At first he saws nothing unusual. Then, as he ordered his second whisky, he saw two small, limping men with shaggy hair come into the bar from a back room.
The bartender saw the two men at the same time. He wiped his hands and walked to them. At the far end of the bar they all leaned their heads together and whispered. Illya watched them covertly. The barman, then was involved somehow with the Cult. Probably the two men were members, morlocks; they looked like it.
Illya bent over his drink, his left hand just under his lips. He spoke softly, barely moving his lips. "Sonny, this is Bubba. I have two potential bandits. The barman seems to be involved."
Illya sipped his drink, leaned his head down, looked around quickly. He was unobserved. A faint whisper came from his ring. Illya mumbled to himself, half-aloud, to cover the faint voice of Solo from his ring. "All clear her. Nothing unusual. Will stand by. Sonny over and out."
Illya clicked off and resumed his drinking and his scrutiny of the two shaggy men and the barman. As he looked at them again, he saw that they were now looking at him. The two shaggy men were walking toward him. The barman was also walking toward him, but behind the bar.
The bartender reached Illya first, and Illya suddenly leaned across the bar toward him.
"What do you think of 'Red at low noon?' Funny isn't it?" Illya said to the barman.
The barman's hand froze in midair in the process of picking up a glass. The two shaggy men had reached Illya now. They stood on each side of him. The barman nodded toward Illya.
"He thinks 'Red at low noon' is funny," the barman said.
"Does he?" one of the shaggy men said.
"What is 'Red at low noon?' " the second shaggy man said.
"What are words?" Illya said.
"You think 'Red at low noon' is just words?"
"Words to pass," Illya said.
There was a silence as the three of them looked at him. Then one of the shaggy ones motioned the barman away. The barman went. The shaggy man watched Illya.
"From what section?"
"Santa Carla, California," Illya said.
"So?" the second man said. Suddenly he thrust out his hand. Illya did not flinch, did not flicker an eyelid beneath his disguise. The man smiled. "Welcome, morlock. We need more word on Santa Carla. Come."
The two men turned without another word and limped through the smoke and noise toward the door. Illya finished his drink casually, and followed. So far it looked like he and been right, "Red at low noon" was indeed a password. At the door the two men motioned him to hurry. He stepped out into the dark night.
The two men walked ahead to the left, past where Solo was under the lamppost. But Solo was not under the lamppost.
Illya raised his ring to his lips. "Sonny, this is Bubba. I have made contact. Sonny? Come in, Sonny. This is Bubba. Come in, Sonny."
There was only silence. The dim circle of light beneath the feeble lamppost was empty. The ring radio was silent. Illya looked up to see where the two men were.
He saw them standing in the road directly ahead of him. They seemed to be waiting for him. They were not alone.
As if from out of the earth itself men came limping into the dim light of the street. Many men, all limping, all shaggy-haired.
Illya looked around quickly.
He fingered the U.N.C.L.E. Special in his shoulder holster.
Then he dropped his hand to his side. They were all around him now. Too many of them.
He bent to his radio ring. "Sonny, this is Bubba. Mayday! Mayday!"
There was no answer, and suddenly, there was a great puff of smoke directly in front of him.
A man appeared standing where the smoke blew away. A tiny man with a sardonic face that was all black eyebrows and sharp nose. A man almost a midget, but with a large head of satanic cast. The man laughed.
"Ah, Mr. Kuryakin, I think. We expected U.N.C.L.E. to send someone," the tiny man said.
Illya knew at once that this was Morlock the Great.
Morlock The Great laughed again. "Our man missed you in New York, but we have you now. Very foolish to use that password Morgan gave you."
"I found you with it," Illya said drily. His voice was cool, calm, but his mind raced. Where was Napoleon?
"True, and that you may well regret," Morlock said. "You will also regret coming alone. Strange. I was sure Mr. Solo would be with you."
Illya watched the tiny man. They did not have Solo? The words sounded true. The Cult did not have Napoleon? Then who did? Morlock The Great gave him no more chance to think.
The tiny magician seemed to wave his hand. A cloud rolled over Illya's mind. He felt himself stiffening, losing consciousness. Where was Napoleon?
THREE
NAPOLEON SOLO had waited under the lamppost, feigning drunkenness, and watched Illya enter The End of the World. Alert, ready to give the warning if anyone suspicious entered. No one did.
Some time passed. The night was cold and wet under the feeble street lamp, and Solo stamped his feet, sang to convince anyone who watched that he was indeed drunk. He received Illya's first message, and become even more alert. Illya had spotted two possible suspects.
Solo was so busy watching the door and the street that he did not see them come from a building behind him until they were on him. The cold muzzle of a pistol was pressed into his back. An only too familiar voice hissed in his ear.
"Really, Napoleon, that beard!"
Maxine Trent!
"And those awful clothes and thick beard," the Thrush agent purred. "What have they done to you? Why, I hardly get a twinge of desire when I see you like this."
"Good evening, Maxine," Solo said. "Should I say it is a pleasant surprise?"
His alert eyes took in the situation at a glance. Maxine stood behind him, but she held no gun. Another Thrush agent held the gun in his back. There were two other Thrush men, armed and watching him closely.
"It's always pleasant, Napoleon. This time especially. I don't have to kill you," Maxine said sweetly.
"I'm relieved," Solo said.
He turned and smiled at the beautiful Thrush agent he knew so well. Her violet eyes were so deceptively alluring. Her long, soft hair was black now—it could be red, or blonde, or any color she chose for any job. Solo ran her through his mind like a card through a computer. Age twenty-five; all the right measurements; runner-up for Miss America one year; daughter of industrialist Clark Trent. One of the best, most skillful of Thrush agents. A tall, lovely, deadly woman.
"To what do I owe my good fortune?" Solo said.
"I need you," Maxine said. "I want to know all you know about Morlock The Great and the Cult."
"So you're working with him?" Napoleon said. "That makes him a little more dangerous."
Maxine smiled. "Why, thank you, Napoleon. I take that as a compliment. Thrush will be pleased. Now, tell me—"
The beautiful Thrush agent stopped. Her violet eyes were looking across the street. Solo whirled. The door of The End of the World had opened. Two shaggy men stepped out.
"Well—" Solo began.
He got no farther. As he turned back to Maxine, the tall woman reached out and touched his neck with her hand. She was smiling. Solo felt the tiny pin prick, and knew no more.