“My friend, my friend,” the German grunted good-humoredly. “You know better than to ask the first question. As for the second, Frol's command of American-English is at least as good as your own. Do you think his Komissiya less capable than your own department and unable to do him up suitable papers so that he could be, perhaps, a ‘returning tourist’ from Europe?”
Larry Woolford was impatient with himself for asking. He said now, “It's not important. If we want to locate Frol and pick him up, we'll probably not have too much trouble doing it.”
“I wouldn't think so,” the other said humorously. “Since 1919, when they were first organized, the so-called Communists in this country, from the lowest to the highest echelons, have been so riddled with police agents that a federal judge in New England once refused to prosecute a case against them on the grounds that the party was a United States government agency.”
Larry was in no frame of mind for the other's heavy humor. “Look, Hans,” he said, “what I want to know is what Frol is over here for.”
“Of course you do,” Hans Distelmayer said, unable evidently to keep note of puzzlement from his voice. “Larry,” he said, “I assume your people know of the new American underground.”
“What underground?” Larry snapped.
The professional spy chief said, his voice strange, “The Soviets seem to have picked up an idea somewhere, possibly through their membership in this country, that something is abrewing in the States. That a change is being engineered.”
Larry stared at the blank phone screen.
“What kind of a change?” he said finally. “You mean a change to the Soviet system?” Surely not even the self-deluding Russkies could think it possible to overthrow the American socio-economic system in favor of the Soviet brand.
“No, no, no,” the German chuckled. “Of course not. It's not of their working at all.”