“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.