His chief rumbled thoughtfully, "Time isn't of essence. You can take a
quick course at the Moskvich plant. A week or two would give you all the
background you need."
Ilya laughed easily. "I seem to have missed something. Have my
shortcomings caught up with me? Am I to be demoted to automobile
mechanic?"
Kliment Blagonravov became definite. "You are being given the most
important assignment of your career, Ilya. This rot, this ever growing
ferment against the Party, must be cut out, liquidated. It seems to fester
worse among the middle echelons of ... what did that Yugoslavian Djilas
call us?... the _New Class_. Why? That's what we must know."
He sat farther back in his chair and his heavy lips made a _mout_. "Why,
Ilya?" he repeated. "After more than half a century the Party has attained
all its goals. Lenin's millennium is here; the end for which Stalin purged
ten millions and more, is reached; the sacrifices demanded by Khrushchev
in the Seven-Year Plans have finally paid off, as the Yankees say. Our
gross national product, our per capita production, our standard of living,
is the highest in the world. Sacrifices are no longer necessary."
There had been an almost whining note in his voice. But now he broke it
off. He poured them still another drink. "At any rate, Ilya, I was with
Frol Zverev this morning. Number One is incensed. It seems that in the
Azerbaijan Republic, for one example, that even the Komsomols were
circulating among themselves various proscribed books and pamphlets.
Comrade Zverev instructed me to concentrate on discovering the reason for
this disease."
Colonel Simonov scowled. "What's this got to do with Czechoslovakia--and
automobiles?"
The security head waggled a fat finger at him. "What we've been doing,
thus far, is dashing forth upon hearing of a new conflagration and
stamping it out. Obviously, that's no answer. We must find who is behind
it. How it begins. Why it begins. That's your job?"
"Why Czechoslovakia?"
"You're unknown as a security agent there, for one thing. You will go to
Prague and become manager of the Moskvich automobile distribution agency.
No one, not even the Czech unit of our ministry will be aware of your
identity. You will play it by ear, as the Americans say."
"To whom do I report?"
"Only to me, until the task is completed. When it is, you will return to
Moscow and report fully." A grimace twisted Blagonravov's face. "If I am
still here. Number One is truly incensed, Ilya."
* * * * *
There had been some more. Kliment Blagonravov had evidently chosen Prague,
the capital of Czechoslovakia, as the seat of operations in a suspicion
that the wave of unrest spreading insidiously throughout the Soviet
Complex owed its origins to the West. Thus far, there had been no evidence
of this but the suspicion refused to die. If not the West, then who? The
Cold War was long over but the battle for men's minds continued even in
peace.
Ideally, Ilya Simonov was to infiltrate whatever Czech groups might be
active in the illicit movement and then, if he discovered there was a
higher organization, a center of the movement, he was to attempt to become
a part of it. If possible he was to rise in the organisation to as high a
point as he could.
Blagonravov, Minister of the _Chrezvychainaya Komissiya_, the
Extraordinary Commission for Combating Counter-Revolution and Sabotage,
was of the opinion that if this virus of revolt was originating from the
West, then it would be stronger in the satellite countries than in Russia
itself. Simonov held no opinion as yet. He would wait and see. However,
there was an uncomfortable feeling about the whole assignment. The group
in Magnitogorsk, he was all but sure, had no connections with Western
agents, nor anyone else, for that matter. Of course, it might have been an
exception.
He left the Ministry, his face thoughtful as he climbed into his waiting
Zil. This assignment was going to be a lengthy one. He'd have to wind up
various affairs here in Moscow, personal as well as business. He might be
away for a year or more.
There was a sheet of paper on the seat of his aircushion car. He frowned
at it. It couldn't have been there before. He picked it up.
It was a mimeographed throw-away.
It was entitled, _FREEDOM_, and it began: _Comrades, more than a hundred
years ago the founders of scientific socialism, Karl Marx and Frederick
Engels, explained that the State was incompatible with liberty, that the
State was an instrument of repression of one class by another. They
explained that for true freedom ever to exist the State must wither away._
_Under the leadership of Lenin, Stalin, Krushchev and now Zverev, the
State has become ever stronger. Far from withering away, it continues to
oppress us. Fellow Russians, it is time we take action! We must...._
Colonel Simonov bounced from his car again, shot his eyes up and down the
street. He barely refrained from drawing the 9 mm automatic which nestled
under his left shoulder and which he knew how to use so well.
He curtly beckoned to the plainclothes man, still idling against the
building a hundred feet or so up the street. The other approached him,
touched the brim of his hat in a half salute.