“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.”
IV
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.”