It wasn’t far to the grim walls of the Kremlin, and as the big car purred across the snowy, radio-stricken square, Nick gave Cletus the main points of his plan. Obviously warned, the police gave a snappy salute and let the car enter the courtyard. A few moments later, Hell’s emissaries were zooming through long corridors and up to the second floor; walking the last fifty yards.
Six husky guards armed with sub-machine guns opened the great doors to the Premier’s private study. “He’s been asking for you,” a huge guard whispered.
“He would, the brainless pup,” Nick snarled, reading the big fellow’s thoughts. A Volonsky man called Gorkzy. “Don’t announce us.”
Inside the great room, at a desk almost large enough for a roller skating rink, Andrei Broncov appeared to be studying a document. True executive, he went on reading till Nick coughed.
“Your Excellency Comrade Broncov, I have brought Prince Navi. Where is the rest of the Council?”
“Ah!” Broncov’s plump face widened in a smile for Cletus. “This is an honor, Your Highness. I trust you will pardon my preoccupation with affairs of state. They’re in a mess—as are all capitals when the old order departs. I supposed you’d be announced.” Andrei Broncov glared at the pseudo Volonsky and whispered in a dialect, “The Council is waiting below, fool.”
“Nuts,” Cletus said. “Talk English, will you? I can hardly understand your outlandish language. Or, speak Persian.”
“My knowledge of your native tongue is not good, but I’m quite at home in English or Amerikaner. A Russian invented—”
“Yeah, he knows,” Nick cut in. “Forget the malarkey, Bronco. This lad is here on business and has no time for our phoney hooptedo. From his grandfather, the old Shah, he inherited fifty of the richest oil wells in Asia, and he’s giving us a chance to bid on them instead of carrying on a, quote, cold, unquote, war, and steal—”
“I understand,” Broncov said through his big teeth. His lips tightened in his rage over Volonsky’s direct speech, but he managed to say fairly suavely: “Your Highness, we appreciate your giving us a chance to buy your wells. Surely, a banquet is in order.”
“No, I want to get out of this place. It’s too cold.”
Nick peered over his Volonsky nose-glasses. “How much, kid? No fooling.”
“Volonsky!” Broncov barked. “Mind your speech. I’ll handle this little deal. You’re excused.”
“Uh-uh.” Nick grinned. “I stay for my cut.”
“You both look like a couple of crooks to me,” said the young prince. “I want two hundred million dollars—in gold.”
Broncov’s hand shook as he reached for a row of buttons. “How about a bit of tea and cakes, or, perhaps something stronger before we discuss this matter with the Council? They’re waiting just below us, and I’d like to present the deal already consummated.”
“Got any Old Style Lager around?” Cletus asked.
“We have some good Bavarian beer, a stock we—ah—bought some time ago.”
“I’ve heard how much you paid the Heinies. The beer I want is made in Wisconsin, USA, so I think I’ll fly over there tonight. Super-San Oil keeps begging me to visit their country. Offered me two hundred million for my wells but only half in gold. I want all gold, and I won’t discuss any other terms.”
“Bungler!” Broncov whispered in dialect. “Why didn’t you get him drunk, first? Without oil we can’t carry on this cold war or kid the peasants much longer. Where in hell could we get even two hundred dollars in gold?”
“Go to hell and find all you want,” Nick said with a wicked grin.
“I understood what you high-binders said,” Cletus put in. “My cousin told me before I left home Communist clucks don’t savvy Saturday from Sunday. Everybody knows you top boys have stolen everything not nailed down, and have stashed it away against the time your own people kick out Communism for good.”
“Oh, come, Prince Navi, I don’t understand how such an evil story started. Our people wouldn’t dare—”
“Wouldn’t they?” Cletus laughed nastily. “We have spies too, and we know your common herd would settle for anything else. Most of them want their church and their Tsar back, bad as he was.”
“Bah! The capitalist press started that myth.”
“Why, Bronco,” Nick protested, “you can read that story in Pravda, ‘The Organ of Truth.’” The fake Minister of Culture cleared his throat to keep from laughing when the glowering Premier began thinking of various ways to torture unsympathetic comrades. In silent Hell language, Nick added: “Good work, Cleet. I’ll take it from here.”
“Lies put out by the war mongerers of Wall Street,” Broncov shouted. He continued raving, but Nick no longer listened.
Sounds outside the window told him time had begun pressing. He shook the hat he’d been carrying. “Gold, is it you want, Prince Navi? You think we have none? How about this?”
A glittering gold piece tinkled on the floor and rolled toward the amazed Red Premier. Puffing, he bent over and scooped up a newly minted coin the size of the American gold eagle. “It’s a new issue—I—never mind. We have lots more where this came from, haven’t we, comrade Vychy?”
“I’ll say,” Nick said. “Watch!”
Gold pieces continued falling from the hat, one by one, then in a steady stream. Stunned, Broncov clutched his throat, muttering: “It can’t be true. Miracles don’t happen.”
He watched in silence while his Minister of Culture made a pile of gold coins four feet high. When the floor timbers began creaking, Nick made another similar heap; then, others, till the thick walls began bulging inward.
“Stop!” Broncov cried. “A couple of tons is enough.” Eyes now popping, he waved his arms as the floor sagged under fifty times that weight. “There’s the two hundred million for you, Prince. The rest is for—us. We’ll sign the papers in another room.”
Ignoring frightened cries, Nick made more piles of gold next to the windows. Outside on Red Square, people were running in all directions, shouting and waving newspapers. A cannon roared. A hundred or more machine guns began rattling. Plainly, the bullets were not fired at any one, for the people were laughing and weeping, singing and dancing.
“Come here and have a look, Bronco,” Nick suggested.
“It’s—a trick, a revolution,” Broncov panted. “Damn you, Volonsky, you started it.” He snatched a heavy revolver from his desk and fired it at Nick without warning.
The false Volonsky laughed when five of the slugs bounced off the invisible shield around him. A sixth bullet splintered the window glass. The other five returned and struck the raging Red boss, cutting his face and arms enough to bring streams of blood. He dashed for the door but collided with the six guards who burst into the room.
Broncov wiped off some of the blood running into his eyes well enough to see all six waving copies of Pravda. “What’s going on here?” he screamed.
“Read about it in Pravda,” bellowed Gorkzy, the huge guard. “It always prints the truth—you’ve taught us.”
“What truth?” quavered the Premier. “Put down those guns!”
“Oh, no. Pravda says you were shot trying to escape, and for once it really told the truth.” Implacably, the big guard brought up his Tommy-gun and let it rattle.
The stricken Red leader took two steps backward and fell to the floor as the other five guns opened up on him in a hell’s chatter of death. His falling weight added the last straw to the overstrained floor timbers. They gave way in a roar, and a hundred tons of yellow gold streamed downward in a cataclysmic wave of wealth and death to the Council members below.
Poised on air, Nick and Cletus became invisible to mortal eyes. “That wraps it, Cleet. Let’s see how the boys take it.”
The six guards were peering down into the ruin below, and at some of the fortune still clinging to the slanting floor.
“Great Nicholas!” Gorkzy yelled. “Gold!”
“Just like Pravda says,” howled another man. “Listen! It says: ‘Volonsky and the mysterious Persian prince have disappeared. Broncov executed by heroic guards. All members of the once-feared Inner Council crushed almost beyond recognition when floor crashed upon them from the weight of the gold brought by the prince.’”
“And look at this!” roared the big Gorkzy. “‘All soldiers and police throw down their arms. Refuse to shoot the people shouting they want their Tsar and church back. Satellite countries freed of the odious Communist yoke. Concentration camps, collective farming, and slave labor abolished. All spies and saboteurs recalled to Moscow for trial and punishment. Ivan, the Tsar, to issue proclamation.’”
“What Tsar?” The six stared stupidly at one another.
One man picked up a shiny gold piece and tested it with his teeth. “The Bolsheviks murdered the old goat and all his family. How can this be?”
“He probably left plenty of bastards,” another man hazarded.
“I get it,” Gorkzy shouted. “Prince Navi is a grandson. His name is N-a-v-i—Ivan spelled backward. Why, the smart little devil! And now he’s here some place to reign over us.”
“Oh, no,” Cletus protested as he and Nick slithered through the wall. “You aren’t going to make me rule over these dopes, boss. Have a heart. It’s cold here, and the whole country stinks.”
“That’s your punishment, m’lad, for letting Raphael and Michael catch onto you. You can’t prowl around Heaven just now so you’ll have to work here in Hell’s Rear Annex for a while. Look!” Nick thumbed one of the gold pieces. “Your image stamped on all of them. Also ‘Ivan—Tsar. In God We Trust.’”
“Okay,” Cletus said, shuffling a little, then brightening. “Anyhow, I’ll have Nishka.”
“Not if the common folks find out she worked for the MVD.” As if to punctuate Nick’s prophesy, a dozen bombs exploded inside police headquarters.
“Heck!” Cletus shrugged resignedly. “Well, lend me that hat, and conjure up a couple million tons of soap—not perfumed.”
Roaring with laughter, Nick promised to spread soap over the entire country, then watched the little imp zooming back and forth across Red Square—sprinkling the snowy pavement with Ivan-Tsar pieces of gold.
The Satanic laughter lasted till Nick had whizzed half way across Chaos. “That caper,” he told himself gleefully, “will fool The BBU about my plan. Or, will it? Great Hades! I did a good deed.”
A million miles above the wastes of Chaos, he remembered he still wore Volonsky whose shade would still be imprisoned in the Pravda room. Nick shucked out of his unpleasant quarters, halted to watch the thing spinning downward.
“Cheer up, Vych,” he laughed. “Next century I’ll gather up what’s left and give it back to you—maybe.”