Pulp Fiction | The Cat and Mouse Affair (August 1966)

by Unknown

  Waverly himself, a gentleman over fifty but no one knew how far over, was the picture of the tweedy management man. His iron grey hair was neat if shaggy. He held an unlighted pipe, and turned the gaze of an aristocratic bloodhound on Solo.

  "The last report of Mr.—uh—Kuryakin indicated that he was following two men who had been watching the San Pablo prison. Our records came up with nothing on either man, I'm afraid."

  "And the Stengali prisoner was killed," Solo said. "Our only lead to what might be happening down there."

  "Shot escaping, I'm afraid," Waverly said. "A pity. Although I understand the Stengali have a suicide rule if hopelessly captured."

  "Shot while escaping can be arranged," Solo said.

  Waverly looked for his matches in his waistcoat pocket. "I'm aware of that, Mr. Solo. That is precisely why Mr. Kuryakin is following those men."

  Waverly found his matches on his desk and began to light his pipe. The unruffled chief puffed fitfully, his flat eyes and tweedy manner exactly like those of some absent-minded professor. The chief sat behind his desk and Solo faced him across it. The handsome and slender enforcement chief presented his usual relaxed, almost boyish manner that hid his deadly skills as an agent.

  "Just what does O'Hara suspect down there?" Solo asked.

  Waverly managed to get his pipe lighted and waved out the flame of his match. "He hasn't the slightest idea. The situation appears most confused. As you know, the international tribunal called by Deputy Premier Gomez has met only once. O'Hara reports that something is quite odd. The Stengali do not usually use assassination, but hey might have started. What O'Hara cannot quite fathom is why this all began just now. However, he does feel that the evidence points to the involvement of Zamyatta."

  Solo rubbed his nose. "Perhaps you had better -"

  "Fill you in, as you young men say? Yes, I suppose I should do just that."

  Waverly swiveled in his chair, pressed a button on his desk. A screen appeared on the wall. Waverly pressed a second button, leaned down, and said, "The Zambala file, if you please, Miss—uh—Heatherly."

  Napoleon Solo sighed as he always did when he heard the name of the beautiful red-headed Communications and Research Chief, Section IV. May was so beautiful, so efficient, so tantalizing. Solo sighed again and put his mind back on business. At this moment, business was the picture of a tall black-haired, muscular and handsome man on the screen.

  May Heatherly's maddeningly efficient voice intoned, "M.M. Roy, the Lion of Zambala, now premier. Roy was the leader of the Liberation Army against the British. When the British granted independence, Roy was elected premier without opposition. He has been re-elected once, two years ago."

  Solo narrowed his eyes. "An election coming up?"

  "No. I'm afraid not," Waverly said. "Zambala, like most ex-British colonies, operates on the parliamentary system. A general election is not due for four more years."

  "But an election could be forced at any time by a vote of no confidence, or by the premier himself?" Solo said.

  "Yes, of course. Next, Miss Heatherly," Waverly said.

  Another picture flashed on the screen. It was the picture of a short, heavy, bull-like man about the same age as the premier himself. The man was much darker and his face showed two long scars.

  "Jemi Zamyatta," May Heatherly said crisply. "Leader of the opposition. Zamyatta's real name is unknown. He took his present name during the struggle for liberation. After independence, he was unanimously elected president. He resigned two years ago to oppose Roy for premier. He lost. Since then he has acted as an apparently loyal opposition from his seat in Parliament."

  Waverly waved his pipe. "You realize that the post of president is purely ceremonial in Zambala, amounted to putting Zamyatta on the shelf. Apparently he didn't like it and came out against Roy. Zamyatta has had Soviet training; he does not like many of the concessions granted by Roy to Western countries and businessmen."

  "He's a communist?"

  Waverly studied his pipe. "that is one thing we have to learn. There is no official Communist Party in Zambala, and Zamyatta has shown no heavy leanings toward the East. But one of the things O'Hara seems to fear is that he may be moving much farther left."

  "Assassination?" Solo said.

  Waverly nodded slowly, his impassive face showing no emotion at all. "O'Hara seems to have proof that Zamyatta is involved in these supposed Stengali actions." Waverly now looked at his chief agent. "You realize just what a Communist government in Zambala would mean—especially under a militant Zamyatta? It could destroy the effectiveness of half the defenses of the Western world—and lead them straight into the heart of South America!"

  FOUR

  Illya Kuryakin hurtled through the air in the dark Zambala night. The bullets cut the air around him. Still in the air, the lithe agent doubled over and landed curled into a ball. He bounced twice and came to rest in the dark of the ditch.

  Instantly he was on his knees, crouched and ready, his U.N.C.L.E. Special out. There was a sound to his left. He moved and circled toward the left; he had no time to wait for his assailant to come to him. He caught a glimpse of the black-masked man moving toward him. The man had removed his mask! A sharp, arrogant face.

  Illya worked his way around in the night until, through the movements of both of them, he was to the left and behind the stalking man. Cautiously, Illya stalked him in turn in the night. But the man was no amateur. He heard Illya, guessed what was happening, and went to cover. With a sudden grin, the blond U.N.C.L.E. agent let go with a burst from his Special, set on automatic.

  The man had vanished, pinned down. Illya Kuryakin was now between the man and the road. The black car was still moving away. Illya had no time to waste on the man who had spotted him. He fired another burst and broke for the road at full speed.

  He did not even look at his motorcycle. He raced to the jeep and jumped in. As he had expected, the keys were still in the ignition. He started the jeep and roared away in the night, just as the masked man ran out onto the road. The last volley from the man's submachine gun whistled harmlessly above Illya's head.

  With a wave, Illya pressed down on the gas and the jeep leaped ahead.

  Soon he was in the city itself. There was more traffic now, and he saw the black car ahead. It was easy to spot, and his photographic memory had already memorized the license plate. He carefully brought the jeep closer and continued to follow the black car through the night streets of San Pablo.

  The car moved at an easy pace through the capital city, with Illya following at a respectful distance. The chase seemed to wander erratically along the crowded main avenues and through dark side streets.

  But as he drove the jeep, Illya became aware of the fact that no matter how much the black car turned and twisted, it always headed in the end closer to the harbor.

  When the black car finally stopped, the dark water of the harbor stretched silent in the night to Illya's right. He parked the jeep some fifty yards away from the black car at the edge of the water. He watched as three men got out of the black car and walked into a small waterfront tavern set out over the harbor on wooden pilings.

  The beggar was not one of them. All three men who got out of the black car were dressed in business suits. They entered the tavern like any other patrons out for a night of pleasure. Illya waited until the door of the tavern had closed behind them. Then he moved swiftly past the black car.

  The car had a man still in the front seat.

  In the dark night his eyes looked from under his lowered brows at the tavern. A sign above the door read simply: Harbor Inn. Illya returned his attention to the black car. There was nothing inside the car to give him any clue as to the fate of the old beggar. Only the driver slumped down, eyes closed.

  Illya crouched down in the night beside the black car and took out his pencil-radio. He pressed the send button.

  "Code ten. Kuryakin to O'Hara. Relay to Waverly, New York."

  The pencil whispered in the n
ight. "O'Hara here. Waverly standing by on relay."

  Illya crisply reported what had happened to the masked man in black, and to the beggar. "It appears that the beggar either left the car during the time I was evading the masked man, or else his outfit was a disguise."

  Waverly sucked on his pipe and arched a bushy eyebrow in the direction of Napoleon Solo as they listened to the direct relay from Illya Kuryakin in far-off San Pablo.

  "It is somewhat important whether the beggar eluded you or is one of the men in that tavern, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said drily into his transmitter in the small office. "I suggest you get on to it. What is your estimate of the masked man? Was he trying to stop you on his own, or was he covering for the beggar?"

  "I don't know that yet," Illya's voice said from beside the black car in San Pablo.

  "I expect you will," Waverly said. "Report to me when you do know."

  "Yes sir," Illya said, and clicked off.

  Waverly replaced his microphone on the edge of the large communications console and turned to Solo. The bushy eyebrows of the chief were knotted in concentration. He sucked on his pipe, began his perennial search for matches in his pockets.

  "One of those men was certainly a Stengali. The question is—which one, and who is the other man? Unless, of course, they are both Stengali covering each other."

  "It doesn't sound like it from their actions," Solo said.

  Waverly found his matches. "No, it doesn't, does it? Well, I expect Mr. Kuryakin will report on that soon enough. Meanwhile, we have Mr. O'Hara to keep close touch with the affairs of the Stengali."

  "Could Zamyatta have joined forces with the Stengali?" Solo said.

  "That is a distinct possibility, and not a pleasant one. Zambala is a key link in the entire Western Hemisphere defense."

  "Just what is the Stengali?" Solo asked.

  Waverly managed to light his pipe again. "If you would spend more time in our library, Mr. Solo, and less time with the young lady librarian, you would know. However, I will not press the matter. Miss Heatherly, if you please."

  Another picture flashed onto the wall screen in the small office of the U.N.C.L.E. Chief. It was a picture of a small, wiry man about forty years old. His beard was thin, little more than a wisp on his chin, and his eyes were large and deep—the powerful eyes of a fanatic, yet not at all insane. The clear power of a dedicated man was in those eyes.

  "Max Steng," Waverly said. "Little is known of his early history, except that he is not a native Zambalan. There are those who think he was born in New York, but his birthplace is usually given as London. He was another of the leaders against the British. But unlike either M.M. Roy or Zamyatta, he always refused to deal in any way. From the start he led an armed band. He has said that he will settle for nothing but complete independence, complete autonomy, and complete neutrality."

  "A difficult goal these days," Solo remarked drily.

  "Steng is a difficult man, Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "He is also extremely astute. He broke with M.M. Roy when he guessed that Roy was going to make a deal with the British. He broke with Zamyatta less than a year later, with the curt pronouncement that Zamyatta was only the tails to Roy's heads. He refused any part in the new government and went underground."

  "I gather he is still there?" Solo asked.

  "Perhaps, Mr. Solo. The rumors are many. You can take your pick. Steng has been reported dead, in Russia, in China, in Africa. His underground has been reported disbanded, doubled. All I know for certain is that Max Steng is a military genius, especially at guerilla warfare. I doubt that he is dead. I imagine that the Stengali are very much alive, and that is not good for the Western world."

  "What does Steng have against Roy?" Solo said.

  "Primarily his retention of some British influence and aid, and Roy's close ties with the West. Our missile bases, for example. Steng wants complete neutrality. He has his own theories of government, as most fanatics do. The danger, obviously, is that Steng and his Stengali might be used by someone else. His methods have always been to take over small areas and apply his theories. He has never used assassination. If he has now turned to methodical assassination as a weapon, then—"

  "Then someone else may be directing him and his gang," Solo completed.

  "Precisely," Waverly said. "And not necessarily another power or government. Zambala is highly strategically placed."

  "THRUSH?" Solo said.

  "The possibility has occurred to me," Waverly said. "Steng might be just the man to be fooled by THRUSH suggesting a third-road government."

  "Is there any hint of THRUSH?"

  "No, I must say there isn't—yet. As it stands, Premier Roy has been forced to kill a would-be assassin, and Mura Khan, Security Chief of Zambala, has been assassinated. Both the man Roy killed, and the man who was suspected of killing Mura Khan, were known members of the Stengali. O'Hara seems to think there is some connection between Zamyatta and the Stengali now. O'Hara also reported that Inspector Tembo was not happy with the whole affair. All in all, Mr. Solo, it adds up to a state of unrest in Zambala, and that is something we do not want."

  "What about this international tribunal?" Solo said. "Can they do anything?"

  Waverly puffed on his pipe. "Perhaps. I think the tribunal is primarily a good move by Premier Roy to forestall civil violence. The Zambalans are hot-blooded. But a tribunal may make them feel the situation is being handled fairly. Especially with Ramirez heading the tribunal. Miss Heatherly, please."

  A fourth picture flashed onto the screen. It was the picture of an old man, tall and white-haired, the epitome of a Spanish grandee of the old school.

  The eyes were strong and alert, and the man leaned heavily on a cane.

  Waverly smiled as he looked at this picture. "Carlos Ramirez, Mr. Solo. A living legend," he said. "The greatest poet of South America, a fighter in all causes of freedom, and a life-long pacifist. A truly amazing man, Carlos Ramirez. I have had the privilege of meeting him many times. He began life as a landowner and grandee, inherited the largest sugar plantation of the island, built it into many businesses.

  "Then, in middle-age, he became a poet and world-renowned pacifist. Still later, when the struggles for freedom began, he joined the fight. His leg was shattered by a British bomb. He is the only man I know who has engaged in violence while remaining a pacifist and meaning it. A man of great dignity. With him on the tribunal, the world will take notice."

  "Who are the other members?" Solo asked.

  "Two men from the West, one from Poland, one from India. Three Zambalans: Ramirez, O'Hara, and a labor leader named Mark Boya. But Ramirez is the guiding genius."

  "And you want me to go down and stay close to the tribunal?" Solo said.

  "Yes. I fear possible attacks on the tribunal itself. We—"

  The low beep-beep-beep of overseas communication began to sound from the large console in the small office. Waverly touched a button on his desk. Instantly a voice entered the room, the voice of Martin O'Hara.

  "—report a bomb thrown at the tribunal, two injured. Also a second attempt on the life of Premier Roy. Situation urgent; Stengali apparently making all out war. In my opinion they must be getting help, probably from elements of the army."

  Waverly held his microphone. "Any further word from Mr. Kuryakin?"

  There was a pause. Then, "Unable to contact agent Kuryakin!"

  FIVE

  The Harbor Inn on the waterfront of San Pablo was a small tavern with two rooms and a kitchen in the rear. The first room contained the bar and some tables. The second room, through an archway, contained booths on either side. The kitchen opened to the rear of this second room.

  Less than an hour after they had left the black car, the three men in business suits sat in a rear booth. They looked at their watches from time to time. They did not notice the shabby dock-worker who limped into the tavern and stood leaning on the bar at the end nearest the rear room.

  This dock-worker was small and slender, and his
black hair was cut thick and long. His nose was heavy and broken, and there was a long scar on his dark face. His clothes were the rags worn by the poor of San Pablo. He drank the cheapest raw rum made for the poor from the dregs of the sugar cane. To look at he was no different from thousands of other poor workers of San Pablo. Even his limp was common in a country where the poor worked hard and were often injured.

  But his eyes were not the eyes of a San Pablo dock-worker. They were sharp eyes, shrewd and glittering and they were blue!

  They were the eyes of Illya Kuryakin.

  Kuryakin watched the three men.

  He watched them for an hour before the other two men came into the Harbor Inn.

  The two newcomers were a grotesque contrast. The man who came in last was broad and powerful and held his hand in his suit pocket. The man who walked in front of the broad man was small and frightened. This small man wore a white suit and his hands shook. His eyes darted around like some small animal looking for escape. There was no escape.

  The scared man was marched to the booth where the three men waited.

  The man in the booth who spoke was obviously the leader.

  "Sit down, Nathan," the man said.

  Where he leaned on the bar Illya watched this man, the one who had spoken. He saw that this man was of average height, not big but in good condition, with the movements of a trained soldier. His hair was grey and long. There were scars on his face. He could have been the old beggar with a patch over his eye and a certain amount of make-up.

  "Give Mr. Bedford room to sit down," the man said to his companions.

  Illya Kuryakin immediately turned his attention to the small man who was so frightened. Nathan Bedford! That was the name of the owner of The Morgan House, the cheap hotel where Premier Roy had killed the Stengali leader, Tavvi. A very frightened Nathan Bedford. The owner of the hotel sat down like a man sitting on the edge of a very high cliff. The grey-haired man with the scarred face smiled pleasantly.

  "So, Nathan," the grey-haired man said. "It has been a long time. Alas, we do not get into San Pablo often."