"He's preparing a new super-patriotic writer to replace Boris Knackenpast," Pashkov reported. "When you give the word, he will call Izvestia and tell them Boris is dead."
Petchareff glanced at his calendar. "We have two other state funerals this week. You made it plain, I hope, we want no repetition of Knackenpast's peace nonsense?"
"No more Gandhi or Schweitzer influences. The new literature," Pashkov promised, raising a chubby finger, "will be a pearl necklace of government slogans."
Nadezhda buzzed the intercom. "The man from the Bolshoi Theater is here, Comrade."
"Send him in."
A small man hurried into the room. He had a narrow face and the mustache of a mouse and a mousy nose, but his eyes were big rabbit eyes. He bowed twice quickly, placed a package on the desk with trembling forepaws and bowed twice again.
Petchareff tore open the package. "You got the real thing? No bad imitation?"
"Exactly, exactly," the mouse piped. "No difference, Comrade." He held his paws as in prayer and his pointed mouth quivered.
Petchareff held up the hospital gown. On the back of the gown was printed in indelible ink:
stockholm national hospital
courtesy of
Coca-Cola