"Quick thinking, Vlado," says Major Martins, "beat me to it, though I don't think I'd have come up with a Gretel in labour," and he laughs, self-deprecating bon vivant, thinks Chernozemsky to himself, proud of his own fulgor at having saved them from a death worse than fate, at the hands of the Dreaded Gestapo – think Spanish Inquisition with technetronic knobs on, but he says, aiming his scorn for the driver: "at least I am a professional, Herr Prufrock, a True Artiste, me, my education in the Internal Macedonian Revolutionary Organisation made thinking on my feet second nature and eliminating all possible humane errors – Pah!" his tone is scornful, but these amateur spies are beneath his contempt: "Pressing Every Button Causes A Kaboom, as we born bomb-makers know by heart, and you must have been warned of the importance of making zee correct signals when car driving here – zee Nazis are pathological when it comes to obeying rules, is it different in Amerika?" placing heavy emphasis on the k, and J Alfred manages a rueful smile: "depends whether you're in the Bronx, on the New Jersey Turnpike, or out in the Sunshine State – hey, Holly, you're from the Boondocks, do you guys ever signal?" and Martins chuckles: "now that I think about it, I guess our Driving Tuition doesn't extend beyond Starter, Wheel, Brake – my Pop's old truck depended on hand signals, and when it's thirty below outside the cab, the windows are frozen shut, so who's to bother?" and Prufrock pulled up outside the safe house.