* * * * * Pashkov spent an hour at Central Intelligence. Nothing unusual going on in Stockholm: an industrial exhibit, the Swedish Academy in session, a sociology seminar on prison reform, a forty-man trade mission from India. An addendum to the Stockholm file listed two Cuban agents operating from Fralsningsarmen's Economy Lodgings. They were buying small arms and ammunition. He thought a moment, impressed the Cubans' address on his memory, and went to his flier. He did not fly to Hotel Reisen at once. Zubov's kidnaping team could wait. Coming slowly over Stockholm he spotted the National Hospital and circled. A line of ambulance fliers was parked on the ground in the ambulance court. On the hospital roof, he noticed, apart from private fliers, stood a flier that resembled his own. He veered away, detoured around Riddarholmen, and five minutes later landed on the roof of Fralsningsarmen's Economy Lodgings--the Salvation Army flophouse. "My Cuban friends," Pashkov inquired in fluent English at the desk on the top floor. "Are they in?" The old desk clerk looked like a stork. "Yu, room six fifteen," he clacked. "Tree floors down. Aer yu Amerikan?" "Brazil." "Ah so? You sprikker goot Inglish laik me." "Very kind of you." He rode down three floors, found room 615, and stopped as he heard voices within. "... _dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, seis, siete_. By seven o'clock tonight, okay, Gringo?" "What do you expect for seven thousand bucks--service? Look, boys, I'm just a honest businessman. I can't get it for you today. Have a seegar, Pablo." "Tfu!" "All rightie, your cause is my cause. Maybe I can get it for you tonight. But you'll have to pay in advance. What do you say, Francisco?" "I counted the money. It is waiting for you. You deliver, we pay." "But how can I trust you? I like you boys, I know you like me, but business is business. I gotta give something to my jobber, don't I?" "Gringo!" At that moment Pashkov knocked on the door. From within: "Shh! _Alguien llama a la puerta._" Pashkov knocked again and a scuffle ensued within, the crack of a chair on a skull, the dragging of a beefy body into a closet, and the slam of the closet door. "_Yu?_" "_Buenas tardes_," Pashkov said through the door. "_Asuntos muy importantes._" The door opened a crack and two dark eyes in a young bearded face peered out. "Eh?" "_Gospodin Pashkov, para servir a usted._" The door opened enough to admit the roly-poly visitor into the room. The other Cuban, also bearded and wearing a fatigue cap, held a revolver. "No gun-play, caballeros," Pashkov went on in Spanish. "We are in the Salvation Army charity house, not in a two-peso thriller. Besides, I deliver before I ask payment." "Deliver what, senor?" "We favor any disturbance close to the United States. May I sit down?" Between two beds were stacked some dozen crates of explosives. A small table was littered with papers.