After a slow count of twenty, he extended his left arm far out to his side and flicked on the pencil flashlight he held. It drew no attack, and he swiveled the ghostly beam around the room. The double was a mirror reversal of his own single, with almost twice as wide a main room and a sofabed where one of them would sleep. The wall bracket fixture between the door to the bed room and the door to the bathroom seemed the best; centrally located, turned on by the switch at the door, it would probably be connected most of the time the room's occupants were present and awake.

Working quickly, the flash gripped in his teeth, Illya tilted the shade back and extracted the bulb it concealed. His other hand brought up the substitute and screwed it into place with brisk movements of his wrist. The shade was carefully replaced, with an exact eye matching the angle at which it had been found. He stepped back, checking his work critically, and decided it was acceptable. He turned and took two steps towards the door.

The sound of a key in the lock froze him where he stood for an instant, then sped his movements. An attack would tell them their cover had been blown, even if he could escape unrecognized himself. There was no other door in the apartment, and no windows. The air vents would scarcely admit his head. He knew of a certainty there was no other way out than the way in. He also knew that he could hide in the shower stall in the bathroom or the closet in the bedroom; whoever was returning would be slightly more likely to go first to the former. Also the latter would muffle any sound he made rather than amplifying it, and be a less exposed position, though farther away from the door.

This data had been correlated in one professional corner of his mind during the minutes since he had entered the room; now the decision went directly to his muscles almost as a reflex. He spun silently and sprinted for the bedroom door. He pushed aside the alternate uniforms and leisure clothes as he heard the outer door open and saw by reflection the front room lights go on. Listening intently as he crouched in the dimness of the closet, a slight smile crossed Illya's face—he would probably have a chance to hear in person the same sounds his newly placed unit would be playing back to him later this evening.

Now he heard soft footsteps whispering on the thin rug, coming into the bedroom. A series of rustling sounds brought to his mind the picture of a man undressing, and he dared to part the garments slightly for a quick look. He caught a glimpse of a wiry brown chest, crisscrossed with old scars, and the top of a shaggy black beard struggling through the neck of a shirt. A coat was already draped across the bed.

Illya ducked back and hoped the man was not compulsively neat about hanging up his clothes. Seconds later a slight jingling told him of trousers tossed to join the coat, and twin thumps of discarded shoes. Silence followed, and Illya's sharply focused hearing detected no sound until the sudden roar of waterpipes beside his head told him the Turk had turned on the shower. Now if he hadn't left a robe behind, or decided to come back for a fresh towel... Illya decided to count to fifty, slowly.

He was to thirty-five when a not-unpleasant baritone came softly through the wall over the thunder of the pipes, singing in very bad French a ballad which had recently been popular in Tokyo. Illya parted the clothes again and looked out. The bedroom was empty, and the lights were on. He made a lightning mental review of his actions since entering the room, and, sure he had left no trace behind, started for the door.

The singing continued, not loudly, as he entered the main room, paused directly beneath his bug, and daringly rapped it twice, lightly, with his fingernail, before venturing past the half-open bathroom door. Steam wreathed out to vanish in the cooler air of the room and, focusing all his attention on the distance to the door knob, Illya slipped across the space in a few light steps. The knob turned silently in his grip, the door opened a crack and he ducked through into the corridor with only a quick prayer that it would be deserted. It was as he came through, but his hand was still on the knob behind him as a girl in a crisp blue uniform came around the corner.

Without a flicker of reaction Illya completed the motion smoothly, looking straight past the girl as the latch closed softly. She gave him an incurious glance and passed by without breaking step. He scarcely bothered to test the knob as he turned in the direction from which she had come and walked off at his own pace.

He didn't check the bug again until long after dinner. He keyed it and caught the beginning of the Turk's solo, following several seconds later by a loud TAP TAP. Illya nodded slightly and shifted to fast forward, scanning for conversation as the sound of the shower kept the mike functioning. Some seconds whirred by, and then a twitter of speech stopped him. He wound back and heard:

"What did you find out?"

"Beyond a doubt it is Waverly. Ninety-eight percent, certainly.

"Only ninety-eight?"

"Without fingerprints it could not be ninety-nine. It is Waverly."

"What approach do we use?"

"Always the easiest. A visit to his cottage tonight may allow us to continue our vacation here without the burden of a job undone."

"When it grows late, I think a stroll through the forest would prove a profitable end to the day. Perhaps shortly before midnight?"

"Security's rounds are well spaced after that hour."

"So let it be, then. Bezique?"

"Of course."

The dialogue beyond this point was more widely spaced and dealt almost entirely with the play of cards. Illya shut off the tape and glanced at his clock. Eleven- forty. They were probably still playing, and would leave in another ten minutes. It might take them as long as fifteen minutes to cover the mile to Waverly's cabin. That meant he had as much as twenty-five minutes, including travel time, to develop a way to thwart them, preferably without exposing himself, ideally without even letting them know they were being specifically thwarted.

At the same time he wondered what method they'd be likely to use. Not likely one readily recognizable as murder. The reign of terror that would ensue should a guest be murdered would certainly uncover both the assassins and probably Silverthorne as well. An accident would be difficult to arrange while he slept in his own bed, but some kind of poison, perhaps a gas, could leave him with no symptoms beyond the vague "heart failure." Anything they could do while keeping themselves covered would take time to prepare.

He rewound the tape and found the dialogue again. He played it through, listening carefully and projecting himself into the minds of the speakers. What approach do we use? Always the easiest. Security's rounds are well spaced...

He glanced at the clock as the card game began again in his 'phones. Eleven forty-two. He rubbed his chin reflectively, and then nodded. Always take the easiest way. He pushed the rewind button and in the privacy of his mind allowed himself an uncommonly self-satisfied smile. He wouldn't even have to put his shoes on again to block the little opening gambit.

He spent the next ten minutes making notes in long hand for his final report, then reached for the telephone. He tapped out the number for Security and blanked his vision screen. When the night watch answered, he adjusted his throat muscles and spoke with a gravelly British dialect.

"This is Dodgson, in Number Thirty-Five. There seems to be some sort of large animal bashing about near my cabin. Could you send someone out to have a look around without disturbing me?"

"Certainly, sir," said the watch. "We'll have a jeep out there in five minutes."