The Mahjong Spies [antikvár]

As soon as the black Zil came to a halt, half a dozen guards materialized from the shadows, their Kalashnikov A-47s raised shoulder-high, to form a human corridor between the car and the house. Robert Zhao stepped out, saw the uplifted weapons and hesitated. There's nothing to be afraid of, he told himself. You're a guest He dithered an instant longer, then pushed through the double entrance-doors without looking to right or left, desperate to escape the wounding January cold. Major-General Krubykov, who was accustomed to the climate and had a Russian sense of occasion, followed at a more leisurely pace.'I am sorry about the weather,' he said affably. 'Coming from Hong Kong you must feel it, I suppose.'Zhao did not reply at once. He stood in the centre of the vast hall, hands in pockets and shoulders hunched, the very picture of misery. Hiß overcoat was caped with snow and his feet felt damp. The dacha was scarcely warmer than the night outside. His Chinese blood, used to tropical climes, felt thin as water. Zhao shivered and sunk his hands deeper into his pockets. 'A bit,' he murmured.'Come,' said Krubykov, slapping his guest on the back. 'I'll take you up, give you some vodka. That'll warm you!'Zhao shuddered at the barbarian's touch. He was about to turn under the pressure from Krubykov's hand when his attention was arrested by a portrait that seemed to fill the whole of the far wall. He recognized the subject instantly; confirmation, if any were necessary, was provided by the inscribed plate at the bottom of the frame.11