It was late that same afternoon as Illya Kuryakin shut the door of his hotel room after him and leaned on it wearily. He was thankful to be able to relax for the first time in many hours. His encounter with chief surgeons and technicians had gone very well but it had been a strain, and he was not looking forward to maintaining the pretence very much longer. He would have to find what he was looking for quickly. Just now, though, all he wanted was a rest. He glanced round the large barn-like room he had acquired, and liked it. As in so many of the old, large, expensive Paris hotels, this very top suite, called the chambre de courier, was an awkward and misshapen afterthought, but it had a certain charm, and a truly magnificent view.
He crossed to the window to study the far-stretching roofscape. Rising out of it like some fantastic island stood the gilt-wreathed dome of the Invalides. Up here, high above the luxury level, one felt like a beggar at the gates of a great city, in it but not quite of it. The feeling suited him very well. He shrugged off his jacket, moved to the bed, paused a moment to admire its brass-bound massiveness, then heaved up and stretched out on it, kicking off his boots and wriggling deep into the white counterpane. An idle moment like this was a rare treat and he savored this one as far as he could stretch it. Then, sighing, he got out his communicator and flicked it into action with a practiced finger.
"Overseas relay," he requested, and traced the impossible outline of a flower on the wallpaper while he waited for the link.
"Is that you, Mr. Kuryakin?"
"Yes, sir. No snags so far. The managing-director and technical staff of St. Denis seem to have accepted me, after a bit of preliminary suspicion. I've had a general look over their facilities."
"Good beginning. Don't try to rush it."
"Couldn't if I want to. Their facilities are really extensive, and first class. There was a lot I didn't see, and some that called for explanations that I didn't get. They have four highly qualified embryologists on the staff, for one thing."
"Indeed! But you saw nothing to account for the theft of the communication modules?"
"No, sir. They'd be easy to hide, and impossible to detect unless one was in use. Anything new from Napoleon, on the Corfu end?"
"Hmm!" Waverly sounded peevish all at once. "News, you say? I have had reports, of a kind. The last I had was three days ago, from Turin."
"Turin? What on earth was he doing there?"
"I wish I could tell you. All he would say was that he was on the trail of something important but with no time to tell me what. It is most irritating!"
Kuryakin grinned as he shut off his instrument. Waverly was sparing with emotive words. For him to describe a situation as irritating was the equivalent of a string of lurid curses from anyone else. And, to be sure, Napoleon's behavior was curious. He had been staring absently at his little communicator for some seconds before he noted something highly significant about it. Right on the pencil-type tip a tiny neon glowed faintly. Just before leaving U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, Section Three had presented him with this modified communicator. Jeremy Cronshaw, the technician working on the problem, had explained: "If you're anywhere within a half mile of one of those modules, if it's in use, you'll get a glow from the lamp. It's not directional, I'm sorry, but at least it'll tell you if you're warm."
And he was warm now. Unfortunately, half a mile was quite a lot of ground to cover. He lay quite still on the bed, warm in the blood-red glow of the setting sun, and wondered what was the best thing to do; indeed, if there was anything effective he could do. And, in the hushed silence, he heard a faint but unmistakable click from behind a door he had not as yet opened.
The bathroom! He had not bothered to inspect it, because he had tangled with French plumbing before, and it was hardly conducive to comfort. But he did know that there was only the one door. That click—another came as he was thinking—meant someone was in there who had no business to be there. An enemy.
He put away his communicator and drew his pistol, all in the one movement, then waited, eyes riveted on the door.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SITTING quite still and silent, never taking his eyes from the door, Kuryakin nevertheless flogged his agile mind to consider the implications. How, for one thing, had the intruder managed to get in. And then, why? Had he been spotted at St. Denis, or was this possibly just a common burglar? The difference could be crucial. The bathroom, most probably, had a skylight. That would provide ingress for a burglar. And if that was all, then the mere sight of the gun would be sufficient.
But if it wasn't as simple as that, if, for instance, this was a Thrush manifestation, the outlook was totally different. He saw the bathroom knob turn, slowly. Not as a burglar would do it, at all. If Thrush was on the other side, the next move was predictable. Ease the door off the catch. Jerk it suddenly open. Drop and attack from the floor level possibly. Kuryakin kept absolutely still, ready to move rapidly when required.
The knob came to a standstill. The door eased open just a crack. Then, exactly as he had expected, it crashed all the way open from a kick. And nothing. The man out there was flattened alongside the doorjamb, tense and ready, probably hoping for a startled shot. So he knew this was no common burglar, but a highly trained operator.
There came a sudden blur of speed as a man sprang––pounced and landed all square with gun aimed. Kuryakin checked his trigger finger just in the nick of time.
"Napoleon!" he sighed. "That's no way to—" and only razor sharp instinct impelled him to forget the words he had in mind, to jerk himself to one side in frantic haste. He catapulted from the bed to the floor as the gun in Solo's hand bucked and roared, shattering the silence of the room.
He hit the carpet, rolled, got to a knee then hurled himself crazily under the bed to avoid another crashing shot. This time, as he went headlong, he was fractionally slow and the white-fire agony of impact shocked his leg. It needed that anguish to wipe out the last traces of doubt from his mind. If there were mysteries here, one thing was plain. Solo was intent on murder, and nothing less.
Kuryakin reversed his tracks, squirming like an eel, bobbed up by the side of the bed and snapped off a shot as Solo swung round. Part of his attention noted the acute difference in sound between his gun and the shots from Solo, even as he saw that his own snap shot had been a lucky one. It had struck Solo's gun and jarred it out of his grip. Now it fell, clattered on the wood floor beyond the carpet and skidded away into a far corner. It left the way for Kuryakin to stalk round the bed angrily.
"Hold it right there!" he ordered, limping painfully, but with the gun steady in his hand. "Just one minute. What—?"
He never got to finish his question. Solo snapped out of his momentary stillness into a vicious kick and back fall. The kick smashed Kuryakin's grip, sent his weapon flying. The back fall dropped Solo only just long enough for him to strike the floor, roll, and dive for his own gun. The Russian swayed back, wincing at the weight on his injured leg, then launched himself headlong on top of Solo. All his weight came down hard, and he grasped at once for a bone-breaking arm lock, but his efficiency was impaired by a sense of unreality. It was hard to believe, to accept, that this snarling hard-eyed fury who now snaked out of the arm lock and flung a vicious groin kick at him was really Napoleon Solo. And, more to the immediate point, if this was Solo, he knew all the tricks and how to use them.