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“Come.”
Igor Komarov studied the photograph of the letter found in Sir Nigel Irvine’s attaché case. It was clearly on the official paper of the Patriarchate and began with the words: “Your Royal Highness.” The signature and seal were those of His Holiness Alexei II.
“What is this?”
“Mr. President, the foreign conspiracy being mounted against you is perfectly clear. It is in two parts. Internally, here in Russia, it is one of destabilization of your election campaign, the spreading of alarm and despondency, based on the selective showing of your private manifesto to certain persons.
“That has resulted in the sabotage of the printing presses, the pressure by the banks to terminate the nationwide broadcasts, and the denunciation from that old fool of a general. It has caused damage but it cannot stop your victory.
“The second part of the conspiracy is in its way even more dangerous. It proposes the replacement of yourself by a restoration of the Throne of All the Russias. For his own self-interest, the Patriarch has fallen for this. What you have before you is his personal letter to a certain prince, living in the West, supporting the concept of restoration and agreeing that if this is accepted the church will propose the invitation go to this man.”
“And your proposal, Colonel?”
“Quite simple, Mr. President. Without a candidate, the conspiracy collapses.”
“You know of a man who can ... discourage this noble gentleman?”
“Permanently. He is very good. Accustomed to working in the West. Speaks several languages. He works for the Dolgoruki, but can be hired. His last contract concerned two renegades from the mafia who were charged with depositing twenty million dollars in London but decided to divert it to themselves. They were found two weeks ago in a flat in Wimbledon, a suburb of London.”
“Then I think we need the services of this man, Colonel.”
“Leave it to me, Mr. President. Within ten days there will be no candidate.”
Then, Grishin thought as he returned to his office, with Sir Nigel’s precious prince on a marble slab and Jason Monk traced by FAPSI and hanging in a cellar, we shall send Sir Nigel Irvine a packet of photographs that will really make his Christmas.
¯
THE Head of the GUVD had finished his dinner and was sitting with his small daughter on his knee watching her favorite cartoon show when the phone rang. His wife answered.
“It’s for you.”
“Who is it?”
“He just says, ‘The American.’ ”
The militia general eased Tatiana onto the floor and rose.
“I’ll take it in the study.”
When he had closed the door and lifted the receiver he heard the click of his wife replacing the extension.
“Yes.”
“General Petrovsky?”
“Yes.”
“We spoke the other day.”
“We did.”
“I have some information you might find useful. Do you have pen and paper?”
“Where are you speaking from?”
“A phone booth. I don’t have long. Please hurry.”
“Go ahead.”