"Ah, yes." Mr. Waverly smiled. "You will turn your attention to the far wall." He glanced at his watch. "It's a bit late but in any case, you will be able to judge for yourself the efficacy of our experiment."
April and Slate wheeled around in their chairs to face the elevated row of closed television circuit screens aligned on the far wall. Mr. Waverly pressed a button in the recess of the table where he sat.
One of the screens lit up, instantly. A bright, clear picture, unmuddled, without snow. As clear as a glass of water. They could see a man, dressed in a gray turtleneck sweater and trousers; the massive body and bull head were familiar.
"The Great Zorki," April murmured. "Caged Russian bear."
"And now this," Waverly said and pressed another button. The screen adjacent to the picture lit up. It was uncanny. The same man, only this time the mood was different. The bull head was propped on a pillow, the bushy eyebrows were knit in concentration, the face staring at the floor of the cell. This Zorki was deep in reflection. The garments were identical. Gray turtleneck sweater, whipcord trousers. Mr. Waverly chuckled drily as both men came to life on the screen.
"Now, I've a question for you both. Which one of the men that you see is indeed our Russian friend?"
"It's an amazing duplication," Slate marveled. "But I'd place my pennies on the joker that's stalking like a bear."
"And you, Miss Dancer. Take your pick."
"I'm not being contrary," April laughed, "but I'd have to say the one staring at the floor. I don't base that opinion on any flaw in the disguise, though."
"Oh." Mr. Waverly sounded amused. "Why do you select the reflective Zorki as the real one?"
"He's wearing a wristwatch. And we don't allow our prisoners anything like that."
"Tallyho," Mark Slate laughed. "You're right."
"And so she is," Waverly agreed, clicking the buttons on his desk again. The screens went dark. "I shall have to remind Mr. Wilder about that. Though it does no harm at the moment."
"Wilder?" April echoed. "That was James Wilder? Yes, yes—I see now. He's built like Zorki, the face and hair is close enough and with makeup—"
"Quite. You really wouldn't be able to tell them apart if they stood in the center of this room."
"But," Slate interrupted. "There's no need now for this game of Zorki, is there, sir? You've no place to go with him."
"You forget, Mr. Slate," Waverly's expression was grim. "We have yet to hear from Egret again. And don't worry. We will hear from her. I'm sure of it."
"It's close to eleven o'clock," April said blandly, reaching for a cigarette. "Do we get any beauty sleep tonight?"
Mr. Waverly's teeth showed for one of the few times in their long acquaintance with him.
"I would be the first to suggest you do not need sleep to augment your beauty, Miss Dancer. Getting back to reality, however, I would prefer you both remain at Headquarters tonight. I expect to be hearing from the teletypes and I shall want you on hand."
"Roger, sir." Mark Slate rose to his feet, still incongruous in Basque shirt and blue jeans. "The bunks aren't bad in this hotel."
"Do change to more suitable raiment, Mr. Slate."
"Yes, sir," he said soberly.
April got up too and straightened her skirt. She replaced the unlit cigarette in her pack. Waverly regarded her keenly.
"A suggestion, Miss Dancer." April looked at him.
"Since Miss Van Atta is a woman and her ankle has been seen to in the interim, I think she will be in the mood to talk. At any rate, I should like you to try before you settle down for the night. Can't tell. A declawed tigress sometimes is apt to growl a different tune. She just might be ready to trade information as a price for her crimes."
"The idea was on the tip of my tongue," April smiled.
"Of course it was," Mr. Waverly agreed and dismissed them both with a wave of his hand. When they had closed the door behind them, they could hear him on the transmitter, asking for a call to be relayed to Napoleon Solo in Rangoon. It was still daylight in Rangoon.
Arnolda Van Atta's cell was one in a row of cubicles in the underground maze that housed the facilities of U.N.C.L.E. Mark Slate had taken a turn to the left, down a corridor running north toward the sleeping quarters, but April walked quickly toward Arnolda Van Atta's pen. It was late, very late, and she wasn't in much of a mood to talk to the redheaded woman, but Mr. Waverly's idea was sound. A badly broken ankle and a plot gone awry could work wonders with a woman like Arnolda.
Take away the comforts, the luxuries and the command, and sometimes these cold, calculating types did a faster fold-up than their less complex counterparts.
It worked that way sometimes.
The peculiar gray light that dominated the corridors and halls of U.N.C.L.E, Headquarters cast a steady glow over the interior of the building. April passed through many steel doors and electric-eye protective devices that would have set off a whole battery of alarm systems were it not for the chemically treated badge card pinned to her dress. It was an easy building to get lost in. A far easier building for the wrong person to get in trouble in. Just no place for anyone who had no business there.
She found the cell. It was set in the middle of a long passageway, where a host of other cells loomed emptily. Fried Rice and Pig Alley, being male, would be in another section of the building.
Arnolda Van Atta was lying on her bunk, face turned toward the gray wall. The gleam of white bandages and plaster of paris cast on her damaged leg stood out almost like an electric light in the dim shadows of the cubicle. April reached the grilled bars and looked in. The woman couldn't be sleeping. Not now. Not with the pain of that ankle. Even if they had given her sedatives—
Once again, woman though she was, April could appreciate and even envy the long, shapely, statuesque figure of Arnolda Van Atta. The splendid hips and slender legs and flaming red hair were stunning physical assets in a female.
April placed her hands on the bars.
"Miss Van Atta," she said cheerily. "I know you're not sleeping. I want to talk to you."
The redhead did not stir.
"Now, look, Miss Van Atta. There's no use—"
She stopped, unable to fully absorb the reality of the incredible truth.
Arnolda Van Atta was not sleeping. Nor would she be able to talk to April Dancer or anyone else in this lifetime. Whatever conversation they could have had would have to be resumed in that mysterious place where all spies must go when they die. The good ones and the bad ones. There but for you, spy I.
For even standing where she was, April could now see the bone handle of the knife jutting from between the redhead's shoulder blades. It had gone all the way in, up to the hilt, plunged inward with great force and power. The velvet green dress now bore a wide area of reddish brown where the hilt poked outwards.
But for April, the chilling thought was not that of death. That was something, of course, but not really the shocker. Agents have to get used to the idea of death. Sudden or otherwise. It was a twenty-four hour, around-the-clock possibility and it was always there.
No, that wasn't it at all.
The real killer was that somewhere, right here in U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, no-man's-land for the enemy, there walked a traitor. A live, moving, thinking, deadly adversary whom no one suspected.
I Have Not Yet Begun to Spy