Even Illya Kuryakin whistled faintly between his teeth.
She smiled at Solo. "Well, Tiger. Here we are. We meet again."
Solo stared at her. "A THRUSH agent," he said.
"That's right, Tiger." She laughed. "I told you I was—Pretty Wilde."
"You really are," Solo said.
ACT IV
INCIDENT OF THE VOLATILE AGENT
AT GUNPOINT, Pretty Wilde and her silent executioners ushered Solo and Kuryakin through silken drapes into a smaller room, completely remodeled in electronic modern.
The men from U.N.C.L.E. stared in astonishment at this chamber banked with the sort of broadcasting and receiving equipment one might expect to find in the home plant of RCA.
Three men with headphones sat in chairs that glided silently on casters from one machine to the next. Bright eyes of varying colors flashed across the faces of the sets.
One of the technicians gave all of his attention to a complex rectangular box topped with a seventeen-inch television tube set at an angle. The metal machine hummed to life; the black eye of the screen lightened, brightened, and then held, as if waiting.
"All of this just for us, Pretty?" Solo said.
Pretty glanced at him along the nose of her gun. "You might say that. It offers you your only chance to leave here alive."
"I for one am almost morbidly interested in this idea," Solo said.
"And I," Kuryakin agreed.
"As you see, it's a suggestion that's caught right on with both of us," Solo said. "Please tell us more."
"It's very simple. One of our scientists, Dr. Polar Fuch, on the verge of a breakdown and suffering delusions, managed to steal a vital machine from us."
"Ah, yes. The atom separator," Solo said, recalling Waverly's demonstrating this weapon to him in United Network headquarters. "A machine that Dr. Fuch invented."
"A non-essential detail, since he was working for us, and all of his creations automatically became—"
"A machine he planned for peaceful analysis, which is not the use THRUSH planned for it," Solo persisted.
"Another quibbling detail," Pretty said, shrugging. "The important fact to us, and you two, is that the machine is ours, and we want it back. Now. We're willing to make a trade with United Net work Command. Your lives, and the bonus life of that girl in there, in exchange for our machine."
Solo shrugged. "We haven't the authority to—"
"Of course you haven't! But we can talk to Alexander Waverly via this sender-receiver. Give us the channel, and we'll discuss the trade with Waverly. If he agrees to deliver the machine to an address we'll give him in Manhattan, we will escort you safely to the air terminal at Kurbot."
"We couldn't do that," Solo said. "Breach of security."
"I forgot to tell you. You have five minutes to make up your minds."
"If you kill us, you won't have much bargaining power, will you?" Solo said.
Pretty Wilde gave him a twisted smile. "We'll keep the two of you alive only long enough to exhaust all means of making a trade. But that girl in there—the other people with you—they are expendable. They mean nothing to us. We will systematically kill them, starting with the girl, beginning in just five minutes."
Solo winced, glancing at Illya.
Pretty Wilde said, "Have you the authority to sentence that girl to certain death in—four and one––half minutes?"
"Time," Illya said, lifting his hand. "Maybe it's became I've been so close to death these past weeks. I think we ought to cooperate, Solo. Give them the channel. As soon as they contact Waverly this once, technicians will scramble the signals in that channel, change the wave-length. What can we lose, except our lives?"
After a second Napoleon Solo merely nodded, and Illya Kuryakin said smiling into Pretty Wilde's sardonic face: "Channel D, my pretty little cobra. And hurry, will you?"
Pretty Wilde jerked her head to ward the waiting technician. He turned knobs, pressed buttons. The hum deepened, then rose to a keening wail, gradually waned. Jagged lines on the picture-tube screen settled into the interior of the U.N.C.L.E. Command Room and then closed in on Alexander Waverly's face.
"Can you see us, Mr. Waverly?" Pretty asked, speaking into a microphone.
"Yes. You're coming in beautifully. Lovely girl. I hope you are friendly."
"That's up to you, Mr. Waverly," Pretty Wilde said. "We show you THRUSH'S latest prize."
Solo and Kuryakin were photographed by the machine camera. Waverly said, "Yes. Well, they're not nearly as eye-catching as you are. But I'm glad to see them."
"If you want them alive, you will agree to return the atom-separator to ten-twenty West Eight Street in Manhattan. It will do your agents no good to go there. It is merely a place for receiving this particular shipment."
"I was sure of that," Waverly said.
"Agree, we'll return Solo and Kuryakin. Refuse, and THRUSH will kill them. You'll agree, Mr. Waverly, that THRUSH has no compunctions about killing them THRUSH has many scores to settle with them. Since time is important, I'll give you one minute to make up your mind."
Waverly gave her his chilliest grin across the thousands of miles. "I cannot give you a direct answer. Since word came that both my agents had fallen into THRUSH'S hands, I've been expecting to get some sort of offer like this. We are prepared with a counter offer."
"Here's where we learn just how expendable we are," Illya whispered.
"We authorize Solo and Kuryakin to make the decision about returning the atom separator," Waverly said, "knowing what destruction such a lethal weapon could wreak in THRUSH'S conscienceless possession, the lives and property lost—"
"When he waves the flag," Illya said, "I'm walking out."
"—if they call back in one hour saying they want the machine returned to you, we will agree to do it. When they get in touch with our people at the air terminal at Kurbot, instant delivery of said machine will be made to the address here in Manhattan. Over and out."
The screen flickered, became a scrambled pattern of jagged lines, screeching interference.
"They've scrambled channel D out of existence," Illya said;
Solo nodded. "You know what that means, don't you?"
"I'm way ahead of you. It means we're expendable, that Waverly doesn't expect to hear from us again."
Pretty stared at them in frustration and rage. "How will you get in touch with him now?"
Solo gave her a pained smile. "That's it, Pretty. We can't get in touch with him now. Not through any of your infernal gadgets. The next move is up to THRUSH."
TWO
ILLYA PROWLED the impregnable cellar under Zud's oasis retreat like a lynx unable to believe a cage could hold him.
Along the walls, the chauffeur, Aly David, Frun and Piebr sat in round-shouldered dejection. Wanda slumped on a sack of grain, staring unseeingly at the floor.
Solo tested the walls, found no weakness, no object his ingenuity could convert to offensive weaponry. He leaned against the wall.
"We've got to agree to give THRUSH the machine, Illya," Solo decided. The other hostages glanced up, not daring to hope. "These people will die first, starting in less than an hour now. We don't have the right to sacrifice them."