The cold smile flashed again. "You will learn that, Mr. Kuryakin, when you arrive there."
At the end of that five-minute period,- as Estrellita had said, the telephone rang. She took a single step to where the phone was perched on the opposite side of the desk from where Illya sat. She caught up the receiver.
Illya's eyes followed her. It was then that he became aware of the paperweight.
It was a large, oblong piece of black onyx, highly-polished, and it sat on top of a sheaf of bills of lading on the half of the desk nearest Illya. His hand, resting on the desk where he had placed it when he sat down in the chair, was only inches away from the paperweight.
Illya looked at it, took his eyes away, and stared straight ahead. That piece of polished onyx represented a possible opening. He tensed the muscles in his legs, planting the toes of his shoes solidly on the floor.
Estrellita seemed to be listening intently to whatever was being said on the other end of the wire. Then she said, "Yes," just that single word and nothing else, and hung up the receiver. She started to move away from the phone.
Eyes still staring straight ahead, Illya said a silent prayer that he would remember the exact position of the piece of onyx. Then his arm lifted, darting sideways, and he felt his fingers close over the glossy surface. His eyes flicked right.
Well, he thought, this is no time to be a gentleman. And he threw the paperweight at Estrellita Valdone.
In the same motion, he came up off the chair, toes digging for leverage against the floor, and hurtled his crouched body at Benson. He heard Estrellita's sharp cry of pain, and the thud of the automatic as it flew from her hand and bounced on the floor, and he knew his hurried aim had been accurate. Then his shoulder slammed with jarring force into a surprised, off-guard Benson's midsection.
The force of Illya's charge pushed Benson backwards, and the crack of his head against the door jamb resounded dully, music to Illya's ears. Benson squeezed the trigger of his own gun as he hit the jamb, a reflex action, but his arm had been pushed to one side by the contact and the bullet thudded harmlessly into the wall.
The angular man slid unconscious to the floor, Illya on top of him. Illya Kuryakin tore at the gun in Benson's fingers, pulled it free, and then rolled over the prone form, coming up on one knee with the gun up and ready in his hand.
Estrellita was sitting on the floor in front of the desk, holding her right arm. Her eyes were squeezed shut in silent pain.
Illya Kuryakin leaned back against the desk, passing his left hand through his blonde hair. "Now, Miss Valdone, suppose we play twenty questions."
Estrellita's black eyes were open now, filled with pain and hatred. "I won't tell you anything," she said defiantly. "Not a thing."
"We'll see about that." Illya took his U.N.C.L.E. communicator from the pocket of his suit and thumbed out the antenna. "Open Channel D, please," he said.
TWO
Illya Kuryakin, Mr. Waverly and two other U.N.C.L.E. agents, specialists in the art of interrogation, spent two hours questioning Estrellita Valdone at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.
They questioned her individually and collectively, using every known verbal trick of extracting information. They flung questions with rapid-fire quickness, trying to confuse her. They made seemingly irrelevant queries, carefully phrased, hoping she would let slip the slightest bit of useful knowledge.
But Estrellita Valdone, whatever else she might be, was also extremely loyal. She remained adamantly silent. The man named Benson refused to tell them anything either.
Illya and Mr. Waverly, having left the specialists to continue the interrogation, were now seated in Waverly's office. Illya had become increasingly mired in futility. They had the answers right there, not two doors away from them, yet they couldn't pry them loose from the two THRUSH agents. And time was running short.
The two men sat in strained silence. Waverly was pouring over a recent batch of reports from U.N.C.L.E. offices throughout the world, reports which told him nothing he did not already know. Illya watched his superior shake his head sadly. The tension inside him was about to reach a boiling point.
There was a knock on Waverly's door. He pressed one of the buttons on his desk and the door opened, admitting an agent named Bradshaw, who Illya knew slightly, from Intelligence Section IV.
Waverly looked up as Bradshaw approached his desk. "Yes?"
"I have the reports on Benson and the Valdone woman you asked for, sir," Bradshaw said. "Took us some time to run them down."
Waverly took the papers Bradshaw handed him. "What were you able to ascertain?"
"Not much, I'm afraid," Bradshaw said. "We have no files on Estrellita Valdone; she's either a new recruit or an agent that THRUSH had kept well-hidden. Apparently she really is a model in Mexico City, lives alone in an apartment there, but beyond that we draw a blank."
"And Benson?"
"No known THRUSH activities," Bradshaw said. "At least, no definite connection with them. But he's got a criminal record-strong-arm stuff, mostly-that dates back several years."
Waverly was reading one of the papers Bradshaw had given him. He frowned slightly, tugging at his ear lobe. "Interesting item here," he said. "I expect if we were to confront our Mr. Benson with this bit of information, he might become more amenable to answering our questions. What do you think, Mr. Kuryakin?"
Illya sat up straighter on his chair, taking the paper from Waverly. He read it over. "Perhaps he might, at that," Illya said, determination replacing some of the tenseness inside him "Shall we find out?"
"Indeed," Waverly said, rising.
THREE
Benson sat on a straight-back chair in one of the U.N.C.L.E. interrogation rooms down the hall from Waverly's office. He sat stiffly, apparently somewhat bothered by the constant questioning, but remaining obstinately quiet.
Waverly spoke softly to the two interrogators, and they left the room, leaving Benson alone with he and Illya.
Illya said, "Have you decided to talk yet?"
Benson said nothing, glaring up at him.
Illya smiled faintly. "How many times have you been in prison, Benson?"
"What?" Benson said, startled at the sudden turn in questions.
"Three, isn't it?" Illya asked him. "Once for assault with a deadly weapon. Two years. Twice for armed robbery. Four years and, eight years. Three different terms, Benson."
"So what?" The angular man said, not quite understanding.
"Just this," Illya told him. "In your language, that makes you a three-time loser. Surely you know what it means if you're convicted of another crime."
Comprehension touched Benson's eyes. The color drained from his face.
"That's right," Illya said. "Life imprisonment. Without possibility of parole. The rest of your life behind bars, Benson."
"Wait a minute," Benson said. "Listen, I haven't committed any crime. You can't prove anything against me."
"Can't we? You held a gun on me in that warehouse. You threatened me with it. That constitutes assault. And if you want more, there's the fact that you're a convicted felon in possession of firearms. I shouldn't think we'd have any problem proving guilt."
Benson's eyes were wild. Illya Kuryakin knew he had struck home, just as he had hoped Many men of Benson's breed possessed an innate fear of being caged, and he was no exception.