face could lie； for instance； whispered words； even a knowing glance。 But a body was different。 Response to an intimate touch； the softening； the opening； all these were unique。 They could not be counterfeited。
An unutterable sadness filled him at the thought that he had lost her all over again。 Of course it had been an impossibility that she should be alive。 Logic dictated that she had died by Saigo's hand just as he had described it to Nicholas； savoring each word's effect on his hated cousin。
Yet Nicholas； for the first time in his life perhaps； had not heeded logic。 He had thrown a lifetime of training and understanding out for the possibility of one desperate hope。 It was laughable and sad at the same time。
And he despised himself for the enjoyment he took from the adulterous joining。 Though Akiko was not Yukio； still； he had made love to her with more than his body。 Who she was and why she looked like his lost love became secondary to the knowledge that his heart was open to her。 If she were not Yukio； could he love her anyway？ By what magic was that possible？ Or had some vital piece of Yukio's somehow lodged in Akiko's soul？ In any case； he felt tainted； an outcast from himself。 His misdeed had lost him his centricity； and without that he was powerless in a world gone mad。
〃Linnear…san。〃 He could hear Sato's voice raised above the racket of downpour。 Then the older man was beside him； draping a clear plastic wrap across his shoulders。 〃Contemplation must conform to the elements which it honors；〃 he said softly。 〃I will leave you alone。〃
〃No； Sato…san。 Please stay。〃 Abruptly； Nicholas did not want to be alone。 He already felt too isolated； bereft almost。 All his youthful dreams were gone。 In the space of a thunderclap； wild hope had died。 But what； he thought； is a human being without hope。
〃This garden is most calming at all times of the day。〃 Sato moved beside him。 He opened his mouth to continue； closed it as a crack of thunder rolled across the sky。 〃I've often thought that it is the shouting of the gods；〃 he said。 〃Thunder。 I was awakened early this morning by the storm。 I drowsed； listening to its cries。 Almost human； don't you think？〃
〃Very human； indeed；〃 Nicholas said。 I must confess； he thought。 I must return harmony to my spirit。 〃Sato…san…〃
〃The Chinese taught our forefathers geomancy；〃 Sato said； forestalling Nicholas； 〃so that we might forever remain in harmony with the forces of nature。 We are not tigers； though we may strive to be。 There is a perfection in that lesser state to which we human beings can only aspire。〃
His eyes were liquid and soft as he looked down at Nicholas。 And； quite startlingly； he put his hand on Nicholas' shoulder。 〃Won't you e inside now；〃 he said； 〃and allow me to brew you tea？〃
Watching Russilov's ramrod…straight back disappear out the steel door； Protorov thought about how； after struggling for so many years to devote himself to the service of ideology； his life had taken on a personal cast。 Not creating a family for himself he certainly saw as proof of his overriding dedication to the eventual worldwide triumph of Soviet ideals。
But now he had Russilov。 How had that happened？ His intense feeling for the young man caused him to feel vulnerable。 And being vulnerable made him feel afraid。
Viktor Protorov had not been afraid for eight years。 Not since the death of his older…and only…brother。 At that time Protorov was head of the First Directorate； responsible for Russian internal security。 Creating an unassailable kingdom for himself within the Ninth Directorate； a bastion from which to strike outward at the right time； to lead the motherland onward to global victory； was just dawning on him。
In the winter of that year…a particularly bitter one； filled with day after day of heavy snow…he had many missions running。 All were important。 In those days he lacked the internal clout to request more men for his understaffed directorate。 He had learned to make do。 But because of the acute manpower shortage and the inclemency of the weather he was forced to physically oversee more missions than he should have。
Consequently he had been outside Moscow； far to the north； when they had brought in Minck。 Protorov had known of his presence inside Russia and had wanted him； badly。 A fluke had landed him early； and he was inside Lubyanka when Protorov's brother； of junior rank…a lieutenant…though he was three years older； learned of his presence。
Protorov had always done better than Lev； academically and socially。 Protorov knew how to speak to people； knew how to take exams； knew in his own mind what he wanted to be。 Lev was always the dreamer； unsure of which fork to take in a road； in which direction to turn his life。 He had always been afraid of making a mistake。
He had made a mistake that dark； snowfilled afternoon。 Even while notification of Minck's capture was being relayed to Protorov by the despicably unreliable wire system； Lev went into Lubyanka to interrogate the spy himself。 He wanted； no doubt； to prove to his younger brother that there was something he could do as well…and on his own。
He failed。 Somehow Minck was able to overpower him and； using him as hostage； break free。 Then he killed Lev； slaughtered him in the snow like a butcher。
They left him there in the storm； terrified to touch him before Protorov arrived。 There was little blood for him to see when； hours later； he returned to Moscow； the cold had congealed it； cauterizing the wound。 Still there was a gaping hole in Lev's left temple where the bullet had torn through the skull。 Protorov did not want to look at the damage inflicted on the back of the head； knowing that the devastation would be far worse at the egress point。 Quite deliberately he turned Lev's body over and stared at the carnage。 Snowflakes caught on his lids making vision difficult。 Still he persevered even as he ordered the manhunt for Minck and his fellow escapee； Tanya Vladimova。
Perhaps it was then that Protorov thought for the first time that there was too much pain to be borne in having a family。 Perhaps it was at that moment that he decided not to have one of his own。 For the sense of utter isolation； of a terrible vulnerability； was overwhelming。 He found himself hating the American named Minck far more than he had ever thought he could hate another human being。
Six months later he had awa