Quite recently Waverly had learned that Ogden was in Colombia, a hotbed of Communist banditry and insurrection. But then, when Waverly had got a tip that Ogden was coming back to the States, his interest in Howard Ogden increased rapidly.

To begin with, Ogden had been charged with gunrunning. That in itself was small concern to Waverly, but of large concern to Waverly was gunrunning in Latin America. Could Ogden, somehow, have become involved in that? And why was he coming back to the United States? Why would this man, a fugitive from justice, risk, under whatever pretense, under whatever forged papers, a return to the United States?

Waverly's instincts had prickled. An experienced investigator, head of United Network Command for Law Enforcement, Alexander Waverly, a born ferret, played out his hunch. He assigned agents for discreet but intensive research on the subject of Howard Ogden and soon knew all there was to know about him.

Ogden, a bachelor, a lone wolf, a criminal adventurer, was nonetheless a highly intelligent, resourceful man. A wily schemer, an opportunist, he was a shrewd, closemouthed individual reputed to know a great deal more than he ever let on. Thus, although Waverly had acquired many items of small information, he was aware that the information was far from sufficient.

Waverly sighed. He wondered how much more— if anything—he would learn when Solo and Kuryakin delivered the man.

It depends, he thought. It depends upon what levers Ogden himself might furnish to pry open that close mouth of his.

As it turned out, Howard Ogden furnished all the levers that were necessary.

3. An Extraordinary Discover

A SMALL LICHT suddenly came alive on the desk console.

Waverly pushed a button.

"Yes?"

The overhead loudspeaker boomed hollowly. Waverly recognized Kuryakin's voice.

"Chief?"

"Speak up, Mr. Kuryakin."

"We're in Detention. We've got your chap here."

"Good. Good work."

"Thank you."

"I'll be right down."

Waverly clicked off the light on the console board and silence returned to the room. He knocked the ashes from his pipe, stood up, and went out along steel-walled corridors to the elevator in the rear.

Downstairs in the Detention Section, Kuryakin opened the door to Waverly's knock. The Old Man smiled, his face wrinkling like ancient leather.

"How did it go, gentlemen?"

"No sweat. No—er—perspiration, sir," Illya replied, then pointed to the suitcases on the floor. "He was carrying those."

"What else was he carrying?"

"Else?" Illya inquired somewhat blankly.

Solo grinned. "His personal belongings. His effects. Is that what you mean, sir?"

"Of course."

"Oh. Else. Yes." And now Illya grinned embarrassedly.

"We haven't gathered them yet," Solo confided.

"Where is he?"

"Still asleep, sir. Naturally."

"Naturally," the Old Man growled. "Well, kindly gather the effects, Mr. Solo."

"Yessir. At once, Mr. Waverly."

Solo took up a large manila envelope, went to a far wall, pushed a button, and a steel door slid open. Solo entered into a bright, well-ventilated room fitted out as a bedroom. Comfortably asleep on the bed was Howard Ogden. Quickly, gently, Solo searched him, placing his belongings in the manila envelope. Then he left the bedroom, touching the button again to close the steel door.

"Everything?" the Old Man asked.

"Everything," Solo replied.

"Please take the bags, Mr. Kuryakin."

They marched to the Investigation Room, the Old Man leading, Solo with the manila envelope following, and Illya with the heavy bags as the rear guard. There the Old Man sat in a wooden armchair at a long table, motioning for Solo and Kuryakin to sit on either side of him. Above them hovered a group of technical experts.

The Old Man examined the contents of the manila envelope. Ogden was traveling under the name of Harry Owens. His papers and credentials showed him to be a machinery salesman for the Castillo Manufacturing Company, an old, respectable company in Colombia, South America, with its main office in the city of Bogota.

Brusquely the Old Man ordered, "Check that out, please, Mr. Kuryakin."

"Yessir."

Illya went to the privacy of another room where, alone, he made the transcontinental telephone call. When he returned to the Investigation Room he found it a swirl of activity. Experts were examining Ogden's passport and papers. Other experts were examining the suitcases, now empty. The contents of the suitcases—the small samples of machinery parts—were on a counter, being inspected by Billy Sol Kaplan, expert on metals.

The Old Man looked up.

"Well, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Two things, sir. Castillo Manufacturing does not sell machinery in the United States. And Castillo Manufacturing does not, and never did, employ a salesman named Harry Owens."

The Old Man approved. "Excellent."

And he sat, fingers drumming the arm of his chair, waiting word from his experts.

The first report concerned the suitcases.

"No false bottoms," an expert said. "No secret compartments. Nothing unusual. Just good, solid, ordinary valises."

The Old Man nodded slowly. Quite obviously, he was disappointed.

The next report had to do with Ogden's passport and papers.

"Forgeries," an expert said. "Beautifully done. Fine quality. But forgeries, all."

Again the Old Man nodded. This he knew. This he expected.

Solo glanced toward Illya. The Old Man was fast getting nowhere. Disappointment was etched in every seam of his lined face. Now Waverly, shoulders drooping, turned toward Billy Sol Kaplan. What could he expect from the metals expert? A lecture about machinery parts. The Old Man's sigh was a quiver of disappointment.

Billy Sol Kaplan was holding a gear wheel in his right hand.

"These samples," he said, "are poor, quite crude." He tossed the gear wheel icily, catching it. "Rotten samples; put together, they simply wouldn't work." Suddenly he frowned and paused, lost in thought. "Just a minute."

"What?" the Old Man asked dispiritedly. Again Solo glanced toward Kuryakin. All fight seemed to have been drained from the Old Man. He was merely going through the paces. The job, which at first had so happily animated him, now seemed to cast him deeper into a flat, sad hopeless ness.

"What?" the Old Man repeated to Billy Sol, tossing and catching the iron gear wheel.

"The heft of this, the feel," Billy Sol said excitedly. "I don't like it. The heft is wrong. Peculiar. Queer."

Whirling about, Billy Sol dropped the gear wheel to the counter. From a cabinet above the counter, he took fine-pronged instruments and a microscope. He carefully examined the gear wheel, then, dancing about in his excitement, thrust it aside, took up another of the iron samples, examined that, and then another and another.

Solo watched, Kuryakin watched, and the Old Man watched, each experiencing similar emotions. Billy Sol Kaplan was a little man, dry and wizened, older than his chief. He had once been a professor of physics at Yale University. What, now, had happened to Billy Sol Kaplan? Usually he was calm, dour, solid as the metals of which he was an acclaimed expert. But now his breathing was noisy, his little feet were jumping, he was dancing about like a youngster at a discotheque. Finally he made an extraordinary pronouncement.