"You mean he was covering himself? He thought something might happen?"

"Something can always happen. Napoleon. I think he put it there as a tip-off that the glasses were the medium he'd used to make the hologram... just in case. And unfortunately for him, his precautions turned out to be necessary."

Solo, picking up the sunglasses and turning them over, saw just a pair of expensive spectacles with rather large lenses, one of which was cracked. He grinned. "I hope they're classy enough to have exactly the same curvature on both lenses," he said. "Otherwise, if he happened to have used the one that's got damaged, we'd be back to square one again!"

"You're convinced, then?" Kuryakin asked.

"Oh yes; I'm sure you are right, Illya. There's no doubt about it. We've found the treasure. All we have to do now is get it back to New York!"

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Tables Are Turned

Giovanna del Renzio had agreed to take Solo and Illya to the airport. The evening before, they had decided to celebrate a little and she had accompanied them to Angelo's for dinner; this time without seeing either Carlsen or the bulky man in grey! Now she was outside the hotel waiting for Illya to bring the Fiat round from the garage while Solo made a farewell telephone call to the Commendatore.

It was still raining, though there was blue sky over towards the mountains. The girl was wearing a dazzling white vinyl raincoat, with white patent knee boots and an absurd orange umbrella. Beneath this creaking armor of leather and plastic, she was dressed in a simple jersey suit of navy and white which set off the racy lines of her body to perfection. Her hair was set high to keep it up under the umbrella out of the rain.

"Well if we ever needed an argument in favour of Italian holidays, you're definitely it," Kuryakin said enthusiastically if ungrammatically as he loaded their two cases into the boot. Giovanna smiled warmly. "Be careful," she said. "If your precious piece of glass is in one of those..."

Before the Russian could reply. Solo had come out and was shaking hands with the girl. "I've said our goodbyes to the Commendatore," he reported. "And I've also spoken to Rinaldi, my dear. He'll be quite happy if you return the car to him tomorrow. I must say it's terribly kind of you to offer to take it back. It'll save me so much trouble."

"Not at all," Giovanna said politely. "I think we ought to be on our way if you want plenty of time for the plane. The road to Caselle is very busy and it's still quite wet. Will you drive, Napoleon?"

"Okay," Solo said. "Let's go!"

They had just passed the turn-off to the Milan Autostrada when Giovanna leaned forward from the back seat and said: "This little pickpocket you told me about last night—the matchseller outside the post office: was he a member of this Thrush organization, do you think?"

"Absolutely not," Solo said. "He was just a smalltime chiseler who happened unknowingly to have picked up something other people wanted." He changed down and urged the Fiat past a huge truck and trailer that were spraying muddy water up from the wet road.

"But in that case," the girl protested, "why did he take your piece of glass or whatever it was from the body of Leonardo? The pocket book I can understand; but a piece of... You never did get around to telling me just what he used to make that hologram! What did you take off the pickpocket last night?"

Kuryakin turned round in the front passenger seat and grinned at her. "Just that," he said vaguely. "A piece of glass... "

"Illya!" Solo called out, peering through the streaming windshield. "I missed the sign because of that blasted motor bus! Do we take the left or the right fork here for Caselle?"

The Russian wiped condensation away from the glass with his sleeve. "Right, I think," he said, staring in his turn. "No! No, I'm wrong. The left!"

"You were correct the first time," the girl said from behind.

"No, no. It is the left. You can see the airport sign pointing that way."

"It's the left for Caselle, yes. But we are not going to the airport. Take the right fork and then turn right again on the road labelled Leini and Cigliano." There was a sudden coldness and hardness in the girl's voice that made Kuryakin swing round again and Solo flick a glance at his driving mirror.

She was sitting very erect on the edge of the seat and there was a gun in her hand.

"You'd better do as I say," she snapped. "I know how to use this."

Obediently, Solo hugged his nearside and took the right hand fork, steering the Fiat immediately afterward on to the secondary road the girl indicated. He sighed. "I don't know about the pickpocket," he said, "but I suppose you really are a member of what you called 'this Thrush organization'?"

"Naturally. It is relatively easy for us to penetrate such loose systems as S.I.D. and M.I.6... to say nothing of the C.I.A." The girl's voice was scornful.

"Well, congratulations! You really are a master—perhaps I should say, rather, a mistress—of deceit and treachery!" Kuryakin said bitterly.

"Your old fashioned moral strictures leave me cold," Giovanna del Renzio said indifferently. "But I'd rather do without the noise of you talking." Coolly, she raised the muzzle of the gun until it was level with the Russian's neck and pulled the trigger.

There was a sharp, coughing explosion, not very loud, and Kuryakin jerked forward and slumped against the dashboard. As though in reflex, Solo had stamped on the brakes as the gun fired. The Fiat slewed momentarily and almost stopped, sending him lurching forward against the wheel, and then resumed its course as he released the pressure on the pedal.

"I shouldn't do that again if I were you," the girl said grimly. "You have no need to worry. It's only a sleep dart, similar to those you use yourselves. He'll be back with us in less than an hour."

"You've made me break my glasses," Solo said reproachfully. He felt his chest where it had struck the steering wheel and drew out a pair of sunglasses from his breast pocket. They had tortoise-shell frames—and one of the lenses certainly was cracked.

"Put them back. You won't need them where you're going."

"And that is? Back to Mr. Carlsen's place, I presume?"

"Yes. By minor roads in case of trouble on the Autostrada. As you see, we're already in open country. Straight over this crossroads here."

"And just what is to stop me," Solo demanded, "from switching off the engine and braking to a halt in the first town we come to? We're bound to pass some villages on the way: it's more than fifty kilometres to Buronzo."

Giovanna del Renzio leaned over the back of Illya's seat, keeping the gun trained warily on Solo, and pushed the Russian's unconscious body down below the line of windscreen and windows. "Use your mirror," she said. "The Cadillac behind is Mr. Carlsen's—and in a minute a Lancia will pull out ahead of you from a layby. Lala Eriksson will be driving. As a foreigner with no papers, do you think any country policeman will believe you against the word of two car loads of local residents? Besides which, I should shoot one of these darts at you before you could say anything... and don't think we couldn't, between us, think up some convincing explanation!"

Solo shrugged. The rain had stopped completely and sunshine was raising steam from the drying road as it curved between meadows of silvery green. Half a kilometer ahead, the familiar Lancia convertible, now with its roof raised, nosed out into the road from under a row of trees and took up its station ahead of him.