Whether there are clouds or not, it always seems to be hot at Caselle. When Ilya Kuryakin arrived on the afternoon Alitalia flight from Paris, the tar on the roadway by the taxi stand was melting and the flowers banked behind the car park trembled in the heat rising from the parked vehicles. Above the mountains, the sky had dissolved in a sulphurous haze.
Finding no Solo among the small crowd of bronzed men and women waiting at the customs exit, Kuryakin made his way to the bar.
It was cooler in there, and the shutters and blinds which denied entry to the sun formed a kind of artificial dusk which gave the illusion of freshness. There were red-faced tourists from the coast, laden with striped beach balls and straw hats, waiting for the BEA flight to London; there were blue-overalled workmen and taxi drivers in shirtsleeves; there were several groups of businessmen drinking Campari-sodas and two patrician families lost in admiration of each other's children. But there was nobody there remotely resembling Napoleon Solo.
The Russian went to the airline desks one after the other to see if there had been a message left for him. There had not. Puzzled, he picked up his overnight case, slung his unwanted raincoat over one shoulder, and left the terminal building for the sun. It was like a furnace outside. The red, white and green flag hung limply from the mast. The crimson oleander flowers drooped. The weight of the raincoat immediately stuck Kuryakin's shirt to his shoulder.
"Mr. Kuryakin?"
The girl's voice had come from behind him. Illya swung round to see a tall, slender brunette in a tan shirt and turquoise silk trousers. She was standing in the shade of the awning over the main entrance and she was holding a scrap of paper.
"Mr. Kuryakin?" she said again. She had a cool and pleasant voice and a wide smile. "I have a message for you from Mr. Solo."
"Oh... Nothing wrong, I hope?"
"Not at all. Just an annoyance—but an exasperating one even so. Mr. Solo's car has broken down... I'm afraid our transport people must have allotted him one that was in need of a service... and since he couldn't get here in time himself, and I was up in the city anyway, he asked me to meet you instead and give you a lift to where he's staying."
"That's extremely kind," the Russian said. "Where is he, then?"
"It's not far. About 45 kilometer along the road to Milan."
"You mentioned 'our transport people'. You will forgive me, but are you connected with the ...?"
"I can't tell you here," the girl cut in. "The car's just across the road there, in the park. Let's go. It'll be cooler, anyway, once we get started." She led the way to a neat little Lancia Flavia convertible, put Illya's case and coat on the narrow back seat, and drove expertly back towards Turin.
"You were going to ask was I connected with the S.I.D.," she resumed as soon as they were clear of the airport. "The answer is in the affirmative—but I must ask you please, to be most discreet about—"
"Of course, of course. Naturally."
"I take it the situation now is that Mr. Waverly has this hologram, and Mr. Solo and you are left with the task of finding whatever it was that was used to make it?"
"You must forgive me again," Kuryakin said uncomfortably, "but I think it would be better if we left any discussion of the assignment until after I have seen Mr. Solo."
The girl glanced in the driving mirror. A white Fiat 1500 which had been heading for the airport was impatiently trying to interrupt city-bound traffic to execute a U-turn and return the way it had come. "Just as you like," she said indifferently, "but since I have been helping Mr. Solo, to backtrack on poor Leonardo's movements before he was shot, and I understand you will be helping us on the same deal, I thought it might save time if I told you what has happened so far here. And you can tell me the latest developments from your end."
"Oh, I see. I didn't realize you—er—knew quite so much about it. Miss...?"
"Eriksson," the girl said. "Lala Eriksson."
"Miss Eriksson. But if you are in fact one of us, so to speak..."
"Hold on a moment. We're just coming to the Pedaggio, the pay station at the beginning of the Autostrada. I have to stop and take a ticket."
"This is the Turin-Milan Autostrada, I presume. How far along it do we go?"
"We take the fifth exit road—between Santhia and Buronzo. Mr. Solo's staked out near the place where Leonardo got his list." Lala Eriksson flicked a glance over the tail of the open car at the vehicles behind her. There was an old Alfa Romeo, a Simca with a French registration, and then a white Fiat 1500. There was nothing to show that it was the one they had seen doing the U-turn. There were thousands of them about. Nevertheless, the girl kept one eye fairly constantly on her driving mirror during the short journey along the motor road. "It's true, what Mr. Solo told me?" she asked after a little. "It's absolutely impossible to decipher this hologram without the glass or whatever it was that Leonardo used?"
"I'm afraid so," Illya said.
"That puts quite a heavy responsibility on us, then, doesn't it? Did Mr. Waverly specify the line he wanted us to take before you left?"
Kuryakin looked sideways at her. Her profile was lifted slightly and there was a smile playing around her lips. A lock of hair rose and fell irregularly as the air streamed over the windshield and fluttered the curls at the nape of her neck. "He doesn't work that way," he said. "I should have thought Napoleon would have told you."
"Mr. Solo has told me many things," Lala Eriksson said evasively. "But remember, he doesn't even know who it was that... snatched him, do you say? Have you made any progress on that in New York?"
"Not much. A little, perhaps. Trevitt—that's the policeman who is working with us on that end of the assignment—told me before I left that they had some hopes of getting a lead from the kidnap car."
"They hadn't materialized by the time you left, though?"
"Not firmly, no. They thought they might be able to trace the driver."
"Mr. Solo thinks it was some organization... a rival to Thrush, perhaps... which was responsible. Is that what you think?"
The Russian was noncommittal. "Maybe."
They had been driving at between 140 and 150 kph. Now the girl slowed imperceptibly until the Lancia was cruising at only 110. The white Fiat, which had been half a kilometer or more behind them all the way, did not for some reason catch them up, although the average speed of the main traffic stream was 15 or 20 kph faster than they were going. After a few minutes, Lala Eriksson speeded up again and soon they were repassing cars which had recently overtaken them. This time, however, the Fiat seemed to have no desire to match their speed and by the time they took the slip road leading to the pay station it was lost in the press of cars behind.
"How do you think we should start, then? Looking for this piece of glass, or whatever it is?" the girl asked conversationally as she handed her ticket to the attendant and searched her purse for the 650 lira he demanded.
"Oh... I should think Napoleon would be the best one to answer that," Kuryakin replied vaguely. "He knows the terrain, after all."
"I suppose so," Lala Eriksson said, engaging bottom gear and moving off down a country road signposted to Buronzo.