strongest prisons and get it to publishers in the West."

"Never thought of it," Paul agreed. "How could he?"

"Because," the Chief said, knocking the ash from his pipe and replacing
it in the rack, "there was and is a very strong underground in all the
Communist countries. Not only Yugoslavia, but the Soviet Union as well."

Paul stirred impatiently. "Once again, what's all this got to do with
me?"

"They're the ones you're going to work with. The anti-Soviet
underground. You've got unlimited leeway. Unlimited support to the
extent we can get it to you. Unlimited funds for whatever you find you
need them for. Your job is to help the underground start a new Russian
Revolution."

* * * * *

Paul Koslov, his face still bandaged following plastic surgery, spent a
couple of hours in the Rube Goldberg department inspecting the latest
gadgets of his trade.

Derek Stevens said, "The Chief sent down a memo to introduce you to this
new item. We call it a Tracy."

Paul frowned at the wristwatch, fingered it a moment, held it to his
ear. It ticked and the second hand moved. "Tracy?" he said.

Stevens said, "After Dick Tracy. Remember, a few years ago? His wrist
two-way radio."

"But this is really a watch," Paul said.

"Sure. Keeps fairly good time, too. However, that's camouflage. It's
also a two-way radio. Tight beam from wherever you are to the Chief."

Paul pursed his lips. "The transistor boys are really doing it up
brown." He handed the watch back to Derek Stevens. "Show me how it
works, Derek."

They spent fifteen minutes on the communications device, then Derek
Stevens said, "Here's another item the Chief thought you might want to
see:"

It was a compact, short-muzzled hand gun. Paul handled it with the ease
of long practice. "The grip's clumsy. What's its advantage? I don't
particularly like an automatic."

Derek Stevens motioned with his head. "Come into the firing range,
Koslov, and we'll give you a demonstration."

Paul shot him a glance from the side of his eyes, then nodded. "Lead
on."

In the range, Stevens had a man-size silhouette put up. He stood to one
side and said, "O.K., let her go."

Paul stood easily, left hand in pants pocket, brought the gun up and
tightened on the trigger. He frowned and pressed again.

He scowled at Derek Stevens. "It's not loaded."

Stevens grunted amusement. "Look at the target. First time you got it
right over the heart."

"