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

Of course it could be arranged. The guide went into five minutes of oratory on the desire of the Soviet Union to trade with the West, and thus spread everlasting peace.

An interview was arranged for Mr. Smith with Mr. Shvernik for that afternoon.

Mr. Smith met Mr. Shvernik in the latter’s office at two and they went through the usual amenities. Mr. Shvernik spoke excellent English so Mr. Smith was able to dismiss his interpreter-guide for the afternoon. When he was gone and they were alone Mr. Shvernik went into his sales talk.

“I can assure you, sir, that not since the Japanese startled the world with their new cameras shortly after the Second War, has any such revolution in design and quality taken place. The Mikoyan is not only the best camera produced anywhere, but since our plant is fully automated, we can sell it for a fraction the cost of German, Japanese or American⁠—”

Paul Koslov came to his feet, walked quietly over to one of the pictures hanging on the wall, lifted it, pointed underneath and raised his eyebrows at the other.

Leonid Shvernik leaned back in his chair, shocked.

Paul remained there until at last the other shook his head.

Paul said, in English, “Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes.” Shvernik said. “There are no microphones in here. I absolutely know. Who are you?”

Paul said, “In the movement they call you Georgi, and you’re top man in the Leningrad area.”

Shvernik’s hand came up from under the desk and he pointed a heavy military revolver at his visitor. “Who are you?” he repeated.

Paul ignored the gun. “Someone who knows that you are Georgi,” he said. “I’m from America. Is there any chance of anybody intruding?”

“Yes, one of my colleagues. Or perhaps a secretary.”

“Then I suggest we go to a bar, or some place, for a drink or a cup of coffee or whatever the current Russian equivalent might be.”

Shvernik looked at him searchingly. “Yes,” he said finally. “There’s a place down the street.” He began to stick the gun in his waistband, changed his mind and put it back into the desk drawer.

As soon as they were on the open street and out of earshot of other pedestrians, Paul said, “Would you rather I spoke Russian? I have the feeling that we’d draw less attention than if we speak English.”

Shvernik said tightly, “Do the Intourist people know you speak Russian? If not, stick to English. Now, how do you know my name? I have no contacts with the Americans.”

“I got it through my West German contacts.”

The Russian’s face registered unsuppressed fury. “Do they ignore the simplest of precautions! Do they reveal me to every source that asks?”

Paul said mildly, “Herr Ludwig is currently under my direction. Your secret is as safe as it has ever been.”

The underground leader remained silent for a long moment. “You’re an American, eh, and Ludwig told you about me? What do you want now?”

“To help,” Paul Koslov said.

“How do you mean, to help? How can you help? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Help in any way you want. Money, printing presses, mimeograph machines, radio transmitters, weapons, manpower in limited amounts, know-how, training, anything you need to help overthrow the Soviet government.”

They had reached the restaurant. Leonid Shvernik became the Russian export official. He ushered his customer to a secluded table. Saw him comfortably into his chair.

“Do you actually know anything about cameras?” he asked.

“Yes,” Paul said, “we’re thorough. I can buy cameras from you and they’ll be marketed in the States.”

“Good.” The waiter was approaching. Shvernik said, “Have you ever eaten caviar Russian style?”

“I don’t believe so,” Paul said. “I’m not very hungry.”

“Nothing to do with hunger.” Shvernik said. From the waiter he ordered raisin bread, sweet butter, caviar and a carafe of vodka.

The waiter went off for it and Shvernik said, “To what extent are you willing to help us? Money, for instance. What kind of money, rubles, dollars? And how much? A revolutionary movement can always use money.”

“Any kind,” Paul said flatly, “and any amount.”

Shvernik was impressed. He said eagerly, “Any amount within reason, eh?”

Paul looked into his face and said flatly, “Any amount, period. It doesn’t have to be particularly reasonable. Our only qualification would be a guarantee it is going into the attempt to overthrow the Soviets⁠—not into private pockets.”

The waiter was approaching. Shvernik drew some brochures from his pocket, spread them before Paul Koslov and began to point out with a fountain pen various features of the Mikoyan camera.

The waiter put the order on the table and stood by for a moment for further orders.

Shvernik said, “First you take a sizable portion of vodka, like this.” He poured them two jolts. “And drink it down, ah, bottoms up, you Americans say. Then you spread butter on a small slice of raisin bread, and cover it with a liberal portion of caviar. Good? Then you eat your little sandwich and drink another glass of vodka. Then you start all over again.”

“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