"Yum!" He hung up, went back to the bistro, slept for an hour, then kicked Sama Paru awake. The chopper took off at first light. By sunrise it was over the olive hills behind the shimmering sea, slipping and wheeling for Mark to sight a suitable landing area.

They found the spot where Count Kazan had come down. The chopper was in a small clearing, its rotors leaning at an unusual angle. Efforts had been made to camouflage it by lacing leafy tree branches over it, but the blades peeped through enough to attract a searching gaze.

Mark said: "I think I sighted buildings among the trees. That must be near where Kazan last called in."

"Okay—I'll put down on that farm."

The farmer ran up as they climbed out, jabbering furiously. Sama Paru flashed money and the jabbering grew less explosive. When he produced more money, the farmer smiled a cracked smile. Then they conversed like old chums.

At last Sama turned to Mark "Yes, there is a hush-hush building in the woods," he said. Local rumors say it's a Government-research training center, but they are not curious around here." He grinned. "Not while someone at the center lays a wad of folding money in the local kitty. I have arranged transport."

"Comical," said Mark ten minutes later as they proceeded down a dusty-white lane on the back of a donkey. "Dead comical, you are, mate! Transport, you call this?"

"His car is broken down. His farm cart and horse delivering produce—what would you?"

"I would de-louse this brute for a start." Mark scratched several delicate places.

They parked the donkey at the edge of the woods, for Sama Paru had bought information not normally found on maps.

"Expensive, these small farmers," he observed. "How do I describe it on my expense sheet?"

"Local produce." Mark grinned. "If Karadin and his outfit succeed in this Globules affair, all you'll get is a wad of ugly money anyway! What the hell are you looking for?" he demanded as Sama moved, crouching, through the trees.

"Truffle tracks."

"Listen, chum—truffles and caviar come later." Mark hesitated. "Is this part of your pricey farmer's info?"

Sama nodded. "Better to follow his tracks than a clear patch. He says there are booby-traps—trip wires and such—over the main paths into the forest. We follow where he has found truffles. He marks the trees—see?" Sama pointed to a whitish nick in a nearby tree. "The farmer can go right up to the fence without their seeing him."

"So he's been truffle-picking and peeking?"

"Must have—he says lots of the girls sun-bathe. He seemed annoyed that they did it during milking time so he couldn't always get away from the farm. But they do some sort of training or practicing in silver dresses and trouser suits in the morning. They never come into the village. They have their own transport which takes them down to the coast."

"Well organized, huh?"

"It would seem to be so." Sama halted. "Look!" He parted the branches of thick bushes. A fence just beyond the bushes encircled a compound which had been smooth-layered with asphalt.

"Too early," Mark whispered. "Has Count Kazan got all his U.N.C.L.E. field agent's devices with him?"

"He should have."

"You've got yours?"

"Surely."

"Then call him up on the micro-transmitter—see if we can raise him. No sense making war palaver and rushing the dump if we can save time and effort."

Sama Paru operated the transmitter, while Mark used the waiting period by climbing high into a fir tree, from where he could look down on the layout. He used the U.N.C.L.E. micro-camera to good effect, obtaining full shots of the whole area. The early sun slanting through the clearing gave some high definition to his shots.

He rejoined Sama, who nodded, smiling.

"Count Kazan is on his way to join us. He broke out last night. Ssh!" They heard branches creaking. A twig snapped. Bushes away to their right quivered. Both drew their guns as sunlight glinted on a silvery figure.

"Hold it right there, tin-man!" said Mark, pushing through the bushes towards the figure.

"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Count Kazan. "I am so glad to see you! Have either of you two gentleman got a can-opener?"

They stifled roars of laughter as he stood up, stiffly. His body bulged, perspiration streaming down his face. He was unshaven. Altogether, the elegant Count Kazan was not easy to recognize.

"I am in agony—and you laugh! It is not funny I have had a terrible time!"

"If you had to dress in that gear, couldn't you find one to fit you?" Mark chuckled.

"The suit fit," said Kazan. "They are very cleverly made and will adjust to all normal sizes. But I robbed their piggy bank. The suit is stuffed with money as well as me. There was no other way to carry it."

"Money! French money?"

"World money," said Kazan. "They print it on an underground press. Very pretty it is too. If you get me out of this, I will show you."

"No guards?" said Sama Paru.

"Not until eight o'clock. About thirty women are inside there. The men do not stay at night." Kazan grinned. "Many young girls, but all controlled by some of the hardest-faced witches you ever saw. With them around you do not need guards. Those have been trained by Sirdar the Turk. They are evil and ruthless—as only truly bad women can be."

"But you tamed 'em?" said Mark.

"I gassed the whole flock of little THRUSH birds," said Kazan. "Last night, with my gas gun, I was a busy bee. Then I injected each of the leaders. They will not wake up for many hours yet." He looked at them pleadingly. "Please—my friends—get me out of this before I stifle. The zip has stuck and the lever, she is bust."

The suit was beautifully made, the metal-like fabric bonded to a fine mesh of the same material. This mesh had a two-way-stretch weave. The only vulnerable part was the side zip which ran from thigh to armpit. The suit thus had to be put on sideways. Kazan had so stuffed the money around his body that the stretch was extended beyond normal use. He'd then forced up the zip so hard that he couldn't shift it. The suit was virtually indestructible and could not be torn.

They used Mark's lock-breaking tools to open the zip and soon had Kazan freed. The printed notes, each approximately the size of a hundred-dollar bill, were artistic though not fancy. These bore the THRUSH emblem dead centre with a sun-blaze effect of red-gold on a green background. A purple border at first sight looked like circles with filigree tailings of gold. Closer inspection showed these circles to be miniature imprints of a globe of the world. The denominations were from ten to ten thousand esparas.

"What the hell are esparas?" said Mark. "That's a country I've not heard of."

"The world," said Count Kazan. "Esparas are to be the new currency of the world of THRUSH."

Mark whistled softly. "Kid me not, my French comrade—you have proof?"

"In a file back there is the distribution arrangement for the whole of Europe. I have micro-filmed some."

"Let's go get the others. You feel better now?"

Count Kazan drew a deep breath. "Much better."

"Right. Stow some of this cash in your pockets. Wrap the rest in the suit. Hide that under the bush and let's go blow this thing—fast."