“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Cletus and Nishka had withdrawn to a sofa in an alcove off the lobby.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?”