Simonov worked quickly. He gathered up his reports, checked quickly to see they were all there. Struck a match, lit one of the reports and dropped it into the large ashtray on the desk. One by one he lit them all and when all were consumed, stirred the ashes until they were completely pulverized. He poured himself another vodka, downed it, stiff wristed, then without turning to look at the dead man again, made his way to the door. He slipped out and said to the lieutenant, "The Minister says that he is under no circumstances to be disturbed for the next hour." The lieutenant frowned at him. "But he has an appointment." Colonel Ilya Simonov shrugged. "Those were his instructions. Not to be bothered under any circumstances." "But it was an appointment with Number One!" That was bad. And unforeseen. Ilya Simonov said, "It's probably been canceled. All I'm saying is that Minister Blagonravov instructs you not to bother him under any circumstances for the next hour." He left the other and strode down the corridor, keeping himself from too obvious, a quickened pace. At the entrance to the Ministry, he shot his glance up and down the street. He was in the clutch now, and knew it. He had few illusions. Not a cab in sight. He began to cross the road toward the park. In a matter of moments there, he'd be lost in the trees and shrubbery. He had rather vague plans. Actually, he was playing things as they came. There was a close friend in whose apartment he could hide, a man who owed him his life. He could disguise himself. Possibly buy or borrow a car. If he could get back to Prague, he was safe. Perhaps he and Catherina could defect to the West. Somebody was screaming something from a window in the Ministry. Ilya Simonov quickened his pace. He was nearly across the street now. He thought, foolishly, _Whoever that is shouting is so excited he sounds more like a woman than a man._ Another voice took up the shout. It was the plainclothes man. Feet began pounding. There were two more shouts. The guards. But he was across now. The shrubs were only a foot away. The shattering blackness hit him in the back of the head. It was over immediately. Afterwards, the plainclothes man and the two guards stood over him. Men began pouring from the Ministry in their direction. Colonel Ilya Simonov was a meaningless, bloody heap on the edge of the park's grass. The guard who had shot said, "He killed the Minister. He must have been crazy to think he could get away with it. What did he want?" "Well, we'll never know now," the plainclothesman grunted. THE END * * * * * End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Freedom, by Dallas McCord Reynolds