ACT II

INCIDENT OF THE DOUBLE AGENT

"GOOD EVENING. This is your steward. As you perceive, the no-smoking light is on, as is the warning to fasten your seat belts, please. We are coming into the International Airport of Kurbot, on the border of Zabir. Our passengers for Zabir will disembark here. Others continuing with us to Xanra and Iran will remain aboard. Please keep seat belts fastened until the plane is on the runway before the debarking center and all engines are off. We have enjoyed serving you, and—"

Napoleon Solo exhaled heavily, stealing a quick glance toward Wanda. She sat erect, businesslike. For no good reason, he felt a rush of sorrow for her. She seemed so small. On the other hand, this was a career she'd chosen for herself. Death remained a constant risk. Well, she'd passed her first tests. He hoped she'd pass the others.

His jaw tightened. He couldn't worry about her. Finding out the truth about Illya's death and the unrest inside Zabir would be a full-time operation, requiring all his attention. He would only endanger both of them, and the whole objective, unless he put her entirely out of his mind

He could not help glancing toward her after she came off the wind-tortured steps, holding her pert little hat with one hand and her brief skirt with the other as she crossed the runway toward the waiting rooms. With her diplomatic pass from United Network she was spared the long struggle through customs.

As schoolmaster-on-a-holiday Armistead Finch, Solo was completely entangled in custom's red-tape.

He heard Pretty Wilde complaining to officials behind her about the delays.

"I've been brought here by Sheik Zud himself," she kept telling them in outraged tones.

All she got from them were shrugs and repeated, "Sorry, no English, thank you."

He glanced around, but saw the practical joking salesman nowhere. He shrugged, grinning faintly at the memory of that exploding cigar, Ordwell's stalking away in frustrated rage.

Finally, Solo worked his way to the main concourse exit. Pretty Wilde's voice snagged at him. "Good-bye Professor. Hope you have a nice vacation and catch a lot of pretty girls."

He nodded, peering over the tops of his rimless glasses at her. "Same to you, Pretty. Hope you have no trouble at all teaching the sultan's forty-seven wives a thing or two."

"Want me to put in a good word for you with the sheik?" Pretty asked.

He managed to play the school teacher to the end, smiling. "Pretty, I can't think of a thing that sheik could do for me." He let his gaze admire her openly. "He just isn't my type."

Pretty laughed. "Though he might have some slightly-used wives lying around—"

He said, smacking his lips, "You've ruined all other women for me."

He watched her progress along the concourse, aware that this was a chore he shared with all males in the place, even the oldest, hunkered in their burnooses. She lighted the tiredest eyes, speaking a language understood by every man she passed.

He watched her step aside suddenly, and his gaze pulled unwillingly from her to the long column of green-clad soldiers sharp-stepping in columns of fours. They carried field packs, wore helmet-liners, carried gleaming new rifles, bayonets fixed. They looked combat ready, except that boots and uniforms appeared catalogue fresh.

He jerked his gaze back, but Pretty Wilde had disappeared. She was gone as though she'd never existed except as a figment of an overheated imagination.

It suddenly occurred to him that he bad no idea what had happened to Wanda.

The public address speakers crackled, words spewing forth in Arabic. People reacted, fast, leaping up from the chairs and from the floors, grabbing up suitcases, carpetbags and sheet-wrapped belongings. They ran toward the exits, and the green-clad soldiers, at a command from a shrill whistle, spread out, barring every door, guns rigid across their chests.

Shaking his head, Solo retreated to the Air France counter and asked in French what was happening?

The young woman on duty smiled at his halting use of her language, answered in careful English, like something remembered: "The troops are in charge. Zabir borders have been closed, sir, until further notice."

Then she shrugged helplessly. "This is all we know, sir."

Solo thanked her, remembering to walk in that hesitant school master manner, shoulders slightly forward as if he were writing on an invisible blackboard.

The Arabic chattering suddenly ceased on the public address system. A voice, speaking in English, intoned: "Miss Wanda Mae Kim, please. Miss Wanda Mae Kim, passenger on Air France Flight seven twenty seven, report-to the upper lounge at once, please. Miss Kim."

And then the Arabic spewing of commands took over again.

Solo continued his unhurried pace, kept the questioning smile, but moved to the stairs and went up them to the lounge.

At the head of the wide stairs, Solo paused as if out of breath and leaned against the balustrade.

He had to hide his shock at seeing Ambassador Zouida Berikeen standing near the most modern baggage lift. He was not alone. Three or four Zabir civilians, who were obviously Zouida's secretaries and flunkies, stood alertly near him. Behind him were a dozen green- clad soldiers.

Solo exhaled, seeing what the soldiers were guarding. There was a casket, sealed tightly, and upon it were neatly stacked the clothing and effects belonging to Illya Kuryakin.

Near this casket was another, also stacked with feminine apparel and accessories, obviously the belongings of Ann Nelson Wheat, the evangelist who'd been executed as a spy.

Solo felt the muscles tighten in his stomach: Zouida was less than a hundred feet from him. He even saw the ambassador glance in his direction once.

Solo turned and faltered to the coffee bar, where he ordered a demitasse of the strong coffee. It was served with liquid sweetener and goat's milk. He almost gagged on the first sip.

He sweated, wondering if Zouida would recognize him despite his wig, glasses and contact lenses. No one's eyes ever changed, he knew. Perhaps glasses and contact lenses and an excellently constructed gray wig, plus the fact that Zouida thought him in New York, might deceive the ambassador, but he wouldn't gamble on it.

He winced. Whatever the trouble here in Zabir, it had been enough to cause the immediate and secret recall of the United Nations representative.

He lifted the cup, but didn't take another sip of the coffee.

Wanda came hurrying up the stairs. She almost glanced at him, then turned away.

He shook his head helplessly. He'd wondered where Wanda had disappeared to. Now he knew. She'd gone to the powder room and completely redone her hair and her make-up. While the second-most important man in Zabir waited!

He heard her heels clatter across the tile flooring to where Ambassador Zouida Berikeen awaited her, with his presentation ceremony prepared.

Solo could not hear what they said. It was like watching a stilted tableau. Finally, Wanda bowed to the ambassador, smiled uncertainly at his aides and guards and stepped forward to examine the belongings stacked on Illya's casket.

She turned and said something to Zouida, evidently asking if she would be permitted to open the casket to view the body.

Zouida stepped forward, shaking his head. No, to view the body would not be permitted.

Wanda accepted this, then began to go through the clothing and other belongings spread before her.

Suddenly Wanda cried out. Napoleon Solo stiffened.

Zouida stepped back, startled. The secretaries straightened and the twelve soldiers came to attention, bayonets glittering at the ready.