The Best Ye Breed - Mack Reynolds, ebook, CALIBRE SFF 1970s, Temp 2
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The Best Ye Breed
Mack Reynolds
I
PAUL KOSLOFF
Happily, it was a grim night. It was cloudy and there was a fine drizzle.
Paul Kosloff didn’t know whether or not the grounds of the mansion were
patrolled, either by men or by dogs, but, if they were, either man or beast
was going to be shelter-conscious.
Most likely, the grounds were so patrolled. His target was known to be
security-conscious almost to the point of phobia.
The iron picket fence surrounding the estate was his first hurdle. There
were no trees near it and it was too high to climb easily. Besides,
undoubtedly it was gimmick-wired at the top in such manner as to tip off
the guards—either that or electrocute him. He was going to have to go
through it.
The main gate was out of the question. He had seen the two men
stationed there, one to each side in armored booths and undoubtedly
armed to the molars. He continued to stroll along, on the other side of the
street, following the fence. And, yes, behind the house was a smaller gate
which was unattended.
Paul Kosloff crossed over to it. It had a heavy lock. He brought a
scrambler from his pocket and activated it, then an electronic lock pick
which he had gotten from the boys in the Rube Goldberg department. Its
magnets sucked up to the lock, over the keyhole, and he slowly rotated it.
When the lock reluctantly gave up its secrets, he pushed the gate open and
slipped through. He relocked it, then deactivated the scrambler.
Thus far things were going better than he had hoped. Bending almost
double, he scurried toward the rear of the mansion.
Luckily, this part of the estate was mostly gardens, complete with trees,
complete with shrubs. He had a good chance of going undetected,
certainly until he got reasonably near the house.
The dog, running hard, a brown streak with distended, slavering jaws,
was upon him almost before he spotted it. A Doberman pinscher,
recognizable even in this light by its long forelegs and wide hindquarters.
Paul Kosloff had worked out with war dogs while taking commando
training long years before. He had just time to fling himself into position
before the dog jumped. He spun sideward to the left and his right hand
shot out and grabbed the right paw of the large smooth-coated terrier. He
continued to swing mightily. The dog had time for only one loud yelp of
confusion, before he smashed it into the trunk of a tree.
It fell to the ground, momentarily, at least, stunned. Paul Kosloff, to
make sure, kicked it twice in the side of the head, immediately behind the
clipped ears.
He wiped the back of his left hand over his forehead, finding a beading
of cold sweat there. He shook his head and continued on his way toward
the house.
A chink of light began to manifest itself, and a door was opening. He
dodged behind the bole of a large tree, and flattened himself against it.
A voice called, “Roger! Is that you, boy?”
Paul Kosloff held his breath.
“Roger! What have you got, boy?”
A few moments later, there was a curse and Paul Kosloff could hear
someone approaching.
The voice was closer this time. “Here boy, here boy. Damn it, what were
you yelping about?”
As the footsteps came closer, Paul Kosloff slithered around the tree
trunk, keeping it between himself and the other.
Completely on the other side, he bent double once again and headed for
the house and the open door. It was all in the laps of the gods now. Was
there anyone else inside? Behind him, he could still hear the guard, still
calling the Doberman. The fat was going to be in the fire if he discovered
the unconscious watchdog.
Paul Kosloff hurried into the interior of the large house and found
himself in a small guardroom, furnished only with a single table and two
chairs. On the walls were flac rifles, shotguns and laser beam pistols.
There was another door at the far side of the room. He got through it in
a hurry and closed it behind him before speeding down the dimly lit hall
beyond. Given luck, he wouldn’t run into any servants. Not at this time of
the night. It was past two o’clock.
He came to a small elevator and looked at it for a moment, but then
shook his head. The man he was seeking was noted as a nut on burglar
alarms and related devices. He might even have something like an elevator
rigged.
He found a flight of narrow circling stairs slightly beyond. A servant
stairway by the looks of it. He started up. His destination was on the third
floor. He wondered if there were any more guards.
At the third floor, he peered cautiously down the ornate hallway. And,
yes, there was a guard before the door that was his goal.
The other’s back was turned. Paul Kosloff took a desperate chance and
sped across the heavily carpeted hall to the room opposite. The chance
paid off. The door was unlocked. He entered the room beyond quickly,
closed the door behind him.
He fumbled at the wall for a light switch and found it. The plans of the
mansion he had studied had been correct. It was a billiards room, the
table in the exact center. He strode over to it, took up the eight ball and
then returned to the door and flicked off the light.
He had to gamble now that the guard’s back was still turned. If it
wasn’t, he’d had it. He opened the door a narrow crack and rolled the ball
toward the circular staircase. It began to bounce down the stairs, at first
slowly, then faster. It didn’t sound much like footsteps to him, but it would
have to do.
He kept the door open, the slightest crack, and watched as the guard
came hurrying up and hesitated, looking down the stairwell. The ball was
well along by now and going faster. At this distance it sounded more like a
person descending as fast as possible.
The guard suddenly flicked his hand inside his coat to emerge with a
laser pistol, and began hurrying down.
Paul Kosloff gave him a few moments, then left his hiding place and
hustled along the hall. He gently tried the doorknob of the room that was
his destination. It wasn’t locked. He pulled a comb from his pocket, drew
it through his hair a couple of times and returned it. He straightened his
suit, moistened dry lips, then opened the door and walked through,
nonchalantly.
The man reclining on the bed, reading, looked up at him.
“Paul Kosloff?” he said.
“Well, I’m not the ghost of Spiro Agnew,” Paul Kosloff said, closing the
door behind him. “What in the hell is this all about?”
“How did you get in without detection?”
“I didn’t completely. You’ve either got a dead dog or one with a whale of
a headache out in your garden. Again, what’s this all about?” Kosloff
pulled up a chair without invitation and sat down.
“A double motive,” the man in the bed said. “First, I wanted to find out
whether you’re as good as you’re supposed to be as an
espionage-counter-espionage agent. And, second, I wanted to give you an
assignment without anyone, anyone at all, even knowing we’ve ever met.
Do you know who I am?”
“You’re the head of what some of us field men call the Commission of
Dirty Tricks of the State Department, often working hand in glove with
the CIA.”
The other looked at him. “Very few people know of me. In my section,
we need publicity like a broken leg.”
Paul Kosloff said evenly, “Yes, I know. I was just a child when the Bay of
Pigs took place, but there have been other farces since. Publicity doesn’t
help.”
The man in the bed was obviously not pleased at that. He said, “Kosloff,
do you consider yourself a patriotic American?”
The cloak-and-dagger operative said reasonably, “How could I be?
When a special bill was brought before Congress to grant me citizenship,
it was decided my odor was too high and it was turned down. Let’s face
reality. I’m persona non grata everywhere, including the country of my
birth—Russia—where they took a dim view of my ‘defecting’ even though I
was a child in arms at the time and all the rest of my family had been
liquidated in the purges. Relatives smuggled me out over the Finnish
border and finally got me here to America.”
The commissioner said, “What I should have said was, ‘Are you
basically pro-American or anti-Communist?”’
The international troubleshooter took him in. “I thought they meant the
same thing.”
“Not necessarily.”
Paul Kosloff was getting tired of this routine. He said, “All right. I’ve
been ordered to contact you secretly. What do you want me to do?”
“Stop a revolution.”
“That’s my specialty. That’s what you people have been having me do
for… as long as I can remember. Why the buildup? Do I have to
assassinate some present-day Trotsky or Mao, or what?”
“The revolution is to take place, or is taking place, in North Africa, all of
North Africa, but we are particularly concerned with Algeria, Tunisia and
Libya.”
Paul Kosloff stared at him before saying, “They’ve already got Marxist
governments there. Perhaps not totally commie, but awfully close to it.”
“That’s what I’ve been building up to. The revolution we’re talking
about is against the socialist-communist-anarchist, call them what you
will, governments in North Africa. It would also involve the Sudan, which
considers itself socialist, and Mauretania, also supposedly left wing. A
certain El Hassan and his followers wish to overthrow them all, not to
speak of the right-wing military dictatorships to the south.”
“Why not let him?” Paul Kosloff growled.
“His ultimate aim is to unite all of Africa north of the Congo.”
The troubleshooter pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “It’d be a neat
trick to pull off but I still say, why not let him? If those first countries you
named aren’t commie today, they will be tomorrow.”
“Because if we do, it’s one more nail in the coffin of our economy.”
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