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As they crossed the first bridge into St. Augustine he said, "Nina, you won't mention this to anybody, will you?"
"I should say not!"
"Not to anybody at all!"
"I promise, Henry."
They turned into the narrow street where she lived. It was two o'clock but all the lights were on downstairs in her house and he knew Mr. Pope was waiting up for them. He eased the car to a stop and opened the door gently. He took her as far as the steps, but he didn't dare kiss her goodbye, he was that afraid of Mr. Pope.
Then he drove on to his own house, three blocks away. He couldn't get to sleep until dawn.
[2]
The driver of the Buick sedan, headed south on A1A, was born Stanislaus Lazinoff in Smolensk, but for two years he had been trained to think of himself as Stanley Smith, American, born in Glebe City, Iowa. The choice of birthplace, like everything else in his manufactured past, was no accident. The courthouse at Glebe City had burned to the ground, along with all its records, some years before. An account of the fire had appeared in the Chicago papers, and had been clipped and forwarded to Moscow by a farsighted agent of what was then the NKVD, attached to the Russian consulate in a clerical post.