“I can see it could be fairly easy to get stoned, eating caviar Russian style,” Paul laughed.
They went through the procedure and the waiter wandered off.
Paul said, “I can take several days arranging the camera deal with you. Then I can take a tour of the country, supposedly giving it a tourist look-see, but actually making contact with more of your organization. I can then return in the future, supposedly to make further orders. I can assure you, these cameras are going to sell very well in the States. I’ll be coming back, time and again—for business reasons. Meanwhile, do you have any members among the interpreter-guides in the local Intourist offices?”
Shvernik nodded. “Yes. And, yes, that would be a good idea. We’ll assign Ana Furtseva to you, if we can arrange it. And possibly she can even have a chauffeur assigned you who’ll also be one of our people.”
That was the first time Paul Koslov heard the name Ana Furtseva.
* * * *
In the morning Leonid Shvernik came to the hotel in a Mikoyan Camera Works car loaded with cameras and the various accessories that were available for the basic model. He began gushing the advantages of the Mikoyan before they were well out of the hotel.
The last thing he said, as they trailed out of the hotel’s portals was, “We’ll drive about town, giving you an opportunity to do some snapshots and then possibly to my country dacha where we can have lunch—”
At the car he said, “May I introduce Ana Furtseva, who’s been assigned as your guide-interpreter by Intourist for the balance of your stay? Ana, Mr. John Smith.”
Paul shook hands.
She was blond as almost all Russian girls are blond, and with the startling blue eyes. A touch chubby, by Western standards, but less so than the Russian average. She had a disturbing pixie touch around the mouth, out of place in a dedicated revolutionist.
The car took off with Shvernik at the wheel. “You’re actually going to have to take pictures as we go along. We’ll have them developed later at the plant. I’ve told them that you are potentially a very big order. Possibly they’ll try and assign one of my superiors to your account after a day or two. If so, I suggest that you merely insist that you feel I am competent and you would rather continue with me.”
“Of course,” Paul said. “Now then, how quickly can our assistance to you get underway?”
“The question is,” Shvernik said, “just how much you can do in the way of helping our movement. For instance, can you get advanced type weapons to us?”
The .38 Noiseless slid easily into Paul’s hands. “Obviously, we can’t smuggle sizable military equipment across the border. But here, for instance, is a noiseless, recoilless hand gun. We could deliver any reasonable amount within a month.”
“Five thousand?” Shvernik asked.
“I think so. You’d have to cover once they got across the border, of course. How well organized are you? If you aren’t, possibly we can help there, but not in time to get five thousand guns to you in a month.”
Ana was puzzled. “How could you possibly get that number across the Soviet borders?” Her voice had a disturbing Slavic throatiness. It occurred to Paul Koslov that she was one of the most attractive women he had ever met. He was amused. Women had never played a great part in his life. There had never been anyone who had really, basically, appealed. But evidently blood was telling. Here he had to come back to Russia to find such attractiveness.
He said, “The Yugoslavs are comparatively open and smuggling across the Adriatic from Italy, commonplace. We’d bring the things you want in that way. Yugoslavia and Poland are on good terms, currently, with lots of trade. We’d ship them by rail from Yugoslavia to Warsaw. Trade between Poland and U.S.S.R. is on massive scale. Our agents in Warsaw would send on the guns in well concealed shipments. Freight cars aren’t searched at the Polish-Russian border. However, your agents would have to pick up the deliveries in Brest or Kobryn, before they got as far as Pinsk.”
Ana said, her voice very low, “Visiting in Sweden at the Soviet Embassy in Stockholm is a colonel who is at the head of the Leningrad branch of the KGB department in charge of counter-revolution, as they call it. Can you eliminate him?”
“Is it necessary? Are you sure that if it’s done it might not raise such a stink that the KGB might concentrate more attention on you?” Paul didn’t like this sort of thing. It seldom accomplished anything.
Ana said, “He knows that both Georgi and I are members of the movement.”
Paul Koslov gaped at her. “You mean your position is known to the police?”
Shvernik said, “Thus far he has kept the information to himself. He found out when Ana tried to enlist his services.”
Paul’s eyes went from one to the other of them in disbelief. “Enlist his services? How do you know he hasn’t spilled everything? What do you mean he’s kept the information to himself so far?”
Ana said, her voice so low as to be hardly heard, “He’s my older brother. I’m his favorite sister. How much longer he will keep our secret I don’t know. Under the circumstances, I can think of no answer except that he be eliminated.”
It came to Paul Koslov that the team on this side could be just as dedicated as he was to his own particular cause.
He said, “A Colonel Furtseva at the Soviet Embassy in Stockholm. Very well. A Hungarian refugee will probably be best. If he’s caught, the reason for the killing won’t point in your direction.”
“Yes,” Ana said, her sensitive mouth twisting. “In fact, Anastas was in Budapest during the suppression there in 1956. He participated.”
* * * *
The dacha of Leonid Shvernik was in the vicinity of Petrodvorets on the Gulf of Finland, about eighteen miles from Leningrad proper. It would have been called a summer bungalow in the States. On the rustic side. Three bedrooms, a moderately large living-dining room, kitchen, bath, even a car port. Paul Koslov took a mild satisfaction in deciding that an American in Shvernik’s equivalent job could have afforded more of a place than this.
Shvernik was saying, “I hope it never gets to the point where you have to go on the run. If it does, this house is a center of our activities. At any time you can find clothing here, weapons, money, food. Even a small boat on the waterfront. It would be possible, though difficult, to reach Finland.”
“Right,” Paul said. “Let’s hope there’ll never be occasion.”
Inside, they sat around a small table, over the inevitable bottle of vodka and cigarettes, and later coffee.
Shvernik said, “Thus far we’ve rambled around hurriedly on a dozen subjects but now we must become definite.”
Paul nodded.
“You come to us and say you represent the West and that you wish to help overthrow the Soviets. Fine. How do we know you do not actually represent the KGB or possibly the MVD?”
Paul said, “I’ll have to prove otherwise by actions.” He came to his feet and, ignoring Ana, pulled out his shirt tail, unbuttoned the top two buttons of his pants and unbuckled the money belt beneath.
He said, “We have no idea what items you’ll be wanting from us in the way of equipment, but as you said earlier all revolutions need money. So here’s the equivalent of a hundred thousand American dollars—in rubles, of course.” He added apologetically, “The smallness of the amount is due to bulk. Your Soviet money doesn’t come in sufficiently high denominations for a single person to carry really large amounts.”
He tossed the money belt to the table, rearranged his clothing and returned to his chair.
Shvernik said, “A beginning, but I am still of the opinion that we should not introduce you to any other members of the organization until we have more definite proof of your background.”
“That’s reasonable,” Paul agreed. “Now what else?”
Shvernik scowled at him. “You claim you are an American but you speak as good Russian as I do.”
“I was raised in America,” Paul said, “but I never became a citizen because of some minor
technicality while I was a boy. After I reached adulthood and first began working for the government, it was decided that it might be better, due to my type of specialization, that I continue to remain legally not an American.”
“But actually you are Russian?”
“I was born here in Leningrad,” Paul said evenly.
Ana leaned forward, “Why then, actually, you’re a traitor to Russia.”
Paul laughed. “Look who’s talking. A leader of the underground.”
Ana wasn’t amused. “But there is a difference in motivation. I fight to improve my country. You fight for the United States and the West.”
“I can’t see much difference. We’re both trying to overthrow a vicious bureaucracy.” He laughed again. “You hate them as much as I do.”
“I don’t know.” She frowned, trying to find words, dropped English and spoke in Russian. “The Communists made mistakes, horrible mistakes and—especially under Stalin—were vicious beyond belief to achieve what they wanted. But they did achieve it. They built our country into the world’s strongest.”
“If you’re so happy with them, why are you trying to eliminate the Commies? You don’t make much sense.”
She shook her head, as though it was he who made no sense. “They are through now, no longer needed. A hindrance to progress.” She hesitated, then, “When I was a student I remember being so impressed by something written by Nehru that I memorized it. He wrote it while in a British jail in 1935. Listen.” She closed her eyes and quoted:
“Economic interests shape the political views of groups and classes. Neither reason nor moral considerations override these interests. Individuals may be converted, they may surrender their special privileges, although this is rare enough, but classes and groups do not do so. The attempt to convert a governing and privileged class into forsaking power and giving up its unjust privileges has therefore always so far failed, and there seems to be no reason whatever to hold that it will succeed in the future.”
Paul was frowning at her. “What’s your point?”
“My point is that the Communists are in the position Nehru speaks of. They’re in power and won’t let go. The longer they remain in power after their usefulness is over, the more vicious they must become to maintain themselves. Since this is a police state the only way to get them out is through violence. That’s why I find myself in the underground. But I am a patriotic Russian!” She turned to him. “Why do you hate the Soviets so, Mr. Smith?”
The American agent shrugged. “My grandfather was a member of the minor aristocracy. When the Bolsheviks came to power he joined Wrangel’s White Army. When the Crimea fell he was in the rear guard. They shot him.”
“That was your grandfather?” Shvernik said.
“Right. However, my own father was a student at the Petrograd University at that time. Left wing inclined, in fact. I think he belonged to Kerensky’s Social Democrats. At any rate, in spite of his upper class background he made out all right for a time. In fact he became an instructor and our early life wasn’t particularly bad.” Paul cleared his throat. “Until the purges in the 1930s. It was decided that my father was a Bukharinist Right Deviationist, whatever that was. They came and got him one night in 1938 and my family never saw him again.”
Paul disliked the subject. “To cut it short, when the war came along, my mother was killed in the Nazi bombardment of Leningrad. My brother went into the army and became a lieutenant. He was captured by the Germans when they took Kharkov, along with a hundred thousand or so others of the Red Army. When the Soviets, a couple of years later, pushed back into Poland he was recaptured.”
Ana said, “You mean liberated from the Germans?”
“Recaptured, is the better word. The Soviets shot him. It seems that officers of the Red Army aren’t allowed to surrender.”
Ana said painfully, “How did you escape all this?”
“My father must have seen the handwriting on the wall. I was only five years old when he sent me to London to a cousin. A year later we moved to the States. Actually, I have practically no memories of Leningrad, very few of my family. However, I am not very fond of the Soviets.”
“No,” Ana said softly.
Shvernik said, “And what was your father’s name?”
“Theodore Koslov.”
Shvernik said, “I studied French literature under him.”
Ana stiffened in her chair, and her eyes went wide. “Koslov,” she said. “You must be Paul Koslov.”
Paul poured himself another small vodka. “In my field it is a handicap to have a reputation. I didn’t know it had extended to the man in the street on this side of the Iron Curtain.”
* * * *
It was by no means the last trip that Paul Koslov was to make to his underground contacts, nor the last visit to the dacha at Petrodvorets.
In fact, the dacha became the meeting center of the Russian underground with their liaison agent from the West. Through it funneled the problems involved in the logistics of the thing. Spotted through the rest of the vast stretches of the country, Paul had his local agents, American, British, French, West German. But this was the center.
* * * *
The Mikoyan Camera made a great success in the States. And little wonder. Unknown to the Soviets, the advertising campaign that sold it cost several times the income from the sales. All they saw were the continued orders, the repeated visits of Mr. John Smith to Leningrad on buying trips. Leonid Shvernik was even given a promotion on the strength of his so ably cracking the American market. Ana Furtseva was automatically assigned to Paul as interpreter-guide whenever he appeared in the Soviet Union’s second capital.
In fact, when he made his “tourist” jaunts to the Black Sea region, to the Urals, to Turkestan, to Siberia, he was able to have her assigned to the whole trip with him. It gave a tremendous advantage in his work with the other branches of the underground.
Questions, unthought of originally when Paul Koslov had been sent into the U.S.S.R., arose as the movement progressed.
On his third visit to the dacha he said to Shvernik and three others of the organization’s leaders who had gathered for the conference, “Look, my immediate superior wants me to find out who is to be your top man, the chief of state of the new regime when Number One and the present hierarchy have been overthrown.”
Leonid Shvernik looked at him blankly. By this stage, he, as well as Ana, had become more to Paul than just pawns in the game being played. For some reason, having studied under the older Koslov seemed to give a personal touch that had grown.
Nikolai Kirichenko, a higher-up in the Moscow branch of the underground, looked strangely at Paul then at Shvernik. “What have you told him about the nature of our movement?” he demanded.
Paul said, “What’s the matter? All I wanted to know was who was scheduled to be top man.”
Shvernik said, “Actually, I suppose we have had little time to discus the nature of the new society we plan. We’ve been busy working on the overthrow of the Communists. However, I thought …”
Paul was uneasy now. Leonid was right. Actually in his association with both Ana and Leonid Shvernik they had seldom mentioned what was to follow the collapse of the Soviets. It suddenly occurred to him how overwhelmingly important this was.
Nikolai Kirichenko, who spoke no English, said in Russian, “See here, we are not an organization attempting to seize power for ourselves.”
This was a delicate point, Paul sensed. Revolutions are seldom put over in the name of reaction or even conservatism. Whatever the final product, they are invariably presented as being motivated by liberal idealism and progress.
He said, “I am familiar with the dedication of your organization. I have no desire to underestimate your ideals. However, my question is presented with good intentions and remains unanswered. You aren’t anarchists, I know. You expect a responsible government to be in control after the removal of the police state. So I repeat, who is to be your head man?”
> “How would we know?” Kirichenko blurted in irritation. “We’re working toward a democracy. It’s up to the Russian people to elect any officials they may find necessary to govern the country.”
Shvernik said, “However, the very idea of a head man, as you call him, is opposed to what we have in mind. We aren’t looking for a super-leader. We’ve had enough of leaders. Our experience is that it is too easy for them to become misleaders. If the history of this century has proven anything with its Mussolinis, Hitlers, Stalins, Chiangs, and Maos, it is that the search for a leader to take over the problems of a people is a vain one. The job has to be done by the people themselves.”
Paul hadn’t wanted to get involved in the internals of their political ideology. It was dangerous ground. For all he knew, there might be wide differences within the ranks of the revolutionary movement. There almost always were. He couldn’t take sides. His only interest in all this was the overthrow of the Soviets.
He covered. “Your point is well taken, of course. I understand completely. Oh, and here’s one other matter for discussion. These radio transmitters for your underground broadcasts.”
It was a subject in which they were particularly interested. The Russians leaned forward.
“Here’s the problem,” Kirichenko said. “As you know, the Soviet Union consists of fifteen republics. In addition there are seventeen Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republics that coexist within these basic fifteen republics. There are also ten of what we call Autonomous Regions. Largely, each of these political divisions speak different languages and have their own cultural differences.”
Paul said, “Then it will be necessary to have transmitters for each of these areas?”
“Even more. Because some are so large that we will find it necessary to have more than one underground station.”
Leonid Shvernik said worriedly, “And here is another thing. The KGB has the latest in equipment for spotting the location of an illegal station. Can you do anything about this?”
The Mack Reynolds Megapack Page 53
