Arnolda Van Atta replaced the .45 in her clutch bag. She looked at Mr. Riddle, eyebrows arched.

The Frankenstein mask nodded.

"I rather thought that would be necessary, Arnolda."

"It was," she agreed. "Very. Tell the truck driver to get rid of his body in the usual way."

Mr. Riddle made a steeple of his fingers again.

"Charleston will like that. He didn't care for our dear departed Bora Singh."

"That makes two of us." Arnolda Van Atta regarded her fingernails again.

The Frankenstein face regarded the crumpled mass that Bora Singh's body made on the floor. The mask wobbled as he shook his head.

"It is always amazing to me to see the amount of trouble a man can get into when he doesn't use his mouth judiciously."

"Yes," the redhead said. "It is something worth remembering, Mr. Riddle."

The man behind the mask seemed to shudder visibly. His voice now sounded almost tentative. "Perhaps I should check on Mr. Waverly. He has the communiqué. We should—"

"Get Charleston first and have him move the Hindu out of here," Arnolda Van Atta said quietly, still not looking at him.

"Of course, Arnolda."

She stretched suddenly, raising her long arms, yawning attractively so that her bosom was sharply defined in the cashmere sweater. Her smile was mocking.

"Our friends from Uncle must be very restless with their clothes off. I wonder if they are making love."

"It is a good idea," Mr. Riddle agreed, reaching for an enamel buzzer set in the surface of the metal desk. "One that a beautiful woman such as yourself would think of."

She made no comment to the compliment and studied the right forefinger of her hand. She had broken the bright red fingernail.

Mr. Riddle spoke quickly into the tiny transmitter affixed to the buttonhole of his left lapel.

Within a matter of minutes, the Negro truck driver pushed into the room. His eyes widened when he saw the corpse, then a wider smile eclipsed his cocoa-colored face. An irreverent light twinkled in his eyes.

"Charleston," Mr. Riddle purred. "Put Bora Singh away. Acid treatment, since we don't want to use the furnaces."

"Stepped out of line, huh?" Charleston chuckled. "Knew he would. Too big for his turban. Just like I said. Who popped him?"

Mr. Riddle's Frankenstein face still showed only the frozen leer but his voice said: "Miss Van Atta did the honors."

"Good girl," the Negro chortled. "You got class, lady."

He bent down, poking his big hands under Bora Singh's armpits. Arnolda Van Atta watched, no emotion visible on her cool face. Charleston hummed softly as he worked, adding some words as he swung the dead Hindu astride his broad shoulders. "Way down upon the Swami River...." Mr. Riddle laughed mirthlessly. Blood from Bora Singh's blasted skull dripped to the floor.

The laughter halted only because of a large, explosive rush of sound from somewhere outside the room. The walls rocked with thunder. Plaster cracked. Arnolda Van Atta uncrossed her shapely legs and sprang erect. Charleston paused in the doorway, Bora Singh's body draped over one muscular shoulder. His eyes popped with fright.

Mr. Riddle came from around he desk. He was very tall. Tall and cadaverous. A gaunt, skeletal sight with a Frankenstein face.

"It's them," Arnolda Van Atta said in a low voice. "That came from their room—those damn Uncle swine—what have they done now?"

The question hung unanswered as echoing bursts of sound raced around the room.

The room seemed to tremble with violence.

The Great Zorki

"My compliments, Mr. Zorki," Alexander Waverly said. "Your colleagues place the highest price on your services."

The man with the head of a bull glowered across the polished glass of Waverly's desk. His savage black brows met in a V of impatience.

"You mock me?"

Mr. Waverly shook his head, his professorial facade mild and good-natured.

"One does not mock an agent whom Thrush would go to such great lengths to return him to the field, my friend. No, I do not mock Alek Yakov Zorki. I would be a fool if I did. I am all too aware of your triumphs with Thursh."

Zorki's bestial face, framed in a skull that was a living portrait of the charging bull rampant, smiled. His massive shoulders, enhanced by the gray turtleneck sweater which accented the thickness of his neck, hunched forward. His teeth were grotesquely small and even in his big face.

"So, my dear Waverly. The bargaining has begun then?"

"Yes." Waverly indicated the yellow streamer of teletype on his desk. It lay on the blotter pad between the two men—the difference between life and death. It was an odd afternoon to think about morbid combats: sunlight flooded the picture window of the office, revealing the glass architecture of the buildings in the background. Countless windows, reflecting the sun, glistened like emeralds.

Zorki, staring past Waverly's lean shoulder, seemed mesmerized by the view, like an immigrant viewing the Statue of Liberty for the first time. But the head of U.N.C.L.E. was not deceived.

This was Zorki, a man who had been to America too many times to be mistaken for a guileless foreigner. The same Zorki who had sabotaged the waterfront situation, delaying countless cargoes of supplies crucial to the running of a democracy. God knew what else.

Alek Yakov Zorki. KKK on the books. Code name: Bomber.

The agent's eyes glittered. "Have you agreed to the terms?"

Waverly pursed his lips. "Not yet. We must talk first. A fair exchange is no bargain—I've heard that somewhere. Your people have one of my best men. Perhaps they now have two. A most unique young lady you may well remember. I prize these people very highly. But I fear I may prize you even more. Therefore, I must think a little longer on the matter."

Zorki snorted. "And how much time do you have to—think?"

"Midnight today. Your friends suggest I contact a locker in Grand Central Station."

"Ah, yes. Grand Central. I nearly blew that place up once. It would have been a glorious thing. Think of it. New York's vital traffic bogged down for weeks, months."

"Perhaps," Waverly murmured. "In any case, I didn't bring you in here to discuss your exploits for Thrush."

Zorki's bushy eyebrows rose.

"So? To specifics then. Are you going to agree to the terms?"

"No," Mr. Waverly said. "I am not." He stared down at the tips of his spatulate, leathery fingers, then searched the top of the desk for one of his pipes. But there were none there. Only the row of enamel buttons of all colors. Zorki followed his gaze, impatiently. "You see, my dear Zorki, I am fearful of your health. A man such as yourself must often catch colds. I have found that true of most large men of my acquaintance."

"Bah," roared Zorki. "What are two agents compared to the Great Zorki? A mere man and a woman—"

"The man," said Mr. Waverly, "is impulsive, a bit of a nonconformist but he is highly skilled and intelligent enough to be a candidate for this very desk one day. As for Miss Dancer, apart from being dedicated to good work, she has poured every molecule of her being into the fight against cosmic evils like Thrush. She's a bit penurious—her Maine background—but I find that refreshing when it comes to turning in expense accounts. Miss Dancer actually is worth five of you to me, Mr. Zorki. But we were talking about your health, were we not?"