“After all,” Gurov said with satisfaction, “we’re becoming more and more like Europe—despite all our shortcomings.” “Our particular shortcomings,” Kryachko corrected him. “Untypical ones, and easy to eliminate through routine procedures…”
The square on the other side of the station turned out to be just as nice—swept clean, surrounded along the perimeter by tall poplars with golden-tipped tops. Beyond it stretched a panorama of a sun-drenched city: straight streets decorated with greenery, light rectangular blocks of five-story buildings, and in places structures even higher—by local standards, almost skyscrapers. In spite of the early hour, or maybe precisely because of it, the square was full of cars. There were many new-model imports shining with nickel and lacquer. Against them, Kryachko’s dusty, beaten-up “Mercedes” looked like an exhibit from a fair titled “At the Dawn of the Automobile Age.”
Smiling to himself, Gurov said as much to his friend. And without the slightest embarrassment, Kryachko replied: “That’s the advantage—it's visible from a distance. You don’t have to look for it.” “Just watch—someone really will find it!” Gurov joked, not suspecting how close he was to the truth.
Barely had they approached the car and Kryachko started to reach for the keys when—out of nowhere—a young but very stern man in a police lieutenant’s uniform appeared in front of them. Casually saluting, with a kind of vicious irony, he asked: