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Sam watched Peter Grushenko, and two million dollars, start away down the track. Toward the KGB men, toward Russia, toward Sam never seeing him again. Part of him knew it'd be best to just walk away, turn his back and go find a good woman and have a normal fucking life instead of the industrial espionage that was getting beyond his technical skill and physical strength. He was getting too old to be gallivanting around like that, climbing out of buildings. Too old to think about romantic notions like eloping with little Commie spies. He wasn't forty anymore.