"By the commission of this terrible kind of sabotage?"

"Precisely. First these five sites here in the East; later on five more in the Midwest; more, later on, on the Pacific Coast. We believe the time to be ripe to create confusion and terror within the United States itself, to make it an object of world ridicule, and to precipitate the United States into unwise and unfortunate acts—and thus, aside from influencing the uncommitted nations, to cause division and foment discontent between the United States and its allies."

Waverly sat back, his teeth clenched on the stem of his pipe.

"And you were to be this saboteur."

"I am the best in the world, Mr. Waverly."

"But you have failed!"

"Failed?" The little man smoked his cigarette calmly. "We cannot always all succeed. Happenstance, chance, circumstance—who knows? Maybe the entire plan was doomed to failure. Perhaps its effect would have been the reverse of that intended." He shrugged. "I am not the commander, the general, the architect of plans. I am but one small soldier."

"Soldier! A soldier who murders hundreds, perhaps thousands, of innocent bystanders."

The little man uncrossed his legs. A crease appeared between his eyes. For the first time he seemed to be offended.

"I am not a murderer! I am a soldier assigned to destroy certain targets. As in bombing raids, the death of innocent civilians does occur. But that is not the purpose. That is incidental, cannot be helped. The purpose is the destruction of the targets, and I am the soldier assigned."

"Well, you're one soldier THRUSH will no longer have."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that, Mr. Waverly."

"What?"

The little man crushed his cigarette in an ash tray. He looked toward McNabb. McNabb tossed the package of cigarettes. Stanley caught it skillfully. He drew out a cigarette and lit it with a lighter from Waverly's desk. Solo watched, fascinated.

"They now know you have me, Mr. Waverly," Stanley said. "I'm certain they shall attempt a means for my rescue."

"Who do you mean by 'they'?"

"My people."

"And how do they know?"

"Quite simple. I was to call a certain number every four hours precisely on the hour. If my call did not come through, they would know."

"What number?"

"What difference? There's no longer anyone there."

"What number!"

Stanley gave him the number. Waverly made the call. There was no answer. Waverly hung up, tapped ash from his pipe, relit it.

"I want to know all about your people, Mr. Stanley."

"Happy to oblige you, sir. I'm not one for keeping secrets, as they well know; perhaps that's why they don't impart too many of their secrets to me. I'm unique unto myself—and so they must countenance me. I work with dreadful explosives. I am an expert, the best there is. I live with danger. I expose myself, risk my life, every time I do a job. I am paid well, but I make no pretense at being a hero, and they know it. In my life I've been caught a few times. I've talked—to mitigate my punishment. I'm a soldier, not a martyr. It is my pattern for survival. I cooperate. You know my motto, sir." The little man grinned with yellow teeth. "He who cooperates today lives to cooperate another day."

"Tell me, please, about your people. Who is here in the States with you?"

"Leslie Tudor, Eric Burrows, Pamela Hunter."

Solo braced. Now here was a sudden stroke of luck. In the new reorganization of the British Sector of THRUSH, Eric Burrows was second in command and Leslie Tudor was the new chief. UNCLE knew all about Burrows, but UNCLE knew absolutely nothing about Leslie Tudor. Now here was an unexpected break. He wondered how the Old Man would handle it.

Waverly showed no excitement. His seamed face remained placid. Contentedly he puffed his pipe, and he started with the least important name.

"Pamela Hunter?" he inquired.

"A beautiful young woman recruited to THRUSH," Stanley said. "Her first important job. Two bigwigs are breaking her in."

"Ah, yes, bigwigs. Burrows is an old and respected antagonist. Tell us a bit about your new chief."

"Nothing to tell."

"Well, anything." Waverly smiled encouragingly.

"I wish I could oblige you, Mr. Waverly. I can't. Tudor has a passion for anonymity. He works through Eric Burrows. I know Burrows well. Tudor—nothing. I've never seen him. I've never heard his voice. All I know is the name— Leslie Tudor."

Waverly sucked on his pipe, hiding his disappointment behind a cloud of smoke. "All right. We know how and when you came here. When did they come?"

"Last week."

"How?"

"By private jet to a private airstrip in Nova Scotia. Then by private helicopter to an estate here on Long Island. Burrows is an expert pilot. So is Leslie Tudor."

"How do you know?"

"Burrows told me."

"Where is this estate on Long Island?"

"I don't know. I came in by commercial plane Tuesday morning. I brought in nothing. They brought in all my equipment. On Monday Burrows took the suite in my name at the Waldorf. That was my base of operation. Of course, I'd been thoroughly briefed in England. By Burrows. Monday, when he took the suite, he brought in two suitcases with all the equipment I needed—also, fifty thousand dollars in American money."

McNabb said, "Yes, we have most of that."

"Mission accomplished, I would return the way I had come. If Burrows—or Tudor––wanted any changes, they knew where to reach me. That's it, Mr. Waverly—so help me."

Solo knew—as he was certain Waverly knew—that the man was telling the truth. It matched their own knowledge; his statements aligned with the meager but incontrovertible facts they themselves had deduced. Waverly sighed. "Well, now, Mr. Stanley..."

The loudspeaker came alive.

"Mr. Waverly! Television Section! Mitchell here! Emergency! Please come up at once, sir!"

Waverly pressed a button of the console board. "Right away, Mr. Mitchell."

"Is Mr. Solo in your office, sir?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Solo, too, please."

"Yes."

Waverly punched the disconnect button, stood up, and waved to the armed guards. "Take Mr. Stanley back to Detention. Thank you."

As soon as he entered the Television Room, Solo heard the beep of Illya's code signal and the additional signal of their code for SOS—emergency! The large room was crowded with electronic equipment. The technicians stood by. Waverly pointed at Frank Mitchell.

"Extrapolate!"

Mitchell moved quickly to a huge scanning board. He pulled a lever and the board lit up, showing maps slowly revolving behind cross hairs. He put a headset over his ears and plugged the line into an outlet. The fingers of both hands took the control knobs, and he nodded toward Waverly.

"You, Mr. Solo!" Waverly said.

Solo positioned himself in front of the eye of a camera in another wall. He flicked a switch.

"Napoleon Solo. Go ahead, Illya. Over."

He pushed down on the switch.

A small screen showed Illya's face. He was using the micro-TV, transistorized receiver and sender, tiny, cigarette-package-sized, standard equipment for special agents of UNCLE. The beam was on his face for identification. He would have moved the instrument to give them some idea of where he was. He did not. Solo understood. Illya could not. There was, in all probability, a gun leveled at him.