Waverly pursed his lips. "Not yet. We must talk first. A fair exchange is no bargain—I've heard that somewhere. Your people have one of my best men. Perhaps they now have two. A most unique young lady you may well remember. I prize these people very highly. But I fear I may prize you even more. Therefore, I must think a little longer on the matter."
Zorki snorted. "And how much time do you have to—think?"
"Midnight today. Your friends suggest I contact a locker in Grand Central Station."
"Ah, yes. Grand Central. I nearly blew that place up once. It would have been a glorious thing. Think of it. New York's vital traffic bogged down for weeks, months."
"Perhaps," Waverly murmured. "In any case, I didn't bring you in here to discuss your exploits for Thrush."
Zorki's bushy eyebrows rose.
"So? To specifics then. Are you going to agree to the terms?"
"No," Mr. Waverly said. "I am not." He stared down at the tips of his spatulate, leathery fingers, then searched the top of the desk for one of his pipes. But there were none there. Only the row of enamel buttons of all colors. Zorki followed his gaze, impatiently. "You see, my dear Zorki, I am fearful of your health. A man such as yourself must often catch colds. I have found that true of most large men of my acquaintance."
"Bah," roared Zorki. "What are two agents compared to the Great Zorki? A mere man and a woman—"
"The man," said Mr. Waverly, "is impulsive, a bit of a nonconformist but he is highly skilled and intelligent enough to be a candidate for this very desk one day. As for Miss Dancer, apart from being dedicated to good work, she has poured every molecule of her being into the fight against cosmic evils like Thrush. She's a bit penurious—her Maine background—but I find that refreshing when it comes to turning in expense accounts. Miss Dancer actually is worth five of you to me, Mr. Zorki. But we were talking about your health, were we not?"
Zorki leaned out of his chair, his arms resting on the lip of the desk. His small eyes were angry. "What is this nonsense about my health?"
Waverly's eyes met his, a slight smile tugging his mouth.
"Don't you notice anything peculiar in the air? A bit of a chill—?"
Zorki frowned, his nostrils curling. Suddenly, a look of dawning wonder flooded his bull face. He gazed about wildly, then he tried to rise. Too late, he sensed the subtle, cool fragrance about his chair. It was then and only then that he managed to push up from the chair. He cursed, clawed at his throat briefly and fell over backwards, missing the chair. His heavy body thudded to the soft carpet of Mr. Waverly's office.
Waverly hardly gave him a glance. He thumbed the yellow button on his desk. A female voice, issuing from seemingly nowhere again, abruptly crackled with sound.
"Section Six, Mr. Waverly."
"Send Mr. Wilder in, please."
"Yes, Mr. Waverly."
He pressed another button on his desk. The green one. This activated an air current that issued from the edge of his desk and kept the gas that had knocked out Zorki from reaching him. Waverly steepled his fingers, sat back in his chair, and waited.
A door on his left, cleverly merged with the pale umber color of the wall, opened with a slide of panel, and a man stepped into the office.
Mr. Waverly spun about in his chair and scrutinized the newcomer carefully. As if by prearranged signal, the entrant to the office stood at attention and said nothing.
Yes, Wilder would most certainly do. Only Zorki's mother could have told them apart.
Security and Enforcement Agent James Wilder was the spitting image of Alek Yakov Zorki. It was more than the similar costume of rough tweed suit, gray turtleneck sweater and plain, scuffed shoes. The bull head, massive shoulders and the artfully made-up face, would definitely serve to fool anyone coming as close as five feet. The Lab had once more performed one of their highly specialized tricks.
James Wilder turned around for Mr. Waverly's benefit, walked a few paces and then paused, cocking his head. As his chief studied him for defects, he too scarcely paid any attention to the man on the floor.
"Good, Mr. Wilder. You'll do. Concentrate a bit on that flinging of the head. Our dear Zorki's bullishness is one impression he leaves with the most casual acquaintance."
"Right, sir."
"Now I suggest that you find our sleeping friend a cell to sleep it off in. Continue to study him until eleven tonight. All details, all physical mannerisms. Using a glass mirror, of course. By that time, we will have formulated our plans for the midnight rendezvous with our other friends from Thrush."
Wilder came further into the room and bent over Zorki. He rolled the heavy agent over on his back. Zorki made not a sound. Wilder's smile was bleak.
"Sleeping like a baby."
"Yes," Waverly nodded. "The depression of the cushion on that chair he sat in is rather unique, I think. Harmless enough but most effective in releasing the gas. Took a bit longer to work this time. Have the Lab check out the formula for possible flaws. It took nearly five minutes to incapacitate Mr. Zorki."
"Right, sir." Wilder paused, as he slung Zorki to his shoulder. "Any word on Slate and Dancer?"
"No. That will be all, Mr. Wilder."
Mr. Waverly turned to look out the picture window. The panorama of the East River and the shore beyond was always a pleasing sight. It had a soothing effect on whatever strain he experienced in his duties for the organization known as U.N.C.L.E.
He was upset now, though his headmaster's manner indicated no such thing to observers like James Wilder, who was already removing Zorki's bulk from the office. It was one thing to dupe the enemy and prepare a fine plan to rescue two valuable agents, but he was all too aware of the duplicity of THRUSH.
What if April Dancer and Mark Slate were already dead?
For one tiny second, he wistfully wished that Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were not thousands of miles away in Rangoon on that infernal ray affair.
He tried not to think about that as he watched the sun's rays dance off the numberless windows on the opposite side of the river.
April Dancer and Mark Slate were a team, too. As such, they would have to play the game. The game that can be lost just once.
The deadly game of Spy, U.N.C.L.E., Spy.
Don't Blow Your Top
The corridor was empty.
Behind them, the fused, crumpled door, a twisted testimonial to the effectiveness of X-757, now revealed the glowing chamber, their recent cell. The hallway stretched ahead, long, dark and unknown. No light gleamed. In the shadowy gloom, April Dancer could see the pale blur of Mark Slate's half-naked body. The woman in her made her grin wryly, despite the situation. There was something indecent about having to operate without a full set of fig leaves.
Silken panties and bra were not exactly the standard uniform for U.N.C.L.E. assignments, either.
"Where to now?" Mark Slate whispered.
"Let's wait till we hear a noise. No sense in playing blindman's buff."
It was a good idea. No hue and cry had been raised since the muffled explosion of the door. A cemetery silence filled the corridor. A silence more discomforting for the noisy blast that had preceded it.
A darkened corridor was ideal for the onslaught of sudden attacks. Especially when one had not the faintest notion which way led to freedom.
They didn't have a weapon between them. THRUSH had seen to that. Good old reliable Mark, who seemed to think of everything sometimes, had had the good sense to secrete a tiny blasting cap in the hollow of his armpit. It was that and that alone which had triggered the wadded clump of X-757 in the door jamb. But what now?