"You have done that to all of them? You are a very strong man." Then she shrugged and pouted—a little girl coy again. "But I am no use to you." She came close, sliding her hands up his chest. "I think perhaps you are stronger than my Gingaire."
He grinned. "I'm bloody sure I'm stronger than your Gingaire." He looked into her eyes. "If I were your Papa I'd paddle your rear end. Why don't you grow up, Suzanne? Get yourself married and have half a dozen kids." He paused. "Aw! What the hell!" He thrust her away. "So who told you to play up to me?"
"You know who."
"Gingaire, of course."
"Of course."
"To get me here?" He nodded. "Of course. Silly question, but I don't like loose ends. Why, Suzanne?"
She shrugged again. "Ask Ginger."
He flared at her. "If I have to ask Ginger, he'll die. Don't you understand that? or do you think this is just a pretty game?"
She shook her head. "No, not a game. It frightens me. Last night, a telephone call told them you and that woman had arrived. This morning you were followed. I saw you in Carnaby Street."
"Where were you?"
She giggled. "I was one of the models. Then I changed and went to the Tower with Ginger." She fluttered her eyelids. "I did it very good—yes?"
He sighed. "You did it bloody terrible—yes. We knew exactly who you were. All we didn't know was why, so we helped you to tell us. Now we know—and Ginger is sleeping and you are not going any place."
Anger and fear filled her eyes, then a crafty look appeared in them. "She is not going any place either—your April Dancer." She spat childishly. "Oh so clever, so grand. You torture me, but I do not tell you where she is. Ah! You see—that is not so good for you now, is it? You hurt my Ginger. We hurt your April Dancer. Now who is so clever?"
"You have a point there, darling. You're a very clever girl. I think you're much more experienced than I believed."
She was suddenly gay. "See? Not so blerdy terrible after all, eh? I tell you something, Mister Big Strong Man. This is the first time I help Papa. Because it is a big time and he must have only people he can trust to help him."
Mark nodded sadly. "I'm not very clever."
"Pooh!" she scoffed. "There is no one as clever as Papa—no one." She came close, moving her breasts against his arm, her wiggling finger digging under his chin—little dog teasing. "I tell you something else—soon the whole world will know how clever my Papa is!" She stepped back, snapped her finger under his nose. "Now we go wake up my Ginger. I tell him you do not hurt me, then he will not hurt you." She drew the negligee closer around her nakedness. "I think he will like to wake up and see me like this, eh?"
Mark stepped around her. "Better like this," he said quietly, and in a few deft actions had flung the nylon fishing net over her, picked her up and rolled her in it. A coiled rope hung picturesquely from the "jetty". He fastened her in a net cocoon.
Gasping and struggling, her eyes glared at him through the mesh.
"You're just a little fish, darling," he said. "A little tiddler. You don't know enough to tell me the time."
She began to scream. Mark was prepared for it. He had already picked up a cake of soap shaped like a baby dolphin, and this he thrust through the mesh into her mouth.
"Have yourself a bubble bath!" He hoisted her over his shoulder, moved to the landing, found the bathroom, dumped her in the bath and left her frothing at the mouth.
He searched the house, swiftly, expertly. It seemed that Karadin and his daughter had furnished their own quarters with no expense spared, because the remaining rooms were tastefully but not luxuriously fitted. He found a group photo graph in one room: "Lord Larnous and family at their Bahamas home." The caption from a glossy magazine was stuck on the frame base. Mark winked at the big, frozen-faced woman standing next to his Lordship. "I can't imagine you in that yacht bed, duckie. But at the rent this place is paying—you should worry!"
The downstairs study was like a lush sleeping barrack room. Two men were semi-conscious, one was moaning. Ginger Coke was still out cold. Mark shoveled them on one side, after emptying their pockets. They all carried THRUSH identity discs. He pocketed these and went to the files. A special U.N.C.L.E. device soon had the locks freed.
The files were crammed with photostat maps of shopping centers in towns all over the British Isles. The notes below each map made it clear that these were sites of branches of a nation-wide group of fashion shops. Bus stops, supermarkets, banks and post offices also were marked in relation to the site of each shop. Figures gave peak density hours, halfday closing and, where applicable, the town's market day. Mark extracted several photostats as samples, went up to the yacht room, contacted London Headquarters, gave and received information crisply and clearly.
He sat quietly for exactly five minutes before he dialed the phone.
Jeff's voice said: "Key one speaking. Mark? Answer."
"U to Key one. London H.Q. cleared. This is priority. You agree?"
"Key one agreed." Jeff chuckled. "Things happen when you're around, old boy. They tell me in France the choppers are away."
"I so heard. What can you offer me?"
"A twin-engined Alster cabin job. No good for moor landing. Only a chopper's safe for that. Use Plymouth or Exeter. Our strips. Car from there. Snag arises. Jaguar available Plymouth. Aston Martin Exeter. You takes yer choice, mate."
"Exeter."
"Will do. Have Ministry Pool car standing by here. Velly pretty driver. Knows all short cuts to Hendon."
"You're wizzo, chum. Who said the Limeys were slow?"
"You did, if I recall aright. No matter. We survive. Make for York Gate entrance to Regent's Park. Driver will have envelope of money. Her name is Daphne. Lay off. Her and me have an understanding. And sign for that ruddy money! Wreck the car and the plane if you so desire, but leave not one chit unsigned, else all is chaos. The S.B. are sending a meat wagon to pick up your bods in fifteen minutes, so get clear—fast."
"I go," said Mark.
"Lucky perisher!" said Jeff plaintively. "Why did I give up field work? So long, glamour boy."
"Bless you, Jeff. See you!"
He raced down the stairs, opened the front door, surveyed the street, then closing the door gently sauntered nonchalantly away in the direction of York Gate.
Count Kazan drove down to the valley, skirting the town to reach the small heliport. A helicopter, rotors idling, stood waiting. He checked in at the office to obtain formal clearance and sign for the machine which was always hired to a company he used for the purpose.
"Alphonse is very quick today," said Kazan.
"It is not Alphonse," said the office manager. "He's sick, but the new man, Gaston, is very efficient."
"So it seems." Kazan left the office, suspicions aroused. Any change made him suspicious, but he sauntered towards the machine as if he had no thought of anything but the pleasant time ahead, a rich man indulging himself. He climbed into the chopper. The pilot, helmeted and goggled, nodded to him.
"Thank you, Gaston. I will take her now."
"My orders are to stay."
"And my orders are for you to go," Kazan snapped, then whirled as he sensed danger.