Illya's eyebrows hardly stirred. "Two men together? A team?"
"They come on like a team, anyway. Rooming together. A Jap and an Ayrab or something. Wiry cuss—I seen him at the staff pool. All over scars, and a mean look to him. If he was a tree surgeon I don't ever want to go into a forest. You gettin' that loom okay? Pair of dykes over on the bench."
"You haven't gone to Security yet?"
"Naw. If something happens I'll think about it. Feel like a fool if they're plants after all."
Illya grunted acknowledgment and changed the subject. Sometime he might need Curley's help, but better not to stimulate his curiosity unnecessarily.
Every night he monitored his bugs. It went faster as he developed his ear for high-speed chatter. He sat at the desk now for only a little over an hour every evening, light plastic earphones joined beneath his chin by a thin plastic tube, staring blankly into space as the fingers of his left hand rocked lightly back and forth across the motor switches of the little playback unit. Inside his head voices twittered as the tape sped by, then squawled to a stop and reversed. Two second's silence, and then…
A door opened.
"So the cottage is definitely out. Is his office invulnerable?" The voice spoke French; Illya followed it fluently.
"Of course not. He is often alone there with the maps and charts for that strange game they play. There are even potted plants to tend in that room."
"Noon break tomorrow? Our work will be near—we can enter quietly and meet him."
"If he is out?"
"Mmmmmm... Not a bomb... Pressure-sensitive gas capsule under the chair cushion? Symptoms of syncope, only a bit of plastic left? A pity it must be so remote and impersonal, though."
Their voices faded as they passed into the second room, and Illya boosted the gain. Nothing of interest— complaints about the work crew they were with, speculation about one of the messenger girls... His thumb rocked down and the voices rose an octave. A minute later the conversation ended. Illya's index finger pressed its key and the faint background roar of the shower rose to a whistle. Occasionally a word or two would chirp—nothing worth stopping for. A brief string of twitter brought his ring finger down and the tiny hysteresis motors strained their magnetic fields as they reversed. The middle finger descended and voices appeared.
"Set the alarm clock."
"Six fifteen."
"Right."
A pause. The index finger held down for a moment as vague sounds played past, then the thumb. Silence. At last the little finger rocked down and the sound stopped. His eyes focused for the first time as he looked down at the machine to see that it was rewinding properly. His first thought was Well, there goes my lunch.
Waverly and Silverthorne occasionally met for lunch when hostilities were relaxed, and on this day it happened that they did. They were served on the open balcony of the Main Lodge, looking over the grass towards the trees, while the warm Australian summer sun soaked down on them.
"Good day, Dodgson. I trust I find you well."
"Ah, Silverthorne—yes, quite well. Better than your defense around Sector Seven."
"Indeed. Your encirclement maneuver was masterfully executed, sir. I fear my flank has been broken. Never fear; I will have it re-formed in an equally vulnerable position by mid-afternoon." His dark face smiled leanly as he drew up a canvas chair and signaled a waiter. "I must thank you, sir, for an interesting game. Frankly, I had not expected the diversion to prove so challenging."
Waverly carefully and tenderly packed his noon pipe. He could easily nurse it along through the hour after lunch. His self-ordered rationing ensured his limited supply would last until his departure, but temptation sometimes twitched at his fingers. "I have you to thank for precisely the same reason, Silverthorne. And may I say I admire your familiarity with the techniques of small-scale warfare."
"A modest acquaintance. But after all, it is only a game. What of value is really at stake? A bit of pride perhaps. My interest is but loosely held, I fear.
"What of value did you have in mind? A sort of side bet?"
"Perhaps. I hadn't actually begun to consider it."
"Mmm. The madreleine looks rather good this afternoon. And the Chef's salad has been recommended."
The subject did not recur for nearly an hour. Waverly was half-reclining on the balcony, drawing deeply on his pipe as Silverthorne sipped a liqueur. "I'm handicapped by not knowing your background," the latter admitted at last. "What would you consider a reasonable side bet?"
Waverly thought through another long pull at his smoldering pipe. "What have we in common? We're both here. Each of us can afford the expense of this place—and each of us would prefer not to have to. Either of us could probably afford to cover the other's expenses."
The aristocratic black eyebrows arched. "My dear Dodgson!"
"A little steep?"
"Well, of course..."
"After all it is war." His eyes twinkled frostily for just a moment as he glanced sideways to the other man.
Silverthorne rolled a few molecules of Anisette between his tongue and palate, and considered for several seconds before swallowing. When he spoke, he said, "Done."
Chapter 10
"Our Old Fox Is Wily."
ILLYA STROLLED purposefully down a corridor where he really had no right to be, bearing a covered tray and looking to neither side. He moved around the vicinity of Waverly's command office until the halls were clear in both directions, then let himself in.
The room was empty, of course. Illya checked the chair cushion, found it untampered with, and looked around. A tall map-board compartment was outlined by cupboard doors in one wall; a glance revealed it to be available for immediate occupancy and Illya took quick advantage. Work the night before had made it habitable—twenty minutes of muffled carpentry and hardware work by the light of a shaded torch had put a wide-angle peephole in the door of the cabinet where it would pass unnoticed as a glass bead half-set in the wood. He produced from his covered tray a packet of sandwiches and a bottle of ginger beer, and placed the tray discreetly in the bathroom.
Everything else went as if he had choreographed it. The two trained killers entered the office stealthily at 12:13 after knocking twice. At 12:16 the Turk placed a plastic capsule gingerly within the springs of the large brown leather chair, moved it experimentally with his hand, and nodded. At 12:17 they cracked the door, looked around, and left. At 12:17:30 Illya had the bolt drawn on the inside of his hide-hole and was scrambling under the chair. At 12:24 he finished his interrupted lunch, and left the office exactly as clean as he had found it. Beneath the cover on the tray he bore rested a bulging packet of thin plastic with a lightly stenciled code number across one end. He passed unnoticed from the command room and down the hall, wondering quietly to himself how long his two pet demons would go unaware that their trap had misfired, and how soon they would begin to become suspicious of continuous failures.