Paul looked at him, said nothing.
Lord Carrol said impatiently, "What you ask is impossible. Our
operatives all have their own assignments, their own work. Why do you
need them?"
"This is the biggest job ever, overthrowing the Soviet State. We need as
many men as we can get on our team. Possibly I won't have to use them
but, if I do, I want them available."
The Britisher rapped, "You keep mentioning _our team_ but according to
the dossier we carry on you, Mr. Koslov, you are neither British nor
even a Yankee. And you ask me to turn over our complete Soviet
machinery."
Paul came to his feet and leaned over the desk, there was a paleness
immediately beneath his ears and along his jaw line. "Listen," he said
tightly, "if I'm not on this team, there just is no team. Just a
pretense of one. When there's a real team there has to be a certain
spirit. A team spirit. I don't care if you're playing cricket, football
or international cold war. If there's one thing that's important to me,
that I've based my whole life upon, it's this, understand? _I've_ got
team spirit. Perhaps no one else in the whole West has it, but _I_ do."
Inwardly, Lord Carrol was boiling. He snapped, "You're neither British
nor American. In other words, you are a mercenary. How do we know that
the Russians won't offer you double or triple what the Yankees pay for
your services?"
Paul sat down again and looked at his watch. "My time is limited," he
said. "I have to leave for Paris this afternoon and be in Bonn tomorrow.
I don't care what opinions you might have in regard to my mercenary
motives, Lord Carrol. I've just come from Downing Street. I suggest you
make a phone call there. At the request of Washington, your government
has given me carte blanche in this matter."
* * * * *
Paul flew into Moscow in an Aeroflot jet, landing at Vnukovo airport on
the outskirts of the city. He entered as an American businessman, a
camera importer who was also interested in doing a bit of tourist
sightseeing. He was traveling deluxe category which entitled him to a
Zil complete with chauffeur and an interpreter-guide when he had need of
one. He was quartered in the Ukrayna, on Dorogomilovskaya Quai, a
twenty-eight floor skyscraper with a thousand rooms.
It was Paul's first visit to Moscow but he wasn't particularly thrown
off. He kept up with developments and was aware of the fact that as
early as the late 1950s, the Russians had begun to lick the problems of
ample food, clothing and finally shelter. Even those products once
considered sheer luxuries were now in abundant supply. If material
things alone had been all that counted, the Soviet man in the street
wasn't doing so badly.
He spent the first several days getting the feel of the city and also
making his preliminary business calls. He was interested in a new
"automated" camera currently being touted by the Russians as the world's
best. Fastest lens, foolproof operation, guaranteed for the life of the
owner, and retailing for exactly twenty-five dollars.
He was told, as expected, that the factory and distribution point was in
Leningrad and given instructions and letters of introduction.
On the fifth day he took the Red Arrow Express to Leningrad and
established himself at the Astoria Hotel, 39 Hertzen Street. It was one
of the many of the Intourist hotels going back to before the revolution.
He spent the next day allowing his guide to show him the standard
tourist sights. The Winter Palace, where the Bolshevik revolution was
won when the mutinied cruiser _Aurora_ steamed up the river and shelled
it. The Hermitage Museum, rivaled only by the Vatican and Louvre. The
Alexandrovskaya Column, the world's tallest monolithic stone monument.
The modest personal palace of Peter the Great. The Peter and Paul
Cathedral. The king-size Kirov Stadium. The Leningrad subway, as much a
museum as a system of transportation.
He saw it all, tourist fashion, and wondered inwardly what the Intourist
guide would have thought had he known that this was Mr. John Smith's
home town.
The day following, he turned his business problem over to the guide. He
wanted to meet, let's see now, oh yes, here it is, Leonid Shvernik, of
the Mikoyan Camera works. Could it be arranged?
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.