"No," Pavel told him curtly, not turning around. "I am not."
"No?" the pilot asked, puzzled. "I picked up some Russian on overseas runs. I could have sworn I heard you say 'son of a bitch' in Russian."
"I did not. Go away please."
"No need to be rude, sir," said the pilot, who liked to make a good impression on foreign visitors. "You're obviously not from this country, and I was just being friendly. Just what kind of accent is that, by the way?"
"I haff not the accent," Pavel told him in thick English. Not being in America to spy on Americans, he had never gone through speech modification sessions. He was supposed to sound Russian.
"Sure you do," said the other, who was now becoming suspicious. "Where are you from, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I do mind," said the KGB man, pretending to riffle through the Yellow Pages.
"Need help looking up something? I see you're having trouble there."
"Why, yes... I am looking for a place which sells tacos. "
"Tacos? Hmmm. About the only place hereabouts carrying those things is that Irish bar on West Street. Name escapes me, but it's easy to find."
Pavel Zarnitsa abruptly turned around with a false grin on his face. "To you, I am grateful. Good-bye," he said as he brushed by.
The cab driver also asked about his accent, and Pavel briefly considered taking the pieces of the plastic pistol from his suitcase and assembling them. The pistol was spring-driven, like a zip gun, and it would easily go through the car seat and into the driver's back. It would not do to call attention to himself in any way, but Pavel decided a dead body was worse than a puzzled driver, so he changed his mind.
"I know," the driver bellowed as they pulled up before the Will Rogers Lucky Shamrock Bar and Grill. "You're a Polack!"
"A what?"
"You know— one of those guys from Poland. We get a lot of you people since the Russkies busted up the union."
"Yes, that is right," Pavel told him as he paid the fare. "I am Polack. Good-bye to you."
Pavel Zarnitsa walked up to the bar, happy he had not killed the cab driver. Now he had a reasonable explanation for his awkward accent.
"A Scootch and three tacos, please," he told the bartender.
"A what and three tacos?"
"Scootch. On the rocks."
"I getcha. Scotch on the rocks," he said, setting the drink before the black-haired customer.
"Please do not mind my accent," Pavel told him. "I am a Polack, new to your country."
"That so?" the bartender said as he took three frozen packets from an under-counter freezer, stripped them, and put them in a sizzling Fry-o-lator, where they immediately turned the color of dry soil. "Most Polish people don't like being called Polacks. Nice to meet someone different."
"I am a very reasonable Polack," Pavel said, sipping his Scotch. "I even like Russians. Are you not going to make my tacos?"
"That's them in the Fry-o-lator."
"Really? I have never seen them prepared before. I did not know they were fried in oil. Amazing. How long do they take?"
"Done now," the bartender said, dumping the tacos onto a plate next to Pavel's Scotch.
Pavel took an eager bite and didn't know whether to chew or spit. He chewed slowly and swallowed with difficulty. A ghastly expression settled on his strongly molded features. Doubtfully, he forced himself to eat the whole thing.
"I do not understand," he said finally. "This taco is hard. The shell is hard, not soft as in New York. And I tasted no meat."
"This ain't New York buddy. I don't make 'em on the premises. They come in frozen and I unfreeze 'em. No meat, either. Just refried bean filling."
"Pah! These are not tacos. These are fakes!"
"I can get you something else..."
"You can get me another Scootch," Pavel said miserably. "I am no longer hungry."
"Suit yourself."
After fortifying himself with another drink, Pavel gave thought to his investigation into the strange newspaper reports suggesting something was wrong with America's missile bases. It would not do to personally approach any United States installation, even without the problem of his accent. How then?... Of course, he thought. The bartender. All bartenders the world over are repositories of information picked up from their customers.
"I have been reading in the papers about the strange things that have been happening in this area," Pavel said casually.
"Strange? Oh, you mean the flying saucers some folks have been seeing. Yeah, I had a guy in here two nights ago who claimed he saw one down near Chickasha. Said it was big and bright and sailed right over his car without making a sound. Can you beat that? Myself, I don't believe anything I don't see with my own eyes, but I gotta admit this guy sure thought he saw something."
"Really?" Pavel searched his memory. He had heard of the term flying saucers, better known as Unidentified Flying Objects. They had them in Russia, too. In fact, he had once come across a reference to a KGB file on UFOs, but it was classified. He had wondered why the Committee would have such a file.
"Where would I find more information on these flying saucers?" Pavel demanded.
"There's a bunch that's got an office a couple of blocks up. In the Stigman Building. Call themselves FOES, and are supposed to know everything there is to know about them things. Had one as a customer once, but all he did was babble about some kind of government conspiracy."
No one answered when Pavel Zarnitsa knocked on the door of the FOES office, and even though he knew there might not be a direct connection between the sighting of flying saucers in Oklahoma and the strangeness within the Strategic Air Command, the two occurrences could be linked, so he forced the door.
Both the reception area and office were empty. In a drawer of the office desk, he found a map of Oklahoma on which every SAC missile installation was clearly marked, along with notes on approach routes. There were other materials— newspaper clippings on nuclear missiles, a list of FOES chapters across the country and their members. There was also a list of names headed "Preparation Group Two," which began with someone known as Preparation Group Leader Amanda Bull.
Checking the office Rolodex, Pavel found addresses and telephone numbers for everyone on that list.
"Incredible," he said to himself, sinking into a chair. "These lunatic Americans are trying to destroy their own country's missiles."
Pavel began calling each of the numbers. There was no answer on the first two, and when he called the third, he got a frantic woman who at first thought it was her husband calling. She hadn't seen him in two days, when he abruptly left for "one of his ridiculous flying saucer outings," as she put it. It turned out several others had done the same thing. Still others didn't answer their phones.
He dialed another number.
"Ethel Sump speaking."
"You fool!" a woman's sharp voice called from the background somewhere. "We're not supposed to be here. Hang up!"
"Oh, I forgot," Ethel said, and hung up.
That was enough for Pavel Zarnitsa. For some reason, these people were involved in the missile incident, and they were hiding out at the home of a woman named Ethel Sump, whose address card went into his wallet, as Pavel went out the door.
* * *
Amanda Bull was livid.
"These people are idiots," she fumed, as she paced back and forth while waiting for the shadowy image of the World Master to show itself against the pebbled glass. She couldn't understand how Ethel Sump could be so stupid as to pick up the phone. Who knew who could have been on the other line. Since their triumph the other night, secrecy had become crucial. The military was certainly out there investigating the destruction of their missile. And that Remo whatshisface already knew too much. But there was no time to find and liquidate him. There hadn't been enough time to sneak back to the office and remove any of the Preparation Group plans, either. Anyone could find those. That was why, after the incident with Remo, it had become necessary to hide out with Ethel Sump, who had inherited a decrepit farmhouse. It was the only place big enough and remote enough for them all.