The Cat and Mouse Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  "Ah, ah!" Solo said. "No, O'Hara, don't. I would be forced to put you to sleep and ask my questions in private with pentathol."

  O'Hara moved his hand away. "Questions? Have you gone mad, Napoleon?"

  "Maybe. But I don't think so."

  O'Hara blinked. "You came back? I—What's up? What do you mean with that gun?"

  "If I'm wrong, O'Hara, I might apologize. But it is clear now that there was no coup, no attempt at revolt, no assassinations or attempts. It was all a put-up job by Premier Roy. But not the premier alone. Someone else in Zambala is behind it, and that someone knew, and knows, who Illya and I are!"

  "A put-up job? No coup? Someone else?"

  O'Hara stared at Solo as if either he or Solo had lost his mind. The chief-agent seemed to sit there at his desk totally paralyzed. Twice he stopped. He seemed to be staring at Solo's pistol.

  "You were the only person in Zambala who knew who we were!" Solo said. "No one else knew U.N.C.L.E. existed in Zambala! Unless you told someone."

  Solo watched the chief-agent-in-Zambala. Only twice before in U.N.C.L.E. history had an agent at any level turned traitor for any reason. Once the unfortunate man had lost his mind. The second time was the case of the woman in Personnel, Section V, who had been a planted THRUSH agent. Never had anyone above Section III been suspected—and O'Hara was Section II!

  "Knew? No one knew! No one outside myself and two agents in this office, communications and reception, could have known! It is not possible! I told no one at all except perhaps -"

  O'Hara stopped. Napoleon Solo froze. For a full fifteen seconds the two men stared at each other. It was O'Hara who spoke.

  "Except Carlos Ramirez! The night you reported the connection between Colonel Brown and Zamyatta that you had found at Jezzi Mahal's beach house. I told Ramirez!"

  Solo turned without a word and ran out of O'Hara's office.

  He ran down the corridor where the other agents had found the receptionist and were waiting with guns drawn.

  "No! Let him pass!" O'Hara shouted, strapping on his gun, running after Solo.

  Carlos Ramirez smiled at Illya Kuryakin. The tall, white-haired old poet leaned on his cane and smiled sadly at the blond agent. Illya could not take his eyes off the distinguished face of the old poet and patriot.

  "You!" Illya said.

  The old man shrugged, his austere face suddenly going hard, twisted. "Me! Yes, the old poet! Why is it that you idealistic young men must think that because a man is a poet he must also be a fool? Mao-Tse-Tung is a poet, a great poet, perhaps better than I! Then why should not a Western poet be also a practical man of politics, and power, and profit!"

  "Poet and patriot," Illya said.

  The old man laughed. "Patriot? The last refuge of a scoundrel, Mr. Kuryakin. But in my case, being a patriot means being a Zambalan. I want the best for my country—and the best is that I run the country behind the figure of the Lion of Zambala! It is my country!"

  The fine and noble old face twisted into a mask of sudden hate. "My country, and my power! Where do you think a man gets his power, Mr. Kuryakin? From his money and his influence! I own many companies. I am the man who gets the loans from abroad. I sell the guns, Mr. Kuryakin, and the means of defense! If they all stop fighting, if there is no crisis in Zambala, if the great powers are not worried, then where do I get my power?"

  The old man laughed. "For me to remain powerful, I must have them against each other. I must have a crisis all the time. Zamyatta was going to pardon Steng! Julio Brown wanted peace in Zambala! The lion and the lamb were to lie down and work out the future without strife! I could not have that. No, in another few years Steng could have laid down his arms, Zamyatta could win an election, Colonel Brown could have made friends and peace.

  "Could I allow that, Mr. Kuryakin? No! Why, in a really independent and free Zambala, who knows what the people might learn of how I live, and how much the Lion of Zambala and myself owe to the, shall we say, contributions of certain foreign companies? Zambala belongs to those companies, and to me! I intend to keep it despite the childish dreams of Zamyattas and Colonel Browns and Max Stengs!"

  All the while the old man had been speaking, Illya had watched them all. The old man was clearly half mad. But the others, the tall premier, the woman, the dark Bengali, they all had a stake in keeping Zambala in crisis. The soldiers in black showed only that they were loyal to Ramirez. Now the old poet saw Illya carefully watching. He smiled.

  "Ah, you are always alert, Mr. Kuryakin. I like that. When O'Hara told me who you were, I knew we had to act faster than we had intended. Who knows what might have happened if you had had too much time to think after your visit to Brown. Still, Bengali was very stupid. Sergeant!"

  The old man waved his cane once and snapped the word, "Sergeant!" The sergeant fired a burst from his submachine gun. Ahmed Bengali was hurled backwards and lay dead in a pool of blood.

  "I dislike bunglers," Carlos Ramirez said. "Bring him!"

  The old poet turned and stalked from the room, leaning heavily on his cane. The soldiers prodded Illya Kuryakin.

  The blond agent marched out with M.M. Roy and the woman behind him.

  FOUR

  The old poet led the way down a narrow flight of hidden stairs behind the walls of the old palace. They seemed to go down for some time, but Illya realized that they were only going at an angle behind the walls. At last they came out into a large room that was lined with stone walls.

  "The cellar, Mr. Kuryakin. As you know, San Pablo was once a pirate port. This cellar is part of the old castle. It is most convenient. Listen."

  The old man held up his thin, aristocratic hand. Illya listened. There was a sound, a strange sound off to the left. The sound of running water!

  Carlos Ramirez smiled. "Yes, an old underground river. It is all but forgotten, you see. But I always loved the history of my country, and there was a story of the river. It runs out to the sea in a hidden cove. The old governor often used it for his pirate forays. I find it most convenient for disposing of unwelcome guests."

  "Very interesting," Illya said.

  "Isn't it?" Ramirez said. "Bring them all. We will get them out this way."

  The soldiers marched Illya across the large, gloomy cellar to the left wall. The old man opened a door. Through the door Illya could see the deep dark river running fast, and a boat moored to the side. A stone walkway seemed to run to the right out of sight. Ramirez turned to face Illya.

  "I don't imagine you could be persuaded to join me? I could make it worth your while. I like intelligent young men. Surely you have enough intelligence to know that we live in a jungle, and that you could do so much better if you would drop your ridiculous ideals."

  "I imagine I could, " Illya said. "But I prefer to keep my ridiculous ideals."

  "Why, Mr. Kuryakin?"

  "Because someone must have them."

  "Ah, an honest public servant. Unfortunate."

  "Besides, there is Mr. Solo."

  "Naturally, my offer includes him."

  Illya nodded. "I suggest you tell him yourself then."

  Ramirez laughed. "Really, Mr. Kuryakin, I -"

  The old poet never finished. Solo appeared in the doorway to the secret river. O'Hara stood beside him. The soldiers started towards them. Solo and O'Hara cut them down in a hail of bullets. M.M. Roy raised his hands. The Lion of Zambala shouted his surrender!

  "Don't shoot! Don't shoot."

  The woman, Jezzi Mahal, was made of stronger metal. She bent quickly to snatch a gun from a fallen soldier.

  Illya Kuryakin dove for cover.

  For a long moment the old man stood alone in the center of the cellar staring in disbelief as his men fell under the hail of accurate fire from the U.N.C.L.E. Specials of Solo and O'Hara.

  Then Jezzi Mahal opened fire. Solo and O'Hara turned their guns on her. She was down behind a heavy cask. The two agents had to take cover. Illya leaped up from where he had been lying and tackled the woman. She w
ent down biting and kicking. Solo and O'Hara came to his aid. Together they subdued the woman. Illya looked around.

  "Ramirez!"

  The old poet was gone. Illya and Solo left O'Hara with the prisoners and searched the cellar. Illya saw the second secret exit. It was a narrow tunnel that led up and out into the grounds.

  "He's gone for his soldiers."

  "I saw them," Solo said. "A whole private army."

  "Upstairs, quick!" Illya cried.

  They herded their two prisoners up the same way they had come down and came out in the main entry hall. The members of the tribunal were milling like sheep. Illya waved his pistol, the gun he had picked from one of the dead soldiers.

  "Inside! Back inside!" Illya shouted.

  They all went back into the ornate conference room. O'Hara went to work barricading the only door. It was heavy and had a strong lock. O'Hara, and the members of the international tribunal, piled chairs, enormous sideboards, and cabinets against the door. O'Hara handed extra guns to members of the tribunal, and told them to guard Roy and the Mahal woman.

  At the windows, Illya and Solo looked out into the dark grounds of the palace.

  "It's quiet," Solo said.

  "It won't be," Illya said. "Ramirez won't give up. If he can kill us all, he can still get away with it."

  "At least he'll try," Solo said. "Here they come!"

  The black-uniformed troops came out of the dark and trees and ran toward the palace. Illya and Solo held their fire. Then, as the black-uniformed troops almost reached the palace, they opened fire.

  The attackers went down like wheat under a scythe from the fire of the two agents. Some of the tribunal members joined them at the windows. O'Hara covered a third window.

  The attackers turned and ran back to the trees.

  In the ornate and elegant room of the palace, Illya and Solo watched the dark trees. The two agents lighted cigarettes and sat down against the wall.

  "He'll send them back," Solo said.

  "He will," Illya said.

  "How much do you think they'll take?"

  "Hard to say. Let us hope, Napoleon, that they will take very little more."

  "We have very little more to give," Solo said. "Ammunition."

  "I'd rather not think about that," Illya said.

  Solo raised up and looked out the window. A faint light was streaking the sky to the east. Dawn, and in the light Solo saw the black figures come again out of the trees. The two agents rested their guns on the windowsills.

  They beat off one more attack.

  On the third attack there was not enough ammunition. The black-uniformed attackers poured into the palace and began to beat on the door into the ornate and vast conference room. Solo and Illya fired their last rounds into the heavy door. Screams outside and for a moment the attack on the door stopped. Then the shouts began again, and -

  The shouts stopped.

  The hammering on the door stopped.

  Many feet ran away out of the palace.

  There was the sound of many guns firing outside on the grounds, elegant in the growing light of dawn. Illya and Solo raced to the windows. Outside the black-uniformed soldiers were broken and running, some of them. Most had dropped their guns and stood with hands high.

  Through the trees of the palace grounds, the whole of San Pablo spread out below in the dawn behind them, came the ragged guerrillas of Max Steng, Mr. Smith and Steng himself in the lead. And with them were the uniformed men of the second regiment, Colonel Brown and Jemi Zamyatta leading them.

  "Look!" Solo said, pointing.

  One small knot of black-uniformed soldiers had formed and now opened fire. Standing behind these men was Carlos Ramirez. The old poet stood tall, his cane waving, urging his men on.

  The Stengali and the second regiment troops opened fire.

  Carlos Ramirez fell with the last of his men.

  * * *

  Alexander Waverly searched in the pockets of his waistcoat for a match. The busy brows of the aristocratic face were knit in a frown as he failed to find a match. Napoleon Solo handed his chief a book of matches.

  "Er, thank you, Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "Well, although I must say that you gentlemen took a frightfully long time to realize how you were being handled, the affair seems to be coming to a satisfactory conclusion. The mice have won and the cat is gone, shall we say?"

  "Roy?"

  Waverly succeeded in lighting his pipe. "Yes, with Ramirez dead, Roy seemed to think it wise to allow his deputy to become acting premier. The acting premier has exposed all Roy's personal dealings with various American and British companies who think more of profit than people. The election will be held next week. Zamyatta seems assured of victory, especially since Max Steng has agreed to stand with him."

  "I believe even Mr. Smith is standing for parliament," Illya said.

  "And Colonel Brown, although refusing to participate in politics, has agreed to serve as minister of war and security chief, no matter who wins the elections."

  "I should think it a shoo-in for Zamyatta and Steng," Solo said thoughtfully.

  Waverly puffed on his pipe. "No election is a shoo-in, Mr. Solo. The people can never be predicted. That is the truth of a free system. So be it."

  Waverly frowned and sighed. His pipe had gone out. He looked sadly at it. "Our problem is a bit less pleasant. O'Hara, of course, proved quite loyal, and his knowledge of that secret river entrance into the palace certainly saved the day, eh, Mr. Solo?"

  "It did, sir," Solo said.

  Waverly nodded moodily. "Yes. However, as you reported, Mr. Solo, O'Hara told Ramirez who you were, and his organization is lax. No, there is no way out of it. O'Hara and his entire unit must go. I have sent the de-training team down. O'Hara and all his people will be de-trained and let go."

  "Is that necessary, sir?" Illya said. "He's a good man."

  "Not necessary, Mr. Kuryakin. Mandatory," Waverly said. "O'Hara and his people were guilty of a security breach. I have taken steps to replace them already. Unfortunate. You know, I recruited Martin O'Hara personally many years ago. I knew his father quite well."

  For a long minute the two agents watched their chief look sad and old—much older than they could have guessed. Then Waverly took a deep breath, and began to look again for a match.

  "Well, enough of our little cat and mouse affair," Waverly said crisply. "You gentlemen are ready, I trust? It seems that our friends of THRUSH are up to their tricks again!"

  Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo smiled to each other and sat back to listen in the sunny office.

  THE END

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  posted 6.8.2002, transcribed by ?

  Table of Contents

  Act I: Who Shoots Last, Shoots Best

  Act II: Go, Bid the Soldiers Shoot!

  Act III: Coup, Coup, Who's Got the Coup?

  Act IV: Where are the Rebels of Yesteryear?