The Final Affair: A Man From U.N.C.L.E Novel

by David McDaniel

  asked Bob Short.

  “No,” Joan admitted. “We probably would have been machine-gunned about the time we hit the beach.”

  “How did you know there wouldn’t be?” asked Bill Mills, the fourth agent.

  “I just didn’t think there was,” said Joan. “I was right.”

  “I’m glad,” said Mills.

  “So am I,” said Napoleon. “Therefore, since we won’t be shot on sight unless somebody gets the idea we’re up to something —or recognises us. which would amount to the same thing —I suggest we simply saunter across the lawn as if we knew what we were doing and go through that door just as though we had every right to be there.”

  “Toujours l’audaice, Napoleon,” said Joan, and he stared at her for a moment.

  “That’s right,” he said. “That’s one thing I never forgot about you.”

  Their eyes held for a moment like a kiss, and then he looked down at his watch.

  “Five minutes, gang. Okay —by the numbers…saunter!”

  They walked easily along a hundred feet of gravel path to the middle long Building and throug the door. Stairs were on the left, as described, and the four cat-footed up them to a quiet tiled hall on the second floor.

  The lower level beneath the Barn was deep. Illya and his team crept down steel steps towards a blue blaze of fluorescent lights beyond the next door panel, which opened into the tension of power, the tang of ozone and the hissin9 roar of working generators. Four minutes left to find the master control point and plant their charges. They moved purposefully down the short aisle between six squat pyramids towards a board full of meter faces. Good. Plenty of time to work in.

  Behind a door marked INTERCOM in three scripts Solo’s team found their first action. Two startled operators turned from their switchboards to inhale a stunning breath of knockout gas and slumped from their fonn-fitting chairs to the floor. Mr. Short applied his attention to the lock on an unmarked door and it gave way to a dark cool closet-like room filled with racks and a sound like tiny metallic insects. Napoleon found a switch on the wall which brou9ht shadowed light to the rack-packed room.

  “There’s nothing like this place anyplace near this place,‘t he said, “so this must be the place. let’s keep it small; one pound in the middle of each rack should do it. Give the timers a synchronised start for three minutes when I give you the signal. Ready —”

  The lights went out and there was a very soft thump under the floor.

  “Oh boy,” said Napoleon. “I think something’s gone wrong. Set the timers for fifteen seconds and let’s get the hell out of here!”

  He pulled the antenna on the jammer, dropped it into a wooden desk drawer and slarrrned it closed. They made it into the corridor just as the inner door was belched across the room and a cloud of cement dust billowed out after it with a sprinkling of resistors and relays.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Then Don’t Touch The Other One.”

  The moonlight had vanished in the merciless arc-white illumination of parachute flares over the two main assault points, bracketing the center of the island. Solo stopped just inside the doors, squinting into the naked glare, as the patter of small arms fire was heard in the distance, punctuated by the thump! of a grenade.

  They flinched back into the shadows as running footsteps skidded up the walk. The door was flung open, and they leaped upon the individual who burst in before they recognised Mr. Goldin, covered with dust and blood.

  “What happened?” Where’s Illya?”

  MThey got him —he’s wounded. An alarm got tripped in the power house and there was a Guard handy. Sanders got into the generator control room .

  ten feet ahead of him, and I guess he set it to Manual/Zero Delay. The Guard kicking in the door was the last thing I saw.” He shuddered violently and sat down on the bottom step. “I’ll be okay in a minute.”

  “Are you hurt?” said Joan, kneeling beside him. “You look a bloody mess.”

  “Cut scalp —no damage. .1 tucked a piece of my shirt that tore off under my cap to keep the blood out of my eyes.” He shivered again. .‘Just shock. Besides, I think some of this was the Guard.”

  “What about Illya?” Napoleon insisted.

  “The Guard’s first shot hit him —I couldn’t tell how bad. He was thirty feet away from me, and I could just see his legs sticking out from behind a desk. I was pinned down behind a generator, covering Sanders, who was out in front with most of the explosives. By then there were two or three Guards, because I got one who came after Kuryakin, but another came in from the protected side and dragged him off. And just about that time Sanders yelled sOOlething and took off for the control room door. The first Guard that shot at us came running in from the other side, and another one was shooting over my..head, so I didn’t see much, but I saw Sanders get into the control room and slam the door behind him, and I saw the Guard smashing in the door just before it all blew up. That was about the last thing I saw. But Kuryaktn was dragged off the other way.”

  Solo turned to Joan. “Where would they take him?”

  I’Not the Infirmary, under the circumstances…ProbabTy one of the Interview Rooms in the basement of the Big House.”

  Something they couldn’t see lit up the sky beyond the Big House like a flash of lightning, and the concussion of heavy artillery shook the glass doors.

  “They’re going to be concentrating more out towards the ends of the island,” Solo said. “Think you could get me there from here?”

  “I can do it underground,” said Joan. .‘No, wait —theylll have full internal security on now. Welll have to go outside. But yes, anyway.”

  “All right. Short, Mills —Goldin, are you functioning?”

  He nodded and stood up with a deep breath. “Can you spare me some ammunition?”

  “Take mine,M said Joan. “I‘11 be with Hr. Solo.”

  “Right. You three are now detached. You’ve still got fifteen pounds of plastique and most of a pack of fuses. Do your best with them and link up with our side whenever you can.”

  “But sir —” said Short.

  “I can’t lead a parade in there,” said Solo. “And remember: don’t damage anything we can use if you can help it. Now, go get ‘em!”

  All five flitted like deadly shadows into the twilight of the falling flares. Again the moon was the brightest illumination, and Joan and Napoleon raced across the wide grassy lawn bathed in its tender light.

  She led him directly into a clump of decorative shrubbery close against the sturdy stone foundation of the Big House, and together they crouched in darkness, breathing quickly, scarcely touching. Intense and nearly continuous gunfire rattled not far away, and flashes danced beyond the Long Buildings. The tang of smokeless powder perfumed the soft tropical breeze that stirred the leaves of their hiding place.

  Joan touched his shoulder and beckoned him to follow as she ducked into the narrow sheltered space between the stumps of the bushes and the wall.

  On hands and knees they hurried towards the rear of the house. From time to time small unseen things smacked the stone above them and pattered down through the dense leaves. Around the corner ahead a blue-white flash and a sound like a thunderclap made them stop and cower back.

  “Are they shelling?” asked Napoleon.

  “I can’t tell. But I’ll let you know in a minute —the door we’re going in by is just around the corner. See where the Barn comes closest to the Big House? The door there is where Illya’s group went in, and probably where they took him out —then straight in the rear basement door and into the first room available because by then the balloon was going up outside.

  Where would you go if you were a horse?”

  “Right after you, sugar-lump,” said Napoleon.

  “Come on, clown,” she said, and reached back to touch his hand momentarily before edging forward.

  He joined her peering around the corner close to the ground. Three tall masts, like flagpoles, stood centered
on three sides of the yard. About the top of each shimnered a blue nimbus like St. Elmo’s Fire. Electric tension filled the air with the heady pungency of ozone. As they watched, the halos grew in intensity until giant jagged sparks staggered in firey script to a point in the center where a field of some unguessable force seemed to gather them for seconds before hurtling a bolt of ferocious energy towards the moon-spangled sea.

  “What’s that?” said Joan.

  “It’s a fiendish thingie, Mark IV,” said Napoleon. “Come on, while it’s recharging. They’re probably shooting at the Corrlnand Sub.”

  “I hope that door’s open!”

  It was closed and locked, but not for long. A thermite “skeleton key”

  blew the handle off and probably triggered an alann, but nobody was likely to notice under the circumstances. Napoleon braced a heavy standing ashtray and a chair against the inside to hold it closed, muffling the sounds of battle without, while Joan checked the first few of a series of rooms on either side of the corridor.

  She beckoned Napoleon silently with a quick wave of her U.N.C.L.E.

  Special, and he noticed as he joined her the twisted wire of a field telephone running under the third door on the left. Quietly he eased the door open, to hear a voice. “How many men in the attacking force? How many men?”

  Solo kicked open the door with his automatic extended and barked, “Freeze!” A man in shirtsleeves looked up from the metal cot in the pale glare of a Coleman lantern and slowly raised his hands. “Are you alone?”

  The man glanced down at the scarred leather case of the field phone in the shadow beneath his chair and said, “Yes.”

  Napoleon kicked away the rifle which leaned against the chair and Joan caught it as an unsteady voice said from the cot, “Hello, Napoleon. You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Neither should you. How fast can you run?”

  “1 don’t know. Even if 1 wasn’t shackled to this bunk.”

  “The bunk’s bolted to the wall,” the Thrush interviewer volunteered.

  “And before you get rough, 1 don’t have any keys but my locker key, and that won’t help. Only the Chief Therapist can open them. You, whatever-you-name-is —the Guard that locked you in there didn’t even use a key, did he?”

  “He’s right. Napoleon. And, honestly, I don’t feel like moving very fast.”

  Solo inspected his partner’s shouldert neatly wrapped in a field dressing which obscured the extent of the damage. “How is it?” he asked professionally.

  “.It could be worse. It missed nNJjor arteries and I think the shoulder joint is all rightt but the left hand hasn’t been working and I’m pretty sure something is broken but I don’t know where. Besides, I think I lost about a quart of blood. Is there some water?”

  “On the table,” said the interviewer.

  “You drink some first,” said Solo.

  “Glad to.” Rising slowly, the interviewer poured a glass of water and drank it, then refilled the glass and held it for Illya wtlile he drank, awkwardly.

  Something slammed the building like a fist, and dust settled from the cool green walls. The table jumped, rattling the pitcher.

  “Now they’re shelling,” said Solo. “Who’s on the other end of that phone?”

  The interviewer paled. “My boss,” he hedged.

  “The Boss? Acting Central?”

  “Uh… yes…”

  “Okay. You ring up and tell them that they are under arrest in the name of the United Network Command For Law And Enforcement.”

  The interviewer started to stall, and the fitful hell of the hand-crank set clattered discordantly. Napoleon picked up the handset, pushing the talk-switch. “Yeah?” he said impatiently.

  “Myron, this is Jay. Forget the prisoner. We’re pulling out all personnel with tech priority. You’ve got six minutes to report to Bay Four.

  They’re arming Little Brother. See you there, fella.”

  Napoleon looked at the silent handset for a roment, then turned to the interviewer. “Tell me, Myron,” he said thoughtfully. “Who is ‘Little Brother’?”

  The Thrush interviewer looked around unhappily, and helped himself to another glass of water while Joan and Napoleon watched him suspiciously.

  “He’s —ah —look, how much longer are you going to keep me here? There’s no help I can give you —I’m not even worth anything as a hostage. Honest..”

  “I believe you,H said Napoleon sincerely. “But Jay said ‘Little Brother’

  as if he expected you to know what it meant, and although I only spoke with him for a moment on the telephone I feel I can trust his judgment in this.

  And by the by —he also said to tell you they were pulling out all personnel with tech priority. I forget where he said they were leaving from. but I doubt if they’ll miss you in all the confusion, and they didn’t seem likely to wait. Who is ‘Little Brother’?”

  He glanced at Joan, who shook her head. “He’s new since my time,” she said. “But Myron looks terribly upset all of a sudden. Take a load off your conscience,” she advised him.

  “Yes. Unburden your soul,” directed Napoleon coldly. “This may be your last chance to save it. Co-operate —and the next time you go to sleep you can expect to wake up. ”

  The interviewer laughed. unexpectedly. “Not with Little Brother.” he said. “We’ll never even notice him.” He sat down. and shrugged. “There are worse ways to gO.”

  “There may be for you,” said Napoleon. “I’ve got better things to do wi th my time. II He grinned “qui ckly at Joan. “So they I ye got a bomb under the house. huh? Where is it?”

  “Does it matter? If it’ll make you happy to know, it’s a fifty kiloton nuclear warhead we hijacked a couple of years ago. There’s a lot of research on this island that shouldn’t be allowed loose in the world.”

  Concussion buffet ted them again. and a crack shot up one wall. The table danced and only a quick grab by Napoleon saved the Coleman lantern from toppling. Their shadows leaped high on the walls as he swung it, hissing. by its wire handle.

  “We need to know. Myron,” he said flatly. “Where is Little Brother?”

  Outside. beyond the Long Buildings to the south. flames clawed at the star-crusted, smoke-smeared sky. lit red from beneath like the fires of hell.

  In this infernal glare men ran and fired, and rose to run again or fell and fired no more. Quonsets vibrated like giant steel drums to the slamming penetration of slugs, and the sharp cough of U.N.C.L.E. Specials underscored the short vicious snarl of Thrush automatic rifles.

  From half a mile offshore, through a light-amplifying video pickup to his place on the bridge of the command sub, Alexander Waverly watched his forces moving in along the island, units checking the outer points to their rear while the rest centered attention on isolating the c~ntral complex and moving in on it. /ith full magnification he could see machine guns on the roof above the veranda, protected by reinforced cornices, ready to rain fire on the invaders. Something had to be done about the Big House. And that strange thing behind the Big House, /hich was shooting something at him -though only the periscope showed above the surface, it seemed to attract the bolts like a lightning rod. Something would have to be done about that. too.

  “Captain.” he said. “Surface. We must direct our deck gun aqainst the Big House. Aim first into the yard. there, then ease up on the building.

  Give their gun crews a chance to evacuate. It’s oore than they’d give us.”

  The deck shifted slightly as the sub rose. and then the top hatch was swung back to pass the three-man gun crew. scampering up a ladder to the dripping deck and a smell of salt and oil.

  Illya balanced Joan’s Special in his good right hand while she had a long serious talk with their cpptive Thrush. Napoleon took the opportunity to scout the basement area in preference to sitting in on the interview —he started by following the phone wires to the foot of a stygian stairwell.

  where he stopped and tugged experime
ntally on them. There was no give; probablya door closed on them somewhere. And it wasn’t time to go upstairs yet.

  At least not all the way… Silenced automatic ready. he traced the twisted line up the side of the stairs to a landing and around the corner into total darkness. No, not total. Above him a glass double door shone in ruddy rectangles against which shifting shadows ran back and forth. Rifles chattered nearby and Napoleon hugged the wall as he crept upwards towards the dim light.

  Sure enough. the wires were wedged tightly under the door. and the door was locked. He could kick it open, but that would attract undue attention, and he had enough to worry about without adding tri9ger-happy Thrush Guards.

  A slug snapped through the top pane of the lefthand door and dust powdered down on him from the stone ceiling. He severed the phone wire with his commando knife and retreated, dragging the end with him.

  He looped it around the railing at the foot of the stairs and went on exploring. He spent a few more minutes familiarising himself with the layout of the cellar, and then returned to base.

  Joan looked up as he tapped at the door and entered. “It’s in Room 39,”

  she said. HHe started to soften shortly after you left. I simply pointed out that if he cooperated convincingly he wouldn’t have to be hurt a lot before he died, and if he didn’t it’d be interesting to see if he would last until the balloon went up.”

  “A well-made point,” said Napoleon. -How well did you know Ward Baldwin?

  Never mind. Room 39, huh?”

  “I’ll take you there,” Myron volunteered.

  “Don’t bother,” said Solo. “I found it on my walk. I also got a peek upstairs. It’s full of Guards, and they’re all shooting out windows. Even our private entrance has almost been secured.

  “Almost?”

  MThey dropped steel shutters behind the door some time after we came in, but the chair I stuck there to hold it closed jammed them halfway. I think we could squeeze through if we wanted to 90 out that way.”

  A brief glare of orange flashed down the hall just as another blast slapped the back of the building. A piece of plaster detached itself from the ceiling and shattered on the floor.