Surprised, ponderous, the giant could not evade the single blow. His head snapped back on his bull neck. He staggered, grunted once with pain and collapsed in a quivering mass of bone and muscle. It was a blow that would have instantly killed almost any man on earth, but Solo did not think the giant was dead.
He turned and dashed through the opening without waiting a second. He ran down a narrow steel corridor. At the far end there was a door. At the door Solo stopped, took off his shoe, removed the heel and took out the thin strip of thermite foil. He stuck the foil to the lock area, pulled the magnesium fuse and jumped back.
A large hole melted in the door. Solo pushed and the door opened. Alarms went off, loud, clanging. But he was in a bright hallway. There was light. He reached a window. Outside he saw the city and below him the river. He was still in New York, in some riverfront warehouse building.
The alarm clanged on; feet pounded.
The river was three stories below. The window was locked and could not be opened. Solo backed up, wrapped his suit coat around his head and dived through the glass. He fell, jack-knifed in the air, and hit the water in a clean dive.
Under water he let his coat go and swam for the dark shadow. He came up underneath the building. The film cartridge was still safe inside his shirt. A tug passed close on the river. He swam for it.
FOUR
In the Kandaville alley, Illya Kuryakin watched the flames flow toward him. The girl singer was still firing.
"Back!" Illya shouted. "Get Rillah!"
The flames that roared around them, slowly engulfing the alley had one advantage. They hid them from the THRUSH agents. Crouched low, Illya and the girl, Mahyana, dragged the paralyzed Rillah back away from the flames.
The flames blocked them from the door of The Yellow Zebra. The other wall had no openings of any kind. The wall of the club had a window, but it was high up, too high. Illya and the girl looked around. There was no way out. The flames flowed inexorably closer. Illya looked at the pretty, dark girl.
"There is only one way," he said. "We will have to go out through the fire."
"They're waiting," Mahyana said.
"There is no other way," Illya cried, raising his voice now as the flames licked at the buildings, crackling in the night.
"All right," Mahyana said. "I'm ready. But we will have to leave Rillah. We."
The sound came from above. Illya whirled; his Special aimed, ready. But he did not fire. Above them the window had opened high up. A face leaned out. A face with a black beard.
"Here, Dad—grab on!"
It was the bearded man calling down from the window. A rope came out, dropped. Illya looked at the flames. He pushed Mahyana and she climbed up the dangling rope like a panther up a tree. Bending, Illya quickly tied the rope beneath the inert arms of Azid Ben Rillah. Then he swarmed up the rope himself.
Inside the window he hauled the unconscious Rillah up and into the room, where they all stood. Flames licked at the walls of the room. Fire engine sirens were wailing closer.
"You could of got singed, man," the bearded man said.
"Yes, we could have been burned a little," Illya said.
The bearded man looked out the window once more.
"Say, that's some fire. I mean, how come it burns so good on stone like that, Dad?"
"It would take too long to explain," Illya said, "but we thank you. Now I suggest we leave. The fire seems to be burning the building.
"I hear you, Dad. We abandon the scene," the bearded man said.
Illya and the bearded man carried the inert form of Rillah out and down a flight of dark back stairs. Mahyana led the way, the U.N.C.L.E. Special she had taken from the dead Ngara ready in her hand.
"A cool chick, man," the bearded man said.
Illya studied his new helper. A boy, really, not a man. But a boy who had had the right strength at the right time.
The bearded kid saw Illya watching him.
"I play banjo, man," the bearded boy said. "Joe Hooker."
"Fighting Joe?" Illya said.
"You beat me, man? Just Joe Hooker from Hoboken. I play banjo with The Beavers, take a chorus sometimes. We come out here for the loot. Out here it's still beards. The long hair ain't made it yet."
"Well, Mr. Joe Hooker, I thank you."
"Say no more, man," the bearded boy said.
They carried Rillah to the cellar of the club and out a side entrance Mahyana knew.
The dark girl surveyed the street carefully.
"Come," she waved with her pistol.
They carried Rillah to her waiting car. Joe Hooker went back to his banjo. Illya drove fast away from The Yellow Zebra toward a safe room where Mahyana directed him.
* * *
Napoleon Solo, a bandage on his head, and wearing a fresh suit, watched Alexander Waverly study the photographs he had taken in the THRUSH room.
"They will have abandoned that place by now, of course," Waverly remarked. "You say the voice sounded mechanical?'
"Like wind through metal and plastic," Solo said.
"Yes," Waverly said as if thinking about it. "You have given our chemical people all you can about the drugs they used on you? Well, what do you make of the pictures?"
Solo looked at his copies of the blowups. "The one you can see I recognize. He was the baggage handler at Idlewild. Hardly a council member."
"No, I think not. A chief agent, though, and we know him. Good work, that," Waverly said. "Which voice do you think he was?"
"The deep voice. He had to be, sir."
Waverly nodded, looked for his pipe. "Unfortunate that the other is turned away. We can hardly see his face at all in any picture. Still, we know he is small, rather thin, and has an odd voice. From what you say, he may also be a chemist himself. Council members are often scientists in their own right, you know."
Solo studied the pictures. "Research says that from the cut and the cloth of his suit he could be British, or from any of the Commonwealth nations."
Waverly found his pipe. "A rather large Commonwealth, I should say."
"What puzzles me, " Solo said, "is that voice. I'm sure it was his real voice, and how could he hide it? Why don't we have anything in our files? It stands to reason he's an important man—all THRUSH Council members are. We should have the voice on file."
Waverly searched for his tobacco. "They ran it through. The result was negative. Possibly the man never speaks in public. Have you seen my tobacco?"
"It's in the second drawer. You put it there," Solo said. Waverly opened the second drawer. "Ah, yes, thank you. I suggest we wait for a report from Mr.—ah—Kuryakin. It seems he has good prospect in Kandaville."
* * *
Azid Ben Rillah came awake in the hidden room of U.N.C.L.E.'s Section-II in Kandaville.
Illya sat in a straight-backed chair, the chair turned so that he could rest his chin on the back, and watched the Somali come awake. The room was as secure as human brains could make it. It was high, with a wide view of the great river that skirted the city.
Azid Ben Rillah touched is face and looked at Illya. The small, blond U.N.C.L.E. agent smiled.
"It won't come off, the skin coloring," Illya said. "But I removed the contact lenses. Your eyes are blue again."
Rillah nodded. "I thought you spotted me." The fake Somali lapsed into his native language—Russian. "How have you been, Illya?"
"Quite well, thank you, Alexy. Interesting that you kept the initials," Illya said, also in his native tongue. "Alexy Borayavitch Razov and Azid Ben Rillah. You were reported dead."
"Our homeland dislikes defectors," Alexy Razov said. "I felt safer to vanish after I turned my coat, shall we say. And you? Since you were looking for me, I gather you still work for our friends the secret police? Am I to expect a quick and secret trip home? After ten years it will be strange. All that snow. Hard on a poor Somali."
"No, Alexy, home is not where you are going. Exactly where you go will be up to you."
Razov
sat up on the bed. He looked down at the chains on his hands and feet. Then the dark-skinned man with the strange blue eyes looked at Illya.
"How is it up to me?"
"If you like, you can be safely in New York tomorrow. In London. Anywhere you choose. And with a new face, a new identity."
"New face? You can do that?"
The turncoat Russian was studying Illya very carefully. Razov seemed to be suddenly afraid, very afraid.
"You could protect me? Hide me?" Razov said.
"Yes," Illya said. The ex-Soviet agent was trembling. "In exchange for what?"
"For the meaning of PowerTen. For where it is being made, and for what exactly it does."
Razov seemed to collapse on the bed. The dark-skinned, blue-eyed turncoat lay on the bed shivering, his lips trembling. Razov's whole body shook as if in the grip of some terrible fever. His Russian was broken, shaking.
"You know! You know what I am. Then." Razov turned his face to stare at Illya, "then—you must be with—U.N.C.L.E.! Yes I see it now, U.N.C.L.E.! I wondered about that girl, the singer. Damn you to hell, you're with U.N.C.L.E. and I'm done, finished."
"We can hide you from THRUSH," Illya said.
"Oh, damn you! Why? Why?" Razov cried. "We were friends!"
"It seems that we took different paths, Alexy," Illya said.
"Very different paths."
Razov sat up, his fear gone for a moment. "U.N.C.L.E.! A pack of milk-sops, do-gooders, bleeding hearts! What counts in this world but power, money, victory? THRUSH will be everything soon! Everything!"
"No, " Illya said. "THRUSH will be nothing. They are nothing now and they will always be nothing but an evil force doomed to failure."
Razov turned white under his dark tint. "Failure! You know who I am. I'm dead. I'm through. They will kill me now."
"We can protect you, Alexy!" Illya said. Alexy laughed. A hollow, hopeless laugh. A laugh of the dead and the damned.
"No one can protect me, Illya," the turncoat Russian said. "I can't even make a deal. They will kill me now."
"Don't be an utter fool! They can't reach you here," Illya said testily. Razov began to laugh.
"They can't get to you. They can't even know what room you're in!" Illya cried. Razov laughed harder, a wild, hysterical laugh made up partly of fear, partly of sardonic amusement.
"They don't have to reach me, you fool. They don't have to know what room you have me in. They only have to know what building it is and they know that. Look!" The former Russian agent pointed a long finger toward the window of the room. Illya whirled. At first he saw nothing. Only a window nine stories above the street. The he saw it.
Outside the window, over a hundred yards away, he saw a kite flying. A large, flying toy. But it was no toy. Illya took his binoculars and went to the window. The kite was not a kite. It was a type of balloon; it had a small motor that could maneuver it. And its long, stiff string that was not string but thin cable went down to where two men stood on the roof of a building. The men were wearing earphones.
"That microphone can pick up within six hundred feet," Razov said. "They hear all I say."
"But they still can't reach you, and we'll soon stop their eavedropping," Illya said calmly.
He took out his U.N.C.L.E. Special, fitted the tubular metal stock, the telescopic sight,a nd placed the weapon against his shoulder. He fired twice. One shot cut the thin cable. The second shot punctured the balloon device and the kite fell. On the roof below, the two men vanished.
"Now that they can't hear you or get to you," Illya said. "Now you can tell me what PowerTen is."
"You fool," Razov said.
And laughed.
It was the last sound Alexy Borayavitch Razov, alias Azid Ben Rillah, ever made.
There was a small explosion, a puff of white smoke from Razov's cnest, and the laugh died in a strangled scream. Razov fell over backwards and lay with his dead eyes staring up at nothing.
Later, in New York, Waverly and Napoleon Solo listened to the report of Illya Kuryakin by overseas relay on the miniature radio set.
"It was sewn under his skin. It must have been there for years. A very powerful explosive pellet, too thin to be seen. There was only the smallest scar, and no metal to be detected."
Illya's voice, from distant Kandaville, continued. "I would imagine all THRUSH agents must have such a device inserted in their bodies. When they are caught, it is detonated remotely to silence them—in most cases probably at once. This time they tried their listening device first. They know we are on to PowerTen."
Waverly was solemn. "Very well, Mr. Kuryakin. It can't be helped. Did you find any leads at all?"
"One," the far-off voice of the small Russian said. "It was in his shoe, under the inner sole. A ticket, I think, admitting two to a performance of The Bedlam Trio in a Sydney night club."
Solo leaned across the table in the New York office. "Sydney? Our unknown council member "N" could have come from Australia, sir."
"So I recall," Waverly said dryly. "Yes, I think Australia would be likely place to look next. Do you hear me, Mr. Kuryakin?"
There was a chuckle from distant Africa.
"Then I will meet Napoleon in Bedlam."
Waverly winced noticeably. "Please keep your humor in some kind of check, Mr. Kuryakin. But, yes, by all means, join Mr. Solo in Bedlam at once. Before Illya had apologized for his bad joke, Napoleon Solo was on his way out the door to pick up his tickets for Sydney, Australia.
ACT III: TRIO OF BEDLAM
The harbor of Sydney is spanned by a giant semi-circular arched bridge that towers above the water. It is the first thing you see as you fly in. Then came Customs. The third would be, for more weary travelers, one of the Australian city's modern hotels, or perhaps the great beaches later for a swim.
For Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, after Customs there was only a clandestine meeting, a joining of forces.
After that came the howling teenagers.
Four hundred howling, screaming young people, dancing a frenzy to the music of five quartets of long-haired, bearded young men under high hanging cages, where slim-legged and full-breasted young girls danced behind the hanging bars.
The Bedlam.
The muscular man on the door, far beyond his teens, checked their ticket.
"Sorry mate, tickets only. That it? Right, go on in."
The big man beamed at them and turned his attention to the next group trying to enter the madhouse of music and stamping young feet. For his sortie into Bedlam, Solo had changed his usually impeccable clothes for a shoddy sweater and tight jeans.
Illya did not have to change; his tight black trousers and usual black shirt, coupled with his blond haystack hair, made him seem part of it all.
Behind them, with a carefully procured ticket, was the dark, slim Mahyana.
Illya had brought the African Section-II agent with him—what better agent for The Bedlam than a girl singer?
Inside the door, deafened by the howling mob of dancers and screamers, they appeared to meet, Illya and Mahyana. Two young people with mutual interests, ready for life.
Solo led them through the rocking room toward the first bandstand. Four young men with long hair gyrated, handling their electronic instruments perfectly. Above them in the cages the girls moved sinuously, their eyes closed, their young bodies moving in perfect rhythm with the beat of the music.
"Four," Solo said. "Hardly a trio."
Illya pointed out, "The sign on the stand says they are the Waif Wailers."
"I hope that whatever PowerTen is, they don't feed it to all of them here and send them after us," Solo whispered.
"You have the most charming thoughts," Illya said.
"Just what are we looking for?" Mahyana wanted to know.
"If we knew that, my dear, we wouldn't have to look," Solo said.
The beautiful brown-skinned girl smiled at solo. Illya sighed. He hoped that both Napoleon and Mahyana would remember that there was work to do,
dangerous work. Illya grinned wryly. Perhaps he was just jealous. And perhaps he had a right to be. After all, he had seen the girl first. She had almost saved his life.
Solo whispered to Mahyana, "I think our Illya would prefer it if we tended to business."
"It is hard to look into each other's eyes and still look for trouble," Illya said.
They had reached the next bandstand now. Five young men with beards sang and stamped, banged hard on their instruments. The sing on the bandstand read: The Beavers. The banjo man suddenly bent down.
"Daddy, you following me?"
Solo studied the bearded young man who grinned down at them from the bandstand. "Is this a friend of yours, Illya?"
"I would like you to meet Fighting Joe Hooker from Hoboken," Illya said.
"You puttin' me on, Dad?" Hooker said.
Mahyana smiled at the bearded boy. "Fighting Joe Hooker was an American Civil War general, Mr. Hooker. I think Mr. Kuryakin means it as a compliment."
"I knew I should have finished kindergarten," Joe Hooker said, and smiled at the pretty singer. "You brought the cool chick, Dad. That makes my night. Put away your weapons and sing a chorus, doll."
"All right," Mahyana said.
The girl climbed onto the bandstand with her fluid motion, the slim brown body hiding the muscle of an athlete. Illya and Solo circulated slowly, watching the room. Joe Hooker strummed his banjo, beating time, grinning at the girl as she sang. Illya nodded toward the other bandstands across the milling mob of teenage dancers.
"I see no riots, Napoleon. Perhaps they are not here tonight?"
"Then why did the doorman act as if they were?" Solo said without looking at Illya, his body keeping time as if the music were his only interest.
"I don't know. Perhaps Mr. Hooker will tell us," Illya said.
Solo nodded, snapping his fingers, his eyes studying the room. Everything seemed normal: the youngsters were dancing a storm, a bright happiness on all their faces. With the exveption of the doorman outside and some of the musicians, it did not look as though there was a person in the room over twenty years old.
The Howling Teenagers Affair Page 5
