"No, he comes willingly. You should know enough about Dr. Grayson's technique to be able to figure that out. Sometime early this evening Little Sirrocco called him up and in the middle of an apparently harmless conversation she slipped him the prearranged cue phrase, which triggers a series of sub-conscious reactions to bring him to her place within an hour or two. Then he's debriefed, re-briefed, re-programmed if necessary, and sent out." "Uh-huh. He did volunteer, right?"
"It couldn't have worked if he hadn't. Thrush has the technology to make it work, but it's surgical, irreversible, and has several unpleasant side effects. I'd like to think nobody but they would use it."
Solo snapped the slide closed and wiped his fingerprints off the metal. "What's the key phrase she uses? Anything to justify the behavior pattern it initiates?"
"You might say so. I think it's something like, ' I'm lonely, big boy.' She was going to call him about 7:30, which means he should be under at the moment. He'll be sent home about half past two."
"Shouldn't we be there to participate in the briefing?"
"Napoleon, you want to be in on everything. Any extraneous presences would complicate Dr. Grayson's task. Besides, he might recognise us if he ever got a good look at us."
"You're being reasonable again. I just like to keep track of what's going on. I presume we'll be called if anything develops?"
"I have Mr. Waverly's word on it. After all, it's only 11:00."
Napoleon finished repacking the kit and wiped his fingers fastidiously on a rag. "There are a lot of places I'd like to go and spend a couple of hours – no reflection on your company, but U.N.C.L.E. HQ gets pretty quiet between midnight and six a.m. If it wasn't for the fact that Baldwin probably has bugs under some of the most interesting beds in San Francisco I'd be out investigating the Barbary Coast. Any ideas?"
"Not while we're collecting duty pay. I have a landlord to feed in Brooklyn Heights."
"If you didn't throw all your money away on riotous living, you mad Russian, you could afford to live as well as I do."
"And you don't have a cent put away, and your checking account runs into Ready Reserve about five times a year. You live like Aesop's grasshopper."
"While your savings balance as of last month was $14,582.07. Why don't you buy stock with it or something?"
"It's against my principles. Don't you expect to live to retire?"
"I trust in Social Security and U.N.C.L.E.'s retirement plan. I'll move to the Maldives, after sailing the Pursang around the world just to prove I can, and chase native girls, until I'm shot by a jealous husband at the age of 102. I'm essentially a man of simple tastes."
Illya scratched a speck from the white inset initial K in the broad square butt of his special, and didn't look at Napoleon as he asked casually, "Have you thought about getting married?"
"Thanks awfully, but it would never work. We come from two -"
"Cut It out."
"Sorry. Actually I hadn't thought about it. I wouldn't say it couldn't happen, but don't count on it." He fitted his Special back into its low slung shoulder rig and worked it in and out a couple of times. "I'd demand a lot in a girl. I don't really think I'd care to try it again. But look, are you really that interested in the $30-a day bonus for the 24-hour alert scene?"
"You seem to know my financial situation better than I do."
Solo stood and stretched. "Same to you, fella. You spend 60¢ a day on transportation."
"The subway's convenient and it gives me something to do for twenty minutes while I'm waking up."
"Yeah. The spy who came in from Brooklyn – on the IRT."
Both communicators chirped in chorus, and Illya barely had time to react before Napoleon flipped out his silver pen, drew down the short antenna and removed and reversed the upper point to expose the cylindrical speaker and mike. "Solo here."
The familiar gravelly voice of their commander filled the quiet room. "We have just twenty-four hours to prepare the strike. Baldwin's terminal is being moved between two and three tomorrow morning. We expect to have detailed plans for the operation by noon today."
"Ah – tomorrow, you mean," said Napoleon. "It's only 11:18."
"It is? My word, I'm still on New York time. Thank you, Mr. Solo. I've had other things on my mind. Apparently even Baldwin didn't know until early today; their internal security is quite respectable. Stevens reported, by the way, that Baldwin is rather upset by this replacement. His old terminal is done in walnut panelling to fit the general decor of his office, and he's seen a picture of the new design. He seems to have ordered a closet built to hold it and a secretary to operate it for him, and there's a rumor that he may refuse to use it himself even if Central' orders him to."
"He could come up with a convincing reason if he wanted," Napoleon said confidently.
"What do we know about the method of transportation?" Illya asked. "Can they fold it up in a briefcase and silently steal away?"
"It's about the size of a steamer trunk – or a small refrigerator. Similar in design to a unit you two blew up at that prison camp in South America a few years ago, if you'll remember."
"I remember that very well," said Illya.
"You aren't likely to forget Salty O'Rourke, either," said Napoleon.
"This one," said Mr. Waverly, "will be leaving Alamo Square in a panel truck, possibly for the waterfront, possibly for a helipad. Mr. Stevens is remembering at the moment."
"I think Plan A is the obvious and appropriate thing for the situation," said Illya. "We'll check their procedure if Harry can remember enough, look over their route for the best spots, and intercept them."
"Plan A takes about ten men, sir," said Napoleon. "And it will involve a lot of noise and some – special equipment."
"Do you know how many guards will be on the truck?" Illya asked. "We'll need the appropriate number of bodies to leave behind in the wreck so Thrush will be less suspicious of this admittedly unlikely 'accident.' Mr. Simpson has already prepared a dummy terminal to leave in the truck."
"It'll be split-second timing," said Napoleon, "but we have all day tomorrow to rehearse. I think we should stay up late tonight going over whatever Harry tells us, sleep until noon tomorrow and we'll be ready to fight Thrush from midnight to dawn."
"Admirable, Mr. Solo. We aren't likely to hear anything before two, when Dr. Grayson will return with the tape of Stevens' report. I shall call you again when she arrives. Your strike team will be called from this office on a Y3K7 priority and ordered to you at 2:00 tomorrow afternoon. You will be sleeping in the quarters provided, I presume?"
"Yes, sir. And we'll be in the building waiting for your call."
"Very good. Waverly out."
Solo replaced his communicator. "Which leaves us two and a half hours to kill. I think the commissary still has coffee – or could we telephone for a – pizza?"
"Mushroom and sausage. Would you care for a fast round of Botticelli [1] while we're waiting?"
"There's no such thing. Since I'm paying for the pizza, I'll start with an H."
"Did you ever go bowling in the rain?"
"That's an obscure way of identifying him, but no, I am not Heinrich
Hudson."
"Did you write a famous essay titled Notes On The Next War, and a play… No, that'd tell you too much."
"Notes On The Next War? Ah…" They walked down the corridor to the security guard, at Outer Reception Station One, who would be receiving a pizza in forty-five minutes, and gave him the extension of the lounge where they would be waiting at the end of the hall next to the elevators, along with a five-dollar bill.