"I suppose the Cubans deny stealing the ambulance?" Pashkov asked.
"They say they've been framed by a fat little Russian. But it's transparent, a clumsy job. Imagine, they left a stolen car in the ambulance court and in it an invoice for six cases of ammunition. It was traced to the Cubans in half an hour."
Pashkov climbed into his flier. "Well, it's fashionable to blame the Russians for everything." He waved his chubby hand, and took off. Flying over the Baltic, he set the controls on the Moscow beam.
Ten minutes west of Moscow he tuned the communicator in on Petchareff's office.
"Seven One Three here, Nadezhda. Tell Petchareff--no, let me talk to him."
"Seven One ... but that's impossible! Gospodin Pashkov is in conference with Comrade Petchareff."
"Stupid!" Petchareff's voice sounded behind Nadezhda's, and the speaker clicked and went dead.
Pashkov dove into the clouds and brought his flier to a hovering stop.
Petchareff did not believe he was Pashkov. Colonel James, it was clear, was at that moment in Petchareff's office, impersonating Pashkov. And Zubov was probably getting a rest cure.
Pashkov crawled out of the cloud and skimmed northeast to Mir, Boris Knackenpast's villa.
"You came fast, sir," the lieutenant of guards welcomed him at Mir. "We did not expect you for another fifteen minutes."
Fifteen minutes. The colonel was not wasting time.
"Listen carefully, lieutenant." Pashkov described the American agent. "But his left cheekbone is lower than mine--about four centimeters. He may be armed, so be careful."
The lieutenant stared. "Shall we kill him?"
As Pashkov ran up the steps to the villa, the curtain in the vestibule window stirred. But when he entered, the vestibule was empty.
He looked in the dining room, the music room, the library. Nobody. The house was strangely quiet. He came to the door of the study and listened. Not a sound. He went in and there, behind the large writing desk, sat Boris Knackenpast.
The robot was unscrewing screws imbedded in his neck.
"My God, sir," said Pashkov, "what are you doing?"
The robot's eyes, large disks of glittering mirror, flashed as he looked up. "Ah, Colonel James," Boris said in a voice that seemed to come from a deep well. "Excuse the poor welcome, but I understand we have little time. You scared my valet; he thought you were Gospodin Pashkov."