He turned to the boy now seated at the table, eating, sipping milk.
"Delicious," Steve said. "We can't complain about the food in this hotel, can we?"
"That we can't."
"Aren't you hungry, Mr. Kuryakin?"
"I am."
"Well?"
They ate. Steve washed the dishes. They played another game of pool, then went to sleep.
6. "Two Trumps"
ON THAT SAME day the men in the room at the Waldorf-Astoria had been recalled—that work was done—and, still later, Alexander Waverly himself called on Sir William Winfield and informed him of the circumstances.
"There must be no outcry, Sir William. No public mention. The boy's safety depends on absolute secrecy."
The ambassador was tall, spare, white-haired. "What do you think, Mr. Waverly? Please don't try to be kind to me. I want it straightforward. Your honest opinion, Mr. Waverly."
"They'd be crazy to harm him."
"THRUSH has done crazy things in its time."
"But what sense this time? They want Albert Stanley, and we'll give them Stanley because we want your boy and our Mr. Kuryakin. Oh, we're going to be right on top of it all the way, that I can assure you. I don't trust them, of course not. They play tricks, we know. But what purpose any trick this time? Their object is the return of Stanley. Essentially this is an exchange—we have what they want and they have what we want. But we must not upset the applecart, Mr. Ambassador. There must be no public knowledge of the kidnapping of young Steven."
"I understand."
"I know how you must feel about this, and you have my deepest sympathy. But please do remember, sir, we ourselves are not unskillful in matters like this and all our resources shall be concentrated."
"May I work with you?"
"I beg your pardon, Sir William?"
"I just can't sit around here, waiting. May I be with you? Perhaps I can be of some small service. Perhaps they'll want to talk directly to me—about my son. Whatever. You must understand. May I join...?"
"Of course."
And so Sir William Winfield was present during the turmoil of preparation in Solo's apartment early the next day. Portable equipment had been brought in, and there were many special agents of UNCLE; there were also Solo, Waverly, and McNabb. Albert Stanley had said there were but three others of THRUSH here in the United States on this job—Leslie Tudor, Eric Burrows, and Pamela Hunter. Tudor had a "passion for anonymity." Hunter was a young person being indoctrinated by the "bigwigs." So—if Stanley had told the truth—it would be Burrows who would make the contact. Solo, like Illya, had heard about Eric Burrows but did not know him, had never before seen him or talked with him. But McNabb had, and so McNabb was present, a headset over his ears.
Activity thrummed in the early morning in Solo's apartment.
Telephone wires were spliced and attached to tape recorders and electronic gear. Contacts were made with agents previously assigned to the central office of the telephone company in New York and Long Island. Tests were run, jokes were made, but the overall atmosphere was deadly serious. And now all was in order; the specialists, wearing their headsets, sat silently at their apparatus, waiting impatiently. Waverly sat in a corner, smoking his pipe. Sir William Winfield sat nearby, his hands clasped in his lap. There was no sound in the room except the sound of Solo's pacing.
Promptly at nine o'clock the phone shrilled. Solo lifted the receiver. "Hello?"
"Mr. Solo?"
"This is he."
"First this, Mr. Solo. Any attempt to trace this call will be perfectly fruitless. We're not amateurs, as, I might imagine, you're aware. Many and varied electronic cutoffs have been installed. So don't try to draw out this conversation in any hope that you'll trace me. I'm free to talk with you as long as you please—but to the point. Have I made myself clear?"
"You have. With whom am I speaking?"
"That, Mr. Solo, is not to the point. Who I am is no concern of yours. Or who you are, for that matter. What does matter is Albert Stanley. Do you have him ready for us?"
"We do."
Waverly was standing over McNabb. McNabb looked up and nodded. "It's Eric Burrows."
"These shall be your directions, Mr. Solo," Burrows said. "If you wish to get a pencil to write them down"—short laugh—"be my guest."
"I'll do that. Hold the wire." He did not need a pencil. The recorders would take down the directions. But he put down the receiver with a bump so that the person at the other end of the wire could hear, and he went to the specialists with the headsets.
"Nothing," he was told. "His cutoffs are working. We're getting plugged into personal conversations, business conversations, and busy signals. He's done a beautiful jam-up. We're useless."
"It's Eric Burrows," Waverly told him.
Solo picked up the receiver. "Hello? Okay. I've got pencil and paper."
"Listen closely, please. You, alone with Stanley, will drive out to Long Island in the Southampton area. But alone, Mr. Solo!"
"Naturally."
"If you try tricks, you'll get tricks. Remember about your friend Kuryakin and the boy from England."
"I am remembering."
"You can anticipate a three-hour drive."
"Yes."
"You—together with Stanley—will drive out to the intersection of Savoy Lane and Remington Road on the North Shore. You will find it a rather untraveled, desolate area, Mr. Solo, which is in accordance with the general idea, if you know what I mean."
"I believe I know what you mean."
"I believe you do. You will be there, at that intersection, at one o'clock this afternoon."
"One o'clock," Solo repeated.
"Remington Road runs north and south. You will drive a couple of hundred yards north on Remington Road and then you and Stanley will abandon the car. You will drive it up on a shoulder of the road and leave it there. Am I coming through?"
"Perfectly."
"Then you and Stanley will walk north. In time you will be picked up."
"What time?"
"Any time of our choosing. You will walk north. Clear?"
"Yes."
"Remember about the boy and Mr. Kuryakin."
"I'm remembering."
"If you put any value on their lives, remember to keep remembering."
"I'll remember to keep remembering. Anything else."
"That's it."
"Now may I ask a question?"
"Certainly."
"What about Kuryakin and young Winfield?"
"They're being cared for."
"I assume they are. I mean, how does it work out—the exchange?"
"A fair question. Certainly. Once we have you and Stanley, we will take you to Kuryakin and the boy, and we'll lock you up with them."
"Lock me up?"
"A proviso against any foolish antics by UNCLE. As you know, we've failed to accomplish our mission. Retreat, when necessary, is an honorable tactic of war. All we want is Stanley and an opportunity to get out of your country. Are we asking too much—seeing as we hold hostages?"