The FBI men from Las Vegas marched in. Between them was their prisoner, a boy with a vacuous face, clad in a straitjacket that seemed to make no difference at all to him. His mind was—somewhere else. But his body was trapped between the FBI agents: the body of William Logan.
"Impossible," one of the psychiatrists said.
Malone spun on his heel and led the way back to the throne. Logan and his guards followed closely.
"Your Majesty," Malone said. "May I present the prisoner?"
"Perfectly correct, Sir Kenneth," the Queen said. "Poor Willie is your spy. You won't be too hard on him, will you?"
"I don't think so, Your Majesty," Malone said. "After all—"
"Now wait a minute," Burris exploded. "How the hell did you know any of this?"
Malone bowed to Her Majesty, and winked at Barbara. He turned to
Burris. "Well," he said, "I had one piece of information none of the
rest of you had. When we were in the Desert Edge Sanatorium, Dr.
Dowson called you on the phone. Remember?"
"Sure I remember," Burris said. "So?"
"Well," Malone said, "Her Majesty said she knew just where the spy was. I asked her where—"