[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction June 1963.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Here's what happens when two Master
Spies tangle ... and stay that way!
"Nothing, nothing to get upset about," Pashkov said soothingly, taking
his friend's arm as they came out of the villa forty miles from Moscow.
Pashkov looked like a roly-poly zoo attendant leading a tame bear.
"Erase his memory, give him a new name and feed him more patriotism.
Very simple."
Medvedev raised his hand threateningly. "Don't come howling to me if
everybody guesses he is nothing but a robot."
Pashkov glanced back at the house. Since the publication of _Dentist
Amigovitch_, this house had become known all over the world as Boris
Knackenpast's villa. Now the house was guarded by a company of
soldiers to keep visitors out. From an open window Pashkov heard the
clicking of a typewriter.
"It's when they're not like robots that everybody suspects them," he
said, climbing into his flier. "Petchareff will send you word when to
announce his 'death'."
"A question, brother."
"No questions."
"Who smuggled the manuscript out of Russia?"
Pashkov frowned convincingly. "Comrade Petchareff has suspected even
me."
He took off for Moscow, poking his flier up through the clouds and
flying close to them, as was his habit. Then he switched on the radio
and got Petchareff's secretary. "Nadezhda?"
"I know what you're up to, Seven One Three," Nadezhda Brunhildova said.
"Don't try to fool _me_, you confidence man. You are coming in?"
"In ten minutes. What have I done now?"
"You were supposed to make funeral arrangements for Knackenpast, so
what are you doing in Stockholm?"
"Stockholm?"
"You're lying and I'll kill you. Don't you think I know about Anastina,
that she-nurse in the Stockholm National Hospital?"
"Darling, why so cruel? Anastina is one of our contacts. Besides, she's
cross-eyed and buck-toothed."
"Beast!" She switched him to Petchareff.
"What's been keeping you, Pashkov?"
"Consoling Medvedev. Am I supposed to be in Stockholm?"
"Never mind, get here at once. What size hospital gown do you wear?"
"Hospital gown?"
"Stockholm embassy says you're in the National Hospital there. In a
hospital gown. I got through to Anastina. She says it's Colonel James
again. He looks like you now."
Pashkov grunted.
"I'll never understand," said Petchareff, "why all top secret agents
have to look like bankers. Anastina says Colonel James was operated on
by a Monsieur Fanti. What do you know about him?"
"He's a theatrical surgeon."
"You're not playing one of your jokes, Pashkov?"
"Hardly."
"You'd better be in my office in ten minutes. What size hospital gown?"
"Short and fat," Pashkov said, and switched off.
Most countries wanted to break his neck, and his own Motherland did not
always trust him. But he enjoyed his work--enjoyed it as much as his
closest professional rival, Colonel James, U.S.A.
* * * * *
Pashkov landed on the roof of Intelligence in the northeast corner of
the Kremlin, hitched up his pants and rode down.
In his office, Petchareff removed the cigar from his mouth as Pashkov
came in. "Medvedev get my orders?"
"He's preparing a new super-patriotic writer to replace Boris
Knackenpast," Pashkov reported. "When you give the word, he will call
_Izvestia_ and tell them Boris is dead."
Petchareff glanced at his calendar. "We have two other state funerals
this week. You made it plain, I hope, we want no repetition of
Knackenpast's peace nonsense?"
"No more Gandhi or Schweitzer influences. The new literature," Pashkov
promised, raising a chubby finger, "will be a pearl necklace of
government slogans."
Nadezhda buzzed the intercom. "The man from the Bolshoi Theater is
here, Comrade."
"Send him in."
A small man hurried into the room. He had a narrow face and the
mustache of a mouse and a mousy nose, but his eyes were big rabbit
eyes. He bowed twice quickly, placed a package on the desk with
trembling forepaws and bowed twice again.
Petchareff tore open the package. "You got the real thing? No bad
imitation?"
"Exactly, exactly," the mouse piped. "No difference, Comrade." He held
his paws as in prayer and his pointed mouth quivered.
Petchareff held up the hospital gown. On the back of the gown was
printed in indelible ink:
stockholm national hospital
courtesy of
Coca-Cola
Petchareff tossed the gown to Pashkov. "This is what Colonel James is
wearing," he said, dismissing the mouse, who bowed twice and scurried
out.
"Try and split the allies," Pashkov muttered, reading the legend on the
gown.
Petchareff blew cigar smoke in his face. "If Colonel James makes a
monkey of you once more, you're through, Pashkov. You don't take your
job seriously enough. You bungle this and I'll have you transferred to
our Cultural Information Center in Chicago."
Pashkov winced.
"Now, you'll go to Stockholm and switch places with the American
colonel and find out what they're up to. Zubov's kidnaping team is
there already, at Hotel Reisen. Any questions?"
"I thought Zubov was a zoological warfare expert. What is he doing with
a kidnaping team?"
"His team is more agile. On your way."
In the front office, Pashkov stopped to kiss Nadezhda Brunhildova
goodby. "I may not return from this dangerous mission. Give me a tender
kiss."
Nadezhda was a big girl with hefty arms, captain of her local broom
brigade. "Monster!" She seized him by the collar. "Is Anastina
dangerous?"
"Darling!"
"Bitter sweetness!" she howled, dropping him. "Go, love. Make me
miserable."
* * * * *
Pashkov spent an hour at Central Intelligence. Nothing unusual going on
in Stockholm: an industrial exhibit, the Swedish Academy in session,
a sociology seminar on prison reform, a forty-man trade mission from
India.
An addendum to the Stockholm file listed two Cuban agents operating
from Fralsningsarmen's Economy Lodgings. They were buying small arms
and ammunition. He thought a moment, impressed the Cubans' address on
his memory, and went to his flier.
He did not fly to Hotel Reisen at once. Zubov's kidnaping team could
wait. Coming slowly over Stockholm he spotted the National Hospital and
circled.
A line of ambulance fliers was parked on the ground in the ambulance
court. On the hospital roof, he noticed, apart from private fliers,
stood a flier that resembled his own.
He veered away, detoured around Riddarholmen, and five minutes later
landed on the roof of Fralsningsarmen's Economy Lodgings--the Salvation
Army flophouse.
"My Cuban friends," Pashkov inquired in fluent English at the desk on
the top floor. "Are they in?"
The old desk clerk looked like a stork. "Yu, room six fifteen," he
clacked. "Tree floors down. Aer yu Amerikan?"
"Brazil."
"Ah so? You sprikker goot Inglish laik me."
"Very kind of you."
He rode down three floors, found room 615, and stopped as he heard
voices within.
"... _dos, tres, cuatro, cinco, seis, siete_. By seven o'clock tonight,
okay, Gringo?"
"What do you expect for seven thousand bucks--service? Look, boys, I'm
just a honest businessman. I can't get it for you today. Have a seegar,
Pablo."
"Tfu!"
"All rightie, your cause is my cause. Maybe I can get it for you
tonight. But you'll have to pay in advance. What do you say, Francisco?"
"I counted the money. It is waiting for you. You deliver, we pay."
"But how can I trust you? I like you boys, I know you like me, but
business is business. I gotta give something to my jobber, don't I?"
"Gringo!"
At that moment Pashkov knocked on the door.