“Just like Pravda says,” howled another man. “Listen! It says: ‘Volonsky and the mysterious Persian prince have disappeared. Broncov executed by heroic guards. All members of the once-feared Inner Council crushed almost beyond recognition when floor crashed upon them from the weight of the gold brought by the prince.’”
“And look at this!” roared the big Gorkzy. “‘All soldiers and police throw down their arms. Refuse to shoot the people shouting they want their Tsar and church back. Satellite countries freed of the odious Communist yoke. Concentration camps, collective farming, and slave labor abolished. All spies and saboteurs recalled to Moscow for trial and punishment. Ivan, the Tsar, to issue proclamation.’”
“What Tsar?” The six stared stupidly at one another.
One man picked up a shiny gold piece and tested it with his teeth. “The Bolsheviks murdered the old goat and all his family. How can this be?”
“He probably left plenty of bastards,” another man hazarded.
“I get it,” Gorkzy shouted. “Prince Navi is a grandson. His name is N-a-v-i—Ivan spelled backward. Why, the smart little devil! And now he’s here some place to reign over us.”
“Oh, no,” Cletus protested as he and Nick slithered through the wall. “You aren’t going to make me rule over these dopes, boss. Have a heart. It’s cold here, and the whole country stinks.”
“That’s your punishment, m’lad, for letting Raphael and Michael catch onto you. You can’t prowl around Heaven just now so you’ll have to work here in Hell’s Rear Annex for a while. Look!” Nick thumbed one of the gold pieces. “Your image stamped on all of them. Also ‘Ivan—Tsar. In God We Trust.’”
“Okay,” Cletus said, shuffling a little, then brightening. “Anyhow, I’ll have Nishka.”
“Not if the common folks find out she worked for the MVD.” As if to punctuate Nick’s prophesy, a dozen bombs exploded inside police headquarters.