Текст книги "The Assassination Affair"

Автор книги: J Hunter Holly

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He had been imprisoned in filthy little cells for longer durations than this. He had been chained or bound for longer times. He wondered why this confinement was so much worse. But he knew the answer. Here there was no hope of escape. He had absolutely nothing to occupy him except the thought that an assassin waited somewhere, perhaps even inside the building. Louie and Robard, whoever they were, remained outside. He had no concern over them. But there was someone else – someone inside with him – who might appear at any corner, any door recess, and begin blasting at him without warning. He wanted desperately to go outside, track down the brain behind this nasty scheme, and have it out with him. But only Illya was allowed that joy. For himself, he had to keep on pacing and trying to fill the hours.

He walked the smooth, metal corridor alone. No one else was about. They were all shut up in their cubicles with work to do. He marched with measured strides, setting a destination in his mind.

From the next corner, a shadow fell across the floor. Solo stopped. His hand slid to his gun and had it out and grasped, the safety off, in one fluid movement. He held his breath, waiting.

The shadow lengthened, coming to the corner. A figure took shape, and he sighed. It was Lainy Michaels, her; face squeezed into a confused frown. She halted when she saw the gun pointed at her, but then she laughed. "It's only me! Do you always carry that thing around?"

Solo stated flatly, "From now on it's an extension of my hand." He holstered the gun, relieved that it was only Lainy and not one of the regular staff. He would have looked pretty foolish drawing on one of his friends. "Are you on your way somewhere?"

"I'm just wandering."

"You're allowed free run of the halls?" Solo noticed that she wore a badge that would let her onto any floor.

"I'm not, actually," she admitted. "I was told, and I mean told, to go directly from one place to another, and there are only certain places I can go, but I get lost." She saw the direction of his gaze. "Oh, the badge. Well, I get lost so often that Mr. Waverly let me have this badge. He said he trusts me to try my best to stay where I'm supposed to be, and if I do get lost, I won't set off those noisy alarms."

Solo laughed. So Lainy was responsible for the three alarms of the last two days. He hadn't been told. It was all reasonable, but surprising that Mr. Waverly had melted enough to trust her with such clearance.

"I feel like a mouse in a maze, Mr. Solo. I was going to the cafeteria."

"I'll take you down."

"Don't bother if you're busy. It was just something to do. I'm bored, I guess."

Solo led her along the corridor anyway, their foot steps falling together as he shortened his stride to accommodate hers. "Do you miss your cat?" he asked.

"Even though you think it's silly – yes, I do."

"It's not silly at all. But she's being cared for. That's one thing I've been allowed to check."

"I know." Lainy giggled. "Twice a day someone rushes to me with a report on how much she ate and played and how she's feeling. I think I'm causing quite a bit of commotion, and it seems so funny. I guess I own the first Pussycat from U.N.C.L.E."

"Keep causing the commotion. It relieves the boredom."

"You re bored, too? I've heard people talking about how you're cut off from everything. How do you fill your time?"

"I'm on my way now for a Karate work-out. Practice makes bruises and they're better than nothing. You can at least contemplate them." He stopped, an idea forming to help her as well as himself. "Would you like to come along?"

She was suddenly, unexplainably nervous. "I don't know a thing about Karate."

"To watch, Lainy! To watch!"

"Oh, yes, then. I'd like it. No one gets hurt, do they?"

"Let's hope not." He circled her waist with his arm. "If anyone does, it's Mr. Solo, because the instructor is about seven feet tall and five feet across."

His contagious grin spread an imitation of itself over her face. "If you know about that kind of thing, Mr. Solo – Karate and Judo and all – I guess my mother should have told me. I picked a dangerous man to spy on, didn't I?"

"More dangerous by the minute, little girl. Anyway, maybe you can pick up some pointers to use on your boyfriend."

"That's not the idea at all, Mr. Solo."

"Don't tell me that two days inside U.N.C.L.E. have turned you into a femme fatale!"

"I only wish you believed it," she said.

–

Two more days of inaction and Solo finally commanded his way into Mr. Waverly's office to wait for the older man and air some of his gripes. The whole process of hiding inside the building was ridiculous to him; worse, because with every day his nerves stretched more tautly, his reflexes sharpened themselves, until he was a loaded gun with a finger pressing the trigger. The thing had to be settled. Waverly wouldn't be happy to see him, but after four days of no communication, Waverly had no choice.

The door at last flew open and Alexander Waverly came in. He glanced at Solo once as he went to his accustomed place. He sat down, laid his pipe before him with the papers he had been carrying, and cleared his throat. "Well, Mr. Solo," he said, "do you suppose we need a mediator?"

Solo didn't respond with the grin Waverly expected. Instead he answered grumpily, "If things don't clear up, we might, sir."

"Nerves – Waverly bobbed his head – see." His tone was understanding, almost condescending, and it jerked little rivulets of anger along Solo. "It would seem to me, Mr. Solo, that U.N.C.L.E. has tremendous resources for the venting of nervous energy. Go practice your Karate, or your marksmanship. You do have to keep in trim."

"I've already done those things, sir. All day and half the night."

"Really." Waverly sent Solo a chilly, estimating stare that made the agent uncomfortable. "Then I'll have to find something for you – to keep you occupied – to exercise your brain."

Solo brightened. "That's what I've been waiting for, sir. I didn't join this organization to sit around the office."

"But you will sit around the office," Waverly said evenly. "And you'll make the least possible nuisance of yourself while you do it."

Solo stared down at the table, feeling oddly as though he'd had his knuckles rapped by a schoolteacher.

Waverly was still considering his course. "I had you cut off from office information for your own good, you know. When you don't know what is going on, you are less prone to rush in where you shouldn't be. But – yes – some honest work will do you good." He pressed a stud on his intercom.

A woman's voice came over the speaker. "Files and Documents. Mada Adams."

Mr. Waverly said, "I understand you're short of help in your department this week. Could you use an extra pair of hands?"

Solo sat up straighter, astonishment growing on his face.

Mada Adams came through loudly, "Could I! I mean – yes, sir, I'm quite a bit behind. I'm in this department alone."

Waverly told her, "I'm sending you a new man. I think he'll break in quite easily. He knows the alphabet and he's dexterous." His cool eyes came around to Solo with a scowl at the agent's apparent disgust. "Just beware of his bared teeth, Miss Adams." Waverly switched off the intercom.

Solo was still astonished. "Really, Mr. Waverly, you're not asking me to become a file clerk!"

"Report to Miss Adams, and see that you do a good job if it."

"When I asked for work, I didn't mean busywork! I meant something meaningful."

"You are off limits at the moment, Mr. Solo – restricted from everything in Policy, Enforcement, and Intelligence. And let me remind you, there isn't anything that goes on inside this building that isn't meaningful"

Solo surrendered, resigned, but definitely unhappy with his new orders. As he started away, Mr. Waverly called after him, a hint of a chuckle in his voice, "Try not to get any paper cuts. They can be nasty little devils."

–

Solo traveled through the maze of U.N.C.L.E. corridors and elevators, his step slow, headed for Files and Documents and Mada Adams, whoever she was. He entered the Section, found her door, and invaded her private inner sanctum. It was a smallish room done completely in U.N.C.L.E. steel. The walls were stacked high with filing cabinets, and empty ladders scaled up and down to render the top drawers accessible.

There was one big desk piled deep in filing folders, and in front of the desk was Mada Adams. She was a lovely young woman, and lovely was the only word for her. Her dark hair was wavy, but cut austerely short. Her face was shiny and healthily clean. Her figure was definitely not of glamorous proportions, but nice. She was unspectacular all around, but lovely nevertheless. The type of girl some men would "take home to mother."

She was leafing through a stack of folders when Solo came in and called, "Files and Documents? Mada Adams?"

Her reaction was startling. She looked at him, her brown eyes flashed, and she nearly dropped the entire stack of folders. She plunked them down and scurried in an obvious retreat around her desk, her nervous hands attesting to the fact that she thought she needed the desk's protection. "Mr. – Solo!" she said with an explosion of breath. "Uh... yes. Files and Documents. Is there something I can do for you?"

"It's supposed to be the other way around." Solo eyed her closely, equally startled. "I'm here to work for you. Mr. Waverly sent me."

Her expression was entirely blank.

"He just spoke to you five minutes ago, Mada."

"Yes," she stammered, "he's sending me a new man -"

"And here I am."

"Not you, Mr. Solo. Don't play the joke out any further. Please! I mean, I know you like to kid around, but – please."

Solo pivoted in the middle of the room, peering at the file drawers. "All this? Hasn't the microfilm system reached this far?"

"We keep our records three ways," she explained, but didn't calm down. "Microfilm, computer tape, and these originals. Caution and care. Now, what file do you want to see? And why didn't you go to Microfilm to get it?"

"I told you, Mada, I'm here to become a file clerk, not to do research."

"But that will never do!" She was adamant. "It just won't do!"

"I can climb ladders and take the high places for you."

"But I don't want anyone from Section -" She dropped off.

Solo stared straight at her. "Section Two?"

She flushed. "I was going to say that, yes."

"If you intend to insult me," Solo said levelly, "do it and get it over with."

Her thin fingers dropped to the stacks of folders and she riffled them anxiously. "I didn't mean to make you angry. It's just that -" She drew a deep breath and plunged into her real meaning. "I've always, been afraid of you men in Section Two. You carry guns, and -"

Solo smiled at her. He'd try anything to ease her tension. "Guns don't go off unless the trigger is pulled, Mada. I'm not planning to shoot up the filing cabinets."

"I have insulted you."

"Only puzzled me. Aside from the guns, is there any thing else you don't like? Because I can leave my gun outside, you know."

"I'm timid and neurotic, I guess," she admitted, and the admission was somehow feminine and understandable as it came from her. "But you all strike me as trained tigers. I see you sometimes in the corridors and I keep close to the walls."

Solo shook his head, amazed. This was a peculiar little violet to find shrinking in the depths of the building. "Why on earth did you join U.N.C.L.E. if you feel this way? A person shouldn't be afraid of his job. You need to take yourself in hand." He softened his voice. She really was frightened of him and it made him uncomfortable. "Look, give me a chance to prove how wrong you are – to show you my gentle side." He strode toward her, his arm outstretched to take her by the shoulders and calm her down. "Even tigers can purr. And I promise, I'm not a man-eater."

She eluded him neatly, but like a girl who'd had little practice. "Not a lady-eater, either, Mr. Solo. At least not this lady."

He lowered his arms, rebuffed. "We'll see. Mr. Waverly asked us to work together, after all."

Even that magic name couldn't sway her. "What you have in mind and what Mr. Waverly had in mind are entirely different things." She grabbed a stack of file folders and thrust them at him. He took them quickly to keep them from spilling on the floor. "Here, Mr. Solo. Practice on these. I'll have more for you when you've finished."

He laughed. "All right. You win. Where are the R's for Rejected?"

Chapter 4

"I'd Hate to Die for a Parking Space"

ILLYA KURYAKIN parked his car in the tight parking slot and got out, headed for the dental supply laboratory that waited for him behind a closed door. After four days, he and the men working with him had exhausted every sensible source of gold supply in the city, and now he was down to trudging about to dental supply labs searching for bits and pieces.

He hurried because it was so important. Every time he saw Napoleon, the need for hurry was more apparent. The inactivity was beginning to tell on his friend, and Illya couldn't even help him by giving him details on the progress of the search. He was allowed to say, "No luck," and that was all. If the time came when he did have some luck, he supposed he would have to lie to Napoleon. But he had done worse things than that for Mr. Waverly.

He pushed through the door and entered a little waiting room. There were a few straight chairs around the walls and one long counter that stretched the full width of the back wall. On it were displayed false teeth in various stages of development. Some appeared ready to bite.

Illya went to the left end of the counter, away from the clerk who was waiting on the one other customer in the store. Illya looked at them. The clerk was lanky and nondescript. The customer was an older man, gray haired, with glasses and a habit of biting his lip. They were talking quietly, and Illya shifted from foot to foot, too impatient to pretend he enjoyed waiting.

The clerk soon was in front of him. "Yes, sir? Can I help you?"

"I hope so," Illya said. "I have a rather odd request. I'd like to buy some gold shavings – any scraps you might have left from inlays or crowns."

The clerk smiled. "That's not really so odd. Not today. You're my second non-dentist customer for gold. When it rains -"

"Yes, I know," Illya said. "The point is, do you have such scraps and do you ever sell them?"

"As I was just telling the gentleman here" – he indicated the older man – "we're not in that business. Most of our dentists mold their own crowns and the scraps are turned over to the Ladies' Dental Auxiliary. Charity, you know."

Illya gazed at the older man again, a new interest in his eyes. "You're looking for gold?" Illya asked him,

"To fulfill a hobby," the old man said,

"Jewelry making?"

"No. I collect rare books. I like to restore the gold on the bindings, myself."

"Oh, too bad. I thought I might have found a fellow jewelry buff." At that moment, a phone set up a loud ringing in the back of the shop. The clerk puttered between the sound and his customers for long seconds, then excused himself and went out through a door in the back wall. Illya watched the old man, taking in everything about him from the well-bitten lip to the strange gleam in his squinting eyes.

The old man didn't like the inspection, and said, "Neither of us is going to find anything here." He pushed off from the counter and headed away. "I wish you luck somewhere else."

"But you give up too easily," Illya called after him. "I intend to wheedle some more."

"Good day, then. I warn you – that clerk won't be wheedled." The old man marched outside and directly to an old-model blue Chevy parked at the curb. He got into the back seat where Robard was waiting.

"No luck, Professor Adams?"

"Much luck," Adams said. "I didn't get any gold, but I ran into Solo's heir apparent. Illya Kuryakin. U.N.C.L.E. is close on our trail, I'm afraid, and with their methods, they may find us."

"So?" This word came from the front seat, uttered in a deep, hollow voice that resounded from the massive chest of a giant man who sat behind the wheel. He was even tall sitting down, with a bulbous head, a lantern jaw, and ears that stood out from his head as though they were pasted on. His hands dwarfed the wheel. Their power could have twisted it off the steering column.

"So, Julius," Professor Adams addressed the giant, "I want Kuryakin stopped in his tracks. Before he reports in."

"He's in the lab now?" Robard asked. "Then I saw him go in. That's his car right ahead of us."

Adams looked at the car. "I should have guessed. It's fancy enough for a paid killer."

Robard's hand fumbled inside his coat and came out with a pistol. Adams pushed Robard's hand down. "No guns! That's much too crude. We must think of some thing else, and above all, keep him from seeing us. He stared straight at me inside, but he can't really know anything:" Adams rubbed his nose hard. "Yes," he sighed. "Yes." He leaned forward to speak to the giant Julius, his words coming out slowly, one by one, as though Julius couldn't understand or assimilate them any other way. "Now, Julius, listen carefully and remember every thing I say. You'll have to do this alone. Robard and I are leaving the car. Wait until we get around the corner, and then..."

–

Inside the lab, Illya was glad to see the clerk reappear. He had no time to waste in waiting. He snapped right back into his demand for gold. "You don't happen to know of any place where I can get a bit of gold? Please think. It's very important."

"Sorry. Most people don't go around buying gold."

"Some do," Illya said. "You've never sold any scraps?"

"Not a one. It's against our policy. I'd suggest you get it from wherever you've gotten it before."

"But that's -" Illya was interrupted by the crash of metal from the street. When he checked, there was his car locked in bumper-to-bumper combat with the car behind it. He broke from the counter and ran outside.

He stood on the curb, estimating the damage. The U.N.C.L.E. car was jammed from the rear, edged side ways against the curbstone. The old Chevy behind it looked like some shovey monster which had just attacked. In that same moment, the Chevy gave a roar, a grinding of gears, and lurched back a meager foot, disengaging itself. A great bulbous head stuck out of the driver's window and a deep voice bellowed:

"Is that your car? Sorry, mister. I thought I was in reverse all the time."

"Hold on a minute," Illya called. "I'll see if there was much damage."

Illya squeezed between the bumpers and checked the rear of the U.N.C.L.E. car first. "Mine seems all right. Just a scratch. I'll check yours."

He turned around to inspect the grill of the Chevy when another roar from the motor straightened him with a quick prickle of hair on the nape of his neck that squealed DANGER! The old car roared and leapt forward.

In one motion, Illya lurched up from in front of it, his left hand hitting the hood to propel him sideways, and landed on the trunk of the U.N.C.L.E. car as the Chevy smashed into it again. He crouched there, taking stock. He was whole except for a scrape on his left ankle and the loss of his left shoe. That was wedged between the metal somewhere.

"For -! What are you trying to do?" Illya shouted at the great head in the front seat of the Chevy. "Break both my legs?"

Again came the booming, hollow, "Sorry, mister, I thought I was in reverse again. I guess I got nervous."

"Calm down. For my sake." Illya jumped easily from the trunk of his car and onto the sidewalk. "Let me direct you out of here before you kill somebody."

He had a clearer view of the giant now and was taken aback. This was no ordinary flustered citizen. This was some form of throwback to the bleary history of mankind. But he shrugged the notion aside. If you stayed on a city's streets long enough you met every kind and every shape eventually. He walked close to the driver, talking calmly. "Now put it in reverse and back up carefully so I can get my shoe. It could have been my foot caught down there!" He directed the man in the short backing maneuver. The man obeyed willingly enough. "Stop now," Illya told him, "and don't touch a thing!"

Illya darted to the front, made a stabbing motion and came up with his shoe. Hopping about, he got it on his foot. "I'll drive out first so you'll have plenty of room, all right? If you dare touch that gas pedal before I'm out of here -" The giant man turned his head to look him full in the face, and he stopped the threat in mid-voice. There was something about those little eyes set in the craggy face, and those huge, gnarled hands on the wheel. Standing up, this man would measure at least six-feet-eight. And the stare he was giving Illya – it wasn't embarrassed, it wasn't apologetic anymore – it was just plain menacing. "Don't move the car, that's all," Illya said in a smaller voice. "I'd hate to die for a parking space."

He sprinted to his car, jumped in, and thanked the tuned U.N.C.L.E. motor for pulsing to life so fast. He barreled out of the space and down the street, watching the rearview mirror to pick up the license number of the Chevy. He also caught the queer drama being played out in the front seat. The giant was still sitting there, but his hands came up to his face and fell back onto the wheel. It was a gesture of frustrated defeat. He had failed in something. Illya wondered what.

–

Illya returned the car to the loving hands of the mechanics in the U.N.C.L.E. garage, and drove into the heart of the great building to play out a hunch. He had no real basis for wanting a check run through the computers, but something gnawed at the back of his mind and he was too old a hand at this type of thing not to cater to his gnawings. First he reported the license number of the Chevy, but told the girl on duty and swamped with priority work not to hurry with it. He explained it as a routine check. She promised to get to it as soon as she had an extra minute.

Next he went down a level and dug up an artist who drew a composite likeness of the giant who had been driving. As the face formed under his pencil, the artist shivered, and Illya patted him on the back. "I didn't say he was pretty. Just run it through for me, will you? You have a tremendous likeness there. Maybe the computer can give a name for it."

"Did Mr. Waverly tell you we got some results on those two composites Solo had me draw?" The man was proud of his work, of his ability to draw a face from a description and actually have a name put to it. "Louie Salter and Robard Farell. The Police Department identified them. We didn't have them in our banks because they're petty gangsters."

Illya nodded. "Unemployed gunmen. Yes – Waverly told me. But it only adds to the confusion, doesn't it?"

He left the man to his work and continued down on the elevator. He should have discovered the giant's name for himself at the time of the incident. But he'd had no real reason to be curious. It was just an accident, after all. He still had no reason, but curious he was. The more he let his mind dwell on it, the more clearly he could hear the crunch and snap that might have been his leg bones if the giant had been able to rev the car forward faster. Deliberate? Maybe he'd know tomorrow when the reports came in.

He walked until he came to Files and Documents. He wanted to see Napoleon and bask in Solo's disgust at his new job. File clerk. Illya had yet to see him in the actual throes of work, and as he stepped into the file room he looked devilishly forward to it.

The door whooshed open and he found Napoleon, his arms laden with filing folders, and a young woman whom he presumed to be Mada Adams. Napoleon turned quickly at the sound of the door, his face taut. He relaxed as he recognized Illya. He plunked down his stack of folders and warned him, "Careful, Illya, you're stepping into foreign territory. Mada doesn't like Enforcement Agents."

Illya pretended to be disappointed. "How unfortunate. And I like file clerks so well. Some of my best friends are file clerks."

Napoleon caught the message and grimaced, but Mada Adams only smiled. "After two days of working with Mr. Solo," she said, "I confess I'm starting to change my mind."

"Finesse, charm, and savoir faire will do it every time," Solo said, pleased with himself. But when he looked at Illya again, he was sober. "You've come with . some news, I hope. Any leads? On the gold? The men?"

"Not yet," Illya said bluntly.

Solo gestured to Mada. "Hand me Mr. Kuryakin's file, Mada. I want to put it under Inactive Agents!"

"Napoleon!" Illya protested. "This isn't an easy thing. There -" He stopped. He couldn't go too far or Solo s quick mind would jump ahead of him and come up with knowledge he wasn't allowed to have. To preclude the chance, Illya turned the sentence to a joke. "Remember, I don't have your splendid brain to guide me."

Solo wasn't having any jokes and he wasn't laughing. "Waverly refuses to allow me even a glimpse of my own case file. I'm surprised he hasn't asked me to turn in my gun for the duration!"

"Give us time," Illya said. "We'll solve it." He didn't like the tension in Solo, the too-quick reflexes, the anger huddled beneath the surface of everything he said.

"I don't have much more time, Illya! If I want some action, maybe I'll have to break out of here and join Thrush!"

"I see. You're spoiling for a fight. Why don't you go to the gym and practice your Karate?"

"Not you, too!" Solo exploded.

Illya looked to Mada for an explanation of the reaction, and she laughed. "He's been working out twice a day, Mr. Kuryakin. I don't think the instructor will let him in anymore. He's worried about the frustration-aggression cycle and his own Japanese bones."

As Mada gestured to make her point, the charm brace let she was wearing clattered and jingled. Solo shook his head and said gruffly, "Must women always have sound effects with their jewelry?"

"I'm sorry." Math clutched the bracelet to silence it. "I think," Illya interrupted, "that tinkling and rattling women are charming. Your bracelet is, too. May I see it?" He didn't really want to look at it. He had seen enough charms when he saw the one that resided in Napoleon's case file. But he wanted to turn the conversation before the girl was somehow hurt by Solo's newly-sharpened tongue.

Mada thrust her hand forward so he could inspect the bracelet. "It's silly, really," she said. "Sentimental. You see, each charm represents some event in my life."

Illya held her hand gently as he pretended interest. His biggest interest was expressed in the one word he uttered. "Silver."

"This dollar sign," she explained, "is my job here at U.N.C.L.E. The diploma is obvious. The ship is the trip I took to Paris – a graduation present from my Uncle Abel."

"Everyone should have an Uncle Abel," Illya said, feeling strange keeping up this chatter. Napoleon was the one who made small talk with pretty women. "They're lovely trinkets, Mada. Almost unique, I would say."

"Unique to my life. But you can buy them anywhere."

"You should see mine!" Solo cut in. "It comes in two shapes – coffin and coffin."

Mada flushed. "I'll take the bracelet off if it bothers you. I never thought -"

"Don't even consider it." Solo patted her arm in apology. "If you can put up with me in this state, I can put up with that."

Illya stepped away. "I'm sorry you're at such loose ends, Napoleon. But I think you have a good opponent here. You quarrel with her, do your work, and I'll get back to mine."

Solo suddenly slapped his hand down on a stack of folders. "It's not only your work anymore, Illya. I've had it. A full week and nothing stirring. I see the alphabet in my dreams! From now on, I'm working on my own case."

"But Mr. Waverly -"

"This is one time he'll find out what it's like to be up against his own Enforcement Section. I won't let him refuse me. It's my life and my coffin and I'm going to fight for it, myself."

Solo was so determined, his eyes glinting, that Illya shrugged off his own compunctions. "Come On, then. I'll back you up. I can't see you as a file clerk, either."

–

Solo and Illya sat in Waverly's office. Solo had entered red-faced and seething, but Mr. Waverly had listened, letting his agent spill out all of his venom, while he, himself, sat calmly tamping away at the tobacco in his unlit pipe. Now Solo was in control of his emotions. Illya Kuryakin had waited silently, but just his presence had backed Solo's demands.

Solo finished up. "So it's clear to me that I have to make the next move myself, sir. You don't go fishing by hiding and expecting the fish to jump ashore. You dangle bait."

Kuryakin finally spoke. "I agree with Napoleon, sir. Our tries at finding the source of gold could run on for weeks. There's no guarantee that the gold was even purchased. It might have been melted down from old jewelry."

Waverly glanced up, confronting his young agent with the blunt question, "And you want to become the bait, Mr. Solo?"

"Good, juicy bait," Solo said.

"Then here is a surprise for you both." Waverly laid down his pipe. "I agree. This situation is intolerable, so you may as well put an end to it – one way or another."

Solo swallowed hard, acknowledging the threat Waverly had implied.

"Besides, gentlemen, something else has come up. I received a communication – unbelievable really, but disturbing." He opened the folder that rested before him,

drew out a piece of paper, and sent it around to them. Solo picked it up. It was ordinary, dime-store stationery, and on it was printed in big, misshapen letters, Dear Alexander Waverly: By the time you read this the great grain bowls of the world will be harboring maggots. Operation Breadbasket will be underway. Happy hunger. Thrush.

"That's a ridiculous piece of writing," Solo said.

"I agree again," Waverly answered. "Perfectly ridiculous. I gather I am supposed to believe that Thrush would actually send such a warning of their plans."

"You don't, of course," Illya said.

"No. But aside from that, I have an idea that this note is the work of the maniac who is after Mr. Solo. The grandiose play, the melodramatics, are the product of the same mind. However, on the chance that it is genuine and Thrush is up to something called Operation Breadbasket, I'm going to need you, Mr. Solo – need you active and in the field. I can't have you working as a fill-in for sick file clerks any longer. That's why I'm going along with your demands to get out and confront your assassins. I'm reluctant to admit it, but it's even beginning to paralyze me."