"For such a kind-hearted and thoughtful man, you wield a wicked knife," Illya commented dryly.

"My only protection in a wicked world. And it's knives, not knife. I can impale a flying champagne cork at twenty paces. It's one of my celebrated party tricks. Actually it stems from a dislike of guns. Nasty, noisy, barbarous inventions of the devil."

Illya never took his eyes off the man's face. It was, a lean, smiling face, a face that should have belonged to a buccaneer, or Robin Hood. It definitely did not belong in the Twentieth Century; its owner seemed equally out of place. Gentlemen in evening dress did not ordinarily step out of dark alleys and impale jewel thieves with ivory-handled knives. There was definitely he decided, more to this than was readily apparent to the eye.

"But really, I hate to monopolize the conversation. What have you heard recently about the Rainbow gang?"

"Very little," said Illya honestly. "They were supposed to have been responsible for the Rothschild gold robbery two weeks ago; they had a jewel robbery planned for tonight which seems to have gone astray somewhere. And they seem to have a most remarkable assortment of people looking for them for one reason or another."

"You have no leads on his location, of course."

"None. I don't suppose…"

"Afraid not. But the more people searching, the more likely success. I take it you are interested in Johnnie only for his own charming self, and not for his fine collection of rare British cash?"

Illya nodded. "You are suggesting a pooling of information?"

"The idea had occurred to me."

"It might be worked out. Unfortunately, at the moment, I fear neither of us has anything useful to the other."

"Regrettably. However, I shall keep in touch. If I uncover anything you detective types might call a 'clue,' I'll certainly ring you up and invite you over for a look at it."

"And if we come up with anything?"

"I'll know about it." He glanced at Illya, and the flare of a passing streetlight struck a blue glint from his eyes. "There are times when I think half the population of this little island has a personal interest in finding Johnnie Rainbow. And it's very hard to keep secrets in such a close-knit family. Now here's your hotel - good night."

And Illya was standing on the curb, looking off up the street after the sleek gray car until the burble of its exhaust had died away in the distance.

Chapter 6

How Napoleon Solo Declined an Honor, and Met an Exciting Young Lady.

GRADUALLY NAPOLEON became aware that he ached in several places. His wrist hurt - he remembered having it nearly broken just a few minutes ago, or so it seemed. His head hurt - that he couldn't quite justify. It ached as if it had been hit very hard recently. And in addition to these complaints, he felt as if he had been thrown around rather roughly for several hours. His shoulders, back, hips and legs hurt too. He considered the combination of sensations for a while, and decided be didn't like it.

In fact, he decided, he was still being thrown around. He wasn't moving around himself, but large flat surfaces kept swinging around and hitting him, mostly in places where he was already bruised. He stuck out a hand and found something which was either a wall or a floor and groped around for a projection of any kind to hold on to.

He found nothing, but the feel of the cold slick metal helped bring his senses into focus. There was a loud roaring and rumbling which he was able to identify as the motor of a truck - a fairly large one, probably. He braced himself as well as he could on the slippery floor, and wrapped his arms protectively around his sore head.

The swaying of the truck still swung him from side to side, and wherever they were the pavement was not of the best - the floor still had an annoying tendency to drop away from under him and then leap up again just as he started to fall to meet it.

It was still dark, and he was attempting to read the luminous dial of his watch when he realized his eyes were still closed. He tried to open them, but it stayed dark. He concentrated until he was quite sure the eyelids were in a raised condition, and then looked around, trying to focus.

There was a little light after all - a vertical line of gray off at right angles to the directions he kept swaying. Since the swaying was an indication of turns, he reasoned that must be either the front or back of the truck - and since there was presumably a cab of some kind covering the front, it was probably the back. In fact, he decided as he finally pulled into full orientation, that is the space between the two doors at the back. Also, he added to himself, it is daylight outside, which means I've been out for at least four hours. He looked down at his watch again, and was relieved to find it glowing faintly in its accustomed place near the end of his arm. It looked like either two o'clock or ten minutes after twelve; his eyes still weren't focusing perfectly.

A quick check of his pocket showed his communicator missing - to be expected. Too many people knew what that little silver fountain pen was capable of - Section Five should start work on something new to hide the tiny long-distance radio in. A shoe-heel, for instance, or maybe a hollow tooth, depending on how miniaturization was progressing. His automatic was gone, of course - probably still lying there on the pavement of New Bond Street. He hoped somebody had picked it up; it would be a devil to clean if the dew got into it and rust pitting developed in the barrel. But his shoulder-rig was also missing. He hoped they were to together.

He checked his other concealed surprises - they were all in place. The little goodies that made each U.N.C.L.E. agent's suit into a walking arsenal were all present. As he contemplated the mental roll, his confidence returned. He could still blast his way out and make it back to London.

On the other hand, he might be almost anywhere. He had apparently been out of touch with reality for from eight to ten hours - that would be enough time for him to be halfway around the world. On the third hand, if he was halfway around the world and it was twelve-ten - or two - in England, it should be dark outside, so he was probably at least in Europe. But on the fourth hand, they could have reset his watch while he was unconscious, so it would be reading in local time. But that seemed uncommonly considerate for a bunch of kidnappers.

On the fifth hand, if he had been traveling in a truck for all - or even most - of those eight or ten hours, he could still be several hundred miles away. Or at least a few hundred, considering the size of Britain. On the sixth hand…

Napoleon was running out of hands, and the thought reminded him to look at his watch again. It was now either ten past one, or five minutes past two. He decided that, in view of the subjective time that had passed since he'd last looked at his watch, it was probably five minutes after two.

The truck bounced violently, and a wall he hadn't expected swung out of the darkness and dealt severely with a tender patch on the back of his head. Specks of light danced before his eyes for a moment, and he raised a shaking hand to steady himself again.

Judging from the vibration, they were going at a pretty good clip. It would be pointless to use one of the little 'skeleton keys' - the tiny lumps of thermite with a manually ignited fuse which would make slag of the sturdiest lock in seconds - to blow open the door of the van; probably be better to wait until they arrived wherever they were going, and the doors were opened. For one thing, he believed in letting the opposition do as much of the work as possible, and for another, he had several questions he wanted to ask somebody.