Joe looked at the source of the words. There were three officers, only one in the distinctive pinch-waisted uniform of the Hungarians, a captain. The other two wore the Sov epaulets which proclaimed them majors, but Joe didn’t place the nationality of the uniforms. There were several bottles upon the table, largely empty.
Joe said carefully. “To the contrary, we find it most enjoyable, sir.”
But Max had had two full glasses of the potent Feteasca and besides was feeling pleased and effervescent over his success in getting Joe Mauser, his idol, to spend a night on the town with him. He’d wanted to impress his superior with the extent to which he had get to know Budapest. Max said now, “We got places just as good as this in the West, and bigger too. Lots bigger. This joint wouldn’t hold more then fifty people.”
The one who had spoken, one of the majors who wore the boots of the cavalryman, said, nastily, “Indeed? I recognize now that when I addressed you both as gentlemen, I failed to realize that in the West gentlemen are not selective of their company and allow themselves to wallow in the gutter with the dregs of their society.”
The Hungarian captain said lazily, “Are you sure, Frol, that either of them are gentlemen? There seems to be a distinctive odor about the lower classes whether in the West-world or our own.”
Joe came to his feet quietly.
Max said, suddenly sobered, “Hey, major, sir … easy. It ain’t important.”
Joe had picked up his glass of wine. With a gesture so easy as almost to be slow motion, he tossed it into the face of the foppish officer.
The Hungarian, aghast, took up his napkin and began to brush the drink from his uniform, meanwhile sputtering to an extent verging on hysteria. The major who had been seated immediately to his right, fumbled in assistance, meanwhile staring at Joe as though he were a madman.
The cavalryman, though, was of sterner stuff. In the back of his mind, Joe was thinking, even as the other seized a bottle by its long neck and broke off the base on the edge of the table, Now this one’s from the Pink Army, an old pro, and a Russkie, sure as Zen made green apples.
The major came up, kicking a chair to one side. Joe hunched his shoulders forward, took up his napkin and with a quick double gesture, wrapped it twice around his left hand, which he extended slightly.
The major came in, the jagged edges of the bottle advanced much as a sword. His face was working in rage, and Joe, outwardly cool, decided in the back of his mind that he was glad he’d never have to serve under this one. This one gave way to rage and temper when things were pickling and there was no room for such luxuries in a fracas.
Max was yelling something from behind, something that didn’t come through in the bedlam that had suddenly engulfed the Bécsikapu.
At the last moment, Joe suddenly struck out with his left leg, hooked with his foot the small table at which the three Sov officers had been sitting and twisted quickly, throwing it to the side and immediately into the way of his enraged opponent.
The other swore as his shins banged the side and was thrown slightly forward, for a moment off balance.
Joe stepped forward quickly, precisely, and his right chopped down and to the side of the other’s prominent jawbone. The Russkie, if Russkie he was, went suddenly glazed of eye. His doubling forward, originally but an attempt to regain balance, continued and he fell flat on his face.
Joe spun around. “Come on, Max, let’s get out of here. I doubt if we’re welcome.” He didn’t want to give the other two time to organize themselves and decide to attack. Defeat the two, he and Max might be able to accomplish, but Joe wasn’t at all sure where the waiters would stand in the fray, nor anyone else in the small cabaret, for that matter.
Max, at the peak of excitement now, yelled, “What’d you think I been saying? Come on, follow me. There’s a rear door next to the rest room.”
Waiters and others were converging on them. Joe Mauser didn’t wait to argue, he took Max’s word for it and hurried after that small worthy, going round and about the intervening tables and chairs like an old time broken field football player.
XVIII
Joe Mauser had assumed there would be some sort of reverberations as a result of his run-in with the Sov officers, but hadn’t suspected the magnitude of them.
The next morning he had hardly arrived at the small embassy office which had been assigned him, before his desk set lit up with General Armstrong’s habitually worried face. He said, without taking time for customary amenities, “Major Mauser, could you come to my office immediately?” It wasn’t a question.
In General George Armstrong’s office, beside the general himself, were his aide, Lieutenant Anderson who Joe had at long last sorted out from Lieutenant Dickson, Lieutenant colonel Bela Kossuth and another Sov officer whom Joe hadn’t met before.
Everybody looked very stiff and formal.
The general said to Joe, “Major Mauser, Colonel Kossuth and Captain Petöfi have approached me, as your immediate superior, to request that your diplomatic immunity be waived so that you might be called upon on a matter of honor.”
Joe didn’t get it. He looked from one of the two Hungarians to the other, then back at Armstrong, scowling.
Lieutenant Anderson said, unhappily. “These officers have been named to represent Captain Sándor Rákóczi, major.”
Bela Kossuth clicked his heels, bowed, said formally, “Our principal realizes, Major Mauser, that diplomatic immunity prevents his issuing request for satisfaction. However,”—the Hungarian cleared his throat—“since honor is involved—”
At long last it got through to Joe. His own voice went coldly even. “General Armstrong, I—”
The general said quickly. “Mauser, as an official
