the clues he needed
to solve the whole case. Or else he would go and beat somebody up, and
the exercise would stimulate his brain and he would suddenly arrive at
the answer in a blinding flash.

Wondering vaguely if a blinding flash were anything like a dungeon,
because people kept being in them and never seemed to come out, Malone
sighed. Detectives in books were great, wonderful people who never had
any doubts or worries. Particularly if they were with the FBI. Only
Kenneth J. Malone was different.

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," Ma