"Neal Stephenson & J. Frederick George - The Cobweb" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sterling Bruce)

A half hour later the caviar was gone, the vodka half-drained and forgotten. The assistants had gobbled
some bread and butter and had taken out their notepads. Millikan and Aziz, as befit kings of diplomacy,
began the third course, a refreshing light lemony soup to clear the palate of the excellent but intense steak
tartare that had preceded it.

Aziz looked through the dishes and candlesticks and pointed upward to the ceiling, noting that they would
both proceed on the assumption that they were not the only people listening. "How goes your task in
Washington, mon collègue?"

"Otlichno, moi drug." Excellently, my friend. "The President understands what has to be done. With the
exception of a few of the usual firebrands in Congress there is no problem. The press still understands
that Iran is our major problem, although you have to understand that your boss by his very nature appeals
to the more sensational of our journalists. Private sector is on board in supporting our policy. What about
in your shop?"

"We are very pleased with our cooperation with you--although you understand the need to replace both
the men and matériel that we lost during the last war. We have had to make some creative use of some of
your assistance. I'm sure you understand."

The two liked playing this game, knowing that as they spoke, their words were being reprocessed and
sent to a dozen capitals. And they had said nothing that had not appeared in last week's New York
Times. "Is there anything more to talk about before the next course?" Millikan asked.
"No," Aziz responded. "Let's let our friends enjoy some of this good food." The stewards reentered,
brought in new plates, and began the next course, a simple, hearty saumon grillée.

They ate well and drank better, the two old friends who knew that their performance was being observed
by a surveillance camera peering out between the louvers of the ventilation grille in the wall. No papers
would be slipped across the table, nothing untoward would happen, except to live well, eat well, and
have a good time--a diplomatic good time.

"I have to take a piss," Aziz suddenly announced in a loud voice.

"Moi aussi," Millikan responded. "I'll go with you." The steward led them across the main dining room,
down a corridor, and around a few corners to the WC, accompanied the whole way by the bodyguard,
who went in first and spent a couple of minutes checking under the fixtures for bombs.

They went in, Aziz to a urinal, and Millikan to a stall--Millikan apologizing for his shy kidneys--and they
loudly peed.

Millikan began to chuckle naughtily, as though the vodka had made him regress back to a rowdy college
boy.

"What is it?" Aziz said loudly.

"You must come and see what is written on the wall here, it's quite amusing," Millikan said.

Aziz zipped up and went into the stall, squeezing in next to Millikan, who was standing there holding up a
piece of crinkly French toilet paper on which he had written something with a water-soluble felt-tip pen.
Aziz took it and read it.