"Chief enforcement agent for Section-II, Africa. Our Section-I man briefed me," Joseph Ngara said. "We had our eye on Rillah for some time, but we only got proof he was THRUSH a few months ago."

"Have you found what he is doing here?"

"Not precisely," Ngara said, "but he arrived less than a week before the riot that killed the president. We picked up one clue, a word: PowerTen. Two words, really, but our, ah, source says he heard it as one word: PowerTen."

"Your source is reliable?' Illya asked.

"Reliable but low-placed. He heard Rillah use the word twice when talking otherwise in code on the telephone. The word seemed to impress Rillah."

"Anything else? Any weaknesses we can use to make him talk?" Illya asked.

"You know better, Illya," Ngara said. "THRUSH agents don't have weaknesses."

"Everyone has a weakness somewhere, Ngara," Illya said. "Only THRUSH knows how to neutralize the weaknesses of their agents. Is there anything unusual about Rillah?"

"Yes, he likes modern jazz music. He frequents a place called The Yellow Zebra. Almost every night he's there."

"Jazz?" Illya said.

"It's more this rock and roll, the long-haired kids with guitars," Ngara said.

Teenage music! Illya's dark eyes narrowed. He sat back in the taxi.

"I think we had better visit The Yellow Zebra tonight," Illya said. Ngara nodded. By this time they had reached the Imperial Hotel. Illya paid Ngara as he would any driver, and went in to claim the room reserved for Comrade Tworkov. All was in order: the Russian trade mission was, conveniently, out of the city at this time. Section-V did not make mistakes when they arranged a cover. Illya examined the room, secured it against surprise attack, and slept soundly until time to go that night.

* * *

The Yellow Zebra was a loud neon glare in the night of Kandaville. It was a small club, down a flight of stairs from the street. A quartet of young men played and sang in strong rhythm on the bandstand. They played well, and Illya nodded his appreciation as he entered with Ngara. The young girls of the city whirled across the dance floor, their young bodies quick and alive.

"There," Ngara said.

Illya looked. Azid Ben Rillah sat alone at a table near the bandstand. The Somali lounged indolently, a long, Russian-made cigarette dangling slack from his full lips, a glass of some colorless liquid in front of him. His strong, dark hands fondled the glass like a lover, raised it to his lips from time to time.

Illya slipped into a seat at a table behind Rillah. Joseph Ngara sat with him. Illya had removed his disguise now. The Russian Tworkov was supposedly asleep in the Imperial Hotel.

The blond U.N.C.L.E. agent looked nothing more than a young music lover on the town, but his sharp eyes missed nothing. He noted the faint sign given by Ngara to a young waiter and to a lithe girl singer who came out now on the bandstand and smiled softly at Azid Ben Rillah.

"Rillah seems a little interested," Ngara said without looking at Illya. "But I'm worried. He's smart, and Mahyana is one of our newest agents. I'm afraid she'll overplay it. But someone has to get close to him."

"There may not be time," Illya said. "Whatever they have, it seems to be advanced rapidly. Perhaps a day, two days, but then we'll have to force his hand. We."

Azid Ben Rillah suddenly turned around in his seat and his deep-set brown eyes passed across Illya's face. To anyone but an agent as sharply trained as Kuryakin it would have appeared that Rillah barely noticed him, for the brown eyes immediately shifted away to look at another part of the room.

But Illya Kuryakin knew better. Azid Ben Rillah had been shocked within a hair of his life when he had seen Illya. There had been no more than a flicker in the brown eyes of the Somali, a faint stiffening of Rillah's body, a minute knotting of the corded muscles of the THRUSH agent's neck. But it had been enough to betray him.

Azid Ben Rillah had recognized Illya—and had been startled.

Which meant, at least, that Napoleon Solo had not talked yet. A man who had known Illya was coming would not have been shocked at the sight of him.

Illya felt a sudden coldness in his stomach.

What was it?

Something he, Illya, saw in the dark face of Azid Ben Rillah. What? Damn it, Kuryakin, he told himself silently, what was it?

He stared at the dark face of the Somali. Rillah, recovering instantly as befitted a trained agent of THRUSH, was casually continuing his contemplation of the lithe and soft young dancers. Illya abandoned all attempts at concealment. He stared at the dark indolent face.

Yes! It was the face. Something—something he had not seen in the fuzzy blowup in New York. A picture can only tell so much, and the picture in New York had not been a good one. Now, with the live face before is staring eyes, Illya saw something different, something—familiar!

Yes, familiar! He knew that face. Not as it was, not dark like this, and the eyes—Illya stared, forced his mind back and back. How far? How far back was it?

Rillah, he knew, had had a similar feeling; the Somali knew Illya from somewhere. But where, when? The eyes—blue! But no Somali had blue eyes. The face floating somewhere in the dim past of Illya's mind had blue eyes and a fair skin, not a Somali at all.

It was something no picture could show, but the aspect of that face, the real live face, was know to Illya. Far back. Before U.N.C.L.E. Yes, long before U.N.C.L.E. when he had served in the Soviet-

And he had it!

He knew who Azid Ben Rillah really was.

In that instant the Somali who was not a Somali suddenly stood and walked quickly for a curtained doorway at the side of the room.

Illya leaped in pursuit.

Joseph Ngara was right behind him. Ngara nodded sharply to the waiter, who was one of his men, and to the girl singer. The waiter dropped his tray and clawed under his coat.

The girl singer lifted her skirt showing long, beautiful legs like smooth brown marble—and showing a tiny holster from which she drew her small pistol.

The three African Section-II members converged on the curtained doorway. Illya had been quick but Azid Ben Rillah had been even quicker. The fake Somali vanished through the doorway.

Illya followed, through a passageway and out, suddenly, into the dark African night of an alley that stank of garbage.

Rillah was waiting.

The fusillade of shots from the semi-automatic pistol hammered the night, striking chips from the stone wall, bare inches from Illya's head.

Illya went down, his U.N.C.L.E. Special out. He clicked the control to the paralyzing-dart magazine. He needed Rillah alive—false brown colored contact lenses and all.

Rillah stepped out, firing madly.

Illya raised his pistol from where he lay and fired once, twice. The sharp spit of the pistol firing darts was barely heard in the night.

Azid Ben Rillah clawed at his neck and went down, rigid on the filthy stones of the alley.

Illya started to rise.

They came from both sides at once.

Joseph Ngara and his two agents came out the door, guns ready.

The six strangers came from the open end of the alley. Their guns were held out in front of them. They stood crouched, legs straddled wide, firing as they came.

Joseph Ngara went down, riddled and dead.

The waiter choked on his own blood in his torn throat.

The girl singer sprawled in the shelter of two heavy garbage cans. She crouched, her dress torn open, legs and breast brown in the dim light—and she never stopped firing.

Her small pistol empty, she grabbed and reached Ngara's U.N.C.L.E. Special, set it on automatic, fired a withering fire toward the killers coming fast down the alley.