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to an athlete, a sportsman. The face under the striped hat was rather Slavic – wide cheekbones, eyebrows, slanted eyes. The cold blue eyes themselves, however, gave him a detached, haughty expression, more Norman or Germanic. And those eyes scrutinized the student.

      “Hello,” Ivan muttered, unaware of who he was dealing with at the moment. Yet, that Yakov Naumovich retired from his own office as if abandoning a sinking frigate led his thoughts in a certain direction.

      “Hello.” The stranger's voice was soft and, in the circles of 'enlightened' youth, would be called velvety. Just enough to seduce the beauties on the Arbat, Ivan thought with quite a touch of envy. “Come, sit down closer.”

      Sarmatov left his uncomfortable chair and moved to the chair, trying to spend as much time as possible dallying. He secretly hoped that the classes were about to end and the bell will save him. But the bell didn't ring, and the guest made himself comfortable in his chair. He threw one leg over the other, showing off chic black patent leather shoes and socks to match the suit. His first question immediately puzzled Ivan:

      “How are you going to live, Falcon?”

      For some time, Sarmatov stared blankly at the swaying toe of the stranger's patent leather shoe, pondering whether to send everyone and everything to hell right then and there. Yet the thought of what exactly his venerable father, academician, professor-anthropologist Pyotr Alekseevich would say at home, and in what tone, him from such rash action. He answered in his age-old habit, which so annoyed his teachers, the question with a question:

      “What, I have options? Other than dropping out, of course?”

      The stranger raised his eyebrows in surprise, looking at his counterpart with particular interest.

      “Well, young man, there are always options. As well as a way out of any situation. Still, where does such pessimism about your future come from?”

      “Don't you know?” Ivan snapped even more insolently. The stranger shrugged, which was an impressive gesture for his size, and reached into his pocket. Ivan watched his hand with sudden interest, as if right now, right at that moment, it could extract from the bowels of the stylish suit a scroll of indulgence for all his previous sins. But the hand returned with a round metal box, which the stranger held out to Saratov:

      “Help yourself, it’s candy. You don't smoke, I know. Yes, and I've recently quit, a rubbish habit, more addictive than vodka. You don't drink, do you comrade?”

      Ivan shook his head negatively. The stranger threw a candy into his mouth, put the box in his pocket, and laughed.

      “Why do you think I have to deal with your attendance record? There is dear Yakov Naumovich for that. Let him care about your everyday academic life. No, my brother, I have entirely different reasons.”

      Ivan sighed furtively, which did not escape the attention of the guest.

      “Instead of sighing like a cow, you’d better consider why a major of the State Security was dragged to this charitable institution.”

      The pointed look the stranger gave him dumbfounded Ivan. A minute passed. Another.

      “Which major?” he muttered at last. The stranger laughed.

      “Your freestyle wrestling coach said that you have excellent reflexes. And now you’re falling about. Was your coach kidding me?”

      Ivan frowned:

      “So far, I’ve had only three fights in my entire career on the mat. I’ve drawn two of them.”

      “And I know it.” The guest was merry. “Okay, I won't torment you any longer. Come on, brother, let’s get acquainted! I am Kotov, Sergey Vladimirovich. For my own, ‘Yoshkin Kot’ or simply ‘Cat’.”

      “Why ‘Yoshkin’?” asked Sarmatov. The visitor shrugged his shoulders.

      “I come from Mariyka, from Yoshkar-Ola. There we have such a local character. And the 'cat', as you understand, is from the surname that I inherited from my father. Well, here’s my hand!”

      He got up and held out his hand to Ivan, which turned out to be wide, like a shovel. Ivan also stood opposite, habitually shook it, and it felt as if his fingers were in a steel grip. Kotov was trying to determine how long the student could resist his vice-like grip, which was probably developed over many years of training.

      Ivan strained his hand as best he could, sweat beaded on his forehead from the pain. This did not escape the attention of Sergey Vladimirovich, but he only smirked and did not loosen his grip. Ivan noticed he did not resort to underhanded tricks, like some of his strong wrestling partners. For example, he did not press his thumb on a certain dimple of his opponent’s hand, nor did he try to crush his fingers. Kotov played fair, and Ivan muttered honestly after half a minute:

      “That's it, I'm done. I give up!”

      Kotov released his grip, patted his shoulder with his palm:

      “Well done. Few would have stood against me. Strong, young man.”

      Kotov took his seat again.

      “Thank you.” Ivan stood opposite and rubbed his throbbing hand for some time.

      “Not at all. Let's get down to business. You study in the Spanish department, don't you?”

      Ivan nodded, trying to predict the next question. What Kotov followed up with was unexpected.

      “¿Te gustaría practicar el idioma en el país del idioma que estás estudiando?”

      “Por supuesto, ¡y quién no querría esto!“

      Ivan answered reflexively and suddenly froze. Kotov watched him mockingly. Then he nodded curtly at the wide sofa, where the dean usually offered a place to distinguished guests. Ivan sat down on edge and asked cautiously:

      “So, you speak Spanish?”

      “Have you noticed?” asked Sergey Vladimirovich, mischievous notes in his voice.

      “On the contrary, you have excellent pronunciation,” Ivan said, encouraged by a delay in his punishment for absenteeism. “The real Español Castellano!”

      “I know,” the guest replied with unexpected sadness. “This is bad.”

      “Why?” snapped Sarmatov.

      “Because, my dear Ivan Petrovich, should you meet all the requirements our service makes of candidates and we end up working together, we’ll need to go exactly where my ‘Castellano’ is poorly understood. Well, I can see in your eyes you’re astonished. I’ll repeat the approach, as our pilots say. Let me introduce myself: Sergey Vladimirovich Kotov, Major of State Security. Glad to meet you. And I came here precisely for your undoubtedly immortal soul, Ivan-sunshine-Petrovich. To make you one most interesting proposal, from my point of view. I want to invite you to serve with us.”

      Ivan was incredulous. He looked at Kotov as if expecting a trick:

      “I don't understand. For the authorities, or what?”

      The major nodded.

      “Exactly. At the MGB. Ministry of State Security. Just let's make a reservation right away,” he raised his hand, stopping Ivan, who was ready to jump up from his overwhelming feelings. “If you agree to cooperate with us, then immediately after passing your state exams, you’ll go to our school to take a special course. If, after what you have heard here and now, you refuse – wait, don’t interrupt your elders! – then, you’ll immediately forget about our conversation forever and ever. As they say, we talked and went our separate ways without consequences. I will ask you to sign the corresponding papers later. So?”

      “I agree.” Ivan nodded quickly and caught Kotov's mocking glance. “What now? Did I say the wrong thing again? Was it necessary to sign an oath in blood or something?”

      Kotov suddenly became serious.

      “Don’t talk nonsense. I don’t care about your blood. Somehow, we’ll manage without it. But you have to sign something.”

      He took out from somewhere from under the chair a voluminous

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