"You're not really sick?" Pashkov asked, sitting down on the bed.
"Not physically. But imagine my psychological condition. When I look in the mirror—" The colonel shuddered.
"I hope your sacrifice won't be permanent?" Pashkov said.
"That would be too much. How is my Russian? The truth, now."
"Excellent. Put up your gun, Zubov. Colonel James and I don't get to talk very often."
"And a pity we don't. Good manners accomplish more than an opera full of cloaks and daggers. Cigarette?"
"Gratefully accepted," Zubov said, slipping his gun into its holster with a flourish.
"Your treatment is over, then?" Pashkov asked. "You are ready for your assignment?"
"Ready."