"Here we go." Tito grinned. "But where do we go?"
"Drive. I'll show you."
27. Zeroing In
SIREN WIDE OPEN, wailing a warning, the scanning truck raced along the highway, eating up the miles. The immense steel armored truck had sufficient room to carry in comfort the veritable army of U.N.C.L.E. agents—sixteen men in all. There was the driver who had brought the truck to the Raymond and Langston Building with Professor Philip Bankhead inside. There were the ten men who had accompanied Waverly. And there were Waverly, O'Keefe, Johnson, and Solo, wearing shirt, tie, and jacket. But of the sixteen, only two men were visible: the driver and the lookout sitting alongside him in the front seat. Inside, Waverly was saying: "... first and foremost, Illya Kuryakin. Our first concern is Kuryakin. We must get to him, Phil."
The scientist nodded. "We shall do that, Alexander."
Outside, the driver nudged the lookout man. The lookout man turned his head to the slitted vent behind him.
"We're on the outskirts of Westbury."
"Turn off the siren," Waverly ordered. "Proceed at normal speed."
Solo glanced at his watch. "We made excellent time."
Waverly looked toward Bankhead. "Now, Phil?"
The scientist smiled. "Now, Alexander."
Philip Bankhead was seated away from the others, in front of a radar-equipped scanning board. To his left was a metal amplifying tray. To his right was an instrument panel with its delicately attuned knobs, buttons, wheels, and levers. He touched a button, activating the equipment.
"Now, if you please, Dr. Blaine. Mr. Solo's earpiece. Just drop it in the amplifying tray, please."
Dr. Blaine did as he was bade. No sooner was the earpiece in the amplifying tray than a faint, hissing sound of breathing was heard by all of them. Solo's earpiece was receiving the sounds of Illya's breathing.
"Marvelous," whispered Dr. Blaine.
Philip Bankhead put a headset over his ears. Clearly, distinctly, he heard the breathing. He turned his head, nodded, smiled at Waverly, and returned to his work. He touched a button on the instrument panel and a directional antenna rose up from the roof of the scanning truck. Watching the scanning board, listening intently through the headset, turning knobs that rotated the outside antenna, Philip Bankhead plotted his course. Suddenly he spoke.
"Tell him he's going too fast. Tell him to slow his speed—considerably."
Waverly repeated the order through the vent. They could all feel the sudden reduction of speed.
Bankhead smiled. "Yes. That's it. I don't want him going any faster."
Waverly relayed the advice through the vent.
Bankhead was smiling up at the scanning board, transfixed, as though in worship. Despite the beads of perspiration on his forehead, his face bore a beatific expression. "I've got a perfect line on him. We're still a distance away, but we can't miss. Right turn now... good, yes... straight ahead… easy, easy now... left... that's it... another left now... good... straight away... no... hold it... right turn now... yes, good... another right… good boy... straight ahead... easy, easy does it...."
And so, slowly but surely, they came nearer and nearer to Illya Kuryakin.
28. Parley Makes His Point
BETWEEN THE TWO of them, Parley and and Raymond, holding Candy upright but dragging her as though she were ill, had gotten her into the apartment without misadventure. Tito had parked the truck around the corner, and then he and Langston had been admitted to the apartment, Parley locking the door behind them. Tito had carried Candy to a bed, and Raymond had seen the bound Kuryakin and Craig.
"Are we going to tie her up, too?" Raymond asked.
"What for?" replied Parley.
"Don't ask me," said Raymond. "You're the guy that tied them."
"Force of habit." Parley's smile was ghastly. "No reason for tying them. No reason for tying her. They'll sleep."
"But not for long," said Raymond.
Parley winced. "Would you explain that, Mr. Raymond?"
"In the living room. We have time to talk, I take it."
"There's time," said Parley.
In the living room, awaiting Brian Powell's call, they made themselves comfortable.
"We get rid of them," Raymond said.
"How?" asked Langston.
Raymond calmly puffed his cigar. "They're sleeping. It'll be a simple matter for Tito to throttle them. You know my motto, Otis—dead men tell no tales."
"But not the girl," expostulated Tito. "Why the young girl? She knows nothing."
"But we won't be able to explain the absence of her father. We don't need a hysterical kid on our hands." Raymond exhaled aromatic cigar smoke, negligently flicking the ash. "I say kill them—get them out of the way—the three of them."
"I say kill none of them," interjected Parley.
"You say! Who are you?" Raymond's gaze was contemptuous. "You're nothing, that's who you are!"
"May I express an opinion?"
"You may express nothing."
"Let him talk," said Langston.
"Why? He's a lackey. A servant. He does what he's told and nothing else. He has no right to talk back to his superiors."
"Just an opinion," wheezed Parley.
"Let the man talk," said Langston.
"But he's merely a—"
"Let him talk, Felix."
"Okay, Mr. Parley, Mr. John Parley talking back to his superiors––talk!" Raymond blurted.
Parley's nostrils were compressed to white ridges. His lips trembled. "An opinion. I just wish to express an opinion," he quavered.
"This is talking?" sneered Raymond. "Talk, brave Mr. Parley—but remember, I won't forget this insolence."
"What I'm trying to say," said Parley, "is why not leave this decision—life or death—to the higher echelon, the T.H.R.U.S.H. executives?"
"In the field, I make the decisions," boomed Raymond.
Parley pressed on. "The high echelon in T.H.R.U.S.H. might want to talk to these people, might want to examine them. We had no idea that Craig was a man from U.N.C.L.E. The T.H.R.U.S.H. executives might want to question him on that. They could learn a lot from him. And they can learn a lot from the other agent—the one posing as Evan Fairchild—once we deliver him—alive!"
"He's got a point," piped Langston.
"Your decision, Mr. Raymond, might not meet with the approval of the men above you—and there are men above you." Watching Raymond, Parley was beginning to regain composure. "But once we execute your decision, then these people are dead and we cannot reverse the decision."
Parley hesitated.
Blandly Felix Raymond smoked his cigar. "Please continue, John."
"They're in coma. They won't be any trouble to us. We'll have a special van here. I'm sure I can get them onto one of our planes—just as I know I can get you three onto the plane. I say we bring them over to Europe with us, to a T.H.RU.S.H. sanctuary, and let the big shots there make the life-or-death decision. They might very well appreciate that we brought them two U.N.C.L.E. agents—alive. And without any real trouble on our part. It would be different if we had no alternative––if we had to get rid of them."
"The man has a point," said Langston.