The Beauty and Beast Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  Solo refused. Ordwell laughed. "Scared to trust me, eh? No, friend, I don't believe in trick cigars. Old stuff, huh?"

  Solo shrugged, watching him put the flame of a gold cigarette lighter to the cigar, and slowly take one long pull at it.

  Suddenly the cigar erupted, bursting in Ordwell's face, turning it black. But this was only the start. Small bright flares exploded like swarms of gnats.

  Crying out, Ordwell hurled the cigar against the far wall and leaped to his feet.

  He glared down at Solo, eyes distended in his soot-blackened face.

  "You did that!" he bellowed, trembling with rage. "Put a pill of some kind in my cigar, didn't you? Wondered why you wouldn't just help me up, had to make a production out of it! Some joke! I ought to take a poke at you!"

  "Sure," Solo said, grinning flatly. "Step outside—and wait for me."

  Ordwell Slybrough stared down at him a moment, then turned on his heel and strode away, shouting back at all the plane passengers and personnel, who were applauding Napoleon Solo.

  ACT II

  INCIDENT OF THE DOUBLE AGENT

  "GOOD EVENING. This is your steward. As you perceive, the no-smoking light is on, as is the warning to fasten your seat belts, please. We are coming into the International Airport of Kurbot, on the border of Zabir. Our passengers for Zabir will disembark here. Others continuing with us to Xanra and Iran will remain aboard. Please keep seat belts fastened until the plane is on the runway before the debarking center and all engines are off. We have enjoyed serving you, and—"

  Napoleon Solo exhaled heavily, stealing a quick glance toward Wanda. She sat erect, businesslike. For no good reason, he felt a rush of sorrow for her. She seemed so small. On the other hand, this was a career she'd chosen for herself. Death remained a constant risk. Well, she'd passed her first tests. He hoped she'd pass the others.

  His jaw tightened. He couldn't worry about her. Finding out the truth about Illya's death and the unrest inside Zabir would be a full-time operation, requiring all his attention. He would only endanger both of them, and the whole objective, unless he put her entirely out of his mind

  He could not help glancing toward her after she came off the wind-tortured steps, holding her pert little hat with one hand and her brief skirt with the other as she crossed the runway toward the waiting rooms. With her diplomatic pass from United Network she was spared the long struggle through customs.

  As schoolmaster-on-a-holiday Armistead Finch, Solo was completely entangled in custom's red-tape.

  He heard Pretty Wilde complaining to officials behind her about the delays.

  "I've been brought here by Sheik Zud himself," she kept telling them in outraged tones.

  All she got from them were shrugs and repeated, "Sorry, no English, thank you."

  He glanced around, but saw the practical joking salesman nowhere. He shrugged, grinning faintly at the memory of that exploding cigar, Ordwell's stalking away in frustrated rage.

  Finally, Solo worked his way to the main concourse exit. Pretty Wilde's voice snagged at him. "Good-bye Professor. Hope you have a nice vacation and catch a lot of pretty girls."

  He nodded, peering over the tops of his rimless glasses at her. "Same to you, Pretty. Hope you have no trouble at all teaching the sultan's forty-seven wives a thing or two."

  "Want me to put in a good word for you with the sheik?" Pretty asked.

  He managed to play the school teacher to the end, smiling. "Pretty, I can't think of a thing that sheik could do for me." He let his gaze admire her openly. "He just isn't my type."

  Pretty laughed. "Though he might have some slightly-used wives lying around—"

  He said, smacking his lips, "You've ruined all other women for me."

  He watched her progress along the concourse, aware that this was a chore he shared with all males in the place, even the oldest, hunkered in their burnooses. She lighted the tiredest eyes, speaking a language understood by every man she passed.

  He watched her step aside suddenly, and his gaze pulled unwillingly from her to the long column of green-clad soldiers sharp-stepping in columns of fours. They carried field packs, wore helmet-liners, carried gleaming new rifles, bayonets fixed. They looked combat ready, except that boots and uniforms appeared catalogue fresh.

  He jerked his gaze back, but Pretty Wilde had disappeared. She was gone as though she'd never existed except as a figment of an overheated imagination.

  It suddenly occurred to him that he bad no idea what had happened to Wanda.

  The public address speakers crackled, words spewing forth in Arabic. People reacted, fast, leaping up from the chairs and from the floors, grabbing up suitcases, carpetbags and sheet-wrapped belongings. They ran toward the exits, and the green-clad soldiers, at a command from a shrill whistle, spread out, barring every door, guns rigid across their chests.

  Shaking his head, Solo retreated to the Air France counter and asked in French what was happening?

  The young woman on duty smiled at his halting use of her language, answered in careful English, like something remembered: "The troops are in charge. Zabir borders have been closed, sir, until further notice."

  Then she shrugged helplessly. "This is all we know, sir."

  Solo thanked her, remembering to walk in that hesitant school master manner, shoulders slightly forward as if he were writing on an invisible blackboard.

  The Arabic chattering suddenly ceased on the public address system. A voice, speaking in English, intoned: "Miss Wanda Mae Kim, please. Miss Wanda Mae Kim, passenger on Air France Flight seven twenty seven, report-to the upper lounge at once, please. Miss Kim."

  And then the Arabic spewing of commands took over again.

  Solo continued his unhurried pace, kept the questioning smile, but moved to the stairs and went up them to the lounge.

  At the head of the wide stairs, Solo paused as if out of breath and leaned against the balustrade.

  He had to hide his shock at seeing Ambassador Zouida Berikeen standing near the most modern baggage lift. He was not alone. Three or four Zabir civilians, who were obviously Zouida's secretaries and flunkies, stood alertly near him. Behind him were a dozen green- clad soldiers.

  Solo exhaled, seeing what the soldiers were guarding. There was a casket, sealed tightly, and upon it were neatly stacked the clothing and effects belonging to Illya Kuryakin.

  Near this casket was another, also stacked with feminine apparel and accessories, obviously the belongings of Ann Nelson Wheat, the evangelist who'd been executed as a spy.

  Solo felt the muscles tighten in his stomach: Zouida was less than a hundred feet from him. He even saw the ambassador glance in his direction once.

  Solo turned and faltered to the coffee bar, where he ordered a demitasse of the strong coffee. It was served with liquid sweetener and goat's milk. He almost gagged on the first sip.

  He sweated, wondering if Zouida would recognize him despite his wig, glasses and contact lenses. No one's eyes ever changed, he knew. Perhaps glasses and contact lenses and an excellently constructed gray wig, plus the fact that Zouida thought him in New York, might deceive the ambassador, but he wouldn't gamble on it.

  He winced. Whatever the trouble here in Zabir, it had been enough to cause the immediate and secret recall of the United Nations representative.

  He lifted the cup, but didn't take another sip of the coffee.

  Wanda came hurrying up the stairs. She almost glanced at him, then turned away.

  He shook his head helplessly. He'd wondered where Wanda had disappeared to. Now he knew. She'd gone to the powder room and completely redone her hair and her make-up. While the second-most important man in Zabir waited!

  He heard her heels clatter across the tile flooring to where Ambassador Zouida Berikeen awaited her, with his presentation ceremony prepared.

  Solo could not hear what they said. It was like watching a stilted tableau. Finally, Wanda bowed to the ambassador, smiled uncertainly at his aides and guards and steppe
d forward to examine the belongings stacked on Illya's casket.

  She turned and said something to Zouida, evidently asking if she would be permitted to open the casket to view the body.

  Zouida stepped forward, shaking his head. No, to view the body would not be permitted.

  Wanda accepted this, then began to go through the clothing and other belongings spread before her.

  Suddenly Wanda cried out. Napoleon Solo stiffened.

  Zouida stepped back, startled. The secretaries straightened and the twelve soldiers came to attention, bayonets glittering at the ready.

  Wanda squealed again and waved something in her hand above her head.

  Solo set the coffee cup down, afraid he would drop it.

  Mouth sagging open, he stared across the lounge toward where Wanda stood, crying out frantically.

  Sick, Solo saw her heel around, still waving the square card above her head.

  The ambassador put his hand on her arm, but she shook it away. She broke free of the knot of people around the caskets and ran across the room toward him.

  Swallowing the bile that gagged him, Solo shook his head at her. But she was like an unruly puppy, frenzied with delight, and nothing was going to stop her. Except a bullet, Solo thought in anguish.

  "Solo!" she screamed. "Mister Solo! Look what I've got!"

  "Young lady!" Solo said sharply. "I don't know you! I don't want to know you! Get away from me! What are you talking about?"

  Everyone on the mezzanine stared at them, Solo saw. He sweated, shaking his head at Wanda.

  Her mind could encompass only her joy. She could not think of any thing except the triumph she felt at finding the plastic card among Illya's effects.

  "It's his Old-Timer Key Club card!" she cried exultantly.

  "Don't know what you're talking about!" Solo protested, retreating.

  She followed, shaking the plastic card in front of his face. "The X across it, Mr. Solo! Illya made that. It's our code, don't you remember?"

  "I remember!" Solo said under his breath, in raging agony.

  "But Mr. Solo! This means Illya is alive! He's alive!"

  "Well, you may have fixed that— for all of us!" Solo told her coldly, discarding any attempt to go on with his disguise. Through a red cloud of rage, he saw Zouida and his retinue bearing down on them.

  Wanda sagged, finally realizing what she had done. She'd broken silence, betrayed him.

  She gasped out in anguish. "But he's alive! I didn't think it mattered after we found he was alive."

  He gazed at her. "Finding Illya alive was part of it, Wanda. I could have done that without you. The rest of it was finding out what they wanted, what's behind this plot. But that doesn't matter now."

  Wanda sagged against the coffee bar, weeping.

  Solo didn't even look at her. He set himself to receive his old friend Zouida in a disguise he had hoped would deceive him.

  He wondered what he would find to say that Zouida would accept?

  He didn't have to find out, because in a thunder of heavy boots and rattle of weaponry six green-clad soldiers and three black-suited civilians strode off the stairs and surrounded Wanda and Solo before Zouida reached them.

  Solo recognized the man in the lead even before the head of Zabir's secret police introduced himself. Kiell was as Zouida had described him, stocky of body, balding, with a high forehead, a ring of thick black curly hair and a walrus moustache.

  The thing about Kiell that attracted Solo's especial notice was the thickness of his neck, so that his shirt collar bulged out of shape.

  "I am Kiell," the stocky man announced. "Director of Zabir security. Lord protector of His Highness, the King of Lions, the Sultan of the deserts, Sheik Ali Zud of Zabir. In his name, I arrest you as unregistered enemy aliens."

  Solo merely nodded, knowing that after Wanda's performance there was nothing he could say. She sagged against him, chewing at her underlip.

  "Wait a minute!" From beyond the ring of Kiell's soldier guard, Solo heard Zouida calling. "Kiell, let me talk to you!"

  Kiell straightened. His voice lashed out. "Piebr! Frun!" The two black-suited secret police snapped to attention, drawing guns from shoulder holsters. The two detectives were much younger than Kiell—in their early twenties, slender, dark.

  Piebr and Frun pushed back, making a double line of the soldiers, three on each side. The twelve casket guards stopped, standing at attention when Kiell barked commands at them in Arabic.

  Piebr and Frun stood with hand guns against their chests, staring straight ahead, making a path from Ambassador Zouida in to where Kiell waited, unbending.

  Frowning, Zouida walked slowly, staring at Kiell and shaking his head. When he reached the place where the two younger detectives stood, Zouida paused, looking at one of them in anguish. He whispered, "Piebr—"

  The young detective merely straightened his shoulders, stood more rigidly, staring across the top of the older man's head.

  Zouida exhaled audibly, his body sagging.

  Kiell spoke in English, his lips oddly immobile, as if he hated the words he was forced to speak. "If you would discuss your betrayal of our lord the king, speak to me! Piebr has nothing to say to a traitor!"

  "Traitor?" Zouida quivered visibly. H shook his head, tears brimming his anguished eyes. "I am no traitor. My whole soul belongs to my king and my country."

  "Your lies won't do you any good now, old goat," Kiell said between taut lips.

  Zouida stared at Kiell for a long time, then finally shrugged, as if admitting to himself that there was no realism in appealing for mercy from Kiell. It was like asking water from the desert sands.

  He drew a deep breath and turned to face Solo.

  "I am sorry, my old friend." he said. "I am sorry about all of this. But I can only say to you, I have been double-crossed, too."

  "Enough!" Kiell said in cold rage. He drew a gun from his shoulder holster, thrust it close to Zouida's solar plexus and pressed the trigger.

  The report of the handgun was muffled by Zouida's clothing and his body. The ambassador was driven backward by the impact of the bullet. He staggered, toppled against Piebr. The young detective chewed on his mouth, staring straight ahead.

  Slowly Zouida crumpled to the floor at the feet of Piebr and the green-clad soldiers. He whispered. "May Allah—have mercy on my poor—poor country."

  He sagged heavily then, a rattle working up through his throat, and he was dead.

  Kiell gave the dead man the merest glance. He turned the gun on Wanda and Solo. Wanda cried out involuntarily.

  Kiell spoke coldly. "If the two of you do not wish to join that traitor, you will come quietly."

  Kiell jerked his head. The six soldiers moved in prodding Wanda and Solo toward the stairs.

  Kiell strode to the center of the mezzanine. He gestured toward the slain ambassador.

  "A traitor to our country has been slain!" he shouted. "Slain in the name of King Zud! Long live Zud!"

  "Long live Zud!" the soldiers shouted in reply. The guards on the floor below took up the cry and it rattled against the high-domed ceiling. "Long live Zud!"

  TWO

  ILLYA KURYAKIN worked swiftly, plaiting a yard-long rope. The strips of cloth he used came from the lower hem of the filthy burnoose he wore. All other clothing had been stripped away from him. He was barefooted; he no longer had even a watch.

  He supposed time wasn't too urgent here in the dungeon under Sheik Zud's castle. Still, he hoped by now that Solo had been sent to collect his belongings. Zud had told him that Solo had been sent for. What Zud didn't know was about the X mark on the face of the Key Club card, the code which said to an alert agent like Solo, I'm alive. Danger. Proceed with caution.

  Zud had been throwing nothing but curves at him since his arrival in Zabir a month ago. He had come here as a technical adviser to Zud's spy system.

  And he'd ended up here in this dank cell.

  Illya's blue eyes darkened. He ran his hand through h
is Slavic corn-colored hair.

  He straightened, hearing sporadic gunfire from the streets outside the castle. Zud had plenty of woes at home. What was this deal of holding him and trying to lure Solo into the same trap?

  The guard drew his bayonet across the bars. Illya looked up, dropping the rope into his lap. The guard, about Illya's age, wore a sweated green uniform, hat back on his head. He'd spent two years at England's Sandhurst, but now was in bad with Zud and detailed to guard the political prisoners.

  "Aly David," Illya said, "what time do you go off duty?"

  The guard laughed. "Why? Do you want to go out on the town with me?"

  Illya forced a smile, but thought coldly that Aly David would be astonished to learn he meant to escape. He would use this cloth rope he was plaiting as a garrote. He would be forced to strangle a guard in order to get out of this cell. He'd grown fond of Aly David; there were many of the others he'd use the garrote upon without reluctance. Brutal, sadistic animals they had proved to be.

  Illya said, "I wouldn't go out on the town in these rags." He looked down at the ill-fitted burnoose. "The last prisoner who wore this thing was not only bigger than I am, he had lice."

  Aly David laughed. "The lice give you something to take your mind off your troubles. I've grown quite fond of mine."

  "Why don't you break out of this country? You're as much its prisoner as I am."

  "Except that it is my country. And I love it," Aly David said. "Relax. They won't be using gun butts on you for another four hours. I am your guard until after recall from worship." He laughed. "And you'd better remember to sleep with your feet some other direction than toward the east—and Allah. Next time they might kill you for that slight indiscretion."

  Illya exhaled and relaxed against the wall, resigned to waiting until after prayers to attempt his escape.

  THREE

  A ROLLS ROYCE was parked, engine idling, outside the airport terminal. A stolid-faced chauffeur stood at attention with both front and rear curb side doors held open.