“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.”