"Ceiling four thousand. We're having patrols half way out to sea. They are instructed to let you pass."
A small incident, the roof captain explained. A Swedish Red Cross flier was missing from the National Hospital. Two Cuban agents had been arrested and a cache of small arms and ammunition was found. But no trace of the ambulance.
"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.