Day After Tomorrow

IX

Ilya Simonov entered the United States quite openly. He landed at the International Supersonic Airport, built in the ocean ten miles off the coast of New York. He was dressed in mufti and his passport was completely correct, up too and including both photograph and fingerprints, save that he used his second name, Alex, rather than Ilya.

It was a diplomatic passport, which, of course, was immediately noticed by the Immigrations inspector who said, “Welcome to the United States, Mr. Simonov. In what capacity are you assigned to your Embassy?”

“Military attach e,” Ilya Simonov said easily. “I shall clear my position, of course, as soon as I arrive in Greater Washington and complete my accreditation.”

“Of course.” The other stamped the Soviet Complex passport and returned it to its owner. “I hope you enjoy America, sir,” he said politely.

Simonov nodded his thanks. “Certainly. I have been here before, you know.” He didn’t bother to add that the last time he had spent some months in jail as a Russian spy.

He took the regular shuttle jet-helio to Long Island and then a jet plane to Greater Washington, without bothering to go into New York City, a place he loathed. The supersonic planes which crossed the Atlantic were not allowed over the mainland of the United States, the sonic bomb aspects of the craft having never been licked. It seemed a bit complicated, but it still saved time. One flew to England, took a ferry plane or hoverboat out to the supersonic airport anchored half way between England and France off Brighton. There one took the supersonic to the airport anchored off Long Island, and from there the jet-helio to New York, or, if one was going elsewhere than New York, to the airport. In spite of all the switching about, one still saved considerable time over the old transatlantic jet planes.

Ilya was mildly amused and a bit proud of the fact that the supersonic planes were Russian in origin. The United States had never caught up in the race for ultra-speed. But, for that matter, it hadn’t particularly tried.

At the airport of Greater Washington, he hired a hover-car and drove out to the Soviet Complex Embassy to the southwest of town, an area that accommodated most of the larger embassies. There was no difficulty anywhere along the way.

At the embassy entrance he received no more than a quick passing scrutiny on the part of the two American plainclothesmen stationed there. Such was fame, he thought wryly. Here he was, supposedly the most notorious operative of the Chrezvychainija Komissiya, penetrating the capital city of his nation’s most powerful rival as easily as if he had been a tourist. He wondered if it was equally as easy for an American agent of, say, the C.I.A. to penetrate Moscow.

At the reception desk in the large and overly ornate entrada, Ilya Simonov identified himself and asked to see the ambassador as soon as possible. Evidently, the clerk had heard of the famous hatchetman of Minister Blagonravov. He made quick motions with his hands and spoke into a phone screen.

He said, “Just a moment, Comrade Colonel.”

“Of course,” Simonov said patiently.

A nattily dressed embassy official came hurrying out. He introduced himself and said, “We received word of your arrival, Comrade Simonov, on the scrambler. You’ve been assigned an apartment on the third floor. Your bags…?”

“Bag,” Ilya Simonov said. “It’s out in the car.”

“I’ll send a man for it immediately. Would you like me to show you up to your quarters? I assume you’d like to freshen up?”

“I cleaned up in the aircraft,” Simonov said. “I’d like to see the ambassador immediately. I haven’t the slightest idea of how long I’ll be able to be here before my cover is blown, and I wish to get to work.”

“Of course, Comrade Colonel Simonov. Would you come this way? I’ve already notified the ambassador of your arrival.”

Simonov followed him down a hall for a short distance, to a heavy wooden door which the other rapped upon. It opened and Ilya Simonov strode through into the large office. The ambassador was behind a king-sized antique desk which looked as though it had probably been shipped over from Russia and probably went back to Czarist days. He came to his feet on the entrance of the secret police agent and came around the desk to shake hands energetically.

He was, Ilya Simonov had found out, Leonid Mikoyan, son of one of the few Old Bolsheviks who hadn’t been purged by Stalin. Leonid Mikoyan owed his position, which he reputedly was incompetent to hold down, to the fact that being the son of an Old Bolshevik in the Soviet Complex was a status symbol unrivaled. At the age of nine he had become a Young Pioneer, another status symbol in Russia; you were a nobody if, as a child, you had not been a Young Pioneer. At the age of fourteen he became a member of the Young Communist League, attaining more merit in the eyes of the elite. And at the age of twenty-six he was made a full fledged party member. One attains little in the way of position in the Soviet Complex, no matter how competent, unless he is a member of the Party. The Soviet Complex was not free of the worship of status symbols, though her system differed from that of the Americans.

Ilya Simonov was contemptuous of the man.

He shook hands and then looked suggestively at his guide.

Leonid Mikoyan said hurriedly, “Vyacheslav, if you’ll just leave us now…”

The younger man bowed out, closing the door softly behind him.

The ambassador hurriedly saw his caller to a chair. Ilya Simonov was inwardly amused. He realized that the other was somewhat afraid of him.

Undoubtedly, Moscow hadn’t mentioned, in the scrambler message, the purpose of his visit to Greater Washington. Even a scrambler beam could possibly be tapped. Mikoyan didn’t know why he was here and thought it might be something personal. Blagonravov’s top field man wasn’t sent on missions of small import.

To put the man at his ease, Simonov came directly to the point. And drew a blank.

Ambassador Leonid Mikoyan hadn’t the vaguest idea of what he was talking about.

“You do read the American papers and other publications, don’t you?” the operative said testily.

“Yes, yes of course. But I have not heard of this organization of which you speak.” His tone of voice was almost apologetic. Ilya Simonov made a mental note to have the ambassador looked into. He appeared and sounded as though he had something on his mind.

He thought about it for a moment, then said, “How many KGB men do you have assigned here?”

“Three, all military attaches.”

“Have I been assigned an office?”

“Unless I am mistaken, it is part of your suite.”

Ilya Simonov stood. He said, “Would you be so kind as to ask them to report to me there?”

“Of course,” the ambassador said. He seemed relieved to see his awesome caller departing. “Will my wife and I have the pleasure of your company at dinner tonight?”

“I doubt it,” Simonov said. “I’ve got to plow into this immediately. I have old friends here in Greater Washington in the C.I.A. and the F.B.I., among other organizations, and it’s just a matter of time before they stumble on the fact of my presence. I have no doubt but that this embassy is either bugged or that we have American agents on our staff—or both. Some opinion to the contrary, they are not necessarily incompetent.”

The ambassador did his best to hide the fact that his invitation being refused did not completely displease him.

Up in his suite, behind his desk, Ilya Simonov ran his eyes over the three Committee of State Security men. He knew none of them but that didn’t surprise him. He hadn’t operated in the United States for a decade, and there were tens of thousands of KGB men on this level. They knew him, however. Or, at least, they knew of him. And they, like the ambassador, were slightly queasy in his presence.

He didn’t offer them seats.

He told them the same story as he had the ambassador and received in return the same blankness.

He glowered at them. “Do you mean to tell me that you, three trained KGB men, are assigned to this country and don’t even know of subversive organizations here?”

One of them, his name was Mikhail Aristov, if Simonov recalled correctly, said anxiously, “There are a good many organizations in America that are considered subversive, Comrade Colonel. There is, of course, our Communist Party, which is not very strong in the United States, and the Mao Communist Party which is even smaller. There is the Socialist Labor Party, the oldest of the radical parties in this country, going back to before 1900. There are the Socialist Workers Party, who are Trotskests. There is Socialist Reconstruction. There is the Progressive Party. And there is the IWW, the Industrial Workers of the World, a union rather than a political organization. Then there is—”

Simonov held up a hand. “This is not a Marxist group that I am investigating.”

One of the three said, “Then it is a right wing organization? Something like the John Birch Society or the Ku Klux Klan?”

Ilya Simonov shook his head in irritation. “We don’t know. All we know about them is that they are trying to increase the efficiency of the Yankee socioeconomic system. And that, obviously, is not to our interest.”

He took them in and said slowly, “Now here are your instructions. Get out and locate some of these people, however you can. Find out the details of just what it is they want. Find out how they expect to obtain their goals. Find out the names of the top leaders, their theoreticians and so forth. You’ll have to be my legmen. I don’t dare leave the embassy grounds. I might be spotted. We can put off, for a time, undoubtedly, my having to go through the red tape of accreditation, but when this does come up, undoubtedly they will be upon me and refuse my presence in the country.”

After they had left, Ilya Simonov sat there for a long moment. Finally, he looked up a number and dialed it on the phone. The screen didn’t light up, but he had expected that.

A heavy Teutonic voice said, “Ah, Colonel Simonov, I had heard that you were in the country. Rather bold of you, wouldn’t you say?”

Simonov growled, “Don’t try to impress me with your efficiency, Herr Distelmayer. You know very well that you didn’t know I was here in America.”

The German chuckled without humor. “You entered by supersonic from England. You have a diplomatic passport under the name Alex, rather than Ilya. You are supposedly a new military attache for your embassy.”

Ilya Simonov didn’t like it. If Distelmayer’s organization had already cracked his cover, there was no reason why the Americans couldn’t as well, and he needed time.

He said, “And why am I really here?”

For once, the German spy master’s voice was puzzled. “That I don’t know, my friend. Tell me, why?”

Ilya Simonov said, obviously reluctantly, “Ordinarily, we don’t like to use your services, Hans Distelmayer, but on this occasion I am afraid time might be of the essence, and you have a large organization.”

“Yours to command,” the other said jovially.

Ilya Simonov told him the purpose of his visit, mentioning the fact that neither the ambassador nor his three KGB men had ever heard of the organization in which Minister Blagonravov was interested.

“Where did Blagonravov hear about it?” the German spy master said interestedly.

“I don’t know. The Minister has a good many irons in the fire.”

When Simonov had finished the German held silence for a moment, then said, “Interesting situation. That is, your government’s involvement. Very well, I shall have a report for you shortly. If you have been apprehended by then, or have flown the country by that time, where shall I send it?”

“Directly to the Ministry in Moscow.”

“Very well. And payment, Colonel?”

“The usual. In gold, from Moscow, to your offices in Basel, Switzerland, immediately upon the receipt of your bill. But speed is important, Distelmayer.”

“It usually is,” the other chuckled.