"Shto? Ya ne ponemayu. . . . I not understand."
"Tea. Chai." He shrugged. "Just a bad joke." He reached over and shoved the door closed, then gestured toward the cot. "In the wrong language. Please. Sit."
"Thank you." The old man settled himself. "I did not come for chai." His hands were trembling. "I want—" Abruptly he hesitated, as though searching for words, and then his mind appeared to wander. "Your name is Vance?"
"Mike Vance."
"And you are with American CIA?"
What's going on, he wondered? How did these Soviets find out?
"Uh, right." He glanced away. "That's correct."
"Mr. Vance, my son is test pilot for the Daedalus." He continued, running his gnarled hands nervously through his long white hair. "His name is Yuri Andreevich."
"Pozdravleneye." Vance nodded. "Congratulations. Yuri Andreevich is about to make the cover of Newsweek. You should be proud."
"We have serious problem, Mr. Vance." He seemed not to hear. "That is why I am come. I am very worried for my son."