Day After Tomorrow Page 11

  He might have saved himself the trip.

  The bird had flown again. In fact, two birds had flown. Not only was Frank Nostrand not at the Madison Air Laboratories, but he wasn’t at home, either. Larry Woolford, mindful of his departmental chief’s words on the prestige these people carried, and the need to avoid hanky-panky when they were involved, took a full hour in acquiring a search warrant before breaking into the Nostrand home.

  Nostrand was supposedly a bachelor, but the auto-bungalow, similar to Larry Woolford’s own, showed signs of double occupancy, and there was little indication that the guest had been a woman.

  Disgruntled, Larry Woolford dialed the offices, asked for Walt Foster. It took nearly ten minutes before his colleague faded in.

  He said, snappishly, “I’m up to my eyebrows, Larry. What in the hell do you want?”

  Larry gave him Frank Nostrand’s address. “This guy has disappeared, Walt.”

  “So?”

  “He was a close friend of Professor Voss. I got a warrant to search his house. It shows signs he had a guest. Possibly it was the Professor. Do you want to get some of the boys down here to go through the place? Possibly there’s some sort of clue to where they took off for. The Professor’s on the run and he’s no professional at this. If we can pick him up, I’ve got a sneaking suspicion we’ll have the so-called Movement licked. It’s as though you’d picked up Lenin, at the beginnings of the Bolshevik revolution.”

  Walt Foster slapped a hand to his face in anguish. “You knew where the Professor was hiding, and you tried to pick him up on your own and let him get away. Why didn’t you discuss this with either the Boss or me? I’m in charge of this operation! I would have had a dozen men down there. You’ve really fouled this one up, Woolford!”

  Larry stared at him. Already Walt Foster was making sounds like an enraged superior.

  He said mildly, “Sorry, Walt. I came down here on a very meager tip. I didn’t really expect it to pan out. It was one chance in a million.”

  “Well, in the future, for crissakes, clear it with either me or the Boss before running off half-cocked into something, Woolford. Yesterday, you had this whole assignment on your own. Today, it’s no longer a minor matter. Our department alone has two hundred people on it, in Greater Washington alone. The F.B.I. must have five times that many and that’s not even counting the Secret Service’s interest. It’s no longer your individual baby.”

  “Sorry,” Larry repeated. Then, “I don’t imagine you’ve got hold of Ilya Simonov yet.”

  The other was disgusted. “Do you think we’re magicians? We just put out the call for him a few hours ago. He’s no amateur. If he doesn’t want to be picked up, and he obviously doesn’t, he’ll go to ground and we’ll have our work cut out for us finding him. I can’t see that it’s particularly important anyway.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Larry said. “But you never know. He might have learned some things that we’re not up on. See you later, Walt.”

  Walter Foster stared at him for a moment as though about to say something, but then tightened his lips and faded off.

  Larry looked at the phone screen for a moment. “Did that phony expect me to call him sir? he muttered.

  XVI

  The next two days dissolved into routine.

  Frustrated, Larry Woolford spent most of his time in his office digesting developments, trying to figure out a new line of attack. There had to be something, some manner in which to flush this Movement thing before they came up with their next step in disrupting the country’s socioeconomic system.

  For want of something else, he put his new secretary, a brightly efficient girl, as style and status conscious as LaVerne Polk wasn’t, to work typing up the tapes he had cut on Susan Self and the various phone calls he’d had with Hans Distelmayer and Sam Sokolski. From memory, he dictated to her his conversation with Professor Peter Voss.

  He carefully read the typed sheets over and over again. He continually had the feeling in this case that there were loose ends dangling around. There must be several important points he should be able to put his finger upon.

  On the morning of the third day he dialed Steve Hackett and on seeing the other’s worried, pug-ugly face fade in on the phone screen, decided that if nothing else the Movement was undermining the United States government by dispensing ulcers to its employees.

  Steve growled, “What is it, Woolford? I’m as busy as a whirling dervish in a revolving door.”

  “This is just the glimmer of an idea, Steve,” Larry told him. “But look, remember that conversation with Susan, when she described her father taking her to headquarters?”

  “Yeah, of course. So what? Go on,” Steve said impatiently.

  “Do you remember her description of headquarters?” Larry continued.

  “Go on,” Steve rapped.

  “What did it remind you of?”

  “What in the hell are you leading up to?” the Secret Service agent demanded.

  “This is just a hunch,” Larry went on, nibbling his lower lip thoughtfully, “but the way she described the manner in which her father took her to headquarters suggests that they’re in the Greater Washington area.”

  Steve was taking him in with disgust. How obvious could you get?

  Larry stuck to it, though. “What’s the biggest business in this area, Steve?”

  “Government.”

  “Right. And the way she described headquarters of the Movement, was rooms, after rooms, after rooms, in which they’d stored the money.”

  “And?”

  Larry said urgently, “Steve, I think in some way the Movement has taken over some governmental building, or storage warehouse. Possibly some older building, no longer in use. It would be a perfect hideout. Who would expect a subversive organization to be in a governmental building? All they’d need would be a few officials here and there who were on their side and—”

  Steve said wearily, “You couldn’t have thought of this two days ago, could you?”

  Larry cut himself off sharply. “Eh?”

  Steve said, “We found their headquarters. One of their captured members cracked. Ben Ruthenberg of the F.B.I. found he had a morals rap against him some years ago. Something to do with messing around with a very young boy. The homosexual bit, but with a young kid, instead of a consenting adult. So Ben scared the pants off him by talking about threats of exposure. At any rate, you’re right. They had established themselves in some government buildings going back to Spanish-American War days. We’ve arrested eight or ten officials that were involved in letting the Movement take over the buildings.”

  “But the money?” Larry said.

  “The money was gone,” Steve said bitterly. “They’d gotten it out in time. But Susan Self was right. There had evidently been room after room of it, stacked to the ceilings. Literally billions of counterfeit dollars. They’d moved out hurriedly, but they left enough loose hundreds, fifties, twenties, tens and fives around to give us an idea. Look, Woolford, I thought you’d been pulled off this case and that Walt Foster was handling it.”

  Larry said sourly, “I’m beginning to think so too. They’re evidently not even 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 su
perior 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 Chrezvychainaya Komissiya ?”

  “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.”