The bathroom was small and intensely European. The shower was on a long hose with nowhere to hang it and all the fixtures looked as if they were from an American home in the 1930s, but he’d gotten used to that. He performed his morning ablutions, careful not to drink the water and washing his mouth out with a small bottle of bourbon after brushing, then headed back to his room. He considered repacking but given the weather report, and the brief glance he’d gotten out the window in the bathroom, he wasn’t leaving anytime soon. So he dressed warmly, holstered his pistol, grabbed his jump bag and headed downstairs.

There was a young, good-looking girl — brunette and just starting to bloom — sweeping the tavern when he walked in. She was startled by his appearance, letting out a tiny squeak of surprise, then nodding and darting into the back room. Mike took a seat by the potbellied stove in the empty room and waited in hopes of service.

After a moment a short, slim man came out of the back, wiping his hands on an apron.

“I’m Stasys,” the man said in Russian, shaking Mike’s hand. “I own place and cook. You like room?”

“Very nice,” Mike said, surreptitiously scratching where one of the fleas had gotten him despite his precautions.

“You want food?”

“Please,” Mike replied. “Any coffee?” He could smell food and bread being cooked, but not a trace of coffee smell.

“Tea?” Stasys asked. “Bread?”

“Tea, bread and sava?” Mike asked. What he really wanted was three eggs, over medium, bacon and hash browns. But only Americans and Brits ate like that for breakfast.

“Yes, I get,” Stasys said, going back in the kitchen.

The shutters had been thrown back and Mike could see the storm had passed over. There was still a light snow falling and it looked as if quite a bit had been dumped during the night. He wondered, briefly, about the additional snow Irina had mentioned. The way things were it looked as if he wouldn’t be able to leave before spring.