Pashkov knocked again and a scuffle ensued within, the crack of a chair
on a skull, the dragging of a beefy body into a closet, and the slam
of the closet door.
"_Yu?_"
"_Buenas tardes_," Pashkov said through the door. "_Asuntos muy
importantes._"
The door opened a crack and two dark eyes in a young bearded face
peered out. "Eh?"
"_Gospodin Pashkov, para servir a usted._"
The door opened enough to admit the roly-poly visitor into the room.
The other Cuban, also bearded and wearing a fatigue cap, held a
revolver.
"No gun-play, caballeros," Pashkov went on in Spanish. "We are in the
Salvation Army charity house, not in a two-peso thriller. Besides, I
deliver before I ask payment."
"Deliver what, senor?"
"We favor any disturbance close to the United States. May I sit down?"
Between two beds were stacked some dozen crates of explosives. A small
table was littered with papers.
Sitting down at the table, Pashkov's elbow rested on an invoice, and
moments later the invoice was tucked in his pocket.
"What kind of ammunition do you need, caballeros?"
The Cubans looked at each other. "Thirty-o-six caliber, two-twenty
grain. How much can you deliver?"
"Two thousand rounds."
"Not much."
"Maybe three thousand. I'll toss in a box of hand grenades and a can of
lysergic acid diethylamide."
"You have that? You have LSD-25?"
"I have that. When are you leaving Stockholm?"
Again the young beards exchanged looks. "Maybe we stay till tomorrow
if you have more business. Three thousand rounds is not much. How much
payment, senor?"
"Two thousand kronor," Pashkov said, taking an envelope on the table
and addressing it to Nadezhda Brunhildova, Kremlin, Moscow. No return
address.
"Do you trust us to send the money?"
"It is bad for you if I do not trust you," Pashkov said, smiling up at
them.
"You can trust us. We shall send the money. Please take a cigar."
Pashkov took four Havanas from the box they held out to him, stuck
three in his breast pocket, and lit one.
"You come again, senor. We make much business."
"Why not? Help retire Latin-American dictators to Siberia. More gold in
Siberia than in Las Vegas."
"Hyi, hyi, that is funny. You come again."
On his way up to the roof, Pashkov studied the invoice he had lifted.
It was from a manufacturer of sporting arms to Francisco Jesus Maria
Gonzales, Salvation Army Economy Lodgings. He tucked the invoice into
his inner pocket with a satisfied grunt, climbed into his flier and
hopped over to Hotel Reisen, where Zubov's kidnaping team was waiting
for him.
* * * * *
Comrade Zubov, the kidnaping expert, was pacing the roof of Hotel
Reisen. As Pashkov eased down in his flier, Zubov's big front tooth
flashed with delight. Pashkov felt like tossing him a bone.
"Everything in order, Gospodin Pashkov. Constant vigilance maintained
at hospital by my two assistants. With your pardon, Comrade Petchareff
urges all haste. Colonel James is due to leave the hospital tomorrow."
"Comrade Petchareff always urges haste. What else?"
Zubov's big tooth settled respectfully over his lower lip. His small
eyes were so closely set that he looked cockeyed when he focused them
on his superior.
"With your pardon, I shall conduct you to our suite. Plans for
kidnaping of Colonel James all ready."
"Here's a cigar for you."
"Gratefully accepted. Reduced unavoidable fatalities to six." Zubov
counted on his long hard fingers. "Two watchmen, three nurses, one
doctor."
In the hotel corridor, Zubov looked before and after, his eyes crossed
suspiciously, and peered around corners. They got to their suite
without incident, and Pashkov gave him another cigar.
"Gratefully accepted. Here is a map of hospital and grounds. Here is a
map of twenty-third floor. Here is a map of Colonel James' room. Here
is hospital routine between midnight and dawn. With your pardon--"
Pashkov picked up the phone, dialed the Soviet embassy, and got the
chargé d'affaires. "How is your underdeveloped countries fund?" he
asked.
"Always depleted, always replenished."
"I don't want any Russian brands."
"Nothing but foreign," the chargé buzzed. "We got almost everything now
through an American surplus outlet in Hamburg. Nationals get caught
with American goods, Americans get blamed. Wonderful confusion. What do
you need?"
"Thirty-o-six two-twenty, three thousand--if you have it."
"Most popular. What else?"
"Pineapples--one crate."
"Only confiscated German potatoes. Will that do?"
"Fine. And a small can of sentimental caviar."
"Too risky."
"It's all right. It will fall to local authorities by tomorrow."
Pashkov put down the receiver. Give the Cubans enough to expect
more--make sure they stay in town.
* * * * *
Zubov was cross-checking his kidnaping plans. He said, "With your
pardon, do we take Colonel James alive or dead-or-alive?"
"Alive."
Zubov pulled a long face. "Dead-or-alive would be easier, Gospodin
Pashkov. Fast, clean job."
Pashkov squinted at Zubov's crossed eyes. "Have you had your eyes
examined lately?"
"No need," Zubov assured him with a smile. "I see more than most
people."