Bertram breathed deeply of fresh air when they emerged from the station.
“Can I get into a hotel?” he asked presently.
“Can you do what?”
Christy laughed quietly at the question.
“This is Bolshevik Russia! The Carlton doesn’t function at the moment. There are no hotels. The Narcomindjel provides you with a billet, if they like the look of you.”
“Who may they be?”
“The Soviet Foreign Office. East side Jews from New York deal with us, mostly. Not bad fellows, if you’re civil.”
“Supposing they don’t like the look of me?”
Christy smiled grimly.
“You’ll get another kind of billet. With bars to the windows.”