"The man who worked with me when we picked you up. Also, the son of the British Ambassador to the UN."
"Two for one. I'm important, eh?"
"Seems you are."
Stanley lit a cigarette, threw the burnt match out the window.
"It pleases the ego."
"Pardon?" Solo said.
"When one knows that one is considered important."
"Important to them, perhaps, Mr. Stanley; not to us. What we think of you would not, I assure you, please your ego. You mean nothing to us. Should it enter your mind, for instance, when it happens we're stopped for a light, to bolt, I'd shoot you down like an animal."
"Sorry, but I won't afford you that pleasure. Run? Where would I run? A fugitive in a strange country? I'm not quite the type. I imagine you would know that by now. Albert Stanley is a thorough professional who prides himself in his work, but he's never, ever, pretended to be a blooming hero."
"Just wanted to clear the air."
"Nothing to clear."
"So be it."
Solo drove. The little man slumped down, leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and appeared to be asleep—but he was not. Each time the car stopped for a light his eyes opened. But as they went farther east, the lights grew fewer. There was less and less traffic, and it was hot. The sun was high now, burning down, and the car was like a cauldron. Solo opened his collar and pulled down his tie. He used a handkerchief on his face and down his neck. His body was wet with perspiration. Finally they came to Savoy Lane, broad at this section, and Solo pulled the car to a side. It was ten minutes to one. He took a road map from the glove compartment and opened it on his knees. The little man sat up and leaned over.
"May I be of assistance?"
"Remington Road. You know where it is?"
"No, I'm afraid I don't."
Solo pointed it out on the map. "That's where we're going. Not far now." He put away the map and started up the car. Savoy Lane grew narrow, finally leading them to Remington Road, and Solo understood why this was the appointed area. It was a flat, relatively uninhabited region. If Burrows was observing them through field glasses he could see for miles, and he could see whether they were part of a convoy, whether cars were following them. Solo made the turn onto Remington Road, drove north a few hundred yards, pulled up the car on the shoulder of the road, and turned off the ignition. "Okay," he said. "Out."
"Where are we going?"
"I don't know. We're following instructions." They walked north. It was a dirty, dusty country road, no houses in view, nothing but the high blue sky and the blazing sun. Solo turned once; he could no longer see the Chevy. No car passed them in either direction. The road was desolate, deserted, unused. Their shoes kicked up dry clouds of dust as they trudged, and finally the neat little man was no longer neat. His hair glistened wetly; rivulets of perspiration coursed down his cheeks; his suit was crumpled in damp wrinkles; his shirt collar was a sodden circle around his neck. He took the kerchief from his breast pocket, flapped it open, and mopped his face.
"How long?" he said.
"Our orders are to walk."
The little man grinned slyly. "He certainly picked an excellent location for the rendezvous, didn't he?" He stopped and looked about. "Nothing can be following us, no car, no man, nothing."
"Nothing," Solo said, knowing there were cars about, somewhere, far perhaps, but somewhere, their special instruments attuned to whatever it was he was carrying in his bloodstream. What was it the lab technician had called him? A living beacon! "Yes, nothing," Solo said.
"Leave it to Burrows. I can't say I'm enjoying this, but I must say I admire him."
Again Solo fished for information. "Burrows or Tudor?"
"I don't know, but whoever," Stanley said.
They trudged, kicking up dust, the sun burning overhead. Then, at long last, a half-hour by Solo's watch, they heard the sound of the motor behind them, the first sound of a car in all their long walk, and they stopped. A long, sleek, gray Rolls Royce purred slowly past them, braked a few feet in front of them, and they came to it. The driver was hatless, a dark man in an open-necked sport shirt.
"Stanley," he said.
"Hello," Stanley said.
"Thanks for nothing," the dark man said.
"You can't always win," Stanley said.
"What went wrong?" The dark man's voice was flat.
Stanley shrugged. "I don't know. Ask him."
"What went wrong, Mr. Solo?"
"UNCLE has eyes," Solo said.
"Where?"
"Everywhere. He was recognized."
"Where?"
"This time at the airport. When he arrived. Next time—who knows?"
"Recognized," the dark man snarled. "All right. Get in. Both of you."
They sat in the rear. Stanley lit a cigarette.
The Rolls glided forward, picked up speed.
Just like that, Solo thought. He knows I've got a gun, yet he sits up front with his back to me. It is a contempt, and he's enjoying his contempt of me. He knows I won't make a move, I can't, and he's enjoying making me sweat. He has Illya; he has a seventeen-year-old boy, so he is perfectly confident and enjoying it and rubbing it in. He is unhappy about Stanley's failure, but he is happy about the method of Stanley's return. Power gives confidence: He has Illya and the boy and now he is getting Stanley, and UNCLE cannot retaliate. It is a superlative contempt. Through me, rubbing my nose in the dirt, he is rubbing UNCLE's nose in the dirt.
The Rolls purred through Remington Road, grown marshy now, high weeds on either side, no houses, utterly desolate, and then the Rolls veered off the road and stopped in the weeds.
Burrows turned his head. "You. Solo. Get out." Solo opened the rear door, Burrows, the front door. They came out of the car together. Burrows was tall, with long arms and powerful hands.
"This way." Again the contempt. He walked ahead, into the weeds, his back to Solo. He had a strong tread, catlike. He walked without swinging his arms, and in his right hand he held, of all things, a pair of black swim trunks. He pushed through the tall weeds, Solo following, until they came to a small, round clearing surrounded by the tall weeds. Now Burrows turned, smiling.
"I imagine you're armed."
"You've a good imagination."
"And I imagine you're equipped with some weird little hidden gadgets—like a pistol disguised as a fountain pen, or a button of your jacket that's really an explosive capsule. Well, we're going to get rid of all of that."
"Are we?"
"Take your clothes off. Everything."
"Everything?" Solo said modestly.
"Everything!"
"And what do I do with the clothes after I take them off?"
"You leave them here, right here. Now come on! Start!"
Solo took off his jacket and dropped it to the ground, and his shoulder holster, and all the rest, including his shoes and socks. Then Burrows tossed him the swim trunks and he climbed into them.
"All right. You in front of me this time. Move!" Solo understood. Burrows was not turning his back now, not giving him any opportunity to pick up some tiny harmless object that could in fact be a weapon. In sunglasses and swim trunks and nothing else Solo walked gingerly, barefoot through the prickly weeds, back to the car.
"Going for a swim?" Stanley said.
"This is the day for it," Solo said.