bothering to let me know about such developments as this. See you later, Steve.”
The other’s face faded off.
Larry Woolford looked across the double desk at Irene Day, his secretary. “Look,” he said. “Be smart and when you’re offered a promotion, take it, real quick. If you don’t, someone else will and you’ll be left out in the cold.”
Irene Day said brightly, “I’ve always known that, sir.”
He looked at her. The typical eager beaver. Sharp as a whip. Bright as a button. “I’ll bet you have,” he muttered.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Woolford?”
“Nothing,” he said. He leaned back in his chair and tried to think of another angle. Nothing came.
The phone lit and LaVerne Polk said, “The Boss wants to talk to you, Larry.” Her face faded and Larry’s superior was scowling at him.
He snapped, “Did you get anything on this medical records thing, Woolford?”
“Medical records?” Larry said blankly. “What do you mean medical records, sir?”
The Boss grunted in deprecation. “No, I suppose you haven’t. I wish you would snap into it, Woolford. I don’t know what’s happened to you of late. I used to think that you were a good field man. Now everything you do seems to be half-assed.” He flicked off abruptly.
Larry dialed LaVerne Polk. “What in the world was the Boss just talking about, LaVerne? About medical records.”
LaVerne said, frowning. “Didn’t you know? The Movement’s been at it again. They’ve fouled up the records of the State Medical Licensing bureaus, at the same time sabotaging the remaining records of most, if not all, of the country’s medical schools. They struck simultaneously, throughout the country, and even in Alaska and Hawaii.”
He looked at her expressionlessly, for the moment not getting it at all. Were these people completely mad?
LaVerne said, “We’ve caught several hundred of those responsible. It’s the same thing as before, when they fouled up the dossiers of everybody. It’s an attack on the social label. From now on, if a man tells you he’s an Ear, Eye, Nose and Throat specialist, you’d better do some investigation before letting him amputate your tongue. You’d better use your judgement before letting any doctor work on you. The status labels pertaining to medicine are gone. It’s a madhouse, Larry.”
Her face faded off.
Larry thought about it. Walt was really giving him the works. He had deliberately failed to let his rival in on this development. It had made Larry look like a damn fool in the eyes of the Boss. Obviously, Foster was taking every opportunity to make him look bad. And he was succeeding.
For long moments, he stared unseeingly at his secretary across from him until she stirred.
He brought his eyes back to the present and shook his head. He said, “It’s just another preliminary move, not the important thing, yet. Not the big explosion they’re figuring on. They got something more up their sleeves. Where have they taken that money, and why?”
Irene Day blinked at him. She said hesitantly, “I don’t know, I’m sure, sir.”
Larry said, “Get me Mr. Foster on the phone, Irene.”
When Walt Foster’s unhappy face faded in, Larry said, “Walt, did you get Ilya Simonov?”
“Simonov?” the other said impatiently. “No. We haven’t spent much effort on it. I think this hunch of yours, that Ilya Simonov is some how deep in this, is like the other ones you’ve been having lately, Woolford. Ilya Simonov was last reported by our operatives as being in Siberia.”
“It wasn’t a hunch,” Larry said, his voice tight. “He’s in this country on an assignment dealing with the Movement.”
“Well, that’s your opinion,” Foster said, wasps in his own voice. “I’m busy, Woolford. See here. At present you’re under my orders on this job. In the way of something to do, instead of sitting around in that office, why don’t you follow up this Colonel Ilya Simonov thing yourself?” He considered it a moment. “Yeah. That’s an order, Woolford. Even if you don’t locate him, it’ll keep you out of our hair.”
After the other was gone, Larry leaned back in his chair again, his face flushed as though the other had slapped it. In a way he had. There was no two ways about it. Walt Foster was after his scalp, and was going to attempt to finish him off while he had the upper hand. Walt Foster not only wished to down his rivals, but stomp them after they were down.
But he had to get on with it. He said to the girl, “Miss Day, dial me Hans Distelmayer. His offices are over in the Belmont Building.”
As always, the screen remained blank as the German spy master spoke.
Larry said, “Hans, I want to talk to Ilya Simonov.”
“Ah?”
“I want to know where I can find him.”
The German’s voice was humorously gruff. “My friend, my friend…”
Larry said impatiently, “I’m not interested in arresting him at this time. I simply want to talk to him. Possibly he might even welcome the opportunity.”
The other said heavily, “This goes beyond favors, my friend, Larry. On the face of it, I am not in this business for my health. And what you ask is dangerous from my viewpoint. You realize that upon occasion my organization does small tasks for the Soviet Complex and—”
“Ha!” Larry said bitterly.
“… it is hardly in my interest to gain the reputation of betraying my sometimes employers,” the German continued, unruffled. “Were you on an assignment in, say Bulgaria or Hungary, would you expect me to betray you to the
“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
“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.
