"I'll never understand," said Petchareff, "why all top secret agents have to look like bankers. Anastina says Colonel James was operated on by a Monsieur Fanti. What do you know about him?"
"He's a theatrical surgeon."
"You're not playing one of your jokes, Pashkov?"
"Hardly."
"You'd better be in my office in ten minutes. What size hospital gown?"
"Short and fat," Pashkov said, and switched off.
Most countries wanted to break his neck, and his own Motherland did not always trust him. But he enjoyed his work—enjoyed it as much as his closest professional rival, Colonel James, U.S.A.
Pashkov landed on the roof of Intelligence in the northeast corner of the Kremlin, hitched up his pants and rode down.
In his office, Petchareff removed the cigar from his mouth as Pashkov came in. "Medvedev get my orders?"