The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

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СКАЧАТЬ this comfortable surface, and Malone took a deep breath. "Take care of her for a minute, Your Majesty," he said.

      "Of course," the Queen said.

      Malone nodded. "I'm going to see who's up front," he said. He walked through the corridors of the plane and rapped authoritatively on the door of the pilot's cabin. A second passed, and he raised his hand to knock again.

      It never reached the door, which opened very suddenly. Malone found himself facing a small black hole.

      It was the muzzle and the bore of the barrel of an M-2 .45 revolver, and it was pointing somewhere in the space between Malone's eyes. Behind the gun was a hard-eyed air force colonel with a grim expression.

      "You know," Malone said pleasantly, "they're good guns, but they really can't compare to the .44 Magnum."

      The pilot blinked, and his gun wavered just a little. "What?" he said.

      "Well," Malone said, "if you'd only join the FBI, like me, you'd have a .44 Magnum, and you could compare the guns."

      The pilot blinked again. "You're--"

      "Malone," Malone said. "Kenneth J. Malone, FBI. My friends call me Snookums, but don't try it. Why not let's put the gun away and be friends?"

      "Oh," the colonel said weakly. "Mr.--sure. I'm sorry, Mr. Malone. Didn't recognize you for a second there."

      "Perfectly all right," Malone said. The gun was still pointing at him, and in spite of the fact that he felt pleasantly like Philip Marlowe, or maybe the Saint, he was beginning to get a little nervous. "The gun," he said.

      The colonel stared at it for a second, then reholstered it in a hurry. "I am sorry," he said. "But we've been worried about Russians coming aboard. I've got my copilot and navigator outside, guarding the plane, and they were supposed to let me know if anybody came in. When they didn't let me know, and you knocked, I assumed you were Russians. But, of course, you--"

      Conversation came to a sudden dead stop.

      "About these Russians--" Malone said desperately. But the pilot's eyes got a little glazed. He wasn't listening.

      "Now, wait a minute," he said. "Why didn't they notify me?"

      "Maybe they didn't see me," Malone said. "I mean us."

      "But--"

      "I'm not very noticeable," Malone said hopefully, trying to look small and undistinguished. "They could just have ... not noticed me. Okay?" He gave the pilot his most friendly smile.

      "They'd have noticed you," the pilot said. "If they're still out there. If nothing's happened to them." He leaned forward. "Did you see them, Malone?"

      Malone shrugged. "How would I know?" he said.

      "How would you--" The pilot seemed at a loss for words. Malone waited patiently, trying to look as if everything were completely and perfectly normal. "Mr. Malone," the pilot said at last, "how did you get aboard this aircraft?"

      He didn't wait for an answer, and Malone was grateful for that. Instead, he stepped over to a viewport and looked out. On the field, two air force officers were making lonely rounds about the plane. Fifty yards farther away, a squad of Russian guards also patrolled the brightly-lit area. There was nothing else in sight.

      "There isn't any way you could have done it," the pilot said without turning.

      "That's the FBI for you," Malone said. "We've got our little trade secrets, you know." Somehow, the pilot's back looked unconvinced. "Disguise," Malone added. "We're masters of disguise."

      The pilot turned very slowly. "Now what the hell would you disguise yourself as?" he said. "A Piper Cub?"

      "It's a military secret," Malone said hurriedly.

      The pilot didn't say anything for what seemed a long time. "A military secret?" he asked at last, in a hushed voice. "And you can't tell me? You're a civilian, and I'm a colonel in the United States Air Force, and you can't tell me a military secret?"

      Malone didn't hesitate a second. "Well, Colonel," he said cheerfully, "that's the way things are."

      The pilot threw up his hands. "It's none of my business," he said loudly. "I'm not even going to think about it. Because if I do, you'll have a mad pilot on your hands, and you wouldn't like that, would you?"

      "I would hate it," Malone said sincerely, "like hell. Particularly since I've got a sick woman aboard."

      "Disguised," the pilot offered, "as Lenin, I suppose."

      Malone shook his head. "I'm not kidding now," he said. "She is sick, and I want a doctor for her."

      "Why didn't you bring one with you?" the pilot said. "Or wasn't the disguise big enough for three?"

      "Four," Malone said. "We've got three now; me and Miss Garbitsch and Miss Thompson. Lou--Miss Garbitsch is the one who's sick. But I want a doctor from the American Embassy."

      "I think we could all use one," the pilot said judiciously. "But you'd better tell me what's the matter with the girl."

      Malone gave him a brief and highly censored version of the melee at Trotkin's, particularly omitting the details of the final escape from the MVD men.

      When he had finished, the pilot gave a long, low whistle. "You have been having fun," he said. "Can I go on your next adventure, or is it only for accredited Rover Boys?"

      "You have to buy a pin and a special compass that works in the dark," Malone said. "I don't think you'd like it. How about that doctor?"

      The pilot nodded wearily. "I'll send my navigator over to the airfield phone," he said. "As a matter of fact, I'll tell him to tell the doctor I'm the one who's sick, so the Russians don't get suspicious. It may even be true."

      "Just so he gets here," Malone said. The pilot was flagging his navigator through the viewport as Malone went out, closing the door gently behind him. He went back down the plane corridor to Her Majesty and Lou.

      Lou was still lying on the makeshift bed, her eyes closed. She looked more beautiful and defenseless than ever, and Malone wanted to do something big and terrible to all the Russians who had tried to take her away or dope her. With difficulty, he restrained himself. "How is she?" he asked.

      "She seems to be all right," the Queen said. "The substance they put in her drink doesn't appear to have had any other effect than putting her to sleep and making her a little sick--and that was a good thing."

      "Oh, sure," Malone said. "That was fine."

      "Well," Her Majesty said, "she did get rid of quite a bit of the drug in the ladies' room." She smiled, just a trifle primly. "I think she'll be all right," she said.

      "There's a doctor on the way, anyhow," Malone said, staring down at her. He tried to think of something he could do for her--fan her, or bring her water, or cool her fevered brow. But she didn't look very fevered. She just looked helpless and beautiful. He felt sorry for all the nasty things he had said to her, and all the nasty things she had said to him. If she got well--and of course she was going to get well, he told himself firmly--things would be different. They'd be sweet and kind СКАЧАТЬ