by Anthology
"Your faith," Malone said with a sigh, "is going to be too much for me one of these days."
Burris shrugged. "Just take it easy, Malone," he said. "You said you wanted to have Her Majesty over there to read a few minds, and you've got her. But remember, don't get involved in anything complicated. Don't start any fireworks."
"I hope not," Malone said.
"Stay out of political arguments," Burris said.
Malone blinked. "What do you think I'm going to do?" he said. "Bring along a soapbox?"
"You never know," Burris said. "Just keep quiet, and don't go prowling around where you're not wanted."
"That," Malone said decisively, "would keep me out of Russia entirely."
"Damn it," Burris said, "you know what I mean. We don't want any international incidents, understand?"
"Yes, sir," Malone said.
Burris nodded. "All right, then," he said. "Your plane leaves from the airport in an hour. You'd better go and talk to Her Majesty first."
"Right," Malone said.
"And I hope you know what you're doing," Burris said.
So do I, Malone thought privately. Aloud, he said, "I just want to get the feel of things over there, that's all, sir. I won't cause any more trouble than an ordinary tourist."
"Malone," Burris said, "don't be an ordinary tourist. They're empty-headed morons and they do make trouble. Be an invisible tourist. Be nice to everybody. Be polite and kind. Don't step on any toes, no matter whose and no matter why."
"Yes, sir," Malone said.
"Remember, they're going to know who you are," Burris said.
"It's not as if we could keep it a secret."
"Yes, sir," Malone said. "I'll remember."
"All right." Burris extended his hand. "Good luck, Malone," he said, with a deeper feeling of sincerity than Malone had experienced from him in months.
Malone shook the hand. "Thank you, sir," he said.
* * * * *
A little less than an hour later, Malone sat on the steps of the landing ramp that led up to the open door of the big Air Force transport plane on the runway. The plane was waiting, and so was Malone. He didn't feel confident, or even excited. He felt just a little bit frightened. Burris' complicated warnings had had some effect, and Malone was fighting down a minor case of the shakes.
Next to him, her face wreathed in happy smiles, sat a smartly-dressed grey-haired woman in her sixties. She wore an unobtrusive tailored suit and a light jacket, and she looked as if she might be one of the elder matrons of the society set, very definitely an upper-crust type. In spite of the normality of her clothing, Her Majesty looked every inch a Queen, Malone thought.
"And that, Sir Kenneth, is only natural," she said sweetly. "Even when traveling incognito, one must retain one's dignity. And I don't object at all to using the name of Rose Thompson in a good cause; it was used for so many years it almost feels like part of me."
"I shouldn't be at all surprised," Malone said mildly.
A voice from above and behind him interrupted his worried thoughts. "Mr. Malone!" it said. "Mr. Malone?"
Malone screwed his head around and looked up. An Air Force colonel was standing in the doorway of the plane, looking down with a stern, worried expression. "Yes?" Malone said. "What is it?"
"Takeoff, Mr. Malone," the colonel said. "We're due to go in fifteen minutes, and our clearance has been established."
"Fine," Malone said.
"But your passengers," the colonel said. "Where are they?"
Malone tried to look calm, cool and collected. "They'll be here," he said. "Don't worry about a thing." Privately, he hoped he was right. Boyd hadn't shown up yet, and Boyd was bringing the musical-comedy spy trio. It wasn't, Malone thought, that Boyd was usually late. But with Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch in tow, almost anything could happen, he thought. He hoped fervently that it wouldn't.
"It won't," Her Majesty said. "At least, it hasn't so far. They're all in a car, and they're driving right here. Boyd is thinking that he ought to be here within five minutes."
Malone nodded, wiping his forehead. "Five minutes, Colonel," he called back to the figure at the door. The colonel nodded efficiently at him, turned and disappeared inside the plane. Malone looked at his watch. The second hand was going around awfully fast, he thought. He wondered if it were possible for time to speed up while he waited, so that by the time Boyd arrived he would be an old, old man. He felt about eight years older already, he told himself, and a minute hadn't even passed.
He forced his eyes away from the moving second hand. Looking at it, he knew, would only make him more nervous. Maybe there was some scenery around that he could stare at. He raised his eyes and looked out toward the gates that led to the interior of the air terminal.
Scenery, he told himself in sudden wonder, was no word for it.
He stared. He wanted to blink, but at the same time he felt that it would be a shame to close his eyes for even a tenth of a second. He held his eyelids apart by main force and went right on staring.
The girl walking toward him across the field was absolutely beautiful. She seemed to make everything light up and start singing. Malone was sure that, somewhere, he could hear birds plugging their favorite numbers, and the soft rustle of the wind through pine branches. He could feel the soft caress of the wind on his face, and he could smell the odor of lilacs and honeysuckles and violets and whatever all those other flowers were. They had all different colors and shapes, and he couldn't remember many of their names, but he could tell they were all around him. They had to be all around him. Especially all the red ones.
The girl had red hair that tossed gently in the wind. The bottom two-thirds of her figure, Malone was happy to note, was not only as good as the top third but a good deal better. It took him several seconds to reach this conclusion, because at first he was willing to swear that he had never seen such a beautiful girl before.
But, he told himself with a shade of apprehension, he had.
As she approached, he stood up. "Well, well," he said brightly. "If it isn't the Lady That's Known as Lou. Did the Psychical Research Society give you the day off, or are you here to see about a misplaced broom?"
The girl beamed at him. "My, my," she said. "How are you?"
"Fine," Malone said. "And--"
"And how are the others?" she said.
Malone blinked. "Others?" he said.
She nodded. "Grumpy, Sleepy, Happy, Dopey, Bashful and Doc," she said.
Malone opened his mouth, shut it again, and thought for a second. "Now, wait a minute," he said at last. "That's not fair. I--"
"Oh," she said. "And I nearly forgot. I owe you one from last time: gesundheit."
"And many happy returns," Malone said. "Seriously, what are you doing out here?"
"Talking," the girl said. "To you. Or hadn't you noticed?"
"I mean in general," Malone said desperately.
"In general," she said agreeably, "I'm here to take a little trip."
"Oh," Malone said. "By plane?"
She smiled sweetly and shook her head. "Not at all," she said. "I'm waiting for the next scheduled broomstick."
Malone took a deep breath. "When does your plane leave?" he said doggedly.
"In ten minutes or so," she said.
"Then you'd better hurry and get on," he said.
She nodded. "That's what I thought," she said.
A second passed.
"Did you want to say something?" Malone said uncomfortably.
She shook her head. "Not particularly," she said.
"Well, then--"
"The time is growing short," she said.
"Isn't it, though?" Malone said, feeling a little mystified. "Well, now. Goodbye. I'll see you soon."
"Goodbye," she said.
Another second passed.
"Your plane--" Malone started.
"How about yours?" she said.
"I'm all right," Malone said nervously. "But if your plane's leaving in t
en minutes you'd better get on it."
"I intend to," she said, without moving.
"Well--" Malone started.
"As soon as you quit blocking the ramp," she said. "Would you mind terribly if I climbed over your head? Because I do have to get on board."
"Now wait a minute," Malone said. "This isn't your plane."
"How do you know?" she said. "Do you own it? Are you flying it away?"
"Well," Malone said helplessly, "it's my plane, and there's nobody going on it but--"
He paused. A great light seemed to burst in his mind, shedding a perfectly horrible glow over the wreck of his mental processes. "You know," he said in a tentative tone, "we never have been properly introduced. I only know your name is Lou."
"That's what people call me," the girl said. "For short. I'm Luba Garbitsch."
"And I'm Kenneth Malone," Malone said. "Kenneth J. Malone. Of the FBI."
She nodded. "Yes," she said. "I know."
"Your father--"
"My father is going to Russia," she said, "and I am going along with him."
"Oh," Malone said. "Sure. Sure. Oh."
There was a longer silence.
"Can I get on board now?" Luba said.
"There isn't any hurry," Malone said. "We're still waiting for--for passengers. And this is one of them." He turned and indicated the Queen. "This is Her--Rose Thompson. She'll be traveling along with us."
Her Majesty was wearing a broad, broad grin, Malone noticed nervously as he turned. Undoubtedly she had been tuned in to the whole conversation, and knew just what had gone on in both minds. But she only said, "I'm very pleased to meet you, my dear."
Lou blinked, smiled and stretched out her hand. "Well, then," she said. "Hello. And let's all have a happy trip."
"By all means," Malone said. "And the trip seems to be about to start."
He could hear the tramping of a lot of feet coming across the field toward them. He looked and saw that the feet were all neatly attached to bodies, two to a body. There were Thomas Boyd's feet, the assorted twelve feet of six FBI agents, and three pairs that belonged to Alexis Brubitsch, Ivan Borbitsch and Vasili Garbitsch. Brubitsch looked even fatter than ever, Borbitsch even thinner. Garbitsch was of an indeterminate middling shape; he had grey hair and a pair of pince-nez, and he walked a trifle unevenly, like a duck, with his hands clasped low in front of him. He was looking down at the ground as the crowd shoved him along.
When the crowd neared the steps, Luba went over to him. Garbitsch looked up, with a pleasant, somehow wistful smile on his face. "Hello, Luba, my child," he said.
Luba smiled, too. "Hello, Dad," she said. "All ready to go?"
"Certainly I am ready," he said. "I am all packed. We take off in a few minutes. And you, Luba, my child?"
"Fine, Dad," she said.
She looked down. "They've got handcuffs on you," she said. "Why, that's--"
Garbitsch shrugged. He looked even more wistful. "A formality," he said. "It makes no difference."
"Okay," Boyd said suddenly. "We've got to get out of here pretty soon, and you'll be taking off. Let's break it up. Miss Thompson, you and Luba go aboard. Malone, you follow with the others."
Malone rounded up Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch and followed the ladies aboard.
He came back to the door then, and stuck his head out. "The keys," he said.
Boyd stared. "What?"
"The keys to the handcuffs," Malone said. "I'll need 'em."
"You're going to take them off when they get to Russia?" Boyd said.
Malone shook his head. "No," he said. "Now."
"But--"
"I think we'll have plenty of warning if they decide to try anything, Tom," Malone said quietly. "Her Majesty, after all, is keeping them under surveillance."
Without another word, Boyd tossed up the keys. Malone caught and pocketed them. "I'll be back as soon as possible," he said. "Meanwhile, you can keep digging on other stuff--what we've discussed and anything it seems to lead into."
"Right," Boyd said. "Stay out of trouble, Ken. So long."
Malone nodded and ducked back into the plane. He unlocked the handcuffs, and Brubitsch and Borbitsch immediately went and sat down mournfully together at the back of the plane. Malone looked for Lou, but she was already seated--with Her Majesty, naturally. He sighed briefly and sat down, at last, next to the wistful Garbitsch.
"It will be nice to see Russia again," Garbitsch said. "I hardly hoped to do so."
The plane shuddered, roared and took off. Then it settled down to its normal state of unnatural quiet. Malone sat back and tried to relax.
It was impossible.
7
Red Square was, somehow, disappointing. It was crowded with men and women, all looking very Russian in an undefined sort of way, and the big glass windows sparkled from every side. "I know it's silly," Luba said in a baffled voice, "but, somehow, I always expected Red Square to be red."
"And why should that be?" the MVD man next to her said. He was a burly man with a sour expression, as if he had eaten too many onions the day before.
"Well," Malone said, "it is Red Square, after all."
"But red is symbolic only," the MVD man said surlily. "Is not color. Only symbol of glorious Russia."
"I suppose so," Luba said. "But it's still disappointing."
"You expect, perhaps, that we recruit our glorious Red Army from American Indian tribes?" the MVD man said sourly. "You are literal-minded bourgeois intellectual. This is not good thing to be."
"Somehow," Malone mused, "I didn't think it was."
"But this is different," Luba said. "The Red Army is made up of Russians. But this is just a square. You could paint it."
"After all," Malone offered, "the White House is white, isn't it?"
"White is cowardly color," the MVD man pointed out with satisfaction.
"Never mind that," Malone said. "We call it a white house, and it is a white house. You call this a red square, and it isn't even pink. Not even a little bit pink. It's just--just--"
"Just building-colored," Luba put in. Malone turned to her and executed a small bow.
"Thank you," he said.
"Think nothing of it," Luba said.
"Oh, don't worry," Malone said. "I will."
The MVD man hissed like a teakettle and both heads swung round to look at him again. Her Majesty, who had been admiring some dresses in a shop window, also turned. "My goodness," she said. "That's a terrible wheeze. Do you take something for it?"
"Is not wheeze," the MVD man said. "Is noise representing impatience with arrogance and stupidity of capitalist warmonger conversation."
"Arrogance?" Luba said.
"Stupidity?" Malone said.
Her Majesty drew herself to her full height. "We do not monger war," she said. "Not in the least. We are not mongers."
The MVD man looked at her, blinked, sighed and looked away. "This color discussion," he said, "it is very silly. Look at the Blue Ridge Mountains, in your country. Are they blue?"
"Well--" Malone said.
"What color, for example, is the Golden Gate Bridge?" the MVD man continued, with heavy sarcasm. "Is not even a gate. Is a bridge. Is not golden. But you say we disappoint. No. You disappoint."
There seemed to be no immediate answer to that, so Malone didn't try for one. Instead, he went back to looking at the Square, and beyond it to where the inverted turnips of the Kremlin gleamed in the moonlight. The turnips were very pretty, if a little odd for building-tops. But Red Square, in spite of all its historic associations, seemed to be a little dull. The buildings were just buildings, and the streets were filled with Russians. They were not bomb-throwing Russians, bearded Russians or even "Volga Boatman"-singing Russians. They were just ordinary, dull Russians of every sort, shade, race, color and previous condition of servitude.
It was just about what he'd expected after the trip. That hadn't been exciting either, he told himself. There had been no incident of any kind. No
ne of the three spies seemed to be exactly overjoyed about being sent back to good old Mother Russia, but none seemed inclined to make much fuss about the matter, either. Malone had blandly told them that they were being deported, instead of tried, because there was no evidence that was worth the expense of a trial. And, besides that, he had particularly emphasized that the FBI did not believe any of the stories the three men had told.
"They just don't match up," he said. "You all told different stories, and there's too much disagreement between them. Frankly, we don't believe any of them--not yet, we don't. But mark my words. We'll find out the truth some day."
He'd thought it was a good speech, and Her Majesty had agreed with him. It had its desired effect, since the plane was the first place the three had had a chance to meet since their arrest. "Each one knows that he told the truth," Her Majesty said, "but nobody knows what the other two said."
"That's what I figured," Malone said. "They didn't have a chance to talk to each other."
"And so each one is lying his head off to the others," Her Majesty said, "and telling them all about how he, too, lied gloriously and bravely in defense of the Motherland. It's really very funny."
"Well," Malone said, "it makes them happy. And why not?"
Luba, too, had chatted with her father quite a lot of the time. Her Majesty reported that none of this conversation could possibly be understood as dangerous or harmful. It was just simple conversation.
Of course, Luba and her father hadn't talked all the time, and Malone did have a chance to get a few words in edgewise. Her Majesty made no report on those conversations, but Malone was comfortably aware that they did not belong in the harmless class. His relationship with the girl seemed, he told himself happily, to be improving slightly. Now and again, he even won a round from her.
As the American plane crossed the border, it was picked up by an escort of Russian fighter craft, which stuck with them all the way into Moscow. The fighters didn't do anything; they were just there, Malone figured, for insurance. But they made him nervous when he looked out the window. The trip from the border to Moscow seemed to take a long time.
Then, at the airfield, a group of MVD men had almost elbowed the American Embassy delegation out of the way in greeting the disembarking little band. There was a lot of palaver, in Russian, English and various scrambled mixtures which nobody understood. The American delegation greeted Malone, Luba and Her Majesty formally, and the MVD concentrated on Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch. The three spies were hustled away, apparently to MVD Headquarters, without much fuss. Luba said goodbye to her father calmly enough, and Vasili Garbitsch seemed almost entirely unaffected by his surroundings. As the plane touched ground, he had said: "Ah, the soil of Mother Russia," but, outside of a goodbye or two, those were his last words before leaving.