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Marganin shook his head.
"Mix it with the right ingredients," Prevlov muttered, "as the Americans do, and you have an excellent cure for a hangover." He took a sip of the tomato juice and made a face. "Now then, what do you want?"
"KGB received a communication from one of their agents in Washington last night. They had no clues as to its meaning and hoped that perhaps we might throw some light on it."
Marganin's face reddened. The sash on Prevlov's robe had loosened and he could see that the captain wore nothing beneath it.
"Very well." Prevlov sighed. "Continue."
"It said, `Americans suddenly interested in rock collecting. Most secret operation under code name Sicilian Project."'
Prevlov stared at him over his Bloody Mary. "What sort of drivel is that?" He finished the glass in one gulp and slammed it down on the sink counter. "Has our illustrious brother intelligence service, the KGB, become a house of fools?" The voice was the dispassionate, efficient voice of the official Prevlov-cold, and devoid of all inflection except bored irritation. "And you, Lieutenant? Why do you bother me with this childish riddle now? Why couldn't this have waited until tomorrow morning when I'm back in the office?'
"I . . . I thought perhaps it was important," Marganin stammered.
"Naturally." Prevlov smiled coldly. "Every time the KGB whistles, people jump. But veiled threats don't interest me. Facts, my dear Lieutenant, facts are what count. What do you feel is so important about this Sicilian Project?"
"It seemed to me the reference to rock collecting might tie in with the Novaya Zemlya files."
Perhaps twenty seconds elapsed before Prevlov Spoke. "Possible, just possible. Still, we can't be certain of a connection'
"I . . . I only thought-"
"Please leave the thinking to me, Lieutenant." He tightened the sash on his robe. "Now, if you have run out of here-brained witch hunts, I would like to filet back to bed."
"But if the Americans are looking for something-"
"Yes, but what?" Prevlov asked dryly. "What mineral is so precious to them that they must look for it in the earth of an unfriendly country?"
Marganin shrugged.
"You answer that and you have the key." Prevlov's tone hardened almost imperceptibly. "Until then, I want solutions. Any peasant bastard can ask stupid questions."
Marganin's face reddened again. "Sometimes the Americans have hidden meanings to their code names."
"Yes," Prevlov said with mock solemnity. "They do have a penchant for advertising."
Marganin plunged forward. "I researched the American idioms that refer to Sicily, and the most prevalent seems to be their obsession with a brotherhood of hooligans and-"
"If you. had done your homework" Prevlov yawned, " you'd have discovered it's called the Mafia."
"There is also a musical ensemble that refer to themselves as the Sicilian Stilettos."
Prevlov offered Marganin a glacial stare.
"Then there is a large food processor in Wisconsin who manufactures a Sicilian salad oil."
"Enough!" Prevlov held up a protesting hand. "Salad oil, indeed. I am not up to such stupidity so early in the morning." He gestured at the front door. "I trust you have other projects at our office that are more stimulating than rock collecting."
In the living room he paused before a table on which was a carved ivory chess set and toyed with one of the pieces. "Tell me, Lieutenant, do you play chess?"
Marganin shook his head. "Not in a long time. I used to play a little when I was a cadet at the Naval Academy."
"Does the name Isaak Boleslavski mean anything to you?"
"No, sir."
"Isaak Boleslavski was one of our greatest chess masters," Prevlov said, as if lecturing a schoolboy. "He conceived many great variations of the game. One of them was the Sicilian Defense." He casually tossed the black king at Marganin who deftly caught it. "Fascinating game, chess. You should take it up again."
