tion he came to a halt and
spoke briefly to the lieutenant at the desk there.

"The Minister is expecting me," Simonov clipped.

The lieutenant did the things receptionists do everywhere and looked up in
a moment to say, "Go right in, Colonel Simonov."

Minister Kliment Blagonravov looked up from his desk at Simonov's
entrance. He was a heavy-set man, heavy of face and he still affected the
shaven head, now rapidly disappearing among upper-echelons of the Party.
His jacket had been thrown over the back of a chair and his collar
loosened; even so there was a sheen of sweat on his face.

He looked up at his most trusted field man, said in the way of greeting,
"Ilya," and twisted in his swivel chair to a portable bar. He swung open
the door of the small refrigerator and emerged with a bottle of
Stolichnaya vodka. He plucked two three-ounce glasses from a shelf and
pulled the bottle's cork with his teeth. "Sit down, sit down, Ilya," he
grunted as he filled the glasses. "How was Magnitogorsk?"

Ilya Simonov secured his glass before seating himself in one of the room's
heavy leathern chairs. He sighed, relaxed, and said, "Terrible, I loath
those ultra-industrialized cities. I wonder if the Americans do any better
with Pittsburgh or the British with Birmingham."

"I know what you mean," the security head rumbled. "How did you make out
with you assignment, Ilya?"

Colonel Simonov frowned down into the colorlessness of the vodka before
dashing it back over his palate. "It's all in my report, Kliment." He was
the only man in the organization who called Blagonravov by his first name.

His chief grunted again and reached forward to refill the glass. "I'm sure
it is. Do you know how many reports go across this desk daily? And did you
know that Ilya Simonov is the most long-winded, as the Americans say, of
my some two hundred first-line operatives?"

The colonel shifted in his chair. "Sorry," he said. "I'll keep that in
mind."

His chief rumbled his sour version of a chuckle. "Nothing, nothing, Ilya.
I was jesting. However, give me a brief of your mission."

Ilya Simonov frowned again at his refilled vodka glass but didn't take it
up for a moment. "A routine matter," he said. "A dozen or so engineers and
technicians, two or three fairly high-ranking scientists, and three or
four of the local intelligentsia had formed some sort of informal club.
They were discussing national and international affairs."

Kliment Blagonravo