Behind the priest was the man on the telephone—he had been told of the campaign of anonymous telephone calls—whispering lies, but oh-so-persuasive lies, into the ears of senior journalists and commentators he thought he knew and owned.
For Boris Kuznetsov the answer still lay in the words of Igor Komarov, words that could not fail to convince, that had never failed.
When he entered the leader’s office he was shocked by the transformation. Komarov was behind his desk looking dazed. Spread all over the floor were the daily papers, their headlines blaring accusations upward toward the ceiling. Kuznetsov had already seen them all, the allegations about General Nikolayev, attacks and raids, gangsters and mafia money. No one had ever dared talk about Igor Komarov like that before.
Fortunately, Kuznetsov knew what had to be done. Igor Komarov must speak, and all would be well.
“Mr. President, I really must urge you to give a major press conference tomorrow.”
Komarov stared at him for several seconds as if trying to comprehend what he was saying. In his whole political career, and with Kuznetsov’s approval, he had avoided press conferences. They were unpredictable. He preferred the staged interview, with pre-submitted questions, the set speech, the prepared address, the adoring rally.
“I do not hold press conferences,” he snapped.
“Sir, it is the only way to terminate these foul rumors. The media speculation is getting out of hand. I cannot control it anymore. No one could. It is feeding on itself.”
“I hate press conferences, Kuznetsov. You know that.”
“But you are so good with the press, Mr. President. Reasoned, calm, persuasive. They will listen to you. You alone can denounce the lies and rumors.”
“What do the public opinion polls say?”
“National approval for yourself, sir, forty-five percent and falling. From seventy percent eight weeks ago. Zyuganov of the Socialist Union, thirty-three and rising. Markov, the acting president for the Democratic Alliance, twenty-two, rising slightly. That excludes the undecided. I have to say, sir, the past two days could cost another ten percent, maybe more, when the effect filters into the ratings.”
“Why should I hold a press conference?”
“It’s national coverage, Mr. President. Every major TV station will hang on each word you speak. You know when you speak, no one can resist.”
Finally Igor Komarov nodded.
“Arrange it. I will create my address myself.”
¯
THE press conference was held in the great banquet hall of the Metropol Hotel at eleven the next morning. Kuznetsov began by welcoming the national and foreign press and lost no time in pointing out that certain allegations of unspeakable foulness had been made over the preceding two days concerning the policies and activities of the Union of Patriotic Forces. It was his privilege, in offering a complete and convincing rebuttal to these ignoble smears to welcome to the podium “the next president of Russia, Igor Komarov.”
The UPF leader strode from between the curtains at the rear of the stage and walked to the lectern. He began as he always began, when speaking to rallies of the faithful, by talking about the Great Russia he intended to create once the people had honored him with the presidency. After five minutes he became disconcerted by the silence. Where was the responsive spark? Where was the applause? Where were the cheerleaders? He raised his eyes to some distant clouds and evoked the glorious history of his nation, now in the grip of foreign bankers, profiteers, and criminals. His peroration resounded through the hall, but the hall did not rise to its feet, right hands upraised in the UPF salute. When he stopped the silence continued.
“Perhaps there are questions?” suggested Kuznetsov. A mistake. At least a third of the audience comprised the foreign press. The New York Times man spoke fluent Russian, as did those from the London Times, the Daily Telegraph, the Washington Post, CNN, and most of the rest.
“Mr. Komarov,” called out the Los Angeles Times correspondent, “I figure you have spent some two hundred million dollars on your campaign so far. That has to be a world record. Where has the money come from?”
Komarov glared at him. Kuznetsov whispered in his ear.
“Public subscriptions from the great people of Russia,” he said.
“That’s about a year’s salary for every man in Russia, sir. Where does it really come from?”
Others joined in. “Is it true you intend to abolish all opposition parties and establish a one-party dictatorship?”
“Do you know why General Nikolayev was murdered just three weeks after he denounced you?”
“Do you deny the Black Guards were behind those assassination attempts two nights ago?”
The cameras and microphones of the state TV and the two commercial networks roamed the room picking up the questions from the impertinent foreigners and the stammered answers.
The man from the Daily Telegraph, whose colleague Mark Jefferson had been gunned down the previous July, had also received an anonymous telephone call. He arose and the cameras zeroed in on him.
“Mr. Komarov, have you ever heard of a secret document called the Black Manifesto?”