Solo called the next station, two men on the roofs of an adjoing brownstone. The report was the same. So it was with the last two operatives on duty somewhere on this very street, crouched in doorways or truck bays where Solo couldn’t see them.
Number 47 was indeed the brownstone where a light gleamed feebly behind second-floor blinds. No one had gone in or come out recently. He cautioned the teams to remain alert for his signal and snapped off the mike. “What time is it, sir?” Solo asked, busy checking his long-muzzle pistol.
Mr. Waverly consulted his big platinum wristwatch. “Twenty-seven minutes past three.”
“And we’re to be there at three-thirty on the dot.”
Mr. Waverly nodded. He stroked his long upper lip a moment as he studied the front of the lighted building. The drifting fog made it look insubstantial, like something out of a nightmare.
“I really wonder now whether Mr. Kuryakin is in there,” he said.
Solo swung round on the seat, his eyebrow hooking up. “Sir, I assumed you believed---“
“---that Mr. Dantez Edmonds is a man of his word? Nonsense, Mr. Solo. What evidence will support this? All we had was a series of phone calls, the most recent shortly before midnight this evening, confirming arrangements for the transfer of this rather large sum of money.”
Mr. Waverly patted an unusually thick attaché case resting by his left leg. “We are taking Edmonds’ word that he has smuggled Mr. Kuryakin into New York and into this house. Personally, if I were Edmonds, I would do no such thing. It’s too easy for the other side to suspect a trap and prepare for it, as we have done.”
Mr. Waverly’s gesture was meant to indicate the various teams of operatives stationed around the brownstone. He went on:
“I have proceeded with our phase of the negotiations as though I were a simple, trusting soul who swallowed every word Edmonds put forth. There are really two unknowns in the equation, Mr. Solo. First, is Edmonds inside that house as he promised he would be? If there is even a remote chance that he is, we must play the fools and try to trap him. The second unknown is simply that Dantez Edmonds is quite mad.”
“I still say THRUSH wouldn’t trust a crazy man to---“
“Mad, Mr. Solo, on the subject of personal revenge.” Waverly tapped his chest. “He wants me. Shall we satisfy him?” With a dour smile, he hefted the attaché case and stepped out the car.
Solo caught up with him, conscious of the eerie way in which their footsteps clacked on the damp street. Carefully Solo reached into his pocket. He adjusted the calibrations of his rod-shaped communicator by feel alone. The communicator was now set so that a touch of one of its signal studs would immediately start the little transmitter broadcasting to the communicators carried by the two-man teams. They’d come on the double.
“In other words, sir,” Solo said as he followed Waverly up the brownstone steps, “You feel there is a good possibility that Illya is really dead.”
“At very least, I would wager he is not here,” Waverly replied. “I don’t want to sound ruthless. But this is a matter of plain fact. The most important thing to U.N.C.L.E. now is the capture of Dantez Edmonds, and putting an end to his activities with those infected monkeys. Surely the recent riots and the mounting war tensions in Purjipur indicate the urgency of---oh, here we are.”
They had arrived at the top of the steps. Waverly reached out and twisted the bell-key. Somewhere far back on the brownstone, a bell jangled.
The pit of Napoleon Solo’s stomach felt leaden. Well, Waverly had only confirmed what he’d suspected ever since the first ransom message came in from Edmonds a couple of days ago. Illya was dead, and this was an elaborate shadow-play designed to bring Waverly into Edmonds’ hands.
Once more Waverly tried the bell. No one came to answer. Finally Solo eased around past his chief, touched the door handle. He pushed the door inward and stepped away from it.
“All appears in order,” Mr. Waverly said in an overly loud voice.
Before Solo could stop him, he was inside. Napoleon Solo went after him, pistol up. The foyer was practically pit-black. A single light bulb gleamed high up at the head of the second landing, revealing a staircase littered with pieces of old packing crate. A sour smell of garbage floated in the air. Solo glided forward, testing every step.
Suddenly a voice crackled out of the black at his elbow: “Gentlemen, welcome to you. This of course is your host---“
“Edmonds?” Waverly snapped. “Where the devil are you?”
“My voice is coming to you through an amplifier hooked into the old speaking tubes of this former apartment building,” the faintly effeminate voice continued. “As you pass up the staircase, an electronic device will check to make sure there are no more than two present. It would not be safe for more than two of you to attempt to climb the stairs, be assured of that. You will find me waiting in the rear room of the second floor. We will finish our transactions there, and Mr. Kuryakin will be turned over to you.”
Listening to the tinny voice, Solo whispered under his breath, “Liar.”
“I have the money Edmonds.” Alexander Waverly hefted the attaché case.
There was silence.
A big liner hooted, going down the Hudson on the river outside the building. Mr. Waverly sighed and glanced over his shoulder. “Nothing for it, Mr. Solo. Second floor rear?”
Briskly Waverly started upward, swinging the case and whistling under his breath.
Solo climbed after him, watching in fascination as the case waggled back and forth in Mr. Waverly’s hand. His chief was almost jaunty, carrying a hundred thousand dollars in tens and twenties.
That money had been the subject of Edmonds second-to-last phone call to headquarters . During the final call tonight, Edmonds had finally given them the rendezvous address, and Napoleon Solo had rushed to get his two-man teams in place.
Swinging the case, Mr. Waverly reached the landing. There he paused until Solo caught up. Side by side, they moved toward the rear, and a door with paint peeling from it. At the door they paused again. Mr. Waverly reached out with his left hand, turned the knob. The door squeaked open.
The two men looked into a plain, unfurnished room from which even the carpeting had been stripped. The room was quite bright, lit by a bulb of several hundred watts dangling from a cord. Mr. Waverly shrugged and stepped inside.
The hair on the back of Solo’s neck itched furiously. His long-muzzle pistol gripped tight in his right hand, he edged in after his chief.
Waverly looked around and raised an eyebrow. “Not a soul here. Edmonds is---“
The voice crackled again from hidden speakers: “I am now coming to you courtesy of an amplifier system which is connected with another room in this building. But I do have a little reception committee for you---“
And Edmonds dissolved into a wild cackling as a panel at waist height in the wall sprang open with a bang.
“And I for you,” snapped Waverly, bringing up the attaché case. His thumb pressed the handle. He threw the case into the opening in the wall.
“Back, Mr. Solo!” Waverly cried and crashed against Solo, bowling him into the opposite wall. With a thunderous explosion and a puff of acrid smoke, the attaché case blew up inside the opening.
Something small, furry, chittering had been leaping out of that opening at the moment the attaché case whizzed by, the moment just before the explosion. Or had it been several somethings?
Solo was dazed. He leaned against the wall. It took him a few seconds to interpret what his senses had taken in---a half dozen monkeys spilling out of the secret opening. Solo glanced around. He counted one, two, three, four monkey corpses.
“So there wasn’t any money in that case,” he breathed.
“Not a cent, Mr. Solo. Only explosives. Alert your teams.”
For one wild moment, Napoleon Solo had been afraid that the plague-monkeys were loose around them. It was difficult to see because of the smoke billowing from the hole in the wall. He was relie
ved to know that Waverly’s careful planning and quick thinking had taken care of the little beasts.
Solo whipped out his pocket communicator. He hit the appropriate stud, let the signal broadcast for perhaps ten seconds. Then he switched onto a speech Channel. “This is task force leader to all stations. Seal off all exits. Dantez Edmonds is somewhere in the building. He---“
“Correction,” rattled the hideously familiar voice from the hidden loudspeakers. “Dantez Edmonds is fifteen miles out past Long Island Sound, and monitoring what is happening there by special long-distance electronic equipment provided on this THRUSH powerboat. Very clever of you to come armed Alexander. Though not entirely unexpected, I assure you.”
“You had no intention of ransoming Mr. Kuryakin,” Waverly thundered back.
“Of course I didn’t. I am surprised you came this far.”
“I thought perhaps we might trap you.” As usual, Waverly sounded calm, even phlegmatic, in the midst of difficulties. “It appears I was mistaken.”
“And you put those diseased monkeys behind that secret panel,” Solo shouted. “Where’s Illya? Still in Purjipur?”
“My God!” Mr. Waverly cried suddenly.
Napoleon Solo whirled. Wide-eyed, Mr. Waverly was staring down at the floor. One of the pestilential monkeys had survived after all. Chittering and hopping, it was backing away from Alexander Waverly’s left trouser cuff, retreating into the thick smoke.
Waverly’s cuff was ripped, torn as though savagely bitten. Solo’s hand went out to his chief’s arm. “Sir, did the thing ---?”
“Yes, Mr. Solo.” Waverly turned ashen. “I didn’t see it. All of a sudden there it was, sinking its filthy little teeth in me.”
“What’s that I hear?” Edmonds cracked over the amplifier. “Have you met one of my little darlings after all? Splendid! One can do the job as neatly as six.”
Horrified, Solo kneeled as Mr. Waverly gingerly pulled up his trouser leg. Solo drew in a raw breath. The monkey’s teeth had pierced the flesh. Already the little half-moon row of wounds was beginning to mottle, turn dark. Solo spun around, spied the monkey capering in a corner, almost obscured by the smoke. Solo aimed once and shot it to death.
Abruptly Mr. Waverly gasped, seized Napoleon’s shoulder. “Help me, Mr. Solo. My leg’s like jelly---“ He went down, hitting his head hard on the floor before Solo could catch him.
Louder and louder, Edmonds laughter boiled up. It filled the room, bounced off the walls. Somewhere in the old brownstone footsteps rang out as Solo’s two-man teams penetrated, coming too late.
Solo continued to stare down at Alexander Waverly’s exposed leg. The wound was just above the top of Mr. Waverly’s calf-length sock. A three-inch patch of flesh around the wound was beginning to turn scaly black-purple, beginning to shine with little poisonous beads of moisture.
Waverly moaned. Standing helpless and enraged with Edmonds’ laughter thundering from miles away, Solo thought, God help us, the plague germ’s in him---And there’s no antidote.
ACT IV
DEATH’S JUNGLE RENDEVOUS
As he confronted the tiger in the dawn-lit clearing, Illya Kuryakin found it somewhat difficult to sound very coherent.
Indra Bal’s golden-amber skin had turned even more pale. “Don’t make any sudden movements. Normally he wouldn’t turn on us, but we disturbed him finishing his meal. He’s angry.”
As if to reinforce this point, the tiger opened its huge wet red maw and let out an extremely sinister kind of combination belch and growl. It dug the great claws of its forefeet into the ground, scribing vicious little parallel channels to indicate its mounting wrath.
“Let’s try backing up,” Illya whispered. “Very slowly, a step at a time.”
“Get your gun ready,” Indra replied.
She reached out slowly, her eyes never leaving those of the tiger. She caught his free hand. When she squeezed his fingers, Illya moved his right foot backward, at the same time Indra sidestepped around the half-eaten carcass.
What bothered Illya more than anything else was the stopping power of the stolen THRUSH pistol. He wasn’t sure at all that the caliber was heavy enough to be effective.
The tiger dug its claws in deeper in the earth. A silky ripple went down its flanks, as though its muscles were readying.
Squeeze. Indra’s hand constricted on his again. They took another backward step.
Illya’s forehead ran with sweat. The gun felt ludicrously small and ineffectual in his hand. The tiger’s big yellow eyes shone like a pair of moons as it regarded the two of them with open dislike.
Squeeze. They took one more step backwards.
Squeeze. Another.
After a total of five steps, the tiger still hadn’t moved. Illya was beginning to feel things were going swimmingly. Besides, they could hardly get worse. Illya squeezed again and he stepped backwards straight into a shallow depression. Off balance, he flailed. He tried to right himself, couldn’t. As he fell, his trigger finger constricted.
The pistol thundered.
Illya was down on his back. Startled by the gunshot, the tiger roared and leaped. It came straight at him, a striped blur of black and gold. Desperately he rolled to one side. Indra screamed in terror.
The tiger hit the ground where he’d been a moment ago. One of its flaying claws ripped his clothing over his ribs, bringing excruciating pain. The tiger lunged around so that its head was quite close to Illya’s. The immense jaws went open. The huge saber-like fangs glistened with slaver. The monstrous eyes glared. A raw, fleshy stench poured out of the mouth.
Down came the mighty head, the jaws closing, flashing at Illya’s throat. Illya jerked his gun hand up, aimed into the tiger’s open jaws and fired, fired, fired again.
The first bullets drove the tiger back. Illya had time to scramble up. The animal had tremendous stamina. It came at him again, even though its jaws were foaming with blood.
Illya felt a sudden, flashing twinge of intense pity for the great, proud animal. At the moment he realized he was going to have to kill it, he felt bitterly sorry. His hand shook a little as he aimed again from a standing position. He fired the rest of the ammunition at the tiger’s head.
With a roar and a thud, the dying beast hit the ground. Its growls grew weaker every moment, Illya turned away, shaking his head. He caught Indra’s hand and pulled her against him. She was shuddering violently. His own hand was none too steady as he headed her toward the trees, wanting to leave the awful, blood-drenched clearing behind.
He stroked her hair as they staggered along. Indra said: “I don’t know where we are. I don’t know where, I don’t know.”
“We’ll find our way.”
“How? How?”
There was only one answer, futile as it might sound: “By walking.”
Illya and Indra wandered lost and feverish in the rain forest for the better of three days. Fortunately there were no more harrowing incidents with animals, and no further encounters with THRUSH troops. In one of his more lucid moments, Illya realized that Dantez Edmonds’ associates must have decided that pursuit was unnecessary, that the fugitives would probably die in the jungle.
Toward sundown of the third day they stumbled onto a little river trading station run by an old Englishman left over from the colonial days. He had a short-wave radio. Using it, a dazed, almost incoherent Illya Kuryakin called New York and contacted Napoleon Solo.
After their exchange of startled, surprised greetings---“You’re alive!” “Of course.” “But I thought you---“ ---Illya learned the grim news.
Mr. Waverly had been bitten by one of Edmonds’ plague-monkeys. He was hovering on the edge of death while U.N.C.L.E. research men labored on a crash basis to try to isolate and process an antidotal serum.
Edmonds had disappeared from the New York area. He was presumed heading back for Asia, where war was about to erupt on Purjipur’s border.
Illya gave Solo the approximate coordinates of Edmonds’ jungle headq
uarters. The old trader was familiar with the primitive jungle back roads, and with the air of an old tattered map, was able to help Illya isolate the probable location, based upon Illya’s recollection of the configuration of the road he’d followed in escaping.
Illya relayed all the information to Solo, who promised to hop an U.N.C.L.E. plane for Purjipur and close in. But Illya didn’t hear that part. He’d fainted.
The old trader stood over him, wringing his hands and scratching his beard. Indra Bal hurriedly inquired whether the station’s first aid kit contained any antibiotics, specifically sulfa. Fortunately for Illya, it did.
TWO
The old Trader’s name was P.C. Pfolkerstone. He harrumphed when he spoke. “Are you there, sir? I say my good fellow, can you hear me? Are you there?”
With his pocket communicator close to his mouth, Napoleon Solo barked back, “I’m here. What happened?”
“Tube failure. Deuced lucky I had a spare. Trust I’m coming through now?”
“Finally,” Solo breathed. “I’ve been calling for an hour.”
And so he had, seated there by the oval window in the lonely gloom of the U.N.C.L.E. jet which had whisked him out of Manhattan hours ago.
A thin rind of moon gleamed against the double solex glass. Below were coastal lights, and the wavering parallelism of waves foam-topped and moon drenched on the Indian Ocean. They had refueled twice already on the flight.
An hour or so ago, the little trading station with which Solo had been in communication for nearly the entire journey had blacked out. Fortunately the difficulty was now repaired.
Solo felt relieved. But he still experienced the incredible weight of the pressures on him: doubt about Illya’s condition; uncertainty as to whether the agents whom his signal had alerted in Purjipur’s capital city could indeed find Edmonds’ headquarters once they got into the jungle. What gnawed on Solo most of all was the desperate knowledge that Mr. Waverly was sinking deeper into a coma with every hour that passed.
The Man from Yesterday Affair Page 9
