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.