"What's the diagram, Illya?"
"I'm not sure. I studied it a long time, on the flight. It seems to be some kind of communication wiring, but badly drawn."
"It's a mess." Cronshaw sniffed and studied it. "Doesn't mean a thing unless you know what values to insert here and here. Could be a kind of transceiver, though. Without the power source. Excuse me." He straightened as the humming stopped in his machine. After a few more dexterous moves, he requested the lights to be dimmed and switched on his projector, aiming the picture at a small screen on the wall. It took a moment to get the focus, then they all saw a foreshortened picture of a head, seen from a point about three feet above the forehead. By the hair, it was the head of a woman, but there was one small patch where the head had been shaven clean.
The next picture showed the same head, but where there had been a patch of bare skin, there was now a dark orifice.
"A cranial operation!" Waverly murmured. "At a guess this must be some work done by Countess Louise. The next picture, Mr. Cronshaw!"
This time the screen showed a chart similar to those hung up for the benefit of anatomy students. It was of the human head in outline and profile. An arrow pointed to a specific area of the skull, on the top of the head. The next picture was once more a head, but this time in full-face, and again the arrow pointed down at the top of the skull. One more picture, and this time both Kuryakin and Cronshaw leaned forward excitedly.
"That's the diagram again!" Kuryakin declared.
"Right!" said Cronshaw; "but this time the values are properly put in. And you know what?"
"I know." Kuryakin sighed. "It's that damned radio-module thing. Any more pictures, Jerry?"
"Soon find out." Cronshaw moved switches, but the rest of the film was blank. He switched off, restored the lights. Waverly blinked, then his face contorted into a frown.
"Have you two seen something I've missed?"
"I've seen it," Kuryakin said, very quietly, "but I don't know that I can believe it, entirely. Except that I recall, now, while I was fighting with Napoleon, I had his head and was banging it against the leg of the bed. And he had a small, round bald patch, just where it would show in that film. Jerry, that module doesn't need a conventional power source, does it?"
"No. It's designed to function from body heat. I know what you're thinking, Illya, but it's fantastic. You can't just stuff a thing like that into a man's brain!"
"Perhaps you can, at that. Could we have Dr. Harvey in here, sir? This is something she could pass an opinion on."
"Of course." Waverly took up his telephone again and gave the order. Then he gripped his pipe for a moment in bleak thought. "I believe," he said, "that I am guessing what you two are thinking. That somehow that woman has discovered a way of inserting one of those modules into a human brain in such a way that she can exercise remote control by virtue of the matching other. And you," he looked at the Russian, "believe that Solo has one in his brain at this moment?"
"It would explain a lot, sir. If it's possible."
Susan Harvey came in with brisk professional step, took one keen look at Kuryakin and made instant and appropriate movements with her black bag.
"Hold it, Dr. Harvey." The Russian halted her. "You can look me over later. Right now we'd like you to see some pictures. Jerry?"
They waited until she had seen all the film and the lights were on again, then Waverly took up the thread.
"The suggestion is, Miss Harvey, that something could be, and has been, inserted into the skull of a living person in the manner shown. Would that be possible?"
She took her time before answering. "I would prefer time to look this up before being dogmatic about it, of course, but offhand I would say yes, it is possible. So far as surgery is concerned, the brain is a special case. It is not sensitive to pain, and large areas of it are apparently without function. Patients have survived extensive brain surgery, have had large areas of the brain removed, in fact, and been no different. In the case shown, the arrow appears to be indicating the pineal area. Virtually nothing is known about the function of the pineal organ. If it has a function at all, which is doubtful. In structure it resembles an eye. There is a persistent but quite unfounded superstition that it is a kind of 'third' eye. It has been believed, at various times, that it is through the pineal eye that the soul and body are joined. It's safer to say that we know very little about it, or what purpose it serves. As for inserting something in the skull just there, that would be simple enough. It would depend on the size and nature of the insertion, of course."
"The thing we have in mind," Kuryakin said heavily, "is about half an inch long and the caliber of an ordinary pencil lead. It's a miniature transmitter-receiver, powered by body heat."
"In its military usage," Cronshaw added, "the man in the field would have it taped to his jawbone so as not to interfere with his movements. It's designed to convert into audio frequencies."
"That's rather beastly." Susan Harvey repressed a shiver. "I suppose someone with that thing in his head would hear voices."
"He would hear commands. Instructions," Kuryakin declared, with sudden inspiration. "And he would obey, or suffer. Imagine what a simple power boost would do! And the person at the other end, the controller, would be able to listen in and hear everything that went on, all the time!"
"Well," Waverly sighed and put down his pipe, "at least we know this much, then. Mr. Solo is in the hands of the enemy, but not willingly. He is under compulsion by this fiendish device. The next question must be, how do we get him back?"
CHAPTER EIGHT
AS the whole of the efficient organization that was U.N.C.L.E. seethed into fervent activity to deal with the problem, Waverly was at pains to make one point clear.
"We want Mr. Solo back," he said, facing a team of experts from all sections, "preferably. But failing that, he must be killed. He is much too dangerous to be left in that woman's hands." It was a bitter decision and there was more than one sympathetic glance for Illya Kuryakin, but no one questioned the correctness of it. The United Network Command was too important to be risked for the sake of one member.
For two days, Kuryakin did less than anyone. Try as he might, his brain was too bothered by various factors, and in any case he was in urgent need of rest and recuperation from his wounds. Susan Harvey attended him as often and regularly as her time would allow, but he was difficult, both as a patient and as a person. In neither valence would he render any clues as to his feelings. Never, she felt, had she made less impression on a man. It was as if she was transparent, as if he couldn't see her, no matter how carefully she tried to make herself pleasant and attractive. He had interest in two things, and two things only. One was for news that Solo had been sighted. The other was for some outcome to the ceaseless quest for some efficient way of getting that telltale module safely out of Solo's head, if and when they did manage to catch him.
Answers to both came in quick succession on the evening of the second day. Kuryakin had taken up residence in one of the spare small apartments within the crumbling brownstone facade, so as to be on hand in the event of any news. Susan Harvey had come to visit him, ostensibly to change his bandages but in secret fact to try out on him the effect of her newest and most brief mini-dress. She had long and extremely attractive legs, and she knew it. He would have known it too, had he taken the trouble to look, but he didn't. She sat, now, directly opposite him and crossed her lovely legs with deliberate abandon. Then she sighed and shook her head in despair.