The health club below was pitch dark. There was no sound of any kind. Solo moved carefully down the stairs and came out in the dark health club. He went through the steam room and the hot room and the shower room. There was no one anywhere. Out in the pool the water stretched blue and smooth like glass. The pool was dark.
Solo turned and returned to the locker room. The room was dark and deserted, too, the lockers all standing open. He found his clothes in his locker and realized that who ever had attacked him had undoubtedly known that he was somewhere in the building by the simple fact that his clothes were in the locker.
His pistol was gone, but otherwise the lieutenant's uniform was untouched.
He found nothing in the locker room. He went into the club office and searched the desk and files. There was nothing at all but the records and other data that related to the health club. In fact, the entire club seemed to have suddenly stopped in its tracks, leaving every thing where it had fallen. Solo had a strong feeling that whoever had been operating the strange machine had cleared out and was not coming back.
Which would explain why they had left him and the muscular man alive. They felt safe enough, once they had gone, and they probably did not want dead bodies around to bring the police on their trail. They had simply hit the muscular type too hard. That gave Napoleon Solo a thought: if they had hit the muscular person as well as himself, then that meant that the muscular man was not one of them. Who was he, and why had he been following Forsyte?
Solo went back upstairs. The short, wide man had not moved. He still lay there in a kind of coma. Probably with a skull fracture or a bad concussion. Solo bent down over him to examine his clothes. There were no labels in his clothes
His pockets were empty. Then Solo noticed his fingers.
The fingerprints had been removed surgically.
Solo stared at the fingers for a moment. Then he reached down and pushed up the man's sleeve, unbuttoned his shirt cuff and rolled it up. The number was there: T 778890.
THRUSH.
So THRUSH was in this—interested in Colonel Forsyte and the health club. Solo. narrowed his eyes. He had little doubt now as to what had happened to Illya. The small Russian was certainly in the hands of THRUSH. If Illya was still alive.
Solo looked down at the muscular man. The question was—was THRUSH part of the transmission of the secret data, or was THRUSH after the same thing U.N.C.L.E. was? Was THRUSH, too, interested in just how Forsyte and the others had transmitted vital secrets when they were all men formerly above reproach? From the actions of the muscular man he was sure that that was just what THRUSH was doing—looking for whatever was being used on Forsyte.
It fitted with the action in Anagua. Agent 44 had probably been killed not by the spies but by THRUSH. So THRUSH, too, had somehow learned what information Forsyte could transmit and had joined the search. Solo thought about the weird machine—and what it might do in the hands of THRUSH.
The thought made him shudder—and then he heard the footsteps. Someone, more than one man, was coming up the stairs from the health club. He did not think that it was any of the health club staff returning. It was probably THRUSH. He thought quickly. He was still dressed in the white uniform of an attendant of the health club. He bent down as if searching the unconscious THRUSH agent on the floor.
The footsteps came quickly along the corridor, entered the room where the machine had been, and stopped suddenly close behind him.
"Freeze, friend," a voice said.
Solo did a good imitation of a man surprised, and then scared. He started, gave a small jump, and then froze as directed. Hands came up behind him and touched him expertly for weapons. The hands went away.
"Up. Turn around."
Solo turned.
The tall man who had been driving the car stood with a gun pointed at Solo. Two other men were with him.
The tall man jerked his head curtly toward the unconscious muscular man.
"Take a look at Gregor," the tall man snapped.
One of the other men circled Napoleon Solo and bent over Gregor. The tall man stared straight at Solo.
"All right, friend, start talking. Why'd you hit Gregor?"
"He was snooping around," Solo said in his best tough-man voice. "So are you."
The man who was looking at Gregor looked up. "He's hit bad. Maybe a fracture."
"Did you do it?" the tall man said to Solo.
"He fell," Solo said.
"Where are the others?"
"What others?" Solo said.
"How do they get the info from Forsyte?"
"Who's Forsyte?" Solo said.
The man who had not spoken suddenly swore. "Let's finish the dirty—"
"Shut up!" the tall one said.
"But he—"
"But he's one of them," the tall one said. "This must be where Forsyte passes the data. This joker knows how. They've slipped out on us, but we've got this one, and The Boss'll want to talk to him."
The other two nodded.
"Bring Gregor. I'll handle this one," the tall man said. The tall man grinned a wolfish grin at Solo. "Our Boss'll talk with you, friend. And believe me, you'll talk back."
They marched Solo out. Two of them carried the moaning Gregor. The tall man prodded Solo with his pistol. Napoleon Solo let them take him.
FIVE
EMIL DANTON leaned down over Illya Kuryakin.
"You'll talk, my dear Illya. You know our methods. And don't rely on that sensor you have implanted to bring my old friend Waverly. We have blocked its signal."
"You've been busy," Illya said dryly.
"Too busy," Danton said. "Sometimes I think we all spend much too much time devising weapons and defenses, and then making counter-weapons and counter-devices. It's a weary circle. Perhaps we should make a pact—no more tricky weapons on either side. Go back to plain muscle and guns. It would save a lot of overhead."
Illya smiled. He was in the same room of the mansion, the massive fireplace looming before him, and seated in a special chair. He was not bound; there was no need. The chair held him by the electronic force that sent a searing pain through him if he tried to move. The guards stood silent. Only Emil Danton spoke.
"Come, Illya. You know you will talk. Save me the trouble and mess of torture or drugs. I'm truly weary of all that fuss. I know that you will stand the torture, and you know I'll use it if necessary. But you also know the drugs will do the job, and you can't resist them."
"Try me, Danton," Illya said, "This time you may be surprised. I may not know what you want to know."
"You know a great deal I want to know," Danton purred. "Still, you may be right about the immediate problem. What do you know about Forsyte? The good colonel has a fine record."
"I know that. He has a fine record," Illya said.
"Not a spy."
"Not a spy," Illya agreed.
"Yet he has passed on secret data."
"He has?" Illya raised an eyebrow.
Danton sighed. "Really, Illya, don't fence with me. You were following him. You arranged a test; we know that. I'm sorry about your agent in Managua. Not all my colleagues share my belief in avoiding unnecessary violence."