Bora Singh glowered at the rebuke.
"Riddle, I must protest. Since we have all been allotted this Zorki mission, I cannot see why we do not have a mutual share of interest. Was it not myself who arranged this Romeo's League Of Nations Exhibit as a cover for the kidnapping? How else could we have gotten away so easily with two prisoners in broad daylight?"
"Yes, yes," Mr. Riddle said almost abstractedly. "An ingenious piece of work. But now comes the finer, more subtle business of arranging the trade with Uncle Headquarters. I prefer that you stay out of that part of it."
The Sikh wagged his awesome head, eyes blazing.
"And I say I will not! You and the woman here are glory-seekers! You think to load yourself down with honors to curry favor with Central Headquarters. Therefore, I protest. You understand me?"
"Yes," Mr. Riddle said mildly. "I understand."
"Good. And you—" Bora Singh whirled to glare down at Arnolda Van Atta. "What is your decision, Missy Sahib?"
Arnolda Van Atta smiled up at him.
"A simple one, snake charmer. You want a medal and you're going to get a bullet."
Bora Singh blinked. "What's that, woman? You dare to threaten me—"
Mr. Riddle laughed. "Yes, I think that's best, Arnolda."
"Fine," she said lightly, and took her hand out of the large clutch bag. A mammoth .45 Colt automatic, Army issue, seemed to train itself at Bora Singh. For a second, the Sikh stood his ground, then he blurted in fear and tried to run, breaking for the door behind him. He had not gotten further than three feet away before there was a muffled, yet somehow thunderous burst of sound.
There was no nicety about the murder.
The heavy bullet caught Bora Singh in the back of the neck just below where the white border of the turban met his shoulders. He flew against the doorway, propelled by the impact. His hands pawed briefly at the panel before he fell heavily. He was very dead by the time he hit the floor.
Arnolda Van Atta replaced the .45 in her clutch bag. She looked at Mr. Riddle, eyebrows arched.
The Frankenstein mask nodded.
"I rather thought that would be necessary, Arnolda."
"It was," she agreed. "Very. Tell the truck driver to get rid of his body in the usual way."
Mr. Riddle made a steeple of his fingers again.
"Charleston will like that. He didn't care for our dear departed Bora Singh."
"That makes two of us." Arnolda Van Atta regarded her fingernails again.
The Frankenstein face regarded the crumpled mass that Bora Singh's body made on the floor. The mask wobbled as he shook his head.
"It is always amazing to me to see the amount of trouble a man can get into when he doesn't use his mouth judiciously."
"Yes," the redhead said. "It is something worth remembering, Mr. Riddle."
The man behind the mask seemed to shudder visibly. His voice now sounded almost tentative. "Perhaps I should check on Mr. Waverly. He has the communiqué. We should—"
"Get Charleston first and have him move the Hindu out of here," Arnolda Van Atta said quietly, still not looking at him.
"Of course, Arnolda."
She stretched suddenly, raising her long arms, yawning attractively so that her bosom was sharply defined in the cashmere sweater. Her smile was mocking.
"Our friends from Uncle must be very restless with their clothes off. I wonder if they are making love."
"It is a good idea," Mr. Riddle agreed, reaching for an enamel buzzer set in the surface of the metal desk. "One that a beautiful woman such as yourself would think of."
She made no comment to the compliment and studied the right forefinger of her hand. She had broken the bright red fingernail.
Mr. Riddle spoke quickly into the tiny transmitter affixed to the buttonhole of his left lapel.
Within a matter of minutes, the Negro truck driver pushed into the room. His eyes widened when he saw the corpse, then a wider smile eclipsed his cocoa-colored face. An irreverent light twinkled in his eyes.
"Charleston," Mr. Riddle purred. "Put Bora Singh away. Acid treatment, since we don't want to use the furnaces."
"Stepped out of line, huh?" Charleston chuckled. "Knew he would. Too big for his turban. Just like I said. Who popped him?"
Mr. Riddle's Frankenstein face still showed only the frozen leer but his voice said: "Miss Van Atta did the honors."
"Good girl," the Negro chortled. "You got class, lady."
He bent down, poking his big hands under Bora Singh's armpits. Arnolda Van Atta watched, no emotion visible on her cool face. Charleston hummed softly as he worked, adding some words as he swung the dead Hindu astride his broad shoulders. "Way down upon the Swami River...." Mr. Riddle laughed mirthlessly. Blood from Bora Singh's blasted skull dripped to the floor.
The laughter halted only because of a large, explosive rush of sound from somewhere outside the room. The walls rocked with thunder. Plaster cracked. Arnolda Van Atta uncrossed her shapely legs and sprang erect. Charleston paused in the doorway, Bora Singh's body draped over one muscular shoulder. His eyes popped with fright.
Mr. Riddle came from around he desk. He was very tall. Tall and cadaverous. A gaunt, skeletal sight with a Frankenstein face.
"It's them," Arnolda Van Atta said in a low voice. "That came from their room—those damn Uncle swine—what have they done now?"
The question hung unanswered as echoing bursts of sound raced around the room.
The room seemed to tremble with violence.
The Great Zorki
"My compliments, Mr. Zorki," Alexander Waverly said. "Your colleagues place the highest price on your services."
The man with the head of a bull glowered across the polished glass of Waverly's desk. His savage black brows met in a V of impatience.
"You mock me?"
Mr. Waverly shook his head, his professorial facade mild and good-natured.
"One does not mock an agent whom Thrush would go to such great lengths to return him to the field, my friend. No, I do not mock Alek Yakov Zorki. I would be a fool if I did. I am all too aware of your triumphs with Thursh."
Zorki's bestial face, framed in a skull that was a living portrait of the charging bull rampant, smiled. His massive shoulders, enhanced by the gray turtleneck sweater which accented the thickness of his neck, hunched forward. His teeth were grotesquely small and even in his big face.
"So, my dear Waverly. The bargaining has begun then?"
"Yes." Waverly indicated the yellow streamer of teletype on his desk. It lay on the blotter pad between the two men—the difference between life and death. It was an odd afternoon to think about morbid combats: sunlight flooded the picture window of the office, revealing the glass architecture of the buildings in the background. Countless windows, reflecting the sun, glistened like emeralds.
Zorki, staring past Waverly's lean shoulder, seemed mesmerized by the view, like an immigrant viewing the Statue of Liberty for the first time. But the head of U.N.C.L.E. was not deceived.
This was Zorki, a man who had been to America too many times to be mistaken for a guileless foreigner. The same Zorki who had sabotaged the waterfront situation, delaying countless cargoes of supplies crucial to the running of a democracy. God knew what else.
Alek Yakov Zorki. KKK on the books. Code name: Bomber.
The agent's eyes glittered. "Have you agreed to the terms?"