"How long has this been going on, Mr. Ogden?"

"Two years, and now it is over—mine is the last trip. In those two years, six million dollars have been delivered from the bandits in South America. They figure that's about what the traffic will bear. Now it's their job to transfer the gold bullion to permanent vaults in Geneva, Switzerland, before closing up shop here in the United States."

The Old Man cocked his head. "I don't quite understand, Mr. Ogden."

"What, Mr. Waverly?"

"If the gold finally is to be transported to Geneva, why wasn't it delivered by the couriers directly to Geneva?"

Howard Ogden crossed his long legs. "Well, sir, first, this is a Raymond and Langston operation and they're based here in the States. Second, the stuff is coming in as machine parts and Geneva is not quite the place to sell machinery, while the United States is. Next, the trip to the United States is shorter, more direct, and those babies don't take any chances on an operation that's running smooth. The deal is to get it all accumulated and melted down to bars here in the States, and then to ship it over to Geneva in one single foolproof stroke."

Waverly's eyes were almost hidden within a mass of inquiring wrinkles. "Six million dollars in gold? What can they plan for a single foolproof stroke? Do you know, Mr. Ogden?"

Ogden smiled. "I'm a good listener and I had my ears cocked down there. I don't know it all but I do know a little."

"Please tell us what you know."

"Within the next few days, the gold is to be taken over to the Parley Circus. There's your foolproof stroke, Mr. Waverly. The Parley Circus is going over to Geneva. Who would look for gold in the vast activity and excitement of an entire circus shipping over to Europe?"

The Parley Circus! Waverly knew about the Parley Circus and had good reason to know. The Parley Circus was a famous Australian circus now in its last week at the Westbury Fairgrounds on Long Island, New York. For the past month the Parley Circus had been entertaining Americans on Long Island; in three days it was to fold its tents and ship out to Geneva, Switzerland.

Now Waverly's rapid questions stabbed at Ogden—who? what? when? where? But the long-legged man had been pumped dry of information.

"Just this one last thing," he said. "I heard a name, but I don't know what his connection is with the deal."

"What name?"

"Kenneth Craig."

The Old Man winced as though he had been struck. He gasped, then turned deathly pale. Solo and Kuryakin exchanged glances. They had heard about Kenneth Craig. Who hadn't? An Australian, a world-famous lion tamer, he was the star of the Parley Circus. But why should the mention of that name cause such an effect on the Old Man?

"Kenneth Craig," Waverly said gently. "What does Kenneth Craig have to do with this gunrunning caper?"

Ogden sighed. "I don't know, Mr. Waverly. I've told you everything I do know."

"And I thank you for that, Mr. Ogden, and I shall not forget it." His smile was wan. "You will be our guest for the next few days. After that I shall turn you over to the federal people, but I shall tell them of your important cooperation with us here, and I shall make my personal recommendations to them."

"Thank you, sir."

Waverly looked beyond Ogden to Solo and Kuryakin. "You gentlemen will remain here with me." Then he clicked a lever on the console board. "Send up a couple of guards," he ordered. "Mr. Ogden is ready to return to Detention."

7. Agent or Double Agent?

SOLO A KURYAKIN waited at the desk watching the Old Man, his face still pale as parchment. With trembling fingers Waverly filled his pipe, lit it, puffed in silence, and leaned back. The young men knew what had so profoundly moved their chief— the name Kenneth Craig. But why?

Finally the Old Man roused himself and addressed them.

"Gentlemen, we're confronted with a double problem. Two problems." He wet his lips and smiled faintly. "First and foremost is the one regarding Kenneth Craig."

"Who the devil is Kenneth Craig?" exploded Illya Kuryakin.

"An Australian," replied the Old Man, "famous throughout the world as a lion tamer, traveling with the circus from country to country. But Kenneth Craig is also, gentlemen, a secret agent for United Network Command for Law Enforcement—one of us, if you please—one of U.N.C.L.E.'s valued and valuable international agents."

"Oh! My!" breathed Napoleon Solo.

"Perhaps now you understand my reaction." His lips formed a small, wrinkled smile. "My—consternation."

"But do we ever understand!" exclaimed Illya. "Kenneth Craig—a name mentioned among traitors and reported to us by a confessed traitor."

"First and foremost, then," said Solo, "Kenneth Craig. In other words, is the guy our agent or a double agent? Is he working for us or against us? Is he with U.N.C.L.E. or is he really with T.H.R.U.S.H.?"

"Let us, gentlemen, examine that," muttered the Old Man through pipe smoke. "Howard Ogden gives us this name as involved in a massive gunrunning scheme initiated by T.H.R.U.S.H. This question, then: Why have we not had a single word from Kenneth Craig?" Waverly's eyes narrowed to thoughtful slits. "Two reasons."

"The first is entirely innocent," said Illya. "The man simply has no knowledge of the operation and therefore has nothing to report."

"The second is terribly guilty," said Solo. "The man has full knowledge of the operation, is himself a member of T.H.RU.S.H., and is therefore a dangerous thorn in the side of U.N.C.L.E."

"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."