"No survivors from the other?"
"None at all. It was a pressurized 707 that blew up in mid-air, somewhere over California, I believe."
"Do we have any technical data, Mr. Waverly, on the supposed causes of these two American crashes?" Illya asked. "I mean, were they as incomprehensible as the three at Nice?"
"There was no provable hypothesis—nothing in the nature of evidence that would convince an inquiry tribunal. But I understand Maximilian Plant—he's the head of T.C.A., as I expect you know—I understand he has a few ideas on what may have happened. I said we'd send somebody over to see him at their H.Q. on Fifth Avenue, right?"
"Right, sir," Solo said. "I'll go over myself. Now, if you can let us have the names and addresses of these survivors, we'll get onto them right away."
Waverly adjusted his spectacles and read from the paper:
"James Lester, steward, suffered from severe burns; now back at his home; 1362 Venice Avenue, Cicero, Illinois. Olive McTaggart, passenger, multiple injuries and severe burns; still in St. Mary's Hospital, Chicago. Enrico Spaggia, passenger, two broken legs and second degree burns; back at home in Worsthorne Course, State Street, Wilmington, Delaware....That's the three in this country. In France, you have the stewardess, Andrea Bergen, and the poor fellow who ran out of the fire the other day—he hasn't recovered consciousness yet."
Solo had been taking notes. He looked up. "Where can we find these two?" he inquired.
"The girl's just come out of the hospital—she was very badly knocked about. You can find out her address in Nice from the T.C.A. bureau at the airport there. The man, Foster Andersen, he's in the Anglo-American hospital between Nice and Villefranche."
"Okay," Solo said. "Illya—will you handle the two at Nice? I'll look after Maximilian Plant and the three here..."
Waverly stared at the row of five enamel buttons inset into the top of his desk. After a moment he jabbed a finger at the yellow one in the middle. There was an amplified click and then the blonde's disembodied voice:
"Yes, sir?"
"Get me General Hartz at the Pentagon," Waverly barked at the invisible microphones. He scowled at the pipe rack while he was waiting for the connection and then, rejecting its entire contents with a shake of his head, hauled an old Meerschaum from the pocket of his baggy tweed jacket and placed it unlit between his teeth. A red indicator light was flashing on the wall.
"Yes?" the Head of Section One said into the air.
"General Hartz on the line, Mr. Waverly."
"Put him on."
Another click; a faint, high, singing noise. And then:
"Alex? How's tricks, you old rascal! What can I do for you?"
"I want an army jet, Number One Priority, to ferry an operative to Nice, France, as soon as possible, David."
"Can do, as it's for you. How soon is 'as soon as possible'?"
"Leaving here as of now."
"Okay. Where are we gonna pick him up?"
"I'll fly him to you by helicopter from the roof of this building. Can you have the plane ready by the time he gets to you?"
"Sure thing, Alex. He'll carry the usual identification?"
"Naturally. His name is Kuryakin—and thanks, David."
"Be my guest...Oh, and Alex—golf on Sunday?"
"Golf on Sunday," Waverly said. "As usual."
Illya was on his feet, ready to go. "I'll draw some equipment from the armory, arrange a cover with Personnel, and indent fo some funds at the cashier's office," he said.
Waverly nodded. "I'll have the aircraft on the roof in ten minutes," he said. "You'll keep in touch with Mr. Solo through Station M?"
"Yes, sir. Shall I ask them to try to get me a wavelength?"
"No. Not at first, anyway. Not worth it. Let them transmit."
It was the agent's turn to nod. "There is just one other thing," he added diffidently. "Forgive me for mentioning the obvious, but —"
"What is it, Illya?" Solo asked, sensing the Russian's reluctance.
"Well, it's just—I'm sure it has been checked—but...I suppose we do know the enemy here is THRUSH?...I mean, there isn't a chance that the sabotage was personally directed? There weren't passengers on those planes whose deaths would benefit people? There have been men mad enough to destroy a whole plane-load of innocent people to get one individual before now."
"I'm glad you asked that question, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said without in any way revealing that he knew the remark was a cliché. "In truth, I should have remembered to tell you: both the F.B.I., in the case of the two domestic crashes, and the C.I.A., in the case of the others, have made the most exhaustive inquiries along the lines you mention. And in every case they have drawn a blank. I think you can rule the idea out for all practical purposes..."
"Thank you, sir. It was just that I wished to make sure —"
"Quite, quite, quite. You did quite right to ask...And now off you go, the two of you. I suggest that you leave Plant to the last, Mr. Solo; I should like to have some facts about that Chicago crash on my desk as soon as possible...Mr. Kuryakin—question these two people in Nice as closely as you can about every recollection of the crashes they have. No matter how insignificant it may seem —"
He broke off as the blonde entered with a word of apology and laid on his desk an envelope with the Urgent—Top Secret seal in red. He slit the flp with a paper knife and drew out the single sheet of paper it contained.
"Correction, please, gentlemen," he said in an expressionless voice a moment later. "For 'question these two people' read 'question that person'. I have just heard that Foster Andersen has died without regaining consciousness."
Chapter 4 — The girl on the Promenade des Anglais
"This is the last call for passengers on Air France Flight A.F./951—the Caravelle departing at 1410 hours for London. Passengers who have checked in with their baggage please assemble at Exit No. 3 in the Departure Lounge...This is the last call for passengers..."
The boxy, amplified voice echoed around the concourse of the modernistic Aéroport Nice-Côte d'Azur. Illya Kuryakin stood beside a huge concrete circle ablaze with begonias, zinnias and salvia, looking at the row of airline offices, flower shops and confectionery kiosks which lined the vast hall. Around him, shrill with anxiety or indecision, the high-season holiday crowd milled. Transcontinental Airways housed their bureau between B.E.A. and the stairway to the cloakrooms—under a gallery leading past counters of cashmere cardigans and bottles of scent to the restaurant. The agent strolled across to quiz the girl behind the guichet.
"Andrea Bergen?" she repeated. "Yes, of course I can give you her address. It's in an apartment block just off the Avenue Malausséna—but I'm afraid you won't find her there."
"Oh. Why not? I thought she had come out of the hospital."
"She has, poor dear. But she's still in a wheelchair—completely crippled. She can't do a thing for herself, so she's being looked after by a friend."
"Do you know how I can get in touch with the friend? It's rather important."
"Yes, I do. She works for T.C.A. too. I don't have her address in Nice right here—could you hang on a moment?" The girl disappeared into the back room and he heard her talking to someone behind the frosted glass partition. A moment later she was back, her face covered in smiles. "You're in luck," she said. "Sherry's actually here. She's on a short lay-off between shifts and it wasn't worth going home. You'll find her having a coffee on the terrace outside the restaurant upstairs."