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.”