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Authors: Joel Bernard
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the usual modern hotel job, clean, square, with the customary furniture. The two windows looked out on Poric Street, with its dense stream of pedestrians and traffic, and the frosted glass window in the adjoining bathroom overlooked a small yard. His eyes searched everywhere for concealed bugging devices, until he discovered one behind the bathroom mirror, one at the back of the bed headboard, and another inside the telephone on the bedside table. He identified them as highly sensitive electronic microphones which could transmit every sound from inside the room to a receiver some distance away. But he knew how to render them useless when he did not want to be overheard.
As he left the room and locked the door from the outside, a missile whistled past his head, almost touching his hair. He had not heard the report of a shot but realized that someone had fired at him. Although he saw no one, he ran towards the other end of the deserted corridor, for this was where the missile must have been fired. His gun was ready for action. Before he reached the part where the elevator was set back into the wall of the passage, he heard the sliding metal doors bang shut and the elevator descending. He looked for a staircase to run down and catch his attacker, but being unfamiliar with the hotel layout, by the time he found the stairs pursuit was useless.
For some inexplicable reason, he connected the attack with the man he had seen on his arrival at the airport reception area; he was certain it was THRUSH, out to silence him.
He returned to the elevator and descended to the restaurant for his meal. He strolled slowly across the hotel lounge, watching for anyone who might be a fresh danger to him, but the few people around him seemed to be ordinary men and women.
"Mr. Solo?" the headwaiter asked as Napoleon entered the restaurant. "Your table is ready." He called out "Piccolo!" and when a boy waiter hastened along, he told him: "Take Mr. Solo to table fourteen."
The restaurant was full and Napoleon did not bother to try and pick out any other possible suspects, knowing this was a near impossible task. He followed the boy waiter to the table reserved for him near the swimming pool below and was pleased that he could watch the swimmers—particularly the female ones—while eating his food. It gave him such an appetite.
The headwaiter brought the menu and said:
"The Chateau Briand is exceptionally good today, and I can also highly recommend the Mixed Grill which is primaprimissimo. But perhaps you'd prefer a typical Czech dish? I can recommend our roast pork with dumplings and Sauerkraut—sweet and sour cabbage. It's delicious. We are famous for it."
"I think I'll have the Chateau Briand."
"Would you like it well done?"
"No, medium."
"May I recommend potato croquettes, French peas, mushrooms and onions perhaps?" The head waiter busied himself in the typical Central European manner. "I can assure you, it's superbly prepared."
"O.K.," Napoleon said, watching a slim blonde who was sitting on the edge of the swimming pool and putting a gay rubber cap on her head.
"May I suggest smoked trout for hors-d'oeuvre?" the headwaiter continued.
"Yes, that sounds fine," Napoleon said absently, watching the blonde stand up and dive into the water.
"We'll leave the question of the dessert till later, shall we, Mr. Solo?" the headwaiter suggested, and, without waiting for a reply, went on: "I'll send the wine waiter along."
Napoleon was fully occupied watching the blonde swimming gracefully and thinking that he wouldn't mind swimming along with her, when the headwaiter returned and interrupted his thoughts. "What is it now?" he demanded, a little annoyed.
"I'm sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Solo, but a sort of crisis has occurred…"
"If the Chateau Briand is off, make it the Mixed Grill," Napoleon said, and turned back towards the swimming pool.
"It's not that, Mr. Solo. The Chateau Briand is being cooked for you and the smoked trout will be
As he left the room and locked the door from the outside, a missile whistled past his head, almost touching his hair. He had not heard the report of a shot but realized that someone had fired at him. Although he saw no one, he ran towards the other end of the deserted corridor, for this was where the missile must have been fired. His gun was ready for action. Before he reached the part where the elevator was set back into the wall of the passage, he heard the sliding metal doors bang shut and the elevator descending. He looked for a staircase to run down and catch his attacker, but being unfamiliar with the hotel layout, by the time he found the stairs pursuit was useless.
For some inexplicable reason, he connected the attack with the man he had seen on his arrival at the airport reception area; he was certain it was THRUSH, out to silence him.
He returned to the elevator and descended to the restaurant for his meal. He strolled slowly across the hotel lounge, watching for anyone who might be a fresh danger to him, but the few people around him seemed to be ordinary men and women.
"Mr. Solo?" the headwaiter asked as Napoleon entered the restaurant. "Your table is ready." He called out "Piccolo!" and when a boy waiter hastened along, he told him: "Take Mr. Solo to table fourteen."
The restaurant was full and Napoleon did not bother to try and pick out any other possible suspects, knowing this was a near impossible task. He followed the boy waiter to the table reserved for him near the swimming pool below and was pleased that he could watch the swimmers—particularly the female ones—while eating his food. It gave him such an appetite.
The headwaiter brought the menu and said:
"The Chateau Briand is exceptionally good today, and I can also highly recommend the Mixed Grill which is primaprimissimo. But perhaps you'd prefer a typical Czech dish? I can recommend our roast pork with dumplings and Sauerkraut—sweet and sour cabbage. It's delicious. We are famous for it."
"I think I'll have the Chateau Briand."
"Would you like it well done?"
"No, medium."
"May I recommend potato croquettes, French peas, mushrooms and onions perhaps?" The head waiter busied himself in the typical Central European manner. "I can assure you, it's superbly prepared."
"O.K.," Napoleon said, watching a slim blonde who was sitting on the edge of the swimming pool and putting a gay rubber cap on her head.
"May I suggest smoked trout for hors-d'oeuvre?" the headwaiter continued.
"Yes, that sounds fine," Napoleon said absently, watching the blonde stand up and dive into the water.
"We'll leave the question of the dessert till later, shall we, Mr. Solo?" the headwaiter suggested, and, without waiting for a reply, went on: "I'll send the wine waiter along."
Napoleon was fully occupied watching the blonde swimming gracefully and thinking that he wouldn't mind swimming along with her, when the headwaiter returned and interrupted his thoughts. "What is it now?" he demanded, a little annoyed.
"I'm sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Solo, but a sort of crisis has occurred…"
"If the Chateau Briand is off, make it the Mixed Grill," Napoleon said, and turned back towards the swimming pool.
"It's not that, Mr. Solo. The Chateau Briand is being cooked for you and the smoked trout will be
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