"Only the last few days," said the other, in moderately accented English. "My knowledge of the art was mainly theoretical until I chose to return to my homeland. Your handling of—was that karate?—is quite professional."
Illya broke in. "You can compliment each other later. Come over here and listen to these two."
He had both old gentlemen pinned down, and neither of them was acting particularly gentlemanly. Both were using words far outside Napoleon's Hungarian vocabulary, but he gathered from the few cognates he caught that their speech was even worse than their behavior. Illya tried to question them as to their motives, but it was obvious nothing more could be gotten out of them.
At last Illya gave up, shook them both soundly, and set them down on the pavement with their friend. He patted them each lightly on the cheek, and said, "Remember in the future, when you gang up on someone, be sure you have a large enough gang." He turned to their rescued friend and said, "Can we take you somewhere?"
He shook his head, and said, "My hotel is but a few streets from here. These peasants will not molest me again."
Napoleon looked at the figures scattered about the sidewalk and said, "I hope you weren't planning on staying very long. They probably have friends."
"No, I am flying to Bucharest Tuesday. I am returning to my ancestral home after a great many years." He sighed. "I fear it will not be the same land I left."
Now at last Napoleon got a clear look at his face under the streetlight. He looked about thirty, and had deep-set black eyes of the type described in another part of the world as "eyes that could see through a brick wall." His cheekbones were high and his lips thin, and his head was carried proudly. Probably some small Count, Napoleon thought automatically. A lot of young sons had been displaced by the war, and the political situation following it, and had been filtering back over the years to view their ancestral acreage.
"Pardon me," he said before turning to go, "but may I have the pleasure of knowing your names?"
Napoleon and Illya introduced themselves, and he repeated their names, and thanked them. "I hope we may meet again," he said. "Until we do, remember Zoltan, whom you saved from an embarrassing circumstance this night." He bowed, and strolled off down the street.
The two U.N.C.L.E. agents looked at each other, and shrugged. Elena was the first one to speak. "We are too late for the last show," she said unhappily.
Napoleon laughed. "Now really, didn't you think our show was better than anything they could put on a stage?"
"Well...yes, but it was over so quickly I could hardly tell what was happening."
"We promise to reënact it all in slow motion for you sometime," he promised. "But I think right now we had better be going, before our antagonistic citizenry rouse themselves and take it into their minds to find out who we are and cause trouble for us."
They loaded into the car again and Illya took them around two or three quick corners and back into the Andrassy Avenue. As they rolled back towards the U.N.C.L.E. office, Napoleon said thoughtfully, "You understand the language better than I do. Did the old boys mention any reason for trying to run down Zoltan?"
Illya shook his head. "They just called him—and us—a lot of bad names. Nothing particularly original or edifying."
Napoleon thought a while longer. "What was that the old man said that got Zoltan so steamed up? 'He is—something—that is enough.' Val...? Volko...? Vlkoslak—that was it. What does 'vlkoslak' mean?"
Illya looked straight ahead over the steering wheel at the street. "I can only think of one definition," he said hesitantly. "It must be a slang use."
"Vlkoslak?" said Elena. "It's not any slang that I know of. It's a peasant word for the wampyr—a kind of flying ghost that attacks their herds at night."
"Wampyr?" said Napoleon, an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach.
"Vampire," said Illya, without a flicker of expression.
Chapter 3: "The Natives Believe Many Strange Things."
They left Budapest by train Monday afternoon, and went to sleep that night while the flat farmlands of the Alföld were rolling endlessly past their windows. They were awakened about dawn by an apologetic conductor, who told them the border check was approaching and requested them to have their passports ready for the inspectors.
The scenery hadn't changed, except for the addition of a few trees to the grasslands, but when the train rounded a curve Napoleon could see the dark shadows of mountains rising far ahead of them against the soft gray sky.
It was still not full day when the train whistled to a stop at a station. The change in motion reawakened both U.N.C.L.E. agents, who had gone back to sleep with their passports in their hands. Illya yawned widely, stretched, and looked out the window. "Border check," he said.
Napoleon saw the name of the city, and smiled. "We are at Curtici," he said. "I hope they live up to their name."
"Not 'courtesy,' Napoleon," said Illya patiently. "Kur-teech."
Napoleon shrugged and leaned back in the seat. He felt sticky and unpleasant, as he always did after sleeping in his clothes. The car was cold, and he had slept poorly. The only source of heat was a burner in one corner with two adjustments—off and on—and they had decided about midnight that freezing was preferable to asphyxiation. Napoleon's only comments had been, "I'm glad we waited for first-class accommodations." Illya had made no comment.
The guard who checked their passports entered with a truculent air which Napoleon fully understood, considering the hour, and requested their papers. He looked closely at the diplomatic passports they gave him, and his face lit up when he saw their names. "Ah!" he said in English. "You are told to me by the telegraph. You do a good work here. People thank you many much. I am pleasure to..." He groped for a word. "... to write your passport." And he rubberstamped the proper place on their visas, touched his hat brim, and went out.
Napoleon looked at his partner with canted eyebrows. "Nothing like secrecy in every operation," he said. "I wonder who told us to him by the telegraph."
"Probably Brasov Securitate," said Illya. "They've got a messy job on their hands, and we are taking over for them."
The Securitate is not exactly a secret police; these are mostly things of the past in Europe today. Their existence is as widely admitted and advertised as is that of the F.B.I., and their avowed purposes are much the same, though their methods may differ. They keep watch over problems which affect the whole country; they are available to assist local law enforcement; they take special responsibility for tourists, especially those from the West. And now they had an American murdered, or at least committing suicide under highly unusual circumstances. It was not a good thing for their reputations, and if the victim's own people were willing to take the burden of the case, it would be relinquished to them with pleasure.
"It's a relief to have them on our side for a change," said Napoleon, and he meant it. All but one of the few times he had been in Rumania, his actions there would have appeared highly questionable, not to say illegal, to the established authorities. And Napoleon Solo was not one to prefer bucking the tide of public opinion. Coöperation, whenever practical, was his motto.