Pashkov picked up the phone, dialed the Soviet embassy, and got the chargé d'affaires. "How is your underdeveloped countries fund?" he asked. "Always depleted, always replenished." "I don't want any Russian brands." "Nothing but foreign," the chargé buzzed. "We got almost everything now through an American surplus outlet in Hamburg. Nationals get caught with American goods, Americans get blamed. Wonderful confusion. What do you need?" "Thirty-o-six two-twenty, three thousand--if you have it." "Most popular. What else?" "Pineapples--one crate." "Only confiscated German potatoes. Will that do?" "Fine. And a small can of sentimental caviar." "Too risky." "It's all right. It will fall to local authorities by tomorrow." Pashkov put down the receiver. Give the Cubans enough to expect more--make sure they stay in town. * * * * * Zubov was cross-checking his kidnaping plans. He said, "With your pardon, do we take Colonel James alive or dead-or-alive?" "Alive." Zubov pulled a long face. "Dead-or-alive would be easier, Gospodin Pashkov. Fast, clean job." Pashkov squinted at Zubov's crossed eyes. "Have you had your eyes examined lately?" "No need," Zubov assured him with a smile. "I see more than most people." Pashkov held up his remaining cigar. "How many cigars in my hand?" "Two." At that moment the door opened and Zubov's kidnaping team lumbered in. They were a couple of big apes dressed in blue canvas shoes, red trousers, yellow jackets, white silk scarves, sport caps and sun glasses. "What are you doing here?" cried Zubov. "Why aren't you observing the hospital?" "Dhh, you said to report ... um ... if something happened," the first ape said in a thick voice. "Well?" "Victim's room lights out," the ape said. "My assistants," Zubov introduced them to Pashkov. "Line up, line up, lads. With your pardon, they are good lads. This is Petya, and this is Kolya. No, _this_ is Kolya and this one is Petya." "Twins?" "Not exactly. Same genetic experiment. Good lads. Stand straight, Petya. Don't curl your feet like that, Kolya, I've told you before. Why didn't you shave your hands today?" Kolya looked guiltily at his hands. "They've made progress," Zubov assured Pashkov, pulling a small whip from his hip pocket. "Straight, lads, straight," he flicked the whip. "We have company." "Are their costumes your own idea?" "With your pardon, for purposes of concealment. What are your orders?" Pashkov told them to pick up the boxes of ammunition at the embassy and deliver them to the Cubans, and then to commandeer a private automobile. "We have autos at the embassy pool," Zubov suggested. "I want a vehicle off the street. Then report back here with your lads." Petya gave Kolya a box on the ear. "Boys, boys!" Zubov cracked the whip. "Out you go. A job for Gospodin Pashkov, lads. They don't get enough exercise," he grinned, backing out after them. "With your pardon, I'll thrash them later."