"Take the small Triumph. It's equipped. Smoke, extra guns, bombs in the usual places, super-charged for extra speed."
"Right," Solo said.
Ten minutes later the powerful little Triumph was on the road into the mountains again. Napoleon Solo drove swiftly with the sun up and bright over the tall blue mountains. The small car ate up the ten miles. A sign on the side of the road told Solo that Tidworth was one mile ahead. He drove more carefully.
His sharp eyes began to notice things. There were troops in the fields on both sides of the road—troops and vehicles in full battle dress. On the sides of the mountains there were flashes that showed high observation posts. Small planes flew over from time to time as if reconnoitering the area.
These were not the normal activities of a regiment in barracks.
Solo continued to drive. Ahead he saw a roadblock. He eased the Triumph up to the wire. Four soldiers watched him. A sergeant stepped up to check his papers. Solo handed him the specially-prepared papers that identified him as George Solo, uniform salesman from New York.
"And why are you here, sir?" the sergeant asked.
"To sell uniforms, naturally," Solo said with a smile.
"Really? The colonel made no mention of a uniform salesman visiting the barracks today."
"Ah, yes. Well the colonel doesn't know. I, ah, just decided to visit Zambala's best regiment to see if I could find a few, shall we say, flaws in the present uniforms."
"On your own, sir?"
"Ah, yes, all my own little idea," Solo said with a dazzling smile. "Of course, the premier knows I'm here."
"I see, sir. Very good. Then I'm sure the colonel will welcome you."
Solo eased the Triumph into reverse. "Well, as a matter of fact I can see that you're busy, so I think I'll just come back some other time."
The sergeant nodded to his men. They stood around the Triumph with their rifles pointed very accurately at Solo's chest.
The sergeant nodded again, this time to Solo.
"I know you want to see the colonel. Such a long trip, you don't want to leave empty-handed, I'm sure."
Solo looked at the rifles and got out of the car.
* * *
Illya lay on the floor of the room. He was not tied, and the room had a window. Looking out, he could see the grounds of the complex of buildings, and the soldiers walking across the grounds. But the window was barred, and three stories up with no holds to the ground.
Where he lay he considered what had happened. After his capture there had been the trip in the truck guarded by the soldiers. The arrival at what was obviously a barracks station of some regiment, and his delivery to an officer, who promptly locked him in this room. Papers had been handed to the officer. The officer had treated him well, but refused t listen to him.
Ever since then he had been fed regularly. He was not bound or chained, no one had bothered him or questioned him. He was simply being held in what was clearly a guardroom just like any military prisoner.
Illya Kuryakin was puzzled.
The soldiers who had attacked Solo and himself had shot at them, literally kidnapped him. Yet when they arrived with him here at the barracks they had handed him over with papers as if he were a prisoner being transferred. They kidnapped him by force, yet treated him more like a prisoner of war.
They had not eve searched him or taken away his watch, belt, rings, shoes or clothes. They had fed him well; he had seen no one but the soldier who brought his food since he had arrived. No one kept him from looking out the window—and from the window he could clearly see the preparations.
Preparations for a regimental move of some kind. The signs were obvious.
He went again to the barred window. The signs were still there—kits being inspected, soldiers cleaning weapons on the quadrangle, vehicles being checked and gassed across the quadrangle in the motor pool, boxes of ammunition and large shells for the tanks opened and stacked ready to be issued.
Until now Illya had made no attempt to escape because he wanted to see why they had captured him. But nothing had happened, and the regiment was moving close to readiness. Soon he would have to make a move.
He was thinking this when he saw Napoleon Solo.
The blond agent came alert. He watched as the soldiers marched Solo across the quadrangle toward the same building Illya was in. There was no doubt that Solo was under guard. The same polite guard as Illya had had himself. Illya turned away from the window.
He crossed the room, checked the door. There was a soldier stationed directly outside! Frowning, Illya recrossed to the window. He could easily melt the bars, and lower himself on the hair-thin spool of wire hidden in the third button of his jacket. But there were soldiers all over the quadrangle; this part of the building was in clear view of hundreds of them.
Illya rubbed his hand through his shock of blond hair and began to study the walls of the room. The barracks were built of fieldstone, but the interior walls were normal lath and plaster. What was on the other side of the one wall that did not face the hall? He could break through, only to find himself in another cell!
No, this was a matter for trickery. The guard outside probably had orders to never enter a cell himself, but to call the corporal of the guard in any emergency. If he feigned sickness, even death, the guard would probably simply call for the corporal, unless he could panic the fellow, which would not be easy. This was a crack unit, its men would be trained and veterans.
Somehow, he had to panic the guard and silence him before he could summon the corporal.
He looked around the room again and he saw the wash basin. Illya began to smile. A standard wash basin with hot and cold faucets and a stopper. The sink was very close to the door. Illya smiled more. There was something a lot better than panic—curiosity and uncertainty!
The fear of looking foolish!
There was a weapon! Illya studied the room and the door. The door opened inward, with the wash basin on the side of the room hidden by the door. The guard would come in, slowly, not running, and look carefully around the door. Illya would have no more than a second or two, and he could not allow the guard to make a sound.
Illya took off his wristwatch, opened the back, and took out the small capsule—a tiny plastic capsule wrapped in some kind of netting.
Then he went to the sink, put the stopper in the bowl, and started both faucets running, but not too fast, just filling the bowl without making a great deal of noise. He stood at the sink until the water began to run over and flow down to the floor and across the floor toward the door.
Then he stood just behind the door, the capsule ready, and waited.
He watched the small stream of water flow inexorably to the door, under it. He waited. Another minute passed, two minutes...three. The water flowed thin under the door. Four minutes. The water flowed slowly, a thin and wide stream going out under the door.
Then Illya heard the guard move. He heard the low, muttered exclamation. Behind the door the small blond grinned. He could picture the soldier standing outside the door, staring at the stream of water. He could imagine the soldier looking around as if to ask what to do.
The soldier would look again at the water. Illya Kuryakin heard steps as the guard came to the door and listened. Now the guard stepped back. Curiosity and uncertainty was gripping him. What should he do about this? Call the corporal? For a water leak? Have the corporal come running with two more men—to find a puddle of water?