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

by Unknown

  The instrument began to register at a spot where the sidewalk turned sharply away from the water. Solo smiled to himself. Illya had left the trail—the private trail of sensitized liquid from his shoes that only Napoleon Solo could pick up on his detector.

  Solo returned to his car, and, with the detector set on the dashboard in front of him, picked up the trail and started to drive out of the city. The trail led deep into the hills and jungle to the north of San Pablo.

  A half an hour later, thirty miles north of San Pablo, Solo became aware that he was not alone.

  The lights of a truck moved steadily behind him.

  TWO

  They had come and gone twice more before Illya Kuryakin saw his chance. The last time the black-uniformed guard failed to tie his hands securely, the many tieings and untieings having made the guard careless. After all, how could this small blond man escape from the locked cave room, even if he got his hands free?

  Illya smiled grimly to himself—the guard would find out. He waited what he estimated were ten minutes for the routine of the guards to become normal. Then he went to work on his bonds. They were a fraction too loose. By using all his trained skills, the small Russian squeezed his open hand into the smallest space possible and strained to slip them through the bonds. Sweat stood out in beads on his head.

  He strained, drawing his narrowed hand through the ropes—and the hand began to slip. Shaking the sweat from his eyes, the blond U.N.C.L.E. agent forced his hand harder and harder against the loop of the rope.

  And his hand slipped out!

  Quickly he freed his other hand and bent to the ropes on his feet. Moments later he stood and rubbed the circulation back into his legs.

  Now he had to hurry. The stimulant drug would begin to wear off soon, and when it wore off his brain would give out, his muscles would go limp, his control would slip away, and he would sleep for thirty-six hours.

  Moving swiftly, his face set in grim concentration, the small blond agent took off his belt and carefully felt the wide leather band. He drew out a flat foil packet, a thin thread, and a long thin wire. He replaced his belt and bent to his left shoe. From the heel of the shoe he took out a round ball the size of a marble. He stood up and crossed the silent stone cell to the steel door.

  Bending close, his shrewd eyes alert under his lowered brow, he inspected the lock. He smiled—a single standard lock. He placed the foil packet on the lock of the door where it stuck with its self-adhesive. He attached the thin thread and rubbed it hard. There was a flash of flame and Illya leaped back.

  The foil packet began to glow white hot, casting an eerie glare in the stone cell that made the shadow of the blond agent loom large against the stone of the walls. Then the glow ceased. Illya moved silently to the door and opened it. There was no guard outside. Illya stepped out, the long wire in his right hand.

  The stone tunnel led to the left. At the far end there was a faint light. Illya glided silently toward the light. The tunnel opened into a small stone room with another steel door on the far side. A single guard sat at a rough table in the room. The guard was reading a book, his British Sten gun on the table in front of him.

  Illya was across the room to the table in two quick bounds. The guard heard him and grabbed frantically for his Sten gun. The book slithered away across the cold stone floor. Illya had the wire looped around the throat of the guard. The guard fought. Illya hung on grimly as the heavier guard thrashed and fell to the floor on top of the small agent.

  Illya tightened the wire, drew it closer around the throat of the struggling guard. His hands thrashing, the guard dropped the Sten gun and clawed behind him for Illya's face. His fingernails raked close to the eyes of the grim Russian.

  Then his hands grew weaker, he flailed once more at nothing, and lay still.

  Illya released the wire. The man groaned. Illya pressed a spot on the man's neck and the man lay still, unconscious. Illya found the keys on the unconscious man and crossed the silent room to the second door. He opened this door cautiously and found himself in another corridor. He moved down this corridor.

  The cave turned out to be not a single unit but a honeycomb of passages and small rooms and larger rooms down side tunnels, where Illya heard activity. A vast maze of caves like the caves of Guam and Okinawa during the Second War, where an army could hide and vanish like wraiths in the wind.

  Now the maze came to Illya's aid. By using his ears he was able to move unseen, hiding whenever any of the black-uniformed men approached, their footfalls clear on the stone floor. But the real aid was the narrowness of the tunnels. Through the dark and narrow passages the air moved strongly in a venturi effect, and, by feeling the direction of the air, the blond agent moved steadily toward the exit from the complex of caves.

  He saw a faint silver light ahead, a round area of silver darkness, before he was discovered.

  He saw the exit and passed a wide side gallery at the same instant. In the gallery men worked. A shout went up. Illya darted a quick glance at the gallery and saw the men in black running toward him. He knew that there would be guards at the entrance. His quick mind saw that he could reach the exit before he was caught, but there would be the guards.

  He was dressed all in black.

  He took out the tiny marble-sized object and hurled it at the advancing men from the side gallery. There was a flash of flame, a loud explosion, and thick white smoke blocked the men from the gallery. The cloud of white smoke spread with incredible speed. Illya ran shouting toward the exit.

  "Attack! Attack! They've broken through! Everyone to the rear!" Illya shouted in perfect Zambalan-English.

  His running black figure, the smoke and flame behind him, gave the three guards on the exit no chance to think. They left their position and came running toward him. Illya stopped, urged them on to the rear. They ran passed him, their weapons ready, their eyes on the thick cloud of smoke.

  With a grin, Illya watched them run to the rear, turned, and ran on to the exit. He reached the exit and went out into a moonlit night before he heard the shouts behind him that told him his trick had been discovered.

  Outside, he turned once to look back, his eyes narrowed to remember where he was. The cave entrance was camouflaged cleverly, impossible to see from the air or the ground unless you knew it was there.

  Directly above the hidden entrance was the tall peak of a mountain. A peak with a little white scar. Illya lined the scar up with a black boulder lower down on the mountain—and he had his line for the cave entrance. Men now came pouring from the camouflaged entrance.

  Illya Kuryakin turned and ran off into the jungle.

  * * *

  Solo watched the small detector attached to his dashboard with one eye as he drove on into the mountains of Zambala. His other eye alternately watched the road and the truck still behind him. He could lose the truck, but he was more interested in knowing who was in it.

  He was almost sure that whoever was driving the truck, and the masked woman, and the men who had attacked him on the hill behind the prison, all belonged to the same group.

  But what group?

  He wanted to find out, but the first order of business was to locate Illya and free him from whatever was holding him.

  Suddenly Solo jammed on his brakes. The detector showed that the trail made a sharp left turn. Solo peered out his window. To the left, perhaps five miles off, he saw a tall mountain with a long white scar just below the summit. A narrow track led off toward the mountain.

  Quickly checking the truck behind him—it was closer now—Solo turned his car and plunged into the narrow track. The going was hard; the car bounced from ruts and deep holes in the narrow track. But there were tire marks in his headlights; some vehicle had come this way. Where another vehicle could go, Solo could go!

  Behind him he heard a squeal of brakes and the grinding of gears as the truck tried to follow him. He did not think the truck could move as fast on this narrow road, but he hoped that they kept coming. He
turned his attention back to negotiating the murderous road. Then he jammed on his brakes again.

  He listened to the moonlit night.

  Far ahead there were shouts and the distant sound of men running through the jungle.

  Solo jumped out of his car and began to run along the track, his U.N.C.L.E. Special set for automatic and fitted, as he ran, with its stock and hand grip. He listened to the sounds ahead and behind. The truck was battling the road but coming closer slowly. The men ahead were rapidly closing in.

  A twig broke in the jungle to Solo's right.

  He heard the click of a stone.

  Crouching low, Solo circled through the jungle toward the sounds. Ahead, in the gloom of the moonlit night in the jungle, he saw a sudden movement. Solo hit the dirt and crawled ahead toward where he had seen the movement. In front of him a bush moved. He crawled closer. A face emerged from the bush directly in front of him, not more than inches away.

  "Well, Napoleon," Illya said, "you took your time getting here."

  Solo sighed. "You'll never learn to wait, will you? If you don't stop rescuing yourself, I may give up my rescues."

  "I can't depend on you, Napoleon. You're so slow."

  "But steady," Solo said. "I mean, I'm here."

  "Yes," Illya said, "and why are we lying on our faces?"

  "I heard you," Solo said.

  "And I heard you," Illya said.

  "Perhaps we could stand up now," Solo said.

  "I had the same thought," Illya said.

  The two agents stood up. Solo passed Illya his small spare automatic. Toward the mountains the sound of pursuit was closer. Toward the road the sound of the truck echoed in the night. Illya looked at Solo.

  "You brought some company," Illya said.

  "That I did," Solo said. "I presume they will now join your friends."

  "It is a distinct possibility," Illya said. "I'd prefer not to be sandwiched in the middle."

  "Wait!" Solo said.

  The two agents listened in the moonlit night. The sound of the truck had changed. There was a sharp grinding of gears and the truck sounds began to move away. The two agents listened until they were certain. The truck was going away.

  "Your friends do not seem to be friends with my friends," Illya said.

  "It would appear that way," Solo said.

  "Then I suggest we give that some thought while we make our escape," Illya said.

  "Good thinking," Solo said. "Now?"

  Illya listened to the sounds of pursuit coming much closer.

  "Now," Illya said.

  The two agents ran through the jungle and emerged on the rutted narrow track beside Solo's car. It was the work of seconds to turn the car and drive as fast as the narrow track allowed toward the main road.

  There were distant shots in the night as they reached the main road and roared away, leaving the black-uniformed pursuers shooting at shadows.

  THREE

  Before they reached San Pablo again, Illya had told his story, Solo had reported what had happened to him.

  "I think Mr. Smith was the beggar I followed," Illya said.

  "The man with the thin beard has to be Max Steng himself," Solo said.

  "Then my captors were the Stengali," Illya said, "and they appeared to be mystified by the events at The Morgan House."

  "Which could be a smoke screen," Solo said. "Or Tavvi could have been working on his own. Or Tavvi could have been working with someone else without Max Steng's knowledge."

  "Check," Illya said. "But who are your friends? Who is the woman who probably killed Tembo? They dress almost exactly like the Stengali, but they did not seem anxious to meet the Stengali."

  "Suppose we find some food and some beds. Tomorrow I see what I can do about that woman," Solo said.

  "While I have a session with O'Hara," Illya said. "He may know something about the woman and her companions."

  In San Pablo the two agents went straight to the hotel room O'Hara had arranged for them. For once they slept undisturbed.

  By nine o'clock the next morning Solo and Illya were in the hidden calm of the miniature U.N.C.L.E. headquarters behind the bookcase in the mansion on the hill that overlooked San Pablo.

  O'Hara listened to their reports. The local Section II man agreed that Illya had been captured by the Stengali. He could not guess who the pursuers of Solo were.

  "Unless it is some men imported by Zamyatta," O'Hara said, "which is a possibility. There have been reports of bands of unidentified men in the hills. All across the island, in fact. There have been other killings. Mura Khan and the attempt on Premier Roy were only the latest. Premier Roy has made some documents available to the Tribunal that seem to implicate Zamyatta with the Stengali.

  "But Chairman Ramirez wants to move carefully. Zamyatta has many followers. We must be sure or the country could explode, and you know what that would mean down here. The Dominican Republic affair is bad enough, but here—"

  "What about this woman, Jezzi Mahal?" Solo said. "And what is The Silver Dunes?"

  O'Hara frowned. "You're sure of that name?"

  "I'm quite sure," Solo said. "Why?"

  O'Hara sighed. "Jezzi Mahal is a wealthy and very high and mighty young lady. Jet-set, social, and her father was my father's only rival as the richest businessman in Zambala. She has been seen often with certain important army officers."

  "And The Silver Dunes?"

  "Her beach cabana. She spends the summer there. She would be there now. It is a few miles out of San Pablo, on the south coast. What we Zambalans call our Riviera."

  "Which army officers?" Illya asked.

  "Primarily Colonel Julio Brown, who just happens to command the second motorized regiment," O'Hara said. "Our only fully-trained and crack regiment. The first regiment is largely made up of ceremonial units based in San Pablo. The third, fourth, and fifth are all garrisoned at various parts of the island, and are rarely in full training. The second motorized regiment is stationed ten miles from San Pablo, is always in full training."

  There was a silence in the sound-proof, hidden room in the heart of O'Hara's mansion. Illya broke the silence.

  "In short, if anyone wanted to take over Zambala, it would be good to have Colonel Julio Brown on his side," Illya said.

  "I'm afraid that is it," O'Hara said.

  Solo nodded thoughtfully. "Well then, I think I had better have a talk with Miss Jezzi Mahal."

  "And I will do a little reading on the background of Colonel Julio Brown, Max Steng and Jemi Zamyatta," Illya said.

  "Have fun," Solo said.

  The handsome, boyish agent raised an eyebrow and walked from the room. In the corridor, he took time to look into the other rooms in search of the fine female voice he had talked to over his radio. He found her at her communications desk.

  Her stare was withering as he smiled at her.

  Solo departed.

  The Silver Dunes was a cabana in name only. A vast, low, ranch house on a small cliff at the edge of the dazzlingly blue sea, it spread far and wide and must have contained at least twenty rooms. There was movement in the two rooms that faced the wide open terrace and the sea.

  On the beach below the small cliff people lay on the sand in the afternoon sun, and swam in bursts of white in the blue sea.

  Solo parked his car on the edge of the highway above the house and out of sight from the house. There was a wide gravel drive down and around from the coast highway to the house below on its low cliff. Solo decided on the short route down the sandy hills. He slid and skidded swiftly but silently down, and approached the house itself from a deep gully in the sandy earth.

  At the corner of the house Solo paused. His keen eyes were puzzled. There was no sound from inside the house. He could see directly into one of the two rooms that faced the terrace. The room was empty. Solo moved closer. But again, he paused before he reached the house.

  Something else was odd, wrong.

  Then he knew what it was. There was no sound at a
ll.

  There were no voices from the beach below. This close he should have heard something down there, where the people plunged in the surf. He turned quickly and walked to the edge of the cliff in front of the house.

  The beach below was empty.

  Solo turned and looked back at the silent house. There had been someone in the house when he looked down from the road. He had watched the house the whole way down and no one had left. But there was no movement in the house now and no one on the beach. Had he been seen?

  It looked very much that way, but the U.N.C.L.E. agent had to investigate more closely. He recrossed the terrace to the house itself. Using a small picklock, he unlocked the French doors and went in. He stood for a time in the large living room and listened. Then he moved on into the house and came to a small study. A picture of a man in a colonel's uniform stood on the desk.

  Solo began to search the room. In a bottom drawer of the desk he found a secret compartment. In the compartment there was an envelope. In the envelope there was a series of dates and the signature: Z. Napoleon Solo stared at the list and the scrawled Z. One of the dates was the day the Security Chief Mura Khan had been killed, and the premier had shot the Stengali!

  The light step came from the living room.

  Solo quickly replaced the list in the compartment and closed the drawer. He glided into the corner of the room behind the door. The woman stepped into the study.

  She was a beautiful woman, dark and exotic. She wore a deep red dress that left none of her curves hidden. Her hair was long and she wore earrings to her shoulders. But she could have been the masked woman in black who had killed Tembo.

  She turned and stared straight at Solo. The agent grinned.

  "Miss Mahal, I presume?" Solo said.

  The woman showed no expression. "Who are you? What do you want here?"

  "Who I am isn't important," Solo said. "What I want here is to return your matches."

  He held out the matchbook. The beautiful woman looked at the matchbook. She stepped to Solo, took the matchbook, and dropped it onto the desk. Her green eyes stared at Solo.