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her. Fear bled through his thick accent.
    Niki was more stunned than hurt, more surprised than frightened. Fedor stood on the sidewalk in front of her. Through the space between his legs, Niki saw a black Mercedes Benz emerge from the bowels of the embassy and stop at the street. The tinted side window slid open just enough to let a Russian voice escape. “Which way did the girl go?”
    “Towards the bay,” Fedor answered in Russian as he pointed down Baker Street. The car turned right, its tail lights quickly consumed in the thick air.
    “Fog is friend to Miss Michaels,” Fedor whispered to Niki.
    Niki stood up. “What the hell is going on? I was just trying to find my mother. How did they know about her?”
    “Please not to underestimate what they know—or don’t know.”
    Niki took a step backward. “Wait a minute. How did you know they were looking for me?”
    Fedor tapped his earphone. “This is not Walkman. You best to go now.”
    Niki didn’t move. “Why did you help me?”
    Fedor shrugged. “Do not trust Fedor. If they saw you, I say I catch Niki. Go before I change mind.”
    “I’m going, but if they wanted to ask me questions or something, why didn’t they ask while I was inside?”
    “It is not good for people disappear at embassy.”
    “Disappear? This is America, not Russia.”
    “Everyplace is Russia to Russians.”
    “What do they want from me?”
    “If Fedor knew answers, Fedor would work inside.” He looked about nervously. “Please, go.”
    Niki looked the big man in the eye. “I need to know what’s going on.”
    “And I need Fedor not disappear. Go.”
    “I’m trying to save my son’s life. There must be someone who could help find my mother.”
    Fedor looked about again, then whispered, “Perhaps Yuri to help, 921-5555.” He turned his back. “If I to see Niki when I turn back, I call black car.”
    Niki ran uphill, crossed Green Street, and scrambled up the sidewalk stairs along Baker Street. At a doorway, she ducked out of sight. The only sound was her heavy breathing, her racing heart. She repeated “921-5555” in her head, then pulled her notebook from her jacket pocket and wrote it down in the fading light.
    Headlights pierced the murk. Niki flattened herself against the doorway. A car labored up the hill. As silence returned, Niki peered out.
    A dark sedan sat uphill not two houses away. The Russian Consulate was below. Niki thought about home and the deer that waited until dusk, then walked invisibly across open fields. To run would draw attention.
    Niki waited for darkness to deepen before she walked from the doorway back down to Green Street. The consulate poked its nose through the fog just across the street. Niki turned and walked toward Divisadero Street as if she did it every day.
    A form stood in front of the consulate, perhaps Fedor. He seemed to stare right at Niki, then walked around the corner. There were no alleys, no yards to dash through. Niki walked slowly for a block, but broke into a run when the consulate was out of sight.
    Twenty minutes later, Niki stood again at the only safe haven she could imagine, the UCSF Medical Center, Mt. Zion Pediatric Oncology. The doors opened. This time she stepped inside. Out of breath and more bedraggled than ever, Niki talked to a white-haired receptionist.
    The kindly woman listened attentively, then looked at her watch. “It’s ten after six. Most of our counselors won’t be back until after Christmas. You should have come by earlier. You should have called.”
    “I called twice a week for two months, but it was doing no good. My son is dying. I’ve come all the way from Colorado. There must be someone here who could help me.”
    “I’ll see what I can do.”
     
    Dr. Leslie Baxter’s office was sterile, save several wood-framed diplomas on the wall and a miniature Golden Gate Bridge business card holder that sat on a wood-grained Formica desk. Dr. Baxter, old enough to be Niki’s mother, was preened