O'Hara moved his hand away. "Questions? Have you gone mad, Napoleon?"
"Maybe. But I don't think so."
O'Hara blinked. "You came back? I—What's up? What do you mean with that gun?"
"If I'm wrong, O'Hara, I might apologize. But it is clear now that there was no coup, no attempt at revolt, no assassinations or attempts. It was all a put-up job by Premier Roy. But not the premier alone. Someone else in Zambala is behind it, and that someone knew, and knows, who Illya and I are!"
"A put-up job? No coup? Someone else?"
O'Hara stared at Solo as if either he or Solo had lost his mind. The chief-agent seemed to sit there at his desk totally paralyzed. Twice he stopped. He seemed to be staring at Solo's pistol.
"You were the only person in Zambala who knew who we were!" Solo said. "No one else knew U.N.C.L.E. existed in Zambala! Unless you told someone."
Solo watched the chief-agent-in-Zambala. Only twice before in U.N.C.L.E. history had an agent at any level turned traitor for any reason. Once the unfortunate man had lost his mind. The second time was the case of the woman in Personnel, Section V, who had been a planted THRUSH agent. Never had anyone above Section III been suspected—and O'Hara was Section II!
"Knew? No one knew! No one outside myself and two agents in this office, communications and reception, could have known! It is not possible! I told no one at all except perhaps -"
O'Hara stopped. Napoleon Solo froze. For a full fifteen seconds the two men stared at each other. It was O'Hara who spoke.
"Except Carlos Ramirez! The night you reported the connection between Colonel Brown and Zamyatta that you had found at Jezzi Mahal's beach house. I told Ramirez!"
Solo turned without a word and ran out of O'Hara's office.
He ran down the corridor where the other agents had found the receptionist and were waiting with guns drawn.
"No! Let him pass!" O'Hara shouted, strapping on his gun, running after Solo.
Carlos Ramirez smiled at Illya Kuryakin. The tall, white-haired old poet leaned on his cane and smiled sadly at the blond agent. Illya could not take his eyes off the distinguished face of the old poet and patriot.
"You!" Illya said.
The old man shrugged, his austere face suddenly going hard, twisted. "Me! Yes, the old poet! Why is it that you idealistic young men must think that because a man is a poet he must also be a fool? Mao-Tse-Tung is a poet, a great poet, perhaps better than I! Then why should not a Western poet be also a practical man of politics, and power, and profit!"
"Poet and patriot," Illya said.
The old man laughed. "Patriot? The last refuge of a scoundrel, Mr. Kuryakin. But in my case, being a patriot means being a Zambalan. I want the best for my country—and the best is that I run the country behind the figure of the Lion of Zambala! It is my country!"
The fine and noble old face twisted into a mask of sudden hate. "My country, and my power! Where do you think a man gets his power, Mr. Kuryakin? From his money and his influence! I own many companies. I am the man who gets the loans from abroad. I sell the guns, Mr. Kuryakin, and the means of defense! If they all stop fighting, if there is no crisis in Zambala, if the great powers are not worried, then where do I get my power?"
The old man laughed. "For me to remain powerful, I must have them against each other. I must have a crisis all the time. Zamyatta was going to pardon Steng! Julio Brown wanted peace in Zambala! The lion and the lamb were to lie down and work out the future without strife! I could not have that. No, in another few years Steng could have laid down his arms, Zamyatta could win an election, Colonel Brown could have made friends and peace.
"Could I allow that, Mr. Kuryakin? No! Why, in a really independent and free Zambala, who knows what the people might learn of how I live, and how much the Lion of Zambala and myself owe to the, shall we say, contributions of certain foreign companies? Zambala belongs to those companies, and to me! I intend to keep it despite the childish dreams of Zamyattas and Colonel Browns and Max Stengs!"
All the while the old man had been speaking, Illya had watched them all. The old man was clearly half mad. But the others, the tall premier, the woman, the dark Bengali, they all had a stake in keeping Zambala in crisis. The soldiers in black showed only that they were loyal to Ramirez. Now the old poet saw Illya carefully watching. He smiled.
"Ah, you are always alert, Mr. Kuryakin. I like that. When O'Hara told me who you were, I knew we had to act faster than we had intended. Who knows what might have happened if you had had too much time to think after your visit to Brown. Still, Bengali was very stupid. Sergeant!"
The old man waved his cane once and snapped the word, "Sergeant!" The sergeant fired a burst from his submachine gun. Ahmed Bengali was hurled backwards and lay dead in a pool of blood.
"I dislike bunglers," Carlos Ramirez said. "Bring him!"
The old poet turned and stalked from the room, leaning heavily on his cane. The soldiers prodded Illya Kuryakin.
The blond agent marched out with M.M. Roy and the woman behind him.
FOUR
The old poet led the way down a narrow flight of hidden stairs behind the walls of the old palace. They seemed to go down for some time, but Illya realized that they were only going at an angle behind the walls. At last they came out into a large room that was lined with stone walls.
"The cellar, Mr. Kuryakin. As you know, San Pablo was once a pirate port. This cellar is part of the old castle. It is most convenient. Listen."
The old man held up his thin, aristocratic hand. Illya listened. There was a sound, a strange sound off to the left. The sound of running water!
Carlos Ramirez smiled. "Yes, an old underground river. It is all but forgotten, you see. But I always loved the history of my country, and there was a story of the river. It runs out to the sea in a hidden cove. The old governor often used it for his pirate forays. I find it most convenient for disposing of unwelcome guests."
"Very interesting," Illya said.
"Isn't it?" Ramirez said. "Bring them all. We will get them out this way."
The soldiers marched Illya across the large, gloomy cellar to the left wall. The old man opened a door. Through the door Illya could see the deep dark river running fast, and a boat moored to the side. A stone walkway seemed to run to the right out of sight. Ramirez turned to face Illya.
"I don't imagine you could be persuaded to join me? I could make it worth your while. I like intelligent young men. Surely you have enough intelligence to know that we live in a jungle, and that you could do so much better if you would drop your ridiculous ideals."
"I imagine I could, " Illya said. "But I prefer to keep my ridiculous ideals."
"Why, Mr. Kuryakin?"
"Because someone must have them."
"Ah, an honest public servant. Unfortunate."
"Besides, there is Mr. Solo."
"Naturally, my offer includes him."
Illya nodded. "I suggest you tell him yourself then."
Ramirez laughed. "Really, Mr. Kuryakin, I -"
The old poet never finished. Solo appeared in the doorway to the secret river. O'Hara stood beside him. The soldiers started towards them. Solo and O'Hara cut them down in a hail of bullets. M.M. Roy raised his hands. The Lion of Zambala shouted his surrender!