Napoleon paused at the door and looked at his partner. "Arc you starting to believe we might actually have some purpose here after all?"

"I will have to admit the concept has begun to cross my mind. You may remember from a year ago that the greatest advantage a real vampire would have in the modem world is that no one would believe in him. If Johnnie Rainbow exists, he is in an enviable position."

"Especially since his existence is not only ignored, but vigorously denied..." said Napoleon thoughtfully, as they reclaimed their rented Lotus and came out of the underground parking area into the bright afternoon sun light.

"Suppose Rainbow does exist," said Illya, leaning back in the bucket seat as Napoleon piloted the little car through the knotted streets and clotted traffic which filled central London at that hour of the afternoon. "None of the men who actually committed the robberies would admit his existence; they'd be well-paid when they'd served their time, or more likely sprung, smuggled abroad, and paid off there. And since they won't bring the subject up, and Scotland Yard won't ask them, it seems highly unlikely that Johnnie will ever be called to account for his crimes unless you and I take a hand in things."

"My thoughts exactly," said his partner. "He may or may not exist, but personally I wouldn't feel comfortable going home until I have proven either possibility to my own satisfaction."

"And Mr. Waverly's."

"Yes. And Mr. Waverly's. We shall start early tomorrow morning - or possibly early tomorrow afternoon. It will be another day or so before my body has readjusted to London time. My stomach, too. What would you say to dinner at this relatively early hour?"

"It sounds most appetizing. I presume you had some place specific in mind?"

"I know an excellent little Italian restaurant, a similar German restaurant, as well as French, Chinese, Armenian, Spanish and Scandinavian restaurants. There's even one specializing in genuine southern-fried chicken."

"And all of them are in the same block in Soho."

"Same three blocks, except for the French one. Let's hit the Chinese one tonight; then we can eat another dinner at nine or ten, and be closer to the local scheduling.

Illya nodded, and the little red car veered east.

Chapter 3

How Napoleon and Illya Toured Soho, and Two Other Gentlemen Debated at Length.

"IF I'D REMEMBED the parking situation was so bad, I'd have left the car back at the hotel and taken the Underground," Napoleon said, as they wandered through the colorful back streets of the Soho district. They'd found a parking area in Ramillies Places, just off Oxford Street, and had followed directions from there to the restaurant. Now, with a pair of full meals inside them, they felt ready for a matching pair of warm beds. Thus it was with honest reluctance that Illya felt constrained lo call to his partner's attention something he had just noticed.

"Napoleon - I truly hate to bring this up, but we are being followed."

Solo sighed deeply and nodded. "Since we left the restaurant. I didn't want to mention it; I was hoping they'd go away. But they made the last two turns right with us, didn't they?"

"Uh-huh. You don't imagine it's anything as simple and commonplace as a pair of muggers, do you?"

"Afraid not."

Neither of them had raised his voice above a murmur during this exchange, nor had they broken stride. Aware of the dangers that could be waiting in the dark doorways of the buildings they passed, they kept their attention divided between the sounds of footfalls behind them and the silent shadows that lurked ahead.

Then an alley mouth gaped on their left, and a solitary streetlight a dozen yards away showed a single right turn. They ducked in and around the corner, where two metal plates high on the side of the building marked the juncture of Newburgh and Broadwick Streets. They froze there, listening.

The soft crunch of shoe soles on pavement paused at the entrance to Broadwick, then began to approach cautiously. Running softly on rubber-soled feet, Napoleon and Illya made another quick left into Canton and then a right. The street they found themselves in was brilliantly lit, and lined with small, intricately decorated shops. Illya looked quickly around.

"I know where we are now," he said softly. "Regent Street is just a block further west. Somehow I think it would be safer to take a bus back to the hotel than to attempt to retrieve the car at this point."

Solo nodded complete agreement as Illya continued, "The next corner is Foubert's Place. We go left there, and hurry."

As they moved briskly forward, two large men stepped out from between the shops to the right, and stood with their arms folded, blocking the way. The U.N.C.L.E. agents stopped and glanced back. Two more were approaching from behind.

Napoleon looked at his partner. "No, I don't think they're ordinary muggers."

"In fact," said Illya thoughtfully, "I think they're Lascars."

At that moment all four of the men sprang into action, closing in on their quarry. Napoleon and Illya had their backs to the brick wall, and dropped into the trained fighter's defensive crouch. Their attackers paused and half-circled them warily, then moved in more slowly.

Solo automatically left the right-hand pair to his partner, and took the other two himself. After waiting for a few seconds for the Lascars to make the first move, he suddenly sprang into action. A karate kick at the stomach of the first missed by a fraction of an inch as the stomach withdrew. Only the wall at his back saved him from a severe loss of balance, and the twist of his body let his ankle slip from the hands that grabbed for it. He recovered in a fraction of a second and swung a vicious chop at an exposed rib cage. The shock of a solid connection thrilled up his arm, and an agonized grunt rewarded him.

In the same moment, Illya feinted for the throat of one Lascar and shifted his attack to the face of the other. In a flurry of chops and kicks one of them went down while the other stumbled blindly back, clutching at his streaming nose. Illya's shoulder ached from a near miss with a weighted cosh one of them had swung, but he turned to help his partner.

Napoleon had knocked the wind out of one with a direct thrust to the solar plexus, and had squared with the other as Illya came up. But instead of joining battle the survivor whipped something from his pocket to his mouth as he jumped back, and blew an eerie trill on some kind of whistle. A moment later small bursts of smoke puffed around the U.N.C.L.E. agents as gas- shells splattered against the bricks. In a matter of seconds they lay crumpled on the pavement, and more silent figures materialized from the shadows to bear them away.

Less than a mile away through the tangled maze of alleys that is Soho, two men sat facing each other in a small, dimly-lit room. The walls of the room were hung about with brocades of the finest silk, and drifting clouds of incense thickened the air. Dominating the room was a great teakwood desk, intricately carved and inlaid.

Behind this desk sat a tall, thin Chinese, wearing robes of silk which shimmered in the candlelight. His face was unlined, but his eyes were old with ancient wisdom, and seemed oddly veiled, like those of a drowsing cat. Above an imposing brow, he wore a black skullcap with a single coral bead which indicated the rank of Mandarin. A marmoset perched on his shoulder, occasionally nuzzling his ear.

His visitor sat primly on the edge of a deeply cushioned straight-backed chair, a slim briefcase balanced on his knees with a tightly furled umbrella and a bowler hat laid across it. He wore an utterly undistinguished gray suit, and he was addressing the Chinese gentleman.