"You did," the man called Tracy told him curtly, "but what alternative
was there? The fire will completely destroy the records. I have the
names and addresses of all the others connected with Freer Enterprises.
We'll have to arrange car accidents, that sort of thing."
The fat man's lips worked. "We can't get by with this indefinitely,
Frol. With such blatant tactics, sooner or later their C.I.A. or F.B.I.
is going to get wind of us."
Tracy came to his feet angrily. "What alternative have we? We've been
sent over here to do a job. We're doing it. If we're caught, who knows
better than we that we're expendable? If you don't mind, I'm going on
home."
As he left the office, through the secret door that led through the
innocuous looking garage, the man they called Frank Tracy was inwardly
thinking, "Zotov might be my superior, and a top man in the party, but
he's too soft for this job. Perhaps I'd better send a report back to
Moscow on him."