Waverly held up a hand. “Protection is not the problem, Mr. Solo. The real problem is this. In escaping from the Isle de Mal Dantez Edmonds took with him one of U.N.C.L.E.’s own weapons. A weapon never meant to be used; one which, in the hands of THRUSH, could prove to be disastrous. I refer,” he added with a long, somber glance, “to that single, pestilential monkey.”
TWO
For a long moment no one stirred. Sir Blightstone Jurrgens pulled out a handsome gold cigar case. He extracted a huge brown Deluxe Corona-Corona, clipped the end with a pair of little gold scissors.
As the European placed the scissors back into the pocket of his waistcoat, Solo noted that the man’s stubby fingers trembled. And on Mohandus Bal’s cheeks a thin film of sweat shone, even though the air in the headquarters was kept at a comfortable and constant seventy degrees.
Of all of them, Mr. Waverly seemed the most unflapped by the escape. And by the major threat to U.N.C.L.E.’s top echelon posed by Dantez Edmonds being at liberty.
From a drawer in the circular conference table, Waverly drew a legal size manila folder. Out of this he pulled half a dozen eight by ten glossy photos which he fanned out in front of Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin craned over his shoulder. Solo studied the pictures, saw only some fairly routine shots of a laboratory. Cages for small animals were ranged along one wall.
“Look closely, please, Mr. Solo,” Waverly asked. “What do you see in those cages?”
“Monkeys, sir. But what’s so unusual about a lab having---“
“This laboratory,” cut in Waverly, tapping the photos, “is located on the Isle de Mal. It is a small facility but one of our most important ones. Specializing in tropical medicine research.”
A brightness quickened in Illya’s eyes. “Yes, that’s right. I recall it now.”
Waverly gestured, “The lab is small and relatively obscure in comparison with our other larger installations. It’s located on the Isle because the island is a prime site for testing various anti-fever and forest defoliation compounds under clinical conditions. Our men down thee have a distinguished record of coming up with chemical agents which make U.N.C.L.E. operations in tropical areas safer.
Mohandus Bal coughed to gain Waverly’s attention. “Come, come, Alexander. You’ve dangled the hook in front of these two long enough. Tell them straight out!” In Bal’s voice Solo heard irritation born of intense nervous strain.
“Um,” went Waverly. “Well, it’s quite simple. In doing its work, our lab on the Isle naturally turn up many dangerous compounds. One particularly virulent, plague-like strain was being tested there at the time Edmonds made his escape. It was no secret on the Isle that the lab had turned up this rather horrific strain. We assume that what happened was this. The THRUSH double agent on the Isle knew of the lab’s work. He mentioned it to Edmonds during the escape. Edmonds broke into the lab before heading overland.
Waverly’s index finger touched one of the photos again. “He smashed that very cage. From that cage he took a monkey, a test animal which had been inoculated over a period of months with small doses of the strain, thus building up its resistance and natural immunity.”
“And that,” said Solo, “is the monkey Edmonds had on his shoulder at the river station?”
“The one that bit Plympton when Edmonds unmuzzled it,” Illya added.
Sir Blightstone nodded grimly. “Exactly. I knew Plympton well. Top man. But from what I hear---God what a ghastly death. Alexander, why was the lab on the Isle allowed to muck around with such awful stuff?”
“Research is unpredictable, as you well know,” Waverly replied, a bit tartly. “Naturally our organization would not have utilized this particular strain in any way. We do not make war on our enemy, or at least we haven’t been driven to that yet. Our technical people pursue odd byways of knowledge in the hope that something positive, beneficial may turn up.” He directed a somber glance at Solo and Illya. “The point is obvious, is it not gentlemen?”
Solo stood up. Dark memories of Plympton’s blotched, purple-moist face stirred in clotted back corners of his mind.
“Yes, sir. Edmonds recognized the value of this plague strain to THRUSH. He tried it on Plympton and it worked. So now THRUSH has a new weapon. One of our own weapons, too, as you said. And they’ll probably use it against us.”
“Not only against us,” said Mohandus Bal. “Against the entire world. The strain is terrible enough to infect whole nations with this plague-like disease. Alexander was quite right when he said personal danger to the three of us was hardly the sole consideration. What matters most is that Dantez Edmonds has in his possession something which could well turn the tide for THRUSH at last.”
“If the monkey is still alive,” said Mr. Waverly in a low tone, “and we have no reason to believe otherwise. I am informed that it carries enough of the plague strain in its tissues to kill, at minimum, two hundred thousand people. An almost miniscule dose will bring death. And the strain can be easily transmitted. Probably in Plympton’s case it was carried in the saliva that accompanied the monkey’s bite.”
“Then we’ve got to find Edmonds without delay,” Illya said.
“Admirable notion,” responded Jurrgens. “Except for one sad fact. He’s vanished.”
“Has an alert been posted?” Solo asked Waverly.
“World wide, to every station. Thus far there have been no reports that he has been seen. If I were Edmonds, I would go to ground and stay there, secure in knowing that I had in my possession one of the most awful means of destruction on the face of the earth. Our hope---“ Waverly’s glance struck Solo and Illya like a blow “---our only hope is that, in his neurotic compulsion to revenge himself, he will emerge to strike at the three of us. And then we can run him to ground ourselves. No, let me change that. From can to must.”
“It means, of course, giving him the opportunity to attack us,” said Mohandus Bal.
“That, in turn” added Jurrgens, “suggests that we cannot hide. Rather, we must go about our normal duties. If work for U.N.C.L.E. can ever said to be normal.”
“Permit me to say, sir,” Illya spoke up, “that doesn’t sound like a wise course. You three gentlemen are virtually invaluable to the organization. To present yourselves as targets is to court a disaster from which U.N.C.L.E might not recover.”
Gently, Waverly smiled. “Mr. Kuryakin, I am flattered by your high appraisal of my value, and that of Mr. Bal and Sir Blightstone. There is no other way. We must continue to carry on in quite normal fashion. Minus the very kind of extra security precautions you mentioned earlier, Mr. Solo. They would simply deter Edmonds. The three of us involved with this frightful man from yesterday must in fact go out of our way to thrust ourselves into the open, where Edmonds can reach us. Otherwise we have no route to him. No means of recovering that infected monkey.”
In his mind Solo conjured a chittering vision of that little face. The imaginary monkey clawed the air, reaching, reaching out to scratch him, infect him---
The gloomy mental picture widened. He saw hundreds of the little animals running through a phantom city street. They leaped onto the shoulders of people passing by, biting them.
Then came the screams, the convulsions.
And into the scene rolled the dark tanks and belching armor from the THRUSH arsenals rolling, rolling through burning , diseased ridden cities as governments toppled---
Did you hear me Mr. Solo?” Waverly’s voice intruded on the dark reverie.
Solo shook off his evil mood. “Sir?”
“Unless we turn up definite information on Edmonds’ whereabouts via the world wide alert, we shall proceed along the lines outlined. Business, as the saying goes, as usual. No unusual security precautions for Mr. Bal, Sir Blightstone, or myself.
Your first assignment will be to escort Sir Blightstone to the airport for his flight back to London in the morning.” Waverly glanced at his watch. “Unless there are further questions, I shall excuse you for the rest of the evening.�
��
Ah, yes, Mr. Solo,” rumbled Sir Blightstone, managing to regain some trace of good humor. “One hears that you’re quite the lady’s man. There’s still a whole night left ahead, what?”
Wearily Solo pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’ll never believe this. I do have a date. With Miss Sumuzuki. But I just don’t feel up to it.”
“Miss Sumuzuki,” Waverly explained to the visitors, “is one of ours. A karate expert. A few lessons, Mr. Solo?”
“Just some plain old-fashioned wrestling on a love seat,” said Illya Kuryakin.
His smile did nothing to cheer Solo. The levity ended the meeting on a sour, unpromising note. Solo and Illya shook hands with the visitors, and made arrangements to meet Sir Blightstone at 7:30 in the morning, for the drive to Kennedy International.
Then the two agents left. Glumly they walked down the corridor where coded lights blinked from the ceiling. A ravishing girl wearing the triangular U.N.C.L.E. badge on her smock waved to Solo from an open doorway. Hands in pockets, brooding, he didn’t even see.
The elevator arrived. The doors slid back. Illya glanced up.
“Hello, you two,” he said to the couple just getting off. Both carried small airline flight bags. The girl was slender, dark-haired, attractive. The young man, he of the large smile and rumpled Saville Row haberdasher, spoke first in response.
“We’re just in from Limerick. April did a smashing job of polishing off some THRUSH nasties who were peddling liquor loaded with radioactive poisons. That little kit of demolition materials she carries in her high heels fairly blew this old Irish Distillery off the earth.” And Mark Slate patted the girl’s shoulder in exaggerated courtliness.
Looking tired, April Dancer smiled. “I never want to smell Irish whiskey again. Where are you headed?”
“Night off,” replied Illya. “I’m going to get some rest. Napoleon has a date.”
“Well, top of the evening,” Slate grinned, took April’s arm. “We’ve got to file a report. Remember your duty to dear old U.N.C.L.E., Napoleon. Clear head and all that. Not too much monkey business, tonight.”
Waving, Mark Slate and April Dancer went down the hall.
Napoleon Solo stared after them, bleak-faced, thinking: There’s more monkey business than you know. And it’s not funny. In fact it just may be tragic.
THREE
The weather warmed a little overnight. By 7:25 the next morning the sun was up and a brisk but balmy breeze blew through the streets of midtown Manhattan. Napoleon Solo parked the sumptuous black Chrysler limousine in the No Parking zone in front of the glass and curtain wall glitter of the Hotel Transamerica. He climbed out. Illya Kuryakin stepped out on the curb side.
A braid-hung doorman started toward them, scowling and lifting a white glove to instruct them to move on. Solo flipped out a pass case containing a set of artfully forged diplomatic credentials. He pointed to the diplomatic pennons fluttering on the car’s front fenders. Mechanics in the U.N.C.L.E. headquarters garage three levels beneath the whitestone complex had mounted the flags in place at 6 that morning. The doorman nodded, and the agents headed into the lobby.
In two minutes Illya had completed a call on the house phone, informing Sir Blightstone that they were on their way up. While the agents took the elevator up to 22, Sir Blightstone would be removing the anti-personnel devices he had placed around his suite the night before. The simple little devices could be carried in a small pouch, and were cheaper than employing a staff of human agents to stand overnight.
As the electronically-controlled elevator whizzed upward, Solo found himself whistling. He was freshly shaved and neatly turned out in dark slacks and a sports jacket with a paisley handkerchief in the pocket. Illya noticed his cheerful mood:
“Miss Sumuzuki’s workout must have agreed with you.”
Solo grinned. “Exercise is beneficial. I chased her around the karate mat for an hour and never caught her once.”
Laughing, Illya held the door as they stepped into the plush, dimly lit corridor that smelled of carpets and closed doors as hotels do all over the world.
“This way,” Solo pointed left. “Around that bend. Jurrgens is in the suite at the very end.”
The two agents walked briskly. As they rounded the corner they came upon a group of electrical workers fussing with a large circuit panel in the wall on their left. The four repair men wore dark green slacks and shirts, and the yellow metal hard hats blazoned with the logo of the city’s electric utility. Each of the workers had a wide leather utility belt carrying a collection of screw drivers, pliers and similar tools.
“I tell ya, Morris,” one of the men was saying as the agents passed, “all of them short circuits couldn’t have been caused by just this one board.”
As Solo and Illya went by, one of the workers gave them a quick glance from under the brim of his metal hat. The man’s eyes had a peculiar lackluster quality. His pupils were oddly enlarged. Solo wondered about that, and also about the necessity of having four workers concentrated on a relatively insignificant switch panel. Why wouldn’t they be working on the central controls somewhere else in the hotel?
Perhaps some influential guest had complained about his lights going out. Solo gave a mental shrug. The workers continued to argue in low voices as Solo and Illya approached the ornate double doors at the hall’s end.
A gold-leaf decorative motif was worked into the wood of the door. A center panel read Excelsior Suite. Illya rapped smartly. “I hope he’s taken all the bombs off.”
In a moment Sir Blightstone opened the door. He had already put on his light topcoat and bowler. His three suitcases were piled up in the foyer behind him. Sir Blightstone was just tucking the pouch of lethal little protective devices into a side pocket as he said:
“Good morning, gentlemen, good morning! All ready. Trust you’re both feeling fit? Things got a little gloomy last evening, didn’t they? Matters always look better after a good night’s rest.”
Solo slipped past him, handed one of the bags to Illya and took two himself.
“Right, sir. Trust you had a pleasant night too. Didn’t lose any sleep because of the electrical failure, did you?”
“Electrical failure?” Jurrgens arched a graying eyebrow. “Didn’t know there was one---“
At that precise moment three things happened.
Sir Blightstone was glancing past Illya’s shoulder. Suddenly his eyes shot open wide and he dove his hand into his pocket for the pouch of little bomb devices.
Second, Illya spun to follow Sir Blightstone’s gaze and let out a yell of warning.
Third---and this happened in the split seconds while Sir Blightstone and Illya were moving---Napoleon Solo realized that the workmen down the hall were no longer talking.
Silence.
Why?
Then Solo saw.
“Damn bloody Thrushmen!” Sir Blightstone exclaimed. “And drugged high as kites. Look at their eyes---“
Solo had very little time. The quartet of men in green twill were advancing rapidly own the center of corridor. They pulled implements from their leather utility belts. One man twisted the handle of his screwdriver as Napoleon Solo bowled against Sir Blightstone and drove him against the wall.
From the tip of the screwdriver squirted a thin, pressure-driven stream of whitish gas. Illya’s hands flashed to his pocket, whipped out again and seemed to blur together. In a heartbeat’s time he fitted the long muzzle onto the stock mechanism of his pistol and was throwing his arm forward to shoot.
The THRUSH quartet had their bogus tools poised. Flame belched from the head of one. Illya dropped, firing as he fell. His shot was off, plowing a channel down the corridor plaster. A bullet from an ersatz wrench blasted splinters from the suite’s doorframe as Solo hammered Sir Blightstone all the way to the carpet.
On hands and knees, trying to stay beneath the streams of gas that were being shot at them, Solo struggled to fit the halves of his pistol together. Another Thrushman fired. T
he bullet knocked more plaster loose, threw stinging dust into Solo’s eyes.
The corridor reverberated thunderously. Somewhere a female guest of the hotel began to scream. Solo’s heart thudded. Red anger flowed inside him. He’d almost smelled the trap, but he hadn’t acted quickly enough.
The THRUSH quartet was no more than half a dozen yards away, advancing along the walls behind the smokescreen of gas. Solo got a whiff of the stuff and grew dizzy for an instant. Tranquilizer mist, most likely. He triggered a shot. One of the phony workmen clutched his thigh and howled.
Illya was about to fire from the prone position when a door opened down the hall and a man stuck his head out. Illya pulled his shot up at the last moment. The bullet blasted harmlessly into the ceiling.
“Rotten THRUSH beggars,” Blightstone was cursing. He struggled to his knees, red-faced, trying to grab his pouch of lethal devices from his topcoat pocket. Gas squirted from one of the screwdrivers again. It caught the U.N.C.L.E. executive full in the face. With a hoarse cry Sir Blightstone slammed forward on to the carpet face first.
The THRUSH quartet swarmed down on them. Solo took a kick in the side of the head. He flopped back hard against the wall. Gas drifted into his nostrils. He felt himself going under. He tried to cry out to Illya. He couldn’t make a sound.
Two of the Thrushmen picked up Sir Blightstone Jurrgens and began dragging him down the corridor by his shoes. Solo realized they must want him alive, else they’d have killed him on the spot. Illya and Solo were left where they were, gasping feebly for air.
“Got to get after him, Napoleon,” Illya groaned in the murk. “Can’t stand up---“
Solo choked out a wordless syllable. If they stayed a moment longer in the gas-laden corridor they’d both be knocked out. The Thrushmen were disappearing toward the elevator with Sir Blightstone. Somehow Solo managed to stumble up.
He lifted one of the pieces of luggage, staggered inside the suite and hurled the bag through a window. “Look out below,” he wheezed, doubling over.
The Man from Yesterday Affair Page 3
