Time, April knew, was running out fast. She doubted that the lost astronaut could evade capture much longer. Once the men from Project X got their hands on him, it would be too late. She had a horrible vision of the stricken world ruled by men like the death-voiced inhuman who spoke out of the darkness above.
In spite of her iron self-control, April Dancer shuddered. She kept her eyes slitted, her long lashes disguising the fact that she was watching every movement of her captors. More and more feeling was slowly coming back into her limbs.
As her control returned, April's mind went back to her original speculation about trying to knock Pedrito out with karate. There was a distinct possibility that she might get away with it if she could move fast enough to knock over and extinguish the candle before the murderous coolies slashed their knives into her.
In the course of her work with U.N.C.L.E. she had taken many chances with her life, but she never made a move without convincing herself that she had a chance. That was all she asked for---a chance.
Now she lay on the hard teakwood deck of the junk's hold, watching the three men and trying to decide if she really did have a chance.
What would it gain her to kill Pedrito, if she were still trapped in the hold, unable to communicate with Mr. Waverly in New York?
Each passing minute was making the situation more desperate. She fought down the impulse to swing into action anyway. Each second dragged on leadened feet as she waited, praying for a break that would give her the barest hope of winning through. It was not sufficient to overcome her captors here in the junk's hold. The important thing was to contact Mr. Waverly and let him know that the Khmerranians were closing in on the lost astronaut.
To do this she had to have her purse with its pen-communicator. That, she fearfully suspected, was back in the junk's cabin with the man with the spectral voice. She almost shivered as she considered the odds against her. How was it possible, even if she was lucky enough to overcome three husky men, to open the trap door into the blacked-out cabin and capture the well protected spy master of Project X?
"There's always a way!" It was Alexander Waverly speaking out of the depth of her memory. She could see the seamed face of the U.N.C.L.E. chief as he said those fateful words. She had been a student then at U.N.C.L.E.'s academy. "There's always a way," he had said in a lecture to the students. "Provided you have the intelligence to find it, and equally important, the courage to follow the way when you do find it."
Suddenly the slight margin she asked for presented itself. Her lightning mind grabbed it automatically without pausing to review the objections to it.
Avis Arvalee moved her legs, coming out of her own paralysis.
"Grab her!" Pedrito commanded the coolies. "I can inject the truth serum now!"
He pulled a small black case from his inside pocket as the two men grabbed the THRUSH girl's arms and legs. Avis screamed and tried to struggle.
In that moment when everybody's attention was on Avis, April tensed. They thought she was still under the gas influence. She pushed up on her hands without either of the three seeing her.
She hurled herself at the nearest coolie whose back was to her, ignoring Pedrito. She caught the surprised Chinese and swung him around in a well executed judo throw. She hurled him straight into Pedrito as the burly Spaniard jumped to his feet. Both men fell sprawling.
April whirled. She had gambled that the other coolie would not be able to get away from Avis quickly enough to endanger her attack.
But the THRUSH woman was too frightened to do her part well. She should have grabbed the coolie. Instead she let him jump back.
The girl from U.N.C.L.E. couldn't follow. Pedrito and the other Chinese were not out. They were scrambling back to their feet. The free Chinese jerked a kris-like dagger from his belt and sprang at her.
April retreated, kicking at the candle stuck on the deck. She hoped to extinguish it. In the pitch darkness, she might have a chance against the three of them.
But her kick sent the candle flying. It landed in the stack of dry fiber rice sacks thrown against the side of the ship's wooden hull. The fire flared up.
Pedrito hesitated, looking back fearfully at the blazing fire. But the coolies ignored its danger to them. They sprang at April, closing in from two directions.
Avis came out of her funk sufficiently to help a little. She grabbed at the coolie's leg, upsetting him. The second charged at April, swinging a murderous knife that was the twin of the one carried by his companion.
Pedrito drew a tiny automatic from his pocket. It was the one he took from April's purse. She saw him level it at her!
April threw herself to the deck, kicking a hidden catch in her shoe heel that released a razor-sharp blade that shot out of her heel like a switch-blade knife.
Pedrito's bullet whined over her head, just missing her as she hit the deck. The charging Chinese was oblivious to his own danger from Pedrito's shooting.
The Spaniard yelled a string of curses as the coolie got in his line of fire. He held up his shots, stepping hastily to the side to get another shot at her.
As the Chinese man stooped to disembowel her with the knife, April twisted, bringing her knife-heel up in a desperate slash that caught the unbalanced man in the stomach. He fell with a strangled cry on top of April.
She tried to shove him aside so she could dodge Pedrito's bullets. She couldn't move fast enough. The wildly cursing X-man leveled the gun at her again.
Across from them the, other coolie jerked free of Avis' frantic grasp. He stepped hastily back to swing a decapitating blow at her head.
April grabbed the dead Chinese by the hair, frantically trying to hold his body around as a shield between her and the murderous Spaniard, It was a forlorn chance. She knew she was lost.
A gun exploded---twice. Surprised, April saw the bullet plow not into her, but into Pedrito. He fell, clutching at the spurting wound in his stomach. The second shot splattered the face of the Chinese swinging at Avis.
April Dancer looked up, hopefully. "It's Mark!" she thought, with a rush of relief. "Somehow he---"
Then her hope crashed. The trap door was open above the ladder way. She heard the furious voice of the master: "I told that fool I wanted these women questioned before they were killed! Let this be a lesson to the rest of you. Follow my orders to the letter---or die!"
Then she heard him issue orders for men she couldn't see to go down and put out the fire. "And put those women where they can't do more harm!" he added.
The fire was burning madly now, eating into the teakwood. Smoke was rising, putting a veil between her and the trap door above. She scrambled back, grabbing the automatic that had fallen from Pedrito's dying fingers.
She snatched it up, pointing the barrel toward a sailor coming down the ladderway.
"Stop!" she cried.
The sailor hesitated, and started to cough from the thickening smoke gathering at the top of the hold.
"Are you more afraid of her than me!" the spectral voice snarled.
The sailor started to climb down. April fired. Her bullet slammed into the man. He fell. Two more, urged on by threats of the spy master, followed. April shot them both.
And then the gun was empty. She hurled it at the next man, and jerked off her shoe, grabbing the toe to use the switch-blade knife in the heel for a last ditch fight.
There was a rush of men down the ladderway. Three converged on her from different directions. There was now so much smoke in the hold that she couldn't see how Avis was making out.
April slashed wildly. She cut two men badly before they bore her down to the deck and jerked the shoe-knife from her hands. She fought with all her strength, but they slowly brought her under control.
Another man came down the ladder, dragging a three-inch hose. He yelled in Chinese for someone on deck to start the pump to pull in sea water to fight the raging fire.
April relaxed, trying to lull her captors into believing she had exhausted herself. Then she hea
ved her body, jerking one leg free. She slammed her foot full in the face of one man. He fell back, blood streaming from his nose.
The man with the hose shouted again for water. Someone on deck screamed back an answer that April did not catch.
Then suddenly the junk lurched. The weakened hull beyond the raging fire gave way. The hold was below the water level. The sea broke through with a tremendous surge.
The incoming water hit them with the fury of a hard surf. They were swept back. April hit against the stacks of rice. Someone on deck slammed down the trap door. The horseman, scrambling up the ladder, squalled in fear as he pressed the door for freedom and didn't get it.
The water rose quickly. April managed to keep her head above the churning water. The junk was sinking fast. The keel struck the bottom of the shallow bay and the hull tilted crazily.
This, she knew, might save those on deck, but here she and Avis were trapped below the waterline.
The sea was not pouring in so badly now and April found herself caught in a corner of the hold right against the underside of the cabin deck. The water, rising in the hold, had pushed the air in a compressed mass so there was about a foot clearance where she could breathe.
Then she heard the rasping breath of someone else in the same precarious haven. She tensed, clinching her fist, determined to fight to the very last moment of her life.
It was a whimper and April Dancer knew that it was Avis.
"Avis!" she said quickly. "Hang on! We'll get out yet. As soon as the water stabilizes on the inside and outside of the junk, we can dive down and---I hope and pray---swim out through the hole in the side."
"I---I thought we were dead!"
Avis gasped. "I can hardly keep afloat. Can you help me just a little?"
"I think so," April said.
She moved over against the girl from THRUSH. Too late she realized her mistake. Avis's hand twisted in April's wet hair. The THRUSH agent jerked April's head back, jamming the girl from U.N.C.L.E.'S temple against the hard teak.
Fire exploded in April's brain. Desperately she tried to clutch her enemy to keep from sinking. Avis struck her in the face and pushed April away from her.
April was dazed, but not completely unconscious. She tried to keep her head up, but Avis pushed her brutally under the water.
The girl from U.N.C.L.E. started to sink.
SEVEN
TRAPPED!
The head in the box shipped to Mark Slate in San Francisco was that of a woman---young, about twenty-three. The homicide investigator was apologetic to Mark, but insisted that the man from U.N.C.L.E. remain in the city.
"You will recall that CIA scandal last week," he said pointedly. "There is no doubt that you are associated with U.N.C.L.E., but this other thing put us in a very bad light with the public. This other man belonged to a highly placed organization too, but that did not prevent him from being a murderer. We can't afford to take a chance on having another blow-up like that."
"But I must get to Hong Kong!" Slate said, almost in desperation.
"There is no such thing as an indispensable person," the homicide chief said pointedly. "If U.N.C.L.E.'s operations depends upon you alone, then they had better close down."
Mark Slate groaned. For a moment he considered bolting for the door. He realized, however, that it would be useless. Even if he escaped the bullets and got aboard the airliner, the police would radio the pilot to delay takeoff.
"Can't you call U.N.C.L.E. headquarters?" he asked desperately. "Mr. Waverly---"
"We have contacted Waverly," Burr, the homicide chief, said. "He is disturbed. He must have spent some time on the waterfront. He has a wonderful command of language when he is disturbed. But we aren't budging. You see, Mr. Slate, we received a phone call which claimed a young woman fitting the description of this face was threatened by you in a New York nightclub last night."
"But you can't jail a man because of an anonymous phone call!" Slate snapped.
"Who said you were being jailed?" Burr replied smoothly. "We are investigating. And you are a suspect. You see, our informant said he was also calling the newspapers. So with the story breaking we have no alternative but to hold you at least long enough to assure the public that this isn't another case like the one that just embarrassed us. If we we're wrong, we'll apologize."
"Great!" Slate groaned. "And in the meantime the fate of the world hangs in the balance! It would take another twenty-four hours before Waverly could get another agent in from South America, brief him and get him to Hong Kong. Time means everything in this case!"
"You are not getting out of here until this thing clears up," Burr said pointedly. "You might be a little more cooperative, for your own good."
"Sorry," Slate said. "I know what you are up against. I agree with you from your standpoint, but must disagree from mine. However, what can I do?"
"The first thing is to identify her. There must be some connection between you or the killer would not have sent the head to you," Burr pointed out.
"Then you are admitting I didn't kill her," Slate said quickly.
"I said there must be a connection!" Burr snapped. "Now if you expect to get out of here, tell me what it is!"
"There couldn't!" Slate began in a heated voice and then stopped as an uneasy idea occurred to him.
"Yes?" Burr said, leaning forward eagerly as he noted Slate's hesitation.
"There just might be a connection," Slate said hesitantly. "Were there any distinguishing marks on the girl's head?"
"A slight scar just above the left eyebrow," Burr said. "Would you like to look?"
"No," Slate said quickly, "but I'd like to call U.N.C.L.E. headquarters."
"Go ahead," Burr said.
Slate pulled out his pen-communicator and in three seconds had his contact with Alexander Waverly in New York.
"Don't worry, Mr. Slate, “Waverly said, a snap in his voice betraying his extreme irritation. "We will have you released shortly. I am trying to contact the attorney general now. The situation is unfortunate, but we can hardly blame the San Francisco police. This other affair has put the police in an awkward spot. They must bend over backward not to arouse further public resentment toward them."
"What I called about was to ask if the girl burned in that hotel fire was really the spy who placed the fake punch card in the astronaut's computer."
"No," Waverly replied. "Dental teeth records showed it was not. Another body was put there to throw us off. We haven't identified the body yet."
"Then did this spy have any distinguishing marks on her face?"
"I would have to check the computer to be sure," Waverly said, "but I think she had been in a car accident once. There was a small scar on her face above one of the eyes."
"That's what I wanted to know!" Mark Slate said. "They did kill her after all---and shipped her head to me!"
There was a silence at the other end of the transmitter. Slate said sharply: "Mr. Waverly? Are you there?"
"Yes, I am here," Alexander Waverly said. "This is dreadful, Mr. Slate. I hoped that she was still alive. We needed her to lead us to the men who hired her. We seem to be losing our leads, Mr. Slate. And time is running out very fast."
"Can you get positive identification out here for this girl?" Slate asked. "I think that will be sufficient to get me released."
"I am sure of it. It will be sent by wirephoto. I will get the CIA to release a newspaper story that she was a spy. That will take press pressure off the false claim about you," Waverly said.
"I'll get the next plane out to Hong Kong," Mark Slate replied.
"No," Waverly said. "I can arrange for the Air Force to fly you to Hawaii in a jet fighter. If we can get you released within the next thirty minutes---and I'm sure we can---you can catch up with your regular plane at Honolulu International Airport."
Mark Slate landed in Hawaii just in time to climb aboard his plane. A hasty check back with Waverly in New York informed him that there was still no word from April.
He called again from Tokyo with the same results.
The last call brought him the sobering news that there had been an attempt on Napoleon Solo's life in South America. And the plane bringing Illya Kuryakin back to New York was bombed, but managed to make a successful landing.
Before Slate's plane left Haneda International Airport in Tokyo, grim-faced police came aboard for a minute check. They gave no reason for the shakedown, but he was certain that Waverly had requested it through the Tokyo U.N.C.L.E. office.
Just before going through customs in Hong Kong, Slate contacted Waverly again.
"We have just received a tip that two men, definitely identified as THRUSH agents, suddenly left Hong Kong a half hour ago," Waverly told him.
"Any idea of their destination?" Slate asked.
"They claimed to be headed for Macao by chartered boat. However, they never arrived." He lowered his voice. "I think they have a lead on this lost astronaut," Waverly said. "If so, they have a jump on us---unless by some miracle, April is alive."
"She has to be," Slate said quietly.
"Call me when you get to Hong Kong," Waverly said. "We may have some word on Miss April Dancer."
Mark Slate understood full well how desperate the situation was becoming. Everything depended on recovering the lost astronaut before either the men from Project X or THRUSH found him. Yet, every indication was that their enemies had a lead that he did not have himself.
Slate had been in Hong Kong so often that the customs inspectors recognized him. He was waved through without any formality of checking his baggage. His passport was stamped with an entry visa and quickly handed back to him.
He headed for the taxi stand. As he left the building, someone called his name.
He whirled and saw the girl. To his amazement he realized it was the same one he and April had caught listening in on their conversation when he left Hong Kong. The last he had seen of her, April Dancer was forcing the suspicious girl into the taxicab. Thank God, now this girl might lead him to April. She was the very person he wanted to question.
The Stolen Spaceman Affair Page 6
