On the far side of the square, rather plain room, at the corner table by the caisse, the plump fair-haired girl with the dramatic mouth said to the jovial good-living man with the thick rope of spaghetti joining his face to the plate: “He has a rather cruel smile. But he is very handsome. Spies aren’t usually so good-looking. Are you sure you are right, mein T„ubchen?”
The man’s teeth cut through the rope. He wiped his mouth on a napkin already streaked with tomato sauce, belched sonorously and said: “Santos is never wrong about these things. He has a nose for spies. That is why I chose him as the permanent tail for that bastard Kristatos. And who else but a spy would think of spending an evening with the pig? But we will make sure.” The man took out of his pocket one of those cheap tin snappers that are sometimes given out, with paper hats and whistles, on carnival nights. It gave one sharp click. The maŒtre d’h“tel on the far side of the room stopped whatever he was doing and hurried over.
“Si, padrone.”
The man beckoned. The maŒtre d’h“tel went over and received the whispered instructions. He nodded briefly, walked over to a door near the kitchens marked UFFICIO, and went in and closed the door behind him.
Phase by phase, in a series of minute moves, an exercise that had long been perfected was then smoothly put into effect. The man near the caisse munched his spaghetti and critically observed each step in the operation as if it had been a fast game of chess.
The maŒtre d’h“tel came out of the door marked UFFICIO, hurried across the restaurant and said loudly to his No. 2: “An extra table for four. Immediately.” The No. 2 gave him a direct look and nodded. He followed the maŒtre d’h“tel over to a space adjoining Bond’s table, clicked his fingers for help, borrowed a chair from one table, a chair from another table and, with a bow and an apology, the spare chair from Bond’s table. The fourth chair was being carried over from the direction of the door marked UFFICIO by the maŒtre d’h“tel. He placed it square with the others, a table was lowered into the middle and glass and cutlery were deftly laid. The maŒtre d’h“tel frowned. “But you have laid a table for four. I said three – for three people.” He casually took the chair he had himself brought to the table and switched it to Bond’s table. He gave a wave of the hand to dismiss his helpers and everyone dispersed about their business.
The innocent little flurry of restaurant movement had taken about a minute. An innocuous trio of Italians came into the restaurant. The maŒtre d’h“tel greeted them personally and bowed them to the new table, and the gambit was completed.
Bond had hardly been conscious of it. Kristatos returned from whatever business he had been about, their food came and they got on with the meal.
While they ate they talked about nothing – the election chances in Italy, the latest Alfa Romeo, Italian shoes compared with English. Kristatos talked well. He seemed to know the inside story of everything. He gave information so casually that it did not sound like bluff. He spoke his own kind of English with an occasional phrase borrowed from other languages. It made a lively mixture. Bond was interested and amused. Kristatos was a tough insider – a useful man. Bond was not surprised that the American Intelligence people found him good value.
Coffee came, Kristatos lit a thin black cigar and talked through it, the cigar jumping up and down between the thin straight lips. He put both hands flat on the table in front of him. He looked at the tablecloth between them and said softly: “This pizniss. I will play with you. To now I have only played with the Americans. I have not told them what I am about to tell you. There was no requirement. This machina does not operate with America. These things are closely regulated. This machina operates only with England. Yes? Capito?”
“I understand. Everyone has his own territory. It’s the usual way in these things.”