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?”