The man up front put away the microphone. The Rolls turned into a wide private pathway of gleaming white pebbles.
"Are we there?" Solo asked Stanley.
"I don't know," Stanley said. "Believe me, I don't know where we're going. They don't tell me everything. I work under orders and try to do my job; that's all." He peered out the window with casual interest.
Solo watched with more than casual interest, sitting up straight now, tense, alert. The pebbled roadway was lined with tall green trees.
The Rolls rode up it perhaps half a mile. Then it stopped at high iron gates in a high picket fence—a black iron fence, high, very high, sharp spokes like knives pointing upward, razor-edge-sharp, malevolently gleaming in the sun shine, cutting, killing long points like the points of gigantic upthrust sabers, protective, forbidding. Beyond the iron gates the white-pebbled roadway continued, curving away.
The motor of the Rolls died to a silence. All was still.
Then Burrows got out, a black automatic pistol in one hand, a huge black key in the other, and stood outside the rear door. Stanley rolled down the window.
"Is this it, Mr. Burrows?"
"Well, what do you think? Out, gentlemen. Yes, this is it, Mr. Stanley."
They climbed out, and of the three standing on the white pebbles, Solo, in the swim trunks, was most appropriately dressed—it was blazing hot, the air like a thick blanket of heat. Appropriately dressed, but he wished he had sneakers. The white pebbles, like heated stones of torture, burned at his soles. He kept moving his feet, dancing a little jig as the bottoms of his feet tried to grow accustomed to the agony.
"Whew!" Stanley said.
Burrows tossed the key, and Stanley caught it casually.
The black automatic was pointed at Solo. "Why the weapon?" Solo said.
"To assure us you'll be a good boy," Burrows said.
"I'll be a good boy. What choice do I have?"
"No choice." Then Burrows, his eyes not leaving Solo, the gun leveled straight, said, "Stanley!"
"Yes, sir?"
"The key. You'll open the gate. After we pass through, you'll lock the gate. Then, on the right side, you'll see a switch. Pull it up, all the way. That'll electrify the fence all the way around. Anybody touches it, he's electrocuted."
"But we have an arrangement, don't we?" Solo asked.
"We do," Burrows said.
"Then why all the precautions?"
"To assure us the arrangement will be kept. Just one hour, Mr. Solo. When we notify the authorities to pick you up—you and Kuryakin and Steven Winfield—at that time we'll also notify them of the electrified fence." Then he added sarcastically, "Any more questions, Mr. Man from UNCLE?"
"No."
"Stanley!"
"Yes, sir?"
"Well? What are you waiting for?"
"Yes, sir."
Stanley inserted the key and turned the lock, withdrew the key, pushed, and the heavy gate swung inward noiselessly.
"All right," Burrows said impatiently, gesturing with the black automatic. "Move, Mr. Solo!"
"Don't tell me you're leaving the beautiful Rolls."
"Mind your own business. Get in there."
"Yes, sir," Solo said meekly, mimicking Stanley.
And then the roaring sound was upon them and they turned, all three, and saw the wildly racing car careening directly at them, and already Burrows was shooting. There was the sound of grinding glass but the bulletproof windshield did not shatter. The car skidded to a stop on the white pebbles, and two men were running out. Solo recognized them—McNabb and O'Keefe.
O'Keefe, a famed sharpshooter, held a huge revolver in his hand. He shot just once, and Burrows' automatic flew from his hand, and Burrows was running. O'Keefe, tossing aside the gleaming revolver, was running after Burrows, and McNabb—quite casually, slowly, almost tiredly, not even looking at the running men—picked up the black automatic and the silver-shining revolver. O'Keefe closed ground on Burrows and, leaping forward in a flying tackle, hit Burrows precisely at the knees, and the two fell to the ground with a thud. The struggle was brief. O'Keefe pulled Burrows to his feet, twisted Burrows' right arm behind his back, and, broadly grinning, brought the grimacing Burrows back to them.
"Not bad, hey?" O'Keefe said. "One shot and I knocked his gun out of action. And not even a scratch on him, not even a sideswipe; didn't wing him, not a nick on him. Now you just be good, baby," O'Keefe said to the squirming Burrows, "or you'll spoil the whole thing. I'll have to break your arm."
McNabb stood smiling like a tired gunfighter of the Old West, limply holding the pistols, his arms loose, the muzzles pointed downward. Two-gun McNabb of the wild, old, woolly West. Calmly, as though addressing a PTA meeting, McNabb said, "Don't you worry about Eric; he'll be good. Eric is a veteran campaigner; he knows when he's licked. Don't you, old Eric, old bean? Let him loose, Jack."
O'Keefe released Burrows. Burrows stood motionless, panting, chin down. "Two veteran campaigners," McNabb said. "Our troubles are over, Jack. Relax." McNabb gave the pistols to O'Keefe and unhooked a pair of handcuffs from his belt. "You," he said to Stanley, who was standing round-eyed. "Come join the party, old Albert, old bean."
Stanley obligingly shuffled forward. McNabb handcuffed the right hand of Burrows to the left hand of Stanley. "There's your package, all wrapped up for you, Mr. O'Keefe," McNabb said. "Make them comfortable."
O'Keefe herded them into the backseat of the car and got in with them, and now McNabb turned smilingly on Solo.
"Going swimming, Mr. Solo?"
"This is the day for it, Mr. McNabb."
"What's with all the nudity? What's with swim trunks?"
"Burrows thought it safer—for them—if he stripped me down."
"Got to hand it to him. He's a wise old campaigner."
"Now what's this all about, Mr. McNabb?"
McNabb drew out a handkerchief, wiped his face. "Hot day, hey?"
"Yes, it's a hot day. What's this all about, McNabb?"
"Defection. A young girl. Pamela Hunter. You were in for the works. They were going to give you the cyanide business in a locked room—you, Illya, and the ambassador's kid. Too rough on a young girl, a new recruit. Couldn't take it. They laid it on too stiff on their new recruit; they weren't prepared for a failure by the vaunted Stanley. Couldn't take it. Basically a nice girl roped in by their phony speeches; you know how their phony speeches can brainwash a youngster till the youngster's roped in and tied up and a criminal by reason of crimes already committed. This little girl wised up in time, thank heaven. It got through to her—what they are, what they were making of her. Defected. Brought out Illya and young Winfield. We're in the clear, and we've got Stanley back. Let's go."
"Why the cyanide treatment? I don't get it. We were going along. We were giving them back their ace saboteur."