The man they called Anton smiled honestly and shook. "Kirill," he said. "It's been a long time."
The other motioned to a comfortable armchair, resumed his own seat. "It's been a long time all right—almost five years. As I recall, I was slung over your shoulder, and you were wading through those confounded swamps. The ..."
"The Everglades."
"Yes." The heavy-set Russian espionage chief chuckled. "You are much stronger than you look, Anton. As I recall, I ordered you to abandon me."
The wiry Negro grunted deprecation. "You were delirious from your wound."
The Russian came to his feet, turned his back and went to a small improvised bar. He said, his voice low, "No, Anton, I wasn't delirious. Perhaps a bit afraid, but then the baying of dogs is disconcerting."
The man they called Anton said, "It is all over now."
The Russian returned and said, "A drink, Anton? As I recall you were never the man to refuse a drink. Scotch, bourbon, vodka?"
The other shrugged. "I believe in drinking the local product. What is the beverage of Tangier?"
Kirill Menzhinsky took up a full bottle the contents of which had a greenish, somewhat oily tinge. "Absinthe," he said. "Guaranteed to turn your brains to mush if you take it long enough. What was the name of that French painter...?"