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“But this one has been prepaid!”
“It seems that the money is being returned.”
“I’ll go next door. You’re not the only commercial TV channel in this town. I always favored you, Anton. Well, no more.”
“Boris, they’re owned by the same banks.”
Kuznetsov sat down again. His knees were shaking.
“What the hell’s going on?”
“All I can say, Boris, is, someone’s been got at. I don’t understand this any more than you. But the board handed it down yesterday. Either we decline to screen Mr. Komarov for the next thirty days or the banks pull.”
Kuznetsov stared at him.
“That’s a lot of screen time you’re passing up. What are you going to air instead? Cossack dancing?”
“No, that’s the odd thing. The station is going to program coverage of the rallies of that priest fellow.”
“What priest fellow?”
“You know, the revivalist preacher. Always urging people to turn to God.”
“God and the czar,” muttered Kuznetsov.
“That’s him.”
“Father Gregor.”
“The same. I can’t understand it myself but …”
“You’re crazy. He hasn’t two rubles to rub together.”
“That’s just the point. The money seems to be in place. So we’re carrying him on the news and the special events slot. He’s got a hell of a schedule. Want to see it?”
“No, I do not want to see his bloody schedule.”
With that, Kuznetsov stormed out. How he was going to face his idol with the news, he had no idea. But a suspicion that had been in his head for three weeks had concretized into total belief. There had been looks between Komarov and Grishin when he broke the news of the printing presses and then General Nikolayev. They knew something that he did not. But one thing he did know; something was going catastrophically wrong.
¯
THAT night, on the other side of Europe, Sir Nigel Irvine was interrupted at his dinner. The club servant held out the phone to him.
“A Dr. Probyn, Sir Nigel.”
The herald’s chirpy voice came down the line from his office where he was clearly working late.
“I think I’ve got your man.”
“Your office, tomorrow, ten o’clock? Splendid.”
Sir Nigel handed the phone back to the hovering steward.
“I think this calls for a port, Trubshaw. Club vintage, if you please.”
CHAPTER 16
IN RUSSIA, WHAT WESTERN COUNTRIES WOULD CALL THE police is named the militia and comes under the direction of the Ministry of the Interior, the MVD.