“Right,” Malone said. “The plane. Let’s go.”
There was another crash, but he hardly heard it. He closed his eyes and tried to visualize the interior of the plane that was waiting for them at the airfield. He wasn’t sure he could do it; the vodka might have clouded his mental processes just enough to make teleporting impossible. He concentrated. The crash came again, and a shout. He almost had it ... he almost had it....
The last sound he heard was the splintering of the door, and a great shout that was cut off in the middle.
Malone opened his eyes.
“We made it,” he said softly. “And I wonder what the MVD is going to think.”
Her Majesty took a deep breath. “My goodness,” she said. “That was exciting, wasn’t it?”
“Not half as exciting as it’s going to be if we don’t hurry now,” Malone said. “If you know what I mean.”
“I do,” Her Majesty said.
“That’s good,” Malone said at random. “I don’t.” He helped the Queen ease the unconscious body of Luba Garbitsch into one of the padded seats, and Malone pushed a switch. The seat gave a tiny squeak of protest, and then folded back into a flat bedlike arrangement. Lou was arranged on this comfortable surface, and Malone took a deep breath. “Take care of her for a minute, Your Majesty,” he said.
“Of course,” the Queen said.