"In other words, you have set us up for an overt attack."
Baldwin shrugged, awkwardly humping his right shoulder a moment, and his eyes glittered. "I certainly hope it will not come to that directly, since I am still here. I have personal knowledge of UNCLE's strength and faith in your ability to withstand attack. But you must realize that King will not stop with a single attack—he will continue to press you until you destroy him. Once the half-truce that has preserved your known operations is broken it will not be easily mended. He is not only a traitor to UNCLE—he is a traitor to Thrush by his methods and his deeds. His goal no doubt is exclusive personal control of Thrush, which I think you will agree would be bad news all round. So you see I am hardly to be held responsible for the situation. In fact, I have placed myself in great personal danger to warn you, and ask nothing at all of you in return."
Waverly regarded him for several seconds and the corners of his eyes crinkled microscopically. "While not wishing to demean what you have done for us already, it would be appreciated if you could give us a little more data on King—his current activities, his location..."
"Yes," Baldwin said musingly, "I wish I could help you more. But of course as his enemy I would hardly be in a position to know his secrets." He opened his coat and withdrew a long envelope. "However, even in my current precarious position, I am not without my resources. Here is a summary of what I have been able to discover about his character, his connections and his concerns. If anything else comes to my ears, I shall contact you."
He rose. "I can be of no further use to you, and the longer I remain the more suspicious the watchers will become."
Waverly followed him to his feet. "Allow me to see you to the door."
* * *
Illya was lounging against the desk in Inner Reception Station Three when Mr. Waverly preceded Baldwin through the door. The receptionist handed him a blue message flimsy; he glanced at it and turned to Baldwin.
"I'll just be another minute—please wait." He stepped back through the door before it slid closed.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Baldwin," Illya said. "I take it nothing pleasant has brought you three thousand miles from home."
"Mr. Kuryakin. A pleasure to see you again. No, I fear I bring ill-tidings." He smiled, a brief grimace. "You will be briefed on the situation shortly, I'm sure."
"I trust your wife is well."
"Well, but unhappily not with me. My household has, in fact, been rent asunder."
"And Robin?"
"My nurse is presently on board Project Hope. And Bruno has taken the Royce to England for a complete overhaul; his own training is being refreshed at the same time. How are you and Mr. Solo?"
"Much as usual," Illya said. "Napoleon has taken off a few pounds and looks the better for it. Mr. Waverly was given a six-week vacation last fall and is in the bloom of health. There is little to gossip about."
"Yes, I heard about the vacation—I was given to understand it was during that period Mr. Solo shed his excess weight."
Illya nodded noncommitally. "I hope our New York weather isn't troubling you. July here must be quite different from San Francisco."
The door hissed open and Mr. Waverly entered, a cane in his hand and an apologetic expression on his face. "Please accept my most profound regrets," he said. "My lab crew informs me that your stick had the great misfortune to explode while we were investigating it and has been totally destroyed. By the best of fortune, however, we have this"—he extended the staghorn and ebony cane he carried—"which I believe you will find adequate. Its length, weight and balance are precisely to your specifications in the files of Brigg, your London stick-maker."
Baldwin accepted it, examined it carefully, swung it, shifted it lightly in his hands, and raised it to study a one-inch silver band which circled the shaft just at the neck. Engraved in the front was the Thrush emblem, a stylized bird in fighting posture. Baldwin turned the shaft around and inspected the initials and date on the inside—A.W. to W.B. 1968.
"Quite adequate. My thanks to you, sir." He unclipped his badge and handed it back to the receptionist, and tipped his hat to the room as he left. He also tipped it to a bemused Del Floria as he passed through the shop and to an utterly undistinguished hotdog vendor outside who stared after him a moment and then wheeled his cart rapidly towards a pay telephone.
Section I: "And Tell Sad Stories Of The Death Of Kings."
Chapter 1: "Deceased—Line Of Duty."
Chapter 2: "My Teeth Itch."
Chapter 3: "Where Would You Go If You Were Homesick For 1890?"
Chapter 4: "Sugar Maple And Pine." Section II: "Tradition, Form And Ceremonious Duty."
Chapter 5: "Why Mr. Solo! What A Surprise!"
Chapter 6: "Attenta! Pericolo!"
Chapter 7: "Good Is Better Than Evil Because It's Nicer."
Chapter 8: "White Clover And Monkshood." Section III: "Let's Choose Executors..."
Chapter 9: "What's A Bozo Bill?"
Chapter 10: "Watch Out For That Tree!"
Chapter 11: "I'm Glad They're On Our Side!"
Chapter 12: "Nineteen Sweetpeas And One White Rose." Section IV: "And With A Little Pin..."
Chapter 13: "It Seemed Like Such A Quiet Little Town."
Chapter 14: "It Was A Long Way To Go For A Pinhole."
Chapter 15: "I Think He Was Scrooched."
Chapter 16: "You Have But Mistook Me..."
Section I: "And Tell Sad Stories Of The Death Of Kings."
Chapter 1: "Deceased—Line Of Duty."
Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were draped in casual attitudes about the office as Alexander Waverly re-entered. He had followed Ward Baldwin's uneventful exit by closed circuit televisoon from the communications room, and had checked to see that the tiny solid-state broadcasting module imbedded in the presentation stick had sent its first powerful signal. It should continue to transmit its quarter-second carrier every half-hour for the next six months, and it would be very handy to know where Baldwin would be for that long.
"At your leisure, Mr. Solo, I should like to see the personal dossier I hear you have been compiling on Ward Baldwin."
The door hissed quietly closed behind him as he crossed to the bearing-mounted round table that dominated the large room. Napoleon Solo gave it a lazy turn, carrying a slim manila folder around to meet him as he approached. There was a red tab on the corner with no other markings.
"I took the liberty of bringing it with me. I don't have much of any real value, I'm afraid, but there are a few items towards the back you might not have seen."
Waverly sank into a black leather chair and opened the folder before him, glancing at the top sheet and sorting down through perhaps a bare score of pages, stopping to scan one from time to time.
Illya rose from the couch and sauntered towards the table. "Napoleon has been rather cagey with that. If I'm going to be involved in something with Baldwin again, I'd like to know a little more about him."