The Queen's Own FBI Trilogy: Brain Twister; The Impossibles; Supermind

by Mark Phillips

  "So,” Malone said, “we can't put them in prison, even if we want to."

  "Oh, I didn't say that,” Burris said hastily. “We could probably win, even against a good defense. But they wouldn't get much time in prison, and we'd only end up deporting them in any case."

  Malone fished for a cigarette, lit it and blew out smoke. “So we're going to save the taxpayers some money,” he said. “That'll be nice for a change."

  "That's right,” Burris said, beaming. “We're going to save Federal funds by shipping them back to their motherland now. After all, they did take out their naturalization papers under false names, and their declarations are chockfull of false information. So all it takes is a court order to declare their citizenships null and void, and hand all three of them back to the Soviets."

  "A nice, simple housecleaning,” Malone said. “All open and above-board. And the confessions will certainly stand up in a deportation hearing."

  "No question of it,” Burris said. “But the reason I called you here, Malone, is that there's still one thing bothering me."

  Malone blew out some more smoke, thought wistfully about cigars, and said: “What? Everything seems simple enough to me."

  Burris frowned and leaned back in his chair. “It's this notion of yours, Malone,” he said.

  "Notion?"

  "About going over there,” Burris said. “Now, I can understand your wanting some facts on Moscow, current background and all that sort of thing. So far, everything makes sense."

  "Fine,” Malone said warily.

  "But, after all, Malone,” Burris said, “we do have such a thing as the Central Intelligence Agency. They send us reports. That's what they're for. And why you want to ignore the reports and make a trip over there to walk around and see for yourself—"

  "It's because of everything that's happening,” Malone said.

  Burris looked puzzled. “What?” he said.

  "Because of all the confusion,” Malone said. “Frankly, I can't trust the CIA, or any other branch of the government. I've got to see for myself."

  Burris considered this for a second. “It's going to look very peculiar,” he said.

  Malone shrugged. “Everything looks peculiar,” he said. “A little more won't hurt anything. And if I do turn up anything we can use, the whole trip will be worth it."

  "But sending an FBI man along with Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch is a little strange,” Burris said. “Not to mention Her Majesty."

  "There is that,” Malone said. “I wonder what our Red friends are going to think of the Queen."

  "God knows,” Burris said. “If they take her seriously, they're liable to call her some sort of capitalist deviationist."

  "And if they don't take her seriously?” Malone said.

  "Then they're going to wonder why she's pretending to be a capitalist deviationist,” Burris said.

  Malone flicked his cigarette at an ashtray. “You can't win,” he said.

  "Frankly,” Burris said, “I wouldn't allow Her Majesty to go along under any circumstances-except that there is an excuse for having an older woman around."

  "There is?” Malone said.

  Burris nodded. “As a chaperone,” he said.

  "Now, wait a minute,” Malone said. “Brubitsch, Borbitsch and what's-his-name don't need a chaperone."

  "I didn't say it was for them,” Burris said.

  "Me?” Malone asked in a tone of absolute wonder. “Now, Chief, I don't need a chaperone. I'm a grown man. I know my way around. And the idea of having Her Majesty along to chaperone me is going to make everything look even stranger. After all, Chief—"

  "Malone,” Burris said, in a voice of steel.

  "Sorry,” Malone mumbled. “But, really, I'm not some young, innocent girl in a Victorian novel."

  "No,” Burris said, a trifle sadly, “you're not. But there is one going along on the trip with the rest of you."

  "There is?” Malone said. “Who is she? Rebecca?"

  "Her name's Luba,” Burris said. “Luba Garbitsch."

  "Garbitsch's wife?” Malone said.

  Burris shook his head. “His daughter,” he said. “And don't tell me there isn't any such name as Luba. I know there isn't. But what would you pick to go with Garbitsch?"

  "Wastepaper basket,” Malone said instantly. “Grapefruit rinds. Lemon peels. Coffee grounds."

  "Damn it, Malone,” Burris said, “this is serious."

  "Well,” Malone said, “it doesn't sound serious. What are we doing, deporting the entire family?"

  "I suppose we could,” Burris said, “if we really wanted to get complicated about it. What with Garbitsch's false declaration, I haven't the faintest idea what his daughter's status would be-but she was born here, Malone, and as far as we can tell she's perfectly loyal to the United States."

  "Fine,” Malone said. “So you're sending her to Russia. This is making less and less sense, you know."

  Burris rubbed a hand over his face. “Malone,” he said in a quiet, patient voice, “why don't you wait for me to finish? Then everything will make sense. I promise."

  "Well, all right,” Malone said doubtfully. “Luba Garbitsch is going along to Russia, in spite of the fact that she's perfectly loyal."

  "True,” Burris said. “You see, Malone, she loves her traitorous old daddy just the same. Family affection. Very touching."

  "And if he's going to Moscow—"

  "She wants to go along,” Burris said. “That's right."

  "And you're going to send her along,” Malone said, “out of the goodness of your kindly old heart. Just like Santa Claus. Or the Easter bunny."

  Burris looked acutely uncomfortable. “Now, Malone,” he said. “It's not exactly that, and you know it."

  "It isn't?” Malone said, trying to look surprised.

  Burris shook his head. “If we send Luba Garbitsch along,” he said, “that gives us a good excuse for Her Majesty. As a chaperone."

  "Are you sure,” Malone asked slowly, “that anybody with a name like Luba Garbitsch could plausibly need a chaperone? Even in a den of vice? Because somehow it doesn't sound right: Luba Garbitsch, chaperoned by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth I."

  "Well,” Burris said, “it won't be the Queen. I mean, she won't be known as the Queen."

  "Incognito?” Malone said.

  Burris shrugged. “In away,” he said. “What do you think would be a good name for her to travel under?"

  Malone considered. “I don't know,” he said at last. “But no more Lubas."

  "I was thinking,” Burris said carefully. “How about Rose Thompson?"

  There was a long silence.

  "I don't know whether she'll go for the idea,” Malone said. “But I'll try it."

  "You can do it, Malone,” Burris said instantly. “I know you can. I just know it.” “Your faith,” Malone said with a sigh, “is going to be too much for me one of these days."

  Burris shrugged. “Just take it easy, Malone,” he said. “You said you wanted to have Her Majesty over there to read a few minds, and you've got her. But remember, don't get involved in anything complicated. Don't start any fireworks."

  "I hope not,” Malone said.

  "Stay out of political arguments,” Burris said.

  Malone blinked. “What do you think I'm going to do?” he said. “Bring along a soapbox?"

  "You never know,” Burris said. “Just keep quiet, and don't go prowling around where you're not wanted."

  "That,” Malone said decisively, “would keep me out of Russia entirely."

  "Damn it,” Burris said, “you know what I mean. We don't want any international incidents, understand?"

  "Yes, sir,” Malone said.

  Burris nodded. “All right, then,” he said. “Your plane leaves from the airport in an hour. You'd better go and talk to Her Majesty first."

  "Right,” Malone said.

  "And I hope you know what you're doing,” Burris said.

  So do I, Malone thought privately. Alou
d, he said, “I just want to get the feel of things over there, that's all, sir. I won't cause any more trouble than an ordinary tourist."

  "Malone,” Burris said, “don't be an ordinary tourist. They're empty-headed morons and they do make trouble. Be an invisible tourist. Be nice to everybody. Be polite and kind. Don't step on any toes, no matter whose and no matter why."

  "Yes, sir,” Malone said.

  "Remember, they're going to know who you are,” Burris said.

  "It's not as if we could keep it a secret."

  "Yes, sir,” Malone said. “I'll remember."

  "All right.” Burris extended his hand. “Good luck, Malone,” he said, with a deeper feeling of sincerity than Malone had experienced from him in months.

  Malone shook the hand. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

  * * * *

  A little less than an hour later, Malone sat on the steps of the landing ramp that led up to the open door of the big Air Force transport plane on the runway. The plane was waiting, and so was Malone. He didn't feel confident, or even excited. He felt just a little bit frightened. Burris’ complicated warnings had had some effect, and Malone was fighting down a minor case of the shakes.

  Next to him, her face wreathed in happy smiles, sat a smartly-dressed grey-haired woman in her sixties. She wore an unobtrusive tailored suit and a light jacket, and she looked as if she might be one of the elder matrons of the society set, very definitely an upper-crust type. In spite of the normality of her clothing, Her Majesty looked every inch a Queen, Malone thought.

  "And that, Sir Kenneth, is only natural,” she said sweetly. “Even when traveling incognito, one must retain one's dignity. And I don't object at all to using the name of Rose Thompson in a good cause; it was used for so many years it almost feels like part of me."

  "I shouldn't be at all surprised,” Malone said mildly.

  A voice from above and behind him interrupted his worried thoughts. “Mr. Malone!” it said. “Mr. Malone?"

  Malone screwed his head around and looked up. An Air Force colonel was standing in the doorway of the plane, looking down with a stern, worried expression. “Yes?” Malone said. “What is it?"

  "Takeoff, Mr. Malone,” the colonel said. “We're due to go in fifteen minutes, and our clearance has been established."

  "Fine,” Malone said.

  "But your passengers,” the colonel said. “Where are they?"

  Malone tried to look calm, cool and collected. “They'll be here,” he said. “Don't worry about a thing.” Privately, he hoped he was right. Boyd hadn't shown up yet, and Boyd was bringing the musical-comedy spy trio. It wasn't, Malone thought, that Boyd was usually late. But with Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch in tow, almost anything could happen, he thought. He hoped fervently that it wouldn't.

  "It won't,” Her Majesty said. “At least, it hasn't so far. They're all in a car, and they're driving right here. Boyd is thinking that he ought to be here within five minutes.” Malone nodded, wiping his forehead. “Five minutes, Colonel,” he called back to the figure at the door. The colonel nodded efficiently at him, turned and disappeared inside the plane. Malone looked at his watch. The second hand was going around awfully fast, he thought. He wondered if it were possible for time to speed up while he waited, so that by the time Boyd arrived he would be an old, old man. He felt about eight years older already, he told himself, and a minute hadn't even passed.

  He forced his eyes away from the moving second hand. Looking at it, he knew, would only make him more nervous. Maybe there was some scenery around that he could stare at. He raised his eyes and looked out toward the gates that led to the interior of the air terminal.

  Scenery, he told himself in sudden wonder, was no word for it.

  He stared. He wanted to blink, but at the same time he felt that it would be a shame to close his eyes for even a tenth of a second. He held his eyelids apart by main force and went right on staring.

  The girl walking toward him across the field was absolutely beautiful. She seemed to make everything light up and start singing. Malone was sure that, somewhere, he could hear birds plugging their favorite numbers, and the soft rustle of the wind through pine branches. He could feel the soft caress of the wind on his face, and he could smell the odor of lilacs and honeysuckles and violets and whatever all those other flowers were. They had all different colors and shapes, and he couldn't remember many of their names, but he could tell they were all around him. They had to be all around him. Especially all the red ones.

  The girl had red hair that tossed gently in the wind. The bottom two-thirds of her figure, Malone was happy to note, was not only as good as the top third but a good deal better. It took him several seconds to reach this conclusion, because at first he was willing to swear that he had never seen such a beautiful girl before.

  But, he told himself with a shade of apprehension, he had.

  As she approached, he stood up. “Well, well,” he said brightly. “If it isn't the Lady That's Known as Lou. Did the Psychical Research Society give you the day off, or are you here to see about a misplaced broom?"

  The girl beamed at him. “My, my,” she said. “How are you?"

  "Fine,” Malone said. “And—"

  "And how are the others?” she said.

  Malone blinked. “Others?” he said.

  She nodded. “Grumpy, Sleepy, Happy, Dopey, Bashful and Doc,” she said.

  Malone opened his mouth, shut it again, and thought for a second. “Now, wait a minute,” he said at last. “That's not fair. I—"

  "Oh,” she said. “And I nearly forgot. I owe you one from last time: gesundheit."

  "And many happy returns,” Malone said. “Seriously, what are you doing out here?"

  "Talking,” the girl said. “To you. Or hadn't you noticed?"

  "I mean in general,” Malone said desperately.

  "In general,” she said agreeably, “I'm here to take a little trip."

  "Oh,” Malone said. “By plane?"

  She smiled sweetly and shook her head. “Not at all,” she said. “I'm waiting for the next scheduled broomstick."

  Malone took a deep breath. “When does your plane leave?” he said doggedly.

  "In ten minutes or so,” she said.

  "Then you'd better hurry and get on,” he said.

  She nodded. “That's what I thought,” she said.

  A second passed.

  "Did you want to say something?” Malone said uncomfortably.

  She shook her head. “Not particularly,” she said.

  "Well, then—"

  "The time is growing short,” she said.

  "Isn't it, though?” Malone said, feeling a little mystified. “Well, now. Goodbye. I'll see you soon."

  "Goodbye,” she said.

  Another second passed.

  "Your plane—” Malone started.

  "How about yours?” she said.

  "I'm all right,” Malone said nervously. “But if your plane's leaving in ten minutes you'd better get on it."

  "I intend to,” she said, without moving.

  "Well—” Malone started.

  "As soon as you quit blocking the ramp,” she said. “Would you mind terribly if I climbed over your head? Because I do have to get on board."

  "Now wait a minute,” Malone said. “This isn't your plane."

  "How do you know?” she said. “Do you own it? Are you flying it away?"

  "Well,” Malone said helplessly, “it's my plane, and there's nobody going on it but—"

  He paused. A great light seemed to burst in his mind, shedding a perfectly horrible glow over the wreck of his mental processes. “You know,” he said in a tentative tone, “we never have been properly introduced. I only know your name is Lou."

  "That's what people call me,” the girl said. “For short. I'm Luba Garbitsch."

  "And I'm Kenneth Malone,” Malone said. “Kenneth J. Malone. Of the FBI."

  She nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I know."

  "You
r father—"

  "My father is going to Russia,” she said, “and I am going along with him."

  "Oh,” Malone said. “Sure. Sure. Oh."

  There was a longer silence.

  "Can I get on board now?” Luba said.

  "There isn't any hurry,” Malone said. “We're still waiting for-for passengers. And this is one of them.” He turned and indicated the Queen. “This is Her-Rose Thompson. She'll be traveling along with us."

  Her Majesty was wearing a broad, broad grin, Malone noticed nervously as he turned. Undoubtedly she had been tuned in to the whole conversation, and knew just what had gone on in both minds. But she only said, “I'm very pleased to meet you, my dear."

  Lou blinked, smiled and stretched out her hand. “Well, then,” she said. “Hello. And let's all have a happy trip."

  "By all means,” Malone said. “And the trip seems to be about to start."

  He could hear the tramping of a lot of feet coming across the field toward them. He looked and saw that the feet were all neatly attached to bodies, two to a body. There were Thomas Boyd's feet, the assorted twelve feet of six FBI agents, and three pairs that belonged to Alexis Brubitsch, Ivan Borbitsch and Vasili Garbitsch. Brubitsch looked even fatter than ever, Borbitsch even thinner. Garbitsch was of an indeterminate middling shape; he had grey hair and a pair of pince-nez, and he walked a trifle unevenly, like a duck, with his hands clasped low in front of him. He was looking down at the ground as the crowd shoved him along.

  When the crowd neared the steps, Luba went over to him. Garbitsch looked up, with a pleasant, somehow wistful smile on his face. “Hello, Luba, my child,” he said.

  Luba smiled, too. “Hello, Dad,” she said. “All ready to go?"

  "Certainly I am ready,” he said. “I am all packed. We take off in a few minutes. And you, Luba, my child?"

  "Fine, Dad,” she said.

  She looked down. “They've got handcuffs on you,” she said. “Why, that's—"

  Garbitsch shrugged. He looked even more wistful. “A formality,” he said. “It makes no difference."

  "Okay,” Boyd said suddenly. “We've got to get out of here pretty soon, and you'll be taking off. Let's break it up. Miss Thompson, you and Luba go aboard. Malone, you follow with the others."

  Malone rounded up Brubitsch, Borbitsch and Garbitsch and followed the ladies aboard.