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Kuznetsov was shown directly into the office of the head of programs for the larger commercial station, a man he regarded as a personal friend and whom he knew to be a supporter of Igor Komarov and the UPF. He dropped the cassette onto the desk of Anton Gurov.
“It was wonderful,” he said enthusiastically, “I was there. You’ll love it.”
Gurov fiddled with his pen.
“And I’ve got better news for you. A major contract, cash on the barrelhead. President Komarov wishes to address the nation every night from now until election day. Think of it, Anton, the biggest single commercial contract this station has ever had. Some credit to you, eh?”
“Boris, I’m glad you came personally. I’m afraid something has cropped up.”
“Oh, not a
technical hitch. Can’t you ever sort them out?”
“No, not exactly technical. Look, you know I support President Komarov to the hilt, right?”
As a senior program planner, Gurov knew exactly how the coverage by TV, the most persuasive single medium in any modern society, was playing in the countdown to the election.
Only Britain, with its BBC, continued to attempt unbiased political coverage using state television channels. In all other countries across Western and Eastern Europe, the incumbent governments used their national television to support the regime of the moment, and had done so for years.
In Russia the state TV network carried copious coverage of the campaign of acting president Ivan Markov, while giving only occasional mentions, always within a dry news context, to the other two candidates.
Those other two candidates, the smaller fry having dropped out along the way, were Gennadi Zyuganov for the neo-Communist Socialist Union and Igor Komarov of the Union of Patriotic Forces.
The former was clearly having problems raising money for his campaign; the latter appeared to enjoy a cornucopia of it. With these funds, Komarov had been able to buy publicity in the American manner by paying for hours of TV time on the two commercial channels. By buying this time, he could ensure that he was not cut, edited, or censored. Gurov had long been happy to oblige with prime-time slots for the full-length screenings of Komarov’s speeches and rallies. He was no fool. He realized that if Komarov won there would be some heavy firings among the state TV staff. A lot of the bigwigs would go; Komarov would see to that. For those with their hearts in the right place, there would be transfers and promotions.
But something was wrong now. Kuznetsov stared at Gurov in puzzlement.
“The fact is, Boris, there’s been a sort of policy shift. At board level. Nothing to do with me, you understand. I’m just the errand boy. This is way up above my head, in the stratosphere.”
“What policy shift, Anton? What are you talking about?”
Gurov shifted uncomfortably and again cursed the managing director who had saddled him with the task.
“You probably know, Boris, like all big enterprises, we are heavily indebted to the banks. When push comes to shove, they have a lot of clout. They rule. Normally, they leave us alone. The returns are good. But ... they’re pulling the plug.”
Kuznetsov was aghast.
“Hell, Anton, I’m sorry. It must be awful for you.”
“Not quite for me, Boris.”
“But surely, if the station is going belly-up, down the tubes …”
“Yes, well now, it seems that wasn’t quite what they said. The station can survive, but there’s a price.”
“What price?”
“Now look, friend, this is nothing to do with me. If it was down to me, I’d screen Igor Komarov twenty-four hours a day, but …”
“But what? Spit it out.”
“Okay. The station won’t be screening any more of Mr. Komarov’s speeches or rallies. That’s the order.”
Kuznetsov was on his feet, face scarlet with rage.
“You’re out of your fucking mind! We buy this time, remember. We pay for it. This is a commercial station. You can’t refuse our money.”
“Apparently we can.”