"No risks, no interference. I'll be Harry Owens coming out for a breath of air. I'll talk to you again between six and six-fifteen. Over and out now."
Solo watched. Carefully, quietly, he raised the window. When Langston and Raymond came out with the loaded suitcases, he could hear them talking as they opened the suitcases and packed the ingots into the truck. Their voices floated up eerily from the alley, but clearly. Tito remained in the truck, in the cab up front, as Langston and Raymond went back for more.
Solo was heeding the Old Man's orders—no risks, no chances. He was waiting for the final trip with the suitcases before he went down for a quick look at the license plate. Langston and Raymond went in and out several more times, and then Solo heard what he was waiting for.
"This is it," boomed Raymond. "The last load." They opened the suitcases and began transferring the last of the ingots into the truck.
Quickly Solo trotted to the elevator.
When he came out into the cool, dim alley, Langston was tossing the empty suitcases into the rear of the truck. Raymond, smiling in satisfaction with a job well done, stood nearby.
Raymond saw him first.
"Well, if it isn't our Mr. Owens."
"Out for a breath of air," said Solo, noting the license plate number and committing it to memory.
The lank Langston turned and sniffed. "Mr. Owens," he grunted, acknowledging Solo's presence without enthusiasm.
"Hi," said Solo.
"A special delivery," piped Langston. "A very special delivery. We've got to do it ourselves."
"And for this special delivery we've got a special driver," said Raymond, "a friend of yours, Tito Zagoro. Hey, Tito," he boomed. "Here's Harry Owens."
Tito Zagoro came out of the cab of the truck, whipped out a gun, and pointed it at Napoleon Solo.
Raymond laughed.
"Is this the way a friend is greeted in your country?"
"In my country or not in my country, this is no friend."
"Harry Owens is not a friend?"
"This man is not Harry Owens," said Tito Zagoro, his gun leveled at Solo's heart.
20. More Guessing Games
NOW THERE WERE three guns pointing at Solo.
Thinly Langston chirped, "If he's not Harry Owens, then who is he?"
"Who, I don't know," retorted Tito. "But not Harry. Harry Owens he is not!"
"All right, mister. Inside!" Felix Raymond, his fleshy face murderously mottled in wrath, pressed the muzzle of his pistol into Solo's ribs. "Inside, or I'll finish you off right here!"
Discretion being the better part of valor, Napoleon Solo did not resist. Three pistols were at least two pistols too many. He obeyed and was hustled downstairs to the basement room.
"Okay, buster," Raymond demanded. "Just who are you?"
"Harry Owens," said Solo.
"A lie!" roared Tito.
"Tito, are you mad?" wheezed Langston. "He delivered the machinery parts. He brought us a hundred thousand dollars' worth of gold. He must be Owens."
"He's not Owens," rasped Tito.
"Then who is he?" cried Langston.
"I'm Harry Owens," said Solo, compounding the confusion.
"Is he?" demanded Langston of Tito. "Take a good look."
"I have looked! An impostor! I know Harry Owens! He is not!"
Raymond, of the three, was the first to regain his composure.
"An impostor," he said quietly. "Some kind of con man, working some angle or other. Probably knocked off Owens and substituted himself." He came close to Solo. "All right, mister. If that's what you did, you have earned my high regard. Maybe we can use a guy like you. Last call, buster. What's your game?"
"I'm Harry Owens."
"A lie!" roared Tito.
"He's the liar, not me," said Solo calmly. "If anybody's working a game, he is. For some reason—some reason of his own—he's denying me—denying my identity."
Tito gasped, choking in anger, the other two looking at him curiously. Solo's life hung in the balance—and Solo lost.
"No," Langston said. "We've known Tito Zagoro too long, too many years. His word against the word of this man—this total stranger. We'd be crazy to doubt Tito."
Tito exposed harsh yellow teeth in a smile of gratitude.
"I thank you," he grunted.
"Don't thank us," growled Raymond. "We should thank you and apologize for doubting you—even for a moment. We've got a wise bird here, Otis, smart enough to make us doubt one of our own people, one of the very best of our own people. Now, who is he, and what the devil's his game?"
A thought occurred to Langston. His long, sallow face went ashen.
"Perhaps—perhaps from U.N.C.L.E.?"
Raymond shook his head. "No," he stated positively. "If he were from U.N.C.L.E. he wouldn't be hanging around here this long, and certainly he'd no longer be alone. By now they'd be upon us, all over us. We couldn't have gone all the way to this point. No. If he were from U.N.C.L.E. we'd be out of business by now."
Give the devil his due, thought Solo. You're a clever man, Mr. Raymond. All things being equal, you have stated U.N.C.L.E.'s case. But you do not know of our doubts about Kenneth Craig; you do not know that a part of our job, actually the most important part, is to determine whether or not Kenneth Craig is a double agent. Otherwise, you are so right, Mr. Raymond—by now Raymond and Langston would indeed be out of business.
Langston nodded.
"Correct. Which means he's a single operator, a shrewd adventurer. He killed Owens, then took over his identity."
"So why," asked Tito reasonably, "didn't he skip out with the two valises? Why, like a dummy, did he deliver one hundred thousand dollars in gold?"
"No dummy," replied Langston. "He squeezed the information out of Owens and then decided to try for the whole bit. He delivered the hundred thousand in order to swallow up six million, and if it weren't for you, Tito, he might have gotten away with it. His last trick is still unplayed because you recognized that he isn't Harry Owens. All right, now, Tito," Langston snapped. "Move!"
"What?"
"Frisk him!"
Tito put away his gun. As Langston and Raymond stood by with leveled pistols, he searched Solo roughly. He looked over whatever Solo had on his person—passport, wallet, money, keys, papers, and the Communicator, which of course Tito mistook for an ordinary pen—and threw each article to the floor.
"Nothing," Tito said. "No gun, no weapon. Only the phony stuff to make him out to be Harry Owens."
Tito took out his pistol and backed away.
Solo stood alone, facing three armed men.
He could not fight them. The slightest attempt would mean death. He shrugged, stood silent. While there is life, there is hope.
Raymond crossed to the wall panel, slid it open, and turned off the burglar alarm. Then quickly he worked the combination of the vault and swung open the vault door.
"All right, mister," he ordered Solo. "Get in!"
Solo hesitated. Tito shoved him roughly.
"In!"
They pushed him into the recess of the dark vault and shut the thick steel door. Raymond whirled the dial, smiling grimly.
"All right, gentlemen. Let's go."