The deputy dean's motion of pouring wine into the goblet suddenly slowed down, the deep red liquid swirling into a dark crimson vortex along the rim: "Don't you think Moscow's vodka is better at keeping secrets than London's gin?"
"But today you've chosen Georgian wine." Arthur suddenly nudged the hidden compartment under the table leg with the tip of his boot, the metallic clang unusually clear in the silent room: "The vines of Tbilisi have grown up listening to tales of Persian caravans and Ottoman cavalry."
"Alright, if you insist on hearing it." The deputy dean warned in advance: "You must first promise not to tell Yakovlev what I'm about to say; he's always been very secretive about this matter because, legally speaking, he remains unmarried and has never had a son."
