Текст книги "The Rainbow Affair"

Автор книги: David McDaniel

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THE RAINBOW AFFAIR

"Down went McGinty to the bottom of the sea,

Dressed in 'is best suit of clothes..."

THE BASS CLEARED HIS THROAT resoundingly and waved an empty mug, while the first baritone called for a refill on his mild 'n' bitter. Over the babble of conversation the occasional thonk of a dart into a board could be heard, and the blue haze of the atmosphere made the private booths across from the bar seem as distant as mountains. The floor was littered with sawdust and dropped aitches.

Heavy yellow fog pressed close against the leaded windows, as if staring jealously in at this island of roistering humanity that had shut out its noxious chill. Wisps of it swirled eagerly in as the oaken door swung open; they writhed about the thin legs and tweed-covered arms of the new arrival and slowly, reluctantly, dissipated in the cozy warmth which rose to greet them.

There was an almost imperceptible pause in the conversation, and a slightly lowered tone of voice as stubble-chinned faces turned from lifted mugs of frothing brown brew to flick an unobtrusive glance at the newcomer. His bowler hat, neatly brushed and impeccably blocked, was alone among the crowd of curly bare heads and flat caps; his gray suit was quite obviously from a very different section of the City indeed. His tightly rolled umbrella and thin briefcase gave the impression of a junior clerk who had somehow strayed onto an east bound tram at the end of the day's work instead of the westering one that would have taken him home.

Only his face gave the lie to the rest of his appearance. If he had ever been a junior clerk, it had been years ago. His eyes were mild, but utterly cold; his lips were relaxed, but razor-thin. His entire face was studiedly expressionless, and gave the feeling that it would remain so watching a nude woman, a Pacific sunset, a train wreck or a dying child.

He stepped lightly, almost mincingly, towards the bar, and the barmaid came to him. He leaned forward and murmured something the nearest listeners could not hear. The barmaid shook her head, and looked at him suspiciously.

"Yer got the wrong place, mate. I think yer got the wrong name, too."

The man in the gray suit shook his head. "Both the name and the place are correct." His speech was as carefully perfect as his clothing. He glanced down, and a slim finger darted towards a puddle on the polished wood surface of the bar. He drew four parallel arcs – quarters of concentric circles – and looked at her again. "I want to see Harry."

"Just 'oo d'yer think y'are, anyway?" she snapped, somewhat shaken, as she swiped a rag over the spilled beer, adding in a lower tone, "An' why should 'Arry want t' see yer?"

The stranger reached inside his overcoat and pulled out a flat case. It flicked open with his hand shielding it; the nearest watcher got only a glimpse of something black. This sharp-eyed gentleman, later questioned by curious contemporaries, claimed complete ignorance.

"'Twarn't a buzzer," he said, "'n' 'twarn't a pitcher. Just some kinda card." His curious contemporaries shook their collective heads, and had more ale.

The barmaid, however, did not shake her head. She looked down, then up, and her face grew tight.

"Not 'ere," she said, eyes darting left and right. "Narks an' busies, 'alf of 'em." Her exaggeration was forgivable; she added immediately, in her lowest tone, "Through the private bar, an' down the 'all. Second on the right, marked Private. Wait there."

And she was off with a flourish of skirts and a cluster of mugs to fill.

The man in the gray suit replaced the flat case and followed the muttered directions as if it were a ritual. The door of the private bar swung shut behind him, damping out the lessened chatter of the common room, and a beaded portier in atrocious taste tinkled as he pushed through it into a narrow, dimly lit hail.

The door marked Private was not locked. Inside, a sagging sofa, a ring-stained coffee table and a scarred desk, along with a few ill-assorted chairs, made up the total furnishing. Quite uncharacteristically, the walls were of fine dark oak paneling halfway to the ceiling. The visitor noted this, and his eyes narrowed slightly. He took a chair near the door, facing the unoccupied desk. He sat stiffly forward on the edge of his chair, his thin briefcase balanced upright on his knees, his umbrella hooked over his left arm. He did not move for some three minutes.

Neither did he move when a section of the paneling slid aside near the desk and a short, dark, stocky man stepped out. He was dressed in a style that could only be called "natty," but his face was marked with a vicious scar which ran from the bottom of one eye straight down the cheek past the corner of the mouth to his chin. He paused in the secret doorway a few seconds, studying his visitor, then grinned wolfishly.

"'Ow d'y'like it?" he asked proudly. "One o' the advantages y'don't find in modern office buildings." He pulled it closed behind him, and the edge was barely visible. "We took this place over from an ol' Chink used to run a pipe joint in the basement. Not many like it any more." He slouched into the padded chair behind the desk. "War took out a lot of 'em in this part o' town."

He paused and regarded his visitor intently for a few seconds, then said, "Well, if y' don't like small talk, what else can we do for ya?"

"Are you Dingo Harry?" The voice was cool and flat.

"They call me that sometimes; sometimes they call me worse." He grinned wolfishly and winked. "Expect y' know about that, too."

The man nodded. "You're the Head Surgeon in some quarters. But we are not interested in you. We are interested in a friend of yours – a man whom you occasionally represent. You know of whom I speak."

Harry registered ingenuous surprise and puzzlement. "I've done a spot of agenting from time to time, but nothing lately. I 'andled a nice line o' dancers for European, African and South American spots..."

"But the white slave racket isn't as profitable as it used to be. Surely your time is too valuable to allow its waste in such games. You know whom I represent; you know whom I wish to contact. I gave his name to your barmaid; if she did not relay it to you along with a description of my identification, she should be discharged."

"Now don't get your feathers ruffled. Let's just say I like to be careful. My friend is a very solitary chap; likes 'is privacy. 'Ates to 'ave salesmen beatin' at 'is door. 'E likes me to sort of 'andle 'is business in town, as it were. An' I 'ave 'is complete confidence. Anything y' want t' say to 'im, y' can say to me."

"Under the circumstances that would not be practical. I have been directed to deal only with him. Surely you know of the organization behind me; you know that we do not involve ourselves lightly with petty criminals..."

That touched a nerve. Harry's face hardened and be leaned forward over the desk, palms flat to either side. His voice was soft. "You seem to 'ave a slightly bent view of things, mate. I've 'eard some about you, and nothin' I've 'eard 'as mentioned anything near as big as our jobs. What 'ave you done in the last four years that people are still talkin' about? If that's petty, I'd like to know what you consider big!"

"Your friend's jobs are indeed far from petty. But it was his job, not yours."

Harry subsided slowly, leaning back once more in his chair. He did not answer.

"The only reason I am here," the visitor continued, "is that your friend has placed you quite firmly between himself and the rest of the world. It is to him and him alone that I would speak."

"Right, mate," said Harry. "'E placed me 'ere for 'is own reasons, and they're good enough for me. If 'e didn't want me blockin' people tryin' t' get to 'im, I wouldn't be 'ere. But since 'e did, I'm doin' my part."

The man in the gray suit shook his head slightly. "Your part does not include preventing anyone from contacting him. Surely there are provisions for establishing communications."

Harry smiled again, baring slightly yellowed fangs. "Of course there is, mate. You just leave me your card, an' I'll see to it that 'e's informed of your interest in 'is welfare. An' leave a phone number with it. If 'es interested, 'e'll give you a jingle."

The stranger looked closely at Harry for a moment, and apparently decided he could be pushed no further. He produced a business card and an elegantly slim silver pen, and scribbled something on the card before standing up and placing it on the desk.

Harry picked it up and glanced at it. It was black, and bore the strange emblem of a stylized bird in a fighting pose, claw lifted and hooked beak open. On the back was a telephone number. He nodded and tucked it in his coat pocket. "By the way," he said. "Don't call us – we'll call you."

But his visitor was gone, and the door stood slightly open. Harry did not grin as he got up to close it.

Out in the public bar only a few people noticed the man in the gray suit. The chorus was continuing to tune up and lubricate their pipes as he passed by; they looked up as the cold wet fog swirled forward to welcome him back to its embrace, then lifted their mugs and voices as the door thudded closed behind him.

"And 'e must be very wet, for 'e 'asn't come up yet – Dressed in 'is best suit of clothes!"

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Section I : "God Loves An Idle Rainbow"

Chapter 1: How Mister Waverly Spoke Severely of Rainbows, and Illya Remained Unimpressed.

Chapter 2: How Napoleon Commented on the Weather, and the C.I.D. Took a Firm Stand on the Subject of Rainbows.

Chapter 3: How Napoleon and Illya Toured Soho, and Two Other Gentlemen Debated at Length.

Chapter 4: How MI-5 Spoke Condescendingly of Its Rival, and Took an Opposing Stand on the Main Topic.

Section II : "Look Upon The Rainbow"

Chapter 5: How Illya Kuryakin Heard a Discourse on Weaponry, and A Good Time Was Had By All.

Chapter 6: How Napoleon Solo Declined an Honor, and Met an Exciting Young Lady.

Chapter 7: How Napoleon Lay Low, and a Little Old Lady Made Discreet Inquiries.

Chapter 8: How Illya Kuryakin Met and Spoke With a Remarkable Individual, and Was Allowed to Escape With His Life.

Section III: "Add Another Hue Unto The Rainbow"

Chapter 9: How Napoleon and Illya Met an Old Old Gentleman, and Had Several Obvious Things Pointed Out to Them.

Chapter 10: How the Heel Stone Proved an Achilles Heel, and Napoleon Solo Crossed Salisbury Plain on a Bicycle.

Chapter 11: How Napoleon and Illya Heard a Violin, and the Old Old Gentleman Spoke of Bees, Drugs, Death and Other Mysteries.

Chapter 12: How Illya Discovered the Pleasures of Seafaring, and Napoleon Solo Sought a Rainbow in the Midst of a Storm.

Section IV "The Rainbow Comes and Goes"

Chapter 13: How A Lighthouse Proved Larger Within Than Without, and Napoleon and Illya Became Unexpected Guests.

Chapter 14: How The Man In The Gray Suit Appeared Once More, and a Treaty of Necessity Was Made.

Chapter 15: How Napoleon and Illya Departed Precipitously, and the Dawn Truly Came Up Like Thunder.

Chapter 16: How Napoleon and Illya Made Their Farewells, and The Rainbow Faded for a Time.

Section I : "God Loves An Idle Rainbow"

Chapter 1

How Mister Waverly Spoke Severely of Rainbows, and Illya Kuryakin Remained Unimpressed.

THE ANCIENT PROJECTOR clattered and buzzed in the darkened room, sending an almost solid beam of flickering light through the curls of smoke to splatter brilliantly on the far wall. There unsteady shapes of gray and white came and went – a city street, far away in both time and space from its intent watchers. A blocky streetcar started and stopped, passing an improbable line of laden camels. A fezzed water-seller smiled into the camera and held out a cup.

An ornate title flashed on the screen: "IN EXOTIC CAIRO, WHERE EAST MEETS WEST." In a few seconds it was replaced by another shot of an open plaza, where white– robed Arabs strolled among business-suited Europeans, and squarish automobiles moved jerkily about the back ground.

"Here he comes," said a voice out of the darkness near the projector. "Screen left, fairly close."

A few seconds later a slender young man with a neatly pointed beard came into view. He was impeccably attired in a frock coat and striped trousers, with spatter-dashes protecting his shoes and a top hat at a precise angle on his head. He sported a cane, and walked with a noticeable limp.

"That's him," said the voice. "Just a second..."

The young man approached the camera diagonally, utterly unaware of its scrutiny. He was no more than ten feet away when he paused suddenly and looked directly at it. For a moment he held his position, and his image froze in that fraction of time. The grain of the old film seemed to solidify from its Brownian dance, and the lean handsome face it had captured stared aggressively at them, as if poised for a scathing insult.

"There he is," said the voice. "Cairo, in 1923. A travelogue photographer by the name of Devlin was shooting a film on the mysterious Middle East. He probably never had the least idea of the mystery he actually caught a corner of."

Napoleon Solo looked at the face projected upon the wall and nodded. "You're positive of the identification?"

"Reasonably, considering Devlin was unconcerned with getting signed releases, and considering the fact that this was shot almost forty-five years ago. You've seen him – do you think that's Baldwin?"

Solo turned to the shadowy figure in the next seat to his. "What do you think, Illya? Is that him?"

The Russian's soft voice answered hesitantly. "Well, he had all his hair then. The film is too grainy to get any good Bertillion comparisons. But the basic shape of his face is the same, and from what I could see of his right ear it's the proper type. And of course there's the limp... I would say, under the circumstances – since Section Four seems fairly certain – that probably is Ward Baldwin."

There was a moment's silence, then the projectionist asked, "Shall I go on?"

"I think so," said Napoleon.

The projector's whirr came up to speed and the clattering racket began as the figure came to life again and hastily averted his face as he walked off the right side of the frame. The bustling plaza was replaced by another title introducing the Pyramids, and the travelogue continued.

At last a full profile of the enigmatic face of the Sphinx looking out over the sands of the ancient desert faded, and "THE END" wrote itself across the screen. The light died, and the noise of the projector ground to a stop as the fluorescents in the room flickered and came on.

Napoleon blinked at the sudden illumination, and turned to his partner, who was looking at him with a slightly puzzled expression.

"Really, Napoleon, I am impressed with our Intelligence section. But why the interest in what Ward Baldwin looked like in 1923?"

Solo shrugged uncertainly. "Call it a hunch. We're going to be running into that limping devil again some time – I'm sure of it. And I want to know everything about him. That's why I've had this order in with Section Four for the last year and a half – right, John?"

The projectionist, a graying bespectacled man, nodded and grinned. "Anything at all connected with Ward Baldwin, head of Thrush Satrap in San Francisco, gets relayed to you. And frankly, there hasn't been much. Finding this piece of film was a fluke."

"That's okay – flukes pay off. As we used to say, Luck Counts."

"You should know that better than anyone, Napoleon," said Illya good naturedly.

Solo smiled, his long face creasing into its most innocently boyish expression. "It's my greatest talent," he said modestly. "Call it luck, talent, or magic – as long as I can depend on it, I'm bulletproof." His face grew more serious. "And I've always been able to depend on it, except during that DAGGER affair a couple years ago. And Baldwin was all over that."

Illya permitted himself a low, Slavic chuckle. "You think he's a jinx? And if you can figure him out enough, he won't be able to bother you?"

Napoleon frowned thoughtfully. "Maybe so. Maybe so. But I know we're going to run into him again. And there just might be something, somewhere, we can use as a lever against him."

A bell chimed softly, and Napoleon picked up a telephone handset beside his chair. "Solo here... Okay. Be right up." He replaced the intercom and rose. "Mister Kuryakin, we're needed. Upstairs, and it sounds like an assignment."

The projectionist looked up from his rewinding reels. "Will you want a blowup of that frame?"

"No, I don't think so. Thanks anyway. Just don't lose it – we may need it someday." He paused. "I can't imagine for what, but we may."

They stepped out into the corridor side by side and strode towards an elevator. "So Baldwin was in Cairo in 1923," Napoleon said under his breath. "I wonder what he was doing there."

"Why don't you ask him?" said Illya. "You've got his address and telephone in the files."

Napoleon paused and looked at him. "Do you really think he'd tell me if I asked him?"

"He might. You could wait until we encounter him professionally, but on the other hand he might not be on speaking terms with us then."

Solo nodded. "What a shame he's on the wrong side." Illya smiled slightly. "You may remember he said the same about us. I suppose it's all how you look at it."

The metal doors hissed closed behind them, and a few seconds later opened again on another floor. They proceeded down the grim gray corridors, passing through banks of the most sophisticated security devices known to electronic science, to an otherwise undistinguished door. It slid open, revealing a large, high-ceilinged room with a huge world map on one wall, a complex communications console on another, tall narrow windows on a third, and a large round table dominating the floor. Across the table from them, Alexander Waverly looked up as they stepped into the room and the door slid closed behind them.

"Mr. Solo – Mr. Kuryakin – please be seated." He placed two manila folders bearing the skeleton-globe insignia of U.N.C.L.E. on the edge of the table and gave it a turn. The two agents picked up the folders as they came by and opened them.

As they did so their chief spoke again. "A week ago yesterday the firm of N. M. Rothschild and Sons, merchant bankers, was robbed of a quantity of gold bars worth just over two million dollars. The particulars on this affair are the first item in the folder before you. As you will observe, the loot consisted of more than a ton and a half of pure gold in one hundred and forty-four bars. Not the sort of prize one can conveniently carry off in a Gladstone bag, conceal in a rental locker, or bury in the back yard."

Illya leafed through the stapled sheets of paper, then looked up. "Impressive," he said. "But does it fall within our province?"

"Thrush has been developing a taste for large quantities of pure gold lately," Napoleon suggested. "It has a certain advantage in international trade, as well as being practically impossible to trace."

"While the possibility still exists," Waverly said, "Thrush has been tentatively absolved of this particular job. The modus operandi bears striking similarity to several robberies in the last few years, not all of which have been awarded the publicity attendant upon this one. An absolute minimum of violence; a perfectly planned, timed and coordinated operation on a scale which would daunt most thieves; and loot which would present an insoluble difficulty of disposal to any but the best organized gang with secure international connections."

"The Great Train Robbery," said Napoleon, his voice supplying the capital letters deserved by the largest successful haul in modem history.

Waverly nodded. "And a few others. The Royal Mail job certainly is the best-known, and it is, as far as we can tell, only the second of the robberies which are of interest in this case. You will find details on that operation as the second item in your folders."

He paused while both agents examined the second sheaf of pages. Again Illya spoke first. "Without intending to appear facetious, under the circumstances, sir, isn't this properly the concern of Scotland Yard, or at best, of Interpol?"

"Until now," said Waverly, "it has been. Both organizations, admirable as they are, have been making only slight headway for almost four years."

"Sir," said Napoleon, "what is special about this gold heist that deserves our attention?"

"A moment please, Mr. Solo. You will note there is a third item in your folder. Allow me to give you the back ground on it. Evidence has been accumulating in certain areas that there is, as suspected, a single mind be hind these operations. A cashiered ex-British army officer, known only by the code name of Johnnie Rainbow."

"Johnnie Rainbow?" said Illya, studying the third sheaf of pages. "An unlikely name."

"An unlikely individual," said Waverly. "Probably one of the finest criminal minds of the last fifty years."

"But hardly our concern," said Illya. "I realize I am in no position to make suggestions on matters of policy to the head of Section One, but it seems to me that if we turned out after every bank robber in the world we'd never have time to save civilization. Local crime should be left to local authorities, regardless of their effectiveness."

Napoleon started to object. "But this isn't just any bank robber, Illya. He's in a class by himself, you might say."

"He's just a bigger and better bank robber, in other words." Illya frowned slightly. "You're part of Policy Section, Napoleon. If your section thinks we should chase after a bank robber, I'll go. But it's scarcely what I signed on for."

"It's scarcely what you will be doing, Mr. Kuryakin," said Waverly with just a hint of asperity creeping into his voice. "For one thing, the loot from the Royal Mail is unrecoverable – our sources indicate that the bulk of it not only left England within a year after the robbery, but has now returned to England through untraceable and unimpeachable legal channels. To save you the trouble of looking it up on page sixteen of the report before you, it was shipped out of the country bit by bit in the diplomatic pouches of a certain middle-Eastern nation which is badly in need of hard currency, in return for their government bonds which have since been disposed of on the open market, and the profits therefrom parceled out to the men who actually pulled the robbery, or in some cases spent to free them from prison and remove them to a place of safety. Scotland Yard has not been completely ineffectual – almost half of the train jobbers have been detained, at least temporarily. Only last fall Buster Edwards was arrested in connection with the job; I believe he is still in custody, but for how long no one-can tell.

"The point I want to make is this: the men who did he physical work of the robbery could scarcely have disposed of the loot themselves. They instead trusted it to Johnnie Rainbow. Any man capable of commanding this degree of loyalty is well worth a second look. Secondly, and finally, our sources in England indicate that Rainbow's recent and continual successes have attracted the attention of another group, one in which we are vitally interested."

Napoleon looked up from his study of the Rainbow dossier. "Since so much seems to be known about Johnnie, what is preventing the Yard from giving him a complete going over?"

Waverly smiled wryly. "An unfortunate skepticism. The Criminal Investigation Division of Scotland Yard has yet to be convinced of the actual existence of Johnnie Rainbow. The information on him was developed by a retired Superintendent of Detectives through his own personal sources, and since the data did not come through officially recognized channels the Yard has felt justified in discounting it, at least so far."

Illya cleared his throat and spoke thoughtfully. "Rainbow is a brilliant criminal, able to command great loyalty and presumably respect from his workers. He probably has quite a personal fortune stowed away by this time. But his work is confined to England, although he has wide international contacts. Would it perhaps be reasonable to suppose that he has attracted the attention of Thrush?"

"Exactly," said Waverly. "Thrush has begun to woo Mr. Rainbow with offers we can only begin to guess. If you will check page three of the dossier on the recent gold robbery, you will find that the guards were incapacitated with guns which squirted a blinding spray. There is an excellent chance that these guns were supplied to the Rainbow gang by Thrush.

"Involving as they do the utilization of international exchange, the crimes already have international implications. The criminal himself has a great deal more. Were Thrush to succeed in winning him to their camp, we could foresee the police of the world baffled, the treasury of Thrush enriched many times over, and robberies worthy of the imagination of a pulp novelist being implemented daily."

"What exactly is our assignment, then? To help the Yard find Rainbow, to find him ourselves, to lop off whatever arm of Thrush is beckoning him, or a combination?"

"All three, if possible. The last has priority; as has been pointed out, the local authorities generally prefer to retain responsibility in their own area. If you can lead them to Rainbow and then step out of the scene as they arrest him, well and good."

He tossed the familiar slim envelopes on the table and spun them to their recipients. "Here are your tickets from Kennedy International to London. On arrival you will cheek in with New Scotland Yard – and remember, they've moved to a new address – but don't expect too much cooperation. Accept whatever they're willing to offer, and then continue on your own. We have little to go on here, frankly; you will doubtless be improvising as you go." He swiveled his chair back towards his desk and reached for the humidor.

Napoleon and Illya stood, the Russian still with a trace of a scowl. Waverly, without turning around, spoke again. "If you have any further comments, Mr. Kuryakin, please don't hesitate to make them."

"Well," said Illya reluctantly, "I still can't feel too impressed by a mere bank robber."

Waverly tamped his pipe calmly. "Understandable, Mr. Kuryakin. I suggest you study his dossier tonight. You may have a different feeling towards him when you have done so." He struck a match and listened as the steel door sighed closed behind his two agents.

Chapter 2

How Napoleon Commented on the Weather, and the C.I.D. Took a Firm Stand on the Subject of Rainbows.

THE PLANE CAME down out of the fog, tiny streaks of water flicking across the windows, with gray wisps of limbo wrapping themselves around the sleek steel body. Its wheels touched the runway, screeched and smoked as the thunder of the jets rose to a scream of reversed thrust, bounced and rolled along the dark wet tarmac.

Inside the jet, Napoleon looked out the small round window next to his head. "Ah," he said. "London."

Illya looked past his shoulder to where the wing disappeared into the gray nothingness that cloaked the plane. "How can you tell?"

"I have a boundless faith in Trans World Airlines, Illya. They told us we were going to London, and since we have arrived somewhere, I can only presume..."

The plane rolled to a stop, and a stewardess came up the aisle to open the forward hatch. The two U.N.C.L.E. agents were among the first out, and were greeted with a freezing drizzle as they stepped onto the top of the wheeled stairs. Napoleon hunched his shoulders and turned up his collar. "Ah, to be in April," he said wryly, "now that England's here."

"Cheer up," said Illya as they hurried towards the warmth of the customs house, "It was probably worse in April."

At three the following afternoon, they entered an outer office at Scotland Yard. A uniformed constable had guided them through the maze of concrete, steel and glass, having to stop twice himself to check wall-mounted directories. He was quite candid in his admission – "We still haven't really gotten settled in, sir. It's a much larger place than the old Yard, and I'm afraid it'll take some getting used to."

Napoleon was frankly lost after the first few minutes. He half suspected Illya might be as well, but the Russian would never have admitted it. The building was beautiful, in a sleek, shiny way, but somehow it seemed to clash with the traditionally uniformed officers who moved about its corridors, looking more like costumed extras on a futuristic movie set than the enforcement arm of one of the world's most highly regarded civilian police forces.

The trim girl in a feminized version of the same uniform sat behind a sleek desk, and looked up as they entered.

"Solo and Kuryakin," Napoleon said as they came in. "Here to see Inspector West."

"He's occupied at the moment," she said. "I'll tell him you're here." She ticked a tab on a shiny intercom unit, and a voice answered faintly. "The men from U.N.C.L.E. are here, sir."

"Excellent," said the other end. "Send them right in. Oh, see that Claude gets the latest additions to the Rollison file, will you?"

"Certainly, sir."

The inner door opened and a stomach walked out, closely followed by a red-faced man carrying a bowler hat. He glanced at them sleepily as he paused by the desk, and as the secretary flipped through a drawer he unpackaged a stick of gum and engulfed it.

Solo and his partner stepped through the still-open door into a crisply furnished office which still smelled slightly of paint. Behind the desk a remarkably handsome man rose to greet them.

"Mr. Solo – Mr. Kuryakin," he said, shaking hands warmly. "I'm honored. Your reputations have preceded you."

Illya smiled as he accepted a chair. "You are well known to us, too, Inspector. Our superiors think highly of you – one reason we were sent here."

The Inspector's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "Yes – I'm afraid the subject of your mission has also preceded you. It's about this Rainbow nonsense, isn't it?"

"It is in regard to Johnnie Rainbow, Inspector," said Napoleon. "But, ah, our sources consider it to be quite a bit more than nonsense. Data on Johnnie and his activities have been correlated from several directions."