"Ah, well,” Petkoff said. “My friend and colleague, we should cease this shoptalk. Shoptalk?"
"Quite correct,” Malone said.
"I have studied English a long time,” Petkoff said. “It is not a logical language."
"You're doing very well,” Malone said. Petkoff gave him a military duck of the head.
"I appreciate your compliments,” he said. “But I fear we are boring the ladies."
The major had timed his speech well. At that moment, the ornate Volga pulled up to a smooth stop before a large, richly decorated building that glowed brightly under the electric lights of a large sign. The sign said something incomprehensible in Cyrillic script. Under it, the building entrance was gilded and carved into fantastic rococo shapes. Malone stared at the sign, and was about to ask a question about it when Petkoff spoke.
"Trotkin's,” he said. “The finest restaurant in all the world-in Moskva, this is what they say of it."
"I understand,” Malone said.
"Come,” Petkoff said grandly, and got out of the car. One of the two silent men leaped out and opened the back door, and Her Majesty, Lou and Malone climbed out and stood blinking on the sidewalk under the sign.
Petkoff leaned over and said something to the driver. The second silent man got back into the car, and it drove away down the street, turned a corner and disappeared. The party of four started toward the entrance of the restaurant.
The door swung open before Major Petkoff reached it. A doorman was holding it, and bowing to each of the four as they passed. He was dressed in Victorian livery, complete to knee-breeches and lace, and Malone thought this was rather odd for the classless Russian society. But the doorman was only the opening note of a great symphony.
Inside, there were tables and chairs-or at least, Malone told himself, that's what he thought they were. They were massive wood affairs, carved into tortuous shapes and gilded or painted in all sorts of colors that glittered madly under the barrage of several electric chandeliers.
The chandeliers hung from a frescoed ceiling, and looked much too heavy. They swayed and tinkled in time to the music that filled the room, but for a second Malone looked past them at the ceiling. It appeared to represent some sort of Russian heaven, at the end of the Five-Year Plan. There were officers and ladies eating grapes, waltzing, strolling on white puffy clouds, singing, drinking, making love. There was an awful lot of activity going on up on the ceiling, and it wasn't until Malone lowered his gaze that he realized that none of this activity had been exaggerated.
True, there were no white puffy clouds, and he couldn't immediately locate a bunch of grapes anywhere. But there were the musicians, in the same Victorian outfits as the doorman: three fiddlers, a cellist, and a man who played piano. “Just like in night-clubs in bourgeois Paris,” Petkoff said, following Malone's gaze with every evidence of pride.
Between the musicians and Malone were a lot of tables and chairs and ancient, proud-looking waiters who appeared to have been hired when Trotkin's had opened-and that, Malone thought, had been a long, long time ago. He felt like those two ladies, whose names he couldn't remember, who said they'd slipped back in time. Officers and their ladies, the men in glittering uniforms, the ladies in ball dresses of every imaginable shade, cut, material and degree of exposure, were waltzing around the room looking very polite and old-world. Others were sitting at the tables, where candles fluttered, completely useless in the electric glare. The noise was something terrific, but, somehow, it was all very well-bred.
The headwaiter was suddenly next to them. He hadn't walked there, at least not noticeably; he appeared to have perfected the old-world manner of the silent servant. Or, of course, Malone thought, the man might be a teleport.
"Ah, Major Petkoff,” he said, in a silken voice. “It is so good to see you again. And your friends?"
"Americans,” Petkoff said. “They have come to see the glorious Soviet Union."
"Ah,” the headwaiter said. “Your usual table, Major?"
Petkoff nodded. The headwaiter led the party through the dancers, snaking slowly along until they reached a large table near the musicians and at the edge of the dance floor. Her Majesty automatically took the seat nearest the musicians, which she imagined to be the head of the table. Lou sat at her left hand, and Malone at her right, his back against a wall. Petkoff took the foot of the table, called a waiter over, and ordered for the party. He did a massive job of it, with two waiters, at last, taking down what seemed to be his entire memoirs, plus the list of all soldiers in the Red Army below the rank of Grand Exalted Elk, or whatever it might have been. Malone had no idea what the major was ordering, except that it sounded extensive and very, very Russian.
Finally the waiter went on his way. Major Petkoff turned to Malone and smiled. “Naturally,” he said, “we will begin with vodka, nyet?"
Malone considered saying nyet, but he didn't feel that this was the time or the place. Besides, he told himself grimly, it would be a sad day when a Petkoff could drink a Malone under the table. His proudest heritage from his father was an immense capacity, he told himself. Now was his chance to test it.
"And, naturally, a little caviar to go with it,” Petkoff added.
"Certainly,” Malone said, as if caviar were the most common thing in the world in his usual Washington saloons.
It wasn't long before the waiter reappeared, bringing four glasses and three bottles of vodka chilled in an ice-bucket, like a bouquet of champagne. Petkoff bowed him out after one bottle had been opened, set the glasses up and began to pour.
"Oh, goodness,” Her Majesty started to say.
"None for me, thanks,” Lou chimed in.
"Oh, yes,” Her Majesty said. “I don't think I'll have any either. An old lady has to be very careful of her system, you know."
"You do not look like an old lady,” Petkoff said gallantly. “Middle-aged, perhaps, to be cruel. But certainly not old. Not over ... oh, perhaps forty."
Her Majesty smiled politely at him. Malone began to wonder if it had been gallantry, after all. From what he'd seen of the Russian women, it was likely, after all, that Petkoff really thought Her Majesty wasn't much over forty at that.
"You're very flattering, Major,” Her Majesty said. “But I assure you that I'm a good deal older than I look."
Malone tried to tell himself that no one else had noticed the stifled gulp that had followed that remark. It had been his own stifled gulp. And his face, he felt sure, had aged one hundred and twelve years within a second or so. He waited for Her Majesty to tell Major Petkoff just how old she really was...
But she said nothing else. After a second she turned and smiled at Malone.
"Thanks,” he said.
"Oh, you're quite welcome,” she said.
Petkoff frowned at both of them, shrugged, and readied the bottle. “Well, then,” he said. “It seems as if the drinking will be done by men-and that is right. Vodka is the drink for men."
He had filled his own glass full of the cold, clear liquid. Now he filled Malone's. He stood, glass in hand. Malone also climbed to his feet.
"To the continued friendship of our two countries!” Petkoff said. He raised his glass for a second, then downed the contents. Malone followed suit. The vodka burned its merry way into his stomach. They sat.
A waiter arrived with a large platter. “Ah,” Petkoff said, turning. “Try some of this caviar, Mr. Malone. You will find it the finest in the world."
Malone, somehow, had never managed to develop a taste for caviar. He was willing to admit, if pressed, that this made him an uncultured slob, but caviar always made him think of the joke about the country bumpkin who thought it was marvelous that you could soften up buckshot just by soaking it in fish oil.
Now, though, he felt he had to be polite, and he tried some of the stuff. All things considered, it wasn't quite as bad as he'd thought it was going to be. And it did make a pretty good chaser for the vodka.
Her Majesty also helped herself to s
ome caviar. “My goodness,” she said. “This reminds me of the old days."
Malone waited, once again, with bated breath. But, though Her Majesty may have been crazy, she wasn't stupid. She said nothing more.
Petkoff, meanwhile, refilled the glasses and looked expectantly at Malone. This time it was his turn to propose the toast. He thought for a second, then stood up and raised his glass.
"To the most beautiful woman in all the world,” he said, feeling just a little like a character in War and Peace. “Luba Vasilovna Garbitsch."
"Ah,” Petkoff said, smiling approvingly. Malone executed a little bow in Lou's direction and followed Petkoff in downing the drink. Two more glasses of vodka wended their tortuous ways into the interior.
"Tell me, colleague,” Petkoff said as be spooned up some more caviar, “how are things in the United States?"
Malone shot a glance at Her Majesty, but she was concentrating on something else, and her eyes seemed far away. “Oh, all right,” he said at last.
"Of course, you must say so,” Petkoff murmured. “But, as one colleague to another, tell me: how much longer do you think it will be before the proletarian uprising in your country?"
There were a lot of answers to that, Malone told himself. But he chose one without too much difficulty. “Well, that's hard to judge,” he said. “I'd hate to make any prediction. I don't have enough information."
"Not enough information?” Petkoff said. “I don't understand."
Malone shrugged. “Since our proletariat,” he said, “have shown no sign of wanting any rebellion at all, how can I predict when they're going to rebel?"
Petkoff gave him an unbelieving smile. “Well,” he said. “We must have patience, eh, colleague?"
"I guess so,” Malone said, watching Petkoff pour more vodka.
By the time the meal came, Malone was feeling a warm glow in his interior, but no real fogginess. The dance floor had been cleared by this time, and a group of six costumed professionals glided out and took places. The musicians broke out into a thunderous and bumpy piece, and the dancers began some sort of Slavic folk dance that looked like a combination of a kazotska and a shivaree. Malone watched them with interest. They looked like good dancers, but they seemed to be plagued with clumsiness; they were always crashing into one another. On the other hand, Malone thought, maybe it was part of the dance. It was hard to tell.
The dinner was as extensive as anything Malone had ever dreamed of: borshcht, beef Stroganoff, smoked fish, vegetables in gigantic tureens, ices and cheeses and fruits. And always, between the courses, during the courses and at every available moment, there was vodka.
The drinking didn't bother him too much. But the food was too much. Unbelieving, he watched Petkoff polish off a large red apple, a pear and a small wedge of white, creamy-looking cheese at the end of the towering meal. Her Majesty was staring, too, in a very polite manner. Lou simply looked glassy-eyed and overstuffed. Malone felt a good deal of sympathy for her.
Petkoff finished the wedge of cheese and ripped off a belch of incredible magnitude and splendor. Malone felt he should applaud, but managed to restrain himself. Her Majesty looked startled for a second, and then regained her composure. Only Lou seemed to take the event as a matter of course, which set Malone to wondering about her home-life. Somehow he couldn't picture her wistful little father ever producing a sound of such awesome magnitude.
"My dear colleague,” Petkoff was saying. Malone turned to him and tried to look interested. “There is one thing I have wondered for many years."
"Really?” Malone said politely.
"That is right,” Petkoff said. “For years, there has never been a change of name in your organization of secret police."
"We're not secret police,” Malone said.
Petkoff gave a massive shrug. “Naturally,” he said, “one must say this. But surely, one tires of being called FBI all the time."
"One does?” Malone said. “I don't know. It gives a person a sort of sense of security."
"Ah,” Petkoff said. “But take us, for instance. We pride ourselves on our ability to camouflage ourselves. GPU, and then OGPU-which were, I understand, subject for many capitalist jokes."
Malone tried to look as if he couldn't imagine such a thing. “I suppose they might have been,” he said.
"Then we were NKVD,” Petkoff said, “and now MVD. And I understand, quite between us, Mr. Malone, that there is talk of further change."
There was a sudden burst of applause. Malone wondered what for, looked at the dance floor and realized that the six Slavic dancers were taking bows. As he watched, one of them slipped and nearly fell. The musicians obliged with a final series of chords and the dancers trotted away. A waltz began, and couples from the tables began crowding the floor.
"How can you manage the proletariat,” Petkoff asked, “if you do not keep them confused?"
"We don't, exactly,” Malone said. “They more or less manage us."
"Ha,” Petkoff said, dismissing this with a wave of his hand. “Propaganda.” And then he, too, turned to watch the dancers. The waltz was finishing, and a fox-trot had begun. “With your permission, Mr. Malone,” he said, rising, “I should like to ask so-lovely Miss Garbitsch to dance with me."
Malone glanced at the girl. She gave him a quick smile, with just a hint of nervousness or strain in it, and turned to Petkoff. “I'd be delighted, Major,” she said. Malone shut his own mouth. As the girl rose, he got to his feet and gave the couple a small, Victorian bow. Petkoff and Lou walked to the floor, and Malone, sitting down again, watched enviously as he took her in his arms and began to guide her expertly across the floor in time to the music.
Malone sighed. Some men, he told himself, had all the luck. But, of course, Lou had to be polite, too. She didn't really like Petkoff, he told himself; she was just being diplomatic. And he had made some progress with her on the plane, he thought.
He looked over at Her Majesty, but the Queen was staring abstractedly at a crystal chandelier. Malone sighed again, took a little caviar and washed it down with vodka. The vodka felt nice and warm, he thought vaguely. Vodka was good. It was too bad that the people who made such good vodka had to be enemies. But that was the way things were, he told himself philosophically.
Terrible. That's how things were.
The fox-trot went to its conclusion. Malone saw Petkoff, chatting animatedly with Lou, lead her off to a small bar at the opposite side of the room. “Some people,” he muttered, “have too much luck. Or too much diplomacy."
Her Majesty was tugging at his arm. That, Malone thought, was going to be more bad news.
It was.
"Sir Kenneth,” she said softly, “do you realize that this place is full of MVD men? Of course you don't; I haven't told you yet."
Malone opened his mouth, shut it again, and thought in a hurry. If the place were full of MVD men, that meant they probably had it bugged. And that meant several things, all of them unpleasant. Her Majesty shouldn't have said anything-she shouldn't have shown any nervousness or anxiety in the first place, she shouldn't have known there were so many MVD men in the second place-because there was no way for her to know, except through her telepathy, a little secret Malone did not want the Russians to find out about. And she should definitely, most definitely, not have called him “Sir Kenneth."
"Oh,” Her Majesty said. “I am sorry, Sir-er-Mr. Malone. You're quite right, you know."
"Sure,” Malone said. “Well. My goodness.” He thought of something to say, and said it at once. “Of course there are MVD men here. This is just the place for good old MVD men to come when they go off duty. A nice, relaxing place full of fun and dancing and food and vodka...” And he was thinking, at the same time: Are they doing anything odd?
"Russian, you know,” Her Majesty said, almost conversationally, “is an extremely difficult language. It takes a great deal of practice to learn to think in it really fluently."
"Yes, I should think it would,” Malone sa
id absently. You mean you haven't been able to pick up what these people are thinking?
"Oh, one can get the main outlines,” Her Majesty went on, “but a really full knowledge is nearly impossible. Though, of course, it isn't quite as bad as all that. A man who speaks both languages, like our dear Major Petkoff, for instance-so charming, so full of joie de vivre-could be an invaluable assistant to anyone interested in learning exactly how Russians really think.” She smiled nervously. Her face was suddenly set and strained. “I find that—"
She stopped then, very suddenly. Her eyes widened, and her right hand reached out to grasp Malone's arm more strongly than he had thought she ever could. “Sir Kenneth!” Her voice, all restraint gone, was a hissing whisper. Malone started to say something, but Her Majesty went on, her eyes wide. “Do something quickly!” she said.
"What?” Malone said.
"They've put something in Lou's drink!” Her Majesty hissed.
Malone was on his feet before she'd finished, and he took a step across the room.
"She's already swallowed it!” the Queen said. “Do something! Quickly!"
The dancers on the floor were no concern of his, Malone told himself grimly. He didn't decide to move; he was on his way before any thought filtered through into his mind. Officers and their ladies looked after him with shocked stupor as he plowed his way across the dance floor, using legs, elbows, shoulders and anything else that allowed him free passage. Sometimes the dancers managed to get out of his way. Sometimes they didn't. It was all the same to Kenneth J. Malone.
Her Majesty followed in his wake, silent and stricken, scurrying after him like a small destroyer following a battleship, or like a ball-carrying grandmother following up her interference.
Malone caught sight of Lou, standing at the bar. In that second, she seemed to realize for the first time that something was wrong. She pushed herself violently away from the bar, and looked frantically around, her mouth opening to call. Petkoff was a blur next to her; Malone didn't look at him clearly. Lou took a step...
The Queen's Own FBI Trilogy: Brain Twister; The Impossibles; Supermind Page 41
