"Okay, pardner. You got a deal," he said.
"Whoopee ti-yi-yo," Remo said.
"He must have meant you when he said administrative assistant," Chiun said to Remo.
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CHAPTER ELEVEN
The carpet was a gold woolen pile, deep enough to drop a dime into and lose sight of the coin. The desk was a giant oaken box. It had once been used by Stalin. When Khrushchev had come into power and attacked Stalin's reputation, the desk had been put into the Kremlin basement along with the other trash.
But then, ,a few years later, when he, too, was safely out of office, Khrushchev's own reputation had been attacked. So the teak desk he had bought for the premier's office was put into the basement and Stalin's desk dragged out, re-finished, polished, and put back in the sixth-floor office.
But the rug that Khruschev had installed was too new and the Stalin rug too old and worn and threadbare to be reinstalled, so the gold rug was left on the floor.
Sometimes the new premier envied America. The White House, he was told, still had a Lincoln bed. There were signs all over American announcing where George Washington had slept. Presidents' homes were national shrines. In
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America, heroes remained heroes and history remained history.
Not so in the Kremlin. The Kremlin even had a man assigned to its custodial department whose sole job was to continue shifting around furniture whenever the Kremlin decided to change its reading of past history.
The current premier had decided in his first day in office never to buy furniture for it. He would use whatever was left over and was politically reliable, because he regarded it as a waste of time to buy desks and chairs and tables, knowing that in a couple of years after his demise or disposal, they would probably wind up in the Kremlin cellar too as his own successor began to rewrite history.
The only thing in the office that was pure was the globe. It had once belonged to Lenin. Everybody liked Lenin.
The premier was reaching for the telephone when his office door opened and a general whose green uniform was festooned with a chestful of medals and ribbons walked in. He led a contingent of seven men.
The premier looked up, startled. The general had not knocked. The premier slid his chair back ready to dive under the desk, in case bullets started flying.
"General Arkov," the premier said. "What brings you here in such a hurry?"
"Quick, men," the general said. "Check everything."
This is it, the premier thought. Someone had mounted a coup against him and in a moment, he
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would have a bullet in the brain, the personal gift of General Arkov, head of the KGB.
The seven men with Arkov began scurrying about the office. Two went into the bathroom. One dropped to the rug and began looking under the chairs and sofa. Another crawled under the premier's desk. Two had electronic devices and they scanned the walls and electrical switches.
General Arkov stood in the doorway, watching his men. After a few minutes, they all returned to stand in front of him, shaking their heads.
"All right," Arkov said. "Take positions." The men spread out around the room and Arkov looked, for the first time, at the premier.
Surprised that he was still alive, and thus emboldened, the premier's voice was sharp.
"Now I suppose you will tell me what this is all about?" he said.
"Semyon Begolov is dead. An assassin got him in London, and four of our men assigned to protect him."
"Dead? Who?"
"His valet."
"Andre something? I remember him," the premier said. "He seemed like a quiet enough sort."
"He was. Until last night when he put a bullet into Begolov's head. That is why we are here."
"To put a bullet into my head?" the premier said, and as soon as he had said it, he wished he hadn't. Arkov's eyes narrowed as if a joke were a sign of weakness and he must forever after keep a close watch on the premier.
"No, premier. To make sure that no assassin tries to do the same to you."
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The premier looked around the office at the seven KGB men. They stood watching him, looking ill at ease, shifting their weight from foot to foot.
"And I am supposed to work like this?" the premier said.
"I am sorry but we have no alternative. We must protect you the best way we can."
"Protect me from the outside office."
"No." The answer was flat and formal and final.
The premier shrugged. His telephone rang. His hand reached for the telephone but before he could get to it, one of the KGB men had intercepted him. The man picked up the telephone himself, cautiously, before speaking into it.
"There are many devices, Premier," General Arkov explained. "A sound signal could come over a telephone that could paralyze you. A needle might have been inserted into the earpiece of your receiver, so it could puncture your brain when you talk on the phone."
"I think somebody punctured your brain," the premier grumbled. He looked up angrily at the KGB agent who had finished inspecting the telephone and handed it to him.
It was the premier's secretary asking if he wanted coffee.
"No. Vodka," he growled. "A big glass. With ice."
"So early in the day?" she said.
"You too?" he asked. "Better yet, bring me a bottle."
"You know what the doctor said, sir."
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"And you know what I said. A bottle and a glass. Skip the ice."