The Girl From U.N.C.L.E.: The Birds-Of-A-Feather Affair

by Michael Avallone

  At seven o'clock that evening in Washington, D.C., Mr. Alexander Waverly sat in conclave with the Joint Chiefs Of Staff. A specially chartered flight from Kennedy Airport had jetted him to the nation's capital. Mr. Waverly had asked the Secretary of Defense to arrange the conference. The President was in California; he would not be needed until it was made precisely clear what had led the head of the U.N.C.L.E. organization to call for a Red Alert.

  The heads of the Army, Navy, Air Force and Marine Corps, beribboned, and wary of secret service organizations, all watched closely as Mr. Waverly presented the problem. A hush lay across the War Room. It was like a unique conference in the Executive Suite of a vast industrial empire. This was business, too. The biggest business of all.

  "—so there it is, gentlemen," Mr. Waverly said stonily. "We have Zorki and Thrush wants him back. As I have tried to indicate in this rather elaborate report, Zorki is the key to the entire machination of Thrush in this country. If they get him back, there can only be the most dire consequences."

  "Mr. Waverly," the Chief of the Army rumbled. "If he's all you say, and none of us can doubt that, what's the problem?"

  "They have two of my finest operatives as hostages," Waverly said, trying not to appear emotionally involved. "If a trade is not effected, the operatives will most certainly be killed."

  "Wages of war, Mr. Waverly. And, I take it, this is a war. I'm sure your men understand that and wouldn't have it any other way."

  "They do," Waverly agreed. "One of them is a young woman, in fact. But I'm afraid I haven't made myself clear. I haven't come here to ask your advice on the advisability of a trade. That is out of the question. Zorki must be kept from ever returning to Thrush."

  The Chief of the Army looked around the table at his colleagues as if seeking reinforcements for his argument. "He's a spy, isn't he? This is a national emergency. Why not shoot him? And may I ask what your organizational problems have to do with us? You have called us all away from our desks. I trust there is more to it than a mere local problem."

  Waverly shook his head. "I am sorry, Gentlemen. Killing Zorki, apart from the fact that this country doesn't operate that way, would be too simple. He is far more valuable alive. He must be made to defect from Thrush."

  An irritated wave of voices washed around the table. The Secretary of Defense coughed politely, by way of interruption. He had an inkling of Waverly's problem, thanks to some private comments in the hall, prior to the conclave.

  "Perhaps if you explained the qualities of this man, Mr. Waverly, the Chiefs and I would be better able to offer suggestions."

  The Chief of the Navy was oddly silent and thoughtfully watching the head of U.N.C.L.E.

  Waverly considered for a moment, then nodded, almost to himself, as if deploring the necessity and then finding the Defense Secretary's request unavoidable.

  "Yes, perhaps so." He gazed slowly about the circular table, eyeing each of these important men as if he could influence them with what he was about to say. "Alek Yakov Zorki is no mere agent provocateur, gentlemen. In our files he is listed under the code name of Bomber, letters KKK. Oh, he is highly skilled for all of of the typical agent's jobs of assassination, sabotage, propaganda and intrigue but he is far more than that. He is a scientist. We first came abreast of this fantastic man after World War Two. He had achieved a record of liquidating Nazis for the Russians that, to quote William Shakespeare, would make each separate hair on your heads stand on end. But, I am not concerned with his abilities to kill and destroy. It is his work in the Moscow laboratories which make him so important to a world organization with the devilish aims of Thrush. They wooed him away from the Reds. Second, these attainments make him someone to worry about. You see, Zorki loves field work. Bombings, sabotaging factories, destroying shipping, radar stations. There's a zest about the man that belies his more sedentary genius in the research laboratories. But it is that phase of his work which involves us. We never would have gotten our hands on him if he hadn't decided, almost as a lark, to come to New York to blow up the Verrazzano Bridge. He is a capricious man. We have him now but we also have nothing."

  A murmur of surprise raced around the conference table. A haze of blue cigarette and cigar smoke hung over the room. Mr. Waverly pushed out his lips. It was always difficult convincing the powers-that-be of the need for forceful steps and measures. But now was the time.

  "Zorki has somehow found a chemical formula that defies all probability and yet we have incontestable proof of its existence. Yet, he has kept no papers, no records, no data on his work. In short, it is all in his head. The man possesses that rare phenomenon—a photographic mind. If we give him back to Thrush, he will surely give them the secret. He may never give it to us but at least, if he is on our hands, the secret is safe, allowing for the vast sociological difference in the world aims of the United States versus Thrush. Therefore, we must keep him. Were he to return to them, I could not answer for the safety of civilization as we know it."

  The Chief of the Marine Corps snorted.

  "That's a mouthful of frogs, Waverly. What could be that big? Another cobalt bomb? Germ warfare?"

  "No," Waverly said quietly. "We could combat those evils."

  The Chief of the Navy looked less skeptical than the rest of his colleagues. A slow, unworried smile crossed his face.

  "Mr. Waverly, I've had some indications about your man, Zorki. Fact is, our own G-2 has been working on him but—you'd have to go some to top the bomb. Overkill is nothing new, you know."

  "I realize that, sir, but what else is there to surpass the simple, unalterable truth that Alek Yakov Zorki, Thrush agent and scientist extraordinary, has discovered a chemical agent which guarantees everlasting life?" Mr. Waverly phrased the words very slowly and very carefully. "Nobody will ever die once they are innoculated with this amazing solution. Life everlasting against the fast statistics of old age, accidents and even intentional homicide. Think of it."

  The Joint Chiefs of Staff began to laugh. The low ripple of mirth played about the table. The laughter reached the Secretary of Defense. He bit his lips, and reluctantly rapped his gavel for silence. A sudden quiet greeted the hollow thud of the hammer, as if all the participants were somewhat embarrassed by their own reactions.

  The Defense Secretary leveled a stern gaze at Waverly.

  "You can prove this preposterous revelation?"

  "I can, sir," Waverly said, without hesitation. "I wish to God I was in error."

  "But that's absurd!" The Army Chief exploded.

  "Incredible and impossible," agreed the head of the Marine Corps. "Why if—"

  "Gentlemen, gentlemen," the Defense Secretary cut in. "It isn't in our province to discuss the niceties of the matter. I'm sure we are all aware of the consequences of such a discovery."

  "Precisely, gentlemen," Mr. Waverly said firmly. "They go on living, we go on dying, in the normal order of things. And soon we would have a world of people who think alike and live alike for all time. Thrush people. Thrush conquerors and dictators. And Thrush, of course, will gain what it has sought since the very day of its birth. World dominance."

  The Defense Secretary nodded.

  "I'll talk to the President. This calls for an executive decision. Meanwhile, I suggest you take that plane back to New York, Mr. Waverly. You hold onto Mr. Zorki until you hear from me. I'll leave the details to you. I'm sure our Washington scientists will want to know all there is to know about this—ah—discovery."

  "Thank you, Mr. Secretary."

  The Chiefs of Staff exchanged hopeless looks and incredulous gestures. A man of some merit and obvious importance had said a most remarkable thing. Was it true? Could it be true—even in this amazing day and age?

  "Proof," barked the Chief of the Army. "You mentioned you had proof. What kind of proof can you have of a thing like this?"

  Mr. Waverly stood up, bowing to the officials surrounding him. His leathery face was furrowed.

  "The proof is Mr. Zorki himself.
When we first got our hands on him, we put him through the usual tests. Physical, mental, etcetera. A Security precaution. There was an accident the first day in the laboratory. One of my men left a ray machine on which fires, literally, radium bullets. Mr. Zorki received enough radioactive particles to kill a roomful of people. He survived with no more than a mild headache. When we questioned him about it, he made his boast about his chemical. We believed him. The proof was before our eyes. That was about a week ago, and Mr. Zorki is still very much alive. Need I say more? Obviously, he himself is innoculated with this drug of his."

  "I can think of an easier way to test him," the Army head growled. "Line him up on a firing range and cut him in two with some automatic weapons. Life everlasting! It's ridiculous, I tell you."

  Mr. Waverly had no more to say of an important nature.

  "Thank you for your attention. I'll be going now. Please remember that we at Uncle will do all in our power to hold on to Mr. Zorki."

  The War Room was quiet long after Mr. Alexander Waverly had left the table.

  Not even the outspoken Army Chief dared repeat his infamous suggestion. As practical as it would be, the government just didn't operate that way, did it?

  Outside the Pentagon building, a long dark touring car was waiting for Mr. Waverly. He entered it quickly and settled himself in the interior. His kindly brown eyes were unaccustomably grim.

  "Airport," he said tersely to his special driver.

  The nation's capital lay quiet and serene in the gathering darkness; the mammoth illumination of numberless lights and glares gave the impression of an immense, lit-up stage where great dramas were about to unfold.

  Mr. Waverly's special car shot away from the curb, wheels spinning on the gravel, grinding almost in protest.

  Away All Girls

  The explosion, when it came, was something to remember the rest of one's life.

  For April, it marked the beginning of a new appreciation for the effects of a detonation under water. She had gambled on the physical principle that liquid would dissipate the bursting concussion of a charge of explosives. She had counted on the rolling force of torrents of water, pushed by the powerful thrust of the blast, wherever it might come from, to collapse the walls of the basement. But she had not reckoned on the maelstrom that would ensue.

  Eternities seemed to have passed since she and Joanna Paula Jones (Lord, what a name that was!) first huddled in the locker. The swirling, dirty waters had flooded their narrow stall, rising in a steady surge. It had sloshed against their chests, reaching their chins—a thunderous cataract of noise.... And then had come the biggest noise of all. A cyclonic, ear-pounding whoooommmmpppp of sound and fury. The world had turned upside down.

  A skyrocketing, roller-coastering universe in which the heavens opened wide and the waters of the deluge carried them away like two bits of flotsam in a roaring ocean. Wherever the explosives had been planted, there was no escaping the waterfall. The watery room split into mountainous columns of flying foam and rubble. The locker cubicle that held herself and the girl buckled apart, the tin sides flying. Their two helpless figures whipped forward, like two grains in an elevator chute. Tons of water and wreckage poured through the collapsed walls of the building where the mammoth, gaping holes allowed them passage. April tried to hang onto something, sought to reach the girl, but it was useless. She was swept along on a tidal wave of such force that the breath almost burst from her lungs.

  It was a mad miracle of daylight and darkness, life and death.

  They were outside the building now, shooting along a narrow, dim alley, their bodies buffeted and catapulted like corks in the sea. April let her body relax and go limp; it was the only thing her training had left her as a conditioned reflex. The rest was confusion, and the exhilarating hope that she might get out of this mess alive. She uttered one last prayer that Joanna Paula Jones would do likewise.

  Behind her, she sensed the thundering vibration of destruction. There was a cataclysm of violence and disintegration in the air. Then her lungs were full of the foul, wretched water. She sputtered, struck her hands out like flails, trying blindly to check her headlong propulsion. It was a veritable Perils of Pauline situation—

  It was then that her head struck the cobbled sides of the building.

  The rest was darkness in the surrounding fierce thunder of holocaust.

  She awoke to the keening of sirens and an earthquake of sound. When she opened her eyes, she didn't know where she was. She lay quietly, composing herself. She counted slowly, waiting for the clamor in her bosom to slow down. She could feel her heart thumping.

  She checked herself gingerly, expertly for broken bones and more severe injuries. Darkness surrounded her, intermittently pierced by the probing beam of a searchlight. She took stock of her surroundings; weariness throbbed through all the muscles in her body.

  She was lying on her side somewhere, half of her soaking in water. She stared up; the cubed, dark outline of a span of concrete rose above her. A bridge. She was under a bridge, lying on a damp, muddy shore with her naked feet still extended into a low body of gently running water. She made herself sit up, conscious of a tingling in her limbs. Her arms and legs ached. Her ribs felt sore and bruised. She shook herself, trying to locate all the uproar and confusion of the night. It was not far away.

  She lay back on her right side, studying the bridge ramp arcing overhead. Dark and ghostly. Beyond it, to the left, she made out a fiery hue lighting up the night sky. From one point, she heard the clang of sirens, the hoarse shouts of fiercely busy men. Dimly, she made out the tops of the green trees, forming a solid mass of cover to the East. She looked down the river and remembered where she was.

  The factory. The explosion. Bronx Park. Yes, she had been hurled outward by the blast, carried through the wall, out into the alley and then—of course. She had been swept to the river and dragged along until her body had anchored in low water close to the shore, under this very bridge. She wasn't that far from the building. And the girl—

  Joanna Paula Jones was nowhere in sight.

  She raised herself stiffly. A sharp pain centered its hot knives in her right thigh, letting her know she had torn a ligament somewhere. She had gotton off easily, though. It was a miracle to be alive. The girl, obviously—

  April then put aside the thought of her. She blocked out the bedlam that reigned some five hundred yards away. On her feet, she tested her legs. Stiff but they'd have to do. She hobbled toward an incline of ground at the side of the bridge. A paved walk lay in a wash of moonlight. As she had suspected, because of the bridge, she was close to a park exit. She fumbled at her soaked clothes. The baggy man's pants were like ridiculous balloons. Her bra, taut from immersion, was strangling her breasts. Firmly and with great effort, she tore the trouser bottoms below the knees and fashioned a semishirt to cover her torso. It was a farce but it would have to do. She had lost the oversized shoes that had adorned the feet of the man she had killed.

  A dead smile dominated her battered, dirty face.

  She wasn't exactly dressed for the Riviera though the costume could have been mistaken for clam-diggers and Bikini top. She was a ragged derelict, really, and she didn't even have the necessary dime to make a phone call to Headquarters. If she tried to bum a coin from people in the streets, the chances were they would shy away from her Bowery bum appearance. Yes, it was a great life for a girl. Still, she was elated to be alive.

  The street was bereft of passersby, despite the pell-mell activity in the vicinity of the blaze. Or maybe because of it. April cut over the walk, toward Boston Road, away from the center of all attention. Ahead, the street lights glowed. Automobiles flashing by, hooted their horns derisively at her, taking her for some kind of kook. She stayed away from the fire. Nobody at the scene would have believed her. Least of all any tired Bronx policemen or far too busy firemen. No, she would have to get out of this mess on her own.

  There was a cab parked at the intersection of 180th Street and
Boston Road. April hobbled stiffly toward the driver, standing alongside his vehicle, munching a hot dog, watching the blaze lighting up the sky.

  The cabbie recoiled when he saw her, raising his frankfurter as if it were a weapon, in self-defense.

  "Mister," April said in her coolest and brightest voice though she knew she felt and looked positively terrible, "you wouldn't believe me if I told you I was a very secret agent who had to get downtown in a hurry and would see that you got twenty dollars for taking me there?"

  The driver made a face. "Beat it, sister."

  "I don't blame you. I'll make that fifty bucks if you'll do what I ask."

  The man nearly choked in disgust on his hot dog. Sour-faced, he dug into his pants pocket and flipped a coin at April. "There. Don't bother me. You'll give me indigestion."

  April caught the coin. A dime. Elation shot through her. She eyed the cab and the hackie's number on the badge pinned to his peaked cap.

  "Thank you, Number seven-one-three-five-nine. This may be the nicest thing you have done all year."

  "Sure, sure, sister. Beat it, wilya, or I'll call a cop!"

  "Gently, sir, it's Mother's Day."

  She blew him a kiss with her grimy fingers, winked and limped across the street to the luncheonette where the driver had obviously bought his frankfurter. The elevated subway overhead was just disgorging a flood of passengers. April became the cynosure of all eyes as she walked into the luncheonette and headed for the telephone booth at the rear of the establishment

  It didn't matter. So she wasn't the Queen of the May. At least, she had a dime.

  A dime to call U.N.C.L.E. and get back to civilization again.

  And get some decent clothes and a good hot tub before she forgot she was a woman altogether. She could smell herself. A foul smell.