The Beauty and Beast Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  "I was told what to do," Wanda admitted breathlessly.

  Waverly nodded. "I'm sure you were. And what was that?"

  "To—watch them, sir. And to— report."

  "Watch! And report!" Each word was like the crack of a high- powered rifle directed at her.

  "Report, yes, sir."

  "Report," Waverly said "That means tell us what you saw; not get yourself trapped, tied up, and our whole operation exposed."

  "I didn't tell them anything, sir!" Wanda protested.

  "No. You didn't. No thanks to your native stoicism, but to the timely arrival of Mr. Solo. No, I can't rate you very highly on this performance, young woman."

  "Please, sir, listen to me! I was so sure I could take them. You see, this policeman promised to help me."

  "Policeman!" Waverly looked as if he might suffer a stroke. "You took the city police into your confidence? Told him what you were after?"

  "He seemed so nice, so anxious to help."

  "Anxious to help?" Now Waverly turned, staring at Solo for some explanation.

  "He was one of the gang, sir," Solo said mildly.

  Waverly seemed unable to speak for some moments. Wanda sat with her face pressed into her hands, watching them through her splayed fingers, her velvet-dark eyes alight with fear.

  "Well, Solo," Waverly said at last. "She was promoted into your section—enforcement. You're her immediate superior. What can you say in her defense?"

  "She's—very pretty," Solo said noncommittally. "However, I would say she is not ready for the—uh, larger assignments."

  "Perhaps she is," Waverly said without sympathy. "Perhaps next time she'll get herself disposed of completely. Then we can write a nice, comforting letter home to her people."

  "Just one more chance, Mr. Waverly," Wanda begged. "On my soul, on my illustrious ancestors, I swear—"

  "Save your breath. Change your clothes and wash your face," Waverly told her. "I still haven't made up my mind—"

  "About my next assignment?" she said hopefully.

  "Hardly," he told her. "My problem is more complex. Whether to shoot you in front of the U.N. building, or simply deport you."

  Later, Wanda sat beside Solo at the table in the conference room. She seemed smaller, more fragile than ever in the oversized, leather-covered chairs. In beaded black blouse and matching slacks, she looked like the ultimate in a doll-maker's secret formula for Oriental beauty.

  Solo patted her hand. She could see he had not forgiven her, but he let her see that he was compassionate.

  She gave him a weak smile, but did not speak. She had not spoken since she had entered the room.

  At the end of the table, Alexander Waverly sat beside a transcribing machine that clattered politely, making notes of everything the ambassador from Zabir was saying.

  Zouida Berikeen had been talking for a long time. When he smiled, as if convinced he had covered everything, either Solo or Waverly would fire another question at him.

  "Zabir is four hundred square miles. One million population. Most of it is concentrated in Omar, our principal city and national capitol. The country is poor for farming, most of it desert. There is little industry. But because of the oil, Zabir is one of the richest of the small nations.

  "We have hostile neighbors; Xanra to the east of us has a queen who loathes our great Sheik Zud, would do anything to destroy him. We are not a happy nation. We never have been. But we must fight all our enemies if we are to exist."

  Zouida sighed and ceased speaking.

  "Who heads your country's secret police?" Solo asked.

  Zouida nodded gravely. "You would be meeting him when you arrived in Zabir," the ambassador said. "His name is Kiell. While I personally may not like Kiell, I have greatest respect for him. He would give his life without question for our Sultan Zud. I would like to feel I too would die for the great King of Lions, but I am more timid.

  "Kiell is a brave man, almost foolhardy. He is of medium height, as dark as I. He has thick hair, but only at his temples and sides and crown. This gives him the look of one with extremely high, slick forehead. His nose is hooked, his face generally round, and he wears a thick moustache. I assure you, Kiell lives only for his country and his sultan."

  "I look forward to meeting him," Solo said. "With all your briefings, you very carefully have not described the physical appearance of your sultan. Haven't you ever seen him face to face?"

  Zouida stared at Solo, stricken. "I have prostrated myself at his feel—he wears size thirteen American shoes. He formerly bought his boots in London. What can I say of his appearance?"

  Solo stared at the man's gray face. "Are you afraid to describe him? Why? Is he actually so terribly ugly—"

  "Ahhh!" The word burst from Zouida's lips. "Please. He is a great man, of great goodness of heart, plagued by heinous problems. He rules his country wisely, compassionately. He has forty-seven wives, all of whom he took into slavery before he would marry them. Though each was enslaved, all would now die for him—all attest to his purity, and greatness of heart."

  Solo laughed. "You sound like the Zabir chamber of commerce, or else you're so afraid these confidential reports will get somehow to your Sheik, and you're so afraid of telling us the truth about his looks that—"

  "Please, Mr. Solo!" Zouida looked reedy to weep. "Is beauty everything? Or is beauty from the inside? If so, then Sheik Ali Zud is truly beautiful."

  Solo laughed. "What you're saying is that Zud looks like a pig, but you're afraid to say it aloud. Relax, Zouida, he'll never hear what goes on in this room."

  Zouida Berikeen was finally permitted to depart. When he was gone, Waverly sat chewing on his pipe, staring at Wanda's doll-like face.

  Solo followed the direction of Waverly's thoughts and spoke urgently. "I suggest, sir, that we follow the alternate plan. That we allow me to handle this matter alone."

  "That's what they want us to do," Waverly said.

  "But, sir, we've hundreds of agents. In all parts of the world, none of them known to Sheik Zud—"

  "Wonder what he looks like," Wanda said suddenly.

  "Who?" Both Waverly and Solo twisted in their chairs, staring at her.

  Realizing she had interrupted again, Wanda shrank into the huge chair, her eyes wide. She bit her lip.

  But they stared at her, waiting. Finally, she knew she had to speak. "I wondered about Sheik Zud, sir. He sounded kind, even if he did order poor Illya executed. But it's so strange."

  "Yes?" Waverly's voice was dangerously quiet.

  "I mean, no pictures of the Sheik. No paintings or photos. The Sheik forbids it, on pain of death. Why would he do that?"

  "I'm strongly tempted to send you over there with a camera to find out," Waverly told her.

  She took him seriously. "Oh, please do, sir!"

  Both Waverly and Solo stared at her, at each other, helplessly.

  Finally, Waverly stood up, prowling the room, scratching at his jaw with the pipe stem. "I think we should send her. Now listen with all your mind, girl, and pray you do not misunderstand one word. I am sending you, by plane, tonight to Zabir."

  "Oh, thank you!"

  "Wait until you get back to thank me. Now you can look at Mr. Solo's disapproving face and see that he believes I am making my most serious tactical blunder of my career. But I ask myself, isn't this what Ambassador Zouida Berikeen would think, what Zud would think, what anyone in his right mind would think? So, it seems I should send you. No one could suspect you are there for any purpose. They couldn't learn anything from you— because you don't know anything, do you?"

  "Oh, no, sir!" Wanda agreed.

  "Then listen carefully. Your life may depend on your following orders to the letter. Do you understand? Not only your life, but Mr. Solo's life, and the success of our whole plan to learn the truth about what's going on in that kingdom."

  "Mr. Solo is going with me," Wanda whispered in delight.

  "Correction!" Waverly said sternly. "Mr. Solo will fl
y on the same plane with you. He will go into Zabir with you, or soon after. But you do not know him. He is a stranger to you. You are not to speak to him. Do not contact him, no matter what happens. Do you understand? No matter what happens. Silence between you. No look that would betray either of you. You must not fail. You must obey my order Do not speak to Solo, even if you—or he—is in deadly peril."

  "I promise," Wanda whispered. "

  She folded her arms across her breasts, tautly, head tilted.

  "Save your breath," Waverly advised. "Now, your sole job is to collect Illya's effects, his body if possible. That's all."

  "I'll do it," Wanda cried. "I loved Illya—and this time, I won't fail. I'll do it just as you say. They can kill me, and I won't cry out to Mr. Solo."

  "I hope so," Alexander Waverly said, but there wasn't much conviction in his tone. He was following a hunch, acting on instinct, but he somehow felt it was like trusting an aching corn to predict a hurricane.

  FOUR

  THE AIR FRANCE jet streaked south and east across the troubled European skies.

  Napoleon Solo checked his disguise in the washroom mirror. It was simplicity itself, yet he was certain it was effective. Gray-tinted contact lenses had changed the color of his eyes. A graying wig added ten years to his age and the rimless glasses gave him the look of a kindly Mr. Chips on a school master's holiday.

  He straightened and turned away to the door. The distant roar of the jet engines set a trembling through the fuselage. Hand on the knob, he hesitated. Much about this journey troubled him, but one thing really bugged him: how was Wanda Mae Kim going to react under fire?

  His life, and his success in Zabir, depended on her following orders. He determined to test her at once.

  He stepped out into the passageway, walking with the slightly stooped, hesitant movement of a middle-aged schoolteacher on what was likely his first plane flight.

  He paused beside the chair where Wanda Mae sat with the latest issue of a movie fan magazine on her knees. She wore an exotic traveling suit of olive, her gleaming hair was done in a lacquered roll.

  He gave her a faintly lecherous grin and said, "Hello, honey. May I sit here by you?"

  Wanda's head jerked up and she gazed at him.

  His heart sank. It was almost as if he could follow her thought processes. First, she hit the panic switch. He had the terrible premonition that she was going to warn him aloud that they were strangers, and not supposed to speak.

  Then he was afraid that she didn't really recognize him. And then when her eyes widened, he saw she did.

  He thought emptily, well, it's better for the whole foolish scheme to fall apart here in the plane rather than after they put down in Zabir.

  But in these same swift seconds, he saw her recover. She found her lost poise, remembered her orders, and reacted like a soldier in the trenches.

  "I'm sorry, sir!" she said loudly. "You've made some kind of mistake in the kind of girl you think I am If you persist in pushing your unwanted attentions on me, I'll have to call the steward!"

  Solo retreated, almost stumbling, aware of the amused glances of the passengers near them.

  Sighing in relief, Solo straightened, barely able to conceal his own pleased smile. He made a mental note to buy Wanda a steak dinner if they ever got back to New York.

  When he turned toward his own seat, he saw that a young woman had moved into the chair beside his.

  Solo caught his breath. To say she was a young woman was understatement. She was authentic, contemporary female perfection, thoughtfully designed. There was elegance about her, from trim slippers to upswept platinum hair. What she was was living proof that long flights don't have to be dull.

  She smiled up at him. She wore a beige skirt which molded the planes of her hips and legs. She'd removed her matching jacket, although the pressurized cabin had seemed chilled to Solo until this moment.

  Something in her wide hazel eyes challenged a man to take positive action.

  Solo forgot his masquerade as a kindly Mr. Chips and swung into the chair beside her as if enroute to excitement.

  "Frisky, aren't you?" she teased. Her voice carried built-in impact.

  Napoleon Solo winced, remembering his graying wig, rimless glasses.

  He smacked his lips, working his way to meet her gaze. "Fellow like me, miss, doesn't see a girl like you every day."

  "Nobody does," she said casually. "Not every day."

  "Ain't that the swinging truth," he agreed.

  "Oh, you are a naughty old schoolteacher, aren't you?"

  He appeared to blush timidly. "As my boys say in the fourth form. And speaking of forms, you're certainly in the first form, aren't you?" He cackled with laughter, peering over the top of his rimless glasses at her. "But how in this world did you ever know I was a school teacher?"

  "It was just a guess." She laughed. "You didn't have much luck with the little China doll, did you?"

  He gazed at his seat partner admiringly. "No, thank heavens, I didn't."

  "Watch it, Mr. Chips. Your glasses are steaming up."

  "Finch," he said. "My name. Armistead Finch."

  She frowned. "Armistead Finch?"

  "The third." He held out his band. She shook it limply and dropped it. "What's your name, my dear?"

  "Pretty Wilde," she told him.

  Solo emitted that cackling laugh again. "Oh, no, my dear. Your name."

  She laughed at him. "Down, tiger. That is my name, Mr. Finch. At least it's my stage name. Pretty Wilde."

  "Oh? You're on the stage?" he said, punching the rimless glasses up on his nose. "With fans, I'll bet."

  "You are a naughty one, aren't you? I'll have to keep you in after classes, Mr. Finch. No, I was a model. I do interpretive dancing, ballet."

  "What are you doing this far away from home, my dear?"

  "I'm on my way to Zabir," she said.

  Solo's expression did not alter; he kept that same fatuous smile. But he could not pretend surprise Somehow, when he had seen her occupying the chair beside his, he'd been certain he would hear that Zabir was her destination.

  "I've been invited into Zabir by Sheik Zud himself," she said with pride. "You know he has forty- seven wives?"

  "I never met him. No."

  "Neither have I. But he is paying me fabulously to come to Omar— that's his capitol city—and teach etiquette, dress and dancing to his wives. Doesn't that sound exciting?

  "I've heard that there's some internal trouble in Zabir," Solo said in his pedantic tone. "Border incidents. Aren't you frightened?"

  Pretty Wilde put her lovely head back, laughing. "Why should I be? I've got the sheik himself protecting me."

  "That's what I mean," Solo said.

  She laughed even louder. He looked her over again, buying her story: it was plausible. Zud put his women in bondage before he married them; every one of his marriages had been forced upon the wife. Perhaps he would want them taught the niceties of manners and hospitality.

  He shrugged. He had enough on his mind without worrying whether Pretty Wilde was less, or more, than met the eye.

  "I beg your pardon there, you too!" The boisterous voice of the stocky man from across the aisle upped in between Solo and Pretty Wilde. "I couldn't help noticing the way you two folks were laughing and enjoying yourselves. Pleasure to watch you folks."

  He stood up, leaning upon the seat ahead of them, swaying slightly with the motion of the jet. He was in his thirties, Solo reckoned, heavy, with a round, balding head, thick brows and aggressive smile. He wore a plaid jacket and gray slacks.

  He held out his card. "Ordwell Slybrough," he said. "Cadillac and Oldsmobile overseas. Middle East. On my way to Zabir." Solo tightened instinctively. Everybody was on his way to Zabir suddenly.

  "Yes, sir," Slybrough went on. "Going to call on Sheik Zud himself. Tell you why. Hear the old fellow has forty-seven wives. I'll bet he looks older than he is!" He slapped his thigh, laughing. "Heard he drives nothing but Rolls Roy
ces. Thought I might get him to change his brand for his favorite wives."

  Slybrough roared with laughter again. "Sell forty-seven cars in one deal! How about that? Tidy little commission, huh? Go on, take my card."

  Reluctantly, Napoleon Solo reached out and took the card. The instant his hand touched it, the card ignited, burst into flames, consumed.

  Ordwell Slybrough almost fell down in the aisle laughing.

  Solo dropped the flaming paper, lapping at it.

  Ordwell hung on to the seat ahead of them, laughing. "Special treated paper. The friction caused by you taking it toward your face to read ignites it! Always good for a laugh."

  Solo and Pretty Wilde glanced at each other, trying not to look annoyed.

  Ordwell said loudly, "Come on to the lounge. Let me buy you a drink. Show no hard feelings." He reached over, got his briefcase and handed it to Pretty Wilde. "Open it up. Want to show you folks some cute pictures of my wife and kids."

  Sighing to cover her impatience, Pretty said in irony, "You meet such interesting people on these long flights."

  "That's the truth, honey!" Ordwell said. "Open it up."

  Pretty Wilde unsnapped the briefcase lid. She cried out as the top flew up and a stuffed crocodile was catapulted upward into her face.

  She caught the briefcase and stuffed animal up and threw them past Solo at the salesman.

  This time Ordwell laughed so hard that he did topple over the arm of his chair. People were standing up to stare at them. Only Wanda remained rigid in her chair, staring straight ahead, Solo saw.

  Ordwell laughed, panting for breath. He extended his arms.

  "Help me up there, partner!" he gasped at Solo.

  Solo stood up, but instead of taking the stout man's upraised arms, he lifted him by the armpits, holding him for a moment off the floor before he set him down.

  "Take it easy, Pop," Ordwell said uncomfortably, but still smiling. "Just a laugh. No harm meant. Come on, let me buy you folks a drink."

  Solo glanced questioningly at Pretty Wilde. The lovely young woman shrugged and stood up. They went aft to the small bar and the half-moon leather seat. As they sat down, Ordwell drew a cigar from his jacket pocket, offered Solo one.