Zouida stared at Solo, stricken. "I have prostrated myself at his feel—he wears size thirteen American shoes. He formerly bought his boots in London. What can I say of his appearance?"

Solo stared at the man's gray face. "Are you afraid to describe him? Why? Is he actually so terribly ugly—"

"Ahhh!" The word burst from Zouida's lips. "Please. He is a great man, of great goodness of heart, plagued by heinous problems. He rules his country wisely, compassionately. He has forty-seven wives, all of whom he took into slavery before he would marry them. Though each was enslaved, all would now die for him—all attest to his purity, and greatness of heart."

Solo laughed. "You sound like the Zabir chamber of commerce, or else you're so afraid these confidential reports will get somehow to your Sheik, and you're so afraid of telling us the truth about his looks that—"

"Please, Mr. Solo!" Zouida looked reedy to weep. "Is beauty everything? Or is beauty from the inside? If so, then Sheik Ali Zud is truly beautiful."

Solo laughed. "What you're saying is that Zud looks like a pig, but you're afraid to say it aloud. Relax, Zouida, he'll never hear what goes on in this room."

Zouida Berikeen was finally permitted to depart. When he was gone, Waverly sat chewing on his pipe, staring at Wanda's doll-like face.

Solo followed the direction of Waverly's thoughts and spoke urgently. "I suggest, sir, that we follow the alternate plan. That we allow me to handle this matter alone."

"That's what they want us to do," Waverly said.

"But, sir, we've hundreds of agents. In all parts of the world, none of them known to Sheik Zud—"

"Wonder what he looks like," Wanda said suddenly.

"Who?" Both Waverly and Solo twisted in their chairs, staring at her.

Realizing she had interrupted again, Wanda shrank into the huge chair, her eyes wide. She bit her lip.

But they stared at her, waiting. Finally, she knew she had to speak. "I wondered about Sheik Zud, sir. He sounded kind, even if he did order poor Illya executed. But it's so strange."

"Yes?" Waverly's voice was dangerously quiet.

"I mean, no pictures of the Sheik. No paintings or photos. The Sheik forbids it, on pain of death. Why would he do that?"

"I'm strongly tempted to send you over there with a camera to find out," Waverly told her.

She took him seriously. "Oh, please do, sir!"

Both Waverly and Solo stared at her, at each other, helplessly.

Finally, Waverly stood up, prowling the room, scratching at his jaw with the pipe stem. "I think we should send her. Now listen with all your mind, girl, and pray you do not misunderstand one word. I am sending you, by plane, tonight to Zabir."

"Oh, thank you!"

"Wait until you get back to thank me. Now you can look at Mr. Solo's disapproving face and see that he believes I am making my most serious tactical blunder of my career. But I ask myself, isn't this what Ambassador Zouida Berikeen would think, what Zud would think, what anyone in his right mind would think? So, it seems I should send you. No one could suspect you are there for any purpose. They couldn't learn anything from you— because you don't know anything, do you?"

"Oh, no, sir!" Wanda agreed.

"Then listen carefully. Your life may depend on your following orders to the letter. Do you understand? Not only your life, but Mr. Solo's life, and the success of our whole plan to learn the truth about what's going on in that kingdom."

"Mr. Solo is going with me," Wanda whispered in delight.

"Correction!" Waverly said sternly. "Mr. Solo will fly on the same plane with you. He will go into Zabir with you, or soon after. But you do not know him. He is a stranger to you. You are not to speak to him. Do not contact him, no matter what happens. Do you understand? No matter what happens. Silence between you. No look that would betray either of you. You must not fail. You must obey my order Do not speak to Solo, even if you—or he—is in deadly peril."

"I promise," Wanda whispered. "

She folded her arms across her breasts, tautly, head tilted.

"Save your breath," Waverly advised. "Now, your sole job is to collect Illya's effects, his body if possible. That's all."

"I'll do it," Wanda cried. "I loved Illya—and this time, I won't fail. I'll do it just as you say. They can kill me, and I won't cry out to Mr. Solo."

"I hope so," Alexander Waverly said, but there wasn't much conviction in his tone. He was following a hunch, acting on instinct, but he somehow felt it was like trusting an aching corn to predict a hurricane.

FOUR

THE AIR FRANCE jet streaked south and east across the troubled European skies.

Napoleon Solo checked his disguise in the washroom mirror. It was simplicity itself, yet he was certain it was effective. Gray-tinted contact lenses had changed the color of his eyes. A graying wig added ten years to his age and the rimless glasses gave him the look of a kindly Mr. Chips on a school master's holiday.

He straightened and turned away to the door. The distant roar of the jet engines set a trembling through the fuselage. Hand on the knob, he hesitated. Much about this journey troubled him, but one thing really bugged him: how was Wanda Mae Kim going to react under fire?

His life, and his success in Zabir, depended on her following orders. He determined to test her at once.

He stepped out into the passageway, walking with the slightly stooped, hesitant movement of a middle-aged schoolteacher on what was likely his first plane flight.

He paused beside the chair where Wanda Mae sat with the latest issue of a movie fan magazine on her knees. She wore an exotic traveling suit of olive, her gleaming hair was done in a lacquered roll.

He gave her a faintly lecherous grin and said, "Hello, honey. May I sit here by you?"

Wanda's head jerked up and she gazed at him.

His heart sank. It was almost as if he could follow her thought processes. First, she hit the panic switch. He had the terrible premonition that she was going to warn him aloud that they were strangers, and not supposed to speak.

Then he was afraid that she didn't really recognize him. And then when her eyes widened, he saw she did.

He thought emptily, well, it's better for the whole foolish scheme to fall apart here in the plane rather than after they put down in Zabir.

But in these same swift seconds, he saw her recover. She found her lost poise, remembered her orders, and reacted like a soldier in the trenches.

"I'm sorry, sir!" she said loudly. "You've made some kind of mistake in the kind of girl you think I am If you persist in pushing your unwanted attentions on me, I'll have to call the steward!"

Solo retreated, almost stumbling, aware of the amused glances of the passengers near them.

Sighing in relief, Solo straightened, barely able to conceal his own pleased smile. He made a mental note to buy Wanda a steak dinner if they ever got back to New York.

When he turned toward his own seat, he saw that a young woman had moved into the chair beside his.

Solo caught his breath. To say she was a young woman was understatement. She was authentic, contemporary female perfection, thoughtfully designed. There was elegance about her, from trim slippers to upswept platinum hair. What she was was living proof that long flights don't have to be dull.

She smiled up at him. She wore a beige skirt which molded the planes of her hips and legs. She'd removed her matching jacket, although the pressurized cabin had seemed chilled to Solo until this moment.