Illya recovered his balance. "Good," he said. "But if you could grab the wrist and pull forward, there would be additional force in the blow to the face. Also less opportunity for me to duck to one side and butt you in the stomach."
Napoleon grinned as they started off down the corridor again. "As a matter of fact, that's what I just unlearned. Trouble with the other way, it had both hands tied up. If you had a second knife, I'd be laid out like a mackerel. This way, my left hand is free..."
They continued talking shop as they made their way through the busy steel corridors of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters to Waverly's office. Napoleon remembered to straighten his tie and settle his coat more properly on his shoulders before they went in—Illya just ran a quick hand through his hair as the automatic door slid quietly open before them.
Inside, Waverly looked up from his desk with a black frown. There was a sheet of teletype paper before him, and without a word he picked it up and handed it across to them as they sat down. Napoleon took it and Illya read over his shoulder.
Carl Endros had been a casual acquaintance, one to whom they had nodded in the commissary, but he had also been an agent of U.N.C.L.E., just as they were, and his death came to remind them that either of them could have been in the same position. But the manner of his death
Napoleon looked up with a puzzled expression. "I can't see Carl killing himself. Have you checked with Section Six for his last physical and mental tests?"
"Yes," said Waverly shortly. "Checked out perfectly. Read on."
Napoleon did. Then his eyebrows came together. Then they rose. He looked up again. "It's two weeks late for April Fool's," he said.
"You are correct, Mr. Solo," said Waverly. "It is not a joke. Unless Carlo has taken leave of his senses and infected the rest of the European division with a grisly sense of humor." Carlo Amalfi was in Europe what Alexander Waverly was in North America. They had been personal friends for twenty years, and he was one of less than a dozen people in the world who called Waverly by his first name.
When Napoleon finished the report he looked up. "It sounds like he blew his brains out, all right," he admitted. "But what could have caused such a massive loss of blood the medical examiner would comment on it?"
"We don't know," said Waverly, staring idly at the bowl of his pipe. "It will be your job to find out."
"According to Eclary, the technician who found the body, there were no footprints in the soft dirt or in the snow around the body," said Illya, still studying the report. "He was shot at close range with his own pistol. Except for the fractured ankle, he appeared to be completely uninjured except for two small puncture marks at the base of the throat...." His voice trailed off.
Napoleon swiveled his head to look at his partner. "Two small puncture marks where?" he asked.
"At the base of the throat, it says. Right over the large vein. Oh yes, Eclary checked over the area and back-trailed him a short distance—says the footprints leading to the spot were running and irregular, and the post-mortem mentions evidence of extreme fatigue in the leg muscles."
"In other words," said Napoleon to no one in particular, "he ran until he couldn't run any longer, then sat down under a tree in the snow and shot himself. Then he lay there in a pool of blood until some peasants found him."
"Not quite," said Illya. "Eclary specifically mentions that there was no blood around the corpse. A little on the tree behind his head—that's all."
Napoleon didn't say anything. He looked at Waverly, then he looked at Illya. Then he took the paper from Illya's hand and read it all the way through again, carefully.
Finally he said, "After he shot himself, whatever was chasing him caught him. And where is this little village of Pokol?"
"Eclary's report was filed from the city of Brasov," said Illya. "That is just south of the center of Rumania, in the foothills of the Transylvanian Alps."
Napoleon looked closely at Illya. After a moment he said, "You're looking inscrutable. What are you thinking about the Transylvanian Alps?"
"Nothing in particular," said Illya slowly. "Just thinking. What does Transylvania suggest to you?"
Napoleon laughed. "Old movies. Bela Lugosi, werewolves, bad photography and melodramatic scripts."
"Has it ever occurred to you to wonder why they were always laid in Transylvania?"
"Now that you mention it, no. I suppose because the first one was."
"There are traditions in Rumania, Napoleon. Traditions and legends which..."
"Mr. Kuryakin!" Waverly's voice cut across between the two of them. "We are not dealing here with superstitious nonsense. We are dealing with the death of a very real agent of our organization. Unless you wish to request transfer to another assignment, you will be accompanying Mr. Solo to Pokol to investigate the circumstances surrounding this death. You are no more satisfied with the simple statement of suicide than I am. I suggest you make an attempt to keep your minds off nursery tales and things that go bump in the night, and concentrate on identifying the person or persons responsible for the murder of your co-worker. You will also want to clarify the circumstances surrounding his death in an attempt to arrive at an adequate explanation of the cause or causes. To this end," he continued, rummaging about in a drawer, "I have informed Budapest to expect you Friday afternoon. You will have all day tomorrow to pack and prepare." He came up with two envelopes and handed them across the table. "Here are your tickets. You will leave Kennedy International tomorrow night and change at Copenhagen."
He stared at Illya, then at Napoleon. "Unless you would rather let this assignment go by?"
"Oh, no," said Napoleon quickly. "I've had almost a month's vacation, and this sounds like it might be interesting."
"Yes, of course," said Illya. "The mountains are especially beautiful at this time of year."
"Very good," said Waverly. "There will be no further discussion of the folklore of the area."
"Yes, sir," they said together.
"If there are any more questions, they will be answered by the head of the Budapest office."
"Yes, sir," they said again, picked up their tickets, and left.
Once outside, they paused and looked at each other. At last Illya said, without looking at his partner, "I wonder whether a silver crucifix would be considered non-standard equipment?"
Napoleon stared at him with surprise. "Don't tell me you actually think that..."
"Of course not," said Illya quickly. "All the same, it wouldn't be any extra trouble to carry."
Napoleon laughed. "Oh, come on!" he said. "Next thing you'll be down in the armory asking them to run you up some cartridges with silver slugs in them."
Illya glanced sideways at his friend, and pursed his lips thoughtfully. "You know," he said, "that might not be a bad idea...." Then he sighed. "No, they'd only make snide remarks. And they'd want to know why. And then I'd have to tell them.... No, I guess it's not worth it."
"Okay," said Napoleon seriously. "If you want to bring a silver crucifix along, I promise not to kid you about it."
"I appreciate your consideration," Illya said thoughtfully.
"By the way," said Napoleon suddenly after a minute's silence, "do you think you could manage to make that two of them?"
Chapter 2: "What Does 'Vlkoslak' Mean?"
The flight was uneventful, except for the usual frustration of having only three hours between planes in Copenhagen—too long to sit around the airport, and not enough to go anywhere. Napoleon tried to call a couple of old friends, and found a girl named Gütte who had shared action with them over a year ago. She came out to Kastrup airport, bought them lunch, and kept their minds occupied with inconsequential chatter until the flight for Budapest left at noon.