"THRUSH," McNabb said. "A basic rule of THRUSH. Kill the witnesses."
"Who witnessed? What witnesses? What?"
"Illya saw Stanley, Hunter, Burrows—could identify them. Young Winfield saw Hunter and Burrows—could identify them. You saw Stanley and Burrows—could identify them. A matter of recognition. THRUSH does not like recognition; the fewer that can recognize, the better they like it. Whoever can recognize is a witness—if not for the present, for the future. In their scheme of things the best witness is no witness—and a dead witness is no witness. Therefore the cyanide treatment. Let's go, young fella."
"No." Solo's voice was sharp.
For the first time McNabb showed concern. "What's up?"
"Inside there. Tudor."
"Forget it. You win a major battle; doesn't mean you have to win the whole war. There are reinforcements coming up and a new plan of attack, with the Old Man in charge. We've won our battle; we have Stanley back, and we have Burrows, and even the girl."
"But inside there—Number One. Tudor!"
"So we'll get to him."
"Will you? They may have a time schedule. If too much time elapses, they know there's trouble; they sacrifice what they have to leave behind and take off."
"So? Still we've won our battle—with no casualties on our side." McNabb was old, patient, wise. "Let's leave it to the Old Man's reinforcements." He grinned. "They'll storm the castle."
But Mr. Solo was young. "An onslaught—and Number One gets scared off. There's a house there somewhere inside, and we don't know how many eyes are in there watching. Me, they're expecting, and just like this—the barefoot boy in swim trunks. And they know who I am—Burrows talked to me—Napoleon Solo. Me, they're expecting; I'm after Number One. I'm going in, McNabb, and I've got to go alone."
"Napoleon, wait! Listen to me; I'm an old hand. You go in there now, and it might be we'll carry you out feet first. You're a bright young guy, and you've got a long career ahead of you. Who needs you dead?"
"I'm going in, Mac. I appreciate what you're trying to do, and I do thank you, but your concern is for me and not the overall. You know as well as I do, probably better, that this is the right moment, and it may never happen again. They're expecting me, all dressed up—or undressed—as I am. If ever there's an opportunity to catch up with Tudor, it's now, and they themselves have shaped me up as the guy to do it."
"Talk to the Old Man on the two-way."
"He's more of a papa rooster than you. His major concern is his flock and you know it. He'll call me off—and from the Old Man it's an order. From you it's advice. Mac, if you were in my spot, wouldn't you go in?"
McNabb was silent.
"Wish me luck, McNabb."
"Good luck. Take a gun."
Solo laughed. "Where'll I hide it?"
"Yeah," McNabb grunted.
"I've got better ammunition than bullets. I've got facts. I'm not going in for a kill. I'm hoping to bring Tudor out. Facts, if I can get through. If I can talk to him, I may be able to bring him out. The old story––self-preservation. I'll tell about our reinforcements––an attempt at escape can mean death. The other way, prison; but prison, you're still alive. I'll tell him we've got Stanley, Burrows, the girl. I'll tell the truth—to save their skins they'll testify against Tudor; to get lesser sentences they'll testify that Tudor's the boss, the architect of the schemes of attempted sabotage and actual kidnapping, but none of that carries a penalty of death. Prison, there's always hope; there's precedent all the way back since that guy with the U-two. Governments will release and exchange political prisoners. I'm going in, McNabb."
"Go, boy."
"Protect my flanks."
"You can bet on that."
Solo passed through and McNabb closed the gate.
Protect the flanks. You can bet on that, kid.
When the others came they would have to wait this side of the gate.
A horde, no matter how subtle the invasion, could mean quick death for Solo.
Perforce this was Solo's adventure, alone. McNabb sighed and stood, a watcher at the gate, as lonely on this side as Solo on the other.
14. Turnabout
HE WALKED IN the heat on the hot pebbles. It seemed such a long time since the operation had begun; since McNabb had discovered Stanley at the airport so much had happened, events tumbling upon events. Now his feet dragged, and there was a heaviness in him, an exhaustion. He realized it was not physical fatigue; it was relief, a letdown, the weight of an emptiness. He had not admitted, not even to himself, how terribly anxious he had been about Illya. And he had worried about the Old Man, and the young boy, and the failure of UNCLE with Stanley, the disgrace—they had all avoided discussion of that—at having to release a dangerous criminal whom at last they had apprehended. But mostly it had been the worry about Illya, his friend for so long. Now Illya was safe, and now he felt the accumulation of all the worry, now it was upon him, the letdown, the fatigue of relief. He shook it off. He braced his shoulders, breathed deeply, filled his lungs. He thought about himself, his immediate mission, and it helped. The fact that he himself was approaching possible peril gave him an excitement and served as an antidote to the exhaustion. Suddenly, as though the elements were assisting in his recovery, it was cooler. There was a little breeze from the east, and he smelled the fresh salt-wet of the sea skimmed off the top of the ocean and carried by the breeze. He walked more quickly, alert, watching.
The pebbled road curved. There were trees and foliage, wide green lawns with marble benches, flowers, trimmed hedges, and bushes with red-blooming roses. Above, the sky was pure blue, cloudless, and the sun, westerly now, was a burning orange ball. The salt smell of the ocean mingled with the perfume of the roses; it was quiet, fragrant, peaceful. There was no sound except the pleasant chattering of the birds. He walked for a long time, perhaps a quarter of a mile, until the pebbled roadway curved to the house, a red brick mansion with a portico of tall white columns. He walked up five white marble steps into the cool shade beneath the roof of the portico and rapped the gold knocker of a wide white door. There was no answer. He opened the door and entered.
Cool, silent.
He padded, barefoot, through the rooms.
"Hello," he called. "Hello!"
There was no answer except his own voice coming back to him in echoes. He went all the way through and out the rear and saw the helicopter. It was resting on a smooth beach of packed white sand. Beyond the helicopter the ocean was gray, flat, calm, with little wavelets lapping at the sand of the beach. Inside the helicopter a woman was leaning out an open window. She was attractive, smiling, and tanned from the sun; she had gleaming white teeth, dark eyes, dark hair.
"Please come closer!"
He obeyed for two reasons: First, he wanted to come closer, and second, and more imperative, a thick black gun was pointed at him, and she was holding it very competently. The sand squeaked beneath his feet, and then he was at the helicopter looking up at her.
"Where are the others, Mr. Solo?"
He squinted behind the dark glasses. "You know me?"
"I've seen photographs. Stupidly, there are many of them." She had a low-pitched, harsh voice, and spoke clearly, precisely, and with authority. "Where are the others?"
"Tell Leslie Tudor I want to talk to him."