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?"
"No, no. Put him in a cage."
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.