When he emerged, he found that the adulterers had finished. Romanenko was adjusting his clothing. The political officer’s wife, Valentina, had ripped the sleeves from her brown coverall; her white arms were sheened with the sweat of their exertion. Her ash-blond hair rippled in the breeze from a ventilator. Her eyes were purest cornflower blue, set a little too closely together, and they held a look half-apologetic, half-conspiratorial. ‘See what we’ve brought you, Colonel—’