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."

"Nuts," Cletus said. "Talk English, will you? I can hardly understand
your outlandish language. Or, speak Persian."

"My knowledge of your native tongue is not good, but I'm quite at home
in English or Amerikaner. A Russian invented--"

"Yeah, he knows," Nick cut in. "Forget the malarkey, Bronco. This lad
is here on business and has no time for our phoney hooptedo. From his
grandfather, the old Shah, he inherited fifty of the richest oil wells
in Asia, and he's giving us a chance to bid on them instead of
carrying on a, quote, cold, unquote, war, and steal--"

"I understand," Broncov said through his big teeth. His lips tightened
in his rage over Volonsky's direct speech, but he managed to say
fairly suavely: "Yo