"We can protect you, Alexy!" Illya said. Alexy laughed. A hollow, hopeless laugh. A laugh of the dead and the damned.
"No one can protect me, Illya," the turncoat Russian said. "I can't even make a deal. They will kill me now."
"Don't be an utter fool! They can't reach you here," Illya said testily. Razov began to laugh.
"They can't get to you. They can't even know what room you're in!" Illya cried. Razov laughed harder, a wild, hysterical laugh made up partly of fear, partly of sardonic amusement.
"They don't have to reach me, you fool. They don't have to know what room you have me in. They only have to know what building it is and they know that. Look!" The former Russian agent pointed a long finger toward the window of the room. Illya whirled. At first he saw nothing. Only a window nine stories above the street. The he saw it.
Outside the window, over a hundred yards away, he saw a kite flying. A large, flying toy. But it was no toy. Illya took his binoculars and went to the window. The kite was not a kite. It was a type of balloon; it had a small motor that could maneuver it. And its long, stiff string that was not string but thin cable went down to where two men stood on the roof of a building. The men were wearing earphones.
"That microphone can pick up within six hundred feet," Razov said. "They hear all I say."
"But they still can't reach you, and we'll soon stop their eavedropping," Illya said calmly.
He took out his U.N.C.L.E. Special, fitted the tubular metal stock, the telescopic sight,a nd placed the weapon against his shoulder. He fired twice. One shot cut the thin cable. The second shot punctured the balloon device and the kite fell. On the roof below, the two men vanished.
"Now that they can't hear you or get to you," Illya said. "Now you can tell me what PowerTen is."
"You fool," Razov said.
And laughed.
It was the last sound Alexy Borayavitch Razov, alias Azid Ben Rillah, ever made.
There was a small explosion, a puff of white smoke from Razov's cnest, and the laugh died in a strangled scream. Razov fell over backwards and lay with his dead eyes staring up at nothing.
Later, in New York, Waverly and Napoleon Solo listened to the report of Illya Kuryakin by overseas relay on the miniature radio set.
"It was sewn under his skin. It must have been there for years. A very powerful explosive pellet, too thin to be seen. There was only the smallest scar, and no metal to be detected."
Illya's voice, from distant Kandaville, continued. "I would imagine all THRUSH agents must have such a device inserted in their bodies. When they are caught, it is detonated remotely to silence them—in most cases probably at once. This time they tried their listening device first. They know we are on to PowerTen."
Waverly was solemn. "Very well, Mr. Kuryakin. It can't be helped. Did you find any leads at all?"
"One," the far-off voice of the small Russian said. "It was in his shoe, under the inner sole. A ticket, I think, admitting two to a performance of The Bedlam Trio in a Sydney night club."
Solo leaned across the table in the New York office. "Sydney? Our unknown council member "N" could have come from Australia, sir."
"So I recall," Waverly said dryly. "Yes, I think Australia would be likely place to look next. Do you hear me, Mr. Kuryakin?"
There was a chuckle from distant Africa.
"Then I will meet Napoleon in Bedlam."
Waverly winced noticeably. "Please keep your humor in some kind of check, Mr. Kuryakin. But, yes, by all means, join Mr. Solo in Bedlam at once. Before Illya had apologized for his bad joke, Napoleon Solo was on his way out the door to pick up his tickets for Sydney, Australia.
ACT III: TRIO OF BEDLAM
The harbor of Sydney is spanned by a giant semi-circular arched bridge that towers above the water. It is the first thing you see as you fly in. Then came Customs. The third would be, for more weary travelers, one of the Australian city's modern hotels, or perhaps the great beaches later for a swim.
For Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, after Customs there was only a clandestine meeting, a joining of forces.
After that came the howling teenagers.
Four hundred howling, screaming young people, dancing a frenzy to the music of five quartets of long-haired, bearded young men under high hanging cages, where slim-legged and full-breasted young girls danced behind the hanging bars.
The Bedlam.
The muscular man on the door, far beyond his teens, checked their ticket.
"Sorry mate, tickets only. That it? Right, go on in."
The big man beamed at them and turned his attention to the next group trying to enter the madhouse of music and stamping young feet. For his sortie into Bedlam, Solo had changed his usually impeccable clothes for a shoddy sweater and tight jeans.
Illya did not have to change; his tight black trousers and usual black shirt, coupled with his blond haystack hair, made him seem part of it all.
Behind them, with a carefully procured ticket, was the dark, slim Mahyana.
Illya had brought the African Section-II agent with him—what better agent for The Bedlam than a girl singer?
Inside the door, deafened by the howling mob of dancers and screamers, they appeared to meet, Illya and Mahyana. Two young people with mutual interests, ready for life.
Solo led them through the rocking room toward the first bandstand. Four young men with long hair gyrated, handling their electronic instruments perfectly. Above them in the cages the girls moved sinuously, their eyes closed, their young bodies moving in perfect rhythm with the beat of the music.
"Four," Solo said. "Hardly a trio."
Illya pointed out, "The sign on the stand says they are the Waif Wailers."
"I hope that whatever PowerTen is, they don't feed it to all of them here and send them after us," Solo whispered.
"You have the most charming thoughts," Illya said.
"Just what are we looking for?" Mahyana wanted to know.
"If we knew that, my dear, we wouldn't have to look," Solo said.
The beautiful brown-skinned girl smiled at solo. Illya sighed. He hoped that both Napoleon and Mahyana would remember that there was work to do, dangerous work. Illya grinned wryly. Perhaps he was just jealous. And perhaps he had a right to be. After all, he had seen the girl first. She had almost saved his life.
Solo whispered to Mahyana, "I think our Illya would prefer it if we tended to business."
"It is hard to look into each other's eyes and still look for trouble," Illya said.
They had reached the next bandstand now. Five young men with beards sang and stamped, banged hard on their instruments. The sing on the bandstand read: The Beavers. The banjo man suddenly bent down.
"Daddy, you following me?"
Solo studied the bearded young man who grinned down at them from the bandstand. "Is this a friend of yours, Illya?"
"I would like you to meet Fighting Joe Hooker from Hoboken," Illya said.
"You puttin' me on, Dad?" Hooker said.
Mahyana smiled at the bearded boy. "Fighting Joe Hooker was an American Civil War general, Mr. Hooker. I think Mr. Kuryakin means it as a compliment."
"I knew I should have finished kindergarten," Joe Hooker said, and smiled at the pretty singer. "You brought the cool chick, Dad. That makes my night. Put away your weapons and sing a chorus, doll."
"All right," Mahyana said.
The girl climbed onto the bandstand with her fluid motion, the slim brown body hiding the muscle of an athlete. Illya and Solo circulated slowly, watching the room. Joe Hooker strummed his banjo, beating time, grinning at the girl as she sang. Illya nodded toward the other bandstands across the milling mob of teenage dancers.