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Ustinov gave him the finger again.
“And I offer that one with quite a bit more malice than the first,” Ustinov said.
Niven made a dramatic, wide-eyed face and slapped his chest with an open palm.
“Well, then,” Niven said, “that must mean only one thing!”
“Precisely!” Ustinov said.
“Private, hand me the Genever,” Niven said formally. “I hereby declare this the commencement of Attitude Adjustment Hour. Make that Hours, plural!”
Charity saw that Commander Fleming was shaking his head. But she also saw that he was grinning widely.
Lieutenant Colonel Ed Stevens was smiling, too.
And Lieutenant Commander Montagu seemed resigned at this point to the course of events becoming out of his control.
Ustinov took the bottle of liquor he had pulled from the bag, placed it in front of Niven, then glanced over his shoulder at the bar.
“Appears to be a bit crowded over there,” he said to Niven.
Niven looked to see, then said, “Not a problem.”
He stood, walked over to the dashing suit of armor, and pulled the sword from its baldric. He raised the weapon above his head and pointed its tip across the room.
“To the bar!” he cried out.
This, of course, caught the attention of the crowd at the bar, as did the fact that he had started in their direction. They watched in rapt fascination.
But whether from the fog of booze or from the disbelief in what was happening—or, more likely, from the fact that everyone there was either a student or graduate of Dick Canidy’s Throat-Cutting and Bomb-Throwing Academy—no one moved from their place.
And this did not go unnoticed by Ustinov. He quickly got up from the table and went after Niven to intervene.
By the time Ustinov reached Niven, the would-be swashbuckler had stopped in his tracks and quickly brought down the sword.
“Damn blade is heavy!” Niven announced. “And Errol Flynn made it look so easy at the beach house. The sorry bastard must’ve used a prop.”
Ustinov grinned. He had heard the legendary stories of the wild parties thrown for the Hollywood crowd at the bachelor pad that Niven had shared with Flynn. Their wry neighbor, one Cary Grant, had dubbed the dwelling “Cirrhosis-by-the-Sea.”
“I can handle things at the bar,” Ustinov said.
Niven looked at the bar crowd. Most of the men had turned their attention back to their drinks and conversation. Then he looked at Ustinov and said, “Very well, Private.”
As Niven marched back and returned the sword to its baldric, Ustinov went to the bar—then behind it. Both returned to the table at the same time. Ustinov carried a tray, on which were a bucket of ice, two tall, heavy glass shakers, a strainer, and six martini glasses. He put the tray on the table.
“Very good, Private,” Niven said. “Well done.”
He looked at the crowd at the table and intoned formally, “On behalf of the British Empire and Winston Churchill, I bring to you the Prime Minister’s personal martini cocktail recipe. Would you allow me the privilege of sharing it?”
Everyone was grinning.
Charity said formally, “As we have been instructed to interact with our British hosts in any and every positive way possible, I do believe it would be an honor.”
Niven smiled.
“Delightful,” he said. “Then, with the assistance of my batman, off we go.”
Niven lined up the six glasses in two rows of three. Ustinov held up the bucket of ice toward him.
