When they finally stopped and the noise of the engine died away, Illya could hear crickets. The door was opened and he felt a hand on each elbow guiding him. A voice at his ear said, "This way. The gravel is tricky."
Their feet crunched on the broken rock of possibly a driveway, then sank slightly into a cushion of grass. In another ten paces a concrete walk was beneath them. The voice said, "Easy now. Up four steps," and the hands at his elbows indicated a turn as they mounted.
Up eight more steps and another turn, and Illya could half sense a solid bulk before them. The faint reverberations of their footsteps gave an impression of a wall - probably the front of a house. They stopped, and several seconds later a soft click and a breath of cool air indicated that a door had opened. They stepped into a large silence, cushioned with a deep carpet, and permeated with the sweet dark smell of old elegance and good taste.
But his guides didn't stop to enjoy the atmosphere. They turned him to the left again, off the carpet onto a hardwood floor, through another door, around some corners and down a long echoing corridor. At last they stopped, and one of them knocked - a deep booming note like a log drum. There was a buzz as an electric latch operated, and a slight draught told Illya the door had opened. They stepped forward onto another carpet, and the blindfold was removed.
The room was just as Illya's imagination had pictured it - the walls were paneled and the ceiling was high. Glass-fronted bookcases stood tall and contemplative in corners. Armorial bearings sparkled on the walls, and leaded French doors gave onto a flawless green lawn. Comfortable chairs were set about, with a great solid desk at their focal point.
Behind the desk sat a man. Not a particularly impressive man at first glance, with a receding hairline, a broad open face decorated with a military moustache, and a tendency towards jowliness. Not particularly impressive, that is, unless you considered his eyes, which had the color and quality of fine-grade steel. He sat crisply erect behind the desk, and his gaze was fixed on Illya as the Russian looked around the room, noting and cataloguing. When at last their eyes met, he spoke.
"Illya Kuryakin, of the U.N.C.L.E.," he said, as if inscribing a tag for an exhibit.
Illya gave him a slight nod of acknowledgment, and said, "And you must be Johnnie Rainbow."
Unexpectedly his host smiled. "My nom de guerre. Perhaps too melodramatic, but practical. It gives me an aura of the elusive, the imaginary, and the harmless - valuable first impressions in my business."
"And your business is...?"
"Selling advice and ideas, Mr. Kuryakin. And occasionally implementing ideas myself. I am akin to a theatrical producer in many respects."
"Your shows have short runs."
"But highly successful, both critically and at the cash box. And what more can an artist ask?"
Illya nodded. "I have heard nothing but praise for the recent gold robbery - except from Rothschild's."
"Admittedly prejudiced critics. But Mr. Kuryakin, I did not have you brought here to discuss the art of robbery. You and your partner have been seeking me with admirable fortitude for the last few days, and have attracted the attention of a great number of people. During this time I found out quite a bit about you and your organization, the U.N.C.L.E. And two days ago I decided to meet you."
"So you picked up my partner at the recent entertainment in New Bond Street and hustled him across England, only to see him avoid the engagement."
"In point of fact, this was one of the matters I wished lo bring up," said Johnnie Rainbow. He slid open a desk drawer and rummaged about in it. "Please accept these as tokens of my unwillingness to cause you unnecessary hardship."
He brought up from the drawer and laid on the desktop a familiar silvery cylinder, and a large black automatic pistol, still in its shoulder holster. The butt of the automatic had a white plastic initial "S" inlaid.
"Your partner's pistol and his communicating device. You will be allowed to take them with you when you leave, and return them to him when he returns to London tomorrow afternoon."
"I thank you on his behalf," Illya said uneasily. "But you could have had a messenger drop them by."
"I could have - and would, if I had no further interest in you or your partner. But I have found myself in an interesting position, and wish to discuss it with you."
"I'm flattered."
"Don't be. I greatly prefer to keep my own counsel. But I have an offer to make you, and you cannot consider it adequately until you have a complete grasp of the background."
"You understand that I cannot speak for any of the national agencies of law enforcement."
"Of course. Your powers are restricted by your nature. Local authorities generally cooperate with you, but cannot be forced to do so. You cannot officially arrest any one, but you can take them into custody and have them bound over for arraignment by governmentally constituted tribunals. I am also aware that you seldom deal with individual criminals - that you, personally, feel that your current assignment is somewhat beneath you."
Illya's face scarcely betrayed a fraction of his surprise, but Rainbow caught the flicker and smiled. "I am neither a mind-reader nor a magician, Mr. Kuryakin - merely an adept observer. But hear me out, and you should be able to guess my offer before I have stated it specifically."
The Russian agent settled back in the chair and crossed his legs as Johnnie Rainbow began.
"Over a year ago I was first contacted by representatives of an organization which I have reason to believe is not unknown to you - their acronym is Thrush. They openly admire my work, my organizational ability, my modest talent for timing. They told me something of their work, and I will admit to being most intrigued. And they offered me a position in their hierarchy.
"Their offer was moderately attractive, and I gave it some thought before rejecting it. My position here is, I feel, an enviable one. I am effectively at the top of my profession, popular, sought-after, respected. I also wield a fair amount of power, and am completely autonomous in my operations. If I were to agree to join Thrush, I would lose a good deal of the independence of action, which is very precious to me.
"I told their representative my decision, he increased their offer. At this moment, were I to accept, I would be directly in line for what they call their Supreme Council. But I do not plan to accept.
"There are many things about Thrush of which I do not approve. They suffer from the flaw of many large corporations, which is a lack of any human qualities in their relations with others. Everything is done strictly by orders. There seems to be no room for individual initiative."
Illya cleared his throat. "This is only true to a certain extent," he said. "In many Satraps, individuality is very highly prized - at least, by those in charge."
Rainbow shook his bead. "I know only the few men I have seen. They act very strangely, and seem incapable of making decisions on their own." He pondered a moment. "They seem very foreign.
"I don't think of myself as a prejudiced man, Mr. Kuryakin. But I do consider myself an Englishman first and foremost. The Crown was my only parent, from an orphanage through the Royal Army. Now, these Thrush people have been making noises about taking over everything, unifying the whole world under their own control. And I will not be a part of such a scheme. I fought against Hitler - working my way up through the ranks as an officer and a gentleman preventing other people from getting the whole world under their thumbs."