But he was cutting it close, very fine and close. He shuddered at the price of failure.

Stumbling up to the cockpit, he saw London boom for below as they cut through the lower layers of cloud. The radio was rattling with confused voices.

"I'm trying to get through," the pilot said. He sounded a trifle desperate.

"Give me the mike." Solo grabbed it.

Three minutes later, the tricycle landing gears of the jet bumped the London airport.

Solo scanned the area. He saw the incredible pileup of cars and pedestrians on the roads at the airport's edge. He'd relayed his message to Waverly in the war room of the British government. A first-aid team had been answering a fire call less than a mile away, and was on its way to the airport now.

The pilot brought the plane to a stop and turned off the engines. Tears of disappointment leaked down his cheeks. Through the cockpit window Solo saw a cross-marked ambulance streaking to ward them.

With heavy steps he walked into the plane's rear to see whether Cleo St. Cloud were still alive.

TWO

OFF IN THE darkness of the empty hangar, a portable generator whined and hummed.

It was a serve-wracking sound, somehow. Counterpointing it rose a frantic squawk of auto and lorry horns from beyond the concrete walls. Barely perceptible was a sustained roar which Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin knew to be the voices of Londoners fleeing in mobs along the public roadways nearby.

The pair of U.N.C.L.E. doctors had flown in moments ago in a helicopter parked on the roof of the hangar. Illya had been with them. They had joined the first-aid team in setting up an impromptu operating table made of old crates. Portable lights hooked to the generator had been hastily rigged, while two members of the first aid team pumped Cleo St. Cloud's stomach. After a swift examination, one of the U.N.C.L.E. physicians had confided to Solo and Illya that it was going to be a near thing.

A solution bottle hung upside down on a hangar stand. Through the flexible tubing attached to the bottle, near-colorless liquid dripped down into a needle taped to Cleo's left arm. Second by second the truth drug flowed into her.

Gritty-eyed and exhausted, Solo consulted his watch. Twenty-eight past three.

One of the U.N.C.L.E. doctors approached the agents.

"I think we're ready."

"Will she respond?" Illya asked. "If we make a single mistake at this point—"

The physician glowered. "Mr. Kuryakin, I can't guarantee results. That young woman was nearly dead when we started on her. Right now we stand an even chance, no better. The strain of an interrogation under drugs may be just enough to tip the scales. She could go instantly."

The two agents and the doctor started toward the circle of light. In its center, Cleo St. Cloud lay, surgical sheets hastily spread over the packing cases. Her cheeks were the color of putty. She hardly seemed to breathe. Solo knelt beside her, placed his face close to hers.

"Cleo," he said with soft intensity. "Listen, Cleo. I am a courier from THRUSH Central. I have an emergency message for Commander Ahab. I must reach him, wherever he is in London. You've got to tell me where he is so I can deliver the message."

Seconds ticked by. Cleo St. Cloud's lips trembled. She uttered a light groan.

Then her face seemed to contort, as if she were feeling great pain.

The words leaked out in a whisper:

"THRUSH Central? Message for—message for—"

Her head lolled to the side.

Solo glanced up, alarmed. One of the doctors said, "She's fighting you. It's her training."

"Cleo?" Solo began again. "It's all right. You won't be violating any confidence. I'm working for THRUSH. You must tell me where I can find Commander Ahab."

Once more the strained, light shuddering from the girl: "No. No, mustn't. Against orders—"

Frustrated, Solo stifled a curse. One of the doctors was keeping his fingers on Cleo's pulse. He glanced at Solo apprehensively. "The strain's starting to tell."

Standing a few feet back near the periphery of the light, Illya watched Solo anxiously. Solo bent near the girl again, wiping perspiration from his nose. In Illya's right pocket a low, sustained beeping began. He pulled out the rod-shaped pocket communicator, twisted the three-part barrel to align the markings, whispered into the top end of the small rod: "Channel D is open."

Mr. Alexander Waverly's voice crackled faintly: "What progress, if any, are you making, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"This is the critical moment, sir. So far she's refused to reveal the whereabouts of the detonator station."

"Let me know the moment you have something to report," Waverly replied. "The Prime Minister is ready to call off the entire evacuation, tidal waves or not. The city is in total chaos. Casualties are mounting too fast to be tolerated, and no one's getting out because the roadways are so clogged.

"You and Solo must locate Ahab and give me word that you have. There must be no tidal wave set off. But there must be an end to the evacuation within an hour as well, or the results will be nearly as bad as if THRUSH had accomplished its goal in the first place."

Mr. Waverly paused, lowered his voice: "I am relaying the Prime Minister's sentiments, Mr. Kuryakin. He is near the breaking point. I realize the situation facing you and Mr. Solo. You must come through. Else London is lost."

"But sir," Illya said. "If Miss St. Cloud won't give us the information—"

Waverly interrupted: "We are counting on you, Kuryakin."

With a feeling of complete dismay Illya looked again at Solo, kneeling by the jerry-rigged operating table. Cleo St. Cloud's head was moving slightly back and forth, in negation. Solo raked his fingers through his hair. Illya said: "Yes, sir. I understand. Out."

He replaced the communicator in his pocket. He walked forward into the light. Wearily Solo stood up.

"You'll have to increase the medication," Solo said to the doctors.

"Extremely risky," one of them replied. "You may lose her altogether."

"We're not getting anything now. Do it!"

Frowning, the doctor moved to the suspended bottle and unfastened a pinch clamp. The Pentothal dripped along the tube at a faster rate. Solo waited two minutes, then tried again:

"Miss St. Cloud—Cleo. Listen. THRUSH Central is going to be very angry with you. THRUSH Central—very angry." He repeated it a little more loudly. "Where is Commander Ahab? Tell me or you'll face disciplinary action. Tell me where to find Victor Ahab."

Again the girl shuddered. Her lips formed a word: "Sub—" She repeated it: "Sub—"

Illya's nerves broke. "It's no good, Napoleon. Ahab isn't on the sub."

"Quiet!" Solo's face was a mask of anxiety. "She's still talking."

In the silent, sepulchral gloom of the huge hangar, Cleo St. Cloud groaned and repeated: "Sub—sublevel. Second down from the street. Parchley—" Another violent shudder shook her body. "Parchley Machining Company." Suddenly her face wrenched into lines of anguish. "Now I've—told you. Don't discipline me. Don't hurt me—"

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were running for the iron stairs which led up to the door that opened onto the roof landing plat form.

As they clattered up the metal risers Solo said, "We can get the coordinates of the Parchley Machining Company from Waverly."

Illya pulled the door open. They were blasted by wind from the revolving rotors of the U.N.C.L.E. 'copter standing on the concrete pad. Illya raced for the open hatch. Solo paused a moment in the doorway, looked down into the interior of the hangar.