Trunov seemed to have slipped out of the swirling snowy grayness of a back alley—straight onto Yegorov. Like in a fairy tale.
Yegorov even got confused. For a month they’d been running around the city—and now, on Ligovka, Trunov calmly steps out of his house himself.
Trunov spotted Yegorov and started to slow down, but the white felt boots, trimmed with leather, were moving over the ice on their own—he didn’t approach, he slid toward the operative.
— Stop, Trunov, — Yegorov said wearily, and drew his pistol from his pocket.
Trunov raised his hands. Who knows—maybe this is that operative. Thin, skin grown all the way to the bones; little can be cured of his nervous disorder from hunger. He’ll shoot—and that’s the end…