by Simon Latter
Then the phone had rung. "Ah! Mr. Kovac!" Mr. Waverly was casual—a sure sign of pressure. The greater the crisis, the more casual, it seemed, he became. "If you could spare the time there is some work you could do for me before Miss Dancer and Mr. Slate arrive. You have been aware of this Global Globules nonsense from the start. So perhaps a follow-through session will be good experience for you. Yes—as soon as you like."
Randy Kovac became jet-propelled. He almost bounced off the U.N. building which towered over the street of the small tailor shop, so directly did he speed to H.Q. At last he was on an assignment! He, Randy Kovac, would be there when his two "ideals" arrived! At least he'd take darn good care he was there!
Some of the steam went out of his bubbles when he found that his assignment was a boring repetition of much of the work he'd already done in plotting, mapping and cross- referencing the Globule incidents in America. But the follow-through work set his already lively imagination ablaze.
If April Dancer was an intuitive, or hunch follower, Randy Kovac was a super-plus-intuitive. He was inspired by hero-worship, plus career-drive, plus sublime belief that he couldn't fail, plus the Irish blood in him that held the blessed strain of unending faith in "the little people", and the grace and favor of generations of Irish luck.
"Fine!" said Randy Kovac in what he hoped was a normal voice. "Just fine!" But in trying to be normal, his voice persisted in going way up, then way down again, his brain feathery light despite the long hours spent checking and cross-checking his own theory. He was nervous of Mr. Waverly, though, because many of those hours of work hadn't been as routine as perhaps they should have been. "I read the reports you gave me, sir."
"That was the object of giving them to you, Mr. Kovac."
"Yes, sir—well, I did, and..." He pressed the map-screen switch. "Here is the first breakdown of incidents. No pattern, you will see." He pressed the switch again. "Here is the breakdown of high-rainfall and air-moisture areas superimposed."
"Very pretty," said April. "You're an excellent cartographer."
Randy beamed. Mr. Waverly grunted. Mark flicked up an eyebrow. "Is this your idea?"
"Mr. Waverly told me to follow through on natural sequence. I thought maps were better than reams of typing."
"Is this all you have accomplished?" demanded Mr. Waverly.
"No, sir." Randy made like a magician as he again pressed the map-screen switch. "Here is a breakdown of arid areas."
"Arid!" Mr. Waverly exclaimed sharply. "That was not in your terms of reference, Mr. Kovac. You have spent valuable time on something you were not asked to do."
"Please, sir—may I give my reasons?"
"I'm sure he has good ones," said April, little realizing that the words would turn a likeable young man into her slave for life, not being that intuitive... Or was she?
"The reports, sir." Randy's voice trembled with eagerness. "From Europe especially, as well as later ones from far continents—they all emphasized rain areas. But K.S.R.6 wouldn't be an effective weapon if it had to rely on rain showers or mists. And what about areas of low rainfall?—deserts and arid areas? We have those in the States. I assumed that K.S.R.6 was tested in areas like Dartmoor. That would be natural. It wasn't heavily defended. Miss Dancer reports her opinion that the operation there was in terminal phase. It also would be natural for us to assume that main centers in this country would be in such areas. They would expect us to assume that."
"Between your assumptions and Miss Dancer's opinions should be placed a crystal ball," said Mr. Waverly severely. "I asked for follow-through summaries on which we could base action."
"With respect, sir," said Randy quietly, "we have plenty of facts to summarize as to methods and effects, and I have completed those. But we do not have any on possible centers, except reports based on assumptions."
"Touché, Mr. Kovac." Mr. Waverly's eyes suddenly twinkled. "Explain further, if you will, this departure from your instructions."
Randy switched in a graph plate. It looked like a transparent map of air routes with dots linking the cities and areas where incidents had been reported. One outstanding fact was obvious. The lines all crossed at the same point.
"Little Basin Desert, Arizona," said Randy, putting his finger on that crossing point. "Arid, very low humidity. Little Basin is an almost circular depression between hills and rocky buttes. It has been drilled for water. That operation cost as much as the purchase price of the whole lot. It is a Health Farm. At one time it was a Dude Ranch. It has been owned for nearly ten years by Healthfare Incorporated. Healthfare is associated with various health clubs through out the world, but mainly in Europe, where bronchitis and similar chest complaints are prevalent. Patients visit Little Basin from all over Europe. It is forty-three miles from the nearest town."
"You are proving that you spent the hours working," said Mr. Waverly. "Your summary is most interesting. So is the assumption that because all lines between the incident areas cross at that one point—it must mean something on which we can act."
April hunched forward, chin on hands.
"He means, stick your neck out, Randy! Sell it us as a proposition."
"I've heard worse," said Mark. "But it's a trifle airy-fairy, old lad."
"This isn't," said Randy. "Healthfare is associated with Société L'Art de Guerir—The Art of Healing Company—of Paris. Founder member and now Director-General is Dr. Carl Karadin. His associates are Georges Sirdar..."
"Sirdar the Turk!" April exclaimed.
"Ah! You know him?" Randy clicked his fingers. "Yes, of course—the organizer of the muscle men."
"What others?" said Mark briskly.
"Suzanne Karadin—she makes the third French director. Then there is S. L. Coke (British), L. Mancini (Italian), Brunnard T. Raver (American) and M. Nicorious (Greek)."
"And you got all that from drawing lines?" said April. "You are a very clever young man."
"Come into my office," Mr. Waverly snapped. He turned and hurried away.
Randy looked puzzled. Mark patted his shoulder. "Not to worry, old boy—methinks the fairies are on your side!"
As they joined him, Mr. Waverly said: "Sit down, Mr. Kovac, sit down."
Randy trod air, savoring this delicious moment of dream-come-true—lovely dreams of Mr. Waverly sending for Mr. Kovac's brilliant self, saying: "Sit down." Juniors didn't sit down. Top agents did—in fact, all top people—but not juniors. Randy eased gently down as if testing a hot bath.
Mr. Waverly was on the direct Washington line. They couldn't hear what he was saying because he spoke through the cowl sound diffuser attached to his earphones. As he waited for replies to his long conversation, he glanced at Randy.
"That was the sum-total of your follow-through, Mr. Kovac?"
"Yes, sir—er—except..."
"Cough it up, laddie," said Mark. "You're in to your ears already. We can only shoot you once."
Randy gulped. "Well, sir—I didn't have authority to phone Paris."
"I bet you tried!" April chuckled.
"The operator wouldn't put me through. I had to work through our foreign department. I wanted to find out what other business the French company owned. We could only find one."
"A couturiere?" said April.
Randy beamed at her. "That's right—only I couldn't pronounce it properly. The Healthfare Company own 'Dorés'—a fashion shop on the Rue Rivoli. How did you guess that?"
"You'll learn in this fascinating game of ours that one little 'click' sets off lots of other 'clicks'," she assured him. "They build up to a big bang if you keep clicking on the right lines. Like your lines clicking to a center. See what kept clicking after it? So it clicks with me that some expert dressmaker, tailor or, as in France, a couturiere establishment must make up that metal-dress gear. Someone they had control of—not a contract job."
Mr. Waverly held up his hand for silence. They waited. At last he removed the head stall and swung around to face them.
"The password is
PHAGOCYTE."
April tapped her forehead with a knuckle and frowned.
"Something meaning ... guarding the system against infection by absorbing microbes." She laughed. "Very neat."
Mr. Waverly inched a smile at her.
"Are we not? So now—let us to work." He looked at Randy Kovac. "You will remember we are a team, Mr. Kovac. No one person is greater, or lesser, than that team. The discovery of one part is the discovery of all parts leading to a conclusion of the whole by the whole. In this context we each have one moment of glory. Let us assume you have had yours. All responsibility for it is now lifted from you. But we shall not forget that moment. You understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Right," said Mr. Waverly. "We will pass to the action briefing room. Operation Phagocyte has already commenced."
CHAPTER TEN: KEEP FINGER OFF BUTTON!
WHAT began as a hunch became an open bluff which led to an assignment, which in turn erupted into an international project. From such small beginnings do world wars escalate. All who worked for and with the U.N.C.L.E. organization never lost sight of this possibility. Its agents were, of course, constantly at war. They lived with its menace, saw the dangers in many seemingly ordinary incidents in all parts of the world which could, if linked together, form a pattern of destruction on an international scale.
As highly trained, skilled and experienced agents they were trusted and given wide latitude. At their back stood the vast defense machine of their country and the world network of associates and similar organizations with whom it worked. But at all times they were individuals. They did not march in formations. They did not wear uniforms. They did not salute superior ranks. They combined the freedoms of the buccaneering adventurer with the calculating brain of the modern espionage agent and the discipline of the finest service personnel.
To an outsider they might appear casual, or even irresponsible. They were disrespectful in many attitudes towards their respective establishments. They suffered the small irritations of administration departments, such as querying footling items on expense sheets, with tolerant good humor, but fools who sabotaged their sometimes desperate efforts in the field were blatantly derided or ignored, no matter what their Civil Service rank. All top agents possessed an intuitive sense sharpened by often bitter experience, so in many instances could not file in triplicate a report that would satisfy a chair-borne general.
They tried not to break civil laws, but of necessity had to "bend" many in the interests of that greater and over riding "law of national preservation". Thus all their efforts were sublimated to defense of country, which itself was a defense of world peace. And at times, the only form of defense is attack.
General assignment agents tried always to work from within the enemy areas, to infiltrate, to sabotage local activities, to link the improbable with the possible and break the power of an encircling movement. Divide and rule is an old maxim. U.N.C.L.E. agents often divided local power groups, splitting them so that they could more easily be destroyed, so weakening and finally snapping the power of their leaders.
Action begets action. What was seen in a London street moved through personal contacts to violent destruction on an English moorland, thence to a French forest. Escalation of action was a natural result, always so for agents such as April Dancer, Mark Slate, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin. Enforcement officers might be their official title, back here at Del Floria's tailor shop in the brownstone house under the shadow of the United Nations building. But from a London street to a New York street—the hunch had come home, to where the ultimate danger lay somewhere in an Arizona desert.
With all forces alerted it was inevitable that the administration should conform to "procedure" that almost biblical word voiced unctuously along with the well-beloved phrase "usual channels". Insert a two-letter word—by—and you have the awe-filling phrase—"procedure by usual channels". Lengthily translated this means: "There are one helluva lot of us guys being paid one helluva lot of money and we are all going to put our itchy noses into this affair and shall require one helluva lot of memos duly signed, counter-signed, classified and passed to you for urgent attention, before we can move one goddamn man, tank, plane, troop carrier, gun, gas bomb, radio, scout car or portable latrine."
Which was one reason why April Dancer and Mark Slate sat on an olive-sage hill in the hot, dry olive-sage area of Little Basin, Arizona.
"Mr. Alexander Waverly is a one-man bomb on his own," said April Dancer. "He doesn't explode for little men—only for the biggest—but even he is going to be taxed severely before Operation Phagocyte comes to life in terms of men, men, men."
"Same the world over, old girl." Mark Slate stretched in the sun. "Once the admin and service wallahs are called in, all the little men become pompous big men. Don't see how you can ever avoid it. The machine runs the men who are employed to run it. Once they get moving, all hell won't stop it. That's how they lose thousands of men in an attack. I've seen it happen. Nice words they give the poor dead devils too—expendable, they say: strategy, they say: the escalation of the overall plan, they say. What they mean is that some theory-ridden old red-tab back at his comfy H.Q. forgot he had those units stuck over there by the green pin on the map board. Wars have got too big, me old darling. Was a time when the general was way out in front—leading 'em. Now, there are nearly as many generals and admirals at the back of the poor expendable so-and-sos." He sat up suddenly. "Which same is us, right now."
April grinned. "I wondered when you were going to wake up to that fact. Well, at least the F.B.I. should be in a position by now. Drat this radio silence."
"How else can we get close? They've no phone down there in the nut hatch. Must be well linked with radio—maybe radar too." Mark glanced at his watch. "Better start preparing for the Stutter Beam relay, That was cool thinking on your part." He chuckled. "Space Research didn't like it one little bit when they learned you knew all about their precious Stutter Beam. By the way—how did you know?"
She made no reply until they had taken out the collapsible equipment from their shoulder packs and begun to open it up in the shade of a rock overhang.
"People call it stutter because it does—in laser light beams. But it's the invention of a man named Gabriel Stuttar—who, by merest chance, is my godfather. He's an old sweetie. It was he who encouraged me to keep on with my career." She gazed at Mark as she squatted back on her haunches. "We hear so much about our brilliant young men—and we have them, sure we do. It'd be a poor old world without them. But we have the others, too."
"What others?"
"Gabby Stuttar, for one. When he was a young man—one of the brilliant young men, I suppose he'd be called—his ideas of using laser light and a translation receiver were laughed at. Now it's top secret—one of the marvels of the age—yuck! yuck! He began it thirty years ago—now it's so secret he doesn't even rate his picture in the papers."
"Money?" said Mark.
She shrugged. "All he wants—now he doesn't really need it. Pride, he's got. Oh yes, human vanity too. One good headline, one TV interview, one award as the scientist of the year—maybe a Nobel. Won't get 'em though. Top secret—poor old duck!" She patted the small, camera-like object fixed on its swivel-topped tripod. "Thirty years, and here's us—taking for granted it'll work."
"Well, we know it will, old girl. The space boffins have proved it down to the nth. Can't be tapped, bugged or otherwise tampered with."
"Yes, but don't you see? Oh! Skip it! The sun must be softening me." She grinned. "And there's Carl Karadin too. A bit ironic, don't you think? Right now we're gearing up to smash him. And we'll do it because we have to. Twenty years ago he was branded a nutcase. A world currency was his bug and it bit him deep, deep. So deep that he worked for twenty years to perfect a way of destroying all paper currency and replacing it with a world currency. Yet even now, the finance wizards of the world are trying to work out ways of doing that very thing—a transfer to a world currency."
Mark nodded. "Crazy—just crazy! Ours not to reason why—eh, old girl?" He checked his watch again. "Nearing zero."
They donned glasses, oval-shaped, with contoured side pieces an extension of the three-colored lenses. Vertical stripes of purple, orange and green with an opaque sheen on the convex surfaces. The timing and translation controls on the receiver were set to prearranged figures and the lenses lined on a compass bearing.
Each took a cylinder from a padded pouch in their assault belt, about the size of a two-cell hand torch but larger at its base and sloping to a tiny aperture. A thumb-press, a red safety switch and a recessed gun site were the only breaks in its shiny black surface.
They checked watches again. Mark began to count down from ten to zero. "... five, four, three, two, one!"
At that second there appeared in the sky over forty miles away a series of stuttering flashes, as if sunlight was being reflected off the windshields of fast-moving cars. But through the three-colored lenses, each flash could be seen as a different shape. Some shapes repeated themselves more often than others. The relay moved at fantastic speed—so fast that whole words appeared as if some celestial type writer was impressing keys on to the hazy blue paper of the sky.
April and Mark vied with each other in their attempts to read the messages, but the phonetic alphabet used by the Laser Beam Sender had not yet been included in their curriculum and they only managed to decipher a few words in every sentence.
When the relay ceased, they both sent two long and two short flashes into the sky from their own hand beams. It took about five seconds for these flashes to reach the relay area, where they exploded into phonetic letters spelling "okay".
As they removed their glasses, Mark said:
"The range test was impressive. I'm going to have a test of my own."
"Careful," April warned.
