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Orton was feeling rather alone.
    ‘I have all the correct papers, you know,’ he said. ‘Signed by your Trade AttachŽ at the Soviet Embassy in London.’ There was a trace of nervousness in his voice, as if some practical joke which he did not understand were being perpetrated against him. ‘As you say, I’ve been here a number of times - there’s never been any trouble of this kind before. Does he really have to make such a mess of my belongings - what is he looking for?’
    The KGB man approached. Alexander Thomas Orton brushed a hand across his oiled hair, and tried to smile. The Russian was a big man, with flattened Mongol features and an unpleasant aura of minor, frustrated, power about him. He took the passport and the visas from the official, and made a business of their scrutiny.
    When he appeared satisfied, he stared hard into Orton’s face and said: ‘Why do you come to Moscow. Mr. - Orton-?’
    ‘Orton - yes. I am a businessman, an exporter, to be exact.’
    ‘What do you hope to export to the Soviet Union, from your country?’ There was a sneer in the Russian’s voice, a curl of the lip to emphasise it. There was something unreal about the whole business. The man brushed his oiled hair again, and seemed more nervous than previously, as if caught out in some prank.
    ‘Plastic goods - toys, games, that sort of thing.’
    ‘Where are your samples - the rubbish you sell, Mr. Orton?’
    ‘Rubbish? Look here!’
    ‘You are English, Mr. Orton? Your voice … it does not sound very English.’
    ‘I am Canadian by birth.’
    ‘You do not look Canadian, Mr. Orton.’
    ‘I - try to appear as English as possible. It helps, in sales abroad, you understand?’ Suddenly, he remembered the vocal training, with a flick of irritation like the sting of a wet towel; it had seemed amidst his other tasks absurd in its slightness. Now, he was thankful for it.
    ‘I do not understand.’
    ‘Why did you search my luggage?’
    The KGB man was baffled for a moment. ‘There is no need for you to know that. You are a visitor to the Soviet Union. Remember that, Mr. Orton!’ As if to express his anger, he held up the small transistor radio as a last resort, looked into Orton’s face, then tugged open the back of the set. Orton clenched his hands in his pockets, and waited.
    The Russian, evidently disappointed, closed the back and said: ‘Why do you bring this? You cannot receive your ridiculous programmes in Moscow!’ The man shrugged, and the set and the passport were thrust at him. He took them, trying to control the shaking of his hands.
    Then he stooped, picked up his handgrip, and waited as the KGB man closed his suitcases, and then dropped them at his feet. The locks of one burst, and shirts and socks brimmed over. The KGB man laughed as Orton scrabbled after two pairs of rolling grey socks, on his knees. When he finally closed the lid, his hair was hanging limply over his brow, interfering with his vision. He flicked the lock away, adjusted his spectacles, and hoisted his cases at his sides. Then, mustering as much offended dignity as he could, he walked slowly away, into the concourse, towards the huge glass doors which would let him into the air, and relief.
    He did not need to look behind him to understand that the KGB man was already consulting with his colleague who had not moved from his slouched, assured stance against the wall behind the customs desk, and who had obviously been the superior in rank. The second man had watched him intently throughout his time at the desk - customs, passport and KGB.
    Gant knew that they would be 2nd Chief Directorate personnel - probably from the 1st section, 7th department, which directed security with regard to American, British, and Canadian tourists. And, Gant reflected, his stomach relaxing for the first time since he had left the aircraft, in a way he was all three, and therefore very properly, their concern.
    He called for a taxi from the rank outside the main doors