"I'd gathered something like that," Malone said. "But what exactly was it all about?"
"Well," the Queen said, "Major Petkoff was supposed to tell Lou, in effect, that if she didn't agree to do espionage work for the Soviet Union, things would go hard with her father."
"Nice," Malone said. "Very friendly gentleman."
"Well," the Queen continued, "he was supposed to tell her about that at the bar, when he had her alone. But she got that drugged drink before he could begin to say anything."
"Then who drugged it?" Malone said. "Lou?"
The Queen shrugged. "Someone else," she said. "Major Petkoff didn't know anything about the drugged drink."
"A nice surprise for him, anyhow," Malone said.
"It was a surprise for everybody," the Queen said. "You see, the drugged drink was meant to get her to the hospital, where they'd have her alone for a long time and could really put some pressure on her."
"And then," Malone said, "there were the men who wanted to arrest me. And the ones who wanted to take Lou to jail. And the mad Mongol who just wanted to fight, I guess."
"There were so many different things, all going on at once," the Queen said.
Malone nodded. "There seems to be quite a lot of confusion in the Soviet Union, too," he said. "That does not sound to me like an efficient operation."
"It wasn't, very," the Queen said. "You see, they have Garbitsch now, but they can't do anything to him because they can't get to Lou. And it doesn't do them any good to do anything to her father, unless she knows about it first."
"It sounds," Malone said, "as if the USSR is going along the same confused road as the good old United States."
The Queen nodded agreement. "It's terrible," she said. "I get those same flashes of telepathic static, too."
"You do?" Malone said, leaning forward.
"Just the same," the Queen said. "Whatever is operating in the United States is operating over here, too."
Malone sat down in a seat on the aisle. "Everything," he announced, "is now perfectly lovely. The United States is being confused and mixed up by somebody, and the Somebody looked like a Russian spy. But now Russia is being confused, too."
"Do you think there are some American spies working here?" the Queen said.
"If they're using psionics," Malone said, "as they obviously are--and I don't know about them, Burris doesn't know about them, O'Connor doesn't know about them and nobody else I can find knows about them-- then they don't exist. That's flat."
"How about outer space?" the Queen said. "I mean, spies from outer space trying to take over the Earth."
"It's a nice idea," Malone said sourly. "I wish they'd hurry up and do it."
"Then you don't think--"
"I don't know what to think," Malone said. "There's some perfectly simple explanation for all this. And somewhere, in all the running around and looking here and there I've been doing, I've got all the facts I need to come up with that answer."
"Oh, my," the Queen said. "That's wonderful."
"Sure it is," Malone said. "There's only one trouble, as a matter of fact. I don't know what the explanation is, and I don't know which facts are important and which ones aren't."
There was a short silence.
"I wish Tom Boyd were here," Malone said wistfully.
"Really?" the Queen said. "Why?"
"Because," Malone said, "I feel like hearing some really professional cursing."
* * * * *
Three-quarters of an hour passed, each and every minute draped in some black and gloomy material. Malone sat in his seat, his head supported by both hands, and stared at the back of the seat ahead of him. No great messages were written on it. The Queen, respecting his need for silent contemplation, sat and watched Lou and said nothing at all.
It was always possible, of course, Malone thought, that he would fall asleep and dream of an answer. That kind of thing kept happening to detectives in books. Or else a strange man in a black trenchcoat would sidle up to him and hand him a slip of paper. The words: "Five o'clock, watch out, the red snake, doom," would be written on the paper and these words would provide him with just the clues he needed to solve the whole case. Or else he would go and beat somebody up, and the exercise would stimulate his brain and he would suddenly arrive at the answer in a blinding flash.
Wondering vaguely if a blinding flash were anything like a dungeon, because people kept being in them and never seemed to come out, Malone sighed. Detectives in books were great, wonderful people who never had any doubts or worries. Particularly if they were with the FBI. Only Kenneth J. Malone was different.
Maybe someday, he thought, he would be a real detective, instead of just having a few special gifts that he hadn't really worked for, anyhow. Maybe someday, in the distant future, he would be the equal of Nick Carter.
Right now, though, he had a case to solve. Nick Carter wasn't around to help.
And Kenneth J. Malone, FBI, was getting absolutely nowhere.
Finally, his reverie was broken by the sounds of argument outside the plane door. There were voices speaking both English and Russian, very loudly. Malone went to the door and opened it. A short, round, grey-haired man who looked just a little like an over-tired bear who had forgotten to sleep all winter almost fell into his arms. The man was wearing a grey overcoat that went nicely with his hair, and carrying a small black bag.
Malone said: "Oog," replaced the man on his own feet and looked past him at the group on the landing ramp outside. The navigator was there, arguing earnestly with two men in the uniform of the MVD.
"Damn it," the navigator said, "you can't come in here. Nobody comes in but the doctor. This is United States territory."
The MVD men said something in Russian.
"No," the navigator said. "Definitely no."
One of the MVD men spat something that sounded like an insult.
The navigator shrugged. "I don't understand Russian," he told them. "All I know is one word. No. Nyet Definitely, absolutely irrevocably nyet."
"Sikin sin Amerikanyets!"
The MVD men turned, as if they'd been a sister act, and went down the steps. The navigator followed them, wiping his forehead and breathing deeply. Malone shut the door.
"Well, well, well," the doctor said, in a burbling sort of voice. "Somehow, we thought it might be you. Anyhow, the ambassador did."
"Really?" Malone said, trying to sound surprised.
"Oh, yes," the doctor assured him. "You have raised something of a stench in and around good old Moscow, you know."
"I'm innocent," Malone said.
The doctor nodded. "Undoubtedly," he said judiciously. "Who isn't? And where, by the way, is the girl?"
"Over there." Malone pointed. News apparently traveled with great speed in Moscow, MVD and censorship notwithstanding. At any rate, he thought, it traveled with great speed to the ears of the Embassy staff.
The doctor lifted Lou's limp wrist to time her pulse, his lips pursed and his eyes focused on a far wall.
"What have you heard?" Malone said.
"The MVD boys are extremely worried," the doctor said. "Extremely." He didn't let go of the wrist, a marvel of which Malone had never grown tired. Doctors always seemed to be able, somehow, to examine a patient and carry on a conversation about totally different things, without even showing the strain. This one was no exception. Malone watched in awe.
"According