“Not unless somebody paid you enough to make it worth while,” Larry said.
“Exactly,” the espionage chief said.
“See here,” Larry said. “Send your bill to this department, Hans. I’ve been given carte blanche on this matter and I want to talk to Ilya Simonov. Now, where is he?”
The German chuckled heavily. “He is at the Soviet Embassy, my friend Larry.”
“What! You mean they’ve got the gall to house their top spy right in—”
Distelmayer interrupted him. “Friend Simonov is currently accredited as a military attache and quite correctly. He holds the rank of colonel, as you know. He entered this country quite openly and legally, the only precaution taken was to use his second name, rather than Ilya, on his papers. It would seem that your people passed him by without a second look. Ah, I understand, though I am not sure, that he went to the trouble of making some minor changes in his facial appearance. After all, he received quite a bit of journalistic coverage in that affair of his with your F.B.I, about a decade ago. I assume he didn’t want to be too easily identified.”
“We’ll expect your bill, Hans,” Larry said. “Goodbye.”
“Good-bye, friend Larry,” Distelmayer chuckled.
Larry Woolford got up and reached for his hat, saying to Irene Day, “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.” He added, wryly, “If either Foster or the Boss try to get in touch with me—which seems unlikely—tell them that I’m carrying out orders.”
XVII
He drove over to the Soviet Embassy, inwardly snarling and sneering at the traffic about him, and parked his car directly before the building.
The American plainclothesmen stationed near the entrance, gave him a cool, thorough once-over as he began to pass.
He said, from the side of his mouth, to the larger of the two, “Fuck you.”
The other looked at him aggressively. “You want to be picked up, Buster? Let’s see your identification?”
Larry Woolford grunted and brought forth his wallet and flashed his buzzer.
The plainclothesman, he was probably F.B.I., Larry figured, said quickly, “Sorry, sir.”
Larry was feeling nasty. He snapped, “What’s your name? Who’s your immediate boss?”
“Roy Smith, sir. My superior is Gene Watergate.”
“I’lll mention your manners the next time Gene and I have a few quick ones,” Larry said coldly.
He passed on by, feeling slightly like the ass he should feel. On the other hand, the lower echelon F.B.I. man should have known by Larry’s clothes, his manner of carrying himself, that he was of higher status. Larry Woolford didn’t appreciate being addressed as Buster.
The two impassive Russian guards within the gates, armed with submachine guns slung over their shoulders, didn’t bother to flicker an eyelid. This, as an Embassy, was Russia territory. There was no reason why they shouldn’t be armed, though there was no other embassy in Greater Washington where the gate guards were openly armed.
At the reception desk in the immense entrada, he brought forth his wallet and introduced himself. “I am Lawrence Woolford. I carry the official rank of major in American Security. As you probably know, we deal with subversion and with espionage and counter-espionage. I would like to interview Colonel Ilya Simonov.”
“I am afraid—” the clerk began stiffly.
“I suppose you have him on the records under a different name,” Larry said. “Nevertheless, I demand to see him.”
The clerk had evidently touched a concealed button. A door opened and a junior embassy official approached them. He didn’t look particularly pleased at Larry’s presence.
Larry restated his desire. The newcomer began to open his mouth in denial.
Larry simply eyed him.
The other was a stocky, square-faced Ukrainian type, in an out of style, double-breasted serge suit. He finally shrugged and said, “Just a moment, please,” and left the room by the same door he had entered.
He was gone a full twenty minutes. Larry Woolford patiently found a chair, brought forth his pipe and loaded it. The damn thing still wasn’t really broken in, and burnt his tongue. But at least it gave him something to do besides stare at the clerk who had returned to his paper work.
The junior official returned and said briefly. “This way, if you please.”
Larry followed him upstairs to what would seem an area of the extensive building devoted to living quarters. However, the room he was taken to was an office, moderately-sized.
Ilya Simonov was there, seated behind a desk. He was in the full uniform of a colonel. He came to his feet on Larry’s entrance and picked up a swagger stick which had been lying on the desk surface.
He came around the desk, saying to the young embassy officer, “That will be all, Vovo.”
Vovo left, closing the door behind him.
Ilya Simonov shook hands with Larry. “It’s been a long time,” he said in perfect English. “Let me see, that conference in Warsaw, wasn’t it? Have a chair, Mr. Woolford. I am sure you didn’t come to discuss old times, although there have been some interesting ones in which we both participated.”
Larry took the offered chair and ignored the other pleasantries, knowing full well they were left-handed. He said, “How in the world did you expect to get by with this nonsense, Simonov? We’ll have you declared persona non grata in a matter of hours.”
“It is not important,” the Russian said, returning to his swivel chair behind the desk, slapping his swagger stick against the side of his leg as he went. “I have found what I came to find out. I was about to return to report to my ministry in any event.”
“We won’t do anything to hinder you, Colonel,” Larry Woolford said dryly.
Ilya Simonov tapped his swagger stick on the desk top several times and said, “In actuality, it is all very amusing. In our country we would deal quickly with this Movement nonsense. You Americans with your pseudo-democracy, your labels without reality, your—”
Larry said wearily, “Please, Simonov, I promise not to try to convert you, if you’ll promise not to try and convert me. Needless to say, my department isn’t happy about your presence in this country. You’ll be watched from now on. We’ve been busy with other matters…” Here the Russian laughed.
“… or we’d already have flushed you.” He allowed his voice to go curious. “We’ve wondered about your interest in this phase of our internal affairs.”
The Russian agent let his facade slip a bit, his iron mouth almost sneering. He said, “We are interested in all phases of your antiquated socioeconomic system, Mr. Woolford. In the present peaceful economic competition between East and West, we would simply loath to see anything happen to your present culture.” He hesitated deliberately, before adding, “That is, of course, if you can call it a culture.”
Larry said, unprovoked, “If I understand you correctly, you are not in favor of the changes the Movement advocates.”
The Russian shrugged his military-straight shoulders. “I doubt if they are possible of achievement, even if we did wish to see such changes. The organization is a sloppy one. Revolutionary? Nonsense,” he grunted that last. “They have no plans to change the government. No plans for overthrowing the present regime. Ultimately, what this country really needs is true Communism. This so-called Movement doesn’t have that as its eventual goal. It is laughable.”
Larry said, interestedly, “Then perhaps you’ll tell me what little you’ve found out about the group. I’d be interested in your viewpoint, as opposed to my own.”