Templar shook his head in negative sympathy.
“The coal crisis happened, conveniently enough, when Tretiak was minister of energy. He’s been planning this ruse for a long time, and I’m positive that he hasn’t sold a drop of oil to anyone. He’s been hoarding it himself.”
Karpov looked intently at the Saint, studying his face.
“Mr. President, the time is short,” insisted the Saint. “The coup is on, and Tretiak intends to humiliate you.”
Karpov’s face blanched; his wife trembled so hard it shook the bed.
“You didn’t force your way in here to tell me something I can do nothing about,” said Karpov, his plaintive expression far from presidential. “Do you have a brilliant suggestion?”
Templar smiled his most luminous smile, and his bright blue eyes gleamed with almost childlike mischief.
“Now that you mention it, a good-hearted scientist named Lev Botvin and I were discussing your dilemma only recently. You’re going to stand trial before the world in Red Square tonight. Whatever Tretiak accuses you of, admit to it.”
The president of Russia and the man at the top of Inspector Teal’s “Most Wanted” list had an intense and productive meeting of the minds. It would have gone on longer, but the bedroom door being suddenly blown off its hinges was a loud and effective interruption.
It was Sklarov. His Special Forces had overwhelmed the Kremlin guards by force of numbers and significant internal collusion. Not a shot was fired.
The gloating renegade general, his chest puffed out and his head held high, walked triumphantly into the president’s bedroom accompanied by two of his larger and more ominous men.
“My, my, my,” declared Sklarov, “what an interesting sight — the president, his wife, and a Kremlin guard. Too bad I forgot my camera.”
Karpov attempted sounding authoritative, but his reclining position and bedtime attire undermined his effort.
“What you’re attempting is illegal! The people won’t stand for it!”
Sklarov hacked out a rude laugh. “The people are too cold to stop it.” He snapped instructions. “Leave Mrs. Karpov here under guard, detain the former president downstairs, but let him get dressed first. He’d look too sympathetic and pathetic standing outside in his pajamas.”
Sklarov turned to appraise Simon Templar. “Who are you?”
“I’m Edmund Campion,” he replied, “named for the saint tried on false charges of treason.”
Sklarov ripped the epaulets from Templar’s uniform. “Isn’t a saint someone who dies horribly?”
“That’s a martyr,” said Templar helpfully. “A saint is someone who can be linked to three miracles.”
Mrs. Karpov peeked out over the bedspread.
Sklarov snorted and gave orders to his Special Forces. “He wants a miracle. Make him disappear!”
Not content to simply drag Templar from the room, the two Special Forces thugs gave him several body blows from their rifle butts before hauling him out the door.
“Your boss didn’t say anything about hitting me,” insisted Templar. “Who gave you guys the latitude to improvise?”
They ignored him.
As they roughly escorted Templar down the corridor, they came face-to-face with Ilya.
Templar was as surprised to see him as he was to see the Saint.
“What are you doing here?” Ilya was incredulous. “Why are you meddling in our politics when you could be out stealing something?”
“It’s not politics,” stated Templar flatly, “it’s personal.”
Sklarov was approaching, and Ilya wanted to appear powerful. After all, he had outfitted himself in full blackshirt regalia in honor of the triumphant coup.
“Let’s drag him out with the former president,” ordered Ilya. He escorted the heavily guarded captive down the hall, gloating with every step. “In a few minutes, the mob will tear you and the president limb from limb. And then, with busybodies and do-gooders done away with, Russia belongs to us.”
Templar begged to differ.
“No, Russia belongs to Daddy.”
If the Saint was baiting, Ilya wasn’t biting.
“True, Ivan Tretiak will rule with a mightier hand than any Russian tsar since Ivan the Terrible.”
“Interesting analogy,” said the Saint. “You know Ivan the Terrible killed his own son.”
Ilya, proudly striding, missed a step.
“Yes, by his own hand,” Templar continued conversationally. “The boy was just about your age, I believe...”
“Shut up!”
Simon smiled, Ilya scowled, and the soldiers led Templar out toward Red Square.
“Get ready for your final minutes of fame. Templar,” spat Ilya. “You’re going to be a featured player in our final big show.”
The “big show” to which Ilya referred was another one of Tretiak’s choreographed media events. Only the addition of a juggler spinning plates, trained seals tooting horns, or dancing bears doing the Lambada could have made it more viewer-friendly.
The two giant video screens were filled with inflammatory Oktober Party propaganda, and Red Square itself was crowded with the irate, the curious, and the soon-to-be condemned.
International news correspondents from the major networks cupped their ears and rattled details into their open microphones, bringing every rumor and unconfirmed charge to their world-wide audiences.
“In an emergency measure approved by the Russian Senate, all documents in President Karpov’s Kremlin office have been seized,” declared CCI’s Anea Bergen, beating CNN’s Jan Sharp and UPN’s Chet Rogers to the story by a full fifteen seconds.
Rogers, not to be outdone, was the first to detail the spectacular arrival of Ivan Tretiak.
“Not since Lenin’s arrival at Finlandia Station,” intoned the seasoned reporter, “has such a transformative leader made such an auspicious entrance.”
Tretiak, standing victorious atop a tank turret, greeted the cheering crowd. Every gesture and expression was amplified and exaggerated by the state-of-the-art sound system and diamond-bright video screens.
If the previous Tretiak rallies were equal to rock concerts, this one was pure theater. Tretiak may have ranted against the evils of Hollywood, but this Red Square production — complete with cast, sets, props, lighting, heroes, and villains — was as lavish as any celluloid adventure.
“Friends! Countrymen! Russians!”
The crowd screamed approval.
“You’ve no doubt heard of this morning’s Senate-ordered inquiry into the shocking affairs of President Karpov,” began Tretiak, “and recovered from his secret files, locked within his private safe...” On cue a spotlight hit the actual safe — an important visual aid adding further authenticity to Tretiak’s dramatic presentation.
“The secret documents, soon to be published for all to read, prove the evil profiteer Karpov was about to squander over forty trillion of our precious Russian rubles in a crooked scheme to save his corrupt hide!”
The crowd bellowed like electric bulls, and a spot-light illuminated a second platform that looked like a gallows. On the platform, standing tall and retaining his dignity, was President Karpov.
Another roar swelled in the crowd’s throat, impressed and excited by Tretiak’s multimedia approach to seizing power by brazen will.
Another spotlight splashed its light on the platform, highlighting none other than Simon Templar.
“To add insult, Karpov was going to pay a king’s ransom to this international criminal!”
Tretiak pointed dramatically at the Saint while the video screens showed the surveillance photo of Templar fleeing through the corridor of Tretiak Industries.