Petr Wrangel stood before the fireplace, stroking his majestic moustache thoughtfully when his ever bungling minion Vlassov came in, trailed by the Ilich Antonov and Nikolai Makalov.
"Your Ministers of Intelligence and Armament, your Autocraticness." said Vlassov carefully. There was a cough from the wall. "And the Minister for Security."
"I know who they are Vlassov you fool!" yelled Wrangel in response. "I bloody sent you to get me them 2 hours ago! You are dismissed until I am done speaking with these men! When you return, bring my whip."
"I-i-i-it Shall be Done, Master." Vlassov shuffled out, as Makalov visibly cringed.
"Tell me Ilich Antonov, if that is really who you are... what do we know of this Carthage?"
"Nothing, I am afraid my predecessor spent his budget on booze and whores"
"Drat! Well, Makalov, as I am sure you are aware... they're offering us some supplies for a few bargeloads of coal. We can do that right?"
"I suppose sir, though... French guns?"
"Nonsense! Only the finest white flags!" The wall coughed again.
"WHAT IS IT YOU HORRIBLE DWARF?"
"Master, the French want to sell us Helmets and Uniforms"
"Perfect... their stylish desert wear has always been a favourite of mine... It will be so. Now go away!"
The men shuffled out, as Vlassov passed them going in. They hurried down the corridor quickly as the sound of a pained scream followed their footsteps.