He didn’t wait for an answer, and Malone was grateful for that. Instead, he stepped over to a viewport and looked out. On the field, two air force officers were making lonely rounds about the plane. Fifty yards farther away, a squad of Russian guards also patrolled the brightly-lit area. There was nothing else in sight.
“There isn’t any way you could have done it,” the pilot said without turning.
“That’s the FBI for you,” Malone said. “We’ve got our little trade secrets, you know.” Somehow, the pilot’s back looked unconvinced. “Disguise,” Malone added. “We’re masters of disguise.”
The pilot turned very slowly. “Now what the hell would you disguise yourself as?” he said. “A Piper Cub?”
“It’s a military secret,” Malone said hurriedly.
The pilot didn’t say anything for what seemed a long time. “A military secret?” he asked at last, in a hushed voice. “And you can’t tell me? You’re a civilian, and I’m a colonel in the United States Air Force, and you can’t tell me a military secret?”
Malone didn’t hesitate a second. “Well, Colonel,” he said cheerfully, “that’s the way things are.”
The pilot threw up his hands. “It’s none of my business,” he said loudly. “I’m not even going to think about it. Because if I do, you’ll have a mad pilot on your hands, and you wouldn’t like that, would you?”
“I would hate it,” Malone said sincerely, “like hell. Particularly since I’ve got a sick woman aboard.”
“Disguised,” the pilot offered, “as Lenin, I suppose.”