Текст книги "[Magazine 1967-­05] - The Synthetic Storm Affair "

Автор книги: I. G. Edmonds

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ACT VI: WATERLOO?

After thanking the boys for their help, Napoleon Solo promised them they would be receiving an official letter from Mr. Waverly. Then he and Illya Kuryakin took Lupe into the dead Maxwell Martin's car.

Solo made quite a show of holding the gun on the girl to keep her from escaping. She looked at it and shuddered.

"M-must you point that terrible thing at me?" she said.

Solo smiled.

"I'm sure you aren't tough enough to overpower both of us," he said.

He slipped the .38 special into his pocket. This was his own gun, the one he had fouled when he struck the guard and the cab driver. The.45 he took from the guard was passed to Illya, who slipped in the front to drive the car.

"Please!" Lupe said breathlessly. "Things are not the way they seem. I know it seems to your Mr. Solo—"

"Kuryakin," Illya said wearily.

"—Mr. Kuryakin that I was aiding Mr. Martin," she went on. "But it isn't true. You see, I knew what they did to Dr. Santos-Lopez. I had to play along with them to protect myself. I was just trying to find out how they are able to generate these terrible storms. Then I intended to call the police."

"I hope your story checks out, Miss de Rosa," Napoleon said. "Of course that is outside our department."

She leaned breathlessly close to him. In the front seat Illya watched her performance with a cynical eye.

"But you believe me, don't you?" she whispered.

Her hand touched his arm in a pleading manner.

Illya Kuryakin watching in the rear view mirror, smiled cynically as her hand dropped suddenly, grabbing the unworkable gun from Solo's pocket.

She jumped back against the opposite side of the car, shakily pointing the gun in a wavering arc that included both Kuryakin in the front seat and solo across from her.

"Stop the car!" she snapped.

Illya braked to a stop. Watching her closely, Napoleon wondered if they were doing right in letting her get away.

"Get out of the car!" she snapped to both men. "Get out or I'll shoot."

Solo hesitated, but Kuryakin said, "Come on, Napoleon. You've met your Waterloo!"

"What's that? What's that?" the girl cried in a strangled voice. "How did you know—"

She broke off. "Move faster!" she said through clinched teeth. "I haven't got time to fool with you now!"

The two men stepped down to the curb. They stared after the car as she sped off. Napoleon looked at Illya in surprise.

"What brought on that last outburst?" he asked.

"You got me," Kuryakin said. "Apparently she has a phobia about the word Waterloo. I don't know why she should be bothered by it. If I recall correctly, that was where another Napoleon took his worst defeat. The word should bother you, not her."

"Remember this letting her go was you idea," Solo said. "I'm beginning to wonder if she is safe to let run around. For my money she is a genuine kook."

"I don't know," Illya said thoughtfully. "I just hope those two keep her in sight."

"They're good men, both of them. They caught my signal as she pulled away. They'll do as good a job sticking to her as we could. Better, perhaps. She knows us and they are strangers to her—I hope."

"What do we do now?" Illya asked.

"I'll call Mr. Waverly."

He tuned in the pen-communicator and reported their actions to the U.N.C.L.E. chief. Waverly gave them instant approval of their gambit in permitting the Storm Girl to "escape."

"Mr. Kuryakin is right," Waverly said. "We have no lead to the THRUSH cell operating this storm generator. This girl should be able to lead us to them."

"I hope so," Napoleon said. "But I keep remembering the cool, smart way that girl reacted when it looked like our plane was going down in that hurricane. She has brains and courage. We must not underestimate her."

"I agree, Mr. Solo." Alexander Waverly's calm voice said.

"And, sir—" Illya put in.

"Yes, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Does the word 'Waterloo,' in connection with this case, mean anything to you, sir?"

Just the faintest note of surprise broke the calmness of the U.N.C.L.E. chief's voice. "As a matter of fact, Mr. Kuryakin, it does!"

"What is it, Mr. Waverly?" Solo put in. "Illya mentioned the name as a pun on my own name. This girl, Lupe de Rosa, seemed quite disturbed by it."

"I fancy she might well be," Waverly said. "Let the New York unit keep track of Miss de Rosa. You gentlemen report to me here as U.N.C.L.E. headquarters as rapidly as possible! Our situation is growing more grave by the second. It is far worse than when I spoke to you at the airport. We have received additional information that indicates THRUSH is ready to strike!"

TWO

After they broke their connection with Waverly, the two men from U.N.C.L.E. walked soberly to the main intersection, where they stopped at a drugstore to phone for a taxi.

Neither of the spoke much on the drive over to Manhattan. They were both deep in thought most of the time, trying to piece together the puzzling series of facts they faced these last twenty-four hours.

They dismissed the taxi in the lower fifties and headed in a fast walk back toward the United Nations building towering darkly against the night sky by the East River.

But instead of continuing on, they made a sharp turn and walked past a whitestone building in the middle of the long block.

A tailor shop was still open in the basement. Solo said to his friend, "We look a sight. We'd better get a press before we report to the boss."

Illya Kuryakin nodded. The two turned and went down the short flight of steps. Solo pushed open the door marked "Del Floria—Tailor" and the two went in. A little man past middle age rubbed his hands on his tailor's apron and nodded to the two.

The two men walked to the back of the shop. They entered a small dressing room and let the curtain drop behind them. They paused for a moment while a cleverly concealed electronic eye scanned them. Then the back of the dressing room wall swung in. Napoleon and Illya stepped out of the old world tailor shop into a modern, well appointed reception office.

A smiling girl at the desk asked them to place their hands on a frosted glass on her desk. She pressed a button and their prints were electronically verified from master records in the banks of computers jammed in the long steel corridors of the ultra-modern offices hidden behind the prosaic whitestone front.

Only after a verification signal from the identifications computer buzzed on her desk, did the admissions clerk give each of the two men a peculiarly shaped triangular badge to pin to their lapel. Electronic scanners would instantly sound an alarm if anyone not wearing the U.N.C.L.E. badge tried to enter any of the hundreds of top secret rooms in the headquarters.

They walked down the gleaming hall to an elevator. They took it to a top floor, walking across to a door whose oak appearance was a clever lamination. It was actually solid steel.

Solo pressed a recessed button beside the door. There was a faint buzz inside, as scanners checked their identity. The door slid noiselessly into its recess.

Across the room Alexander Waverly sat behind a desk that was in reality an elaborate communications console. At a flick of any of the rainbow colored buttons he could put himself in contact with any of the world-wide network of U.N.C.L.E. operatives.

He was watching a TV screen set in the desk. He did not look up, but said, "This will interest you. It is the aftermath of the storm that almost got you!"

Waverly pressed a button. The picture was transferred from his private screen to a giant one revealed in the opposite end of the room as the wall rolled back in obedience to his electronic command.

"This is the Bahamas after this freak storm struck it," Waverly said, motioning toward the screen.

The two men saw what appeared to be view of an island from a low flying airplane. The island was a wreck. Docks were smashed. Boats were driven as much as a half mile inland. Palms were stripped and houses were smashed like kindling wood. As far as the eye could see there was death and destruction.

"We can expect a similar disaster along the entire Pacific and Atlantic coasts," Mr. Waverly said. "I have been discussing the possibilities with meteorologists. They tell me that if a series of storms as ferocious as this one struck at strategic points about the world, it would bring the entire earth's governments to a standstill."

"Do we have any indication of THRUSH's intentions, sir?" Solo asked as the screen went dark. He and Illya Kuryakin turned to face the grim faced man behind the communications console desk.

Waverly thoughtfully rubbed the bowl of an unlighted pipe against the sleeve of his tweed jacket.

"Yes," he said slowly. "Our sources within THRUSH informs us that the plan is to throw a chain of these monstrous disturbances at the United States, Europe, and Asia. England, France, the Netherlands, the Mediterranean countries, India and Japan are expected to take the worst of the strike. All the storms will hit simultaneously."

Solo said, his face mirroring the horror he felt, "We can expect two billion people to die. That is more than have died in all the wars ever fought since the beginning of history!"

Waverly got up suddenly and strode to the large window. He stood for a long moment staring out over the lights of Manhattan. He whirled to face his two agents.

"Gentlemen, I am not sure you realize fully what this can mean. You feel that these steel and concrete monsters our architects have raised can withstand the fury of any storm.

"You are right. They can. But if twenty storms the strength of this latest one were to strike twenty separate spots about the globe at the same time, it would lash the seven seas into such a fury that tidal waves would be monstrous.

"Typhoons and hurricanes are ocean storms. That many simultaneous cyclones would pile up tidal waves so high water would pour through these man-made canyons to a height of twenty feet at least!"

"Don't we have any leads?" Illya asked, the edge in his voice mirroring his growing desperation. "What do our—sources in THRUSH tell us."

"Only that the cyclonic weapons is being handled by a special cell. Nobody can tell us where or how it operates," Waverly said in a resigned voice. "This girl, Lupe de Rosa, is our only solid lead. And it is possible we may have another very slender one in—the Waterloo."

"What is the Waterloo?" Napoleon asked.

"It is a ship—a private sea-going yacht," the U.N.C.L.E. chief said. "We do not know for sure that it is connected with these storms, but it was observed on the fringes of two which sprung up unexpectedly in the Pacific. It is possible that this ship was directing the storm's movement. We are not sure, however."

"Could we ask the Coast Guard to stop and inspect it?"

"It is not registered under the flag of any country with which we have official contact," Waverly said. "To board this ship without permission of the country involved is piracy under the laws of the high seas. You will recall that the American War of Eighteen Hundred and Twelve was fought over the principle of one country inspecting the ships of another."

"Have we contacted this country for permission?"

"Yes—and was refused."

"Is this the same country where THRUSH headquarters is located?"

"Yes!"

"Then that would indicated definite grounds for your suspicions," Solo said.

"It does. Therefore, Mr. Napoleon Solo, your next job is to find out what is happening on the Waterloo."

He turned to Illya. "Mr. Kuryakin, your job is to follow this girl who knows so much about storms. It is my supposition that she will eventually contact the Waterloo. At this point you will team with Mr. Solo to fight a new Battle of Waterloo. At that time we will have at your disposal the entire resources of U.N.C.L.E. This threat is that important."

"Very well, sir," Solo said, getting up.

"The Waterloo last made port in Honolulu," Waverly said. "I suggest your start there. See if you can pick up any information that might have been inadvertently dropped by any member of its crew."

"With his luck," Illya said with a grimace, "he'll run into a grass-skirted hula girl who has all the information. While I'll be tangling with a girl who goes around hitting me on the head with a gun—when she isn't trying to shoot me!"

A red light flashed on the emergency circuit on Alexander Waverly's desk.

"Yes? Waverly here."

The two men saw their chief's face grow bleak. Waverly hunched forward in his chair. His hands clinched momentarily into white-knuckled fists before he got command of himself. Then he leaned back in his chair, once more the human machine who directed the world's greatest crime fighting organization.

Solo and Kuryakin waited tensely. On emergency calls the first call came on a secret earphone monitor so that no one could hear expect the chief himself.

Waverly, after his first review, touched a switch which opened the circuit to a loud speaker so his two top men could hear.

"How could something like that possibly happen?" Waverly said.

"She just outsmarted us, is all I can say, sir," the unhappy reporting voice said. "We followed her to Manhattan. She registered at the hotel and then went to a late movie. We followed her inside. She went to the ladies room on the mezzanine floor and did not come out."

"So?" Waverly said.

"We got the janitoress to investigate for us. Apparently Miss de Rosa climbed out the window which the theater staff uses to change the billing."

"At this time of night there are not many people on the streets," Waverly said. "A pretty girl like her would certainly attract attention walking alone. Call in all the assistance you need. We must find her!"

"Well, she didn't go on the street," the agent said, his voice sounding even more unhappy. "She came back into the theater and went into the ladies room on the ground floor. There we found her dress and the broken tooth of a comb. From this we surmise that she changed clothes and altered her hairdo. It is quite possible she walked right past us without any of us being aware of it."

Waverly leaned back and sighed.

"There goes our best lead!" he said bitterly. "If the Waterloo lead frizzles out, we really are in a fix!"

ACT VII: GIRL IN THE DARK

For the next five minutes, Alexander Waverly sat hunched over his control panel, issuing a string of orders that diverted the world-wide facilities of U.N.C.L.E. to cope with this new emergency.

Every international airline office was covered, both in the United States and abroad. A complete physical description of the girl was transmitted. Each operative had orders to get a voice sample of any woman who outwardly resembled the fugitive in the slightest manner. This was to be transmitted immediately to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, where it would be transcribed into a voiceprint for comparison with the master prints of Lupe de Rosa's voice.

In the meantime teams of investigators tried to track down any person who may have seen a woman leaving the Broadway theater at about one in the morning.

Dozens of leads turned up and were proven false. Hundreds of voice prints poured into U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. In no case did the jagged oscillograph lines match those on file of Lupe de Rosa.

Both Solo and Illya were anxious to join the search, but Waverly insisted on keeping them with him. Than after an hour he sent them down to the headquarters dormitory to get some rest. Because of the excitement and urgency, both had difficulty getting asleep. They had just managed to drop off when Waverly summoned them again.

They found the U.N.C.L.E. chief standing at the window looking out over the dawning skyline of the city. He turned when they entered.

"We have not been successful," Waverly said, coming back and seating himself at the console desk. "That leaves us only one alternative. We must proceed according to the law of probabilities."

Illya grimaced. To him this reliance on mechanical computers to analyze a situation and give a probable answer based on the evidence was little better than a hunch. Although he had seen it work many times, he was never fully convinced that they would not sooner or later come to disaster by relying on what he called "the might-to-be."

Waverly caught the twist of the little man's face.

"Do you have a better suggestion, Mr. Kuryakin?" he asked.

"No, sir, not at the moment," Illya said.

"Then proceeding on the probabilities is better than not proceeding, isn't it?" Waverly asked.

"Yes, sir," Illya said, but his voice still held an element of doubt.

"Well, I have had all the known facts about this synthetic storm affair fed into the computers. This includes all the data we have on what appears to have been THRUSH's tests, all the information and rumors we have picked up from our spy sources within THRUSH, and all known information on Miss de Rosa. We also fed in what little we know about the Waterloo."

"And the answer, sir?" Napoleon asked. He had much more faith in the law of probabilities than his friend.

"The computer indicates that there has been more activity in the Atlantic than in the Pacific. This indicates that THRUSH has not been as successful in breeding typhoons as they have in originating hurricanes. They are the same, of course, except one originates in a different section of the globe. This trouble may arise from some climatic condition in the Pacific which is giving THRUSH trouble.

"The computer then gives us the probability that THRUSH will shift its full operations to the Pacific to solve this problem. It is essential to any storm-weapon plan that THRUSH be able to strike simultaneously all over the world. The probability also is that Miss de Rosa will go immediately to join the Waterloo."

"Is there any indication what this girl's role is exactly?" Solo asked.

"None," Waverly said. "As Santos-Lopez's assistant, she presumably knows a lot about his work in destroying storms."

He got up and faced his two top agents. "Gentlemen, you will leave for Honolulu immediately. I'll expect a report from you from there at three this afternoon."

"Three!" Illya said. "That's impossible. The—"

"Mr. Kuryakin!" Waverly said severely, "Impossible is a perfectly good word for anyone except an employee of U.N.C.L.E.!"

"Yes, sir!" Illya said.

Waverly extended his hand, first to one of the men and then to the other.

"Good-by—and good luck!"

In the hall Illya said to Solo, "You're the brains of this team. How do we get to Honolulu by three? By taking a helicopter to Kennedy International Airport we can just make connections on a jet to San Francisco. But what do we do there? I'm familiar with the schedules on Honolulu flights. We'll have a two hour layover in Frisco."

"Don't hand me your problems!" Napoleon retorted. "You are supposed to make the 'difference,' aren't you?"

"It's your problem as well as mine!"

"Is it?" Napoleon said with a smile. "It seems to me that Mr. Waverly told you to report at three. He said nothing about me."

In San Francisco the two men from U.N.C.L.E. went directly to the airline ticket counter to check their reservations for the first flight out to Hawaii.

"I'm sorry," the young lady behind the counter said, "but your reservations were cancelled from New York."

"When Waverly pulls a joke to relieve the tension, he doesn't know when to stop," Illya complained. "What do we do now?"

"Excercise your ingenuity, as Waverly would say. Don't worry me with your problems. You have to make the three o'clock report."

"I don't—"

"Are you Mr. Kuryakin?"

Illya turned. A young man in the uniform of a technical sergeant in the U.S. Air Force was at his elbow.

"Yes," Illya said brightening. "And which general are you?"

He smiled. "You're early by a few years. It takes a while to become a general. We are holding a plane for you. A Mr. Waverly, who really must be some big shot to arrange this, made a request through the department of defense for us to wait for you."

Illya Kuryakin looked crossly over at Napoleon Solo, who grinned back.

"He could have told us and saved me a lot of worry," he said.

"Just Waverly's idea of a joke. A tension reliever, you know!"

"Well, I didn't have any tension until he started that report-by-three stuff. You know Waverly never says anything even as a joke unless he means it. When he said report by three, he meant it."

"Let's not keep the sergeant waiting," Napoleon said.

They followed the airman out to an Air Force jet bomber. They learned from the pilot that it had been in the States for installation of weather equipment. It and the crew were being transferred to Hawaii to fly weather reconnaissance.

"Are you what they call hurricane hunters?" Illya asked.

"No," the pilot said. "Hawaii is outside the typhoon belt. Our job will be chart air masses below Hawaii and off the usual line of air traffic. Airline planes send back sufficient weather reports along their route, but we'll be covering an area where there is practically no air traffic."

"Why do that?" Illya asked.

"Several storms apparently popped up unexpectedly in that area recently," the pilot said. "Nobody knows why. We are supposed to look into it. Probably some freak atmospheric condition."

"Probably," Solo said and looked at his companion.

TWO

On the flight over to Honolulu, both men spent all their time with the crew's weather observer. By the time the weather plane's wheels touched down at Honolulu International Airport, they both had a thorough working knowledge of typhoons and tropical storms.

It was exactly three when they walked into the terminal at the air base. Illya Kuryakin stepped into a phone booth for cover and used his communicator to send a report of their arrival to Waverly in New York.

"Excellent," the U.N.C.L.E. chief said. "I have additional information for you. We have just received a fix on the Waterloo. It is just above the equator in the central Pacific. Apparently it is heading toward either the Ellice Islands or the Gilberts. However, the Pacific in this area is studded with tiny atolls, many inhabited by natives and many barren."

"Then the ship could be headed for some secret THRUSH station on one of these tiny islands," Illya said.

"It is possible. Arrangements have been made for the U.S. Navy and the U.S. Air Force to step up their weather flights into this area. Although there are no storms reported in the vicinity of the Waterloo, we want to keep a close eye on the ship's activity."

Illya gave Napoleon a terse summary of Waverly's report. Solo grunted.

"Well, I guess this is where the trail forks, as they say in those Western movies on the TV late show," he said. "I've got to hunt for a ship while you get to trail a pretty girl. It's obvious which of us Waverly is partial to!"

Illya Kuryakin grinned. "He just recognizes talent when he sees it," he said. "He knows what each of us does best."

The two men met the next evening to compare notes. Illya reported a complete blank on the girl. He found evidence that four separate women who might have been her landed at Honolulu International Airport. Two checked out to be vacationing school teachers. One left by another flight to Bali, while the fourth apparently disappeared.

"If it were me, I'd forget the disappearing dame," Solo said. "I'd check out those two school teachers. This is October. It's a peculiar time for school teachers to be vacationing."

"I did," Illya Kuryakin said ruefully. "One turned out to be a private detective chasing an errant husband. The other is a disguised woman reporter chasing the same story but for a different reason."

"Oh!" Solo said.

"See, what did I tell you? Leave the woman to me."

"Apparently so," Solo said sadly. He had just smiled at a pretty girl in a trim airline stewardess uniform and gotten a frosty stare. "Chasin 'shes' with stately lines and sails doesn't seem to be in my line either. All I can learn is that the Waterloo put in here a month ago for refueling. The crew was exceptionally close-mouthed. I've been unable to find anyone who has any idea what the ship is up to."

"Well, tomorrow's another day," Illya said. "I'm going to check the steamship lines in the morning. We get in such a habit of flying we forget there are ships. This stormy kid could have taken a boat."

"Boy!" Napoleon said with mock admiration. "Are you smart!"

Suddenly Illya leaned forward. They were seated on a lanai ringed with flickering luau torches. He shaded his eyes with his hand to keep the light out of his eyes. Solo turned to see what his companion was staring at. The lanai with its thatched palm roof fronted on Waikiki's Kalakaua Avenue. All he could see was the rear view of a shapely woman going away from them.

"Don't be so obvious in your girl watching, chum," he said reprovingly.

"There's something decidedly familiar! I'll be back as soon as I get a closer look at her."

"Maybe," Solo said cynically.

"Pay the check for me, will you?" Illya flung back over his shoulder.

"So that's it!" Solo said, smiling, as he leaned across the clipped hibiscus hedge to watch Kuryakin follow the girl.

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. For all his banter, he had more than the average respect for his partner's ability. He did not himself get as good a look at the girl as Kuryakin had. Like any good investigator seeking for a missing person, he did not expect to find them looking just their pictures.

But certain things cannot be disguised. Hairdos can be altered. The shape of lips changed by curving lipsticks slightly. Different types of clothing can alter the outward appearances of personality. However, basic bodily shapes are difficult to alter. The way a person walks. The tilt of the head. And a hundred more little mannerisms are more tell-tale than the obvious features.

When Solo leaned out to look down the street the girl was out of sight. He glimpsed the back of Kuryakin just vanishing into the darkness. Solo grunted and started to turn back when his attention was arrested by the shadowy shape of two men who stepped out on the sidewalk behind Kuryakin.

Napoleon hesitated for a fraction of a second. The sudden appearance of the two men did not necessarily have a sinister meaning, but deep inside one of his famous hunches was nudging him into action.

"When you deal with THRUSH it is better to be safe that sorry," he muttered.

He motioned to the waitress, who glided up with a sway of her hips under the grass skirt which was more tourist than genuine Hawaiian. She smiled brightly.

"I wish I had time to enjoy that smile," he said with a sad grin. "But I got to run. Is this enough to cover the bill?"

He handed her a twenty.

"And enough to leave a tip that will make you more than welcome any time you want to come back!" she said, her scarlet lips smiling out of her tanned face.

"I hoped I'd be welcome for some other reason," he said and closed his eye in a sly wink.

Her smile broadened.

"You will be!" she said.

She sighed when he jumped over the hibiscus hedge to the street and strode rapidly away without a backward look.

Solo followed the two men for a couple of blocks. They kept their distance behind Kuryakin. Napoleon could not tell for sure if they were following his partner.

They left the more brightly lighted section of Waikiki and the girl cut across Kalakaua Avenue at Fort DeRussy, the Army's Waikiki rest center. Kuryakin, after a pause to make sure she did not see him, crossed over behind her. The two men continued down on the east side of the street.

Solo shrugged and turned back, sure now that they were not following Illya. But in the middle of the block he glanced back. The two shadowy figure were crossing now. Solo stopped, his heart starting to beat rapidly. He could not see either Kuryakin or the girl.

Apparently the two shadows waited until Illya was out of sight before crossing. This marked them as professionals who knew how to divert attention.

Napoleon reached for the gun in his shoulder holster. He slipped it in his jacket pocket and kept his hand on the butt and his finger on the trigger.

He hurried after the shadowy figures. He caught just a glimpse of them turning up a side street toward the beach. In the distance he could see a beach hotel.

The two men cut suddenly down a path running across a small park to the right of the street. It was obvious to Napoleon Solo that they intended to flank Kuryakin.

He started after them. They were out of sight behind a thick stand of ornamental bamboo. He advanced cautiously.

There was always the possibility that they had spotted him following them.

But when he came around the bend he saw one of the men just disappearing around another turn in the park path. He started forward in a half run. As he did another figure stepped from behind the bole of a huge palm. A shaft of bright tropic moon streaming through the rustling palms overhead clearly outlined the gun in his hand.

Solo jerked his own automatic from his pocket. But he was too slow. Before he could shoot the shadowy figure pulled his own trigger.

There was no loud report, only a muffled snapping whine. The tiny, needlelike projectile the gun fired struck Solo in the shoulder. He felt a sudden spreading numbness that flashed through his body with lightning speed.

He tried to shoot, but his arm was paralyzed. The gun dropped from his nerveless fingers. He tried to shout a warning to Kuryakin. His tongue froze in his mouth. He tried to run. His knees collapsed. He fell forward, hitting the grass.

The paralyzing shot apparently only affected the motor nerves. Solo did not lose consciousness. He heard quick footsteps of the other man returning.

Then a sneering voice said, "I thought you said these U.N.C.L.E. rats were tough!"

"Don't underestimate them, Taro. Watch them every second. They are tricky."

"They won't put anything over me!" the heavy voice of the man addressed as Taro said.

"I'm giving it to you straight, Taro," the other THRUSH man said impatiently. "Don't get over-confident. The only U.N.C.L.E. man you can count on is a dead one!"

"Well, in just a little while that is how you can describe this punk!"

He laughed—a cold, sneering chuckle.

THREE

"Get in the car!" Taro said. "When Horton gets the other one, I'll dump 'em both in the Ala Wai Canal!"