"It's solid all the way around. Maybe I could break into it, maybe not. There's one fat cable to the thing, though, and... Lemme see... - No it won't unplug."
"Don't cut it! Can you get into the mechanism?"
"Through the water jacket?"
"No, like where the plug goes in. That should be right up at the front, and it might not be solid."
"I'll see."
"Be gentle."
Five irregularly spaced blows in as many seconds bludgeoned the building, and there was a heavy roar like a wall caving in upstairs. Simultaneously a thunderous wave of smoke and shrapnel filled the hallway as the outside door was blasted by a high explosive charge.
"I'll work on it. It sounds as if the mortars are coming up. Aren't you glad you're in a nice safe bomb shelter instead of out here where it's dangerous? Okay I'm going into the firing mechanism now..."
The Big House was built like a fortress, and would have to be stormed like one. Outer defenses fallen, the stone mansion stood, deadly fire spitting unabated from shuttered casements and sheltered crannies. A hold gaped in one third-floor wall where a missile had found the narrow opening of a window, and porch pillars around three sides were bullet-pocked and splintered.
Beyond the Barn and to both sides, the U.N.C.L.E. forces now surrounded the house, unable to make a decisive attack. Sustained mortar fire had hardly diminished the defensive capacity of the Big House, but now scattered attack groups were gathering themselves for one concerted rush. Dark-windowed, bulking against flame-lashed cloud's of smoke behind which hidden armies clashed, it stood like a besieged tower of dark sorceries in some legendary war. Then another mortar shell blasted its flank, and white stone fragments flew.
"Yeah, they lead to a lock like an ignition switch on a car."
"Any numbers on it?"
"None. Hey how's your room holding up? It sounds like you're taking a beating back there."
"I can't tell. It's still dark. But I think part of the ceiling came down a few minutes ago."
"Is Joan okay?"
"She's just fine. Right here holding the phone for me. There should be two more wires coming out of that lock, one off the right side and one off the bottom."
"I can't get at the back of the lock — it's set into a welded box. Two other wires come out together twisted around each other. One's yellow and green, one's purple and white."
"Where do they go?"
"Down inside. I can't see where. Into the casing I think."
There was a long silence, broken by a shuddering blast somewhere above them and the hysterical chatter of machine gun fire. Another blast punched down the hall outside and shook the door in its frame.
"Illya? There's these two wires..."
Illya took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "Okay, Napoleon. Cut one of them."
"Check."
Raduysya Mariye, blagodati poliaya, Gospod s't'voyu; blagoslovyenna ti mezhdu zhenami i blagoslovyen' plod' chryeva tvoyevo Iisus'. Svyataya Mariye, matyer' Bozhi, ya moli o nas' gruishnikh' ninui i v' chas' smyerti nashyey. Amin'. Illya's lips barely moved as he subvocalised the old, old words. Ages passed in the seconds before Napoleon said, "Okay — one cut."
"Don't touch the other one. Just check and see if the red light is out, and you might bend the cut ends away from each other and the other wire."
"I just did. Hang on."
"Joan?"
She stirred beside him. "Is he there?"
"I'm going to want that morphine, I think. Can you open it in the dark?" Illya's voice was tense, and unsteady.
"Yes — just a second."
"Illya? The blue light is still on but the red one is out. Oh-oh!
The orange light just flashed. Now it's out. Now it's on again — what's happening?"
"If the red light's out, the bomb's disarmed. I'd bet the orange means the radio signal is being received. Don't worry about it — just get back here. The war is coming this way and you won't want to miss it. I'm afraid I will have to." He dropped the phone, and Joan took it.
"Napoleon?" she asked it tentatively, but no answer came. She pushed the field phone under the bed and stood up stiffly in the dark.
"I'll take that morphine now," Illya said, and his voice was suddenly very tired.
"Where's your..."
"I can find myself better in the dark — give it to me."
"Shut up and relax. I've done this before. You'll wake up in a nice hospital room and I'll bring you a jar of caviar."
"Ouch! Was that the blunt end?"
"Good night, Illya. It'll come on in a few seconds."
He gasped, "Can you find the water? I can feel it starting. My arm is starting to go away..."
She groped around and found the plastic pitcher on its side on the floor with a few ounces of water still unspilled. She held it to Illya's lips. He gulped quickly from it, then rinsed his mouth before sinking back to the thin mattress. His breathing was deeper and slower now, and his voice slurred as he said, "Wake me up when the war is over..."
A shifting light outside the door and a quick tapping heralded Napoleon's return. Joan jumped up and ran to. him with-a little cry, to wrap her arms around him and clung close against him for a moment.
"Polie!" she said. "It's been dark so long!"
A series of blasts overhead showered plaster on them, clouds of white in the hissing glare of. the gasoline lantern as they embraced, drawing renewed strength from each other.
"How's Illya?"
"Out. He wouldn't take the morphine until you were through in there, but he's good for twelve hours now."
"He'll be safe enough here," said Napoleon. "Our exit is now blocked solidly, by the way. Come on — I'll show you. Grab that lantern."
The harsh white glare showed a sloping wall of rubble filling the entire end of their hall. Timbers jutted like broken ribs where the ceiling had caved in.
"We'll have to go out upstairs," said Napoleon. "So I thought we might as well leave Illya, who is as secure here as he can be, and wander along to join the party."
"And harass the foe from the rear," Joan said. "I'll requisition Illya's ammunition —it was with the rest of his things in the closet. -I' seem to recall a back stairs we might try..."
She cast about through a couple of corridors, then nodded. "Up here," she said. "We shouldn't take the light past here. There's a door right at the top of the stairs, second flight. Let me go first."
She led the way up narrow wooden steps and around a corner. The lantern was lost behind them, but gunfire from ahead echoed between the close plaster walls as they crept upward.
The door swung quietly open into chaos. Fumes reeked through the hall and guns barked on either side. "Here we go," said Napoleon. "Stick close behind me. We'll use silencers, snipe from cover and keep shifting around. They may not even tumble we're here."
"A beautiful thought."
"And remember, Joan — I love you."
"I love you, Napoleon."
"Now — let's go!"
They ducked out the door and down the hall. A bulky desk athwart the corridor accorded them momentary shelter, and Napoleon took the opportunity to assemble his U.N.C.L.E. Special. He swiftly unscrewed the flash-shield and replaced it with the long barrel extension, drew the Bushnell Phantom 1.3X15 scope from its velvet-lined sleeve, slipped it into its shoe and tightened the locking screw, snapped the collapsing telescoping stock into its slot in the butt, pulled it out to full length and twisted it to lock it open, then folded out the shoulder-plate to latch at right angles. Finally he slipped out the eight-round magazine — still with five shots left — and replaced it with the sixteen-round clip. He snuggled the lean, gracefully ugly weapon to his shoulder and peered through its scope into the smoky darkness beyond.
Concussion shattered through a wall seventy feet behind them, and they ducked against flying rocks. A dozen Thrush Guards came running out of the smoke, and were cut down by steady fire from Napoleon and Joan. An automatic rifle snarled briefly fro
m the other side and they dropped to the floor, swinging their muzzles in that direction. A moment later a spray of slugs blasted splinters out of their desk, and Napoleon broke into a sprint across the hall to an alcove already occupied by a bronze statue on a four-foot pedestal; shrinking behind it into the curve he directed one-handed shots into a pillared doorway down the hall.
Joan leaped to her feet and dashed along the wall to the next open door, where she paused and snapped a slug towards the end of the hall. Instantly Napoleon moved again, directly toward her target, as chips of cement splattered beside him and battered slugs whined away into the flame-tinted darkness. As he approached her line of fire, she too broke from cover and followed him in a zig-zag dash into the vaulted room which opened before them.
Ruddy light danced on the domed ceiling of a generous rotunda through a half circle of windows looking out over the lagoon. Booths lined the wide walls, and large comfortable furniture and extinguished lamps dotted the floor. Men crouched behind shattered windows, firing and ducking back as bullets dug into the walls or splintered the edge of glass-sharded panes.
"This is the Library," said Joan as they crouched together again behind a horsehair sofa. "We're at the front of the house, facing east, close to the south corner. There's a big flight of steps to the porch just outside here."
"Sounds like most of the fighting is around on the side of the house. Let's reduce the local opposition."
Five Guards fell among the defenders within a minute before the survivors began to react. Napoleon and Joan ducked as they saw silhouettes turn infrared sniperscopes in their directions.
"Stay low," Napoleon whispered. "Their rifles are sighted for a hundred yards. They'll shoot high."
"Check."
A voice to their left yelled something and a slug burst through the sofa from that side. They vanished like rabbits and fired futilely in the direction of the shout. Joan replaced her first clip and claimed another Guard with her next shot; they then had to move again, towards the sheltered rear corner of the room...
Napoleon dodged across an open space and around an armchair, and something like a truck bumper hit him in the side of the head. It knocked him sprawling across the polished floor, helpless before the impact, until he skidded half under a divan. He twisted, dragging his right arm around from under him. Half dazed, he saw a foot descending towards his face, saw his own hands grab for the foot and twist. He heard the Thrush yelp as he was flipped over backwards, his head hitting the padded arm of a chair.
Napoleon steadied himself against the divan as he tried to stand. His attacker rolled smoothly to all fours and flowed to his feet, pulling a long murderous Bowie knife from what must have been a specially designed sheath under his jacket. Seeing the gleam of steel in the uncertain light, Napoleon recognised the lean scarred face grinning like a skull a few feet away and realised exactly who his opponent was: Kiazim Refet, Thrush's number one assassin. Illya had met him in Australia and escaped with his life"— with a little help. Now it was Napoleon's turn.
Refet crouched, shifting gently from side to side, the blade floating above his right hand. Napoleon felt instinctively into his defensive stance as adrenalin blazed into his system and focussed his clearing mind on the man facing him. He knew that at that moment, wielding twelve inches of steel, Kiazim Refet was the most dangerous man in the world. And he knew that unless he made the first move he would be dead in moments.
Napoleon feinted, kicking sharply out with his right foot and switching it aside as Kiazim slashed down with the vicious blade. As it flicked through the space beside his leg, he lashed up with a full kick, catching the Turk under his chin and driving him back against the wall.
Refet rebounded like a rubber tire and lurched towards him, knife flailing as he recovered his balance. Solo stepped back, and his heel turned behind him on the stock of his fallen U.N.C.L.E. Special — his only possible defense. Swiftly he shrugged off his shoulder rig, catching the leather loop in his right hand and whipped the empty holster forward as Kiazim lunged, slashing it across his face. Blood spurted just above the Turk's left eye and he ducked back a step, half-blinded.
Napoleon dived to grab the Special lying at his feet as Kiazim leaped towards him again, his face a gory mask of hate. Evidently the Turk's depth perception was impaired, for he struck two inches short as Napoleon snatched the Special from the floor to catch the blade between the 'scope and barrel of his gun and twisted, the knife forward and down, out of Kiazim's grasp.
Uncoiling like a spring, Napoleon drove forward from his crouch with every ounce of effort in his body behind the stiff-armed U.N.C.L.E. Special, slamming it up into the bridge of the Turk's nose. Cartilage crunched as it burst like a pomegranate and blood gouted over the pistol.
With a hoarse groan, Kiazim staggered back, clutching his mutilated face with his left hand, snatching Solo's flimsy turtleneck with his right. - Unable to swing his long barrel around to fire at this close range, Napoleon brought the gun down across the hairy arm with a dull slap. Kiazim shrieked as his hand was torn free of Napoleon's shirt and flopped limply at the end of a splintered wrist.
Napoleon reversed his swing and launched the gun upwards again with a force born of sheer terror; Kiazim, in a last desperate move, lashed out with a vicious, shattering kick across Napoleon's right knee just as the heavy butt of the U.N.C.L.E. Special smashed into his nose again, driving the broken splinters of bone up into his brain. Both men hit the floor — Napoleon face down, his right leg twisted at an impossible angle under him, and Kiazim Refet on his back a few feet away dead.
Through a gathering haze of shock and dull agony, Napoleon saw Joan stumbling through the dimness toward him. He tried to move and something grated in his leg.
Then Joan was beside him, dragging an overstuffed chair as a shield behind her. "Okay," she said, "you picked it. This is where we make our last stand. Can you see to shoot?"
He tried to twist to a sitting position, but part of his leg wouldn't work at all. It hadn't started to hurt yet but there was that aching numbness of shock...
"Where were you when I needed you?"
"Twenty feet away, and I never got a shot. It was all over in ten seconds.
He's dead, you know."
"I hope so. Help me up. Mind the leg —"
Eight rifles tracked them, and only two pistols could reply. Slugs smashed into the wall above them and plunked cotton batting from the chair, but Napoleon managed to get off a few shots before his eyes began to mist over.
"Joan he said. "I don't think I can hold this thing steady anymore. There's five rounds in my left pocket..."
Four Guards charged the hasty barricade as running footsteps and a blast of gunfire outside preceded, the slam of a grenade at the front door.
Joan stood, her own unadorned Special in her left hand and Napoleon's fully assembled one in her right, shooting from the hip, alternately one and then the other, firing into the shadows where other Guards crouched, spraying lead at the outer door where dozens of running black-clad figures were bursting in amid smoke and thunder. The four Guards crumpled before Joan's deadly fire, and she shouted over the confusion, "U.N.C.L.E.! This way! This way!"
Three men ran out of the smoke, guns pointed at Joan, who was waving the assembled Special over her head like a flag. "Solo's here," she said . urgently. "He's wounded. Kuryakin's in the basement, safe but also wounded. How's the battle going?"
"I think we're getting it together," said Mr. Mills.
"What's going on up there?" said Napoleon, dragging himself up on the arm of the chair to hang half over it. "Did we win?"
"There's a lot of underground area to be cleaned out, sir, but this Big House was the last major organised resistance. There's a whole lot of underground shops, by the way. Big stuff."
A grenade went off down the hall and Mr. Short looked around. "There's a few things to take care of here yet, too," he observed.
"And d'you remember the nerve gas that was dumped in the Atla
ntic about a week ago? It's here. They were unloading it from a submarine down in one of the pens. They've got facilities for a dozen full-sized subs down there!"
"We also caught two sub-loads of technical personnel just outside the lagoon— they've surrendered. Apparently nobody got away."
"You mean we've won."
"I'd say so. We'll get a field surgeon to you right away. Jackson, go for a medic, would you?"
"What's that light out there beyond the lagoon?"
"It's dawn, sir."
"Already? How time flies when you're having fun!"
The Final Affair Page 17
