The Dagger Affair

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Illya Kuryakin blinked at the darkness in his bedroom and wondered what had awakened him. He listened intently while he counted to one hundred, and heard only the distant sound of traffic four floors below. But he knew there was someone else in his apartment. He turned his head slowly, looking about the room. It was empty. The luminous dial of his alarm clock told him it was shortly after 3:00 A.M.

Heaving a deep sigh and snorting as a sleeping man might, he rolled over in bed, and on the same squeak of the springs slipped to the floor. His hand moved under the edge of the mattress to grip the specially designed silenced automatic that was never out of his reach, and he rose warily to his feet.

Like a cat, he moved to the door. There was no light in the next room, but as he listened again he heard the sound of an incautiously drawn breath. His head moved, just enough to allow him a glimpse around the door. The faint light that seeped through the drawn curtains silhouetted a figure bending over the desk. The figure seemed human, except for the head.

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