Day After Tomorrow

by Mack Reynolds

  Simonov said, “I have no appointment but the Minister is probably expecting me.”

  “Yes, Comrade Colonel Simonov,” the other nodded respectfully. He flicked a switch and spoke into an inter-office communicator screen.

  He flicked another switch and the door behind him automatically opened. Ilya Simonov marched on through.

  Minister Kliment Blagonravov was at the huge desk at the far end of the room. There was a smaller desk to one side which accommodated an aide. The Minister snapped his fingers at the aide, who immediately came to his feet and left the room.

  “Sit down, Ilya,” Blagonravov said. “I was expecting you. Don’t you ever take a day or two off after completing an assignment?”

  “Sometimes,” Simonov said, finding a chair and turning back to his ultimate superior.

  Blagonravov was a heavy man, heavy of face, heavy-set and his head was completely shaven in the manner no longer much affected by Russian ministers and ranking army officers. He was one of those who sweat if the weather is even mildly warm. As usual, his tunic was off, his collar loosened. After the dressing down his field man had given the untidy captain out in the corridor, he could hardly have approved the appearance of his superior. But he was, after all, the minister, and possibly the most powerful, and the most feared, minister in the Soviet Complex.

  Blagonravov said, “A drink?”

  Simonov shook his head. “A bit too early for me. Besides, I am afraid I celebrated a bit too much last night upon my return from Irkutsk. I dislike Siberia.”

  His superior had swung in his swivel chair to a small bar behind him. He opened the refrigerator door and brought forth a liter of highly chilled vodka, pulled the cork with his teeth and took up a tall shot glass and filled it. He put the bottle on the top of the bar rather than returning it to the refrigerator.

  He said, “Ah, yes. Vladimir gave you an assignment in the East while I was in Rumania. How did it go, Ilya?”

  His top operative shrugged. “The usual. Took a couple of weeks in all.”

  “What was it all about?”

  “The men in the mines there were trying to start a union.”

  The minister knocked back his vodka with a practiced stiff-wristed toss. “Union?” he said in surprise. “Surely they already have a union. Miners? Of course they have a union.”

  “I do not mean the State union,” Simonov said, crossing his legs. “They were trying to establish a union independent of control by the State. They had various grievances, including a desire for better housing and medical care. They even had plans for a strike.”

  His superior poured himself another drink. “What’s it coming to?” he growled. “You’d think we were in the West. What did you do?”

  Ilya Simonov grunted his version of humor. “Well, I could hardly send the ringleaders to Siberia, in view of the fact that they were already there. So I arranged for a bit of an accident.”

  Blagonravov pursed fat lips. “Was it necessary to be so drastic? Number One has suggested that we, ah, cool it a bit, as the Yankees say. Things are no longer as desperate as they were in the old days.”

  “I thought it was necessary,” Simonov said. “A thing like that can get out of control, can spread like wildfire, can grow like a geometric progression. And if we allowed such action to the miners, who can say where else free unions might not spring up?

  “Yes, yes, of course, Ilya,” his boss said. “You can always be counted upon to take the correct action.” He finished off his second vodka, then looked over at his favorite field man. He said, “How long has it been since you have been in the United States?”

  Simonov thought back. “Perhaps as much as ten years.” He cleared his throat. “I am not exactly popular in America.”

  The Chrezvychainaya Komissiya head chuckled heavily. “No, of course not. The last time we retrieved you only by making a swap with the C.I.A. Two of their arrested agents for you.” He chuckled again. “It was a bargain, especially since one of their two was a double agent that they didn’t get onto for almost three years. But at any rate, this will be a milk-run, as the Yankees call it. There should be no danger.”

  Simonov contemplated his superior quizzically.

  “Most likely,” Blagonravov said, “it could be handled by the attach es at the Embassy in Greater Washington. However, I trust you most explicitly, and want your experienced opinion.”

  His field man waited for him to go on.

  The minister leaned back in his chair and looked thoughtful. He said slowly, “There is the danger of a very fundamental change taking place in America.”

  “A fundamental change, Kliment?” the operative said. He was the only man in the ministry who dared call the chief by his first name.

  “Yes, a very basic change, if our meager information is correct.”

  “Good!”

  “No, bad. It is a change we do not wish to see, if I have any idea whatsoever about what is going on, and I sometimes wonder.”

  His trouble shooter waited patiently.

  “In the way of background,” the minister said, “let me go back a bit. The situation that prevails in the States these days had its roots back possibly in the last century. The tendency has been accelerating, and, frankly, it is to the advantage of the Soviet Complex to have it continue to accelerate.”

  “Tendency?” Simonov scowled.

  “Yes. Let me use an example. Some decades ago, a rather incompetent American lieutenant-colonel came under the observation of representatives of some of the largest American multi-national corporations—IBM, that sort of thing. Although not particularly intelligent, he evidently had a fantastic personality. They were far-seeing people and decided to groom our lieutenant-colonel for the presidency. At the time he was unknown. This was their first problem, to give him status. Bringing pressure to bear, they had him rapidly promoted until he became, first, commander of the American European theatre of operations, in the Hitler war, and then supreme commander of the Allied Expeditionary Force, although he had never been in combat in his life, had never commanded troops in action. But still more status was needed if he was to be considered for the presidency. When the war ended, he was made head of the occupation troops in Germany.

  “But being the country’s top soldier was not quite enough, particularly when the presidency of General U.S. Grant was recalled. He resigned his rank and was made president of Columbia University. An indication of the man was found when the reporters interviewing him got through his aides. One asked what his background was in education that he should hold such a post. And he replied that he didn’t have any. That they would have to brief him on his duties. The next day or so the reporters got to him again and one asked him what his favorite newspapers were and he returned that he never read the newspapers. ‘If anything important happens, they tell me about it.’ He didn’t mention who they were.”

  Blagonravov chuckled heavily before going on, he was a compulsive chuckler. “Still later in the week, the reporters managed to get him aside once more and one asked what his favorite type of books were and he replied that he hadn’t read a book in fourteen years. You begin to realize our hero’s capabilities. At any rate—after his sponsors began shielding him from the newspaper people—he took leave of absence from his Columbia University post and became supreme commander of the Allied powers in Europe, and was given credit for the organizing of NATO, the North Atlantic Treaty Organization. By now his status was considered adequate and they ran him for President of the United States and he easily won. He remained in the postion for eight years, spending most of his time playing golf. He was probably one of the most inadequate presidents the United States has ever had, and, as all know, they’ve had some unbelievably inadequate presidents.”

  Ilya Simonov shifted in his chair. “I fail to see your point, Kliment.”

  The other nodded. “The point is, that it is to the advantage of the Soviet Complex that the Americans continue to elect to their highest offices men whose sole clai
m to such office is their holding of status symbols. It is to our advantage to have their corporations headed by such men, their institutions of learning, their laboratories, their hospitals.”

  “I fail to see what all this has got to do with my going to Greater Washington.”

  The minister poured himself still another vodka and bolted it back as he had the others.

  He squinted at his field man and said, “There seems to be some sort of underground among the Americans who seek to change this, Ilya. We do not want it changed. Your task is to find out more about the group and to come up with some plan to frustrate them.”

  “You mean that I, a Party member from youth, am to attempt to undermine a revolutionary organization?”

  “That is correct, Ilya.”

  “I’ll have that drink,” Ilya Simonov said grimly.

  III

  Larry Woolford’s office wasn’t much bigger than a cubicle. He sat down at the desk and banged a drawer or two open and closed. He liked to work, liked the department, but theoretically he still had several days of vacation and hated to get back into routine.

  He flicked on the phone finally and asked for an outline. He punched three different numbers before getting his subject. The phone screen remained blank, although Larry knew the other could see him.

  “Hans?” he said. “Lawrence Woolford here.”

  The Teutonic accent was heavy, the voice bluff. “Ah, Larry! You need some assistance to make your vacation? Perhaps a sinister, exotic young lady, complete with a long cigarette holder and a knowledge of some of the most fantastic positions recently discovered in China?”

  Larry Woolford growled, “How’d you know I was on vacation?”

  The other laughed. “You know better than to ask that, my friend. I am in the business of knowing things.”

  Larry said, “The vacation is over, Hans. I need some information.”

  The voice was more guarded now. “I owe you a favor or two.”

  “Don’t you though,” Larry said sarcastically. “Look, Hans, what’s new in the Russkie camp?”

  The heartiness was gone. “How do you mean, my friend?”

  “Is there anything big stirring? Is there anyone new in this country from the Soviet Complex?”

  “Well, now…” the other’s voice drifted away.

  Larry Woolf ord said impatiently, “Look, Hans, let’s don’t waste time going round and around. You run a clearing agency for, ah, information. You’re strictly a businessman, nonpartisan, so to speak. Hell, you’d better be. Fine, thus far our department has tolerated you. Perhaps we’ll continue to. Perhaps the reason is that we figure we get more out of your existence than we lose. The Russkies evidently figure the same way, the proof being that you’re still alive and have branches in the capitals of every power on Earth.”

  “All right, all right,” the German said. “Let me think for a moment. Can you give me any idea of what you’re looking for?” There was an undernote of interest in his voice now.

  “No. I just want to know if you’ve heard anything new anti-my-side from the other side. Or if you know of any fresh personnel recently from there.”

  “Frankly, I haven’t. If you could give me a hint.”

  “I can’t,” Larry said. “Look, Hans, like you say, you owe me a favor or two. If something comes up, let me know. Then I’ll owe you one.”

  The voice was jovial again. “It’s a bargain, my friend.”

  After Woolford had hung up, he scowled at the phone. He wondered if Hans Distelmayer was lying. The German commanded the largest professional spy ring in the world. It was possible, but difficult, for anything in the way of espionage-counter-espionage to develop without his having an inkling. Well, at least he had planted a bug in the other’s ear, perhaps he would come up with something.

  The phone rang back. It was Steve Hackett of Secret Service on the screen.

  Hackett said, “Woolford, you coming over? I understand you’ve been assigned to get in our hair on this job.”

  “Huh,” Larry grunted. “The way I hear it, your whole department has given up, so I’m assigned to help you out of your usual fumble-fingered confusion.”

  Hackett snorted. “At any rate, can you drop over? I’m to work in liaison with you.”

  “Coming,” Larry said. He flicked off the phone, got to his feet and headed for the door. If they could crack this thing the first day, he’d take up that vacation where it had been interrupted and possibly be able to wangle a few more days out of the Boss to boot.

  At this time of day, parking would have been a problem, in spite of automated traffic in the streets. Looking up and down in a quick check to see if anyone he knew was around to see him, he ducked down into the underground. It was a slight drop in status for someone on his level to take the subway. He took a line that delivered him to the high-rise that housed Secret Service.

  The Counterfeit Division of the Secret Service occupied an impressive section of the governmental building. Larry Woolford flashed his credentials here and there, explained to guards and receptionists here and there, and finally wound up in Steve Hackett’s office, which was all but a duplicate of his own in size and decor.

  Steve Hackett himself was a fairly accurate carbon copy of Woolford, barring facial resemblance alone. He wore Harris tweed, instead of Donegal. Larry Woolford made a note of that. Possibly herringbone was coming back in. He winced at the thought of a major change in his wardrobe; it’d cost a fortune. However, you couldn’t get the reputation for being out of style.

  They had worked on a few cases before when Steve Hackett had been assigned to the presidential bodyguard, and although they weren’t good friends, they cooperated well.

  Steve came to his feet and shook hands. “Thought you were going to be down in Florida bass fishing this month. You like your work so well you can’t stay away, or is it a matter of trying to impress your chief?”

  Larry growled, “Fine thing, fine thing. Secret Service bogs down and they’ve got to call me in to clean up the mess.”

  Steve motioned him to a chair and immediately went serious. “Do you know anything about pushing queer, Woolford?”

  “That means passing counterfeit money, doesn’t it? All I know is what’s in the Tri-Di crime shows.”

  “Oh, great. I can see you’re going to be one hell of a lot of help. Have you gotten anywhere at all on the possibility that the stuff might be coming in from abroad?”

  “Nothing positive,” Larry said. “Are you people accomplishing anything?”

  “We’re just getting underway. There’s something awfully off-trail about this deal, Woolford. It doesn’t fit into routine.”

  Larry said, “I wouldn’t think so if the stuff is so good not even a bank teller can tell the difference.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about now, although that curls our hair too. Let me give you a rundown on standard counterfeiting.” The Secret Service man pushed back in his swivel chair, lit a cigarette and propped his feet onto the edge of a partly open desk drawer. “Briefly, it goes like this. Some smart lad gets himself a set of plates and a platen press and—”

  Larry interrupted. “Where does he get the plates?”

  “That doesn’t matter for the moment,” Steve said. “Various ways. Maybe he makes them himself, sometimes he buys them from a crooked engraver. But I’m talking about pushing green goods once it’s printed. Anyway, our boy runs off, say, a million dollars worth of fives, face value. But he doesn’t even try to push them himself. He wholesales them around getting, say, fifty thousand dollars. In other words, he sells twenty dollars in counterfeit for one good dollar.”

  Larry pursed his lips. “Quite a discount.”

  “Ummm. But that’s safest from his angle. The half dozen or so distributors he sold it to don’t try to pass it either. They also are playing it carefully. They peddle it at, say, ten to one, to the next rung down the ladder.”

  “And these are the fellows that pass it, eh?”


  “Not even then, usually. These small timers take it and pass it on at five to one to the suckers in the trade who take the biggest risks. Most of these are professional pushers of the queer, as the term goes. Some, however, are comparative amateurs. Sailors, for instance, who buy with the idea of passing it in some foreign port where seamen’s money flows fast.”

  Larry Woolford shifted in his chair and said, “So what are you building up to?”

  Steve Hackett rubbed the end of his pug nose with a forefinger, in quick irritation. “Like I say, that’s standard counterfeiting procedure. We’re all set up to meet it, and do a pretty good job. Where we have our difficulties is with amateurs.”

  Woolford scowled at him, lacking comprehension.

  Hackett said, “Some guy who makes and passes it himself, for instance. He’s unknown to the stool-pigeons, has no criminal record, does up comparatively small amounts and dribbles his product onto the market over a period of time. We had one old devil up in New York once who actually drew one dollar bills. He was a tremendous artist. It took us years to get him.”

  Larry Woolford said, “Well, why go into all this? We’re hardly dealing with amateurs now.”

  Steve looked at him. “That’s the trouble. We are.”

  “Are you batty? Not even your own experts can tell this product from real money.”

  “I didn’t say it was being made by amateurs. It’s being passed by amateurs—or maybe amateur is the better word.”

  “How do you know?”

  “For one thing, most professionals won’t touch anything bigger than a twenty. Tens are better, fives better still. When you pass a fifty, the person you gave it to is apt to remember where he got it.” Steve Hackett added slowly, “Particularly if you give one as a tip to the maitre d’hotel in a first class restaurant. A maitre d’ holds his job on the strength of his ability to remember faces and names.”

  “What else makes you think your pushers are amateurs?”

  “Amateur,” Hackett corrected. “Ideally, a pusher is an inconspicuous type, the kind of person whose face you’d never remember. It’s never a teenage girl who’s blowing money at fifty dollars a crack.”