And they were gone. Pashkov turned to the hospital maps and studied them before taking a nap. * * * * * Shortly before dawn, Zubov's team returned, their mission accomplished. "With your pardon, an excellent Mercedes," Zubov reported. Pashkov had changed into the hospital gown with the Coca-Cola legend on the back. He glanced at his watch. It was four o'clock in the morning. He tossed his bundle of clothing to the first ape. "Take my flier back to Moscow, Kolya lad. Give my clothes to Nadezhda Brunhildova, and tell Comrade Petchareff to expect Colonel James today." Clutching the bundle, Kolya stuck his tongue out at Petya and bounded out of the room. They waited at the window until they saw Kolya take off in Pashkov's flier. Then they made their way down the service stairs to the alley, Pashkov dressed only in the hospital gown; got into the stolen Mercedes and drove to the National Hospital, all three leaning forward. In the ambulance court, Zubov and Petya moved quickly to a Red Cross flier. Pashkov dropped the invoice he had lifted from the Cubans on the front seat of the stolen car, and followed. A watchman emerged from his hut, looked idly up at the rising ambulance, and shuffled back to his morning coffee. As Petya brought the flier to a hovering stop against Colonel James' window, Pashkov bounced into the room; Zubov drew his gun and jumped in after. Colonel James awoke, turned on the night lamp, and sat up in the bed, his eyes blinking. Pashkov stood looking at Colonel James. The resemblance between them was remarkable. Zubov's eyes were crossed with astonishment. "My dear Gospodin Pashkov!" Colonel James greeted him in Russian, yawning. "How kind of you to visit me. Do sit down." Not only was his Russian good; his voice was a good imitation of Pashkov's voice. "You're not really sick?" Pashkov asked, sitting down on the bed. "Not physically. But imagine my psychological condition. When I look in the mirror--" The colonel shuddered. "I hope your sacrifice won't be permanent?" Pashkov said. "That would be too much. How is my Russian? The truth, now." "Excellent. Put up your gun, Zubov. Colonel James and I don't get to talk very often." "And a pity we don't. Good manners accomplish more than an opera full of cloaks and daggers. Cigarette?" "Gratefully accepted," Zubov said, slipping his gun into its holster with a flourish. * * * * * "Your treatment is over, then?" Pashkov asked. "You are ready for your assignment?" "Ready." "And that is?" "Delicate, very delicate. I must report to the Palace this morning." "Shall I kidnap him now?" Zubov interrupted, puffing conceitedly on his cigarette. "Mind your language, Zubov. May I ask, Colonel--do you want me to think I am falling into a trap?" "No, no, my friend. I am only doing my best not to show my surprise at seeing you again." The colonel got out of bed and sat down on Pashkov's other side.