"A Spy in the Ointment"
SOLO MADE the drive quickly, keeping to the law and the traffic signals, but eager to get to Waverly and chase the shudder out of his system. He hadn't gone two blocks before he knew he was being followed. It was a black Cadillac, and the license numbers were invisible. He wished fervently for a police car to notice the absence of the numbers and pull the Cadillac over, but it didn't happen.
Evasive action was unnecessary, he decided. Whoever was after him already knew everything about him - his apartment, his whereabouts during the day - so they knew U.N.C.L.E., too. It would do no harm to lead them to Del Floria's and if he tried to lose them, he'd also lose time. The Cadillac hung back a full two blocks, so he simply increased his speed to gain more distance and headed on.
He pulled up in front of Del Floria's with a squeal of tires, jumped out of the car, and sprinted to the steps that led down into the tailor shop. Once inside, he was going to stride directly into the back booth, but Del Floria gestured him to a quick halt.
Del Floria said, "Did you know you have blood on your face?"
Solo felt the dried flakes of blood that coated his temple where the shoe had hit him. "Huh! I forgot. Thanks. There's no sense in alarming the girl at the desk, is there?" He took out his handkerchief and rubbed the dried blotch.
Del Floria took the cloth from him, moistened it in the steam from his pressing machine and handed it back, shoving a mirror forward with his other hand.
Solo wiped the blood clean to find just a slight cut under it. Three days and it would be gone. "The thing is," he said as he dabbed, "there are unwelcome guests coming close behind me so I'd better clear out before they cause you trouble."
"The door is ready when you are," Del Floria said. The sound of a car pulling up outside, and then another immediately after it, thrust Solo's hand inside his coat. It came out with his gun. "Too late. Maybe it would be best for me to hold them off here than to leave them to you."
Solo took a semi-sheltered position near the counter, but he had barely slipped the safety off his gun when one car roared away and running footsteps came down the stairs. A girl's footsteps.
At the first sight of her, Solo holstered his gun again. It was Lainy. She ran into the shop, breathless, calling, "Mr. Solo! Mr. Solo!" She stopped still when she saw him.
"I thought you were safe at home with your cat!" Solo said angrily.
"I followed you. And it's a good thing I did, too. You just can't seem to take proper care of yourself at all. Those same two men were right behind you; did you know that?"
"I was aware of it, yes."
"Oh." She was disappointed. "But I did do some good. Because I followed them and when they stopped out side I jumped out of my cab and stood on the sidewalk and stared at them. Nasty looking things. But I stared at them so they knew they were identified and they didn't dare make a move with a witness around, so they left."
"They're gone?" Solo asked.
"Gone."
"Great!" Solo said through his teeth. "And you are some kind of a blue-eyed idiot. While you were getting your look at them, they were getting a good look at you! Didn't you stop to think they might connect you with me now? That they might threaten you?" He slapped his hand down on the counter hard, resigned. "I'll have to see you home. There's no other way. I can't have you playing cops and robbers in the streets alone."
Del Floria cleared his throat meaningfully, and when Solo looked at him, the old man simply pointed a finger upward and his lips formed a silent word, "Waverly.
"It's that important?" Solo asked him.
"He said immediately," Del Floria answered. "You can't take anyone home."
Lainy interrupted, "What are you talking about? Honestly, you two act like a bunch of spies or something."
"I warned you, Lainy," Solo told her, "and don't forget it when you find the going rough. Come on, little girl, you're in this and in it you'll stay." He took hold of her elbow and guided her to the dressing booth, signaling Del Floria to activate the automatic door. Solo pushed Lainy into the booth, one arm around her shoulders, closed the curtains, turned the coat hanger, and the door swung open into the silver-gray interior of U.N.C.L.E. He pulled Lainy through with him and watched her open-mouthed gasp as the door whispered shut be hind them, encircling them in the special inner world of security, counter-plotting, and counter-espionage.
He let go of her and walked to the desk where the receptionist was waiting with a badge, her fingers activating its chemicals as she held it. He leaned over and allowed her to pin it on his lapel. As she finished, she brushed one last bit of blood from his temple, murmuring, "Trouble, trouble."
"Always. That's the name of the game." He pointed to the rack of badges. "I'll need another one of those for my friend here. A white one."
The receptionist handed one over and Solo took it to Lainy, attaching it to her dress carefully. She had recovered enough to be curious. "What is this place?" she demanded.
Beyond the receptionist, the main door into U.N.C.L.E. slid open and Illya Kuryakin came through. "When I saw the gun come out in Del Floria's I started down to give you a hand," Illya told Solo. "But what is this turn of events?" He looked at Lainy.
"I've brought a little bloodhound for you, Illya. Handle her with care."
Lainy stood between them, peering from one to the other, shaken.
Illya bobbed his head, accepting her presence and his responsibility for it. He said, "Your orders, Napoleon, are to make a fast verbal report to Mr. Waverly, and then dictate a written report. After that you can join us for details."
Solo grinned. "And how did Mr. Waverly know I had anything to report?"
"The blood-washing was flashed through the building, my friend."
"Right. But do take care of this one for me." He pushed Lainy forward. "There's not a thing in her head but good intentions." He started away, then turned back. "Her name is Lainy Michaels. She can tell you the rest - if you'll believe it. This is Illya, Lainy. He's friendly, so don't let his frowns frighten you." Solo hurried away out of sight of the big blue eyes set in the white face of Lainy Michaels. It was a rude introduction to U.N.C.L.E., and he would have liked to go with her and ease her first encounter, but he knew Illya would be just as taken with her vulnerability as he had been and handle her gently. For the moment, Mr. Waverly was waiting. That couldn't be allowed to continue.
---
The reports at last completed, Solo stopped outside Waverly's office to straighten his coat, then took the step that activated the sliding doors, and entered. He stopped again. The room before him was charged with tension.
Mr. Waverly sat in his normal place by the revolving table, the bank of control buttons close at his fingertips. As he glanced up, his eyes held their usual cool look, but they were tired. That was rare in itself, for Mr. Waverly seldom showed fatigue, seeming to have an in exhaustible store of energy that prodded his agents with an imagined whisper of, "If an old man like myself can keep going, I want no groans of effort from you." But now Mr. Waverly appeared to be under a more than usual strain.
Illya sat close to him, fiddling with a pencil, and across the table, extremely alone and small in the cheer less room, sat Lainy. Solo immediately caught the implication of the handkerchief she was twisting in her hands. The girl was frightened.