Man From U.N.C.L.E. 01 - The Thousand Coffins Affair

by Michael Avallone

  “Mr. Waverly,” he muttered feelingly, “thank you, very much.”

  DEATH FOR THE DEBONAIR

  STEWART FROMES’ corpse was on its way back to the States. It would be delivered to U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters and then placed in the laboratory where a team of experts would try to determine what had killed him. There was no more worry about that.

  Solo was not too surprised that Mr. Waverly had decided to come along for the helicopter ride. The old warhorse was like that. Indeed, on many of Solo’s hazardous ventures for U.N.C.L.E. Mr. Waverly had shown up in the damnedest places at the damnedest times.

  Looking at him now, in the Burgomeister’s office, Solo found it hard to believe that the old man was as stonily impatient with him as he eternally seemed. Waverly always made him feel like a pet student who had somehow failed to get 100 on a written examination in Strategy despite all of Waverly’s sound teachings. Jerry Terry had gone to see about the Debonair, dependent on the outcome of Solo’s interview with his Chief. Oberteisendorf, of course, was agog, having seen little activity since the days when armored task forces had roared through the town.

  Now, aircraft had thundered overhead and officials of that big powerful country the United States were everywhere in evidence. Something to do with that American, the Herr Fromes, who had fallen down dead only two days ago—

  “Well, Solo. I’m sure you have much to report. “Where should I start, Mr. Waverly?”

  “Genesis, Solo. Even the Bible began there.”

  Solo told all he had to tell, dating from the time of his encounter with Denise Fairmount and the infernal maser device. He was certain Waverly knew all about that, but he had to be thorough. He spent some time on Stewart Fromes’ peculiar condition of death as well as apparel.

  When he came to the matter of the small silver pellet, Solo explained that all he could tell him about it was on the negative side. “It’s not a toxic substance, and it isn’t radioactive. According to all I’ve been able to discover in the short time I’ve been able to devote to it, it seems to be harmless. However, there’s undoubtedly more here than meets the eye—or the Geiger counter. A matter for the laboratory, I’d say.”

  The old man, nodding as if to himself, took the pellet and tucked it carefully into the pocket of his vest. His baggy, wrinkled tweeds and thoughtful frown matched perfectly. This time, however, he seemed to have left his pipes behind in New York.

  “You could fill me in a little, Mr. Waverly.”

  “Yes, I suppose I could. But before we return to Fromes’ curious case, I would like to tell you that the Fairmount woman is definitely a Thrush agent. Our file on her is most extensive. Oddly enough, Fairmount is her real name. She uses it on special occasions. It is interesting that they wanted to sacrifice her when they employed the maser device. I must confess to no surprise at its existence. It has been employed once before, against an Israeli scientist. The poor fellow was driven out of his mind. But I don’t think they have managed yet to lick the problem altogether. There seem to be a few bugs in the thing, still.”

  Solo nodded. “Then you don’t imagine Thrush has worked it into a large-scale weapon?”

  Waverly pursed his lips. “Time enough for that later on, but no, I do not think so. We seem to have other secret weapons to think about at this time, Solo.”

  “And Denise Fairmount?”

  “She was not at the hotel when investigators arrived. For your information, she is a ranking Colonel in Thrush circles. Thanks to her beauty, her value has been considerable for Thrush. She also seems to be a brilliant young lady.”

  Solo’s smile was tinged with bitterness.

  “I should have killed her, then. I had her in the palm of my hand.”

  Waverly shrugged. “Forget her for a time. Let us now discuss what you have just placed in the palm of my hand.”

  Solo was more than willing to forget the subject of Denise Fairmount.

  “What I handed you—that little silver gizmo—that could be a Booby Trap for Booby Troops.”

  Waverly shook his head, smiling. “Nothing so romantic or so simple, I’m afraid. You see, Solo, I don’t know how much you’ve learned on this assignment as relates to Fromes, but you did know why we sent him here in the first place. I’m sure your friend Kuryakin gave you some clues.”

  Solo nodded. “Yes, I remember. There was some idea of a powerful drug or some such that crippled whole populations, and the organization had somehow imagined that Oberteisendorf might be the next testing ground. Am I correct?”

  “Partly. I’ll take you back a bit. The obscure village of Utangaville and a Scottish whistle stop called Spayerwood. Last year—two months apart—one day all the people in both those tiny spots turned into completely mindless creatures. Utangaville was first, then Spayerwood. The people were incapable of speech or coherent, coordinated action. It was quite as if they had been transformed into gibbering idiots. Both towns literally died—everyone in Utangaville was dead within two days, and in Spayerwood it all happened overnight. There were three hundred and fifty natives in Utangaville. Spayerwood was practically a hamlet—ninety-seven adults and twenty-seven children. The smaller number of people there may partially account for the shorter time-period.

  “It wasn’t determined exactly what caused their deaths. All sorts of notions were formed, of course. Mysterious virus, some epidemic—a plague of some kind. Yet there was nothing conclusive. The situation has not reoccurred, and everyone has breathed a trifle easier. But—” He paused meaningfully.

  “You expect it to happen again.”

  “Decidedly. It has the mark of Thrush written all over it. For one thing, the markedly shorter amount of time it took to finish off Spayerwood—it couldn’t have been just because there were fewer people. I’m afraid it sounds like some organization has been experimenting with and improving its methods of killing whole populations.”

  “Thrush, then,” said Solo.

  Waverly nodded. “Yes. And judging from the state of Fromes’ body, they seem to be continuing their research.” He paused. “Anyway, Fromes uncovered something in the lab. I’m not familiar with the terms but he claimed there was some pointed similarity between Utangaville, Spayerwood and Oberteisendorf which made him insist the trail led here. I saw no harm in assigning a fine man and excellent chemist to follow a hunch, as it were. I’m sorry it turned out this way but I’m quite certain Fromes was correct. Otherwise he would not be dead.”

  “With his clothes turned backwards.” Solo sighed. “I hope the silver ball means something.”

  “It does and it will. Depend on it, Solo.”

  He drew out his cigarettes and extended one to Waverly without thinking. The old man demurred and Solo shook his head.

  “I am tired. I forgot the pipe routine.”

  “What do you think about this rearrangement of clothing, Solo?”

  “Two things, sir. I’m positive Fromes did it as a message. He was leaving a calling card for us after death.”

  Waverly’s eyes narrowed. “Odd you should jump to that conclusion. Wouldn’t it have been simpler to leave a written message in code or some such?”

  “No good, sir. Thrush would have seen it, and would have understood it sooner or later. No, he was leaving something only we would comprehend. Don’t you see? It adds up. If what you say about this drug or whatever it is is true, maybe there was no time for anything else. Maybe his last conscious act was to reverse his clothing while he was dying.”

  Waverly shrugged.

  “You may have it, my boy. I’m not sure I can disagree with you.”

  Sunlight was streaming through Herr Muller’s windows. Waverly blinked against the light. He looked at his watch.

  “Takeoff in fifteen minutes. Well, Solo, here are your new instructions. I will return to New York with the body. The Air Force is most obliging. You will return to Paris with Miss Terry. You have wings, I understand. As soon as you settle down somewhere—may I suggest you avoid the Hotel Internationale t
his trip—call me and I’ll let you know what we have learned about Fromes.”

  “You trust Miss Terry?”

  “Dear boy, we must. She is all that she says she is.” Waverly stood. “Clear now, as to what is to be done?”

  “All the way down the line. By the way, did you ever hear of a fairly large cemetery in this vicinity? Place called Orangeberg. Seems to be quite famous around these parts.”

  Waverly frowned. “Can’t say that I have. Why do you ask?”

  “Herr Muller, the Burgomeister, seemed pretty keen on my burying Stewart Fromes’ body there.”

  “A kindness, perhaps. Never be too suspicious of everyone. It could be a bad habit to develop. You will lose your perspective.”

  “Could be. I’m not so sure in this case.”

  “You should think more, Solo, of why even a town of this size makes it difficult for you to keep a body preserved. Something strange there. But nothing to worry about now.”

  “No,” Solo said. “Thanks to you.”

  Waverly glanced at his watch again. “I should say it was time I was joining the Air Force. Goodbye, Solo. See you in New York.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Waverly.”

  Napoleon Solo stood where he was for a full five minutes after Waverly had gone. An idea had kindled in his head, only to flicker out again. It was annoying. He was certain that it had had something to do with Stewart Fromes having his clothes on backwards. Those clothes had to mean something.

  Repressing his disgust, he went out to see about the plane and Jerry Terry.

  They stood at the end of the meadow, watching the shining helicopter climb out of sight. The roar of its passage overhead whipped the knee-high stalks at the end of the field into a leaning pattern of graceful design.

  Jerry Terry squinted in the sunlight of a warm, balmy afternoon.

  “Hey, Solo,” she said. “Want to go for an airplane ride?”

  “I’m with you, Miss Terry. Can you fly one of these things as well as warm it up?”‘

  “Try me. You could use the rest.”

  The cabin was sleek, smooth and familiar. Like an old friend. Solo locked the door on his side and settled back. His face wore a frown, however.

  “What’s the matter with you today, lover? You look blue.”

  “I’m just surprised we got out of town without any shooting going on. I usually have to blast my way out of places like Ye Olde Oberteisendorf.” He indicated the throng of curious townspeople and children crowding the edge of the meadow.

  She batted the ignition switch on the instrument panel. “Forget it. My uncle is bigger than your U.N.C.L.E.”

  “Come again?”

  “Uncle Sam, Solo. They all know we’re represented by the biggest country in the world and they’re impressed. Besides, the last bit of excitement around here must have been V-E Day.”

  “Maybe you’re right. But look at Herr Muller and the mortician. They sure do look sorry to see us go.”

  It was true. The thin little Herr Burgomeister was positively crestfallen and the mortician reflected the same attitude. But the Debonair’s motor was purring powerfully, the propeller churning briskly. Jerry Terry fiddled with the control. board.

  “Say goodbye to Oberteisendorf,” she suggested.

  “Goodbye to Oberteisendorf.”

  Within seconds, it was all behind them. The meadow, the startled faces, the huddled ugly town. The Bavarian Alps raised snowy heads on the Eastern horizon. Jerry banked the Debonair in a gradual, even soar of speed and finally leveled off at four thousand feet. Solo stared straight ahead, thoughtfully. The sky was a floor of unbroken blue on which the Debonair skirted gracefully.

  “You’re still worried, Napoleon. Why?”

  He sighed in exasperation. “I wish I knew why. Ever get the feeling you’re leaving something behind. Like unfinished business or something you had to do but you didn’t.”

  “You feel that way now?”

  “Very much so. I feel the last thing in the world we should be doing is saying goodbye to that ugly little town. And I don’t know exactly why.”

  She flung him a look, saw the worry in his eyes. Her bright expression softened.

  “Maybe we should take a look at—”

  He sat up in his seat. “Of course. Though what good it will do, I don’t know. See if you can find that cemetery from the air. You may have to backtrack a bit but it ought to stand out on a day as nice as this. We can’t be too far from it, either.”

  At his word, she had nosed the ship in a climbing turn, arrowing back in the direction they had come. Solo peered through the plexiglass, straining for the ground below. The earth from the air was a wide unending carpet, broken into terraced squares and oblongs and rectangles of all sizes and colors.

  It was a mere five minutes before he saw the cemetery.

  “There!” A flat expanse of earth, broken only by neat, orderly rows of stone markers.

  “I’ll lower down. Hang on.”

  The Debonair dropped like an elevator. Solo hung on, the sinking sensation in his stomach suddenly exhilarating like a roller coaster ride.

  She cut her flying speed and arced the plane in a sweeping glide. The tiny squares of stone drew nearer with dizzying speed as the earth rushed up to meet them.

  She leveled off, the Debonair skipping across the cemetery, yards above the earth. Solo scanned the tableau.

  It was a beautiful place. Tended green landscape, flowers still in evidence. The whole area looked well cared for and arranged by a master landscape artist. That was all there was time for. The plane climbed, avoiding the wall of trees just ahead. Jerry sniffed the air.

  “Cozy. Another look?”

  “One more, maybe, though I don’t know what the hell I’m looking for.”

  On the second pass, Solo tried to estimate the number of headstones. But the ground roared by and they were aloft again.

  “Herr Muller was right. A lovely spot.”

  “Orangeberg. Nice name somehow.”

  “Yes.” He was still trying to think of that elusive thing that was dancing around in his brain, but it was useless. He was weary and so was his mind. “I made out about two hundred headstones. Muller said there were that many at least—

  “I never flew over a cemetery before.”

  “You’re likely to do lots of things you never did before, on this assignment.”

  She laughed. “Paris, next?”

  “Non-stop, if you please.”

  The cemetery of Orangeberg moved away from them as they rose to the West. The sun was now a blinding red ball in the sky—and neither of them saw the whining black shadow which dropped from behind its concealing corona of blaze.

  The dark shadow power-dived and fastened itself on their tail with deadly intent

  The next sound either Napoleon and Jerry Terry heard was the thudding, frenzied pound of .50 calibre machine-gun fire slamming into the wings of the Beechcraft Debonair.

  THE WINGS OF THRUSH

  JERRY TERRY said, “Oh!” and that was all. For Napoleon Solo, it said it all. Oh, indeed. The wings of the Debonair shivered and seemed to flap wide open under the withering hail of lead. And then the black shadow had shot past them into full view.

  Solo’s eyes opened wide as he saw the plane. It was an MIG fighter, one of those Russian destroyers he had seen in action in Korean skies. The Debonair was a go-cart compared to it. He and Jerry Terry didn’t have a chance.

  “Go down,” he barked. “Right now. We haven’t got a prayer staying up here with him. One more pass and he’ll rip our wings off like canceled stamps.”

  “Hang onto your breakfast,” she sang out. “There’s only one way out of this.” He knew what she meant. Even as he scanned the skies for the MIG, he knew what she would do. He had gauged her mind and her courage well. She wasn’t an Army Intelligence officer because she had nice coppery hair or good legs.

  The Debonair heeled over, almost whining in protest, as she worked it into a flat spin. A
dangerous maneuver but with death staring at them over the muzzle of twin .50 calibre machine guns, it was the only chance worth taking.

  And the MIG had banked and roared on back at them.

  Jerry Terry’s quick-thinking slip down caused the fusillade of new fire to spray harmlessly across the heavens. The Debonair had one advantage—it could fall faster than the MIG could fly forward. Unless the MIG decided to follow them down. Solo bit his lip to ease the tension. He felt helpless and useless. She was doing all the work.

  The Debonair dropped like a rock, the wings dancing erratically because of the gaping wounds in the metal. The pilot of the MIG barrel-rolled beautifully, shortened a pass that would have carried him miles away and hummed on back for another try. But the altitude was giving away. Another loss of five hundred feet and the MIG couldn’t dare stay close.

  Still, the unknown pilot had his instructions—and cast-iron nerves. Even as the Debonair spiraled swiftly toward the ground, reaching that point of no return where Jerry would have to level off, the MIG pilot was setting itself for one last-ditch, all-out effort.

  The MIG loomed in the rear-view mirror. A black phantom of unbelievable speed, shooting at them from nearly a forty-five degree angle to catch them as they passed his angle of observation.

  “Brace yourself,” Solo gritted. “Some more singing telegrams coming this way.”

  “Watch out for yourself,” she snapped back.

  The air came alive with the pounding of machine-gun fire. Solo cursed. This time it was for keeps. Pounds of lead found a home in the right wing. He watched it happen, too fascinated to turn away. A stitching, ripping pattern of trouble worked along the left wing to the point where it met the fuselage. Too late, he shouted a warning. Too late, he saw the wing crumple backwards, like an arm being bent at the elbow. And then came the tearing, grating song of doom. The wing buckled and flew off like a leaf in a gale wind. The Debonair flipped over on its side, throwing Solo against the girl. Flying on one wing now, the plane plummeted helplessly like a rock cast down a deep well. Jerry Terry screamed once.