“What! You mean they've got the gall to house their top spy right in—”
Distelmayer interrupted him. “Friend Eivazov is currently accredited as a military attaché and quite correctly. He holds the rank of colonel, you know. He entered this country quite legally, the only precaution taken was to use his second name, Kliment, instead of Frol, on his papers. Evidently, your people passed him by without a second look. Ah, I understand he went to the trouble of making some minor changes in his facial appearance.”
“We'll expect your bill, Distelmayer,” Larry said. “Good-by.”
He got up and reached for his hat, saying to Irene Day, “I don't know how long I'll be gone.” He added, wryly, “If either Foster or the Boss try to get in touch with me, tell them I'm carrying out orders.”
He drove over to the Soviet Embassy, parked his car directly before the building.
The American plainclothesmen stationed near the entrance, gave him only a quick onceover as he passed. Inside the gates, the impassive Russian guards didn't bother to flicker an eyelid.
At the reception desk in the immense entrada, he identified himself. “I'd like to see Colonel Frol Eivazov.”
“I am afraid—” the clerk began stiffly.
“I suppose you have him on the records as Kliment Eivazov.”