He stared at her. It was inconceivable, but there she was. Bright, sunny, a real American Beauty, yet she had maneuvered as sweet a switch as he had ever encountered.
“Geraldine Terry,” he mused. “Girl spy?”
“Government girl if you please,” she snapped back, her eyes on the air lanes ahead as if she still didn’t trust him. You can call me Jerry Terry.”
The Debonair plunged on smoothly through the night skies over France.
NAPOLEON NO LONGER SOLO
“MORE RAPID than eagles his coursers they came,” Solo said quietly. He was smiling slightly, but still on his guard. This could easily be more Denise Fairmount hanky-panky and he hadn’t quite reconciled himself to that one yet.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Solo?” Jerry Terry asked sweetly.
“I was just thinking about the night before Christmas when all sorts of surprises fill my stocking. May I ask why you were so determined to join me on this trip?”
Jerry Terry’s smile vanished. It made a startling transformation in her face. The fresh beauty seemed to give way to a Joan of Arc severity.
“That makes sense, Mr. Solo. I am willing to talk. We have a similar interest in this enterprise.”
“Go on. I am listening, Miss Terry.”
“May I have a cigarette?”
He placed a cigarette between her lips and held his lighter for her, admiring her features as he did. He decided that the assignment was becoming more interesting all the time.
“All right,” he said. “You have your cigarette, we have been informally introduced and you know where I’m going. The question is—who are you and why are you going with me?”
“Solo,” she said softly. “I’m not always funny and bright. I’m as responsible as I can be. Stewart Fromes means as much to my organization as it does to yours. Fortunately, both of us are playing on the same side.”
“And what is my organization?”
“You’re the man from U.N.C.L.E.”
“And what is your organization?”
“I’m the girl from U.S. Army Intelligence.”
Solo frowned. “You’ll forgive me, I’m sure, if I find that hard to believe. I never heard of lady intelligence officers.”
“They made an exception in my case.”
“Why? Are you the G-2’s daughter?”
She laughed. “No. But I am young, I am attractive, and I possess the one thing that makes me unique for my job.”
“Go ahead,” he said. “Hit me. It must be something.”
“A photographic memory. A foolproof one, I might add. It has been tested and not been found wanting.”
Solo pondered. Yes, that would make her a vital asset to any organization. If she could once look at something—even a maze of blueprint and detail—and record it in her mind as though it were an actual photograph…yes, such an agent would be worth her weight in Fort Knox gold.
“All right, Jerry Terry. I’ll buy your fish for now. At least, until we land. But please tell me where this concerns you directly.”
She sighed. “‘Play it cautious. I’ll respect you more for it. Very well. We’re three thousand feet above the ground and this plane is not bugged or wired for sound. I checked it out while I sat and waited for you. We know about Fromes. We knew he was in Oberteisendorf as a field chemist for U.N.C.L.E. Your people had to let us know about it at the command decision level. It’s that big, I understand. We got the report about Fromes’ sudden death almost as soon as it happened. The news went through the American Consul to our private line, as it did to yours. Army Intelligence sent me out right away. There may be something vital to memorize in Fromes’ laboratory—if they haven’t cleaned it out yet.”
Solo nodded. “And who do your people think ‘they’ are?”
Jerry Terry clamped her teeth. “The communists, of course. Who else is so interested in world conquest?”
Solo decided to change the subject. “What was Fromes working on?”
She shivered. “I don’t really know. But, God, it must be big to send all the troops in like this. Don’t you know?”
Solo turned a rueful smile on his new-found ally.
“I work for a man who sends me on errands and then explains to me exactly what I went for after I get back. But I have some ideas. Fromes was a friend of mine and I know what interested him more than anything else on earth. Chemical warfare.”
She shuddered again. He idly wondered what kind of figure the leather jacket and whipcord breeches contained. It was hard to tell in the gloom of the cabin.
“Now, the sixty-four thousand dollar question,” he prodded.
“All right.”
“You have pinpointed me exactly—to the dot and stroke of the clock. How did you know I was coming to Rouen to rent this plane?”
She showed him the white teeth again. “We have our own methods, Watson.”
“You’ll have to do better than quoting Sherlock Holmes. I need some proof you are who you say you are—besides your dazzling smile. Give.”
“What will you do if I don’t?” she challenged.
“I can kill you without leaving a trace.”
Her eyes met his and something stirred, on the female side, in their dark brown depths.
“I’ll just bet you could. Fair enough. We knew you were at the Internationale, you were followed to Le Bourget when you left. And a certain Mr. X is a fairly close friend of your Overseas Club contact. Get the picture? One top echelon man tells another top echelon man and the agents fend for themselves.”
He nodded. “I’m convinced.”
“Thank you.”
“What are your plans for Oberteisendorf? I don’t intend to saw Stewart Fromes’ body in half just to make friends with Army Intelligence.”
It was a grim joke to get a laugh out of her and he respected her for not even smiling.
“No. I simply wish to be with you when you claim the body. And to look around. Then we part company. We want U.N.C.L.E. to have the body.”
“That’s white of you.”
She sensed the bitterness in his voice. “Was he a very good friend of yours?”
“The best kind. Never changed colors or patterns on you.”
“I’m very sorry, then.”
“Don’t be.” He was abrupt and curt. He saw the sudden flush in her cheeks and immediately felt sorry. He changed the subject again as a sudden thought came to him.
“Can we land anywhere near Oberteisendorf?”
She nodded. ‘We checked out the terrain. There’s a five hundred acre meadow to the south of the town. One problem though—how did you intend to get Fromes’ body out of there?”
He frowned slightly. “That’s what bothers me the most. Train is my only bet until I can find a plane. My plans haven’t covered that yet. I expect to get some instructions tomorrow.”
The Debonair droned on, a tiny dot in the dark seas of the French skies.
“Well, Kuryakin?”
Waverly stared glumly at Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, marveling for the nth time at what fortune had guided U.N.C.L.E. to draw this man from behind the Iron Curtain. It was necessary at times to operate in that part of the world and Kuryakin had proven his merits more than once. For all of his Russian origin, the man was an excellent U.N.C.L.E. agent. Clever, resourceful, physically adept—and an excellent man in the laboratories too. Even now he was justifying Waverly’s firm belief in his ability.
Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, his thatch of straw-colored hair awry, held up the test tube which had prompted Waverly’s attention.
“Yes, Mr. Waverly. A positive, I’m afraid.”
“Hmm.” Waverly turned to hide his chagrin, fumbling for one of his pipes. “No mistake?”
“None. This sample matches the one we examined. Therefore, both corpses were suffering from the same disease.”
“Well, that’s a nice kettle of fish, I must say.” He flung a reproachful glance at Kuryakin, as if he were evidencing his usual disapproval of the Russian’s rumpled suit and sloppy tie. Kuryakin shrugged.
