"Riddle, huh? Then you'd better make your story twice as good, Swami boy. Riddle doesn't like to be kept waiting on everyone to make his next move. You know what a fanatic he is on Chess. Knight to Queen Three and all that jazz."
"My name is Bora Singh," the Sikh said caustically. "You will do well to remember that. I do not care for nicknames."
"Sure, sure," the driver chuckled, winking at Arnolda Van Atta. "Bora Singh. That and fifteen cents will make you head of THRUSH some day."
Arnolda Van Atta folded her arms and stared straight ahead. She said nothing. Her green eyes were far away and remote. Bora Singh lapsed into a hostile silence. The driver hummed his Dixieland tune again.
The blue panel truck whipped on toward the Bronx.
Mr. Waverly controlled his nearly feverish impatience and studied the teletype streamer once again. The yellow ribbon of communications felt like a hot potato in his lean fingers, and was more indigestible for a man in his position to swallow. Section IV, Intelligence And Communications, had rushed the message to his office as soon as it had come in.
It was decidedly unpleasant reading matter:
IF YOU WISH MARK SLATE BACK ALIVE, WE AGREE TO EXCHANGE HIM FOR ZORKI. A FAIR TRADE IS NO BARGAIN. CONTACT GRAND CENTRAL STATION, LOCKER 705, FOR FURTHER DETAILS. NO LATER THAN MIDNIGHT TODAY.
MISS EGRET
There it was. No doubts about it. A plain black and white swap. Agent for agent. A valuable agent like Mr. Slate for the Great Zorki. The information about Slate had come over the teletype thanks to a suit of brown clothes being left by the pressing iron in Del Floria's tailor shop downstairs. So THRUSH knew about that too.
And Miss Egret was involved again. The mysterious Miss Egret. Sometimes, Dr. Egret, many times, a mysterious, faceless woman who could assume a wealth of disguises. The range of her operations and triumphs for THRUSH was simply incredible.
Egret. The most dangerous bird in the wide spectrum of the THRUSH aviary of espionage.
Mr. Waverly frowned at the tiny watch on his wrist.
April Dancer had not put in an appearance yet. The events of the morning and early afternoon had left the usually implacable head of U.N.C.L.E. in a highly charged state. For once, he had found no comfort in fondling his world collection of pipes. It made one almost take up the foul tobacco habit again.
Oh, U.N.C.L.E., Where Art Thou?
"Wake up, April," a familiar voice said. "You look a sight."
Somebody was speaking in a low, unhurried voice. It was a gentle sound, for all the wryness and sarcasm in the words. Like the soft wash of sea water against a friendly shoreline. Yet, there was a penetrating quality to the voice. A dispassionate strength as subtle as cold steel. This, as well as the familiarity of the voice, made April Dancer open her eyes.
"Good morning, Mark," she said cheerily, long before she was even able to assess her condition, position and senses. "For a time there, I thought you'd gone back to the British."
The room swam into focus. The mocking, intelligent features of Mark Slate bobbed into view like an apple in a dunking game. She saw now the lank sandy hair, the sensitive eyes and the mobile mouth. Slate's handsomely rugged face blurred for an instant, then filled out. A photo developing in a dark room. April blinked, shaking herself. Beyond Slate's face, she made out the outlines of a wall where it met the ceiling. She struggled for a second, separating what had happened from what was happening. She had a vague memory of a nasty redheaded woman with an assortment of United Nations villains. A Hindu, a Chinaman and an apache. The stairway. The needle injection from whatever Arnolda Van Atta was wearing around one wrist. Clever. She groaned and sat up. Wasn't too bad. Must have been a drug like Sodium Pentathol. She had no after effects, save a great lethargy.
"Heaven or Hell?" she asked; they were in a blank, four-walled cubicle devoid of all furnishings. Behind Mark Slate stood the framed square of a doorway.
Slate smiled and she saw for the first time that he was wearing nothing but a T-shirt and boxer shorts. The shorts were firehouse red—typical Mark Slate flamboyance. "All good agents decidedly to to Heaven, April. Since we are not dead, this inevitably is purgatory. What happened to you?"
April stared down at herself. They had reduced her to her unmentionables. Black silken panties and the matching bra. But something had been done to the bra. She could feel the difference. It had been de-activated; the tensile fabric which could be reformed into a fine line of spun steel that could have supported a grand piano had been removed.
"The dorm at Radcliffe was never like this," she sighed. "Disgraceful the way they treat the opposition these days." She smiled at Mark, glad at least that he was still alive. "You, first." She had no compunctions about Slate seeing her garbed in her underthings. The big brother demeanor of the wry Briton was still all too plain.
Slate shrugged. "Simple. There was a knock on my door. A redhead entered, jabbed me with a hypodermic needle and here I am."
"I met the witch. She jabbed me too. Do you know Arnolda Van Atta? Nice name for a witch, isn't it?"
"Is that milady's name?" Slate's expression was bleak. "We hardly had time to make introductions. I did so want to make her a cuppa."
"Why did you let her in?"
"She had a most persuasive calling card, beside her red hair, green eyes and that smashing figure of hers. A .45 caliber automatic."
April stood up, flexing her muscles. Apart from the slight chill and demoralizing state of dress, she felt no ill effects from the drug. "I see. Wonder what she did with the .45? I didn't see that on her. Mr. Waverly sent me looking for you when you didn't show up at Headquarters." It was useless to go into details about snakes and the UN brigade. "Any idea where we are?"
"Yes. The sunny Bronx. One of my jailers, a talkative Negro, was injudicious enough to mention Southern Boulevard. From what little I know of this delightful borough, that is a main artery of the Bronx."
"Check. Runs North and South." April looked around the room. It wasn't large at all. No windows, no furniture, plaster walls, a boarded floor and the door. The floorboards were ancient. "Well, they took our clothes, including shoes, which leaves me feeling kind of helpless."
"Not quite," Slate whispered, his eyes rolling to indicate the room might be bugged. "I was able to trigger the homing device in my shoe before they undressed me. You see, I was conscious when they entered me in the nudist colony. We came in a blue panel truck."
"That's fine," April said aloud. "Have you any ideas what this is all about?"
"Certainly. We do have Zorki, don't we?"
"The Great Alek Zorki," April agreed. "Their most valuable man in New York. You think a trade is planned?"
"A fair trade, April. Though I must confess I don't know how fair it is. Two of us for him. But wouldn't that strike you as the only jolly conclusion for us not being dead yet?"
"Our friends from Thrush, then?"
"I would make book on it, to steal a very abominable Yankee phrase."
April laughed. "You ought to put on a few pounds, Mark. You look undernourished. Get some of those lady friends of yours to cook some good meals for you." She walked to the wall, running her hands across the plaster. It felt thick and substantial. "This could be an apartment house building. The flooring is the sort that is featured in most of those cheap tenements they crowd the poor into. I wonder—"