"And you think that, because we haven't heard by now, we never shall?"

"I think we never shall in that sense. In other words, I believe Mr. Solo was abducted for reasons other than the one I have mentioned."

"But what reasons could they have, whoever they are?" Illya objected. "Napoleon was not on assignment. If there's no intention of demanding money against his safe return, what could be the point of the operation?"

Waverly slumped into his swivel chair and picked up the pipe he had thrown down among the files and reports that morning. Irritably, he ferreted about among the scattered papers for a book of matches. "Let's look at this objectively," he said at last. "Forget our personal feelings for Mr. Solo. Examine the facts: a top operative for an international organization devoted to the maintenance of law and order is kidnapped. Item, the crime was committed, prima facie, by those who are against law and order  Now customarily persons are kidnapped for one of five reasons: to make them talk; to prevent them from talking; to stop them doing or completing something; to stop somebody else from doing those things—or to make somebody else do something, whether it be to pay a sum of money or follow a certain course of action. Item, since Mr. Solo is not on assignment, we can discount, I imagine, the second, the third, and the fourth of those categories. We are left with the proposition that he was kidnapped either to allow some person or persons unknown sufficient opportunity to persuade him to talk; or so that his capture can be used to blackmail us into some course we would not normally entertain."

"But you yourself said the last possibility was remote, since we have received no kind of 'ransom' demand," intervened Kuryakin.

Waverly picked up the twist of tobacco which had earlier spilled on to his desk and dropped it into the bowl of his pipe. "It's unlikely," he said, "but it is possible." He rammed the tobacco home with his thumb and jammed the pipe into his mouth.

"But if your man isn't working on a case at the moment," said Trevitt, "what would anyone want him to talk about? Specifically, I mean."

"That suggests a number of alternatives," Waverly said. "Finding the answer would depend on knowing exactly who it was that had got him. We have a double choice for this—either the wrongdoers of the rest of the world; or—Thrush."

"Thrush?" The Lieutenant looked at him inquiringly.

"Thrush. A consortium of evil, Lieutenant. Little known, but deadly just the same. In brief, a conspiracy of financiers, scientists, industrialists and criminals who employ their unlimited funds and their not inconsiderable intelligence in a persistent attempt to take control of the world." Waverly struck a match and held it aloft.

Illya Kuryakin repressed a smile. His chief possessed an apparently inexhaustible supply of pipes, which he was always filling. Indeed, Waverly's pipes were one of the Command's favorite in jokes. But, however many he filled, it was rare indeed for any of his staff to see him actually smoke one. If, as now, a lighted match even approached the bowl, it was a sure sign that the old man was more than usually perturbed.

"But we must not guess," Waverly was going on. "Let us examine the data and see what conclusions we can fairly draw. Our antagonists have already killed once to stop the possibility—not the certainty, remember—of our being given information leading to the getaway car. Item, either they are exceptionally ruthless, or the fact that they have Mr. Solo is of paramount importance to—Blast!"

He dropped the remains of the match into an ashtray, took the pipe from his mouth to lay it on the desk, and sucked his scorched finger.

"While we're on the subject, sir," Trevitt interjected tactfully, "may I ask one or two questions—about the conditions surrounding the snatch, that is?"

"By all means."

"I take it that we are agreed that, at least as far as entrances and exits go, the kidnappers must have been familiar with your security set-up?"

"Intimately."

"Does this imply an inside accomplice to you, then?"

"Not necessarily. Lieutenant. You're thinking of the girl again, I suppose. But although we're pretty strict on the secrecy angle, we do have visitors, you know—quite often. Army officers and police officials from various countries, people from the Pentagon, operatives from the CIA, the Deuxieme Bureau, the FBI, MI6, the MVD. Even journalists, sometimes.

"Any of them could have pieced together enough to plan the kidnapping and the diversion which preceded it, once they'd been here a few times. It's not even beyond the bounds of possibility that one of the less reputable intelligence agencies could kidnap a man like Mr. Solo—if they thought he had information which might help them against an adversary."

"After all," Illya put in, "all they needed to know was the fact that operatives entered through Del Florio's shop, that there was another entrance through the garage, and that a single person monitored the closed-circuit TV covering all the entrances. The details of how Del Florio's worked they could learn in time by becoming customers... once they knew was something there to look for."

"Ah, yes. The entrances. There are just the four you've told me about. Is that right?"

Waverly coughed. "That is correct," he said after a moment's hesitation. "Just the four."

Illya grinned inwardly again. Nobody had ever seen him use it, but it was widely believed in U.N.C.L.E. that there was in fact a fifth entrance, known only to Waverly himself. If there was, it was staying a secret, obviously!

"And, if you don't mind telling me," Trevitt continued, "how about the security arrangements once you're in? These things, for example." He fingered the triangular white badge pinned to his own lapel.

"Once you're in," Waverly echoed, "they're tight. Very tight indeed. The badges, now: there are three different colors. Red, which restricts the wearer to the entrance floor, where we only carry out routine work. Yellow, for people allowed on that floor and also up to Communications, on the second. And white, which permits the wearer to visit any floor."

"When you say 'restricts'...?"

"I mean just that. The badges are sensitized by a chemical on the fingertips of the receptionist who pins them on you. Once it has been transferred to the badge, the chemical will activate an alarm system immediately that badge ventures higher than its color coding permits."

"And if, say, a red badge does try and make the second floor...?"

"Once it passes the marker beam defining the limits of Red Badge territory, winking alarm lights flash on every desk in the building, bells ring, steel doors drop from the ceilings and seal off the section housing the intruder. It's quite a performance."

"Sounds pretty watertight, in every sense of the word! These badges are worn by everyone?"

"Everyone. Personnel and visitors alike." Waverly indicated the white shields ornamenting his own and Kuryakin's lapels. Above his head, the glass bulb set high on the panelled wall began to pulse green.

"What is it, Miss Riefenstahl?" Waverly called crossly, pressing the desk button. "I particularly asked not to be disturbed."

"I am very sorry to interrupt, sir, but the precinct house people are calling Lieutenant Trevitt. They said to say it was very urgent."

"Oh, I see. I'm sorry.... Lieutenant, would you care to take it at my desk?... The white telephone, please. Miss Riefenstahl."