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Salvador, for example. In the end it had not happened: Jean-Pierre had been accepted immediately by Médecins pour la Liberté . He had told Raoul the good news, and Raoul had said there would be another meeting with Leblond. Perhaps this was to do with that. “But why the panic?”
    “He wants to see you now.”
    “Now?” Jean-Pierre was annoyed. “I’m on duty. I have patients—”
    “Surely someone else will take care of them.”
    “But what is the urgency? I don’t leave for another two months.”
    “It’s not about Afghanistan.”
    “Well, what is it about?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Then what has frightened you? wondered Jean-Pierre. “Have you no idea at all?”
    “I know that Rahmi Coskun has been arrested.”
    “The Turkish student?”
    “Yes.”
    “What for?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “And what is it to do with me? I hardly know him.”
    “Monsieur Leblond will explain.”
    Jean-Pierre threw up his hands. “I can’t just walk out of here.”
    “What would happen if you were taken ill?” said Raoul.
    “I would tell the Nursing Officer, and she would call in a replacement. But—”
    “So call her.” They had reached the entrance of the hospital, and there was a bank of internal phones on the wall.
    This may be a test, thought Jean-Pierre, a loyalty test, to see whether I am serious enough to be given this mission. He decided to risk the wrath of the hospital authorities. He picked up the phone.
    “I have been called away by a sudden family emergency,” he said when he got through. “You must get in touch with Dr. Roche immediately.”
    “Yes, Doctor,” the nurse replied calmly. “I hope you have not received sad news.”
    “I’ll tell you later,” he said hastily. “Good-bye. Oh—just a minute.” He had a postoperative patient who had been hemorrhaging during the night. “How is Madame Ferier?”
    “Fine. The bleeding has not recommenced.”
    “Good. Keep a close watch on her.”
    “Yes, Doctor.”
    Jean-Pierre hung up. “All right,” he said to Raoul. “Let’s go.”
    They walked to the car park and got into Raoul’s Renault 5. The inside of the car was hot from the midday sun. Raoul drove fast through back streets. Jean-Pierre felt nervous. He did not know exactly who Leblond was, but he assumed the man was something in the KGB. Jean-Pierre found himself wondering whether he had done anything to offend that much-feared organization; and, if so, what the punishment might be.
    Surely they could not have found out about Jane.
    His asking her to go to Afghanistan with him was no business of theirs. There were sure to be others in the Party anyway, perhaps a nurse to help Jean-Pierre at his destination, perhaps other doctors headed for various parts of the country: why shouldn’t Jane be among them? She was not a nurse, but she could take a crash course, and her great advantage was that she could speak some Farsi, the Persian language, a form of which was spoken in the area where Jean-Pierre was going.
    He hoped she would go with him out of idealism and a sense of adventure. He hoped she would forget about Ellis while she was there, and would fall in love with the nearest European, who would of course be Jean-Pierre.
    He had also hoped the Party would never know that he had encouraged her to go for his own reasons. There was no need for them to know, no way they would find out, normally—or so he had thought. Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps they were angry.
    This is foolish, he told himself. I’ve done nothing wrong, really; and even if I had there would be no punishment. This is the real KGB, not the mythical institution that strikes fear into the hearts of subscribers to the Reader’s Digest.
    Raoul parked the car. They had stopped outside an expensive apartment building in the rue de l’Université. It was the place where Jean-Pierre had met Leblond the last time. They left the car and went inside. The lobby was gloomy. They climbed the curving staircase to the