At last Karadin reached for the first-aid kit, turning away from her to open it.
"That's right," she said. "You take a handful of aspirins. They'll settle your nerves."
"My God!" Karadin exclaimed. "I'll settle yours!" He whirled in his seat, a Beretta automatic pointing at her navel. "Keep still," he said huskily. "Very still or I'll blow a hole right through you." He moved swiftly and slapped a piece of sticking tape over her lips. When she brought her hand up he slashed the gun across her knuckles, grabbed her hand, forced it down and lashed it to a seat strut with more tape.
April could have taken him then by one swift action, but this outcome was what she had wanted. She'd been prepared to have to wait until they reached the house, but when she guessed he was under strain she hoped he'd be forced to make his first move.
Karadin leaned back in his seat. "Okay," he said to the pilot. "Radio ahead for the car and two attendants. Use the code."
He turned to April Dancer. She glared at him, still maintaining her role of outraged innocence.
"U.N.C.L.E. made a mistake in sending you to London," he told her. "You are a little too famous to be ignored. I did not want to be bothered with you, but once you had made contact with me I had to take you out of circulation. I don't know whether you are a very foolish or brave young woman to make yourself so obvious. There were other means available to me, but I could not take them. We Europeans are still rather hidebound by tradition. We cannot truly accept that a woman who does a man's job should also take the same risks." He shrugged. "And anyway, violence against a woman always attracts more attention. For that, you should be thankful."
April mouthed stifled words. "What are you going to do with me?" she managed at last to say.
He shrugged again. "That is not really my department. You may get hurt. You may not. That will depend on you. My friends will want you to talk..." He smiled nastily. "That is a pleasure to which they are welcome. I don't care if I never hear your voice again. It will be a long time before you are found—if ever."
Mark Slate surveyed the gun, then grinned at Ginger Coke.
"This isn't very chummy, old boy."
"My pleasure, mate," said Ginger. "I hope you force me to squeeze the trigger."
"Charming of you. That means you have orders not to shoot unless forced to."
"Don't get ideas. You'll be dead soon enough, but you've some talking to do first."
"To you?"
"I'll be there. I've waited a long time, my old Mark—a long time. I never fitted, did I? Not with you or Jeff, or any of the other"—he sneered—"old boys. Not Ginger Coke—not really one of us, old man. Oh yes, mate, I volunteered to set you up as soon as we knew you were in London."
"You did?" Mark laughed. "I thought that was the sex pot's job. Will she claim the lunch on her expenses?" He saw the fury flood into Ginger's eyes. "Who is she, Ginger?—one of those French bints who're out of work now the blue film racket is a bust? But you always went for the easy ones, didn't you? Remember that bint in Germany? And the one in Kuala Lumpar? None of us would touch 'em with a barge pole, but our Ginger did—didn't you, chum?" He saw the knuckle whiten and the gun quiver. "What are you around here, besides being a one-gun hero—the prize stallion?"
The quiver became a jerk as Coke fought for control—a jerk big enough to deflect the gun from its vital target. In that split second Mark Slate moved—silent, swift.
The first blow paralyzed Ginger Coke's gun hand. The second across the throat had him gasping and retching. The next doubled him up in agony. Silently, ruthlessly, Mark all but destroyed the renegade, beating him to the lush green carpet—sobbing, gasping, pain-wracked. Yet even as his eyes were glazing, the hatred seeped enough strength into his arm for Ginger to fling his hand against a wall switch set low down on the skirting board. Mark Slate crashed one foot into a vital part. Coke's breath gushed out in a sighing moan as he collapsed into senselessness. Mark picked up the gun.
Faintly, Mark heard the buzzer sound and guessed it to be in the room below. He clicked off the switch. The buzzing stopped. Footsteps sounded near the door. Mark stepped to one side of it as it opened wide. One man—large, craggy-faced—rushed in, gun leveled. Mark poised on the balls of his feet, measured distance, swung down with the gun butt. The man sprawled forward, pole-axed.
Two more men, unable to halt in time, stumbled over his legs. They were not carrying guns, but each had the build of a bullock. Mark grabbed clothes, swung mightily. Their skulls made a hollow-sounding crack—not very loud.
One spun away and crashed over the senseless first man. The other staggered back; dazed but shaping to an attack. Mark hit him hard. The man shook his head. Mark said:
"Pray, brother, pray!" as he poised to connect again. The man's fist drew back—then suddenly his head lolled, his eyeballs rolled upward. He pitched face down across his companion.
"That's better," said Mark softly. "The next one would have killed you."
He saw a large roll of scotch tape on top of a filing cabinet and used it to make certain all three would remain where they were by taping wrists to ankles. He used their own ties and handkerchiefs to gag them.
He searched the ground floor rooms. All were luxuriously furnished, but empty. He tiptoed down to the basement. One room had bunk beds, lockers and a washbasin. The next more elaborately furnished. A quick search told him this was Ginger Coke's room, but he found no documents, letters or photographs. Which was strange, although he had no time to sort out the puzzle. An old R.A.F. uniform in the closet bore Ginger's name and number.
Mark went on down the passage, trod softly into the kitchen. A stout, middle-aged woman was dozing in a wicker chair beside a cooking range. She woke up, glancing at him.
"Oh, gawd! Are you another of 'em?"
"That's right, Ma."
"Well, you don't come in here, see? This is private. Your room's back there." She jerked a thumb.
"They're all out," he said truthfully.
"Out or in, I couldn't care less. What his Lordship will say to this carry-on I'm sure I don't know."
"His Lordship lives here?"
"Does it look like it? Nah! He's rented it—to a right funny lot, if you ask me. But they got money, and that's what counts these days."
"Dr. Karadin and his daughter?"
She sat up, glaring at him.
"Who are you to be asking questions?"
Mark grinned. "Just a new boy. I had lunch with Miss Karadin. She'll be upstairs, I suppose?"
"I wouldn't know—I never go up there. Come five o'clock and off I goes. Two meals a day, that's all I cook. Wanna cuppa tea?"
"No, thanks."
She smirked. "Ah—you want her, I s'pose! Well, she'll be more than willing, I daresay." She winked. "I would meself at her age. Off you go then—second floor. Shut the door after you."