“Well,” Malone said, “I suppose we’ve just got to put up with Moscow.”
They went back to the corner, and hailed the long, black, sleek-looking limousine that had brought them in from the airport. The two silent men in the front seat of the gleaming Volga sedan were waiting patiently. Malone, Her Majesty and Lou got into the back, Petkoff in front. The two men were as still as statues—and rather unpleasant-looking statues, Malone thought—until Petkoff snapped something in Russian. Then one of them, at the wheel, said: “Da, Tovarishch.”
The car started down the Moscow streets.
Her Majesty was silent and somewhat abstracted during the ride, just as she had been during the entire trip so far. She was, Malone knew, prying into every mind she could touch. He smiled inwardly when he thought about that.
The MVD, all unbeknownst to itself, was busily carrying around and protecting the single most dangerous spy in Moscow.
Nobody else spoke, either, until the car was moving along at a good clip. Petkoff began some small talk then, but it wasn’t very interesting until he finally managed to edge it around to the subject he really wanted to talk about.
“By the way, Mr. Malone,” he said, in a voice that sounded as if Petkoff were trying to establish an offhand manner, and not succeeding in the least. “It was thoughtful, very thoughtful, of American government, to return to us those men. Very kind.”
Malone’s expression conveyed nothing but the sheerest good will. “Well, you know how it is,” he said. “Anything we can do to preserve peace and amity between our countries—we’ll do it. You know that. Getting along, coexistence, that sort of thing. Oh, we’re glad to oblige.”
“I am sure,” Petkoff said darkly. “You realize, of course, that they are criminals? Deserters from Red Army, embezzlers. Embezzlers of money.”
Wondering vaguely what else you could be an embezzler of, Malone nodded. “That’s what your ambassador in Washington said, when we told him about the deportation order.”