As the tea, bread and sava were being served by the girl, the door to the room opened and a man in a long wool coat stomped in, kicking the snow off his boots and saying something in Georgian to the girl. He was tall and slender with a slim, intelligent face and wearing a uniform cap. When he pulled off the coat it revealed the uniform of the local constabulary and from the cut and tailoring Mike guessed he was a senior officer.

“Hello,” the man said, coming over to Mike’s table and sitting down. “You would be the American called Mike. I am Captain Vadim Tyurin, the constabulary commander for the Keldara.” The man spoke excellent English with hardly any accent except of Oxford.

“Mike Jenkins,” Mike said, shaking his hand. “Care for some tea?”

“Vyera is getting me a cup,” Vadim said, smiling. “Coming right to the point, though, I don’t suppose I could see some identification?”

Mike smiled back and dug in his pocket, pulling out his entirely false passport for Mike Jenkins. It was only false in that it wasn’t his real name; it had been issued by the American government with all due forms.

“Sorry for that,” Vadim said, handing it back after a careful study. “It’s very unusual for us to get Americans, or any foreigners, in the Keldara. What brings you here?”

“I got lost,” Mike said as the girl, presumably Vyera, brought out another cup and saucer and set it in front of the policeman. “I was headed for Bakuriana and I guess I took a wrong turn. I’m not even sure where I’m at.”

“You are, in fact, nowhere,” Vadim replied, shrugging and pouring tea. “The Keldara is pretty remote even in Georgia. With the exception of the Six Families it’s rather sparsely populated. Which means the damned Chechens have the run of it. I’m supposed to be up here to disprove their ownership, but with only three subordinates that’s rather hard.”