"Very well. Make me three of them, and they ought to be a good half mile high. Oh, and can you turn them off or do they have to run down?"
"I could add a precipitant which would clear the air in two or three minutes."
Channel D signaled. "That'll be fine. Solo here."
"Navarre in Tierra Caliente. Maria and I are free of surveillance for the moment, and I just saw fifteen divisions of the rebel army crossing the plaza heading for the Presidential Palace. What should we do?"
Napoleon closed his eyes. He didn't know where they were in the city, how the troops were armed, whether the trolleys were still running, or any of hundreds of other factors that could be important. How could he tell them what to do when they knew the situation better than he? His eyes opened and focused on the sign on the upper panel. What would he have said?
"What should you do?" he said aloud. "Stop them."
There was a pause from the other end, and the agent said, "No holds barred?"
"Mr. Navarre, there are fifteen divisions between you and your goal. Under the circumstances, sportsmanship would seem a minor consideration."
"And I was hoping, sir, that you would put in a word for us with the Mexico City office—we may need to draw reinforcements from there again."
"Very well. I'm sure they can be spared. Signal them in ten minutes with a list of everything you will need. The situation there deserves all the attention we can afford."
"I'm glad you appreciate that, sir," said the agent, and rang off.
"Monitor," said Solo as the Priority signal flashed, "come down on Mexico City in my name if I can't get to it within two minutes. That team needs help."
Then, while he fielded some angry questions from the Continental Office in Brasilia regarding several destroyed buildings in the better part of Sao Paulo and several important governmental agencies who Had Not Been Properly Informed, he made notes on air speeds and juggled time zones in his head. If Simpson's Monster was ready to go, a single C-141 could do the job, and would have to. Even the Head of the United Network Command had limitations, and there simply were not three to be had. One only could be diverted from ferry duty between Washington and Vietnam for forty-eight hours, complete with flight crew, but also with the explicit understanding that their per diem plus flight pay, all fuel, and a blood-chilling rate for hours aloft would be covered by the less-than-infinite treasury of the U.N.C.L.E.
The outfit that had been preparing a full-scale attack on the French gold reserves had been traced to Brittany, where they were nearly ready for a return engagement—precisely timed riots were keeping the Sub-Continental HQ in Hong Kong pinned down while covering another heavy attack on them personally—where in between could he use the Monsters? He had one to spare.
"I quite understand, Mr. da Silva. The agents responsible will report to me personally. Now if..."
It wouldn't do much good around Denver and the air space was far too crowded. The smoke was radar-opaque, so the plane itself would be reasonably safe from ground fire in sensitive areas... The monster wouldn't matter much to the rebels in Tierra Caliente; though ignited from outside, they had the pains of their own world to fight and were not concerned with unexplainable threats. Thrush had certainly been behind the Clipperton Island operation, but that had been blown and was now under cover somewhere in the world—like the real Flin Flon Monster.
He only hoped that Thrush's secrecy about the unholy thing extended to their own field troops; they would only have heard about it and know vaguely that it was important. If it suddenly showed up in the middle of their operation, they'd think Central was taking a hand without telling them and confusion would result. In Hong Kong it would also serve to disconcert the rioters, most of whom probably hadn't the least idea what was really going on. Now where else could he use one?
He scanned the continents, reading the coded symbols projected on the big map, and stopped in eastern Africa. Tanzania. Almost south of Brittany, with Addis Ababa nearly between them, and with unrest brewing among the tribes in the north. A perfect spot for the third one. He started jotting notes.
Flying with the sun would lengthen the day; could he hit all three spots between one dawn and the next? But it was twelve hours to Hong Kong and only seven to France. Sunset tomorrow for take-off time... He spun an overlay on the map and projected an air route marked off in hours. They could hit Brittany at dawn, with an hour's margin; they'd have the day to fly south, stopping at Addis Ababa to refuel at... 3:00 P.M. local time; then play an evening performance in Tanzania about sundown. He could coordinate the appearance with Shomambe for locally publicity. Then a straight night run across the Indian Ocean would… Not quite. Hong Kong was a long way from anywhere. Dawn would get there before they could. Well, it would be the farewell performance of the counterfeit Flin Flon Monster—why not make it a memorable one? High noon over Victoria Harbour should be a properly prominent position. And just to confuse everything, Simpson could make it a bright Chinese red. When it dissipated at last before the sea breeze, street-cornet orators would really have something to argue about.
On a fresh sheet of paper he neatly noted the schedule and fed it into a scanner slot for transmission. He wondered idly what it would do to his day tomorrow.
… They'd hit Brittany at two o'clock in the morning, his time; Addis at seven, Tanzania about noon Friday, and they could make it to Hong Kong just before midnight the same day—New York time. They might just as well land in Hawaii... no, it would be better, for the sake of the arms he had twisted to get the plane at all, to have it report directly to Saigon for assignment. The technician who went along to handle the Monsters would then catch the next military shuttle flight home.
He made a few more notes, and was smiling grimly as he reached for his microphone to start everything rolling. He knew this one would work, but his fingers were crossed under the desk.
Chapter 15
"Pommery '74."
ILLYA'S NIGHTLY CHORES were simpler now, hut his sleep was reduced to catnaps in the kitchen between jobs. With Kiazim and Sakuda wandering somewhere about the vast half-tamed backyard that made up most of the Park, he had to keep more attention on their target. This took the form of staying near Waverly almost every possible moment short of sleeping on his door step.
With only two days left to play in the War Game, the Thrush assassins had seven days before Waverly returned to the safety of his heavily-protected New York office. They had told Silverthorne they couldn't—or wouldn't––help him in his game, but if they were to kill his opponent just before he made his winning move the game would go to the Thrush executive by default and the team would have made a powerful ally.
His bug in Waverly's cottage had picked up enough to tell him that tomorrow would bring the final attack, directed against Silverthorne's most strategic—most heavily defended—points. The attack would require careful, constant and personal supervision, very much Waverly's favorite style of combat. He could coordinate more data in his mind than three normal men, and balance factors in any conflict almost instinctively. This was the way he ran U.N.C.L.E.
Tomorrow afternoon Illya would have to arrange to be on the spot at Waverly's Field Command Post during the mock attack, ready to fend off a real one. If he could. Illya had no illusions about his abilities in hand-to-hand fighting. He knew he was good; he also knew how much better either of the two assassins was, and he did not look forward to the inevitable confrontation. Waverly's bungalow was safe enough for the evening, which meant he could get some sleep for a change. He'd need it.
Hot dry spring sunshine baked down on him as he squatted, relaxed and ready, in the midst of a clump of bushes. Knee-high grass surrounded the natural blind, leaving Illya a clear view of the modified house-trailer mounted with assorted antennae and sprouting half a dozen cables. Distantly over the ridge sounded gunfire, flat and faint, and the intermittent roar of engines. The war was going right on schedule.
And so was everything else. He didn't see the assassins come into
sight, but suddenly became aware of them standing under the edge of the line of trees below the ridge where the trailer was parked. He raised the U.N.C.L.E. Special with the telescopic sight, silencer and long barrel, and focused on the two figures. No, just one. The Turk was clearly visible, but only the white shape of his partner's legs could be seen through the screening branches.
Illya bit his lip. He disliked shooting an unsuspecting man from cover, even fully aware the man wouldn't have a moment's thought about doing the same to him, and equally aware that in no other way could he fulfill his assignment. There was barely a perceptible hesitation as he let half his long-held breath out slowly, centered the crosshairs, and squeezed the trigger.
The Turk flopped backwards and rolled out of sight. No way to tell if he was out of the picture—he could have had a bulletproof vest on. And the Japanese hadn't moved... There was a sinking feeling in the pit of Illya's stomach for less than a second before an icy hand fitted itself snugly around his neck.
His gun dropped from nerveless fingers and his flexed knees flopped loosely. The hand released its numbing grip and he fell, gasping, every muscle tingling. Stiffly his neck turned to follow his eyes, and he saw the lean, wiry figure of Sakuda Matsujiro standing over him, flexing his knobbed hands slowly.
Illya's arms trembled violently as he tried to raise himself, and one collapsed. The face of the little Oriental was a mask of amber as he knelt and set his hand to Illya's knee. Needles of pain lanced through his leg, and he thought for a moment his kneecap had been broken. He managed to roll himself halfway over and clutched for his gun, but a sandaled foot came down on his wrist, and the slender knotted fingers closed around his shoulder and dug into his armpit.
His throat constricted against the scream that choked to his lips. As the incredible grip relaxed he writhed on the ground, tortured nerves aflame with the pain of returning life. Slowly his vision cleared as the grip did not return. He rolled his head, gasping for breath, his heart pounding, and saw his killer standing a few feet away. He was looking past Illya with an unreadable expression on his face.
Illya rolled his head back and felt a neck joint snap into place with a brief twinge that blinded him momentarily. As his vision cleared he saw a stranger standing on the other side of the clump of bushes—a little old man, dressed in faded gray. He must have been almost ninety years old, and his face was shrunken and wrinkled, but his eyes were the coldest and most compelling Illya had ever seen. He spoke softly in Japanese.
Sakuda stammered uncertainly as he answered. Illya couldn't quite follow the exchange—his head was ringing, and his body was still a mass of pins and needles. But Sakuda took a step back as the old man came forward through the bushes, and said something loud. The old man continued to speak softly and chidingly as he stepped over Illya and advanced toward the other man. He was perhaps two inches under five feet tall and couldn't have weighed one hundred pounds with heavy sandals—but Sakuda retreated from him.
Illya propped himself to a sitting position, bracing himself nearly erect as the two moved a few feet away from him. Suddenly the little old man seemed to reach across almost twice as much distance as his arms should have been able to span, and Sakuda dropped and rolled backward. He regained his feet and said something desperate. Illya's head ached fiercely now but his eyes were focusing, and he saw the fight—for the few seconds it lasted. He could never have described, even from his experienced professional viewpoint, exactly what moves were made in the five or ten seconds between the old man's first attack and the moment when Sakuda's last cry faded. There were blurred movements, but at a distance of fifteen feet with imperfect vision, he saw only a tangle of arms and legs.
The old man stood, head bent, over the body for several seconds. Then he turned toward Illya and bowed very low. His voice was soft and dry as he spoke.
Please to forgive this poor teacher, whose student proved false to the ancient honor of his people. I am responsible for what he has done, and now he is punished. He died with honor, and it shall be written so.
He bent to Illya and helped him to his feet, and his wrinkled hands moved swiftly and surely over the throbbing arms and legs, and the pain flowed away before them. He pressed on Illya's shoulder and ran a hand lightly down his spine. He pressed once and for a moment Illya felt a red-hot knife stab into his back; before he could catch his breath the pain passed.
The little old man spoke from behind him. "You will be very well," he said. "Do not think unkindly of my brother—his punishment was deserved, but he had been a fine man one time. For his memory, please to forgive."
Illya turned around, but the little old man was gone. Open grass, scarcely knee-high, covered the field for many yards in every direction, but Illya stood alone. Slowly he stretched his arm and leg muscles—they creaked slightly but made no further complaint. He looked dispassionately at the body of the ex-Thrush assassin, and wondered what his thoughts had been when his master appeared to punish him for his misuse of the secrets he had been taught. He walked away from the body, downhill, without bothering to keep to cover. Somehow, he thought, he wouldn't have much to worry about for the rest of his stay there.
If Miss Williamson was shocked when she walked into Mr. Solo's office to find him with his feet on Mr. Waverly's desk and a smoldering pipe clenched in his teeth as he scanned through a fat folder of reports, she gave no sign. As she placed the tray of sandwiches on the shelf beside him, he glanced up and gave her a wink, then made a long arm over to answer a call.
"Solo here," he said as he turned another page in the report. Miss Williamson watched as he handled the queries with all relevant facts of the situation clear in his memory. He might work out after all, she thought, and was turning to go when his voice rose after her.
"Miss Williamson. Would you find out the name of the Monitor Operator for me? And bring me her personnel card when you get a chance."
She paused at the door and turned, eyelashes fluttering. "Why, Mr. Solo, that's a standard communications acknowledgment tape. The voice is artificial. I believe Mr. Simpson prepares the actual voice pattern to Mr. Waverly's specifications."
She was gone in a quick flicker of her miniskirt. Solo set down the sandwich he had picked up and looked after her. Was she putting him on? He'd have to check with Simpson. He'd probably be recovered from that trip around the world dropping monsters—though that trouble they'd run into in Saigon hadn't helped his nerves any.
There'd be time enough to investigate when he was off this job. Another six days until Waverly would be home again, and then he could go back to nice simple work like being shot at. Apparently Thrush had spent their final effort in that big move timed to coincide with his absence from command. He'd dropped a lot, but he'd recovered some, and they seemed to be easing off to regroup their forces. And somehow the odds in the endless struggle of good against evil looked a little bit better for our side. He took a puff and started the next report.
A handsome blonde woman typed a message for transmission into a computer in a stone-walled room under a mountain just north of Christchurch, New Zealand, and a small receiver half a world away in Bogotá, Colombia, lit up and chimed softly.
0512672100 Z DE: CENTRAL TO: WATERLOO OPERATION TERMINATED. NO BLAME. STAND BY.
A moment later the audio circuit hummed to life and a flat, familiar voice spoke to three silent listeners.
"This is Greaves, speaking for Central. You three have done your jobs well and will be rewarded suitably. Although your primary goal, that of completely destroying Napoleon Solo, was not achieved, you did sufficient temporary damage to enable us to complete several important operations. I trust you also gathered additional data on his reaction pattern which may enable us to plan another attempt at another time."
"Quite possibly," said Dr. Pike, "when all data is correlated."
"Very well. You are each granted two weeks vacation credit, with full travel privileges from where you are now or from your home Satrap, usable now or later. Standard
scale plus twenty-five percent bonus is also deposited to your home accounts. On behalf of Central and the entire Hierarchy I would like to thank you for a job well done. Greaves out."
A crescent moon rode low above the sunset beyond the wooden railing, and candle flames in glass chimneys danced and flickered in the mild evening breeze. Silverthorne and Dodgson relaxed over dinner with a discussion of their recent campaign and the meal as it passed.
At last the repast was almost complete, and Silverthorne conferred briefly with the wine steward.
"I think you will be interested in something I found while browsing through the cellar here some time ago, on a previous visit. I placed it out of sight then, and vowed to broach it only at the proper moment. This afternoon, while on a tour of the cellar, I 'discovered' the bottle and had it set aside for us this evening."
The shining cart rolled in on silent rubber wheels, and a freshly-polished bottle was reverently revealed.
"Old wine is a true panacea for every conceivable ill," Waverly quoted, studying the faded label. "Pommery '74. Remarkable. Do you suppose it could have survived?"
"I am reasonably certain of it. Let us share this wine, and think of the time which was sealed in its bottle so long ago. The world has changed since then more than they could ever have foretold." He nodded, and the sommelier unfolded his intricate corkscrew.
"Perhaps they have not changed that much," said his companion, musingly, as the cork was drawn and passed around for its scent to be savored. "For men have not changed. The battle lines stand unmoved in their essentials between the forces of order and of chaos."
A sparkling scarlet stream cascaded into gleaming glasses. "Or more honestly now, between one order and another, wouldn't you say?" said Silverthorne, smiling leanly as he raised his glass and turned it slowly, studying its contents. "The coloration is perfect."
He swirled the glass gently beneath his nose. "The bouquet is as rich as it should be."
15 - The Utopia Affair Page 13
