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.”