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.