Raging, Solo ran forward, grabbed her arm. "Where is Ahab's detonator located in London?"
Cleo St. Cloud's face was rapidly draining of color. She wasn't faking. She had taken something.
"Good luck, dear man from U.N.C.L.E. You'll never find it—"
"But you know where it is?"
"Of course I do. Of course I know where—"
She clutched her midriff, choking. She fell onto one knee, gave Solo a last, twisted smile and flopped over.
The pilot was standing up in the cockpit, peering out, bewildered. The galleyman had raised his hands in the air. Apparently he didn't mind capture. With a start Solo remembered that no one was flying the aircraft. It began a sickening nosedive just at that moment. Walking forward, he aimed his pistol at the pilot. Solo's face looked haggard, skull-like. He pointed the pistol right between the pilot's feverishly watering eyes and said:
"Land this plane. And get on the radio and call London airport. There'll be a lot of traffic on the bands if they're trying to evacuate. But you get through. When you do, I'll give you a relay frequency. We're going to contact a man named Waverly. We're going to get an emergency medical team to stand by at the airport, no matter what effort it costs."
Solo's voice was ragged, spilling out the plan even as he thought of it. "If any one of those things fail to happen because you caused trouble, you will be dead. Are you clear on all that?"
A sickening whine of jets as the plane continued its downward plunge. For one awful moment, fanaticism flared in the pilot's eyes. Then self-interest burned it out.
"Yes, sir."
He stumbled back to his seat.
The plane slowly pulled out of its dive. Kneeling, Solo placed his cheek next to Cleo St. Cloud's lips.
Warmth. He felt thin warmth. He was fighting the race of poison through her bloodstream.
But he was cutting it close, very fine and close. He shuddered at the price of failure.
Stumbling up to the cockpit, he saw London boom for below as they cut through the lower layers of cloud. The radio was rattling with confused voices.
"I'm trying to get through," the pilot said. He sounded a trifle desperate.
"Give me the mike." Solo grabbed it.
Three minutes later, the tricycle landing gears of the jet bumped the London airport.
Solo scanned the area. He saw the incredible pileup of cars and pedestrians on the roads at the airport's edge. He'd relayed his message to Waverly in the war room of the British government. A first-aid team had been answering a fire call less than a mile away, and was on its way to the airport now.
The pilot brought the plane to a stop and turned off the engines. Tears of disappointment leaked down his cheeks. Through the cockpit window Solo saw a cross-marked ambulance streaking to ward them.
With heavy steps he walked into the plane's rear to see whether Cleo St. Cloud were still alive.
TWO
OFF IN THE darkness of the empty hangar, a portable generator whined and hummed.
It was a serve-wracking sound, somehow. Counterpointing it rose a frantic squawk of auto and lorry horns from beyond the concrete walls. Barely perceptible was a sustained roar which Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin knew to be the voices of Londoners fleeing in mobs along the public roadways nearby.
The pair of U.N.C.L.E. doctors had flown in moments ago in a helicopter parked on the roof of the hangar. Illya had been with them. They had joined the first-aid team in setting up an impromptu operating table made of old crates. Portable lights hooked to the generator had been hastily rigged, while two members of the first aid team pumped Cleo St. Cloud's stomach. After a swift examination, one of the U.N.C.L.E. physicians had confided to Solo and Illya that it was going to be a near thing.
A solution bottle hung upside down on a hangar stand. Through the flexible tubing attached to the bottle, near-colorless liquid dripped down into a needle taped to Cleo's left arm. Second by second the truth drug flowed into her.
Gritty-eyed and exhausted, Solo consulted his watch. Twenty-eight past three.
One of the U.N.C.L.E. doctors approached the agents.
"I think we're ready."
"Will she respond?" Illya asked. "If we make a single mistake at this point—"
The physician glowered. "Mr. Kuryakin, I can't guarantee results. That young woman was nearly dead when we started on her. Right now we stand an even chance, no better. The strain of an interrogation under drugs may be just enough to tip the scales. She could go instantly."
The two agents and the doctor started toward the circle of light. In its center, Cleo St. Cloud lay, surgical sheets hastily spread over the packing cases. Her cheeks were the color of putty. She hardly seemed to breathe. Solo knelt beside her, placed his face close to hers.
"Cleo," he said with soft intensity. "Listen, Cleo. I am a courier from THRUSH Central. I have an emergency message for Commander Ahab. I must reach him, wherever he is in London. You've got to tell me where he is so I can deliver the message."
Seconds ticked by. Cleo St. Cloud's lips trembled. She uttered a light groan.
Then her face seemed to contort, as if she were feeling great pain.
The words leaked out in a whisper:
"THRUSH Central? Message for—message for—"
Her head lolled to the side.
Solo glanced up, alarmed. One of the doctors said, "She's fighting you. It's her training."
"Cleo?" Solo began again. "It's all right. You won't be violating any confidence. I'm working for THRUSH. You must tell me where I can find Commander Ahab."
Once more the strained, light shuddering from the girl: "No. No, mustn't. Against orders—"
Frustrated, Solo stifled a curse. One of the doctors was keeping his fingers on Cleo's pulse. He glanced at Solo apprehensively. "The strain's starting to tell."
Standing a few feet back near the periphery of the light, Illya watched Solo anxiously. Solo bent near the girl again, wiping perspiration from his nose. In Illya's right pocket a low, sustained beeping began. He pulled out the rod-shaped pocket communicator, twisted the three-part barrel to align the markings, whispered into the top end of the small rod: "Channel D is open."
Mr. Alexander Waverly's voice crackled faintly: "What progress, if any, are you making, Mr. Kuryakin?"
"This is the critical moment, sir. So far she's refused to reveal the whereabouts of the detonator station."
"Let me know the moment you have something to report," Waverly replied. "The Prime Minister is ready to call off the entire evacuation, tidal waves or not. The city is in total chaos. Casualties are mounting too fast to be tolerated, and no one's getting out because the roadways are so clogged.
"You and Solo must locate Ahab and give me word that you have. There must be no tidal wave set off. But there must be an end to the evacuation within an hour as well, or the results will be nearly as bad as if THRUSH had accomplished its goal in the first place."
Mr. Waverly paused, lowered his voice: "I am relaying the Prime Minister's sentiments, Mr. Kuryakin. He is near the breaking point. I realize the situation facing you and Mr. Solo. You must come through. Else London is lost."
"But sir," Illya said. "If Miss St. Cloud won't give us the information—"
Waverly interrupted: "We are counting on you, Kuryakin."
With a feeling of complete dismay Illya looked again at Solo, kneeling by the jerry-rigged operating table. Cleo St. Cloud's head was moving slightly back and forth, in negation. Solo raked his fingers through his hair. Illya said: "Yes, sir. I understand. Out."
He replaced the communicator in his pocket. He walked forward into the light. Wearily Solo stood up.
"You'll have to increase the medication," Solo said to the doctors.
"Extremely risky," one of them replied. "You may lose her altogether."
"We're not getting anything now. Do it!"
Frowning, the doctor moved to the suspended bottle and unfastened a pinch clamp. The Pentothal dripped along t
he tube at a faster rate. Solo waited two minutes, then tried again:
"Miss St. Cloud—Cleo. Listen. THRUSH Central is going to be very angry with you. THRUSH Central—very angry." He repeated it a little more loudly. "Where is Commander Ahab? Tell me or you'll face disciplinary action. Tell me where to find Victor Ahab."
Again the girl shuddered. Her lips formed a word: "Sub—" She repeated it: "Sub—"
Illya's nerves broke. "It's no good, Napoleon. Ahab isn't on the sub."
"Quiet!" Solo's face was a mask of anxiety. "She's still talking."
In the silent, sepulchral gloom of the huge hangar, Cleo St. Cloud groaned and repeated: "Sub—sublevel. Second down from the street. Parchley—" Another violent shudder shook her body. "Parchley Machining Company." Suddenly her face wrenched into lines of anguish. "Now I've—told you. Don't discipline me. Don't hurt me—"
Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were running for the iron stairs which led up to the door that opened onto the roof landing plat form.
As they clattered up the metal risers Solo said, "We can get the coordinates of the Parchley Machining Company from Waverly."
Illya pulled the door open. They were blasted by wind from the revolving rotors of the U.N.C.L.E. 'copter standing on the concrete pad. Illya raced for the open hatch. Solo paused a moment in the doorway, looked down into the interior of the hangar.
The physicians and the unconscious Cleo resembled doll figures far below. Solo had never imagined that he'd be thanking a THRUSH agent for anything, yet he was doing it silently now.
He hoped he hadn't killed her.
Solo ran for the 'copter, jumped inside, slammed the hatch and watched the London airfield fail away beneath them.
THREE
TWELVE MINUTES later the 'copter swooped low along a grimy street in an industrial section of the city.
In the street, a mob surged along underneath them. Poor people, men, women, even children. There were a few pistols in the crowd, one rifle. It spat at them as the 'copter pilot jockeyed the craft toward the roof coping of the shabby brick building with the single word PARCHLEY painted on its exterior.
Napoleon Solo dodged back from the open hatch as another rifle bullet tore a hole in the 'copter's skin inches from his head. Curses, howls of rage rose from the mob below. The faces turned up at them were full of hate because the 'copter represented a means of escape.
Another bullet smacked into the craft, starring the window on the pilot's side. He jerked back instinctively. The 'copter lurched. Its skids scraped the roof coping. The pilot fought for control, got the craft again. The roof was six feet below. Solo took a grip n his pistol and jumped.
Illya landed a second later, scrambled to his feet. The clouds had broken up somewhat. The air was clearing. It promised to be a sparkling late afternoon. A beautiful afternoon for millions of people to die, either under a crushing wave of water, or tearing at each other in their blind urge to escape what ever unknown fate menaced them. There was no time to think more about it.
Solo's shadow ran out ahead of him as he raced for the roof door. Without looking at his watch, he knew it was almost four. Breathing hard, he took the short flight of steps down to the top story of the building. Illya was right behind.
They ran along past large bays, where engineer's drawing boards stood unattended under weak fluorescent lights. There was an elevator at the hall's end. Solo and Illya waited for tense seconds while the cage rose from the main floor.
Solo indicated the call board above the doors. "The second sublevel is the bottom one."
"No telling whether Ahab has any helpers with him," Illya re plied.
"I'm only concerned that Cleo was telling the truth."
Illya's brow hooked up. "You don't possibly suspect—"
"THRUSH has brainwashed its people with false information before."
The doors clanged open. Soon they were being carried downward. Solo let out a deep breath, leaned against the pale tan wall of the elevator.
"Whichever way it turns out, Illya, we gave them a good run for it."
"I would just as soon survive to enter next week's track meet," Illya replied.
Solo's stomach jumped a little as the cage stopped suddenly. The moment the doors opened he and Illya plunged straight ahead into a shadowy basement. Solo dodged to the left, Illya to the right, out of the bar of light spilling from the elevator. Solo crouched down be hind some sort of power lathe.
Across the aisle Illya was in position behind the first of a series of bins which contained long tubes of aluminum or some other light alloy. Several hundred tubes of a standard diameter stuck up from each bin..
Cautiously Solo poked his head out from behind the lathe's legs.
Fire and smoke stitched their way thunderously from the far end of the aisle. Before jerking back
Solo had a quick glimpse of Commander Ahab, his clothing rumpled, shooting at them with a powerful snooper-scope machine rifle.
More slugs thundered, ripping up clouds of dust and stone chips from the concrete floor. In the echoing silence following the thunderous bursts, Napoleon Solo peered out again.
He no longer saw Commander Ahab down there. At the end of the aisle, he saw only a large metal control board with dials and blinking lights. The board was mounted in a recessed section of the cinder block subbasement wall. Ahab had been standing in front of this board shooting at them. Now he had disappeared.
Solo cleared his throat. "Commander?" he called, The syllables bounced, echoed: Commander Commander Commander Commander—?
At length, the booming reply, "Yes, Solo. I'm here."
"There are two of us," Illya called. "Better give up."
Floating at them, Ahab's laughter was maniacal. "Ah, gentlemen, but I am closer to the control board than you. And while it's true that you have found me, my nearness to the board dictates that I set Project Ahab in motion. A bit ahead of schedule, perhaps. But the effect will be the same.
"Come try to take me if you wish. I shall throw that large white toggle in the center of the board—I'm sure you can see it—before you reach me."
Now Solo's belly was churning. He glanced at Illya, bobbed his head toward the board at the aisle's end. Illya caught the signal. Both U.N.C.L.E. agents leaped up and started a wild headlong charge down the aisle to try and close the distance between themselves and the large white switch which loomed from the middle of the board.
Ahab's bearded face and torso popped up above the last lathe on the left. The machine-rifle cradled against his side bucked. Orange-yellow spurts of flame leaped from the muzzle. Illya cried out, spun on suddenly boneless legs, fell.
The slugs from Ahab's weapon blasted pits in the cement near Solo's feet as he shoved his friend out of the line of fire behind one of the tubing storage bins. He crouched over Illya, made a hasty examination. Illya had taken a bullet in his left rib cage, low and near the waist. He was breathing lightly.
"Where are you, my dear friends?" Commander Ahab boomed. "This is the most unseemly show of hesitation. Or have the odds been reduced? Is Mr. Kuryakin dead? Perhaps I'll wait a moment longer to throw the switch. After all, it's only a foot or so away. Perhaps I'll wait for you to try again, Mr. Solo. You are going to try, aren't you? It's your duty—"
Stung past reason by the mocking voice, Napoleon Solo leaped up and charged.
He fired to cover himself as he ran. Ahab had changed positions, was now hiding behind the last of the tube storage bins on the right side of the aisle. He popped into sight, hair disarrayed, face grotesque with laughter, the machine-rifle spitting. In mid-stride Solo felt a bullet slam into his left thigh.
He stumbled, hurled himself to the right. Off balance, he let his gun slip. It skittered and slid out of reach. Trying to right himself, he reached desperately for something to hang onto. His hands caught some of the metal tubes in the nearest bin. Then his weight carried him down, pulling over the entire bin.
With a monstrous clanging, the tubes clattered over on
him, six- foot lengths that smacked his head with painful force. He sprawled behind the overturned storage bin which had fallen athwart the aisle. He could no longer see anything at the aisle's end.
His leg was bloody. He was growing dizzy. He moved slightly, rolled onto his side. His movements dislodged some of the tubing, which clanked and clanged. Commander Ahab's voice boomed in the hollowness:
"Both of you out of action, eh? Splendid! I—" Ahab coughed. Shaking his head to clear it, Solo realized his adversary sounded weaker. "I fear one of your bullets made the mark, Mr. Solo. Fatal, perhaps. I—" Another wracking spasm of coughs. "I don't know. Yet I remain closer to the board than you. I think the time has come for me to—stop taking unnecessary risks. Listen carefully, Mr. Solo. You will hear a slight hum—when the toggle makes—contact. That way you will know the undersea charges—have been detonated—"
Hurting, dizzy, Solo realized he had only seconds left. From far away came the scrape and shuffle of a wounded Commander Ahab dragging his bulk toward the control board. Solo's gun was lost in the darkness. The only weapons he had were his hands. But if he leaped over the storage bin, he would never close the distance between himself and Ahab in time.
As he scrambled around to brace himself so that he could stand up, Solo's palm slid across one of the light alloy tubes.
From the aisle's end came a stifled curse. Then the sound of a heavy body falling. Ahab had taken a tumble.
Napoleon Solo calculated his last thousand-to-one chance––and acted.
He took hold of the alloy tube and dragged himself swiftly across the aisle to the leg of the power lathe. Reaching up, he flicked the switch.
He shoved the end of the alloy tube up against the suddenly-revolving wheel nearest him. The tube whined and vibrated. Blue sparks spat and flew. The tube's metal heated in his hands.
Solo jerked the tube back, pulled himself to his feet. He saw Commander Ahab outlined against the control board. Ahab recognized what Solo had in his hands. An expression of comprehension blended with fear on his face. He dropped his machine rifle, turned to face the board. Solo saw the blackish stain low down near the base of Ahab's spine where the bullet had caught him.
The Moby Dick Affair Page 10
