The Unspeakable Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  "Of course, Senor Derwent," she said. "And your business?"

  "Uniforms, I sell uniforms," the young man said.

  The girl nodded, smiled, and moistened her lips again. Illya looked at her fine full lips, red and soft. He looked at her raven-dark hair, and at the figure. What he could see made him glad that Napoleon was not here. He did not have Napoleon's way with women. Still, after this was over, perhaps he could try with this girl.

  "General Valera will see you," the girl said.

  Illya frowned at himself. The mind on the job, that was his code. He had not left his own country, joined U.N.C.L.E., to meet pretty young girls. A man had his work, his studies, the millions of facts about his world he did not know

  but wanted to know. Self-discipline and control, that was what Zen had taught him, and that was how he lived. Still, a pretty girl—

  "Thank you," Illya said.

  The supposed Max Derwent entered the office of Major General Miguel Valera, assistant to the defense minister. He carried his small suitcase that, supposedly, contained samples of military uniform cloth, and approached the smiling Valera. The general stood up to greet him. Illya saw a tall, gaunt man.

  "Ah, Mr. Derwent," Valera said. "Or perhaps I should say Mr. Kuryakin."

  "You can say that if the walls don't have ears," Illya said.

  Valera laughed. "I assure you, Mr. Kuryakin, my office is not, how do you say, bugged. Not that such is not done here, but the penalty is rather severe, and, anyway, I check carefully each day."

  "It must be a difficult way to live," Illya said dryly.

  "Alas, ambition and the desire to serve have their penalties in my poor country," Valera said. "We do not have your, shall we say, orderly minds. But then, I forget you are a Russian. Still, the Russians, too, have orderly minds." Illya watched the gaunt general. Valera seemed to be talking a great deal, but that could be just the Latin temperament, as Valera was implying. Valera smiled and waved Illya to a seat.

  "General Hoyos has, as you say, filled me in on all this. A terrible affair," Valera said. "I imagine you are anxious to start, as I am myself. We have the Sixteenth Regiment standing by in the area, but out of sight, eh? But first, please, your credentials."

  Illya Kuryakin handed over his identification. His quizzical eyes were lowered beneath his brow. He watched Valera. The general read the credentials. Illya smiled.

  "You're too modest," Illya said innocently. "I understand this was entirely your idea, not General Hoyos's."

  "We work as a team," Valera said crisply. He handed back the credentials. "Now, I am ready if you are. Mr. Solo is waiting, I hope; we have little time to lose."

  "Not with those nuclear planes running loose, I agree. You have accounted for all of them?" Illya said quickly.

  Valera nodded. "Yes, all six. They were seen to land."

  "Excellent," Illya said. "It is important that we get them all."

  He talked to cover the slip. But inside he was alert. It was always the same thing that tripped up a liar—too much knowledge. Valera had slipped—not because he knew too little, but because he knew too much. All six, the general had said, but there had been only one in the picture, and Hoyos had not mentioned six to Waverly.

  Illya smiled, but his eyes darted around, alert. He was sure that if six had been seen, Hoyos would have mentioned that important fact. No, Valera had said six planes because Valera knew there were six. Only two groups of people knew that there had been six nuclear planes in New Mexico—U.N.C.L.E. and Thrush!!

  Valera smiled. "We really better have Mr. Solo join us now, don't you think?"

  "Of course," Illya said. "I'll call the hotel. He'll be ready by now, I'm sure."

  "Time is of the essence, Mr. Kuryakin," Valera said.

  "Of course," Illya said. He picked up the telephone on Valera's desk.

  "Hotel Splendide? Mr. Solo, please. Room four-sixteen."

  Illya waited, smiling at Valera. The general smiled back, and then busied himself over papers on his desk.

  "Napoleon?" Illya said as Solo came on the line. "Yes, Illya here. I am with General Valera. Yes, all is correct, naturally. The general is anxious to get started. Will you meet us—"

  Illya stopped and looked at Valera. The general stood behind his desk.

  "At my car out in front. A grey Bentley touring car. He can't mistake it. My general's license plate is on it. Please urge speed; this is an urgent affair."

  Illya spoke into the telephone. "Out in front of the Defense Ministry. Valera's car is a grey Bentley touring car with his license on it. And, Napoleon, hurry please." As Illya put down the instrument he pretended to let it slip to the desk. He picked it up again and replaced it in its cradle. But he had heard the faint but tell-tale click on the line—someone had been listening to his call. He grinned at General Valera.

  "We won't have to wait long, General," Illya said. "But, you know, I wonder if I shouldn't meet General Hoyos after all?"

  "Hoyos?" Valera said. "But we agreed that it was imperative to keep the government officially out of this? I can pass all but unseen, but General Hoyos could not."

  Illya still smiled. "Of course, you're right. How are your roses growing?"

  Valera stood immobile behind his desk. "Roses?"

  "You do grow them?" Illya said.

  Valera smiled. "Ah, yes. That would be in my dossier at U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, wouldn't it?"

  Illya watched the general quizzically. "You admit it?"

  Valera shrugged. "That I am Council Member 'L'? Why not? You must know, but—"

  The U.N.C.L.E. special appeared in Illya's hand as if by magic. It was aimed at Valera. The general did not move.

  "I think we will talk to General Hoyos," Illya said.

  Valera laughed. "No, I think not."

  "This is no joke, Valera," Illya said. "I have you—"

  Illya said no more. Hands grabbed him from behind. His gun was knocked to the floor by a paralyzing blow. Before he could utter a sound, he was held as firmly as a trussed goose by three men who had crept up behind him silently. Valera bent and picked up the pistol. The general was smiling.

  "It was the six nuclear-craft, wasn't it?" Valera said. "Yes, I realized that was a slip the instant I said it. I was not sure you had caught it, but I do not underestimate an opponent. That is why I am where I am, and why I will go farther."

  Illya nodded, understandingly. "You alerted your men with some phrase in the message you gave me for Napoleon."

  "You see, you are intelligent. Yes, the phrase 'an urgent affair' is my warning signal," Valera said, and the general motioned to his men. "Take him into the next office. We must wait until they bring Solo to me. It was very good of you to tell me just where to find Solo, Mr. Kuryakin. We will not have to wait long."

  Valera laughed again. But this time, for once, the general was wrong.

  FIVE

  IN THE ROOM in the Hotel Splendide, Napoleon Solo put down the telephone receiver and rubbed his chin. So it was a trap, as they had suspected it might be. The utter secrecy, the dealing with Valera instead of General Hoyos, had had a false ring to it. Nothing the two agents could put their finger on, but a little odd. Everything had been too carefully arranged to send them straight to this country and General Valera.

  Now Illya had confirmed their suspicions. The phrase "All is correct, naturally" was the signal that all was far from correct. If it had been correct, Illya would have said, "All is right," and not added the word, naturally. The call, then, was Valera's way of locating him. They would be knocking on the door in minutes.

  Solo moved rapidly. He needed time now. It would not be enough to simply escape, to not be here when they came. If he did only that, they would immediately alert Valera, and Solo needed time. It was possible that Illya would escape, but he had to assume that Illya would not escape the trap.

  He went to work. There was no telling how many of them there would be, and he would have to get them all and fast. He took the miniature t
ape recorder from his briefcase and set it in the bedroom of the suite. Across the door into bedroom, low near the floor, he set a trip wire attached to small gas bombs on either side.

  This done, he took his briefcase and his U.N.C.L.E. special and went out into the corridor. He crossed the corridor to the room across the hall, an empty room rented by Illya for just such a purpose. Inside this room he stood just behind the door, with the door open a crack, and the door of his suite across the hall clearly visible.

  In his pocket his left hand rested on the remote control of the tape recorder.

  He was just fast enough.

  The four men came down the1 corridor from the elevator—four soldiers with the insignia of the Defense Ministry staff. They were armed and they moved swiftly and with expert silence. They stopped in front of the door to 416. Solo clicked on the tape recorder with his remote control.

  The four men cautiously opened the door to 416. Napoleon Solo smiled as his own voice came to him from the bedroom, his own voice talking to Waverly in New York. The four soldiers nodded to each other and entered the suite. Solo waited.

  There was a short silence.

  Then he heard a door kicked in, two sharp explosions low and muffled, and sudden screams.

  Men were choking.

  Solo stepped out into the corridor.

  One man came running from the door of room 416. Solo shot him with a single sleep-dart. The man collapsed in the corridor. Solo grasped the heels of the man and dragged him into the suite. Inside he saw the other three men sprawled in the doorway to the bedroom. He dragged them all into the bedroom, closed and locked the bedroom door, and again left the suite.

  He hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the corridor door, and walked away, grinning.

  The whole incident had taken less than two minutes. The four soldiers would sleep for at least five hours. Solo went down the stairs and out into the street in front of the hotel. He saw the military car. The driver was reading a newspaper. Solo stepped into the rear seat and closed the door. His U.N.C.L.E. special rested with the muzzle against the driver's neck.

  "The Defense Ministry, and very fast."

  The driver said nothing, but put the car into gear and drove off. Five minutes later they pulled up a block from the Defense Ministry. Solo reached out and gently squeezed the driver's neck. The driver collapsed where he sat. Solo pulled the man into the back seat, bound and gagged him, and locked the car.

  Moments later he stood in front of the Ministry of Defense. The only men in sight were two bored guards on the entrance. Solo saw General Valera's grey Bentley.

  Casually, Solo walked past the grey touring car. As he reached the rear bumper he appeared to drop his briefcase. He bent to pick it up and then walked on and away around the nearest corner.

  The soldiers on guard had seen nothing, but in the instant of bending Solo had placed a tiny vial beneath the rear bumper of the grey Bentley.

  Then he returned to the military car, got in, and sat waiting where he could see the grey Bentley.

  * * *

  UPSTAIRS, in the office of General Valera, the general himself paced and looked at his watch. A half an hour had passed and there was no Solo and no report from his men. Valera pressed a button. Three armed guards brought Illya in from the next office.

  "So," Valera said, "you warned him. I should have guessed. However, it will do you no good. He will be found, and you will not be found. Prepare him!"

  Two guards held Illya's arms. The third stood in front of him with a hypodermic needle filled with a pale blue fluid. The third guard bared Illya's arm and injected the fluid. Valera smiled.

  "A small precaution," Valera said,

  Illya tried to answer, but nothing happened. He tried again. He could not speak.

  "You have seen the effects of metabala-G, I believe?" Valera said. "That is one of the wonders of science. Dr. Guerre made the drug to counteract the effects of excessive speed on a human. It proved to have an interesting side- effect that may be of even greater use, eh? Now, even if you escape or your friend finds you, you will be able to tell him nothing!"

  And Valera laughed aloud, as if mocking Illya with the sound of his voice. Then he went to the telephone and ordered Solo located and captured if possible, killed if necessary.

  "Come," the gaunt general said. "We have wasted enough time. Your friend will be found, and if he isn't he will not escape the city anyway. You wanted to find Project Condor, and now you will!"

  Valera led the way from his office down a secret stairway where no one could see him, or his men, or his prisoner. In the street he strode straight to his grey Bentley. Moments later the car drove away.

  Some five minutes after that the stolen military car, with Solo at the wheel, drove after the Bentley. Solo wore a pair of strange goggles. On the road he saw, through the goggles, the trail of small red dots that dropped from the vial he had planted. The vial would drip for twenty-four hours, could not be erased in any way, and could be seen only through the special goggles.

  Sixteen hours later, just as dawn was breaking over the coast and the thick jungle-like swamps, Solo followed the tell-tale trail of the Bentley to the edge of a narrow stretch of open water. He saw where a ferry-boat had picked up the car and carried it across into what looked a like an island in the coastal swamps.

  He left his car, took his briefcase and weapons, and eased into the water. He swam softly in the still dark morning. He crawled cautiously out on the other side. The trail of his vial led off along a narrow dirt road. He followed it silently.

  The sun was up when he reached the end of the trail. The grey Bentley stood in front of a strange-looking windowless concrete building.

  Solo could guess what the building was—an immense atomic reactor pile.

  But it was another odd-shaped building that caught his eye. He crept through the jungle-like growth to this building.

  Its size was staggering to the mind, at least as wide as a regulation football field.

  It was shaped like the dome of an observatory, like a giant beehive. Above it was heavy camouflage. Solo studied it and saw a ring of windows at ground level. Up close it was so large it faded away out of sight on either side as it curved in its circle. He reached a window and looked in. What he saw was more staggering than the size of the giant building.

  He saw a tall metal column. It towered high into the dome, and seemed to stand in a deep hole in the ground.

  The column itself was at least a hundred feet wide and over a hundred feet high.

  Attached to the column half way up he saw the six black nuclear aircraft with their stubby wings.

  For a long minute he could not believe what he was seeing. Men climbed ladders and went in and out of the giant column. He looked at where it entered the earth and faded away below.

  He knew what he was seeing, but he did not want to believe it, in all its horror.

  The column was the payload end of the largest rocket he had ever seen.

  A rocket that could only lift off under more concentrated power than he had ever heard could be developed.

  And the payload end was only one possible thing—a space station intended to orbit. A space station that carried six deadly nuclear aircraft.

  A space station that could dominate the Earth.

  Project Condor!

  ACT IV

  FOR WANT OF A NAIL

  THE FOUR SOLDIERS of the 16th Regiment rode in the jeep through the swamp, driving carefully on the dirt road. A scouting party, they watched the jungle and narrow waterways carefully. It was the corporal himself who saw the man come out of the brush.

  "Look there!" the corporal cried in Spanish.

  The man who came out of the bush was covered in mud from head to foot, his clothes dripping. He waved frantically at the soldiers of the 16th Regiment. The soldiers slowed and kept their weapons pointed at him.

  "You will remain completely motionless, Senor," the corporal said in Spanish. And to his men, "Search him."r />
  "Listen, my name is Napoleon Solo. I have to see your commander immediately!" Solo said.

  After his one long look at the gigantic rocket with its deadly space station, Solo had managed to retrace his steps and swim back to the mainland. But his stolen car had been gone, and he had seen the tracks of many men wearing boots. He was sure that no Thrush men had left the swamp island, and realized that the Government had undoubtedly sent men, probably under the command of General Valera. Only Valera was on the island, not with the soldiers.

  He had begun to look for the soldiers.

  He searched as quickly as he could in the trackless jungle swamps—there was no telling just when the space station would be launched. Valera had come here, so it was probably soon. Now, with the soldiers watching him suspiciously, he tried to convince them of the urgency.

  "It's vitally important," Solo said in Spanish.

  The corporal eyed him suspiciously. "You are not of our country, Senor?"

  "No, I'm an American: I'm working with General Hoyos!" Solo said.

  "North Americano?" the corporal said, in English now.

  One of the soldiers who had searched Solo showed the U.N.C.L.E. special and the briefcase filled with strange-looking objects and weapons to the corporal. The corporal looked at Solo's equipment.

  "So? A Yankee who carries a pistol and is found walking alone in a swamp? I think the commander, he will also want to see you, Senor."

  Ten minutes later Solo stood before a short, dark man in the uniform of a full colonel. The colonel, one Colonel Montoya, Commander of the 16th Regiment, had examined his briefcase and pistol.

  "You say this is an U.N.C.L.E. weapon, that the case is the same, and that you are named Napoleon Solo, an agent for that organization?"

  "Yes, Colonel, and can we hurry? They have a space station they are going to launch!" Solo explained.