Maybe someday, he thought, he would be a real detective, instead of just having a few special gifts that he hadn’t really worked for, anyhow. Maybe someday, in the distant future, he would be the equal of Nick Carter. Right now, though, he had a case to solve. Nick Carter wasn’t around to help. And Kenneth J. Malone, FBI, was getting absolutely nowhere. Finally, his reverie was broken by the sounds of argument outside the plane door. There were voices speaking both English and Russian, very loudly. Malone went to the door and opened it. A short, round, grey-haired man who looked just a little like an over-tired bear who had forgotten to sleep all winter almost fell into his arms. The man was wearing a grey overcoat that went nicely with his hair, and carrying a small black bag. Malone said: “Oog,” replaced the man on his own feet and looked past him at the group on the landing ramp outside. The navigator was there, arguing earnestly with two men in the uniform of the MVD. “Damn it,” the navigator said, “you can’t come in here. Nobody comes in but the doctor. This is United States territory.” The MVD men said something in Russian. “No,” the navigator said. “Definitely no.” One of the MVD men spat something that sounded like an insult. The navigator shrugged. “I don’t understand Russian,” he told them. “All I know is one word. No. _Nyet_ Definitely, absolutely irrevocably _nyet_.” “_Sikin sin Amerikanyets!_” The MVD men turned, as if they’d been a sister act, and went down the steps. The navigator followed them, wiping his forehead and breathing deeply. Malone shut the door. “Well, well, well,” the doctor said, in a burbling sort of voice. “Somehow, we thought it might be you. Anyhow, the ambassador did.” “Really?” Malone said, trying to sound surprised. “Oh, yes,” the doctor assured him. “You have raised something of a stench in and around good old Moscow, you know.” “I’m innocent,” Malone said. The doctor nodded. “Undoubtedly,” he said judiciously. “Who isn’t? And where, by the way, is the girl?” “Over there.” Malone pointed. News apparently traveled with great speed in Moscow, MVD and censorship notwithstanding. At any rate, he thought, it traveled with great speed to the ears of the Embassy staff. The doctor lifted Lou’s limp wrist to time her pulse, his lips pursed and his eyes focused on a far wall. “What have you heard?” Malone said. “The MVD boys are extremely worried,” the doctor said. “Extremely.” He didn’t let go of the wrist, a marvel of which Malone had never grown tired. Doctors always seemed to be able, somehow, to examine a patient and carry on a conversation about totally different things, without even showing the strain. This one was no exception. Malone watched in awe. “According to the reports we got from them,” the doctor said, “you wandered off from _Trotkin’s_ without your escort.”