The Beauty and Beast Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  Wanda and Solo marched out at the head of the convoy of Kiell, two detectives and six armed soldiers.

  The soldiers double-timed out, lining up at front and rear of the Rolls Royce, guns held across their chests, ready, facing the darkness.

  Solo saw a sign which read, "OMAR, 45 kilos." Beyond he saw small buildings, vague lights, and then what appeared to be eternal wasteland, rugged and lifeless, cruel looking even in the softening dark.

  Kiell ordered Wanda into the front seat. Then he said to Solo. "One moment, Mr. Solo. I am sick looking at this disguise."

  Solo scowled, thinking that Kiell had gotten sick of it quickly, unless he'd seen pictures of the real Solo somewhere.

  Solo paused beside the car. Kiell caught the wig, jerked it from Solo's head, along with the rimless glasses. He threw them to the cement at his feet.

  "In the back," he said. "Let's move!"

  Solo sat in the back seat between Piebr and Frun. Frun made a slight whistling noise between his teeth, but Piebr stared straight ahead, lost in thought. Both held guns ready in their lap.

  In the front seat Wanda sat disconsolately between Kiell and the chauffeur.

  The chauffeur drove the car out to the wide four-laned highway, anachronistically modern, hewn from this ancient earth. He held the speedometer at sixty. Nobody spoke.

  Solo stared at the back of Kiell's head, at the way his shirt collar bulged around his neck. It was strange, as if the man had a tube of flesh growing like a welt.

  Solo's heart slugged faster as he stared at that shirt collar. He remembered how he had reacted when Kiell spoke of his own disguise, puzzled.

  He held his breath, gazing at that bulging collar. Suppose that bulge was not caused by flesh, but by the rolled ends of a plastic mask?

  He felt the sweat break out at his hair line, across his forehead. If that question weren't far-out enough, how about another one? Suppose that was not really Kiell? Suppose it was a man wearing a plastic mask, impersonating Zabir's chief of secret police?

  Solo loosened the button of his jacket. Piebr and Frun reacted like robots, placing guns at his temples.

  Kiell turned uncomfortably, laughed between taut lips. "Don't think you can get away with any thing, Mr. Solo. My men are trained to kill."

  "I know," Solo said. "But once they're trained to kill, they never make good pets again, do they?"

  Thick silence settled in the car again. Solo went on sweating. They whipped past a sign reading "OMAR 35 kilometers." Time was running out. He could not quite believe an impostor could fool the country's ambassador, or these two trained officers..

  But could they not be in on the plot? But if they were impostors, would Zouida have recognized them? He'd called one of them by name. Still, he could have been fooled by Kiell, who hurled charges of highest treason at him. And Kiell had killed him on the spot. No trial, no extenuating circumstances, no second chance––nothing.

  Solo pushed his hand in his jacket pocket. Both Piebr and Frun reacted. Again gun barrels pressed at Solo's temples. He withdrew a small plastic bag of bright candy wafers.

  The police relaxed.

  Kiell snarled at him, "Sit still, or die now!"

  Solo offered the wafers to Piebr and Frun. They refused, contempt showing in their faces that he'd think them so stupid. He shrugged and plopped two in his mouth.

  When he leaned forward to the front seat, Piebr and Frun leaned with him. He offered candy to Kiell who told him to sit back. The chauffeur only shook his head.

  Solo said, "Have a couple wafers, Wanda. It'll take your mind off your woes."

  She shook her head refusing. His sharply spoken, "Wanda! Candy!" made her sit up, nodding.

  Hand trembling, she took two wafers, tossed them in her mouth.

  Solo relaxed, crushed the plastic bag in his fist, dropped it on the floor. He sat back, fingering his tie.

  At the moment he felt both Frun and Piebr relax on each side of him, he jerked off his tie clasp and tossed it over into the front seat.

  Both Piebr and Frun lunged at him, guns up. He caught them; using their own momentum, he smashed their heads together.

  Kiell turned, bringing his own gun up as the explosion in the front of the car stopped him, stunned by shock.

  The gas spread instantaneously carried on the currents of air conditioning. The windows fogged with it. Everything was blotted out. Kiell gagged, gulping for breath. The chauffeur lost control of the wheel.

  The big car hurtled to the right off the highway, going down the rough shoulders, and bounding crazily up the far incline before it finally stalled.

  Solo was already opening the rear door of the car.

  Gasping for breath, but unaffected by the nerve gas that had overcome the others, Wanda twisted around on the front seat.

  Solo grabbed her under the arms, dragged her over the seat and out of the rear door. Once they were outside the car, he shoved her away from him.

  She sprawled face down in the sand.

  Solo didn't even glance her way. He dragged Piebr and Frun from the back seat, then pulled the driver and Kiell from the front, leaving the doors wide so the car could air out.

  Wanda pulled herself to her feet, watching him, her mouth quivering.

  Solo glanced at her.

  "Get their guns," he ordered. "All their guns. Quick. And don't forget the chauffeur!"

  He took a small needle from the inner lapel of his jacket and a plastic vial from his pocket. He inserted the needle into the vial until the liquid dripped from it. Then he scratched into the vein near the base of Kiell's throat.

  He tossed the vial and needle from him then and concentrated on the tight-fitting mask. He rolled it carefully up across the face and head of the unconscious man.

  When he had peeled the mask away, he stared down into the face of Ordwell Slybrough, the practical joker from the plane.

  "Who do you think he really is?" Wanda said breathlessly. "I know he isn't a car salesman."

  "He's a THRUSH agent. And Zouida's poor country has a lot more woes than even poor Zouida suspected."

  Solo chose the best of the guns Wanda had collected. He pushed it under his belt. Then he stashed the others in the glove compartment on the Rolls dash.

  Wanda watched him silently, a look of awe firing her black eyes.

  He took all identification papers from the double agent's pockets. Ordwell had regained conscious ness, but he could neither move nor speak.

  He stared at Napoleon Solo, hatred burning in his eyes.

  "Have a cigar, old pal." Solo said and shoved one between the double agent's lips. It hung there. Don't worry, the injection I gave you will have no side effects. It'll just keep you quiet, and your voice turned off for a few hours."

  Solo placed the papers he'd carried for Armistead Finch into Ordwell's pockets. Then with slow, painstaking care and the use of a mirror he worked the plastic mask down over his own head. He placed the Kiell identification papers in his jacket pocket.

  Ordwell tried to speak, failed, shadows swirling deep in his eyes. Wanda stared at Solo in the mask, lips parted.

  Solo pulled the three men into the rear of the car, tossed Ordwell in upon them. He closed the doors, reversed the Rolls to the highway.

  "Get in under the wheel," Solo told Wan "And keep driving, no matter what happens. Follow orders this time."

  "I'm so sorry about the candy. I realize now you were inoculating me against the effects of the gas."

  "I was a fool," Solo said. "I'll hate myself for it."

  "You'll never regret it," Wanda said. "I'm going to be a good agent for you."

  "You should live so long." Solo sat turned on the front seat, gun in hand resting on the back, fixed on the three men in the back of the car.

  "All right," he snapped at Wanda. "Saddle up! Move out!"

  Her voice was small, panic- stricken. "Please, boss. There is just one little thing."

  Solo managed to refrain from swearing. "Yes. What is it?"

/>   "Please, boss. How do you shift the gears on a car like this?"

  FOUR

  THE GROTESQUE yellow fingers flicking out from a single large candle fought feebly against the dark of the prison cell.

  Illya Kuryakin stood up, testing the plaited rope by jerking it sharply between his fists. It wouldn't snub down an elephant, but it would do.

  He listened. The firing had ceased in the streets during the prayer hour. Afterwards, they fought again, almost to the palace gates.

  He sat in the darkness, waited for the end of prayer time, for the changing of the guards.

  Now, the moment of truth.

  He rolled up his straw mattress to resemble a human body and placed it in the darkest corner of the cell. He grinned, knowing the guard could not bring his lantern inside a night cell. He needed to keep both arms free to protect himself.

  When the mattress was lined up to suit him, he inched across the cell to the opposite cave-dark corner. From here, he uttered a cry, pleased that it sounded as if it came from the straw mattress!

  He sighed in relief because ventriloquism was an art that demanded faithful practice, and he admitted he'd grown rusty.

  He wound the ropes over each hand, leaving a loop between. Then, crouched there, he moaned again, and again, until at last a guard came grumbling to the cell bars.

  "What's the matter in there?"

  "I'm sick," Illya whined, his voice coming from the pile of straw.

  "You'll be sick, you don't stop that whining."

  "I think I'm dying!"

  The guard hesitated. "You better not die. Come here to the bars—let me look at you."

  "I can't! I'm too ill."

  "Listen to me! You come here. Sheik Zud ordered us not to kill you. But don't push me too far."

  "If you don't kill me, you can't keep me here," Illya said in that weak voice.

  "I can make you wish you were dead," the guard told him.

  Illya's voice lowered. "Yes. There's always that. Isn't there?"

  "You think about that, and you keep quiet in there."

  "Zud will have your head when he finds I died while you were on guard."

  There was a long silence. Finally Illya Kuryakin heard the key thrust into the iron lock, the door whine on its hinges as it was opened.

  Illya held his breath, crouching in the corner, watching.

  The guard moved cautiously across the dark cell. A wan splinter of light lay on the floor in a line from the high, inset window.

  The guard moved across the spray of moonlight, gun upraised. "Where are you?"

  "Here. I'm so sick." Illya tossed his voice into the rolled straw mattress.

  "Get up. Let me look at you."

  "I can't. I think my appendix has ruptured."

  Suddenly he heard the guard cry out, and he went tense.

  "Infidel!" the guard shouted. "Again you sleep with your infidel feet toward Allah!"

  He lifted the gun and brought it butt down on the straw mattress.

  Illya lunged upward, flinging himself across the darkness.

  At that instant, the guard realized he'd been fooled. He straightened, trying to turn.

  He was too late. The garrote was clamped about his throat, and Illya thrust his fists past each other with all his strength, pulling it tight.

  The gun clattered to the stone floor. The guard followed it, like a toppling tree. He sank to his knees and fell over to his side.

  Illya waited no longer. He grabbed up the gun, ran through the door. He closed the cell, locking it. He threw the keys into an empty cell, ran.

  He almost ran into another guard at the first turn of the cell block.

  The heavy tread of the soldier warned him.

  Very slowly, barefooted, Illya inched his way to the corner, peered around it.

  The prisoners in the cell block shouted, aware that one of them had broken loose.

  Illya saw the guard come alert, shift his gun ready. He pressed back against the wall.

  As the guard came racing around the corner, Illya stuck out the butt of his gun. The soldier tripped on it and went sprawling forward on his face.

  His gun clattered far out of his reach ahead of him. He shook himself and came up on his knees, trying to turn around.

  "I wish I didn't hate violence so," Illya said, clobbering him with his gun butt.

  The prisoners in the cells were hysterical now. They ran to the bars, chanting, hooting, yelling, scraping tin cups on the iron bars.

  In the distance Illya Kuryakin heard the booted guard detail alerted, running toward the cell-block.

  He glanced around at the wailing prisoners.

  'Thanks a whole bunch, fellows," he said in sarcasm.

  He stood in the middle of the corridor, gazing around helplessly.

  A voice shouted at him from a cell. "Mister! Through that narrow passage. It leads to the kitchen, the garbage. There is only one guard there. Hurry. And Allah go with you!"

  Illya didn't waste time in thanks. As the first wave of the guard detail clattered off the wide stone steps and into the corridor, he slipped into the dark passage.

  He ran along it. The inmate had not lied about the garbage at least. The sick-sweet smell of it almost suffocated him.

  He saw the door at the top of a small stairs. He raced up it.

  He heard boots behind him in the darkness. The opening door would silhouette him in light. Yet he could not hurry. He had to know where that guard was out there.

  Just slitting the door, Illya peered out. A rifle was fired from behind him. The bullet splintered the door inches from his head. This made the decision for him. He thrust the door wide and lunged through it.

  The guard on duty was entangled with a scullery maid in the deepest shadows.

  He wheeled around, grabbing for his gun. Illya swung the barrel of his gun, stunning the soldier. The maid screamed, her mouth wide. And screamed again until the garden rang with her screaming.

  Illya gazed around in panic. There was the kitchen garden and beyond it a gate in the four-foot wall. The gate stood open. Beyond it lay freedom. All he had to do was make it across that garden.

  The maid screamed louder, hysterical. He heard the heavy-booted soldiers approaching in the narrow passage. Lights flared on in the lower windows of the palace. Suddenly, police dogs yowled near by, and a siren screeched frantically from a minaret.

  Illya sprinted across the garden. The soldiers had reached the door and thrust it open, but he had made the gate. He grabbed the heavy wooden gate and swung it closed behind him. It slammed into place, locking.

  Illya whirled around, ready to run.

  He almost plowed into a soldier, standing ready, gun fixed on him, bayonet gleaming in the darkness.

  Illya stopped instantly. He straightened, feeling rage and frustration that he'd failed after all this.

  "Hold!" the soldier ordered.

  Illya's heart leaped. He recognized the voice. It was Aly David, off-duty, on his way to the bar racks.

  "Aly David!" he said. "Don't shoot, it's me! Illya Kuryakin. We're friends. I waited, so you wouldn't have to be hurt when I broke out. Let me go! It's me, Aly David. Illya!"

  "I know who it is," Aly David said. "You're a fine fellow, and I like you. My country hasn't treated me fairly, and you have. Still it is my country. And you are my prisoner. If you do not drop that gun and return quietly to your cell, I'll have to kill you."

  * * *

  THE HIGHWAY was lonely, empty, untraveled.

  Solo, watching the headlamps bore holes in the desert darkness, wondered how many dozen automobiles in the entire country of Zabir used this sleek modern highway?

  He held the gun ready, fixed on his prisoners stacked in the tonneau of the big car. He saw one of the younger detectives stir.

  He glanced at a sign post: "OMAR 25 kilometers."

  He spoke to Wanda, who clutched the wheel with both hands, her whole body tense in concentration. "This is far enough. Stop here."


  Wanda removed her foot from the accelerator, allowing the Rolls to glide to a stop on the rocky high way shoulder.

  Solo told her, "You keep your mouth shut. No matter what happens."

  Wanda drew a deep breath. "You can trust me, boss, from now on. I'll die before I betray you."

  "Promises. Promises," Solo said, getting out of the car. He opened the rear door. First, he propped the stocky Ordwell up on the back seat, secured with handcuffs he found among the detective's gear.

  "You won't need these," he said amiably to the double agent, "but it will look better."

  He helped the struggling Piebr from the car. The young detective staggered, drawing his hand across his eyes. His dark face was gray from the lingering effects of the gas.

  "What happened?" he asked, staring into the plastic mask, and evidently accepting Solo as his superior.

  Solo jerked his Kiell-appearing head toward the handcuffed double agent. "This man tried to kill us all with a small nerve-gas bomb. I managed to overcome him."

  Piebr recovered slowly, his wits sharpening. He scowled, staring at Ordwell's ruddy face. "But he's not the same man at all!"

  "Of course not!" Solo snapped. "After I had overpowered him, I realized something was wrong. This man was wearing a plastic mask."

  He heard Wanda's sharp intake of breath, but didn't glance her way.

  "When I ripped the mask away," Solo said, "I finally got down to his real face—though it's nothing to boast about, eh?"

  Piebr grinned weakly. "You are very clever, Chief."

  "That's why I am your superior," Solo said in an arrogant tone. "Help your partner to his feet, and the driver. Get them out in the fresh air. Everything is under control now, and we'll be able to deliver this infidel Napoleon Solo—" he inclined his masked head toward Ordwell—"to the King of the Lions."

  "Zud will be eternally indebted, Chief," Piebr said. He aided the two men from the car.

  "Exactly," Solo said with just the correct inflection of arrogance. "Perhaps now he will listen to our suggestions for his own safety."

  "I hope so, Brilliant One," Piebr said humbly.

  The masked Solo glanced toward Wanda and said directly toward her, "Too bad our enemies do not train their subordinates to have such loyalty to their superiors."