Solo gripped Illya firmly by the shoulder for an instant, his voice reassuring. "It will only take a minute to find out. Then we'll know exactly where we stand."
Solo swung about and moved swiftly into the shadowy rear section of the passenger cabin where the seats terminated. He glanced just as swiftly around him, his eyes sweeping over the entire section. He saw nothing at first but a gray expanse of metal hemming him in on four sides. Then he looked down and saw that the ribbon of blood— it had widened slightly—led from the last of the seats to a point mid way between the seats and a paneled doorway which matched the one which opened on the pilot compartment at the opposite end of the passenger cabin.
He was not interested in what he might have found beyond that doorway, because the ribbon of blood terminated in another panel set midway in the rear section.
It could hardly have opened on a large compartment, in view of its location. He was almost sure that it opened on a small storage compartment.
The panel did not open when he tugged at the small metal knob which projected from it. He removed from his pocket a knifelike device as specialized as the extremely short-barreled pistol which Illya was keeping trained on the pilot compartment and set to work on the knob and the lock on the inner side of the panel which prevented him from turning it.
The knifelike device had six blades and the one which he used on the knob was hollow. From it there came a beam of heat.
The knob glowed white-hot for an instant, then disintegrated. The glow vanished without spreading and an ash-encircled aperture an inch in diameter replaced the vanished knob.
Into the aperture Napoleon Solo inserted another blade terminating in a tiny metal hand, flexible-fingered. There was a faint clicking noise as the lock opened and the metal panel glided slowly leftward under the steady pressure of his palm.
He found himself staring into a lighted storage compartment about nine feet square.
His lips tightened as he stared. But it was not as shaken as he might have been if he had not visualized in advance almost precisely how the two U.N.C.L.E. pilots had fared.
They were both securely bound. One sat upright with his eyes wide open in the middle of the compartment, two feet from where the other lay with his back to the panel, his body grotesquely contorted.
Both bore a twin-close resemblance to the two THRUSH agents in general build, the pilot sitting upright a facial resemblance to the most talkative of that spurious pair which identified him as Ovenden.
The thin ribbon of blood was coming from beneath the right shoulder of the pilot lying prone, but it was wider than a ribbon at its source. There was an unmistakable look of recognition in Ovenden's eyes as he returned Solo's stare and, tightly bound as he was, he made an effort to rise.
Solo shook his head, gesturing as he spoke. "No, don't try to get up," he cautioned. "I'll have you untied in a moment. You must be Ovenden. I'm Napoleon Solo. But we've no time to talk. Just lie still now—"
"Hart's badly wounded," Ovenden said, nodding. "He may be dead. I don't know. They took us by surprise—"
"How long ago?" Solo asked kneeling at Ovenden's side and setting expertly to work on the cords at his wrists.
"An hour perhaps. One of them clobbered me, but I don't think the blackout lasted for more than a minute or two. The panel was just closing when I came to."
"They bound you up fast and left. Is that it?"
Ovenden smiled faintly. "That's right. My own twin brother clobbered me. At least that's what any one would have thought. He even had my Sussex accent down pat. The other one shot Hart, when he put up a fight."
Solo had freed Ovenden's wrists and was working just as expertly at the cords at his ankles when he paused an instant to grip him firmly by the arm.
"Listen carefully. The THRUSH agent who clobbered you and the one who made us believe he was Hart are sitting in the pilot compartment about ready to take off. Kuryakin is sitting with a gun trained on the panel, in case something makes them suspicious. There's something more—"
"Go on," Ovenden said, as the cords at his ankle fell away. "I can see we'll have to act fast—"
"You've guessed it," Solo said. "With your help we'll have an even better chance to take them. Three against a very dangerous two. Make no mistake about that. They're armed, of course."
"Don't I know it!" Ovenden said.
"This time U.N.C.L.E has the advantage of surprise. But first you can help me find out just how badly Hart is wounded. We've got to turn him over and raise him very gently, in case it's real bad."
It took them only a moment to find out just how bad it was. When they knelt on both sides of the prone pilot and raised him to a sitting position his glassily staring eyes made it impossible for them to doubt that he was dead.
They eased him just as gently back to a prone position and stood up. A moment later they were moving swiftly toward the double row of chairs, where Illya Kuryakin was still sitting motionless with his gun trained on the closed panel of the pilot compartment. Just as they reached his side a distinct tremor passed through the plane and an all-too-familiar hum made their eardrums vibrate. The jet had taken off.
SIX
STAY ALERT—OR DIE
A SURPRISE ATTACK on two armed THRUSH pilots in a jet that had broken the sound barrier could so easily have sent the plane spiraling earthward, perhaps in flames, that Solo, Illya and the man at their side paused for an instant to discuss it in whispers before opening the panel wide.
"We may have to shoot it out with them," Solo said. "But let's hope we can avoid that risk. With guns at their backs we should be able to persuade them to surrender their pistols and set the controls to keep the plane stable and on course until we've walked them back here. Guns at their backs first. Is that clear?"
He turned and spoke directly to Ovenden before the pilot or Illya Kuryakin could reply. "How long do you think it will take you to slip into one of the vacated pilot seats and take over? Perhaps we can skip ordering them to set the controls."
Ovenden shook his head. "Not wise," he said. "I'll stand behind you and watch every move they make. If they set the controls a fraction off, or try to, I'll know. For a few seconds it may be touch and go, and a lot of things could keep me from taking over in time. With the controls set we'll have an added margin of safety."
A grim smile flickered for an instant on his lips. "If there's any shooting an extra gun would be of more value than a sitting duck in the pilot seat."
"I couldn't agree more," Solo said. "Here we go then. Our timing had better be good."
Solo opened the panel wide and moved swiftly into the pilot compartment up behind Ovenden's THRUSH twin, whose rigid posture as he sat leaning forward over the controls gave him almost the look of a carven stone replica of the man whose identity he had assumed. Illya moved just as quickly up behind the second pilot. Both agents jammed their pistols against the backs of the seated men at the same instant, but it was Solo who did the talking.
"Don't make a move until I tell you what to do," he said. "That goes for both of you. Keep your reflexes under control. If you don't—you'll be blown apart."
Ovenden had taken up his position just behind the pair, midway between Solo and Illya.