Free Doomsday Warrior 02 - Red America by Ryder Stacy Page A

instructions from Killov when the red scramble phone from Moscow rang.
    “It’s Menzies, sir. Dr. Menzies of the Kremlin Medical Institute,” a voice said nervously thousands of miles away.
    “Ah yes, doctor,” Killov said with as friendly a tone as the KGB chief ever got in his cold voice. “How is it going?”
    “I’m afraid I have bad news, sir,” the doctor said quickly. “The Premier is as tough as a steppes’ rat. He’s just not succumbing to our treatments.”
    “But you’re still injecting him with the poison?”
    “Yes, Your Excellency—but—”
    “Increase the dosage. Double it—triple it.”
    “But, sir, an autopsy would immediately detect that amount of poison. We—”
    “I’ll worry about the autopsy, doctor, you worry about getting the premier into the next life, or you may see it yourself much quicker than you had ever thought possible. Vassily must die within the next two weeks. You hear me—MUST!” Killov slammed the phone down. Damn—was he the only one who knew how to get things done? It seemed like every job he had given to an underling recently had been botched. If those fool doctors didn’t get cracking, allowed Vassily to linger on, even get stronger, Killov’s situation could deteriorate drastically. If the premier died today he could swing the votes necessary to take control. But a few more weeks and . . .
    The three conspiring doctors, Sverdlov, Minkin, and Menzies were in their meeting place, an old inn ten miles outside of Moscow where they could be assured that the premier’s ever-present microphones were absent. They had each come by a roundabout route to insure they weren’t being followed, and they sat huddled over bowls of borscht which none of them ate but merely stirred the thick muck with their forks. They sat next to one another, discussing what had gone wrong with their poison plot. They spoke in whispers, turning every minute or so to see who was near them—only a few old peasants soaking up gravy from their greasy bowls with big crusts of bread.
    “He’s healthier than ever,” Minkin said nervously, running his hands through his long white beard. “It doesn’t make sense. The poison was supposed to accumulate in his system.”
    “Do you think that servant of his, that nigger, might have had something to do with it? It’s rumored that he has Rasputin-like powers. The premier trusts him totally. He is the only one the Grandfather lets come near him,” Sverdlov said bitterly.
    “No, that’s ridiculous,” Menzies said, sweeping his hand across his face as if sweeping the thought away. “The nigger, Rahallah is his name, is just a slave. The premier cannot be that senile that he lets a slave tell him what to do.”
    “But the Grandfather won’t even let us get near him anymore to give him the injections for the cancer we told him he has,” Minkin said angrily. “The closest we can get is to that damned nigger who swears he gives the premier the doses. But how do we know? How the hell do we know? If he was getting the doses he would be dead by now.”
    “Killov is asking what’s going on,” Menzies said, his eyes darting around nervously. “He said if something doesn’t happen soon to our dear premier, we may take his place in the ground. What am I to tell him?”
    “Tell him we can’t get access to the premier anymore, that the plot has failed,” Sverdlov, the youngest of the conspirators, said.
    “No! No!” the other two doctors both croaked out at once. “He’ll have our hides if we say that,” Minkin said, his eyes opened wide in horror at the younger man’s suggestion. The fool!
    “No, we must tell him that suspicions have been raised at the Kremlin and that it is more difficult but that we are working on it and shall soon succeed,” Menzies said firmly. “That the premier is sinking fast—maybe a miracle will kill him and save us. Because, gentlemen, in case you don’t realize it, it has come down to that—either the