Napoleon activated his own vision facility and greeted his pro-tem equal. "A pleasure to see you. What's up?"
"The tempers of several tribal groups across northern Tanzania, among other things. Mr. Solo, if it would be possible for you to loan us some technicians with portable radio transmitting equipment we could get a pacifying message to the tribes fairly quickly. We've been spreading the basic sturdy transistor radios all over the area, of course, and we have a set of programs prepared for broadcast as pirate popular music stations, but we lack the actual transmitting gear and the technicians to keep the necessary number of transmitters functioning.
Napoleon nodded. "We have a kilowatt medium wave transmitter a man can carry on his back, and a five- kilowatt you can carry in a Land Rover and power from the motor. What do you need?"
"Ideally, four or five. The receivers we distribute are tuned to receive four specific frequencies about two and a half times as well as the rest of the Medium Wave band; we can transmit on those wavelengths and have most of the available audience within two hours."
"The programs are on tape?"
"Ten-inch reels, each holding three hours."
"That's long enough to sleep in—can you afford one man to put on each? I'll send a technician with the gear to give your people a quick checkout. It's simple enough to operate; our man will tune it. Five transmitters and matching tape decks as per specifications. I'll have them in the air to you within the hour." He had a vague feeling that Thrush was by no means through with him, and they might have everything around him tied up long before they were.
"That will do nicely, Mr. Solo. We have only three Land Rovers at the Dar es Salaam office, but I recall a modified bus that should do as well for a fourth. The fifth will serve as a fixed base in a safe area. Let me know when the shipment will arrive at Tabora; I will have a small detachment there to meet it."
Napoleon calculated rapidly, with a glance at the world map to his right. About seven thousand miles to Tabora as the jet flies. Ten to twelve hours, depending on weather. Time zones... "About noon tomorrow, your time. Give or take an hour. The plane will get in touch with you."
"Excellent. Thank you." The image faded, and Napoleon tapped a key. "Monitor, take care of this. There's a good girl."
"Always a pleasure, Mr. Solo," purred the invisible voice.
Twenty minutes later Miss Williamson strode crisply into the room with a precis of the situation in Tanzania which she added to his file.
"Ah, Miss Williamson..."
She paused on her way to the door, and glanced around. "Yes sir?"
"I appreciate all you did for me during that siege last week, and I'd like to pay a little of it back. Do you like Italian food?"
She smiled sweetly. "Thank you, Mr. Solo. But I'm afraid it's a matter of personal policy that I never go out with my immediate superior."
"I hope Mr. Waverly lives forever," said Napoleon fervently. "I'll bring the subject up again in a few weeks when he gets back—if Thrush let's me live that long."
She batted an eye at him. "We'll see, Mr. Solo." And the door hissed and she was gone.
Monday things began to pick up. Napoleon started by picking up the stack of weekly reports that waited on the corner of his desk when he came in. Fourth was from the Saudi Arabian office in Riyadh; it reported nothing new on the investigation proceeding in Swat. This omission caught Solo's eye to the extent that he glanced at the world clock above the map, observed that it was just about sunset in Swat, and initiated a call to the field agent there. It took him well over a minute to answer, and his voice was low when he did.
"Harbeson here."
"Good evening, Mr. Harbeson. Am I disturbing some thing?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. There's apparently a conspiracy of some kind among the lower-ranking wives. I traced that greyhound back to a very large kennel where they breed racing dogs, and I'm sure there's a tie-in to the #4 wife in the Akhoond's harem."
"I see. And you're interviewing her now?"
"Good gosh, no. For one thing, it's too hard to get in to see her. For another, she's a little bit sharper than I feel up to handling. But her handmaiden, ah, has none of these drawbacks."
Napoleon bit his lip but kept his voice as even as Waverly's always was. "Very well, Mr. Harbeson. Report in when you're sure, and in the meantime try to carry yourself as a representative of the U.N.C.L.E."
"Don't worry, sir. I've always tried to pattern my behavior after the top field agents."
Solo sighed. "That will be all, Mr. Harbeson. Back to work."
"Good night, sir."
All he needed now was a few wiseacre agents. He answered the intercom.
"Mr. Whicker is here with the budget summary, and would like to discuss a few points with you."
"Fine. Send him in, but tell him he'd better be willing to be interrupted. This looks like one of those days."
As the door slid open another signal chirruped and Napoleon turned to answer it.
"Askandi here," the voice said over the background roar of what sounded like a helicopter engine. "On the Clipperton assignment. I'm onto something hot, but I need some items checked out. First: is there a factory ship named Deseado, home port Champerico, licensed to work this area? Secondly, even if it is licensed, who is it registered to? And thirdly, what are they doing looking for whales in these latitudes anyway?"
"All right, Mr. Askandi. We'll have the information for you in a few minutes." He flicked a tab. "Monitor?"
"Section Four has the questions, sir," said the cool female voice.
A blue light flashed to his left and he activated the vision screen. The round worried face of Carlo Amalfi faded in, and Napoleon greeted him. Without preamble the head of U.N.C.L.E. Europe began. "Mr. Solo, the Paris office has uncovered plans for an attack on the National Bank where most of France's gold stock is stored. The robbers are aware of our surveillance, and are probably working out ways of defeating us, but while they do we can strike at their roots. The support for the operation is American, the plan is apparently British. The London office is already working on it from that end; we'd like you to see what you can do towards giving us a third leg to stand on, so to speak."
"Certainly. What do you have?"
"The full report from Paris is coming through your duplicator at this moment. I can add only that the individual named as the source of financial support has been identified as a registered foreign representative for Rodney Turner Incorporated, which consists of one American with multifarious interests and little sign of any conscience. We suspect he may he investing in this."
Napoleon sorted through his memory and tagged a name. "We've had some interest in him since the Dallas office picked one of his branded matchbooks out of a trashbin behind the local Thrush nest. This may just give us a start towards nailing his hide to our wall."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Sorry. An idiom from his culture. It means…"
"It is self-explanatory, in context. Is there anything we can help you with from here?"
Channel D signaled. "Not at the moment—unless you happen to have some forty-hour days I could borrow."
Carlo shrugged understandingly as the circuit was broken and the audio switched over.