"Two."
At that moment the door opened and Zubov's kidnaping team lumbered
in. They were a couple of big apes dressed in blue canvas shoes, red
trousers, yellow jackets, white silk scarves, sport caps and sun
glasses.
"What are you doing here?" cried Zubov. "Why aren't you observing the
hospital?"
"Dhh, you said to report ... um ... if something happened," the first
ape said in a thick voice.
"Well?"
"Victim's room lights out," the ape said.
"My assistants," Zubov introduced them to Pashkov. "Line up, line up,
lads. With your pardon, they are good lads. This is Petya, and this is
Kolya. No, _this_ is Kolya and this one is Petya."
"Twins?"
"Not exactly. Same genetic experiment. Good lads. Stand straight,
Petya. Don't curl your feet like that, Kolya, I've told you before. Why
didn't you shave your hands today?"
Kolya looked guiltily at his hands.
"They've made progress," Zubov assured Pashkov, pulling a small whip
from his hip pocket. "Straight, lads, straight," he flicked the whip.
"We have company."
"Are their costumes your own idea?"
"With your pardon, for purposes of concealment. What are your orders?"
Pashkov told them to pick up the boxes of ammunition at the embassy and
deliver them to the Cubans, and then to commandeer a private automobile.
"We have autos at the embassy pool," Zubov suggested.
"I want a vehicle off the street. Then report back here with your
lads."
Petya gave Kolya a box on the ear.
"Boys, boys!" Zubov cracked the whip. "Out you go. A job for Gospodin
Pashkov, lads. They don't get enough exercise," he grinned, backing out
after them. "With your pardon, I'll thrash them later."
And they were gone. Pashkov turned to the hospital maps and studied
them before taking a nap.
* * * * *
Shortly before dawn, Zubov's team returned, their mission accomplished.
"With your pardon, an excellent Mercedes," Zubov reported.
Pashkov had changed into the hospital gown with the Coca-Cola legend on
the back. He glanced at his watch. It was four o'clock in the morning.
He tossed his bundle of clothing to the first ape. "Take my flier back
to Moscow, Kolya lad. Give my clothes to Nadezhda Brunhildova, and tell
Comrade Petchareff to expect Colonel James today."
Clutching the bundle, Kolya stuck his tongue out at Petya and bounded
out of the room. They waited at the window until they saw Kolya take
off in Pashkov's flier. Then they made their way down the service
stairs to the alley, Pashkov dressed only in the hospital gown; got
into the stolen Mercedes and drove to the National Hospital, all three
leaning forward.
In the ambulance court, Zubov and Petya moved quickly to a Red Cross
flier. Pashkov dropped the invoice he had lifted from the Cubans on the
front seat of the stolen car, and followed.
A watchman emerged from his hut, looked idly up at the rising
ambulance, and shuffled back to his morning coffee.
As Petya brought the flier to a hovering stop against Colonel James'
window, Pashkov bounced into the room; Zubov drew his gun and jumped in
after.
Colonel James awoke, turned on the night lamp, and sat up in the bed,
his eyes blinking.
Pashkov stood looking at Colonel James. The resemblance between them
was remarkable. Zubov's eyes were crossed with astonishment.
"My dear Gospodin Pashkov!" Colonel James greeted him in Russian,
yawning. "How kind of you to visit me. Do sit down." Not only was his
Russian good; his voice was a good imitation of Pashkov's voice.
"You're not really sick?" Pashkov asked, sitting down on the bed.
"Not physically. But imagine my psychological condition. When I look
in the mirror--" The colonel shuddered.
"I hope your sacrifice won't be permanent?" Pashkov said.
"That would be too much. How is my Russian? The truth, now."
"Excellent. Put up your gun, Zubov. Colonel James and I don't get to
talk very often."
"And a pity we don't. Good manners accomplish more than an opera full
of cloaks and daggers. Cigarette?"
"Gratefully accepted," Zubov said, slipping his gun into its holster
with a flourish.
* * * * *
"Your treatment is over, then?" Pashkov asked. "You are ready for your
assignment?"
"Ready."
"And that is?"
"Delicate, very delicate. I must report to the Palace this morning."
"Shall I kidnap him now?" Zubov interrupted, puffing conceitedly on his
cigarette.
"Mind your language, Zubov. May I ask, Colonel--do you want me to think
I am falling into a trap?"
"No, no, my friend. I am only doing my best not to show my surprise at
seeing you again." The colonel got out of bed and sat down on Pashkov's
other side.
"Zubov will make your trip to Moscow comfortable. All right, Zubov."
Zubov focused his crossed eyes on Pashkov.
"Take him straight to Petchareff," Colonel James said to Zubov. "I'll
report as soon as I know what these Swedes are up to."
Zubov seized Pashkov by the scruff of the neck and dragged him towards
the window.
"Hold your claws, Zubov lad," Pashkov said. "You have got the wrong
man, can't you see? _That_ is Colonel James."
"Eh?"
"Use your eyes, blockhead. _I_ am Pashkov."
Zubov did use his eyes. He looked from one to the other, and back. The
more he focused, the more his eyes crossed. "Eh?"