"Innocent or guilty?" Illya's face was alight with excitement.
"That shall be your job to find out, Mr. Kuryakin." The Old Man had recovered, his voice alert and resonant. "Gentlemen, our work is now twofold: to thwart T.H.R.U.S.H. in its six-million-dollar caper, and, far more important, to discover whether or not U.N.C.L.E. has a deadly serpent in its midst. Is U.N.C.L.E. harboring a Judas?"
"I'm glad that's his job," said Solo.
"Your job, Mr. Solo, will be to investigate Raymond and Langston. You will go—with the suit cases, as Harry Owens—to the armaments firm."
"Harry Owens." Solo winked at Illya. "That's me."
The Old Man opened a drawer of his desk, took out a leather-bound loose-leaf book, turned the pages slowly, finally stopped at a page, studied it, and murmured, "Evan Fairchild."
"Pardon?" said Illya.
"That's you. Evan Fairchild."
"Me, Tarzan," laughed Solo. "You, Evan, fair child."
A grim upward glance from the Old Man put down the ever-irrepressible spirits of the young men. Jocularity instantly ended.
"Evan Fairchild," said the Old Man, " a photo journalist from Scope, the picture magazine. Tomorrow morning, Mr. Kuryakin, you will go out to Westbury as Evan Fairchild. Your supposed job as Fairchild is to spend three days with the Parley Circus for a picture story. Your real job will be Kenneth Craig—is he one of us, or one of them? Do you understand, Mr. Kuryakin?"
"Yessir."
The Old Man closed the leather-bound book. "By morning you will have the necessary credentials, and the magazine will validate you in case of any inquiry." He looked toward Solo. "As for you, Mr. Harry Owens, your job, which will start at once, is to outflank and checkmate T.H.R.U.S.H.'s six-million-dollar maneuver." The Old Man sighed deeply. "Actually, gentlemen, you will be working together, hand in glove, the two jobs interweaving as one. And for that purpose, gentlemen, kindly go down to the lab now for the proper equipment."
"What do we tell the lab boys?" asked Solo.
"I'll do the telling." The Old Man grinned. "Me Tarzan. You go."
Chuckling, the young men left the office, and at once Waverly flicked a key on the console board and informed the laboratory technicians of the circumstances and the requirements of the two U.N.C.L.E. agents who, from the moment they left the room, were already embarked on their perilous mission.
8. Tools of the Trade
"WELL, GREETINGS, Mr. Owens, Mr. Fairchild."
There was laughter and banter in the laboratory all through the serious work of providing Solo and Illya with new tools for their ever-changing assignments, but first their old tools were checked—their Communicators. Each, of course, carried his Communicator, the innocent-looking pen which was both sender and receiver.
Hank Jenkins, the electronics expert, was the man in charge. He refurbished the Communicators, cleaned them, adjusted them, put in new transistors, and returned each to its owner.
"Now, then," said Hank Jenkins, "we've got to set you guys up with a communications system of your own, a foolproof independent system between you—and what we've got for you is just what the doctor ordered."
And so Solo and Illya were introduced to the latest electronics marvel perfected by the U.N.C.L.E. scientists.
A lab dentist fitted each of them with a palate-plate similar to the bite-plate given to youngsters when they are undergoing dental orthodontia, except that these plastic bite-plates contained no pressure points to straighten teeth. Instead each was an ultrahigh-frequency transmitter, worn as a palate-plate in the mouth, and each palate-plate had a tiny spring which was to be clicked for the transmitter to go into action. Solo and Illya were given an opportunity to practice with their palate-plates, and then a lab doctor came to the fore.
With delicate surgical instruments the doctor inserted tiny, unseen earpieces into the right ear canal of each man.
"You guys can now be in independent communication within a thousand-mile radius," Jenkins informed them. "But kindly remember—the palate-plates and earpieces are not to be removed; they remain a permanent part of you until you're off this assignment."
For his particular job Solo was furnished with additional equipment. New shoelaces were put into his shoes, each shoelace an electric-current detector, and he was given an object which looked like a dial on a safe. He was fully instructed as to the use and purpose of these devices. Then he was given Harry Owens' passport, his own photo having been substituted for Owens', and he was given the two suitcases into which had been packed every item they had originally contained.
"Okay?" said Jenkins.
"What about the rest of Owens' papers?"
"Not only his papers," laughed Jenkins, "but every other item belonging to Owens including his clothes, which we've altered to your size. Get undressed."
While Solo changed, Illya capered about, making jokes.
"His time for fun but not for long," said Jenkins. "He's next—cameras and stuff—but for Evan Fairchild we've got until tomorrow morning. For you, my boy, it's now." And when Solo was dressed and ready, Jenkins said, "Up you go now, Mr. Owens, to the Old Man for your final briefing."
9. Solo Delivers the Goods
HARRY OWENS, carrying two heavy bags, passed from the bright sunshine of the street into the cool quiet of the Raymond and Langston showroom. A smiling salesman immediately approached him.
"May I help you, sir?"
"I should like to see Mr. Raymond. Or Mr. Langston."
"Oh, would you?" The smile disappeared.
"I would," said Solo.
"If you have something to sell, sir, the purchasing department—"
"I have nothing to sell."
The salesman sniffed. "Well, unless you have an appointment, I'm sorry, but—"
"My name is Owens. Harry Owens."
"Mr. Owens? Oh, yes, of course." There was a quick shift in the salesman's attitude, and he was smiling again. "Yes, Mr. Owens. They're expecting you. Would you come this way, please?"
Solo following, the salesman walked quickly to an elevator at the rear, then stood aside and let Solo enter before him. The salesman touched the button for the second floor and they ascended in silence. In the large waiting room the salesman said to the only occupant, a red-haired secretary, "Mr. Owens. To see Mr. Raymond. Or Mr. Langston. Or both. He's expected."
The secretary glared. "I know he's expected. Thank you."
The salesman sidled back to the elevator and disappeared.
The secretary stood up and said, "Please come with me, Mr. Owens."
She led him along a broad, carpeted corridor to a burnished, carved mahogany door. She knocked.
"Come in," said a deep voice.
She opened the door but did not go in.
"Mr. Owens," she announced.
"Yes, delighted," said the deep voice.
She permitted Solo to enter, closed the door behind him, and he was alone with two men.
"Ah, Mr. Owens," said the deep voice. "I'm Raymond, Felix Raymond." About fifty years of age, he was short, stout, with black crew-cut hair and black horn-rimmed glasses. He advanced upon Solo, hand outstretched. Solo put down the bags and shook hands with Felix Raymond. "Permit me," said Felix Raymond and waved toward the seated man now behind him. "My partner, Otis Langston."