There was a shot silence as the motorcycle sped through the night. Then the pencil-radio spoke low in the voice of Martin O'Hara.
"Roger. Check will be run, Illya. And be careful. The Stengali usually dress in black. They are very dangerous. They would have been watching the prison."
Illya Kuryakin concentrated on following the jeep ahead, and beyond the jeep the black car. The road was deserted here at the edge of the city, and the small blond U.N.C.L.E. agent was riding the motorcycle with the lights out.
"That Stengali was our only lead to the assassination plots," he said into the pencil-radio.
"I know," O'Hara said from the hidden rooms of local U.N.C.L.E. headquarters inside his house. "Wait. Here is the check. All negative. From your descriptions neither men are in our files, but the computer emphasizes that the Stengali often dress in black."
"Thank the computer for me," Illya said dryly. "Get the descriptions to New York and see what we might have there. Report that I am continuing to follow."
"Very well, Illya, but be careful," O'Hara said.
Illya clicked off his pencil-instrument and returned it to his pocket. As he did so he took his eyes form the road for an instant. When he looked up again it was too late.
The jeep was slewed directly across the road!
The masked man was already firing an ugly Soviet-made submachine gun.
By the reflex action that had saved him so many times, Illya swerved his motorcycle directly toward the ditch that bordered the dark road and began to hurl himself sideways.
Again, he was too late.
The motorcycle struck the long, thick root of a tree and Illya Kuryakin hurtled helpless through the air in the dark night.
THREE
Behind the innocent façade of New York brownstones, and the one modern yellow-brick building, the impregnable complex of the headquarters of The United Network Command for Law and Enforcement goes about its never-ending battle to keep the world safe for the ordinary citizen. This battle requires all the complex and secret equipment that fill the secret rooms, the vast network of communications that keep New York in touch with all the other far-flung centers of U.N.C.L.E. And the task of protecting the ordinary citizens of the world requires many extraordinary citizens.
Every hour of the day these extraordinary men go in and out of the entrance to Del Floria's cleaning & Tailoring Shop, unnoticed by the citizens they protect. They go in and out by any of the other three known entrances to the U.N.C.L.E. complex, or by one of the secret river tunnels from the river to the lower level of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.
One of the most extraordinary of these men, the only man in New York who knows the location of the fifth entrance to U.N.C.L.E., is Alexander Waverly, Chief of U.N.C.L.E. in the western hemisphere, the only member of Section I—Policy and Operations in the western world.
Another of the more extraordinary men was Napoleon Solo, Chief Enforcement Agent in Section II—Operations and Enforcement. Solo, dressed as always in the impeccable young executive clothes that made him seem no more than another handsome young bachelor and successful junior executive, now sat with Alexander Waverly in the small but complete office of the Chief.
Through the windows there was a fine view of the city in the afternoon sun, and anyone looking in would have seen no more than a businessman talking to one of his assistants. The windows, of course, were never opened, and the glass was bulletproof.
Waverly himself, a gentleman over fifty but no one knew how far over, was the picture of the tweedy management man. His iron grey hair was neat if shaggy. He held an unlighted pipe, and turned the gaze of an aristocratic bloodhound on Solo.
"The last report of Mr.—uh—Kuryakin indicated that he was following two men who had been watching the San Pablo prison. Our records came up with nothing on either man, I'm afraid."
"And the Stengali prisoner was killed," Solo said. "Our only lead to what might be happening down there."
"Shot escaping, I'm afraid," Waverly said. "A pity. Although I understand the Stengali have a suicide rule if hopelessly captured."
"Shot while escaping can be arranged," Solo said.
Waverly looked for his matches in his waistcoat pocket. "I'm aware of that, Mr. Solo. That is precisely why Mr. Kuryakin is following those men."
Waverly found his matches on his desk and began to light his pipe. The unruffled chief puffed fitfully, his flat eyes and tweedy manner exactly like those of some absent-minded professor. The chief sat behind his desk and Solo faced him across it. The handsome and slender enforcement chief presented his usual relaxed, almost boyish manner that hid his deadly skills as an agent.
"Just what does O'Hara suspect down there?" Solo asked.
Waverly managed to get his pipe lighted and waved out the flame of his match. "He hasn't the slightest idea. The situation appears most confused. As you know, the international tribunal called by Deputy Premier Gomez has met only once. O'Hara reports that something is quite odd. The Stengali do not usually use assassination, but hey might have started. What O'Hara cannot quite fathom is why this all began just now. However, he does feel that the evidence points to the involvement of Zamyatta."
Solo rubbed his nose. "Perhaps you had better -"
"Fill you in, as you young men say? Yes, I suppose I should do just that."
Waverly swiveled in his chair, pressed a button on his desk. A screen appeared on the wall. Waverly pressed a second button, leaned down, and said, "The Zambala file, if you please, Miss—uh—Heatherly."
Napoleon Solo sighed as he always did when he heard the name of the beautiful red-headed Communications and Research Chief, Section IV. May was so beautiful, so efficient, so tantalizing. Solo sighed again and put his mind back on business. At this moment, business was the picture of a tall black-haired, muscular and handsome man on the screen.
May Heatherly's maddeningly efficient voice intoned, "M.M. Roy, the Lion of Zambala, now premier. Roy was the leader of the Liberation Army against the British. When the British granted independence, Roy was elected premier without opposition. He has been re-elected once, two years ago."
Solo narrowed his eyes. "An election coming up?"
"No. I'm afraid not," Waverly said. "Zambala, like most ex-British colonies, operates on the parliamentary system. A general election is not due for four more years."
"But an election could be forced at any time by a vote of no confidence, or by the premier himself?" Solo said.
"Yes, of course. Next, Miss Heatherly," Waverly said.
Another picture flashed on the screen. It was the picture of a short, heavy, bull-like man about the same age as the premier himself. The man was much darker and his face showed two long scars.
"Jemi Zamyatta," May Heatherly said crisply. "Leader of the opposition. Zamyatta's real name is unknown. He took his present name during the struggle for liberation. After independence, he was unanimously elected president. He resigned two years ago to oppose Roy for premier. He lost. Since then he has acted as an apparently loyal opposition from his seat in Parliament."
Waverly waved his pipe. "You realize that the post of president is purely ceremonial in Zambala, amounted to putting Zamyatta on the shelf. Apparently he didn't like it and came out against Roy. Zamyatta has had Soviet training; he does not like many of the concessions granted by Roy to Western countries and businessmen."