It was an hour short of midnight and snowing in Moscow when Nick landed in the printing room of Pravda, the official Red journal. As he had calculated, several sample newspapers had been run off.
Vichy Volonsky, a short, roundheaded man, had held up the rest of the issue while he studied the content through his nose-glasses. Editor Blochensk and the mechanics anxiously awaited the great man’s verdict. An unfavorable one meant the concentration camp for everybody. As Minister of Culture, Volonsky previewed all news personally when not running errands for Andrei Broncov at a meeting of the Inner Council.
The Number Two ranking man in the Kremlin clique frowned most frighteningly, then, moved by an odd compulsion, walked into a sound-insulated telephone room. He closed the door and stared at it stupidly while looking through the invisible Nick.
“Why did I come in here?” he said. “There’s only the usual bilge in the sheet, nothing to telephone the fat slob about. Yet something made me.”
“I did,” Nick said, suddenly visible. “When I finish, Pravda will never be the same again. Lie down, Vichy!”
Volonsky opened his mouth, but Nick wiggled a finger, and no yell came out. In the wink of an eye, he squeezed out the Minister’s shade and took its place.
“Pretty cramped and smelly quarters,” Nick told himself, “but do or die for good old Hades.”
“What? Who are you?” Volonsky’s phantom teeth chattered. “You must be Nick, himself.”
“Russia’s patron saint till you amateurs took over. I have business with your boss. I mean Andrei Broncov. Not that it matters, but who conceived the idea of deposing Satan? Talk, mujik, and tell the truth. All of it.”
“Blame Broncov, not me,” Volonsky pleaded. “It was his scheme to kill off several thousand loyal party comrades. They got a choice: Be tortured to death, or die quickly and work for a revolution in Hell as soon as they arrived. Naturally—”
“I’ve heard enough, rat.” Nick spat contemptuously, and a puff of gray smoke spread rapidly over walls, ceiling and floor. “That will hold you,” he jeered, and opened the door. Aping the Minister’s important waddle, he walked over to the great press.
Editor Blochensk stared with fear-bulged eyes. “Anything—anything wrong, Your Excellency comrade?” he asked shakily.
“Nothing I can’t fix.”
“Oh!” The editor clutched his throat. “Thank—uh— uh—”
“Never mind, I know Who you mean.” Muttering words in Hell’s silent language, Nick walked completely around the press. “It’s perfect, Blochy. Don’t let the content worry you. It’s part of The PLAN. Roll out your papers and deliver them fast. Don’t question anything. Orders from—you know.”
Only minutes ahead of the new Volonsky, Cletus had entered the lobby of the Droshky Hotel on Red Square. The cherubic scout had obeyed orders and made himself bellhop size, large size. He didn’t exactly resemble the one in the cigarette ad but he had the kid’s twinkle in his dark eyes. And he had already latched onto a luscious blonde; or, more likely, Nick concluded, the reverse.
Having just registered as a Persian prince, Cletus again clanked down a large sack of gold pieces and a smaller one of jewels. “Put these diamonds and rubies into your best safe,” he ordered in perfect Russian.
The clerk’s eyes began popping, so did the blonde’s and those of a score of spectators, including four hard-faced MVD boys.
“And I’ll take care of you, Honey-Navi,” the blonde said.
“Ah, you just love me for my two billion dollars,” the imp retorted, and winked at her. As did Nick, Cletus could plainly see the twist operated on the MVD payroll as well as in her own interests.
“I’m selling out my fifty oil wells,” he announced, “and I’ve come to town to see the head man, whoever he is today. I thought I’d let you dumb mujiks bid for the wells before I practically give them to Super-San Oil company for a measly two hundred million dollars.”
“Of course, Prince Navi,” the clerk said loudly. He nodded toward the four tough lads who, likewise, had not yet noticed the great Volonsky.
Nick rapped on the counter with his six-carat diamond ring. “How about a little service here, comrade?”
“One moment, comrade,” the clerk said nervously.
“What you mean, one moment?” Nick roared. “I haven’t flown all the way from New York to have a two-bit clerk tell me to wait. I represent Super-San Oil and I’m here to meet a Persian Prince Navi.”
“Quiet, Amerikaner, till—Oh, Your Excellency Comrade Vychy Volonsky!” The mouth of the astonished clerk fell open. Then, fearful of making a wrong move in the Red game of dirty politics, he failed to guess why the great one should act as a miserable capitalist. “A thousand pardons, Your Excellency Comrade. What can I do for the beloved comrade? I didn’t recognize you—”
“Hush, fool!” Nick looked toward Cletus just then gazing into the blonde’s blue eyes.
The four MVD agents went into a quick huddle, then the one with a broken nose bowed to the fake Volonsky. “If Your Excellency Comrade will step aside with us, we’ll explain this fool’s mistake.”
“Put him in the can and question him tomorrow,” Nick snarled. “Anybody can see he’s working for the filthy capitalists.”
“Of course, Your Excellency Comrade.” Broken nose and his three pals escorted Nick to a chair beside a column. “I’m Lieutenant Putov of the MVD,” he whispered. “We picked up this Prince Navi the instant he entered, and have been watching him.”
“Skip the commercial,” Nick said, almost laughing as he gave Moloch’s favorite expression. “How come you didn’t spot him at one of our airports?”
“He must have landed on an abandoned field in his private plane, Your Excellency Comrade.” Lieutenant Putov glanced at the other three equally worried looking plug-uglies. “He’s a prince, all right. Look at the gold and jewels he tossed to the clerk, several million dol—I mean, several billion rubles. We haven’t checked his story, but he claims he’s here to sell fifty Persian oil wells.”
“I know that, idiot. Our spies in Baghdad advised us yesterday. That’s why I pretend to be with the stinking Super- San—Wggh!”
“What are Your Excellency Comrade’s wishes?”
“Get him away from that blonde before she ruins our plans.”
“Ah, that’s Nishka, one of us.” Astonishment widened Putov’s watery blue eyes. “Have you forgotten the night you and she drank—”
“You talk too much, Putov.” Nick flapped a hand. “Get a car to take me and the prince to the Kremlin. Hurry it! Comrade Andrei Broncov and I have a Council meeting at midnight. You three, bring the prince to me here.”
Cletus and Nishka had withdrawn to a sofa in an alcove off the lobby. Without effort, Nick could see them and hear the female agent saying: “How do I know you have all that money, Navi-Honey? I’ll bet you brought gilt lead and fake jewels just to impress me.”
“No, but I’ve been to America,” Cletus bragged, knowing well his boss would be listening. “So be nice and I’ll prove they’re real. I’ve been everywhere but this lousy place. I even lived in Egypt.”
“Talk some Egyptian for me,” Nishka wheedled.
“I’ve forgotten most of it,” Cletus said, cannily dodging the trap. “But I once made a study of the ancient language.” He ripped out a stream of what had once been his native tongue. Then, partly at least to test Nishka’s knowledge, he added in English, “How’s for looking at my room before we go out on the town?”
“Wha-at? Why, you bad boy!” The girl winked at her three fellow agents coming toward them in a crablike walk, then spoke in Cletus’ ear: “It’s the LAW, Navi-Honey, but don’t let them worry you. Little Nishka will stay with you—to the limit.”
Cletus leered at her and rose to accompany the MVD to the front of the lobby. He and Nick put on an act, then went to the street followed by a chattering crowd.
Once inside the sleek car Putov had conjured up, Nick said: “The heap is wired so we’ll talk only in Hell language.”