"Put them down, Verbitzsky!" I whispered, as we groped our way between high walls of bales.
"No, no, they're weapons!" he whispered. "We may need them."
"Then for the love of the saints, be careful!"
"Don't be afraid," he said, as we neared a small side door.
Meantime, we heard the police run after the Terrorists, who brought up against the great door at the south end. As they tore away the bar and opened the door they shouted with dismay. They had been confronted by another squad of police! For a few moments a confusion of sounds came to us, all somewhat muffled by passing up and over the high walls of baled wool.
"Boris! Where are you?" cried one.
"He's killed!" cried another.
"Oh, if we had the bombs!"
"He gave them to Verbitzsky."