And so the tour had started, with Red Square. Malone told himself he didn't really mind if it weren't red, but he did think it could at least look sinister. Unfortunately, the Square did not seem particularly willing to oblige.
"So this is Red Square," Malone said, after a long silence.
"You do not sound interested," Petkoff said in what sounded like a vaguely ominous voice. "Because it is not painted in capitalistic and obvious colors, it bores you?"
"Not exactly," Malone said. "But when you've seen one Square, you've seen them all, is how I feel about it. There must be somewhere else to sight-see."
"Somewhere?" Petkoff said. "There is everywhere. This is Moskva, the capital and the greatest city in Mother Russia. That is what we are told to say." He lowered his voice. "Personally," he added, "I come from Leningrad. I prefer it. But in Moskva one talks only of Moskva."
"I know just how you feel," Malone assured him. "I've been to San Francisco."
"Well, then," Petkoff said, almost smiling at him. "What is there you would like to see?"
Malone fished in his pocket for an American cigarette. He'd brought a carton with him, having once tried Russian makes. They seemed to be mostly cardboard, both the long filter and the tobacco. He lit the cigarette and thought for a second. "I don't suppose," he said cautiously, "that we could take a look around inside the Kremlin, could we?"
"Aha," Petkoff said. "I see what is in your mind."
"You do?" Malone said, startled.
"Naturally," Petkoff said. "You wish to see the tomb of Lenin. It is famous throughout the world."
Malone considered that for a minute. "Somehow," he said cautiously, "the coffin of Lenin doesn't exactly sound like a gay start for sight-seeing."
Petkoff looked pleased instantly. "I understand," he said. "Truly I understand. You, too, feel sad over the death of the great Lenin. How beautiful! How cultured!"
Malone wondered whether or not to disillusion the man, and decided against it. "Well, something like that," he said vaguely.
"I'll tell you what: is there a restaurant around here where we could get something to eat?"
"To eat?" Petkoff said, still looking pleased. "You wish to eat?"
"Well," Malone said, "I'm rather hungry, and I guess the ladies must be, too."
"What?" Luba said, returning to the group. She had joined Her Majesty in viewing the display of dresses. The Queen came scurrying over, too, through the silent and jostling Russian crowds.
"I was suggesting a restaurant," Malone said.
"Best idea anybody's had all day," Lou said. Her Majesty graciously consented to agree, and Petkoff beamed like the rising sun.
"My friends," he said. "My very fine friends--although you are capitalistic bourgeois intellectuals, thrown aside by the path of progress--in Moskva we have the finest restaurants in all the world."
"How about ... oh, Leningrad?" Malone said in a low voice.
"In Leningrad," Petkoff admitted, "the restaurants are better. But in Moskva, the restaurants are very good indeed. Much better than one might expect, if one knows Leningrad."
"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."
"But Dad's not an embezzler," Luba broke in. "Or a deserter, either. He--"
"We have the records," Petkoff said.
"But--"
"Ordinarily, Mr. Malone," Petkoff said pointedly, "we do not find it the policy of the American government to send back political refugees."
"Now, listen," Lou said. "If you think you can shut me up--"
"That is exactly what I think," Petkoff said. "Let me assure you that no offense has been intended."
Lou opened her mouth and started to say something. Then she shut it again. "Well," she said, "I guess this isn't the time to argue about it. I'm sorry, Mr. Petkoff."
The MVD man beamed back at her. "Call me Vladimir," he said.
Malone broke in hastily. "You see, Major," he said, "these men are all embezzlers, as you've said yourself. We have the word of your government on that."
Petkoff took his eyes off Lou with what seemed real reluctance. "Oh," he said. "Yes. Of course you do."
"Therefore," Malone said smoothly, "the three are criminals and not political refugees."
"Indeed," Petkoff said blandly. "Very interesting. Your government has done a good deal of thinking in this matter."
"Sure we have," Malone said. "After all, we don't want to cause any trouble."
"No," Petkoff said, and frowned. "Of course not."
"Naturally," Malone said.
After that, there was silence for almost a full minute. Then Major Petkoff turned to Malone again with a frown. "Wait," he said.
"Wait?" Malone said.
"The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics," Petkoff said, "has no extradition treaty with your capitalist warmongering country."
"We're not warmongers," Her Majesty put in. Both men ignored her.
"True," Malone admitted.
"Then there was no reason to send these men back to us," Petkoff said.
"Oh, no," Malone said. "There was a very good reason. You see, we didn't want them in our country, either."
"But--"
"And when we found that they'd lied on their naturalization papers, why, naturally, we took immediate steps. The only steps we could take, as a matter of fact."
"The only steps?" Petkoff said. "You could have preferred charges. This was not done. Why was it not done?"
"That," Malone said, sidestepping neatly,