The gentleman got off the stool. Lennox mounted it and teetered on top, four feet above the crowd. He whistled shrilly with two fingers, waited for Olga to notice him if she were present, and then climbed down again.
"Thank you very much, sir."
"May I ask why you did that?" the gentleman inquired. He looked exactly like a Roman Tribune and had a melodious southern drawl.
"One if by land, two if by sea," Lennox answered significantly. "Our identification code. You wouldn't expect us to sing the Internationale for a signal, would you? Not here."
The leaden-faced gentleman stared. Lennox nodded darkly, drank a 75 and offered a glass to his companion. "To the counter-counter-revolution," he said. "This year is yours. Next year is ours."
"How do you mean?"
"This country's been living in a dream," Lennox sneered. "Communists.... Tcha! They're our decoys. We use them for red herrings to conceal us. The real us. We are the danger."
"Who are the danger?" the man asked intently.
"Us. We.... Us."
"Can you name names?"