Chapter 7

Red Square was, somehow, disappointing. It was crowded with men and women, all looking very Russian in an undefined sort of way, and the big glass windows sparkled from every side. “I know it’s silly,” Luba said in a baffled voice, “but, somehow, I always expected Red Square to be red.”

“And why should that be?” the MVD man next to her said. He was a burly man with a sour expression, as if he had eaten too many onions the day before.

“Well,” Malone said, “it is Red Square, after all.”

“But red is symbolic only,” the MVD man said surlily. “Is not color. Only symbol of glorious Russia.”

“I suppose so,” Luba said. “But it’s still disappointing.”

“You expect, perhaps, that we recruit our glorious Red Army from American Indian tribes?” the MVD man said sourly. “You are literal-minded bourgeois intellectual. This is not good thing to be.”

“Somehow,” Malone mused, “I didn’t think it was.”

“But this is different,” Luba said. “The Red Army is made up of Russians. But this is just a square. You could paint it.”

“After all,” Malone offered, “the White House is white, isn’t it?”

“White is cowardly color,” the MVD man pointed out with satisfaction.

“Never mind that,” Malone said. “We call it a white house, and it is a white house. You call this a red square, and it isn’t even pink. Not even a little bit pink. It’s just--just--”

“Just building-colored,” Luba put in. Malone turned to her and executed a small bow.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Think nothing of it,” Luba said.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Malone said. “I will.”

The MVD man hissed like a teakettle and both heads swung round to look at him again. Her Majesty, who had been admiring some dresses in a shop window, also turned. “My goodness,” she said. “That’s a terrible wheeze. Do you take something for it?”

“Is not wheeze,” the MVD man said. “Is noise representing impatience with arrogance and stupidity of capitalist warmonger conversation.”

“Arrogance?” Luba said.

“Stupidity?” Malone said.

Her Majesty drew herself to her full height. “We do not monger war,” she said. “Not in the least. We are not mongers.”

The MVD man looked at her, blinked, sighed and looked away. “This color discussion,” he said, “it is very silly. Look at the Blue Ridge Mountains, in your country. Are they blue?”

“Well--” Malone said.

“What color, for example, is the Golden Gate Bridge?” the MVD man continued, with heavy sarcasm. “Is not even a gate. Is a bridge. Is not golden. But you say we disappoint. No. You disappoint.”

There seemed to be no immediate answer to that, so Malone didn’t try for one. Instead, he went back to looking at the Square, and beyond it to where the inverted turnips of the Kremlin gleamed in the moonlight. The turnips were very pretty, if a little odd for building-tops. But Red Square, in spite of all its historic associations, seemed to be a little dull. The buildings were just buildings, and the streets were filled with Russians. They were not bomb-throwing Russians, bearded Russians or even “Volga Boatman”-singing Russians. They were just ordinary, dull Russians of every sort, shade, race, color and previous condition of servitude.

It was just about what he’d expected after the trip. That hadn’t been exciting either, he told himself. There had been no incident of any kind. None of the three spies seemed to be exactly overjoyed about being sent back to good old Mother Russia, but none seemed inclined to make much fuss about the matter, either. Malone had blandly told them that they were being deported, instead of tried, because there was no evidence that was worth the expense of a trial. And, besides that, he had particularly emphasized that the FBI did not believe any of the stories the three men had told.

“They just don’t match up,” he said. “You all told different stories, and there’s too much disagreement between them. Frankly, we don’t believe any of them--not yet, we don’t. But mark my words. We’ll find out the truth some day.”

He’d thought it was a good speech, and Her Majesty had agreed with him. It had its desired effect, since the plane was the first place the three had had a chance to meet since their arrest. “Each one knows that he told the truth,” Her Majesty said, “but nobody knows what the other two said.”

“That’s what I figured,” Malone said. “They didn’t have a chance to talk to each other.”

“And so each one is lying his head off to the others,” Her Majesty said, “and telling them all about how he, too, lied gloriously and bravely in defense of the Motherland. It’s really very funny.”

“Well,” Malone said, “it makes them happy. And why not?”

Luba, too, had chatted with her father quite a lot of the time. Her Majesty reported that none of this conversation could possibly be understood as dangerous or harmful. It was just simple conversation.

Of course, Luba and her father hadn’t talked all the time, and Malone did have a chance to get a few words in edgewise. Her Majesty made no report on those conversations, but Malone was comfortably aware that they did not belong in the harmless class. His relationship with the girl seemed, he told himself happily, to be improving slightly. Now and again, he even won a round from her.

As the American plane crossed the border, it was picked up by an escort of Russian fighter craft, which stuck with them all the way into Moscow. The fighters didn’t do anything; they were just there, Malone figured, for insurance. But they made him nervous when he looked out the window. The trip from the border to Moscow seemed to take a long time.

Then, at the airfield, a group of MVD men had almost elbowed the American Embassy delegation out of the way in greeting the disembarking little band. There was a lot of palaver, in Russian, English and various scrambled mixtures which nobody understood. The American delegation greeted Malone, Luba and Her Majesty formally, and the MVD concentrated on Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch. The three spies were hustled away, apparently to MVD Headquarters, without much fuss. Luba said goodbye to her father calmly enough, and Vasili Garbitsch seemed almost entirely unaffected by his surroundings. As the plane touched ground, he had said: “Ah, the soil of Mother Russia,” but, outside of a goodbye or two, those were his last words before leaving.

One MVD man stayed behind, even after the American delegation had left. His name, he explained, was Vladimir Josefovitch Petkoff. “It will be my pleasure to show your group the many historic and interesting sights of Moskva,” he announced to Malone.

“Pleasure?” Malone said. Petkoff was tall and heavy, and wore a row of medals that strung out across his chest like a newspaper headline.

“My duty,” Petkoff said flatly, “is my pleasure. That is how we arrange matters in Russia.”

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, “is a matter of governmental policy, Major Petkoff. And I can’t provide any final answer.”

“Ah?” Petkoff said.

“But, after all, a trial would not make sense,” Malone said, now busily attacking from the side. “You see, at first we thought they were espionage agents.”

“A foolish conclusion,” Petkoff said uneasily.

Malone nodded. “That’s what we finally realized,” he said. “We questioned them, but their stories were nonsense, absolute nonsense. Of course, we had no idea of what foreign government might have employed them.”

“Of course not,” Petkoff said, shifting slightly in his seat. The car took a wide curve and swayed slightly, and Malone found himself nearly in Lou’s lap. The sensation was so pleasant that all conversation was delayed for a couple of seconds, until the car had righted itself.

“So,” Malone went on when he had straightened out, “we decided to save ourselves the expense of a trial.”

“Very natural,” Petkoff said. The slight delay had apparently allowed him to recover his own mental balance. “The capitalist countries think only of money.”

“Sure,” Malone said agreeably. “Well, anyhow, that’s the way it was. There was no point, really, in putting them in prison--what for? What good could it do us?”

“Who knows?” Petkoff said.

“Exactly,” Malone said. “So, since all we wanted to do was get rid of them, and since we had an easy way to do that, why, we took it, that’s all, and shipped them here.”

“I see,” Petkoff said. “And the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics is properly grateful.”

“My goodness,” Her Majesty put in, apparently out of an irrepressible sense of fun. “Maybe we’ll get medals.”

“Medals,” Petkoff said sternly, “are not given to capitalist agitators.”

“We are not agitated,” Her Majesty said, and folded her hands in her lap, looking quite satisfied with herself.

Petkoff thought for a second. “And why,” he said, “did you feel that such elaborate precautions were necessary in returning these men to us?”

Malone shrugged. “Well, we couldn’t have them just running around all over the world, could we?” he said. “We felt that here they’d be properly housed and fed, in their own homeland, even if they didn’t get a job.”

“They will be properly taken care of,” Petkoff prophesied darkly.

“Now, wait a minute--” Lou began, and then stopped. “Sorry,” she said.

Malone felt sorry for her, but there was nothing he could say to make things any better. “Exactly,” he told Petkoff with what he hoped was a smile.

“Ah, well,” Petkoff said. “My friend and colleague, we should cease this shoptalk. Shoptalk?”

“Quite correct,” Malone said.

“I have studied English a long time,” Petkoff said. “It is not a logical language.”

“You’re doing very well,” Malone said. Petkoff gave him a military duck of the head.

“I appreciate your compliments,” he said. “But I fear we are boring the ladies.”

The major had timed his speech well. At that moment, the ornate Volga pulled up to a smooth stop before a large, richly decorated building that glowed brightly under the electric lights of a large sign. The sign said something incomprehensible in Cyrillic script. Under it, the building entrance was gilded and carved into fantastic rococo shapes. Malone stared at the sign, and was about to ask a question about it when Petkoff spoke.

“Trotkin’s,” he said. “The finest restaurant in all the world--in Moskva, this is what they say of it.”

“I understand,” Malone said.

“Come,” Petkoff said grandly, and got out of the car. One of the two silent men leaped out and opened the back door, and Her Majesty, Lou and Malone climbed out and stood blinking on the sidewalk under the sign.

Petkoff leaned over and said something to the driver. The second silent man got back into the car, and it drove away down the street, turned a corner and disappeared. The party of four started toward the entrance of the restaurant.

The door swung open before Major Petkoff reached it. A doorman was holding it, and bowing to each of the four as they passed. He was dressed in Victorian livery, complete to knee-breeches and lace, and Malone thought this was rather odd for the classless Russian society. But the doorman was only the opening note of a great symphony.

Inside, there were tables and chairs--or at least, Malone told himself, that’s what he thought they were. They were massive wood affairs, carved into tortuous shapes and gilded or painted in all sorts of colors that glittered madly under the barrage of several electric chandeliers.

The chandeliers hung from a frescoed ceiling, and looked much too heavy. They swayed and tinkled in time to the music that filled the room, but for a second Malone looked past them at the ceiling. It appeared to represent some sort of Russian heaven, at the end of the Five-Year Plan. There were officers and ladies eating grapes, waltzing, strolling on white puffy clouds, singing, drinking, making love. There was an awful lot of activity going on up on the ceiling, and it wasn’t until Malone lowered his gaze that he realized that none of this activity had been exaggerated.

True, there were no white puffy clouds, and he couldn’t immediately locate a bunch of grapes anywhere. But there were the musicians, in the same Victorian outfits as the doorman: three fiddlers, a cellist, and a man who played piano. “Just like in night-clubs in bourgeois Paris,” Petkoff said, following Malone’s gaze with every evidence of pride.

Between the musicians and Malone were a lot of tables and chairs and ancient, proud-looking waiters who appeared to have been hired when Trotkin’s had opened--and that, Malone thought, had been a long, long time ago. He felt like those two ladies, whose names he couldn’t remember, who said they’d slipped back in time. Officers and their ladies, the men in glittering uniforms, the ladies in ball dresses of every imaginable shade, cut, material and degree of exposure, were waltzing around the room looking very polite and old-world. Others were sitting at the tables, where candles fluttered, completely useless in the electric glare. The noise was something terrific, but, somehow, it was all very well-bred.

The headwaiter was suddenly next to them. He hadn’t walked there, at least not noticeably; he appeared to have perfected the old-world manner of the silent servant. Or, of course, Malone thought, the man might be a teleport.

“Ah, Major Petkoff,” he said, in a silken voice. “It is so good to see you again. And your friends?”

“Americans,” Petkoff said. “They have come to see the glorious Soviet Union.”

“Ah,” the headwaiter said. “Your usual table, Major?”

Petkoff nodded. The headwaiter led the party through the dancers, snaking slowly along until they reached a large table near the musicians and at the edge of the dance floor. Her Majesty automatically took the seat nearest the musicians, which she imagined to be the head of the table. Lou sat at her left hand, and Malone at her right, his back against a wall. Petkoff took the foot of the table, called a waiter over, and ordered for the party. He did a massive job of it, with two waiters, at last, taking down what seemed to be his entire memoirs, plus the list of all soldiers in the Red Army below the rank of Grand Exalted Elk, or whatever it might have been. Malone had no idea what the major was ordering, except that it sounded extensive and very, very Russian.

Finally the waiter went on his way. Major Petkoff turned to Malone and smiled. “Naturally,” he said, “we will begin with vodka, nyet?”

Malone considered saying nyet, but he didn’t feel that this was the time or the place. Besides, he told himself grimly, it would be a sad day when a Petkoff could drink a Malone under the table. His proudest heritage from his father was an immense capacity, he told himself. Now was his chance to test it.

“And, naturally, a little caviar to go with it,” Petkoff added.

“Certainly,” Malone said, as if caviar were the most common thing in the world in his usual Washington saloons.

It wasn’t long before the waiter reappeared, bringing four glasses and three bottles of vodka chilled in an ice-bucket, like a bouquet of champagne. Petkoff bowed him out after one bottle had been opened, set the glasses up and began to pour.

“Oh, goodness,” Her Majesty started to say.

“None for me, thanks,” Lou chimed in.

“Oh, yes,” Her Majesty said. “I don’t think I’ll have any either. An old lady has to be very careful of her system, you know.”

“You do not look like an old lady,” Petkoff said gallantly. “Middle-aged, perhaps, to be cruel. But certainly not old. Not over ... oh, perhaps forty.”

Her Majesty smiled politely at him. Malone began to wonder if it had been gallantry, after all. From what he’d seen of the Russian women, it was likely, after all, that Petkoff really thought Her Majesty wasn’t much over forty at that.

“You’re very flattering, Major,” Her Majesty said. “But I assure you that I’m a good deal older than I look.”

Malone tried to tell himself that no one else had noticed the stifled gulp that had followed that remark. It had been his own stifled gulp. And his face, he felt sure, had aged one hundred and twelve years within a second or so. He waited for Her Majesty to tell Major Petkoff just how old she really was...