Zubov lifted Pashkov off the floor, crashed with his weight against the
wall, but held on, grinned and staggered with Pashkov in his arms to
the window.
"You miserable idiot," Pashkov shouted. "You'll get a rest cure for
this!"
Zubov dropped him, pulled his gun and backed off into a corner. "How
can I tell you two apart just by looking!" he cried hysterically. "I'm
not a learned man."
"One small but decisive proof," Pashkov said, unbuttoning his hospital
gown. "I have a mole."
Zubov yanked the colonel up by an arm. "Send _me_ to rest cures, will
you?"
Colonel James sighed. "I guess we have to keep up appearances," he
muttered, and climbed out the window into the hovering ambulance. Zubov
leaped in after, and they were off.
* * * * *
The suit of clothes hanging in the closet might have been Pashkov's
own, identical with the clothes Kolya had taken to Moscow not an hour
before. Even the underwear had facsimiles of the Order of Lenin sewn in.
Satisfied, he crawled into the bed and fell into a pleasant snooze.
He was awakened by the nurse, Anastina Bjorklund--alias Anastasia
Semionovna Bezumnaya, formerly of the Stakhanovite Booster's Committee,
Moscow Third Worker's District.
"Wonderful morning, Colonel James!"
Petchareff seldom let one agent know what another was doing.
She put a big breakfast tray on Pashkov's lap. "Cloudy, damp, and
windy. London stock market caves in, race riots in South Africa, famine
in India, earthquake in Japan, floods in the United States, general
strike in France, new crisis in Berlin. I ask you, what more can an
idealist want?"
"Good morning, Miss Bjorklund."
The breakfast tray was crammed with a liter of orange juice, four
boiled eggs, six slices of bacon, four pancakes, two pork chops, four
slices of toast, a tumbler of vodka, a pot of coffee and two cigars.
"Ah, Colonel," Anastina said as Pashkov fell to, "why did you let them
change your face? It does not become you at all."
"Part of my job. Don't you think I am more handsome now?"
Anastina laughed shrilly. "That bulbous nose handsome? What woman could
fall in love with a nose like that?"
"It shows determination. I wish I had this nose permanently."
"You mustn't talk like that. But I'll ignore your nose if you tell me
more about White Sands Proving Grounds, as you promised."
"With pleasure, with pleasure," he said, sinking his teeth into a pork
chop, having seasoned the chop with the soft-boiled egg yolk. "But
right now I'm in a hurry to get to the Palace. Give my shoes an extra
shine, there's a good girl."
"Oh, you and your secrets!"
An hour later, Pashkov landed on the Palace roof in Colonel James'
flier--an exact copy of his own flier. The Palace roof captain stared
at him, then smiled nervously.
"They are waiting for you in the Gustavus room, Colonel."
"Colonel? Do I still look like Colonel James?"
"Oh, no, sir."
"Do I talk like Colonel James?"
"You've changed completely, sir. If I didn't know, I would swear you
were the notorious Gospodin Pashkov."
"I am Gospodin Pashkov now, Captain. To everybody."
"Of course, sir. I'll ring down you are coming."
Pashkov glanced at his watch. Colonel James would be landing in Moscow
about now and taken to Comrade Petchareff for questioning.
A manservant in velvet cutaways, patent leather shoes and white gloves,
escorted Pashkov through rooms hung with chandeliers, tapestries,
paintings. Pashkov entered the last room and stopped as the door
clicked shut behind him.
* * * * *
In the room were three men, all of whom he recognized: Professor
Kristin of the Swedish Academy, a white-haired old man with a kind,
intelligent face; the king, Gustavus IX, a thin old man stroking his
Vandyke, sitting under a portrait of Frederick the Great; and Monsieur
Fanti, the make-up surgeon.