Illya glanced at his watch, and canted his head doubtfully. "Perhaps another ten minutes."
Napoleon stepped outside, and something slapped into the doorframe. He stepped back inside. "You can save both the thanks and the surprise. Either I've just been shot at again, or you have .38 caliber mosquitoes coming up from the salt flats."
Baldwin frowned, and looked at his wife. "My apologies, dear. I had not expected you to become quite so involved with this field problem."
Irene smiled. "Ward, you know perfectly well I've missed the excitement of field work since our last promotion. I wouldn't have missed this for the world." She opened her purse. "See? I even brought along my derringer."
The small handgun she produced hardly qualified as a lady's weapon — its twin barrels looked large enough to accept a thumb, and both Napoleon and Illya recognized it as the largest punch per cubic inch available to the general public — a .357 magnum derringer.
Illya cleared his throat and looked doubtfully at Napoleon, who shrugged. Very few people could handle that much weapon, and none of them in his experience had been women. He looked at the slivers where the bullet had torn through the doorframe, and wished for his own U.N.C.L.E. Special, lying on a warehouse floor in Oakland, miles away across the bay. Maybe tomorrow he could retrieve it. Until then he would have to make do with the spare he had saved from the burned car. This had not been what one would call a successful day.
It had been along one, though. The time was approaching four-thirty. It's a good thing I'm superhuman, Napoleon thought, as he checked the clip in the automatic. Otherwise I'd probably be getting pretty tired of all this by now. He looked at Illya.
His partner was on hands and knees, next to the door, peering around it carefully. He brought his automatic up to eye-level, squeezed off a shot, and ducked back. Irene said, "Excuse me, but do you gentlemen have any form of gas masks? Nostril filters or similar devices? We're likely to be under attack with our own gases as well." Her voice seemed muffled, and Napoleon looked around.
She and her husband were wearing small affairs something like anti-silicosis masks. Napoleon sighed, and got out his nose filters again.
Illya announced, "They're hiding out there, keeping a very sharp watch on the door. The fact they haven't attacked would indicate all they want to do is keep us pinned down for a while."
"They probably want to relieve us of our guest," suggested Napoleon. "Would we mind?"
"Yes," said Baldwin. "There are doubtless many things he has not told us, and I should still like to send him over the Powell-Hyde cable. It has a few interesting additions.... Irene, do you have an idea?"
Mrs. Baldwin was rummaging about in her purse by the light from Illya's pencil flash. She looked up and smiled. "I think so, dear. I've found my long comb, but I'm looking for a piece of tissue paper. It's an old trick, but they often work best against these moderns."
Napoleon stared at her, and sighed deeply. "Well I suppose music hath charms to soothe the savage et cetera, but is it really ofpractical application right now?"
Irene glanced up from her search and favored him with the patient smile he had come to know and hate. "I don't indulge in musical entertainments, Mr. Solo; I simply have what Ward likes to call an unorthodox mind for weaponry. Perhaps if I told you I also needed my mirror and my eyebrow pencil you would understand?"
Napoleon wouldn't, but he knew better than to say so. If he did, she might tell him. And he wasn't sure he was quite ready to know.
Illya stood close to the door, occasionally leaning a bit toward it in an attempt to see something outside without materially increasing his chances of absorbing a bullet. He couldn't.
Meanwhile Irene was busy working on a facial tissue with the eyebrow pencil. The top was roughly darkened, then two large round circles were drawn and carefully shaded. A long oval patch was added, and she held it up to admire her workmanship. She turned to her husband.
"Will it pass, dear?"
Baldwin looked at it a few seconds, and a diabolical smile of satisfaction spread across his features. "Irene, you are a credit to the firm. Write yourself a pay voucher for brilliant improvisation under fire." He looked benignly at the U.N.C.L.E. agents. "You see, the Hierarchy is not as dependent on complex technology as you might think. Simple ingenuity is always valuable."
Irene had hung the tissue paper to the very end of her long comb, so the face hung down, pale in the darkness. She held out the mirror to Illya. The Russian looked at it with knitted brows and intense concentration. Then gradually his eyes brightened, and he smiled his wry little smile and accepted it.
He and Irene went to the door, where Illya knelt down and, holding the handle in his fingertips, extended the mirror almost to the edge of the frame. Irene stood over him, and put the end of the comb out. Then Napoleon understood.
From ten feet or more away down the alley, in the dim light of a distant streetlamp, there would be a face peering anxiously out from the edge of the door. If they didn't spot Illya's mirror, he could see from the muzzle flashes where the snipers were located. The most efficient flash-shield in the world can't protect from straight ahead — only seldom does it to the witness any good.
There was a shot, and the tissue fluttered. Illya muttered something. "Can't see. I'll have to get closer to the mirror." As he edged forward another shot shredded the edge of the tissue, and Illya snorted. "There he is. Behind a trash bin about fifty feet down to the left."
"Do you see any more?"
"No...Yes. Two just broke and sprinted across the alley about ten yards away. They're coming closer."
A third shot tore through the tissue paper, leaving a fairly neat hole. Napoleon hoped it wouldn't seem odd to the sniper that his target didn't fall.
I think there are only the three of them," Illya said. He put his left hand out with the U.N.C.L.E. Special, and rested the butt on the ground just around the corner of the door. Still holding the mirror in his right hand, he sighted carefully and fired. There was a sound like a flat Chinese gong, and an answering shot from the sniper.
Suddenly the tissue paper was gone, and Irene pulled her hand back. She looked at the stump of her comb, and said something entirely unladylike. "My best tortoise-shell rat-tail! Mr. Kuryakin, give me that mirror."
Illya handed her the mirror, and moved away.
Talking the mirror under one arm, Irene broke the action of her derringer and checked the ammunition. Then she closed it and flexed her fingers. "I suggest you hold your ears," she said coolly, and put the mirror around the corner of the door. There was a shot from their sniper, and something slapped a shower of splinters out of the frame just above the mirror. "Thank you," said Irene politely, and extended the gun. Napoleon placed his palms flat over his ears, and felt his spine go tense.
The detonation was like a thunderclap. He felt the concussion all over the side of his body toward the door, and his ears ached despite their protection.
He lowered his hands and looked around. Irene was kneading her right hand with her left. The mirror lay on the floor. The gun was nowhere in sight. "I think I got him," she said. "Illya, take a look. Mr. Solo, see if you can find my toy."
Illya looked carefully around the corner of the door. Under the streetlight, the trash bin lay on its side, some fifteen feet farther away than it had been. Looking carefully, he could see an arm and a leg sticking out from under the edge. They weren't moving.