The Man from Yesterday Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  Shortly after nine Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin and Indra Bal were gathered around one of the powerful radios in Mr. Bal’s private quarters high in the house. The room was a smaller version of Mr. Waverly’s headquarters in New York. Solo’s forehead glistened with sweat. He had a microphone close to his lips. Outside, loud even through the sound-deadened steel walls, the storm roared.

  A voice crackled from the big metal face of the radio set: “This is Signal Two. I made my pass right where my instruments tell me the end of the runway should ne, over.”

  Solo cracked back: “Can’t you see the lights, over?”

  “I can’t be sure. This rain’s nearly tearing the plane apart, over.”

  “You’ve got to come down if it’s at all possible,” Solo answered. “Hang on, over.”

  “Will do. But it’s rough up here. Over and out.” The pilot sounded uneasy, with excellent reason.

  “Indra,” Solo asked, “are there any other lights on the estate? We could run the jeep out on the runway with its headlights on, but we need more than that.”

  “There are flares in our storehouse,” she replied. “Several cases of them.”

  Solo was already back on the radio: “Signal Two? I’m going out to set flares on the runway. As many as I can. Then if you can see them, Mr. Kuryakin will try talking you down.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Solo dropped the mike and followed Indra from the room.

  Moments later he was dashing from the storehouse in the rain, his arms laden with the flares. The rain slashed viciously hard into his face. And out of the storm’s murk. Quite suddenly, came the attackers.

  FOUR

  A flower of scarlet gloomed in the rain, shooting off sparks. The flare cast an eerie, distorted light, its wavering radiance cross-slashed by the water that poured out of the sky.

  Napoleon Solo thrust the flare into the glutinous mud at the runway’s edge. He shielded his eyes with one hand to watch a moment, wanting to make certain the flare would burn. It sputtered a bit, but even the torrential downpour couldn’t nullify the incendiary chemical inside the slender cylinder.

  As the flare continued to glow Solo murmured a monosyllable of satisfaction, scooped up the rest of the flares and ran on down the edge of the concrete.

  About a dozen yards from where the last one had been planted, he fired the second with its own fuse mechanism built right into the separate cap. The fire blazed. Solo bent to place it in the mud. He planned to work his way down one side of the runway and then back up the other. Since the flares had a theoretical burn-time of about half an hour, he planned on setting them in less than fifteen minutes. Then the pilot of the hospital plane somewhere up there in the crashing black skies would have fifteen minutes more to try to bring his aircraft in.

  Standing up from placing the second flare, Solo saw dim figures sprinting toward him through the rain. By the flare’s light, he saw gun barrels gleam.

  “Who is it?” he bawled, clawing for his own pistol just in case.

  A machine pistol stuttered. Bullets ate across the concrete toward him, pockmarks appearing suddenly in the tarmac like round, ugly wounds. Instinctively Solo hauled his own clear of his jacket and dived over backwards into the mud as guns opened up.

  The attackers---he counted at least eight men in the dark, nondescript trousers and jackets---were still a good distance away. The pouring rain made vision difficult. And Solo had the additional disadvantage of being limed by the flares.

  With his chin in the mud, he started crawling to the right, toward the darkness. More shots came spitting at him. One plucked the cuff of his trousers. He jerked his leg up, finally reached a relatively dark patch midway between the two sputtering flares. There he squiggled around frantically in the jelly-like mud so he faced the runway now. He propped himself up on his right elbow and peered into the murk to shoot.

  Silence out there. The figures of the attackers had melted away.

  Rainwater spilled into his eyes. There was only the hiss of the storm now, and the distant muttering of the circling hospital plane. His right hand shook. He wanted to shoot. But there was no one left to shoot.

  Where had they gone? Slipped off to flank him---?

  Even as this thought registered, Solo realized he’d lost valuable seconds, and that they had probably come around him in the darkness. He twisted onto his left side, straining to see past the fireburst of the second flare. At that instant a man yelled behind him, a hoarse cry of triumph. Solo spun back onto his right side, firing blindly.

  Four of the men who’d crept round to his flank came charging at him from the direction of the first flare. Another pounded in from his left, scooping up one of the flares Solo had dropped.

  Solo shot at the larger group of attackers. His bullet dropped one man screaming with a slug in his stomach. The man racing up from the left lighted the flare he was carrying and threw it like a dynamite stick.

  The flare plopped down not a foot from Solo’s head, fountaining up its scarlet sparks, illuminating Solo like a bright target. Firing, stumbling in the gluey mud, he struggled to his feet.

  The attackers were almost on him now. The two in the lead leveled their machine pistols. Solo didn’t recognize their featureless, ragtag clothing; the dark tunics and pantaloons were not the uniforms worn by the men stationed on the estate. But he did recognize the hard-eyed, professional faces of trained THRUSH assassins and he acted accordingly, blazing away with his pistol.

  The attacker nearest him went to his knees in the mud, machine pistol still rattling. Solo leaped, kicked the man aside. His movement put him out of the line of fire, for a moment. The second man racing up missed for that reason.

  Solo jumped to the right, over the man’s fallen body. As the second attacker swung around after him, Solo shot twice. The Thrushman clutched the side of his face. Blood gushed out between his pressed-together fingers. Howling, the man went down. Solo started to turn again---

  A massive fist slammed the side of his head, spinning him off his feet. He flailed at the air. He landed on his back. Another of the Thrushmen darted in, drew his foot back and kicked Solo in the side of the head.

  Desperately Solo tried to lift his pistol. The Thrushman stamped on his wrist. Solo’s fingers went slack. His pistol slid away into the mud as he fought back the terrific pain the man’s foot had inflicted.

  The THRUSH agent towered over him. Dark Eurasian eyes glared with fanatic hate. The man aimed the automatic down at Solo’s head.

  Feebly Solo tried to rise. Dizziness swept him. The automatic’s muzzle loomed---

  A shadow-shape materialized behind the Thrushman. The new arrival caught the gunman’s shoulder, spun him around.

  “I told you it was not necessary to kill him! The others have already converged on the house. That is where our target lies.” And with a curse, the new arrival struck the gunman in the face and sent him reeling off through the rain.

  A heavy .45 in his fist, Mr. Chandra smiled down at Napoleon Solo. Chandra’s beard sparkled with rain. His dark eyes were like bits of fire in his amber face. A cruel white smile cracked the beard.

  I will be back for you, Mr. Solo,” he promised. “The cobra I loosed from its basket failed me miserably, so now there is no time to dispose of you in a fitting way. Slowly. But there will be. Until we finish or priority work---“ Mr. Chandra bent down, his right arm flying back. “---rest well in the slime you belong.”

  With a chopping blow of his gun hand, Mr. Chandra smashed Solo’s temple with steel. Chandra turned and slipped like a ghost up through the rain toward the great house. Solo tried to cry out. Thunder ripped the sky, drowning out the engines of the circling plane. The flares sputtered and shot off sparks.

  Solo lifted himself on hands and knees. He was covered with sticky brown mud from head to foot. His mind echoed and pinged with eerie sounds. He knew he was going to black out.

  Mr. Chandra had sold out, then, was working for THRUSH. Had somehow managed to smuggle his o
wn squad of killers in through the perimeter of the estate.

  Where were the U.N.C.L.E. agents who lived on the property? Why weren’t they here, responding to the shots?

  All at once he caught a new sound. Voices. Shouting, confused. Far off on the opposite side of the runway. Those would be Mr. Bal’s men, rallying now, trying to find out what was happening in the chaotic confusion of thunder and rain.

  Solo cried a warning to them. Only a kind of gargling croak came out of his throat.

  Men were running across the concrete, calling orders to one another. Too late, he thought. You’re coming too late.

  He had one last vision of Illya Kuryakin and Indra Bal up there in house, waiting for him by the radio while Mr. Chandra and his killers swept in on them---

  Abruptly Solo blacked out. His face slid into the mud. The rain slashed at the back of his head which looked like nothing so much as a great gooey brown rock. The U.N.C.L.E. agents charging across the runway reached him, passed him and raced on without noticing him lying there unconscious, covered with brown slime.

  FIVE

  Static snarled and crackled. Illya Kuryakin was saying into the microphone: “What’s that, Signal Two? Please repeat. I didn’t catch it; there’s too much interference. Over---“

  More faintly than before, the pilot responded, “Somebody tit two flares. I saw them when I made my last pass over the strip. But that’s not nearly enough light. My fuel’s running low. If I don’t get down soon I’ll have to turn around and start back for Calcutta. Over.”

  “Napoleon Solo is out on the field. He should be putting down more flares. Over.”

  “The last one started burning about five minutes ago. There haven’t been any since, over.” The pilot had to shout above the rattling of the static.

  Illya glanced at Indra. “Perhaps I’d better go out and have a look.”

  Fear washed the girl’s lovely face, paling it even more. At that moment, above the drone of the rain, Illya heard something bump against the wall in the corridor. The sound was barely audible because of the thickness of steel that made up the wall of this box-like chamber.

  Without saying a word, Illya laid the microphone aside. It continued to emit a mixture of static and the garbled voice of the pilot wanting to know whether anybody was there. Illya put a finger up to his lips in the traditional warning gesture, snaked his pistol from the pocket of his white jacket. The steel door to the outer hall was shut and double-locked.

  Was Napoleon coming back? Illya started toward the door, intending to inch it open cautiously. Indra started to say something. Illya turned to hear, and in so doing took a step away from the door.

  That step saved him.

  The corridor wall exploded inward with a clap of sound, a gush of flame and a puff of smoke.

  The steel door teetered forward. Illya caught Indra around the waist and bowled her back against a small computer whose face flickered with lights. The steel door crashed to the floor with thunderous force. In the smoke that boiled in, figures lunged and leaped into the room.

  Illya threw himself in front of Indra, whipped his gun up. The man in the lead of the attack party slammed a gun barrel down on his wrist. He cursed, dropping his gun, diving for it, and a heavy hand rabbit-punched the back of his neck.

  More men in nondescript tunics crowded through the door. Illya punched, flailed. But the force of numbers was against him.

  Two of the men caught his arms. A third pounded his mid-section with rights and lefts until Illya’s breath was beaten out of him. He hung in the arms of his captors, his gut aching, his mind whirling.

  Behind him in the smoke, Indra screamed and struggled. The attackers overpowered her too. What in God, name had happened to Solo?

  Illya was dragged out through the wrecked door frame into the hallway. Hand torches flickered as men ran here and there in the dimness. Past the hallway railing, Illya could see a light gleaming in the cream-colored foyer far below. The main doors of the foyer flapped in the wind. Rain drove in, gathering in pools on the marble flooring.

  To Illya’s right along the hallway, someone was standing in the dark. This unseen person spoke in a tone of command: “Two of you. Fetch Bal.”

  Struggling to think coherently, Illya tried to remember where he had heard that voice. Indra screamed the name first, “Chandra!”

  The tall man stepped forward to the hallway railing. Some of the light from the foyer leaked upward across his face. If anything, he looked more arrogant than usual, with a cold patina of cruelty added to the regular haughtiness of his features.

  “You are quite correct, Miss Bal. It is I. I regret this inconvenience to you---“

  “Working for THRUSH, are you?” Illya cried out.

  Mr. Chandra’s face became a fanatic’s mask. “Since my fourteenth year, I am proud to say.”

  “You filthy---“

  But Illya’s vituperation was suddenly drowned out by moans and a clatter of footsteps off to the right. Two of the Thrushmen appeared in a lighted doorway which had just opened. Between them, and pitiful in an old-fashioned white-night dress, his eyes luminous with fever, hung Mohandus Bal.

  Mr. Chandra licked his lips and bowed deferentially to Indra. “I am indeed sorry, Miss Bal, that we do not have the time to carry out this assignment in a suitable style. However, I am under orders to perform the job as efficiently as possible. We will be unable to make it a lingering death, which I am certain you would enjoy more fully.”

  Chandra’s bearded face cracked wide with that awful white smile. He gestured down toward the nearby foyer.

  “I am afraid our shooting has aroused the U.N.C.L.E. agents masquerading as your uncle’s servants. Ah yes, I know all about them. I know many things about this house you would not expect me to know. I have played the role of the faithful servant for many years, at the request of my superiors. The lickspittle operatives who are rushing here this moment will be a bit too late.”

  Mr. Chandra turned. With an exquisitely casual flip of his right hand, he said, “Throw him over.”

  Indra lunged forward, half escaping from her captors as she shrieked: “No! My God, don’t do that to him---“

  Her scream wailed up as Mr. Bal’s captors lifted him, hurled him out over the hallway railing and smiled at each other as he dropped straight to the marble of the foyer.

  With a huge, pulpy thud he struck. Indra screamed hysterically.

  Illya was half conscious. Down into the foyer he glimpsed the sudden hideous splash of red that smeared both floor and walls.

  The doors from the verandah crashed open. Guns drawn, the first of the estate servants skidded inside. They recoiled at the mingled water and blood swirling across the floor.

  Mr. Chandra did not seem perturbed. He reached into one pocket of his long silk coat. He drew out three small football shaped capsules, dropped them one after another over the foyer rail.

  One of the U.N.C.L.E. agents spotted the first of the capsules spiraling downward. He aimed up at Chandra as the other men thrust forward into the foyer with rain swirling around them.

  The capsules struck the marble and popped. Instantly, coils of greenish smoke spread from wall to wall. The agent with the gun never had a chance to fire. Seizing his throat, he dropped, choking. His tongue protruded from his open mouth. His facial muscles jerked spasmodically.

  Illya’s belly turned over. He made an abortive drive forward, was clipped on the back of the neck and sagged again.

  With grotesque moans, the men down in the foyer toppled over one by one.

  Dead.

  Mr. Chandra dusted his hands together in a gesture of dismissal. He turned. Indra Bal had slumped over unconscious. Chandra strode toward Illya, caught the point of his chin in two cruel fingers, lifted his head with a jerk. To his men he said: “This one and that Solo person we left out by the landing strip are important and highly placed U.N.C.L.E. operatives. Perhaps it would be well to take them along.”

  “We can’t go back for t
he other one,” said one of Illya’s captors.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Chandra said. “It could be risky. Other operatives may be combing the ground by now. The trucks are waiting at the back of the house to take us as far up into the jungle as we can go by mechanical means.” Chandra stroked his beard, decided, straightened up. “Very well. I shall accept the responsibility. Our master may be amused. We’ll take this Kuryakin fellow and Miss Bal. Perhaps a young lady, the daughter of his enemy, will provide a certain little extra fillip to lighten the master’s hours. Especially now that he must devote so much of his time to the larger aspects of the operational plan.”

  Chandra clapped his hands lightly. Down in the foyer the greenish smoke was blowing out across the verandah. The twisted bodies of the gassed agents lay like figures in some nightmare painting. The whole floor was awash with the blood from the ruined body of Mr. Mohandus Bal. Chandra pointed.

  “We shall take the rear stairs to the truck. Then he gave Illya’s chin a last vicious twist. “Cheer up. You know where you’re going, don’t you?”

  Illya saw Chandra sneering at him, spat.

  Chandra seized Illya’s hair. “You vile, unspeakable---you’re going to Edmonds. We’ll see how you like that!”

  But Illya Kuryakin had finally lost consciousness.

  SIX

  Tropical birds. Screaming, chattering---They made a ferocious din that bit against Illya’s ear drums with actual physical pain. Kuryakin struggled to lift his head. It felt as though it weighed a hundred pounds, and his eyelids bore a major share of that weight.

  He shifted, testing his body. Although he could see nothing, he could tell by the sharp cutting of a substance which felt like leather or rawhide that his wrists were bound. He thought he heard someone breathing close by.

  Then, as though he were listening to a stereo system, he realized that the sources of the sound were actually two: a light, rushed, uneven breathing came from his right; from the left, he heard a whistling of breath that was sharper, more insistent and urgent.