Built on earlier cemeteries and sand dunes, the Richmond district of San Francisco between the Golden Gate Park and the Golden Gate Bridge became home after the Russian Revolution to thousands of refugees. Forty years on, the golden onion-domed cathedral of Saint Mary the Virgin in Exile arose. Beneath its floor was laid the body of the priest-become-bishop known as John the Barefoot, who had campaigned for a new home for those exiles.

But emigrés grew old or drifted away to suburbs. Instead, many Asians moved in to the Richmond district. Chinese, Cambodians, Koreans. And then the collapse of Soviet Communism caused a new influx of Russians, escaping from hard times and from the new gangsterism, or simply to do business.

When three men who called one another Night and Dawn and Noon met in a small apartment in an unassuming townhouse on an avenue in the mid thirties off Geary Boulevard, no one would have paid much attention.

White Venetian blinds obscured the half-open window through which a slightly salty breeze blew from the ocean a mile away. A computer was scrolling as its program trawled. Key words were being highlighted and tagged. Quantum. Chip. Encryption.

Maps were thumb-tacked to walls. Files and journals and directories were stacked around the floor, along with some unopened packages from Gump's and FAO Schwartz, gifts to take home to Russia. A bottle of Stolichnaya and glasses and an ashtray of Marlboro butts weighed down news clippings on a low table.

Both Night and Dawn had the high cheekbones, dark wiry hair and lack of fold to the eyelids denoting the Mongol blood which flows in so many Russian veins. These two might easily be mistaken for Native Americans. Fair-haired Noon was Caucasian. Noon and Dawn were burly; Night was rangy and lean. All three were entering middle age, bitterly.

They spoke softly in Russian. Even when arguing, they would do so quietly.

"The agency must be stupid sending us something like this," said Dawn. The news clipping was illustrated by a photograph of a young woman standing nude on a beach. Her groin was blurred. "National Investigator is full of bourgeois shit. I was raped by an alien from Venus. Elvis Presley is on Mars."

"Think again," said Night, whose real name was Andrei. "Look at the Matsushima connection. Quantum computers. She's due to attend a conference shortly in Tucson. This woman knows things."

"Cambridge. . . . in England, not in Massachusetts. . . . However did those journalists come by this story? And the pin-up photograph too!"

Night shrugged.

On the computer screen a message flashed: Invitation only. Immediately to be overlaid by: Please wait. Without much delay the software invaded a private bulletin board.

"I have a hunch about this," said Night.

Noon nodded. "It's a wild card. But maybe you're right."

They talked about the recent boating accident which had put Tony Racine in hospital. Strong rumours were that Racine's QX Corporation in San Jose were edging very close to a prototype quantum computer. Supposedly so were Motorola's corporate research laboratories in Phoenix. Matsushima likewise, at their labs in Japan and in England.

"If we agree," said Night, "I'll fly to Phoenix--"

"But we already tried to penetrate Motorola--"

"--and I'll drive down to Tucson to check out this conference and this young lady. I do have a feeling."

Dawn nodded. Night's hunches had sometimes paid off handsomely. Noon filled three glasses.

Since Night would fly much of the way, he wouldn't be taking a gun which could show up on airport scanners. The young woman should be a soft touch.

Copyright © 1996 by Ian Watson