Текст книги "The Assassination Affair"

Автор книги: J Hunter Holly

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"How do you mean, sir?" Solo asked.

"I hesitate to send any agent out of this building, for any reason, when I know that anyone he passes in the street may be an assassin. I even worry about you, Mr. Kuryakin, when you go home at night."

Illya answered firmly, "But he made it very clear that Napoleon is his first target."

"Yes," Mr. Waverly said. "That's the only thing that makes my position tenable at all. This thing must be stopped."

Illya brought up all of their worst doubts. "And if it's a new Thrush method? Official Thrush policy?"

"For the sake of U.N.C.L.E., we must hope it isn't."

Solo said, "That's why I want to take this in my own hands, sir, and find out what's behind it."

"I've already given my consent to that."

Solo sighed, gratified.

"But I do insist that you have a bodyguard with you at all times. When I need you, I want you alive."

"A bodyguard of my choice?" Solo asked.

"If you prefer it that way."

"I choose Illya," Solo said. "Around the clock."

"Not even with time off for good behavior?" Illya protested, but he was clearly pleased.

"You two set a plan, then." Waverly considered the matter settled and was already clearing away the loose ends. "If it makes any sense, I'll authorize it. We must let it be known that you're going outside, of course."

"Everyone must know," Illya agreed. "Not even juicy bait like Napoleon can catch fish in an empty pond. And if there is a spy among us he'll have to know enough details to make the assassins jump."

Waverly nodded. "I'll spread the word by the office grapevine. It works when I don't want it to, so for a change I'll put it to use for myself." He glanced up once more, stuck the unlit pipe in his mouth, and smiled. "I imagine everyone concerned will be greatly relieved to know the bear has quit stalking our halls."

Solo laughed out loud. He felt a man again. His gun waited his command under his arm, he had a plan to work out, and the prospect of danger and victory on whatever dark street his assassin chose to stand and. fight.

Chapter 5

"Never Insult a Neanderthal"

SOLO AND ILLYA cruised out and far away from the U.N.C.L.E. garage, Solo at the wheel of the hard-top sedan. It was already dark on the streets and the motor hardly dented the quiet. They had chosen the late hour to give themselves an edge. Fewer pedestrians and less traffic meant more chance of spotting a shadower, more chance of picking out a killer.

The plan was set. The people inside U.N.C.L.E. had been surprised when the rumors started circulating about the plan, but they had happily circulated them anyway. Usually rumors came in scatterings of bits and pieces, but this one was detailed. Some clerks had been reluctant to pass it on, feeling they knew too much about a Section Two operation. But they had passed it on, surrendering to the human failing.

Solo, wheeled the car into the first official turn, heading down a dim side street. The plan was simple. He and Illya would drive the streets slowly, keeping to little-used ways that would give them the least congestion. The route was carefully chosen, and along that route were ten checkpoints, each a mile apart, where U.N.C.L.E. agents waited to record their passing, check the street behind them, and give assistance if an attack developed.

They were well away from Headquarters in a part of the city Solo didn't know very well. It was the right part for their purpose. The route would take them in a large circle, and then they would start over again.

Solo drove with his hands loose on the wheel, his eyes moving constantly from the road to the rearview mirror, to the side mirror, and on to check alleyways and windows. Illya did the same. But the car droned for twenty minutes and nothing happened.

Finally Illya said, "We were certainly right. We chose nicely deserted streets."

Solo smiled at his bodyguard. "Bombs are messy, and if any are to be thrown at us, I don't want bystanders getting cut up."

Illya straightened himself on the seat after peering out the back window. "Our route is known, our car is known – they should make their move pretty soon."

"I wish they would."

"Nervous?"

"It could be called that," Solo admitted, moving his hands on the wheel to wipe off some of the sweat on his palms. "There's no reason for them to wait for the attack until the second time around. They know we're here, and they know why."

"They also know it's a trap," Illya said encouragingly. "The point is, do they want you badly enough to take the chance?"

"No. The point is, I want them."

"Right. But remember, if anything happens, stay on the planned route so we'll be in shouting distance of our backstops."

"Just be a good little bodyguard and forget the back-seat driving, okay?"

–

U.N.C.L.E. agent Harry Archer, who a few days before had gotten lucky and discovered the lab where Dundee did his business, stood alone in the dark alley. He was officially Checkpoint Eight. The alley made him nervous. Not for himself, but for Solo. He hadn't understood the reasoning behind sending Solo out on deserted streets to bring a killer out of hiding. He liked Solo – Kuryakin, too. What happened to one of them would happen to the other; a bunched target was easy to hit.

Archer checked his watch, decided it was time to call in, and activated his transceiver. "Archer at Point Eight," he said. "They're not in sight yet."

Waverly's voice answered him soberly. "They've just passed Point Five. They're moving very slowly. Give them a few minutes."

"Yes, sir," Archer said. Move slowly and bunch your targets even more, he thought uneasily.

"And, Archer," Waverly came through again, "since you're one of the farthest points out – be ready. The move has to be made soon. If it happens, call me for help, and then give Mr. Solo assistance."

"Yes, sir. I have the procedure drilled in my mind." Archer closed down his transceiver, reluctant to break contact. He hoped in the depths of himself to get in on this action. He agreed with Solo about this nasty business. When they had last talked in the cafeteria, Solo had been angry – at fate, at Thrush, at everything. To put your life on the line for a reason was one thing; but to be attacked in the dark by assassins was vicious. Archer wanted to attack the assassins in return.

A bare whisper of sound caught his attention. It came from the back of the alley. He would normally have thought, cat, and let it go, but not tonight. Tonight be whirled around, and in the dim shadows he made out a figure. His stomach clenched. A mugger? A robber? Or the assassin?

The figure moved and it was gigantic. A giant of a man was standing at the end of the alley. He was a cross between an ape and a prehistoric throwback. Only the gun he pointed at Archer put him in the twentieth century.

Archer went for his own gun. It was firmly in his hand, the safety off, when another sound hit him, again from behind, but in the direction of the street. Even as he pivoted he saw the descent of a heavy gun butt, his head was struck at the temple, and the alley disappeared in a deeper blackness. He fell, and that was the last he knew.

Louie, tall and thin, stood over Archer's body and hollered for the towering Julius. "Get to the car, Julius. It's time."

Julius came lumbering by, his big feet in the over sized shoes looking the weighted boots of Frankenstein's Monster. Then Julius was gone and Louie was alone with the unconscious agent. Louie pointed his gun at Archer's head, shrugged and lowered it. Maybe Adams wanted them all dead, but for himself, he had nothing against U.N.C.L.E. agents. He didn't really know what U.N.C.L.E. was.

He strode to the street and the waiting car, smiling. It would soon be done. With the details they'd gotten from inside U.N.C.L.E., it had been easy to find the scattered backup agents, and easy to take this one out of action For all the hatred and fear U.N.C.L.E. generated in the old Professor, Louie thought they had done a lousy job of concealing themselves in the alleys.

–

In the car, Illya checked the rear window for the hundredth time. Solo felt his friend's movement and countered with a careful gaze forward. Illya turned back, a set expression on his face. "I think we're being followed," he said softly.

"All right" Solo gulped in a deep breath, preparing himself. "This is it. The question is, do we let them catch us?"

"Lead them close to our backstops so we'll have help. We just passed Point Six. Let Seven and Eight check them out and we'll stop them near Nine. That way we'll be sure."

"Make the report," Solo ordered.

Illya opened the glove compartment. Inside, a small radio glowed. He spoke into the microphone. "Mr. Waverly, we've had a nibble. We're being tailed by a blue Chevy, old model. If he follows us when we make the turns for Points Seven and Eight, we'll know. We'll stop at Nine."

Waverly's voice came into the car. "Put on some speed, Mr. Kuryakin, as though you're trying to lose them. We want no false alarms."

Illya returned the microphone to the glove box, then braced himself wisely as Solo's foot pressed harder on the accelerator.

The U.N.C.L.E. car eased forward, gaining speed. In the rearview mirror, Solo watched the other car dig into the cement to catch up. He kept his foot pressure steady, maintaining a set speed, forcing his hands to stay relaxed on the wheel. He didn't want to get too tense, too full of adrenalin. Not yet

The next turn came at him and he wrenched the wheel to the right, squealing around the corner. Behind him, the blue Chevy made it at the last minute. It was coming for him, all right. Let it come. He smiled into the night being cut by his head-lamps.

He calculated from the map in his mind and said, "Point Seven coming up, Illya."

"And straight away to Eight." Illya's voice was throaty. He was getting an edge on, too. Both of them were priming themselves, pacing themselves to Point Nine and the confrontation.

Solo sped on, his eyes roving the street ahead and coming to rest briefly on a recessed doorway where a fellow agent should be maiming Point Seven. And there he was. The agent raised his hand in a sign of recognition, then pivoted to watch the blue Chevy. He was soon out of Solo's sight.

"It's coming on faster," Illya said. "Catching up."

Solo pressed back against the seat and stamped on the accelerator. He had to elude the blue car until Point Nine because that was the plan. Waverly would have called ahead and set everything up to meet it

Illya gasped, "Don't kill us before we get there!"

"Hang on," Solo warned him. "Here's the last corner." The U.N.C.L.E. car barely made the turn, careening, and narrowly missing a collision with the opposite curb. But the blue car hung on, incredibly gaining on the distance until it was only seventy feet from Solo's bumper. Souped up, he thought. A camouflaged hot-rod.

This street, leading past Point Eight where Archer waited, was nastily narrow, and Solo wished he hadn't chosen it as part of the route. But there was no traffic, and very little light was cast by the street lamps. He could speed here as though the devil were after him. And the devil was.

One block ahead, lights appeared to the right and a car crawled out of an alley. Solo let up on his momentum and veered to the center of the street, his hand hard on the horn. But the car – a black Cadillac – didn't stop. It came into the street and across it, braking in the center, blocking the way.

Solo stamped the brakes, pumping to slow, then hitting them with all the strength in his leg. Slowing wasn't going to do it. But a complete stop was out of the question with the Chevy so close.

The Cadillac stayed in the street and he barreled at it, then wrenched the wheel to the left, taking the curb to pass on the sidewalk. He wobbled between two lamp posts and steered back to the right to avoid hitting the brick buildings. He would just make it

Nastily, the Cadillac lurched ahead, jumping the curb in front of him. The sidewalk was blocked!

Solo's foot crushed the brake pedal and he brought the car to a neck-wrenching halt two feet from the Cadillac, jerked it into reverse, and then stopped all action. For the blue Chevy had jammed itself in behind him and he was blocked from both ends.

The street loomed empty on Illya's side, but there was no cover there. It would have to be his side, then, with the brick building towering upwards. His hand reacted, coming up with his gun, in unison with Illya's. He touched Illya briefly and motioned to the left, directing him to follow.

Solo jumped from the car, leaving his door open and crouching behind it for shelter. Illya scrambled out, hit the sidewalk and opened the back door of the car to give them a little box of protection. Solo faced the Cadillac, and Illya crouched the other way, ready to take on the Chevy.

The Cadillac spewed forth its contents and Solo's stomach clenched in on itself as he saw the thin figure of Louie, followed by the giant man Illya had described. It could only be that same man. There wouldn't be two alike – not in the world.

He jerked his head back to see what Illya had lured out of the Chevy. It was Robard. And an old man. This was the moment, then. He and Illya would have to hold them off alone until the backstop from Point Eight made it to the scene.

A high, hard voice echoed at Solo from the rear. "Caught, Mr. Solo!" Adams yelled. "Give up now. Be sensible."

In answer, Solo leveled his gun and opened fire, aware of the comforting sound of Illya's gun beside him. Louie and the giant ducked behind the Cadillac, and orange spit out over the hood as they returned the lead, round for round. Solo kept up the barrage, pinning them down, fishing in his pocket for another clip.

The scene was straight out of a nightmare. The three cars jammed in upon each other, their head-lamps blasting bright beams of light. The gunshots hammered and echoed off the buildings, a cannon roar, and the smell of the explosions was biting to the nose. But it was as Solo wanted it. He and Illya could fire at their discretion. Their attackers had to be careful, or in firing across, they would hit each other.

Julius bobbed up and down, firing and withdrawing, firing and withdrawing. Solo went to one knee to get a steadier aim. From somewhere close, between shots, he heard the slap of running feet. The man from Point Eight? He fervently hoped so. Because he was effectively boxed. When the ammunition was gone – he thrust the thought away and aimed for the giant's head. But the giant, stupid as he looked, had some uncanny knack of ducking just as Solo's finger made the caress on the trigger. No bullet struck home.

The street-side door of the U.N.C.L.E. car jerked open and Solo twisted in time to see Louie's livid face above a gun that spat fire. Beside him, Illya gasped in surprise and impact and fell sideways against Solo's gun hand, throwing off his lone shot at Louie. The door slammed and Louie was gone.

Solo held his fire for a long moment, and the street was eerily quiet. Illya's weight was against his back, and his guttural, "All right, Illya was answered only with a conglomerate mumble and groan.

Adams yelled again, taking heart from the cease-fire. "Back is to the wall, Solo – literally. Do you want to die on the street? Your friend, too?"

Solo turned half around and attempted a shot at Robard, who stood with the old man by the Chevy. His gun clicked empty. A wave of draining blood washed the strength out of him as he realized his pocket was empty of clips, too. Illya lay against him, stirring, sense returning to his open eyes. But there was blood dribbling down his left hand from under his sleeve.

The moment of hesitation finished the battle that was already lost. The car door that sheltered Solo was slammed against him from the front, toppling him on Illya. Louie and the giant squeezed through to stand over him. Solo raised himself to his feet in smarting fury and humiliation and tossed his gun down. Then he knelt beside Illya.

"Run, Napoleon!" Illya straightened. "I'm only scratched."

Solo quickly inspected the source of the blood. It was just a flesh wound, but his friend's blood was spewing out, staining the street.

"Napoleon!" Illya commanded, "Run!"

Adams said from close by, "There is nowhere to run."

Solo looked up. He was surrounded. The old man and Robard had squeezed by the back door of the car and now he and Illya were in the center of four men. Four guns pointed down at his head, and he felt the lethal load of the barrels deep in his nervous system. Suppressing a shudder, he said to Illya, "The man's right, isn't he? Nowhere to run at all." He fought to keep dread out of his voice. Illya was incapable of helping for the time being. This had to be played out by ear. But where was the agent from Point Eight?

Illya pushed himself to a sitting position and then to his knees, ignoring the blood that covered his hand in rivulets. His blue eyes were staring in recognition and disdain at the giant man with the gun in his gnarled hand. "Ah," Illya said. "The great ape who doesn't know how to drive."

The giant's big foot with the huge shoe came streaking out. It caught Illya viciously in the ribs, forcing his breath out in a painful gasp and toppling him again.

Solo reached for the giant Julius, his face black with anger, but before he could get purchase enough to stand, Louie and Robard pushed him down by the shoulders. He went to his knees hard on the cement. The guns came in to touch his head, three of them still warm from firing.

Illya struggled up, rubbing his side. He said softly, "Never insult a Neanderthal, Napoleon. Remember that when you're in his keeping." His blue eyes met Solo's intently, trying to convey something. Solo knew what it was. Illya was apologizing for failing, and asking how they might try to escape.

Adams' triumphant voice cut between them. "Take him! Now!"

Robard and Louie yanked Solo roughly to his feet. He staggered upward, searching for a route of action, but Robard had already produced a pair of handcuffs with a short chain between them, and from behind him Louie jerked his hands forward so Robard could clamp them on. The click of the steel lock ended it, and Solo knew it. Whatever had been planned for this night was now finished. He was good bait, all right. And he had been swallowed by the fish he had set out to catch.

The fight went out of him in a deep rush of breath as his body gave way to unused adrenalin, shaking. He drew another breath to still the trembling. Yet he wasn't ashamed of it because he had learned and accepted long ago that the body's physical reactions had nothing to do with courage. The body might shake and tremble, might give way altogether, but the man inside that body would still fight.

The old man was giving orders again. "Go through Solo's pockets and throw away everything you find. Communicator, wallet, even his cigarette lighter. Everything. They may have a tracing device planted on him."

Heavy hands started searching him, and from Illya's face Solo knew that the careful Russian had, indeed, planted a tracer on him sometime during the evening. It was pulled out from beneath his lapel and thrown into the gutter. Illya shook his head in defeat.

"Now," Adams said, "get rid of Kuryakin as I told you."

"Why?" Robard asked. "You'll only have to catch him again."

"Then I'll catch him," Adams said. "I want this done properly." He swung on Illya. "Remember, Kuryakin, there's a coffin waiting for you, too, if you stay in your present occupation. Now – get yourself out of here!"

Illya was dragged to his feet and let loose, but he stayed there, holding his arm. Solo knew it was beginning to hurt him as the first shock of the wound wore off. But Illya stood where he was, his gaze intent, asking for a signal to start some action, any action.

Adams shouted, "Louie – set him dancing."

Louie raised his gun and fired at Illya's feet. Illya held his ground for three shots, then moved as the fourth spewed cement dust onto his shoes. He retreated only two steps and stopped, his mouth set, his blue eyes under the ragged hair frantically signaling Solo.

Louie fired again and Solo longed to turn away. He didn't want to watch Illya's pitiful withdrawal. But Illya wouldn't withdraw. His stare still burned into Solo's.

Solo lifted his manacled hands and shrugged. "Go on, Illya. This is my party, now."

The bullets played at Illya's feet. "But, Napoleon -"

"Go on!" Solo shouted. "This guy's marksmanship isn't all that good. He'll hit you any minute."

Illya backed across the sidewalk and off the curb, every move reluctant. He finally surrendered and ran with a limping, offbalance run, favoring his bleeding arm. He turned the first corner, and Solo was alone in the street with the four men.

Adams was confident now that he had gotten his way. "Put Mr. Solo in the car," he ordered, "and we'll be on our way. Waverly may decide to honor us, and I'm not ready to see him. I have what I want." His eyes came up to meet Solo's and they were like marbles, hard and cold.

The contact was broken by a shove from Julius' big hand, and Solo was pushed into the Cadillac. There was nothing he could do about it so he let them have their triumph with their shoving and manhandling. He settled himself in the seat, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. He was suddenly exhausted. And surprised that he wasn't dead. If this old man's mission in life was to kill him, why hadn't he simply pointed a gun and had it done?

Chapter 6

"Most Accidents Occur at Home"

SOLO ESTIMATED the drive at an hour, going the speed limit. He had no watch to check, but he had his senses. They had left the city and gone into the dark country side, turning off the highway onto blacktopped roads. They finally stopped at a farm. It was abandoned, the lawn full of coarse, tall grass. A big farmhouse teetered on its foundation two hundred feet from the road, and they pulled in behind it. As Solo was dragged out of the car, he saw a blazing sky of stars. There was no moon.

The entire ride had been silent. Adams had sat on one side of him and Julius on the other, holding his arm tightly. They obviously thought he was still dangerous and the idea comforted him. He couldn't lose all of his dignity when the men who had him chained were wary of him.

They pulled him along to the rear of the house and pushed him up the rickety steps into a shed-like room that leaned precariously on the back of the kitchen. Mud-room, maybe, he thought. A place for dirty boots, chore clothes, mops and brooms.

Adams spoke. "Please watch this next operation care fully, Mr. Solo."

He was forced to stand watching as Julius leaned over and with a great plank levered the rickety steps out of place. Under the steps was a gaping hole.

"It goes down thirty feet," Adams told him. "Straight down. We dug it especially."

Solo refused to give the old man the satisfaction of asking why he had dug the hole. He was curious. But that answer would come later. If it was to be his grave, he would just as soon not know beforehand.

They brought him away from the pit and into the kitchen. The room was bare and austere from disuse. Large, as country kitchens once had been, it held a huge wooden table, six straight chairs, and a sideboard. The china cupboard showed glass that was too dirty to see through, and the windows were hung with grimy brown rags that had been white curtains once, but had been methodically devoured by the sunshine.

There was one overhead light and it cast harsh shadows upon them. Adams pulled out one of the straight chairs, placing it four feet from the table. He motioned that this was where he wanted Solo. As Solo was led to it, he took in the rest of the scene. Dirty sink, blackened old-fashioned stove, and pantry cupboards. The thing that interested him most – the door to the rest of the house – was closed.

Robard shoved him into the chair. Then Robard was leaning close, whispering into his ear, his breath reeking with onion. "You should have let Louie and me kill you the first time, buddy. I hate to see you in the Professor's hands. He's crazy, you know."

Solo smiled a sickly smile to cover the swallowing of the lump in his throat. He clasped his chained hands together in his lap and sat straight, easing his back.

Adams summoned Robard away. "Get busy, Robard. Put the finishing touches on it."

Robard, onion breath and all, trudged across the room obediently and picked up a wooden tool kit containing hammers of various sizes, nails, and screws. He continued in his steady pace to the closed door and opened it, passing through into the rest of the house too quickly for Solo to get a glimpse inside.

Solo brought his attention back to the kitchen. There was nothing for him to do but wait. He doubted if there was even any sense in hoping any more. Julius, more ugly than ever with the overhead light casting cliffs and chasms of shadow on his face, still had his gun in his hand. So did Louie.

Adams' step was lively and cocky. Behind his glasses, his eyes sparked. "And now for Waverly's little lamb."

"I've been called a lot of things, but never a lamb," Solo said, relieved to find his voice clear and steady.

"A pure misnomer." Adams was suddenly towering over him, face white and splotched with red. "You're no more pure than your Thrush counterparts! No better than they are!"

"I hope I am," Solo answered. "I think I've proved out so far – toe to toe."

"This is no game, Mr. Solo," Adams hissed at him. "This is the black edge of death you're facing."

To hide the fact that he couldn't quite manage another smile, Solo said, "You make it sound very dramatic, but I've been there before, too."

"Ahh." Adams was gleeful. "Bravado! You see, Louie? Just as I told you. Corner a killer and it shows its teeth. I would have been disappointed, Solo, if you hadn't given me this little interlude."

But Solo was disappointed that he'd been forced to give it. He was frightened. Every part of his body was tensed and ready to explode into fight, yet all he could do was sit here and pretend it didn't matter. He turned the talk. At least he could get some facts. "Just who and what are you?" he demanded.

"My name is Adams. Doctor Abel Adams."

The name registered with a sinking feeling in Solo's stomach. "Abel Adams! My Uncle Abel. The man with all the charms – coffins, dollar signs, and boat trip souvenirs." A spy in the organization, Mr. Waverly had said. But, Mada Adams? The girl afraid of her own job?

"Only the coffin is of interest to you, Mr. Solo."

"Doctor of what?" Solo asked.

"I've spent my life studying the flora of the world. Plants. Grain. Growing areas. Patterns of vegetation."

"A gentle vocation for such a violent man."

"I'm no ordinary man. I have a mission, Mr. Solo. And the man with a mission always wins. You can see how well I planned. Not all of U.N.C.L.E.'s resources could save you from me."

"You had the help of a viper," Solo spat.

"Inside your Headquarters. Of course! I couldn't have done it otherwise. The point is, I was intelligent enough to know it. Now ask me what my mission is. I'm a killer of killers. A highly honorable thing, don't you think?"

The sound of hammering from behind the closed door interrupted Adams' tirade. For a change, the old man didn't mind. He smiled.

"What's your man doing in there?" Solo asked. "Building a gallows?"

"Nothing so simple. You'll know soon enough. Don't wish your life away when you have so little left."

–

In the next room, Robard went about his work methodically, spending no time with qualms or conscience. The room was actually two, dining and living, joined together in a large el shape. He had only put two dim lights on because he didn't like to see the results of his hammering.

He'd been working on the setup, supervised by the Professor, for a full day. It was nearly ready. The two rooms were a shambles. All the furniture had been pulled away from the wall and placed in various spots on the floor. There they rested in weird positions. Ottomans tilted on their sides. Chairs were upside down. Extra furniture had been brought down from the upper floor – bedside tables, bookcases – and added to the congestion. It was a long obstacle course of furniture that spread out behind him in the dark light, making it impossible to walk a straight line from the kitchen to the front door. Even a carefully maneuvered zigzagging line was dangerous because all the scattered furniture gleamed with the shine of steel.

With his hammer, Robard had attached weapons to the pieces. Knives, kitchen forks, barbecue spits, shish kabob skewers, scissors – anything that Adams could think of to stab a man walking by. And all wooden handled so they could be nailed on the solid old frames with the blades and points sticking out to scrape and mangle passing legs.

On a higher level, there were knife blades waiting on the sides of cabinets, on the door jambs. They stuck out at chest height from a bookcase, at stomach height from the battered piano that would never play a sweet note again. Robard inched gingerly among them, shaking his head, knowing the idea was insane, but also knowing it would work. The old man might be crazy, but he was canny.

He straightened up, giving the last knife a final hammering home, and shivered as he gazed down the length of the room to the door, set slightly off to the right at the front of the house. "Butchering time at the farm," went through his mind. Maybe Adams was right. A gunman he might be, but he wasn't the type of killer who could ever enjoy this kind of thing. The rooms bristled with steel. The horsehair sofa was a comfortable resting place no longer. Brushing against it would mean drawing blood.

Robard picked up his tool case and turned his back on the sight of his handywork. Better to get it done. Then maybe he could forget it.

–

Illya Kuryakin stood in Waverly's office, still holding his wounded arm. He had hastily wrapped a cloth around his hand so the blood wasn't dripping on the floor, but he was a shaft of anxiety as he waited for the head man of U.N.C.L.E. to issue some order – any order – that would release him to search for Napoleon.