The Cool War, Andrew Fetler [love letters to the dead TXT] 📗

Don't curl your feet like that, Kolya, I've told you before. Why didn't you shave your hands today?"

Kolya looked guiltily at his hands.

"They've made progress," Zubov assured Pashkov, pulling a small whip from his hip pocket. "Straight, lads, straight," he flicked the whip. "We have company."

"Are their costumes your own idea?"

"With your pardon, for purposes of concealment. What are your orders?"

Pashkov told them to pick up the boxes of ammunition at the embassy and deliver them to the Cubans, and then to commandeer a private automobile.

"We have autos at the embassy pool," Zubov suggested.

"I want a vehicle off the street. Then report back here with your lads."

Petya gave Kolya a box on the ear.

"Boys, boys!" Zubov cracked the whip. "Out you go. A job for Gospodin Pashkov, lads. They don't get enough exercise," he grinned, backing out after them. "With your pardon, I'll thrash them later."

And they were gone. Pashkov turned to the hospital maps and studied them before taking a nap.

Shortly before dawn, Zubov's team returned, their mission accomplished.

"With your pardon, an excellent Mercedes," Zubov reported.

Pashkov had changed into the hospital gown with the Coca-Cola legend on the back. He glanced at his watch. It was four o'clock in the morning.

He tossed his bundle of clothing to the first ape. "Take my flier back to Moscow, Kolya lad. Give my clothes to Nadezhda Brunhildova, and tell Comrade Petchareff to expect Colonel James today."

Clutching the bundle, Kolya stuck his tongue out at Petya and bounded out of the room. They waited at the window until they saw Kolya take off in Pashkov's flier. Then they made their way down the service stairs to the alley, Pashkov dressed only in the hospital gown; got into the stolen Mercedes and drove to the National Hospital, all three leaning forward.

In the ambulance court, Zubov and Petya moved quickly to a Red Cross flier. Pashkov dropped the invoice he had lifted from the Cubans on the front seat of the stolen car, and followed.

A watchman emerged from his hut, looked idly up at the rising ambulance, and shuffled back to his morning coffee.

As Petya brought the flier to a hovering stop against Colonel James' window, Pashkov bounced into the room; Zubov drew his gun and jumped in after.

Colonel James awoke, turned on the night lamp, and sat up in the bed, his eyes blinking.

Pashkov stood looking at Colonel James. The resemblance between them was remarkable. Zubov's eyes were crossed with astonishment.

"My dear Gospodin Pashkov!" Colonel James greeted him in Russian, yawning. "How kind of you to visit me. Do sit down." Not only was his Russian good; his voice was a good imitation of Pashkov's voice.

"You're not really sick?" Pashkov asked, sitting down on the bed.

"Not physically. But imagine my psychological condition. When I look in the mirror—" The colonel shuddered.

"I hope your sacrifice won't be permanent?" Pashkov said.

"That would be too much. How is my Russian? The truth, now."

"Excellent. Put up your gun, Zubov. Colonel James and I don't get to talk very often."

"And a pity we don't. Good manners accomplish more than an opera full of cloaks and daggers. Cigarette?"

"Gratefully accepted," Zubov said, slipping his gun into its holster with a flourish.

"Your treatment is over, then?" Pashkov asked. "You are ready for your assignment?"

"Ready."

"And that is?"

"Delicate, very delicate. I must report to the Palace this morning."

"Shall I kidnap him now?" Zubov interrupted, puffing conceitedly on his cigarette.

"Mind your language, Zubov. May I ask, Colonel—do you want me to think I am falling into a trap?"

"No, no, my friend. I am only doing my best not to show my surprise at seeing you again." The colonel got out of bed and sat down on Pashkov's other side.

"Zubov will make your trip to Moscow comfortable. All right, Zubov."

Zubov focused his crossed eyes on Pashkov.

"Take him straight to Petchareff," Colonel James said to Zubov. "I'll report as soon as I know what these Swedes are up to."

Zubov seized Pashkov by the scruff of the neck and dragged him towards the window.

"Hold your claws, Zubov lad," Pashkov said. "You have got the wrong man, can't you see? That is Colonel James."

"Eh?"

"Use your eyes, blockhead. I am Pashkov."

Zubov did use his eyes. He looked from one to the other, and back. The more he focused, the more his eyes crossed. "Eh?"

Colonel James sat calmly on the bed. He said, "Carry him out."

Zubov lifted Pashkov off the floor, crashed with his weight against the wall, but held on, grinned and staggered with Pashkov in his arms to the window.

"You miserable idiot," Pashkov shouted. "You'll get a rest cure for this!"

Zubov dropped him, pulled his gun and backed off into a corner. "How can I tell you two apart just by looking!" he cried hysterically. "I'm not a learned man."

"One small but decisive proof," Pashkov said, unbuttoning his hospital gown. "I have a mole."

Zubov yanked the colonel up by an arm. "Send me to rest cures, will you?"

Colonel James sighed. "I guess we have to keep up appearances," he muttered, and climbed out the window into the hovering ambulance. Zubov leaped in after, and they were off.

The suit of clothes hanging in the closet might have been Pashkov's own, identical with the clothes Kolya had taken to Moscow not an hour before. Even the underwear had facsimiles of the Order of Lenin sewn in.

Satisfied, he crawled into the bed and fell into a pleasant snooze.

He was awakened by the nurse, Anastina Bjorklund—alias Anastasia Semionovna Bezumnaya, formerly of the Stakhanovite Booster's Committee, Moscow Third Worker's District.

"Wonderful morning, Colonel James!"

Petchareff seldom let one agent know what another was doing.

She put a big breakfast tray on Pashkov's lap. "Cloudy, damp, and windy. London stock market caves in, race riots in South Africa, famine in India, earthquake in Japan, floods in the United States, general strike in France, new crisis in Berlin. I ask you, what more can an idealist want?"

"Good morning, Miss Bjorklund."

The breakfast tray was crammed with a liter of orange juice, four boiled eggs, six slices of bacon, four pancakes, two pork chops, four slices of toast, a tumbler of vodka, a pot of coffee and two cigars.

"Ah, Colonel," Anastina said as Pashkov fell to, "why did you let them change your face? It does not become you at all."

"Part of my job. Don't you think I am more handsome now?"

Anastina laughed shrilly. "That bulbous nose handsome? What woman could fall in love with a nose like that?"

"It shows determination. I wish I had this nose permanently."

"You mustn't talk like that. But I'll ignore your nose if you tell me more about White Sands Proving Grounds, as you promised."

"With pleasure, with pleasure," he said, sinking his teeth into a pork chop, having seasoned the chop with the soft-boiled egg yolk. "But right now I'm in a hurry to get to the Palace. Give my shoes an extra shine, there's a good girl."

"Oh, you and your secrets!"

An hour later, Pashkov landed on the Palace roof in Colonel James' flier—an exact copy of his own flier. The Palace roof captain stared at him, then smiled nervously.

"They are waiting for you in the Gustavus room, Colonel."

"Colonel? Do I still look like Colonel James?"

"Oh, no, sir."

"Do I talk like Colonel James?"

"You've changed completely, sir. If I didn't know, I would swear you were the notorious Gospodin Pashkov."

"I am Gospodin Pashkov now, Captain. To everybody."

"Of course, sir. I'll ring down you are coming."

Pashkov glanced at his watch. Colonel James would be landing in Moscow about now and taken to Comrade Petchareff for questioning.

A manservant in velvet cutaways, patent leather shoes and white gloves, escorted Pashkov through rooms hung with chandeliers, tapestries, paintings. Pashkov entered the last room and stopped as the door clicked shut behind him.

In the room were three men, all of whom he recognized: Professor Kristin of the Swedish Academy, a white-haired old man with a kind, intelligent face; the king, Gustavus IX, a thin old man stroking his Vandyke, sitting under a portrait of Frederick the Great; and Monsieur Fanti, the make-up surgeon.

Pashkov bowed his head. "Your majesty. Gentlemen."

"Extraordinary!" Professor Kristin said.

Pashkov turned to the surgeon. "Monsieur, should my face have such a frivolous expression?"

M. Fanti raised his eyebrows, but did not answer.

"I thought," said Pashkov, "that Gospodin Pashkov's face has a more brutal look."

"Propaganda," said the artist. But he came closer and looked at Pashkov's face with sudden interest.

Professor Kristin said, "Colonel James, we presume you have studied the problem in detail. I'm afraid we have delayed announcing the Nobel prize for literature much too long. How soon can you bring Boris Knackenpast to Stockholm?"

So there it was: Boris Knackenpast a supreme success, as Pashkov had suspected. It would be amusing to tell robotist Medvedev about it.

"Delicate, very delicate," Pashkov said. "Everything depends on my not running into Gospodin Pashkov."

"We can't wait any longer," Professor Kristin said. "Fortunately, we have an ally in the enemy camp. The robotist, Medvedev, is expecting you at Knackenpast's villa."

"Bad show," M. Fanti said suddenly. "No good. His left cheekbone is at least four centimeters too high."

The men looked at the surgeon, then at Pashkov.

M. Fanti fingered Pashkov's cheekbone. "How could I have made such a mistake! Just look at him. People laugh at such faces."

"How much time to correct the error then, Monsieur Fanti?" the king asked.

"A week at least. His skin needs a rest. I must rework the whole left side of his face—it's all lopsided."

"But we can't spare a week," Professor Kristin said.

"With your majesty's permission," Pashkov offered, "I am willing to go as I am. Indeed, my plans call for immediate departure."

"It is a good thing you do for us, Colonel James," Gustavus IX said, "and a courageous thing. Please accept our thanks."

Professor Kristin saw Pashkov to the door. "One suggestion, Colonel. Your r's are still too soft for a real Russian. Why do you Americans slur them like that? And I beg you, if you value your life, do not fail to watch your fricatives."

The roof captain saluted as Pashkov stepped out of the lift. His flier was serviced and ready.

"What weather in Moscow, Captain?"

"Ceiling four thousand. We're having patrols half way out to sea. They are instructed to let you pass."

A small incident, the roof captain explained. A Swedish Red Cross flier was missing from the National Hospital. Two Cuban agents had been arrested and a cache of small arms and ammunition was found. But no trace of the ambulance.

"I suppose the Cubans deny stealing the ambulance?" Pashkov asked.

"They say they've been framed by a fat little Russian. But it's transparent, a clumsy job. Imagine, they left a stolen car in the ambulance court and in it an invoice for six cases of ammunition. It was traced to the Cubans in half an hour."

Pashkov climbed into his flier. "Well, it's fashionable to blame the Russians for everything." He waved his chubby hand, and took off. Flying over the Baltic, he set the controls on the Moscow beam.

Ten minutes west of Moscow he tuned the communicator in on Petchareff's office.

"Seven One Three here, Nadezhda. Tell Petchareff—no, let me talk to him."

"Seven One ... but that's impossible! Gospodin Pashkov is in conference with Comrade Petchareff."

"Stupid!" Petchareff's voice sounded behind Nadezhda's, and the speaker clicked and went dead.

Pashkov dove into the clouds and brought his flier to a hovering stop.

Petchareff did not believe he was Pashkov. Colonel James, it was clear, was at that moment in Petchareff's office, impersonating Pashkov. And Zubov was probably getting a rest cure.

Pashkov crawled out of the cloud and skimmed northeast to Mir, Boris Knackenpast's villa.

"You came fast, sir," the lieutenant of guards welcomed him at Mir. "We did not expect you for another fifteen minutes."

Fifteen minutes. The colonel was not wasting time.

"Listen carefully, lieutenant." Pashkov described the American agent. "But his left cheekbone is lower than mine—about four centimeters. He may be armed, so be careful."

The lieutenant stared. "Shall we kill him?"

"No, no. Put him in a cage."

As Pashkov ran up the steps to the villa, the curtain in the vestibule window stirred. But when he entered, the vestibule was empty.

He looked in the dining room, the music room, the library. Nobody. The house was strangely quiet. He came to the door of the study and listened. Not a sound. He went in and there, behind the large writing desk, sat Boris Knackenpast.

The robot was unscrewing screws imbedded in his neck.

"My God, sir," said Pashkov, "what are you doing?"

The robot's eyes, large disks of glittering mirror, flashed as he looked up. "Ah, Colonel James," Boris said in a voice that seemed to come from a deep well. "Excuse the poor welcome, but I understand we have little time. You scared my valet; he thought you