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

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