"But you go along with his plan to murder Napoleon!"

"Stop saying that, Illya! There's no murder involved. You wouldn't even have me up here, abusing me, if I hadn't made that one slip. I only mentioned my Uncle Abel once, but you remembered it. You have a nasty, clutching mind."

Mr. Waverly stepped in since she had rallied enough to put Illya on the defensive and take the offensive for herself. Illya watched his Chief's tactics carefully. The old fox was switching from browbeating to a gentle appeal to her conscience, trying to bring her back to the emotional state, to break her down. "Tell me, Miss Adams, what did Mr. Solo do to make you hate him so much?"

"I don't hate him," she countered. "In fact... he wasn't at all what Uncle Abel said he would be. But my uncle wouldn't harm anyone. I know that!"

She was back on the defensive, but Illya chafed under the slow passage of time. Right now he almost wished he wasn't an U.N.C.L.E. agent, that he could hit her, could force the confession out of her. He tried the only thing he could do. Still pretending some terrible threat, he said, "One warning, Mada. You haven't time to weigh pros and cons here. You have just enough time to talk. Do it! Because if your Uncle Abel wouldn't harm any one, then what was that red stuff I dripped all over the street getting back here? What is this sling I'm wearing?"

She was terrified, but still too stubborn to speak. She gasped, "Now are you going to hit me?"

Illya swung from her in total disgust. He said to Mr. Waverly, "She's abnormally afraid of everyone in Section Two, sir. Her uncle brainwashed her."

Waverly stepped away from the table, motioning his agent to follow. Waverly spoke in a whisper. "I think she's just about ready to speak in spite of herself. What do you say?"

"From the symptoms, yes, sir. Do we have time to push her over the line?"

Waverly made the decision with a quick shake of his head. "No. It may take another half hour. Yet I can't use drugs on the chance we need her to lead us to Mr. Solo. We'll have to try a bluff." Without explanation, he faced Mada again and said loudly, "All right, Mr. Kuryakin, get the hypodermic. And make it a goodly-sized dose. We can't worry about side effects now."

Mada clutched the arms of her chair. "Hypodermic? What -"

Illya headed for the door with long strides, waiting for her call to halt. Before her call came, and before he reached the door, it whooshed open on its own and a frantic figure ran into the room. Lainy Michaels. She pushed by Illya, almost knocking him down.

Lainy took a stance halfway to the table, panting from exertion. "I heard you'd found someone who knows where Napoleon is. Is this the one?"

Mr. Waverly was taken off guard. All he could muster was, "Miss Michaels - if you please! You have no business here."

Mada stared hard at Lainy, her own mouth set. Mada said, "No, you mustn't stay around to see the torture."

Lainy's body lost some of its stiffness. "Torture? Don't be ridiculous. These men would never - you wouldn't, would you?" She swung to Illya. "Would you?"

Illya only said, "You d better leave."

Lainy didn't move. Instead, she zeroed in on Mada. "If she knows where Napoleon is and won't tell, then I'll pull out her fingernails, myself!" She broke from her spot in the middle of the room and ran to Mada, grabbing the other woman by the shoulders. "Do you know? Do – you - know?"

Illya covered the distance quickly and with his one good arm clutched at Lainy. "Please. This is none of your affair."

Mr. Waverly watched the action with an intent stare, letting it play out to its own end.

Lainy slapped Illya's hand aside and still grasping Math's shoulders, started to shake her. Mada s head jerked back and forth, her neck limp. "Now, tell!" Lainy shouted into her face. "Tell! Maybe they won't touch you, but I will! Where is Napoleon?"

Mada fought, but couldn't rally the strength to push her away. "Leave me alone! No one is going to hurt Napoleon. You all think in terms of killing so you believe everyone is a killer."

Lainy let Math go, bending over her, her breath pulsing onto Math's face. "But they are going to hurt him! Don't you understand that? They're going to kill him! I saw them attempt it once. With my own eyes."

Mada became suddenly still, unbelieving. "You saw? And you don't work for U.N.C.L.E.?" She was vacillating, tying to make the decision.

Lainy stayed close, face to face, and there were tears on Lainy's cheeks, too. "Please! Whoever you are - please!"

Mada made up her mind. It seemed to Illya that he could almost see the decision form. "All right," she said. "Get away from me. I'll tell everything I know. But get away!"

This time, when Illya touched Lainy's arm, she stepped away from her astonished victim. "Hurry, Mada," Illya said.

"If my Uncle Abel isn't at his apartment, then he has to be at the old farmhouse he leased a few weeks ago. It's out in the country on a deserted side road. I saw it once. He said we could settle there if things worked out, and make it nice, and live there. But –" She clapped her hands to her head as though trying to clear it. "I don't know if I can explain how to get there! I'm not good at maps and things."

Waverly's voice entered calmly. "Can you point the way?"

Math sighed and nodded yes, resigned to the ultimate betrayal.

Waverly was all tense action beneath his tweed suit. "Mr. Kuryakin, order an assault team. Meet us in the garage as soon as you can."

Illya, new blood rushing through him, took off the sling and flung it on the table. "We're already there, Mr. Waverly," he said and sprinted for the door.

Alone and helpless in the blackness of the blindfold, Napoleon Solo edged away from the kitchen door and crept on into the dining room of the old house. "Through the dining room, through the parlor, and out the front door," he told himself, making it a command. He inched along, a half-step at a time, using his feet to feel the way. He bumped into something, felt along it with his shoe, and sidestepped it. What was the shape of the room? Long and narrow? Square? He couldn't know.

Another step, and he banged shakily into an over stuffed chair. There was an ache in him just to sit down and be finished with the whole thing. It was tempting. He sighed and continued on his way, wondering where the defeatist attitude had sprung from. He had never harbored it before. Adams was right. There was a special, unexpected terror in this business that clawed at his will and ate up his courage.

He felt along the edge of the chair until he could safely take a step. He took it and ran straight into some thing else that banged at his shin and almost threw him down. As he struggled for balance in the dark, getting his feet under him, he moved unwittingly to the right and his right leg was bitten by a stiletto. It sank into his calf, and he froze.

He tried to bend and get his hands on the thing, but the rope about his throat caught him short in another spasm of coughing. He stood straight. He'd have to handle this one as he had the other. With a quick move to the left, he jerked his leg off the stiletto point and again felt blood following it out.

At least he knew what he was facing. There were things strewn in his path, things with blades and points on them. Adams had said he should bleed to death. But knives at arm and leg level weren't going to kill him. The terror lay in the thought that there might be some thing at face level, something to gouge his eyes, his throat. And he couldn't raise his hands high enough to protect himself against them.