The Mind-Sweeper Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  He went down the back hall to ward the far door, looking for the door that should lead into the kitchen. He held his submachine gun ready. He could not find the kitchen door, and he suddenly heard voices coming toward the back hall from in front of him. He turned to retrace his steps, and heard someone coming from the other end. He looked around quickly. In the rear hall he was trapped, and one gun would not win against a house full of enemies.

  Quickly he tried the doors that led from the rear hall. The first two were locked. The third was open, and Illya jumped through just as the first men appeared in the rear hall. He stood for a moment catching his breath—and then became aware that he was in a lighted room.

  "Ah, Mr. Kuryakin. Come in, come in."

  The voice was soft and mocking. It came from behind him in the lighted room. Illya tensed. His muscles bunched as he prepared to turn.

  "I wouldn't try that, my dear Illya. If you turn slowly you will find that you are carefully covered from about six directions," the mocking voice said. "Not to mention the men in the rear hall, who will come in the instant you turn."

  Illya turned slowly. He saw the black-uniformed guards all around him, their guns leveled. He was in a comfortable paneled room furnished with the best leather furniture. A lion's head bared its teeth above a massive fireplace. But that was not what Illya looked at. He looked at a tall, distinguished, grey-haired man in immaculate dinner clothes and black tie who stood in the center of the room with a drink in his hand and a smile on his well-groomed face.

  "That's better," this man said in his mocking voice. "Now lay down your gun, my dear Illya, and we can have our talk."

  Illya laid down his gun and stood facing the elegant man.

  "Good. I must say you showed the usual U.N.C.L.E. initiative in getting here," the man said, and looked at his watch. "In good time, too. I told my people that a simple spoon left in the right place would be enough for Illya Kuryakin to escape, and I was right, eh? But not all U.N.C.L.E. men could have done it, you know? I have often wondered why you continue to take a back seat to Solo. I consider you far more dangerous."

  "Thank you," Illya said wryly. "I'll be glad to tell Napoleon. You've been watching me? You left the spoon?"

  The elegant man shrugged. "A small amusement. But not all a game, eh? I have always told my fellow Council members that keeping an U.N.C.L.E. agent busy is far better than the most total security. Give them a project to occupy their busy minds and hands, and that way I always know what you are up to, eh? I mean, my dear Illya, if I had not provided you with the spoon and the old door, you might have come up with an escape plan that would have been better. You see?"

  The elegant man laughed. His men, their guns ready, all grinned. Illya smiled himself.

  "Very clever, Danton. I have al ways said that you are one of the most clever of THRUSH leaders."

  Emil Danton, North American Leader of THRUSH, bowed his head and laughed again as his men moved in on Illya Kuryakin.

  FOUR

  SOLO CAME awake in an instant. He did not move. Only his eyes moved. As far as he could see he was on the floor of the room where he had been attacked. The room was dark, and nothing seemed to move anywhere.

  He sat up. He was not tied. He listened but heard nothing. Then he heard a groan. It came from close by in the dark room. Solo looked to his right and saw the figure on the floor. He crawled to the man. It was the wide, muscular man who had followed Forsyte.

  Solo looked down at the man, who moaned again but did not open his eyes. Solo saw the blood and the ugly wound on the man's head. He raised the man's eyelids. The eyes rolled. The wide man had obviously been hit harder, or more often, than Solo.

  Solo stood up. His head hurt, but he brushed it off. He was thinking. He still had his ring. But before he contacted Control he wanted to know more. Why had they left him and the muscular man alive—and who were they? He got part of his answer at once.

  He went out into the larger bare room where the machine had been. The machine was gone. He looked down through the hole in the floor. The hot room below was dark. Solo turned and went warily out into the hall. All was dark and silent. He walked along the hall to the door he had come up through, opened it softly, and looked down.

  The health club below was pitch dark. There was no sound of any kind. Solo moved carefully down the stairs and came out in the dark health club. He went through the steam room and the hot room and the shower room. There was no one anywhere. Out in the pool the water stretched blue and smooth like glass. The pool was dark.

  Solo turned and returned to the locker room. The room was dark and deserted, too, the lockers all standing open. He found his clothes in his locker and realized that who ever had attacked him had undoubtedly known that he was somewhere in the building by the simple fact that his clothes were in the locker.

  His pistol was gone, but otherwise the lieutenant's uniform was untouched.

  He found nothing in the locker room. He went into the club office and searched the desk and files. There was nothing at all but the records and other data that related to the health club. In fact, the entire club seemed to have suddenly stopped in its tracks, leaving every thing where it had fallen. Solo had a strong feeling that whoever had been operating the strange machine had cleared out and was not coming back.

  Which would explain why they had left him and the muscular man alive. They felt safe enough, once they had gone, and they probably did not want dead bodies around to bring the police on their trail. They had simply hit the muscular type too hard. That gave Napoleon Solo a thought: if they had hit the muscular person as well as himself, then that meant that the muscular man was not one of them. Who was he, and why had he been following Forsyte?

  Solo went back upstairs. The short, wide man had not moved. He still lay there in a kind of coma. Probably with a skull fracture or a bad concussion. Solo bent down over him to examine his clothes. There were no labels in his clothes

  His pockets were empty. Then Solo noticed his fingers.

  The fingerprints had been removed surgically.

  Solo stared at the fingers for a moment. Then he reached down and pushed up the man's sleeve, unbuttoned his shirt cuff and rolled it up. The number was there: T 778890.

  THRUSH.

  So THRUSH was in this—interested in Colonel Forsyte and the health club. Solo. narrowed his eyes. He had little doubt now as to what had happened to Illya. The small Russian was certainly in the hands of THRUSH. If Illya was still alive.

  Solo looked down at the muscular man. The question was—was THRUSH part of the transmission of the secret data, or was THRUSH after the same thing U.N.C.L.E. was? Was THRUSH, too, interested in just how Forsyte and the others had transmitted vital secrets when they were all men formerly above reproach? From the actions of the muscular man he was sure that that was just what THRUSH was doing—looking for whatever was being used on Forsyte.

  It fitted with the action in Anagua. Agent 44 had probably been killed not by the spies but by THRUSH. So THRUSH, too, had somehow learned what information Forsyte could transmit and had joined the search. Solo thought about the weird machine—and what it might do in the hands of THRUSH.

  The thought made him shudder—and then he heard the footsteps. Someone, more than one man, was coming up the stairs from the health club. He did not think that it was any of the health club staff returning. It was probably THRUSH. He thought quickly. He was still dressed in the white uniform of an attendant of the health club. He bent down as if searching the unconscious THRUSH agent on the floor.

  The footsteps came quickly along the corridor, entered the room where the machine had been, and stopped suddenly close behind him.

  "Freeze, friend," a voice said.

  Solo did a good imitation of a man surprised, and then scared. He started, gave a small jump, and then froze as directed. Hands came up behind him and touched him expertly for weapons. The hands went away.

  "Up. Turn around."

  Solo turned.


  The tall man who had been driving the car stood with a gun pointed at Solo. Two other men were with him.

  The tall man jerked his head curtly toward the unconscious muscular man.

  "Take a look at Gregor," the tall man snapped.

  One of the other men circled Napoleon Solo and bent over Gregor. The tall man stared straight at Solo.

  "All right, friend, start talking. Why'd you hit Gregor?"

  "He was snooping around," Solo said in his best tough-man voice. "So are you."

  The man who was looking at Gregor looked up. "He's hit bad. Maybe a fracture."

  "Did you do it?" the tall man said to Solo.

  "He fell," Solo said.

  "Where are the others?"

  "What others?" Solo said.

  "How do they get the info from Forsyte?"

  "Who's Forsyte?" Solo said.

  The man who had not spoken suddenly swore. "Let's finish the dirty—"

  "Shut up!" the tall one said.

  "But he—"

  "But he's one of them," the tall one said. "This must be where Forsyte passes the data. This joker knows how. They've slipped out on us, but we've got this one, and The Boss'll want to talk to him."

  The other two nodded.

  "Bring Gregor. I'll handle this one," the tall man said. The tall man grinned a wolfish grin at Solo. "Our Boss'll talk with you, friend. And believe me, you'll talk back."

  They marched Solo out. Two of them carried the moaning Gregor. The tall man prodded Solo with his pistol. Napoleon Solo let them take him.

  FIVE

  EMIL DANTON leaned down over Illya Kuryakin.

  "You'll talk, my dear Illya. You know our methods. And don't rely on that sensor you have implanted to bring my old friend Waverly. We have blocked its signal."

  "You've been busy," Illya said dryly.

  "Too busy," Danton said. "Sometimes I think we all spend much too much time devising weapons and defenses, and then making counter-weapons and counter-devices. It's a weary circle. Perhaps we should make a pact—no more tricky weapons on either side. Go back to plain muscle and guns. It would save a lot of overhead."

  Illya smiled. He was in the same room of the mansion, the massive fireplace looming before him, and seated in a special chair. He was not bound; there was no need. The chair held him by the electronic force that sent a searing pain through him if he tried to move. The guards stood silent. Only Emil Danton spoke.

  "Come, Illya. You know you will talk. Save me the trouble and mess of torture or drugs. I'm truly weary of all that fuss. I know that you will stand the torture, and you know I'll use it if necessary. But you also know the drugs will do the job, and you can't resist them."

  "Try me, Danton," Illya said, "This time you may be surprised. I may not know what you want to know."

  "You know a great deal I want to know," Danton purred. "Still, you may be right about the immediate problem. What do you know about Forsyte? The good colonel has a fine record."

  "I know that. He has a fine record," Illya said.

  "Not a spy."

  "Not a spy," Illya agreed.

  "Yet he has passed on secret data."

  "He has?" Illya raised an eyebrow.

  Danton sighed. "Really, Illya, don't fence with me. You were following him. You arranged a test; we know that. I'm sorry about your agent in Managua. Not all my colleagues share my belief in avoiding unnecessary violence."

  "You're a gentleman, Danton," Illya mocked.

  "I try to be. After all; just because we are spies, thieves, murderers, and all that, is no reason we have to be uncouth. So, let us admit that we all want to know just why a man of Forsyte's caliber turned spy, and how he is transmitting his data."

  "All right, I'll admit that," Illya agreed. "I'm rather glad to know that you don't know."

  "I'm sure you are, but we will know. Now, I think you know more than we do. A bad situation. I want you to tell me what you know. Right?"

  Illya shrugged. "I assure you I don't know anything."

  "How does Forsyte pass the data, Illya?"

  "I don't know."

  "What does that health club have to do with it?"

  "I don't know. Perhaps nothing."

  "He went straight home from that club. We followed him. He had no other chance to pass data."

  "Maybe he didn't sell any secrets today."

  Danton slapped Illya. "Don't be too funny, my friend. He follows a routine like a robot! We know that. His routine today was the same as yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that!"

  "He's a very dull boy," Illya said.

  Danton spun on his immaculate heel. The elegant North American Leader of THRUSH nodded to his men.

  "Take him," he said.

  Two of the black-uniformed men stepped forward, grinning. They had a hypodermic syringe with a very long needle of the kind used to drip a solution into the veins. One of them held Illya's arm tight and stiff. The other prepared to use the needle. Danton had walked to a far wall and stood with his back turned. The THRUSH leader did not like the sight of violence.

  Illya braced, concentrating his mind to use all the previous programming against divulgence of information he could. He felt the waves of mental strength tightening on his trained brain.

  A loud buzzing sound broke the silence and the tension of the room. Danton turned abruptly and stared at a speaker on his desk. He motioned sharply.

  "Wait," the dapper THRUSH leader snapped.

  He strode to the speaker and flipped a switch. He listened. The voice over the speaker was too low for Illya to hear. Danton switched off and turned with a smile to Illya.

  "We may not need your help after all, my dear Illya. Too bad. I'm afraid that means we have no use for you. You see, my men have brought one of the gang getting the secrets from Forsyte!"

  SIX

  THE DOOR TO the room opened and four men came in. Illya Kuryakin watched them. Three were obviously THRUSH agents in civilian clothes—the same three who had been in the alley. Illya saw the tall man in particular.

  The fourth man was being pushed into the room by the tall man. The fourth man had his head down as if groggy, and wore the white uniform of the health club, but Illya was sure that he recognized the figure. It was someone he knew.

  Danton stepped forward. "So, we've got one of you, eh? Good work, men. We'll have this one talking in no time. Or would you rather just tell us what we want to know without any trouble?"

  Danton stared at the white-suited man, who still stood with his he down. The tall man pushed him forward.

  "They beat up Gregor," the tall man said.

  "The devil with Gregor!" Danton snapped. "What I want is to know just how Forsyte transmits his information. There has to be some very special method, and we want it. Now, you, tell us where the others are, and—"

  Danton stopped. He stood there with his mouth open and stared at the figure in the white health club suit. His bright eyes blinked. Then he stepped forward and grasped the hair of the man. He pulled the head up.

  Solo grinned. "Hello, Danton."

  Danton dropped Solo's hair and jumped back as if he had been bitten. For a long moment he stared at Solo, who smiled and looked around the room like a man on a sightseeing tour. Solo grinned at Illya. Danton rubbed his face, brushed his hand through his immaculate grey hair. Then he began to shout.

  "You fools!"

  Danton shouted at the tall man. "You stupid ape! One of the others, eh? You idiotic incompetents! Do you know who this is? Eh? Don't you know your enemies! What morons am I forced to work with? I send you to get a gang with some method of taking secrets from reliable people, and you bring me another U.N.C.L.E. agent!"

  The tall man stammered. "But—but he was wearing one of the uniforms. He was standing over Gregor. He—"

  "Idiot! This is Napoleon Solo! Don't you know the Chief of Section-Il of U.N.C.L.E. How did you get to be an agent of THRUSH? I send you for someone valuable, and you bring me Solo!"

&
nbsp; The tall man protested. "How could I—I mean, we're new in New York, sir, and—"

  "Quiet!" Danton roared. "Do you know what else you've done?"

  The tall man gulped. "No, sir.

  "Shut up!" Danton shouted. "How many of you were there in your group?"

  "Four, sir. The alternate group brought that other man here, and we—"

  "And how many of you are there here now?" Danton snarled.

  "With Gregor, sir, a total of four. We all—"

  "Then who is doing your work? Eh? Who is watching the health club?"

  The tall man was white. "No one, sir. They—they got out of the building without our seeing them anyway. So when they didn't come out, we went in, and we found Gregor and this man, and we were sure he was one of them, so we brought him here—"

  The tall man trailed off in his weak explanation. Danton stared at him.

  "You mean that you have lost contact. We have lost contact. You bunglers have let them get away, and we—"

  Danton's tirade went on. All the men in the room were watching him. The three captors of Solo were pale with fear. The guards had their guns down. Solo edged away toward a guard who was looking only at Danton.

  Illya touched his nose.

  Solo jumped for the guard.

  Illya hurled himself out of the special chair. The shock of pain, like a hammer blow, knocked him to his knees, but he was free of the chair. He jumped up and chopped a guard once on the throat.

  Solo had a machine-gun in his hand. He shot down two guards who reacted to the sudden break.

  Illya Kuryakin had a gun and sprayed the room.

  The THRUSH agents all hurled themselves undercover. The tall man went down, spitting blood. Danton screamed and dived for a heavy oak table.

  "Door!" Solo cried.

  The two agents careened through the door and out into the baronial entrance hallway. Three guards came running into the vast hall. Solo and Illya shot them down with two quick bursts. Moments later they were out the front door and running across a gravel drive way toward the thick bushes of the grounds.

  "There! Get them!"