gh of
a fat man. He correctly interpreted the expression of his field
operative. "Pour us a couple of drinks, Frank, or would you rather have
it _Frol_, today?"

His best field man grunted as he walked over to the bar. "Vodka, eh?
_Chort vesmiot_ how tired one can become of this everlasting bourbon."
He reached into the refrigerator compartment and brought forth a bottle
of iced Stolichnaya. He poured two three-ounce charges and brought them
back to his bureau chief's desk.

They toasted silently, knocked back the colorless spirit. Pavel Zotov
said, "Well, Frol?"

The man usually called Frank Tracy said, "The worst case yet. This one
had quite a clear picture of the true situation. He saw the
necessity--given _their_ viewpoint, of course--of getting out of the
fantastic rut their economy has fallen into." He ran his hand over his
mouth in a gesture of weariness. "Chief, do you have any idea of how
long it would take us to catch up to them, if we ever did, if they
really turned this economy on full blast, as an alternative to their
present foul-up?"

"That's why we're here," the Chief said heavily. "What did you do?"

The man sometimes called Tracy told him.

Zotov winced. "I thought I ordered you--"

"You did," the man called Tracy told him curtly, "but what alternative
was there? The fire will completely destroy the records. I have the
names and addresses of all the others connected with Freer Enterprises.
We'll have to arrange car accidents, that sort of thing."

The fat man's lips worked. "We can't get by with this indefinitely,
Frol. With such blatant tactics, sooner or later their C.I.A. or F.B.I.
is going to get wind of us."

Tracy came to his feet angrily. "What alternative have we? We've been
sent over here to do a job. We're doing it. If we're caught, who knows
better than we that we're expendable? If you don't mind, I'm going on
home."

As he left the office, through the secret door that led through the
innocuous looking garage, the man they called Frank Tracy was inwardly
thinking, "Zotov might be my superior, and a top man in the party, but
he's too soft for this job. Perhaps I'd better send a report back to
Moscow on him."

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Subversive, by Dallas McCord Reynolds

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