But I’ve got the answer at last—the main answer. Though, as I say, there are some others I’d like to have.
Like, for instance, Russia. And exactly what did happen that night in Moscow.
14
At this point Malone suddenly became aware of a sound that was not coming from his own mind. It was coming from somewhere behind his car, and it was a very loud sound. It was, he discovered when he looked back, the siren of a highway patrolman on a motorcycle, coming toward him at imminent risk of life and limb and waving frantically with an unbelievably free hand.
Malone glanced down at the speedometer. With a sigh, he realized that his reflexes had allowed him a little leeway, and that he was going slightly over the legal speed limit for this Virginia highway. He shook his head, eased up on the accelerator, and began to apply the brakes.
By the time he had pulled over to the side of the road, the highway patrolman was coming to a halt behind the big Lincoln. Malone watched him check the number on the rear plate and then walk slowly around to the window on the driver’s side. “Can’t you hurry?” Malone muttered under his breath. “All this Virginian ease is okay in its place, but—” In the meanwhile he was getting out his identification, and by the time the patrolman reached him he had it in his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Sorry?” the patrolman said, frowning. He had an open, boyish face with freckles and a pug nose. He looked like somebody’s kid brother, very dependable but just a little cute. “What for?” he said.
Malone shrugged. “What else?” he said. “Speeding.”
“Oh, that,” the patrolman said. “Why, don’t you worry about that.”