Short Fiction, Mack Reynolds [best book reader txt] 📗

no noticeable changes with the exception of automobile design. He wondered vaguely how long it took to make a noticeable change in the London street scene.

The major reentered the room with a new expression of respect on his face. “His lordship will see you immediately, Mr. Smith.”

“Thanks,” Paul said. He entered the inner office.

Lord Carrol was attired in civilian clothes which somehow failed to disguise a military quality in his appearance. He indicated a chair next to his desk. “We’ve been instructed to give you every assistance Mr.⁠ ⁠… Smith. Frankly, I can’t imagine of just what this could consist.”

Paul said, as he adjusted himself in the chair, “I’m going into the Soviet Union on an important assignment. I’ll need as large a team at my disposal as we can manage. You have agents in Russia, of course?” He lifted his eyebrows.

His lordship cleared his throat and his voice went even stiffer. “All major military nations have a certain number of espionage operatives in each other’s countries. No matter how peaceful the times, this is standard procedure.”

“And these are hardly peaceful times,” Paul said dryly. “I’ll want a complete list of your Soviet based agents and the necessary information on how to contact them.”

Lord Carrol stared at him. Finally sputtered, “Man, why? You’re not even a British national. This is⁠—”

Paul, held up a hand. “We’re cooperating with the Russian underground. Cooperating isn’t quite strong enough a word. We’re going to push them into activity if we can.”

The British intelligence head looked down at the card before him. “Mr. Smith,” he read. He looked up. “John Smith, I assume.”

Paul said, still dryly, “Is there any other?”

Lord Carrol said, “See here, you’re really Paul Koslov, aren’t you?”

Paul looked at him, said nothing.

Lord Carrol said impatiently, “What you ask is impossible. Our operatives all have their own assignments, their own work. Why do you need them?”

“This is the biggest job ever, overthrowing the Soviet State. We need as many men as we can get on our team. Possibly I won’t have to use them but, if I do, I want them available.”

The Britisher rapped, “You keep mentioning our team but according to the dossier we carry on you, Mr. Koslov, you are neither British nor even a Yankee. And you ask me to turn over our complete Soviet machinery.”

Paul came to his feet and leaned over the desk, there was a paleness immediately beneath his ears and along his jaw line. “Listen,” he said tightly, “if I’m not on this team, there just is no team. Just a pretense of one. When there’s a real team there has to be a certain spirit. A team spirit. I don’t care if you’re playing cricket, football or international cold war. If there’s one thing that’s important to me, that I’ve based my whole life upon, it’s this, understand? I’ve got team spirit. Perhaps no one else in the whole West has it, but I do.”

Inwardly, Lord Carrol was boiling. He snapped, “You’re neither British nor American. In other words, you are a mercenary. How do we know that the Russians won’t offer you double or triple what the Yankees pay for your services?”

Paul sat down again and looked at his watch. “My time is limited,” he said. “I have to leave for Paris this afternoon and be in Bonn tomorrow. I don’t care what opinions you might have in regard to my mercenary motives, Lord Carrol. I’ve just come from Downing Street. I suggest you make a phone call there. At the request of Washington, your government has given me carte blanche in this matter.”

Paul flew into Moscow in an Aeroflot jet, landing at Vnukovo airport on the outskirts of the city. He entered as an American businessman, a camera importer who was also interested in doing a bit of tourist sightseeing. He was traveling deluxe category which entitled him to a Zil complete with chauffeur and an interpreter-guide when he had need of one. He was quartered in the Ukrayna, on Dorogomilovskaya Quai, a twenty-eight floor skyscraper with a thousand rooms.

It was Paul’s first visit to Moscow but he wasn’t particularly thrown off. He kept up with developments and was aware of the fact that as early as the late 1950s, the Russians had begun to lick the problems of ample food, clothing and finally shelter. Even those products once considered sheer luxuries were now in abundant supply. If material things alone had been all that counted, the Soviet man in the street wasn’t doing so badly.

He spent the first several days getting the feel of the city and also making his preliminary business calls. He was interested in a new “automated” camera currently being touted by the Russians as the world’s best. Fastest lens, foolproof operation, guaranteed for the life of the owner, and retailing for exactly twenty-five dollars.

He was told, as expected, that the factory and distribution point was in Leningrad and given instructions and letters of introduction.

On the fifth day he took the Red Arrow Express to Leningrad and established himself at the Astoria Hotel, 39 Hertzen Street. It was one of the many of the Intourist hotels going back to before the revolution.

He spent the next day allowing his guide to show him the standard tourist sights. The Winter Palace, where the Bolshevik revolution was won when the mutinied cruiser Aurora steamed up the river and shelled it. The Hermitage Museum, rivaled only by the Vatican and Louvre. The Alexandrovskaya Column, the world’s tallest monolithic stone monument. The modest personal palace of Peter the Great. The Peter and Paul Cathedral. The king-size Kirov Stadium. The Leningrad subway, as much a museum as a system of transportation.

He saw it all, tourist fashion, and wondered inwardly what the Intourist guide would have thought had he known that this was Mr. John Smith’s home town.

The day following, he turned his business problem over to the guide. He wanted to meet, let’s see now, oh yes, here it is, Leonid Shvernik, of the Mikoyan Camera works. Could it