"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 TU-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 TU-104 back in 1957. By the time the United
States brought out its first really practical trans-Atlantic jets in
1959 the Russians had come up with the TU-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 air lines 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 air lines 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 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 re-entered 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 co-operating with the Russian underground.
Co-operating 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."