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“I don’t think I did. I’m from Texas. A ranch outside a little town called Midland in West Texas.”
“Forgive me if this sounds rude, but I’m a little surprised that caviar—how do I say this?—that caviar has penetrated America as far as West Texas.”
“Oh, we Texans aren’t as—how do I say this?—bar aller Kultur as many people believe. We have indoor plumbing and everything. So far as caviar is concerned, the last caviar I had before this was Uruguayan. My grandfather said as far as he was concerned, it was superior to Beluga. I wouldn’t go quite that far, but it was really good.”
He then took another ceramic spoonful from the silver bowl.
Serov smiled, and so did Mannberg, but Colonel Dragomirov’s face remained icily impassive.
“Well, why don’t we order?” Serov suggested.
“We’d better,” Cronley said, “before I really get into this Beluga. It’s like peanuts for me—if caviar’s available, I can’t stop. And if I don’t stop, I get what they call in West Texas ‘the runs.’”
Serov raised his eyebrows, and nodded.
“They do a very nice Paprikás Csirke here,” Serov said.
“We were talking about that before,” Mannberg said. “That’s fine with me.”
“And if I may make a suggestion,” Serov went on, “a bottle of Weissburgunder to go with it. It’s a Pinot Blanc.”
“Sounds delightful,” Mannberg said.
—
The Paprikás Csirke and the Weissburgunder were both delicious, but Cronley put his hand over his glass when Serov, smiling, tried to top it off.
“I’ve had enough, thank you,” Cronley said.
“‘Take a little wine for thy stomach’s sake,’” Serov quoted. “That comes from Saint Timothy, I think.”
Cronley chuckled.
“Are you a Christian, James?” Serov asked.
Now what is this sonofabitch up to?
“I’m an Episcopalian.”
“I’m of course Russian Orthodox,” Serov said. “And before we get to the subject of our meeting, there is a situation I’m hoping we can discuss as fellow Christians.”
“What would that be?”
“Christian burial.”
Christian burial?
“Of who? Whom?”
Serov took a red leatherette folder from his jacket pocket and extended it to Cronley.
“Have you ever seen one of these, James?”
It was obviously an identity document. There was a photo of Serov and a thumbprint. But it
was printed in Russian, and Cronley had no idea what the Cyrillic characters meant.
It was the first one he had seen, but he lied by nodding and then handed it to Mannberg.
