Sitting down at the table, Pashkov's elbow rested on an invoice, and moments later the invoice was tucked in his pocket. "What kind of ammunition do you need, caballeros?" The Cubans looked at each other. "Thirty-o-six caliber, two-twenty grain. How much can you deliver?" "Two thousand rounds." "Not much." "Maybe three thousand. I'll toss in a box of hand grenades and a can of lysergic acid diethylamide." "You have that? You have LSD-25?" "I have that. When are you leaving Stockholm?" Again the young beards exchanged looks. "Maybe we stay till tomorrow if you have more business. Three thousand rounds is not much. How much payment, senor?" "Two thousand kronor," Pashkov said, taking an envelope on the table and addressing it to Nadezhda Brunhildova, Kremlin, Moscow. No return address. "Do you trust us to send the money?" "It is bad for you if I do not trust you," Pashkov said, smiling up at them. "You can trust us. We shall send the money. Please take a cigar." Pashkov took four Havanas from the box they held out to him, stuck three in his breast pocket, and lit one. "You come again, senor. We make much business." "Why not? Help retire Latin-American dictators to Siberia. More gold in Siberia than in Las Vegas." "Hyi, hyi, that is funny. You come again." On his way up to the roof, Pashkov studied the invoice he had lifted. It was from a manufacturer of sporting arms to Francisco Jesus Maria Gonzales, Salvation Army Economy Lodgings. He tucked the invoice into his inner pocket with a satisfied grunt, climbed into his flier and hopped over to Hotel Reisen, where Zubov's kidnaping team was waiting for him. * * * * * Comrade Zubov, the kidnaping expert, was pacing the roof of Hotel Reisen. As Pashkov eased down in his flier, Zubov's big front tooth flashed with delight. Pashkov felt like tossing him a bone. "Everything in order, Gospodin Pashkov. Constant vigilance maintained at hospital by my two assistants. With your pardon, Comrade Petchareff urges all haste. Colonel James is due to leave the hospital tomorrow." "Comrade Petchareff always urges haste. What else?" Zubov's big tooth settled respectfully over his lower lip. His small eyes were so closely set that he looked cockeyed when he focused them on his superior. "With your pardon, I shall conduct you to our suite. Plans for kidnaping of Colonel James all ready." "Here's a cigar for you." "Gratefully accepted. Reduced unavoidable fatalities to six." Zubov counted on his long hard fingers. "Two watchmen, three nurses, one doctor." In the hotel corridor, Zubov looked before and after, his eyes crossed suspiciously, and peered around corners. They got to their suite without incident, and Pashkov gave him another cigar. "Gratefully accepted. Here is a map of hospital and grounds. Here is a map of twenty-third floor. Here is a map of Colonel James' room. Here is hospital routine between midnight and dawn. With your pardon--"