There was the wiry little Greek whom
everybody called Alex Unpronounceable. There was an Italian, and two
Chinese, and a cashiered French Air Force officer, and a Malay, and the
son of an English earl who insisted that his name was Bertie Wooster.
They had sworn themselves to secrecy, had heard MacLeod's story with a
polylingual burst of pious or blasphemous exclamations, and then they
had scattered, each to the work assigned him.
MacLeod had risen early and submitted to the ordeal of the search to
leave the reservation and go to town again, this time for a conference
at the shabby back-street cigar store that concealed a Counter Espionage
center. He had returned just as Farida Khouroglu was finishing the
microfilm copies of Kato's ingeniously-concocted pseudo-data. These
copies were distributed at noon, while the Team was lunching, along with
carbons of the original type-script.
He was the first to leave the table, going directly to the basement,
where Alex Unpronounceable and the man who had got his alias from the
works of P.
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