Instantly the quiet, dry voice of Alexander Waverly, Section-I member (Policy and Operations) answered. The chief of the entire Western Hemisphere U.N.C.L.E. operation wasted no time with amenities.

"Yes Mr.—uh—Illya Kuryakin? You have a report?"

Illya reported. At the far end of the radio communication, in his small but bright New York office, Waverly listened in silence. When Illya had finished, the two agents stood in the mansion and waited for the explosion.

"I see. Very enlightening," Waverly's voice said mildly. "Well, you hardly starred this time, but some of it is interesting. Is Mr. Solo there?"

"Here, sir," Solo said.

"Good. Well, I should say your usefulness out there is now minimal," Waverley said. "Return at once."

"You don't want us to finish her?" Solo said, somewhat incredulous. It was not like his dour chief to let them off a hook so easily.

"No," Waverly said. "We have a much better lead here. I think we've found the leader of our Cult."

Illya and Solo looked at each other as they clicked-off. When Mr. Waverly missed an opportunity to point out their many shortcomings, something important had to be happening. They ran to their car and drove off toward the Los Angeles airport.

They were so busy wondering what the better lead was, that for once their habitual alertness was relaxed. They failed to see the bent, shuffling, shaggy-headed figure that limped out of the bushes near the old mansion.

They never saw the weird figure bend over a tiny pencil-like object and begin to talk rapidly.

FOUR

THE SECRET complex of U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters in New York is hidden behind a facade of old brownstones and a single large modern building on a quiet street not far from the river and the United Nations Buildings. There is no way of knowing that the quiet street hides a modern marvel of automated international police work.

There is no way of knowing that the billboard atop the modern white stone building houses an antenna in constant communication with all parts of the world.

There is no way of knowing that boats move beneath the street from U.N.C.L.E. to the river.

There is no way of knowing that the innocent shop in the center of the block, Del Floria's Cleaning & Tailoring, is one of the four known entrances into the fortress-like complex of quick men, quick machines, and silent observation.

But what man can hide, man can find.

Someone knew.

As the taxi pulled up in front of Del Floria's Tailoring Shop, and the two men got out, it happened.

Two men, dressed the same as all the other young men walking along a midtown street, paid the taxi driver, then sauntered casually down the street, carrying their attache cases like everyone else.

But someone knew who they were and why they were going into Del Floria's Tailoring Shop. Someone who did not want them to enter Del Floria's—not alive.

The shots came close together. Three shots.

The first shot knocked Illya Kuryakin to the sidewalk.

The second shot went through the attache case of Napoleon Solo—because Solo, with the remarkable reflexes of his youth and his training, had moved the fraction of an inch when the first bullet struck his partner.

The third shot hit the sidewalk at the precise spot where Solo had hit the dirt, but Solo was no longer at that spot, having hit and rolled instantly.

There were no more shots.

Because there was nothing now to shoot at. Both Solo and the far-from-dead Illya were down behind the cover of brownstone steps, their Specials out, their eyes searching the buildings and the windows across the street. On the street itself cautious, if sophisticated, citizens of New York had abandoned both the street and the two agents. There was no screaming, just very fast hiding.

The street was empty for a long minute before other people who had not been close enough to see or hear the shots began to walk forward where the two agents crouched, their eyes looking for their attacker.

"You see anything?" Solo said.

"No," Illya said.

Neither man had looked at each other. Their eyes were too busy looking carefully at every building in front of them.

"How is it?" Solo said.

"Flesh wound, left shoulder," Illya said. "Whoever it is, he is not a good shot. Do you see anything?"

"No," Solo said, still looking only at the windows and the buildings. "Can you get an idea from the wound?"

There was a silence. Then Illya spoke. "Yes, I think I can. And I think I've got him. Look at the tall building a block to the north. Just to the left of the water tank."

Illya was looking through his binoculars. Solo focused his glasses. The building was over five-hundred yards away. At the base of the water tower something glinted, moved. It was too far to be sure even through the glasses, but Illya voiced both their observations.

"One man. Can't quite make him out, but he looks like he needs a haircut."

"I agree," Solo said, "I—"

The voice came from behind them. A dry, clipped voice that spoke in slow, matter-of-fact tones.

"Mr.—uh—Solo, may I ask what you plan as your next move?"

The two agents, crouched low behind the shelter of the brownstone steps, turned and looked up at the aristocratic bloodhound face of Alexander Waverly. The chief of U.N.C.L.E. New York, was sucking on an unlighted pipe, his bushy brows frowning with a mildly critical puzzlement.

"Well—" Solo began.

"The sharpshooter is much too far away for convenient attack," Waverly said in his unruffled voice. "I doubt if he will wait for us to reach him. And it is doubtful that he will attack again, now that he knows he is discovered. Therefore, I suggest we enter the building and get on with our business."

Solo smiled weakly. "Yes, sir."

Illya pursued the matter one more step. "Wouldn't it be a good idea, sir, to see, if perhaps we can catch him? He seems to be still there, and—"

"Our security people are probably almost there by now, Mr. Kuryakin." Waverly said. "Is there anything else?"

"No, sir," Illya said.

"Then possibly we can get on with the more important aspects of the matter. My office, I think. There are two gentlemen who have been waiting for an hour to talk to you."

The Section-I leader of U.N.C.L.E. led his two agents through Del Floria's into the maze of steel corridors, all perpetually monitored and observed by Section 4 (Communications and Security). They went down the windowless corridors, past the rows of doors without knobs or keyholes, to the last door at the end of the main corridor on the fourth floor.

This was the office of Alexander Waverly. Inside, two men stood up as the chief led Solo and Illya in. They had been waiting. Also already waiting was the report from Security—the sniper had vanished unseen.

"Sniper?" one of the strangers said.

"Uh, yes," Waverly said. "I rather expect he has something to do with the affair in hand. Certainly not our old friend Thrush. Much too amateurish."

"I don't think it was Thrush," Solo agreed.

"Good," Waverly said drily. "Now may I have that match book you reported about?"

Solo blinked. "The, er, match book?"

"Yes, Mr. Solo. You did very little good out there, I agree, but that match book seems promising. Unless I am mistaken, the picture you described on it is a likeness of the man we have reason to want—Morlock The Great."

FIVE

IN WAVERLY'S office there was a long silence. Then, at the press of a button on his desk, Waverly flashed a picture on the screen on his wall. It was a full-face and shoulders photograph of a pale, sinister looking man with jet black eye-brows either cut or painted in a sardonic "V".