“No. We’re in a hurry.”
“Very well. I know what it is to be in a hurry, I assure you.” He turned and shouted, “Jubé!”
He might just as well have whisepered it, since Jubé had obviously been lurking not more than ten feet away. He came through a curtained arch — a tall and bony youth, maybe eighteen, in a blue shirt with open collar, and blue jeans he could have got from Sears Roebuck.
“My son is on vacation from the university,” Bilic informed us. “He returns tomorrow to learn how to do his part in perfecting the Socialist Alliance of the Working People of Yugoslavia under the leadership of our great and beloved President. Jubé, this is Mr. Toné Stara and his son Alex. They wish to be driven to Titograd, and you will—”
“I heard what was said. I think you should telephone the Ministry in Belgrade.”
Jubé was a complication that Telesio hadn’t mentioned. I didn’t like him. To get his contribution verbatim I would have to wait until Wolfe reported, but his tone was nasty, and I caught the Yugoslav sounds for “telephone” and “Belgrade,” so I had the idea. It seemed to me that Jubé could do with a little guidance from an elder, and luckily his father felt the same way about it.
“As I have told you, my son,” Bilic said sternly, “the day may have come for you to do your own thinking, but not mine. I think these gentlemen should be conveyed to Titograd in my automobile, and, since I have other things to do, I think you should drive them. If you regard yourself as sufficiently mature to ignore what I think, we can discuss the matter later in private, but I hereby instruct you to drive Mr. Stara and his son to Titograd. Do you intend to follow my instruction?”
They exchanged gazes. Bilic won. Jubé’s eyes fell, and he muttered, “Yes.”
“That is not a proper reply to your father.”
“Yes, sir.”