skimmed off the top of the ocean and carried by the breeze. He walked more quickly, alert, watching.
The pebbled road curved. There were trees and foliage, wide green lawns with marble benches, flowers, trimmed hedges, and bushes with red-blooming roses. Above, the sky was pure blue, cloudless, and the sun, westerly now, was a burning orange ball. The salt smell of the ocean mingled with the perfume of the roses; it was quiet, fragrant, peaceful. There was no sound except the pleasant chattering of the birds. He walked for a long time, perhaps a quarter of a mile, until the pebbled roadway curved to the house, a red brick mansion with a portico of tall white columns. He walked up five white marble steps into the cool shade beneath the roof of the portico and rapped the gold knocker of a wide white door. There was no answer. He opened the door and entered.
Cool, silent.
He padded, barefoot, through the rooms.
"Hello," he called. "Hello!"
There was no answer except his own voice coming back to him in echoes. He went all the way through and out the rear and saw the helicopter. It was resting on a smooth beach of packed white sand. Beyond the helicopter the ocean was gray, flat, calm, with little wavelets lapping at the sand of the beach. Inside the helicopter a woman was leaning out an open window. She was attractive, smiling, and tanned from the sun; she had gleaming white teeth, dark eyes, dark hair.
"Please come closer!"
He obeyed for two reasons: First, he wanted to come closer, and second, and more imperative, a thick black gun was pointed at him, and she was holding it very competently. The sand squeaked beneath his feet, and then he was at the helicopter looking up at her.
"Where are the others, Mr. Solo?"
He squinted behind the dark glasses. "You know me?"
"I've seen photographs. Stupidly, there are many of them." She had a low-pitched, harsh voice, and spoke clearly, precisely, and with authority. "Where are the others?"
"Tell Leslie Tudor I want to talk to him."
"You are talking to Leslie Tudor."
A woman! Amazement prickled at his scalp!
"Surprised, Mr. Solo?"
He nodded, gulped. "To say the least—yes."
"So much for that, for all the good it will ever do you. Now quickly, please. Where are they?"
"We have them."
"You what ?"
"We have them, Miss Tudor."
"You haven't!"
"Stanley, Hunter, Burrows."
"The truth , Mr. Solo!"
"And Kuryakin and the boy."
"No!"
"But, yes, Miss Tudor."
"You're lying!"
"Gospel truth, Miss Tudor."
"But—but—how?"
The sun was hot on his back, but from the ocean the breeze was cool. The little wavelets swished quietly, musically, at the edge of the beach.
"You put too much pressure on a youngster. You didn't let the wine ferment enough, putrefy to rotten vinegar. You put too much pressure on her too soon; she wasn't spoiled enough yet, rotten enough to join in cold-blooded, useless, evil, multiple murder."
"Incompetent infant!"
"She defected, Miss Tudor, and she brought out young Winfield and Kuryakin with her."
"And Stanley? Burrows?"
"Taken by us. Intercepted by our people."
"Then why you?"
"Pardon, Miss Tudor?"
"Why are you here?"
"To take you out."
"Not on your life!" The gleaming teeth were still exposed, but it was no longer a smile; it was a leer of hatred, bared teeth, a silent snarl, the jaw stiff, the muscles at the corners quivering. "Not ever in your life, Mr. Solo."
"There are many men gathering outside the gates. I came in alone for your safety." It was a reasonable statement. He would use any statement, any ruse, any argument, to accomplish his mission. He wanted her surrender. "Many men, many temperaments," he said. "One of them might have an itchy trigger finger."
"Thank you for nothing, Mr. Solo."
Solo bowed his head as though modestly accepting a compliment.
"Will you put away that gun and please come with me?"
"You're out of your mind!"
"Miss Tudor, you'll get a fair trial. There are always two sides to any question. THRUSH is rich
The pebbled road curved. There were trees and foliage, wide green lawns with marble benches, flowers, trimmed hedges, and bushes with red-blooming roses. Above, the sky was pure blue, cloudless, and the sun, westerly now, was a burning orange ball. The salt smell of the ocean mingled with the perfume of the roses; it was quiet, fragrant, peaceful. There was no sound except the pleasant chattering of the birds. He walked for a long time, perhaps a quarter of a mile, until the pebbled roadway curved to the house, a red brick mansion with a portico of tall white columns. He walked up five white marble steps into the cool shade beneath the roof of the portico and rapped the gold knocker of a wide white door. There was no answer. He opened the door and entered.
Cool, silent.
He padded, barefoot, through the rooms.
"Hello," he called. "Hello!"
There was no answer except his own voice coming back to him in echoes. He went all the way through and out the rear and saw the helicopter. It was resting on a smooth beach of packed white sand. Beyond the helicopter the ocean was gray, flat, calm, with little wavelets lapping at the sand of the beach. Inside the helicopter a woman was leaning out an open window. She was attractive, smiling, and tanned from the sun; she had gleaming white teeth, dark eyes, dark hair.
"Please come closer!"
He obeyed for two reasons: First, he wanted to come closer, and second, and more imperative, a thick black gun was pointed at him, and she was holding it very competently. The sand squeaked beneath his feet, and then he was at the helicopter looking up at her.
"Where are the others, Mr. Solo?"
He squinted behind the dark glasses. "You know me?"
"I've seen photographs. Stupidly, there are many of them." She had a low-pitched, harsh voice, and spoke clearly, precisely, and with authority. "Where are the others?"
"Tell Leslie Tudor I want to talk to him."
"You are talking to Leslie Tudor."
A woman! Amazement prickled at his scalp!
"Surprised, Mr. Solo?"
He nodded, gulped. "To say the least—yes."
"So much for that, for all the good it will ever do you. Now quickly, please. Where are they?"
"We have them."
"You what ?"
"We have them, Miss Tudor."
"You haven't!"
"Stanley, Hunter, Burrows."
"The truth , Mr. Solo!"
"And Kuryakin and the boy."
"No!"
"But, yes, Miss Tudor."
"You're lying!"
"Gospel truth, Miss Tudor."
"But—but—how?"
The sun was hot on his back, but from the ocean the breeze was cool. The little wavelets swished quietly, musically, at the edge of the beach.
"You put too much pressure on a youngster. You didn't let the wine ferment enough, putrefy to rotten vinegar. You put too much pressure on her too soon; she wasn't spoiled enough yet, rotten enough to join in cold-blooded, useless, evil, multiple murder."
"Incompetent infant!"
"She defected, Miss Tudor, and she brought out young Winfield and Kuryakin with her."
"And Stanley? Burrows?"
"Taken by us. Intercepted by our people."
"Then why you?"
"Pardon, Miss Tudor?"
"Why are you here?"
"To take you out."
"Not on your life!" The gleaming teeth were still exposed, but it was no longer a smile; it was a leer of hatred, bared teeth, a silent snarl, the jaw stiff, the muscles at the corners quivering. "Not ever in your life, Mr. Solo."
"There are many men gathering outside the gates. I came in alone for your safety." It was a reasonable statement. He would use any statement, any ruse, any argument, to accomplish his mission. He wanted her surrender. "Many men, many temperaments," he said. "One of them might have an itchy trigger finger."
"Thank you for nothing, Mr. Solo."
Solo bowed his head as though modestly accepting a compliment.
"Will you put away that gun and please come with me?"
"You're out of your mind!"
"Miss Tudor, you'll get a fair trial. There are always two sides to any question. THRUSH is rich
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