“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.”