Mitchell turned the control knobs. The maps behind the cross hairs revolved more slowly.

Illya spoke tensely.

"I have been taken by agents of THRUSH. Also taken is Steven Winfield, son of Sir William Winfield, British Ambassador to the UN. We are being held as hostages for the return of Albert Stanley." Illya smiled wryly. "Two for one. Tell Mr. Waverly to reassure Sir William and warn him that there be no outcry. You, Napoleon, will be contacted by phone at your apartment some time after nine o'clock tomorrow morning. No tricks. Take care." Illya smiled again, and his picture disappeared from the screen.

Solo pushed up the switch.

"Are there any other instructions? Over."

He pushed down the switch.

There was no sound. The screen was black.

He tried again. Nothing.

Grimly Waverly said, "All right. Kill it." Turning to Mitchell, he queried, "What've we got?"

Mitchell removed his headset.

"Not enough time to pinpoint anything, but I did get the general location."

"Where?" Waverly asked.

"He's somewhere out on Long Island."

5. "No Way Out"

THEY WERE NOT uncomfortable, although they had no idea where they were or when it was day or night. It was a large, windowless room fitted with a prison-type steel door. They could hear no sounds from outside. Illya believed it to be a basement room because of the feeling of dampness and because, by tapping and testing, he had found the walls to be of concrete, even the ceiling. He had stood on Steve's shoulders and rapped his knuckles at the ceiling.

"All concrete." And he had leaped off. "A concrete room."

"What are those up there, Mr. Kuryakin?" Steve pointed to the holes.

There were four of them, two-inch holes, one in each corner of the ceiling.

"For ventilation. So we can breathe."

"You mean if they turned it off—the ventilation, I mean—we would—well—like choke to death?"

"Now why would they want to do anything like that?" Illya laughed. He was doing a lot of laughing, with a lot of effort, but the least he could do was try to keep up the boy's spirits. "You heard me when I talked to Mr. Solo." That of itself troubled Illya. Why had they permitted the boy to be present? Over the micro-TV, under instruction, he had mentioned both THRUSH and Albert Stanley. They would not permit information like that to leak to a youngster unless—unless…

"We're to be exchanged," Illya said, "just as you heard, for Albert Stanley. How do you like being a hostage?"

"I think I like it." Steve grinned. "I mean— hostage. Now that's something to tell my grandchildren about."

"Grandchildren yet! A bit premature, aren't we, Stevie boy?"

"Figure of speech, sir."

"Of course." He slapped the boy's shoulder, chuckling.

The tall, dark man had held a gun to him, and he had said what he had been told to say over the micro-TV; then it had been taken away from him. They had been ordered to undress and supplied with new clothes, underwear, baggy slacks, sport shirts, and crew socks, and that had been the last they had seen of the tall, dark man. Their food was served through a slot in the prison-type door by the blond girl. They were not uncomfortable.

"THRUSH," the boy said. "I've heard about them from my father."

"And there've been fathers who've heard about them from their sons."

"THRUSH," Steve said. "The bad guys."

"That about sums it up, lad. Depends, of course, on the viewpoint. For them they're good; for us, bad."

"Who is Albert Stanley, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"One of the bad guys—from our viewpoint. Our side caught up with him—and their side caught up with us. Fair, or unfair—again depends on the viewpoint—fair exchange, and you and I'll be out of here."

"I can't believe it."

Startled, Illya shook that off and said quite blithely, "Well, aren't you the pessimist!"

"Me? I?"

"Can't believe we'll be out..."

"Oh, no, not that. I mean, Miss Hunter. She's so lovely."

"You've got a pretty sharp eye right early, young fella."

"I can't believe—I mean, Miss Hunter, a bad guy. I wish she weren't."

"Stevie boy, so do I. But emphatically!"

And they both laughed.

They were not uncomfortable. They had electric lighting, books and magazines; there were beds, tables, chairs, and toilet facilities. And there was, of all things, a pool table, fully equipped: balls, cues, rack, chalk, and all. That delighted Steve, who was an excellent pool player, but depressed Illya. The plastic balls and the wooden cues could be weapons. Would THRUSH provide weapons unless THRUSH full well knew there would never be an opportunity to use them? Illya said nothing of that but played pool with Steve Winfield. They spent hours at the table with Illya consistently being beaten until they arrived at a handicap figure. Illya was given twenty-five points in advance in a hundred-point game; that made it a contest and the hours sped by in intense competition. Now, at the end of a game, Illya being defeated by a single point, Steve laid his cue on the table.

"What time do you think it is, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Not the faintest idea—but night, I'd say. I mean like I'm beginning to feel a bit sleepy— else I wouldn't have missed that shot I did miss."

"Me, I'm beginning to get hungry."

"She hasn't failed us yet, has she?"

As though in corroboration, the slide-panel in the door scraped open.

Illya squatted and peered through. The blond girl was wearing gold slacks and a gold blouse.

"You're very beautiful," Illya said.

"Please don't," she said.

"Actually I'm conveying the compliments of young Mr. Winfield. Mine, too."

"Thank him for me." She smiled.

"She thanks you," Illya said over his shoulder, and then his vision was blotted out by plates passing through. There were two tongue sandwiches and two Swiss cheese sandwiches and two glasses of milk. It was probably night, a snack before sleep. The meal before had been roast beef hot with gravy, peas, potatoes, bread and butter, and coffee.

"What time is it?" Illya asked.

"I'm not supposed to talk to you," the girl said.

"How go the negotiations?"

"I don't know."

"When are they going to let us out of here?"

"I don't know."

"Where are we?"

"I can't talk to you anymore. Good night."

So it was night. Without realizing, she had given some information. She was becoming accustomed to talking with him. Each time that she opened the slide-panel he made conversation, each time trapping her in some minor admission. So, he hoped, he might learn more. For what? What good would it do? What good if he drew a major piece of information from her? They were locked in, penned, like animals. Information could satisfy curiosity, what else? Any time their captors pleased they could turn off the ventilation—and it would be a long, horrible death.

There was no way out, no means of escape. He had thought out every possibility: There was none. He could hurt the girl; if he wanted to, he could kill her. He could be ready for her with the back of the pool cue. When she opened the slide-panel he could shoot it through, with power, at her head. He could knock her unconscious, he could kill her, depending upon the amount of force he used. But to what purpose? None, except vengeance. What vengeance upon all of THRUSH to harm a young girl even if she was one of them?