The Dagger Affair

Baldwin smiled. "Nevertheless, there is no courage where there is no fear. Someday we may be able to find you a place in our organization. Mr. Waverly, you have a staff worthy of you." He shook his head sadly. "It's tragic that you're on the wrong side."

Waverly, too, shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't see it that way. Our ultimate goals are too much opposed. We want the world to belong to its citizens — you want it to belong to yourselves. There is no middle ground, and we must fight to the death." He paused, frowning. "What do you plan to do with the world if you should take over? Other than restoring the cable cars, tearing down the Embarcadero Freeway and resuming the ferry service, and a few other improvements I must admit I tend to agree with, that is. What exactly will be the purpose of your power?"

By this time they were out on the main concourse, walking in a tight group. Baldwin paused in his stride, and reached into his i

As Waverly took the book, the loudspeaker called, "Flight 93 for New York is boarding at Gate 12." And another voice a

* * *

Baldwin shook hands all around quickly, and hurried away. Irene said, "It's really been great fun having you here. I wish we could invite you back sometime. Perhaps you will be our guests in a few more years."

Robin said nothing, but let her eyes shine up at Napoleon and Illya as she pressed their hands in turn. When she came to Waverly, though, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him. Then she and Irene were gone in the crowd.

Waverly stood looking after them for a full minute, a bemused expression on his face, the book Baldwin had given him resting in his hand, a finger inserted to mark the page. Eventually he collected himself and cleared his throat impressively. "Well! Gentlemen, we have a plane to catch."

He slipped open the book and glanced at the marked passage on page 217, and did not walk toward the ramp. Napoleon and Illya each looked over a shoulder, and read:

"We seek power entirely for its own sake. We are not interested in the good of others; we are interested solely in power. Not wealth or luxury or long life or happiness; only power, pure power.... No one ever seizes power with the intention of relinquishing it. Power is not a means; it is an end. The object of persecution is persecution. The object of torture is torture. The object of power is power. Now do you begin to understand me?"

* * *

Napoleon read it through once, and again. He looked at Illya, and said, "That is a statement of Thrush policy." It was not a question.

"Yes," said Illya. "It is."

"What's the book?"

Illya looked at him with slightly raised eyebrows, and then looked down significantly. Napoleon followed his gaze.

Mr. Waverly had closed the book, and was looking at the cover. The title was big and black beneath the author's name – 1984.

He turned idly to the front pages, and stopped at the flyleaf. It was inscribed in dark green ink, in strong, jagged handwriting. Alexander Waverly, from Ward Baldwin. For reasons too complex to transcribe. November 1965."

After a few seconds of contemplation and a snort which might have become a chuckle had it been allowed all the way out, Waverly closed the book. As an afterthought he rifled the pages carefully and felt the spine. Then, satisfied it was not a fiendish device of some kind, he tucked it carefully in his inside pocket.

"Now," he said again, "We have a plane to catch."

They started up the corridor toward the loading ramp that had been called. It was approaching flight time, but there seemed to be no other passengers around. Then Napoleon stopped. There were four men coming towards them, up the hall. With a slight shock he recognized one of them — the Thrush who had led the party that had rescued them in Oakland three days before. He didn't look as friendly now.

Napoleon glanced over his shoulder and saw four more coming toward them from behind. He sighed deeply.

"Excuse me, sir," he said to Waverly, who seemed lost in thought. "Exactly when was the alliance with Thrush supposed to end?"

"End? Supposedly, when we arrive safely in New York the hostages will be released. But the way Baldwin shook hands..." He saw the men approaching, and his eyebrows arched. "They don't look like a farewell party, do they?"

"I'm afraid not," said Napoleon.

Illya had his gun out, and was walking with it concealed under his overcoat, which was draped across his arm. Waverly said quietly, "An incident at this point would be most unsatisfactory. Is there an exit?"

Napoleon nodded. "Over there. It says EMERGENCY ONLY."

"I think this qualifies," said Illya. "Napoleon, you'll pass closest. When we are even with the door, hit it hard and go through quickly. We'll be right behind you."

Without breaking their pace, they continued down the corridor until they were even with the gray door, and then Napoleon kicked suddenly at the panic bar and jumped through.

And then he was falling, bashing himself painfully in several spots on angled things, losing his gun entirely, and scraping some skin off his palms as he came to rest in a tangled heap on the floor, some ten feet below where he had begun. Above him he saw Waverly standing at the top of the stairs looking down at him with moderate disapproval, and Illya latching the door securely behind them. He groaned and shifted himself. At least nothing was broken. He sat up slowly.

Illya came down the steps behind Waverly and looked at him doubtfully. "What are you doing?" he asked.

Napoleon glowered at him as he got to his feet. "Now here's another nice mess you've gotten me into. Where's my gun?"

"Over there. Did you notice the stairs?"

"Not at first. Let's say I became aware of them one at a time. Did you see any reaction from the enemy to our disappearing act?"

"Some. You made quite a racket when you hit the stairs, and I think some of them were laughing."

Napoleon picked up his Special and checked it over carefully. And he had been doing so well, too. He thought his bad luck had ran out. Apparently there was still a little bit left in the bucket. He looked around the little cubicle and saw another door, and a couple of small windows which showed the surface of the taxiway outside.

He stepped aside and nodded to Illya. "This time, you get the door." Illya turned the knob with his left hand, automatic ready in his right, and stuck his head out. He looked around, then pulled it in again and nodded. "All clear. Shall we try for that plane from the ground, or do they take people in only through the gates?"

"We'll see," said Waverly. "Come on, they won't wait forever."

Illya and Napoleon preceded him out onto the apron, guns drawn. The only sounds were engines warming up and the occasional whine of an electric baggage cart. One came humming across the field toward them, a train of little loaded trucks trailing behind it. It swerved to pass them at a distance of about twenty feet.

Illya suddenly shouted something, and leaped for cover behind a large wheeled stairway. Waverly moved with remarkable agility for a man of his years as two figures stood up from the other side of the high-piled baggage on the trucks and two sub-machine guns began blasting a hail of lead at them. Napoleon fell flat, too far from cover to make the leap. His U.N.C.L.E. Special was out and spitting flame, and one of the attackers dropped his weapon and fell from the truck. The other one fell victim to Illya's accuracy, but by the time they reached the spot the baggage cart had gone around a corner and disappeared.