“What for?” said George. “If he thinks I’m a lousy crypto-fascist-imperialist lackey, he’s quite right in refusing to smoke my cigarettes.”
“Pardon?”
“He also had the good manners not to heave the cigarettes right back in my face. In his place, I might have done just that.”
“Qu’est ce que Monsieur a dit?”
The official was looking desperately at Miss Kolin.
George shook his head. “Don’t bother to translate, Miss Kolin. He won’t get it. You understand me, though, don’t you, Lieutenant? Yes, I thought so. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get the hell out of here before something very in-inconvenient happens inside my stomach.”
When they got back to the hotel, there was a note from Colonel Chrysantos awaiting them. It contained the information that a search of all the relevant lists had failed to discover anybody named Schirmer who had been either killed or captured in the Markos campaign; nor had an amnesty been granted to anyone of that name.
“Miss Kolin,” George said, “what can you drink when you have this stomach thing?”
“Cognac is best.”
“Then we’d better have some.”