Kronk

CHAPTER SIX

The brothers Karamazov, being identical twins, were unique in the spy business. Nobody knew they were identical twins. Nobody, in fact, knew that there was more than one Karamazov. Being economical though at the same time liking the good things in life, they shared a single room at the Dorchester Hotel during their London jaunt.

The room had been taken in the name of Peter Ilyich Karamazov. Sometimes letters arrived for Mr. Peter Karamazov as well as Mr. Ilyich Karamazov; but since the Dorchester knew of only one Karamazov, all such mail found its way into pigeon-hole 504 and thus, eventually, to room 504. The settee was quite as comfortable as the bed; but, democratically, the brothers took turns.

Their uniqueness in the field of intelligence had been assured some thirty years before when their father, Alexander, and their mother, Tanya, had divorced in Paris. Alexander went to the U.S.A. with Peter and Tanya went to the U.S.S.R. with Ilyich.

Both father and mother, who had been small-time agents — chiefly unsuccessful — and who had lived dangerously less because of counter-intelligence activities than because of malnutrition, worked hard at the Master Plan.

The Master Plan had been Alexander’s — generated, no doubt, by the frequent application of cheap brandy to an empty stomach. If young Peter and young Ilyich could be groomed for future subversive stardom in, respectively, Washington and Moscow, the old age of their parents would be exceedingly bright.

Oddly, the plan worked up to a point. Peter, as a Russian-speaking, naturalized American with a good grasp of politics, was recruited by a blank-faced anonymous employee of the Committee for International Understanding almost before he had forged the seal and signature on his Master’s Degree in Creative Brainwashing. Ilyich, as an American-speaking Russian, a member of the Karl Marx Mental Health League and a young man who had demonstrated outstanding loyalty by denouncing the political instability of his mother, was accepted for training by the Socialists for Inspirational Undertakings.

Although Ilyich had arranged for mother to be phased out in Siberia while Peter financed father on a crash-course in degenerative alcoholism in New York, the Master Plan proceeded with only slight modification.

Eventually, Cominunder was overjoyed to have it proved beyond doubt that agent Peter Karamazov had actually penetrated Russian intelligence at a high level. Socinunder was similarly filled with ecstasy to have a star operative demonstrate that he had access to the very fastnesses of Cominunder. In practice, Peter and Ilyich had simply rendezvoused in Geneva for a pleasant fortnight’s holiday concluded only by a sordid half-hour of business. Peter had swapped the British irreversible brain-damage project for the French death-rain project contributed by Ilyich. Together, they then opened a Swiss numbered account into which they deposited half their respective bonuses.

From this modest beginning, they worked up to heights of artistic brilliance. It was their aim to amass ten million new Swiss Francs in ten years and then retire. Peter’s ultimate ambition was to buy a small Pacific island and found a nudist free-love colony based on communal parenthood and the renunciation of personal possessions. Ilyich simply wanted to be the first Russian Governor of California. In order to make both projects possible they needed only to acquire ten million new Swiss Francs and then to change names.

At the present point in history, they had less than three years and four million Francs to go.

Until now they had had perfect trust in each other and had worked in perfect harmony. Indeed, on occasion, each had helped the other out. Was it not Ilyich who had saved the U.S. President from assassination in Morocco when Peter had been grounded by dysentery? And was it not Peter who had smuggled the Soviet Ambassador out of Washington when he had flipped his lid and tried to defect?

But now, there was just the merest germ of suspicion and resentment between them -

brought about, somewhat inadvertently, by the late Professor Eustace Greylaw.

It had been Ilyich who had suggested the holiday in England. No serious business this time, unless you could count the exchange of the Israeli anti-robot system for the United Arab Republic’s robot guerilla. The brothers would simply relax, take in a few shows and diversions and talk of old times.

Unfortunately, one sunny afternoon, shortly after the retirement of Professor Greylaw, Ilyich was strolling in St. James’s Park when he met Dr. Slink of MicroWar. She was sitting on a bench, crying. She was also under the illusion that Ilyich was Peter, who had semiseduced her in a sort of spiritual fashion some months previously for the MicroWar budget estimates.

She was crying because Dr. Perrywit had been bullying her about her arithmetic, because he had also taken to looking at her in rather strange ways, because she hadn’t realized how much money Professor Greylaw had spent without accounting for it, because life in MicroWar was less romantic than she had formerly supposed, and because Dr. Perrywit still seemed to hold her personally responsible for various missing animals. She was also crying because it was a wonderful day and she wanted to dance naked on the grass, surrounded by bronzed young men who would adore without actually touching.

“Peter!” she sobbed. “Peter! How utterly nice to see you. Come and cheer me up.” She knew, of course, that Peter Karamazov worked for Cominunder; but that didn’t matter, really, because after all we were all on the same side. And, anyway, he was a gentleman.

Ilyich froze momentarily, then became Peter and managed a warm smile of recognition.

This sort of thing had happened before.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I almost passed you. This is one of my difficult days. There was some trouble recently in Cairo… The medicos said I would get odd recurring patches of amnesia. Your face — I could not forget that, but…” he passed his hand over his forehead and sat down on the bench.

“Poor Peter. Poor dear Peter. I’m Dorothea, remember? Dorothea Slink. Insect Race.

MicroWar.” She dabbed at her eyes and gazed modestly at the ground. “We — we worked together last winter.”

Insect Race. MicroWar. Gone for Ilyich was the holiday atmosphere. He was the professional once more.

“Dorothea, of course! I told you it was only brief. How are you? Why are you crying? You shall tell me all about it.”

Presently, with some sympathetic but entirely spiritual encouragement (Ilyich had quite as much intuitive knowledge of women as Peter), Dr. Slink was pouring out her heart about Dr.

Perrywit, Professor Greylaw, the outrageous budget and the missing animals. She also confided to Ilyich/Peter than she had several times tried to contact Professor Greylaw at his Sussex zoo; but the Professor had always been so elusive. She had tried his home once, but to no avail. In the end, she had had to fire him in absentia. And, really, nothing seemed to have ever happened at the zoo. No research, no anything. The animals were very pleasant, though, extremely friendly and docile. You could even stroke the big ones; and there was a rabbit actually playing with a tiger. No wonder the code-name was Tranquillity. Really, it looked as if that silly Professor had just been playing some elaborate and silly joke…

Ilyich listened carefully to Dr. Slink’s recital; and when the narrative waned a little, he prompted her with pertinent questions. After ten minutes he was convinced that Dr. Slink knew no more of this mysterious affair than she had already told him. He was also convinced that he was on to something interesting. That sixth Karamazov sense made a discreet noise in his head like bundles of folding money falling on to a desk.

He tried to look pale and wan, made vague references to an appointment with his psychiatrist and so far forgot himself, or rather Peter, as to kiss Dr. Slink’s hand in florid continental style.

For a moment, he nervously fingered the ice-needle gun in his pocket; but fortunately the woman had not noticed his gaffe.

“You will call me, Peter, won’t you? It is so nice to have someone simpatico to talk to.” She lowered her eyes. “I still live alone, you know, and I do not care much for social vulgarities.

Essentially, I suppose, I am a home bird.”

“My dear — my dearest Dorothea,” Ilyich judged that she would relish the implied intimacy,

“I shall not only call you, I shall haunt you. But first I must see my psychiatrist and then I shall need a day or two to clean up some trifling assignment.”

“I understand. It is terribly, terribly top secret, I suppose?”

“Terribly. But I can tell you this: MicroWar will appreciate the result. Hands across the drink. That kind of thing. Say nothing to anyone. There are dangers.”

“I understand Au ’voir.”

“Wiedersehen.”

Having escaped from Dr. Slink, Ilyich wasted no time. It took him only half an hour to locate Professor Greylaw’s private residence and rent a fifteenth floor one-room apartment with uninterrupted view less than one kilometre from 1735, Babscastle Boulevard. There he set up a 50 x 50 telescope and peered down over the high wall that surrounded the Professor’s garden. At dusk he saw a rabbit chasing a lion on the lawn. Later, he raised the telescope slightly to enjoy Camilla undressing for a bath. Eustace Greylaw was also enjoying the same view, but from close up. There appeared to be some mild sexual interplay, then Eustace fell into the bath. Presently, the lights went off. Ilyich felt frustrated and returned to the Dorchester.

Peter was already in their room. Ilyich did not tell Peter about Dr. Slink or Professor Greylaw. It was a tactical error.

The following day, with a beautiful plastic white-carnation directional microphone in his lapel, Ilyich rose early and stalked the Professor. Peter, himself blessed with that sixth Karamazov sense, also rose early and stalked Ilyich. The three of them went by hovertrain to Bognor Regis. Then they all went by separate autocabs to the zoo.

It was in a tiny remote valley and was surrounded by a high wire fence and the usual Insect Race No Entry to Unauthorized Personell advertisements. The Professor unlocked the gate, then locked it again behind him.

Ilyich did not try to enter. Neither did Peter. The Professor disappeared into one of the huts.

Then he came out and went into another hut. There were vague animal noises from various small compounds. Presently, the Professor began to feed his pets.

It was while Eustace was fondling a lion that Ilyich realized the Professor was also talking to the creature. One never knew.

Ilyich aimed the directional carnation, estimated range, adjusted volume and put the plug in his ear.

His head rattled with the thunderous sound of the lion purring. He adjusted the volume control and consequently lost what the Professor was saying. Presently, he caught something of the rhythm of the operation and managed to get snatches of professional soliloquy without suffering too greatly.

What he heard convinced him that he was not wasting his time.

“We’ll show them, won’t we, pussy cat? PURR PURR. We’ll show them that Eustace Greylaw is a PURR PURR to be reckoned with. We’ll PURR PURR the greatest synthetic disease in the PURR PURR until every man, woman and beast is PURR PURR SHLURDASHERVEROOVEROO!”

The lion had sneezed.

Ilyich tore the plug from his ear — too late. The train in pain stayed mainly in his brain until it finally disappeared down a long tunnel of de-escalating anguish. His hands trembled. Sweat formed on his forehead.

The Professor was still talking to pussy cat; but the Karamazov courage was no longer equal to the Karamazov curiosity.

Eventually, Professor Greylaw, having concluded his speech to the lion, seemed also to have concluded his business at the zoo. Presently three autocabs — discreetly spaced — returned to Bognor Regis.

Professor Greylaw, followed by Ilyich followed by Peter, then took the next hovertrain back to London Victoria.

It was while the Professor was standing near the edge of the platform at Victoria tube station, waiting for a Circle Line train, that he began to talk once more. To himself, this time, since there were no lions present and, apart from the brothers Karamazov, no one else seemed to be interested in what he was saying.

Ilyich had recovered his nerve sufficiently to try the white-carnation microphone once more. But there were others present on the platform, and several people passed between him and the Professor.

“So I said to this student (a girl’s voice) if you put it in like that again, I’ll… and then we used the freezair (a male prepube) and then we rolled this granny down the steps and then…”

It was hopeless. Ilyich took the plug out of his ear.

He decided to take a chance. He edged his way closer and closer to Professor Greylaw, while looking casually in the opposite direction. It was just as he reached the Professor’s side that he saw Peter momentarily and carelessly raise his head above the top of a colour tri-di girliezine. Ilyich stumbled slightly with surprise. He put out his hand to steady himself. The hand touched the Professor’s shoulder.

The Professor stopped muttering to himself and turned round.

If there was one thing in life that Eustace Greylaw hated, it was plastic flowers. It went back to childhood. Mummy had always liked lots of gay plastic flowers in her gay suburban home. Daddy had shot her. Eustace had gone to a State Retreat for Maladjused Prepubes.

Professor Greylaw and Ilyich Karamazov confronted each other. Briefly.

The Professor registered a vaguely unlikeable face and a quite terrifying button hole.

Appalled, he stepped back. The train came in.

Professor Greylaw’s lips were moving even as he fell off the platform.

Ilyich tried desperately to lip read. He failed.

It would not have informed him greatly if he had succeeded.

Eustace Greylaw’s last words were: “My God! A plastic carnation!”

Ilyich faded into the crowd. Peter faded into the crowd. They met outside the station, found the nearest Dial-’n’-Drink and ordered large Japanese whiskies.

“Why did you kill him, brother?”

“I didn’t kill him. Why did you follow me, brother?”

“I didn’t follow you.”

“Liar!”

“Liar!”

“Peter?”

“Ilyich?”

“You must believe me. I didn’t kill him.”

“You must believe me. I didn’t follow you. But I know that you have something, and you

“It was too early. I intended to share it. I will share it now.”

“Good. Then all will be as it was before. Brothers and comrades, Ilyich.” Peter raised his

“Yes, brothers and comrades, Peter.” Ilyich raised his glass. “All will be as it was before.”

are not sharing it.”

glass.

But even when he had told everything he knew, all was not as it was before. Something fine had gone out of their lives.

“And he said nothing to you when he fell?”

“Nothing, brother.”

“I saw his lips move.”

“So did I. But I heard nothing.”

Peter Karamazov sighed. One Swiss numbered account was no longer enough. Presently, there would have to be two.