Someone arrived to collect him, a thin, balding man in his thirties with a worried look who introduced himself as Sergey Platonov. Upstairs, Russell discovered the reason for Platonov’s anxious expression—another man of roughly the same age with bushier hair, harder eyes and an NKVD major’s uniform. His name was Leselidze.
Shchepkin, he thought, without much hope. But there was no one else. Yevgeny Shchepkin was the closest thing he had to a friend in Moscow. When Russell had refused the Russians’ invitation to the Soviet Union at the end of 1941, he had gained the impression that Shchepkin had actually been pleased, as if he knew that his bosses meant Russell no good, and was pleased that their plans had come to nought.
personal battles, he ran for the next line of trees. Since
Note: needs a break here kindle problem?