Short Fiction by Mack Reynolds (ready to read books .TXT) 📕

“Because,” the Chief said, knocking the ash from his pipe and replacing it in the rack, “there was and is a very strong underground in all the Communist countries. Not only Yugoslavia, but the Soviet Union as well.”

Paul stirred impatiently. “Once again, what’s all this got to do with me?”

“They’re the ones you’re going to work with. The anti-Soviet underground. You’ve got unlimited leeway. Unlimited support to the extent we can get it to you. Unlimited funds for whatever you find you need them for. Your job is to help the underground start a new Russian Revolution.”

Paul Koslov, his face still bandaged following plastic surgery, spent a couple of hours in the Rube Goldberg department inspecting the latest gadgets of his trade.

Derek Stevens said, “The Chief sent down a memo to introduce you to this new item. We call it a Tracy.”

Paul frowned at the wristwatch, fingered it a moment, held it to his ear. It ticked and the second hand moved. “Tracy?” he said.

Stevens said, “After Dick Tracy. Remember, a few years ago? His wrist two-way radio.”

“But this is really a watch,” Paul said.

“Sure. Keeps fairly good time, too. However, that’s camouflage. It’s also a two-way radio. Tight beam from wherever you are to the Chief.”

Paul pursed his lips. “The transistor boys are really doing it up brown.” He handed the watch back to Derek Stevens. “Show me how it works, Derek.”

They spent fifteen minutes on the communications device, then Derek Stevens said, “Here’s another item the Chief thought you might want to see:”

It was a compact, short-muzzled hand gun. Paul handled it with the ease of long practice. “The grip’s clumsy. What’s its advantage? I don’t particularly like an automatic.”

Derek Stevens motioned with his head. “Come into the firing range, Koslov, and we’ll give you a demonstration.”

Paul shot him a glance from the side of his eyes, then nodded. “Lead on.”

In the range, Stevens had a man-size silhouette put up. He stood to one side and said, “OK, let her go.”

Paul stood easily, left hand in pants pocket, brought the gun up and tightened on the trigger. He frowned and pressed again.

He scowled at Derek Stevens. “It’s not loaded.”

Stevens grunted amusement. “Look at the target. First time you got it right over the heart.”

“I’ll be⁠ ⁠… ,” Paul began. He looked down at the weapon in surprise. “Noiseless and recoilless. What caliber is it, Derek, and what’s the muzzle velocity?”

“We call it the .38 Noiseless,” Stevens said. “It has the punch of that .44 Magnum you’re presently carrying.”

With a fluid motion Paul Koslov produced the .44 Magnum from the holster under his left shoulder and tossed it to one side. “That’s the last time I tote that cannon,” he said. He balanced the new gun in his hand in admiration. “Have the front sight taken off for me, Derek, and the fore part of the trigger guard. I need a quick draw gun.” He added absently, “How did you know I carried a .44?”

Stevens said, “You’re rather famous, Koslov. The Colonel Lawrence of the Cold War. The journalists are kept from getting very much about you, but what they do learn they spread around.”

Paul Koslov said flatly, “Why don’t you like me, Stevens? In this game I don’t appreciate people on our team who don’t like me. It’s dangerous.”

Derek Stevens flushed. “I didn’t say I didn’t like you.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“It’s nothing personal,” Stevens said.

Paul Koslov looked at him.

Stevens said, “I don’t approve of Americans committing political assassinations.”

Paul Koslov grinned wolfishly and without humor. “You’ll have a hard time proving that even our cloak and dagger department has ever authorized assassination, Stevens. By the way, I’m not an American.”

Derek Stevens was not the type of man whose jaw dropped, but he blinked. “Then what are you?”

“A Russian,” Paul snapped. “And look, Stevens, we’re busy now, but when you’ve got some time to do a little thinking, consider the ethics of warfare.”

Stevens was flushed again at the tone. “Ethics of warfare?”

“There aren’t any,” Paul Koslov snapped. “There hasn’t been chivalry in war for a long time, and there probably never will be again. Neither side can afford it. And I’m talking about cold war as well as hot.” He scowled at the other. “Or did you labor under the illusion that only the Commies had tough operators on their side?”

Paul Koslov crossed the Atlantic in a supersonic T.U.−180 operated by Europa Airways. That in itself galled him. It was bad enough that the Commies had stolen a march on the West with the first jet liner to go into mass production, the T.U.−104 back in 1957. By the time the United States brought out its first really practical transatlantic jets in 1959 the Russians had come up with the T.U.−114 which its designer, old Andrei Tupolev named the largest, most efficient and economical aircraft flying.

In civil aircraft they had got ahead and stayed ahead. Subsidized beyond anything the West could or at least would manage, the airlines of the world couldn’t afford to operate the slower, smaller and more expensive Western models. One by one, first the neutrals such as India, and then even members of the Western bloc began equipping their airlines with Russian craft.

Paul grunted his disgust at the memory of the strong measures that had to be taken by the government to prevent even some of the American lines from buying Soviet craft at the unbelievably low prices they offered them.

In London he presented a card on which he had added a numbered code in pencil. Handed it over a desk to the British intelligence major.

“I believe I’m expected,” Paul said.

The major looked at him, then down at the card. “Just a moment, Mr. Smith. I’ll see if his lordship is available. Won’t you take a chair?” He left the room.

Paul Koslov strolled over to the window and looked out on the moving lines of pedestrians below. He had first been in London some thirty years ago. So far as he could remember, there were