by Unknown
"Gee!" said the younger boy, his eyes big. "What's a voiceprint?"
"Everybody's voice has certain tones, just like your fingers have certain print marks," Napoleon explained. "When samples of voices are changed to lines on an electronic oscilloscope these tones show up as distinct marks which can be compared with records. It is as infallible as fingerprints for identification."
Before the boy could reply, Waverly called again. "The computers were successful in unscrambling the voices in the background. One of the voices is that of Lupe de Rosa. The other is Maxwell Martin. This man is a minor Wall Street stock broker, but we have good reason to suspect that he is an important THRUSH executive in New York."
"Was there enough of their conversation to give us any clue?" Napoleon asked.
"They were discussing the elimination of Mr. Kuryakin through a fake accident. That is all we could get.
The directional finders were unable to get a fix on Kuryakin's transmission."
"What does that mean?" one of the boys asked Napoleon after the Man from U.N.C.L.E. broke the connection with Waverly.
"It means these people are planning to murder their captive. We know they are somewhere in this area, but have no idea where to start looking. You boys know this neighborhood. Where would you go if you wanted a quick hideout?"
"There are some warehouses back on Fourteenth Street near the river," one of the boys said. "The company that owns them shut down about two weeks ago."
"But they have a watchman there," his companion objected. "I know. We tried to get in and he run us off."
"But THRUSH could have bribed the watchman to provide them a quick place to duck into. Apparently this thing was well planed in advance," Napoleon said. "Where is this place?"
"Hang on, Unk!" the youthful driver cried. "Awaaay we go!"
Rubber screeched on the pavement and the car shot forward. The hot rod careened around the corner on two wheels in a way that made Napoleon Solo wonder dismally if he wasn't in more danger from the driver than he was from THRUSH.
The car shot down along a railroad track and made another short right. The warehouses loomed dead ahead. The driver braked sharply.
"Do you want to go inside?" he asked.
The man from U.N.C.L.E. shook his head.
"They would spot the car," he said. "Park along the fence. Douse your lights when you drive up. I'll walk in."
"We'll go with you!" the driver said eagerly.
Napoleon hesitated. He knew it was too dangerous for the boys to accompany him. Yet he was reluctant to tell them no after all the help he got from them. He was trying to think of some excuse to send them somewhere else, somewhere they would not be in danger but would feel that they were contributing.
Before he could make a decision, he saw a car move around the corner of the warehouse. It was just after dark, too dark to be driving without lights, but there wasn't the sign of a glimmer from the cab. A bigger car came right behind it. It also had its lights completely switched off.
"Look!" he said hurriedly to the boys. "I can't wait. Take this!"
He shoved the pen-communicator in their hands. "Just talk in the mouthpiece here where this tiny hole is. Tell Mr. Waverly what is going on. Tell him to call all our people and have them surround this area."
"We want to go with you!" the boy cried.
"This is more important," Napoleon said hurriedly. "There are too many for us to handle with only one gun between us. Now get me some help quickly—or a man's life may be lost!"
"Sure thing, Unk!" the boy cried. "Hey, Uncle. Hey, Uncle!"
This last cry was made into the pen-communicator. Napoleon winced as he jumped from the car and ran into the darkness. He could just imagine Alexander Waverly's startled anger at the boy's irreverant cry. But he had no choice.
He could not permit the boys to rush into certain death. He knew that they would follow him regardless of any orders unless he gave them something to do.
THREE
Napoleon bent low and ran along the side of the fence. The cab was moving slowly in order not to attract attention. Solo came to the gate. The truck gate was closed, but there was a small personnel gate open. Just beyond it was a guard shack.
Napoleon moved closer, hugging the fence. He could see the shadowy figure of the guard standing in front of the shack. The small personnel gate was ajar, but when Napoleon pushed on it, the un-oiled hinges squeaked.
The guard whirled. Napoleon saw the silhouette of the gun in his hand.
"Who's there?" the guard said in a harsh voice.
"Quick!" Solo cried. It didn't take much acting ability to put a lot of agitation in his voice. "Where are they? There isn't a second to lose. Those rats from U.N.C.L.E. are on to us!"
"What!" the guard cried. "Mr. Martin told me this was perfectly safe when I agreed to let them use this place. I don't want to get in any trouble!"
Napoleon Solo hesitated, wondering if he could trust the man to help him. He decided it was too much of a risk.
"Come here," he said.
When the guard walked closer, Napoleon's hand flashed up and hit him against the temple with the butt of the gun. Solo caught the guard as he fell. He pulled the man into the shack. Then he turned and scooped up the fallen man's gun. He shoved it into his coat pocket.
The two cars were coming closer. The driver of the cab stuck his head out and snarled, "Hurry up and get that gate open! We haven't any time to lose!"
"Okay. Keep your shirt on!" Napoleon replied in a muffled voice. "I'm coming as fast as I can."
He shuffled across the road, imitating the guard's dragging walk. He pulled open the gate and started to swing it back. Then before the driver could put the cab in gear, Solo leaped forward. He swung the gun in a vicious blow.
The driver squalled and tried to duck. The blow caught him on the side of the head. He slumped over the wheel. Solo whirled. The big limousine behind stopped with a squeal of brakes. The darkness was split with the red stab of muzzle blast. A bullet just missed Solo. It struck the car fender and carreened off with a deadly whine.
Solo dropped flat on the pavement to present as small a target as possible. He jerked up his own gun, but the trigger stuck. The blow he struck the driver had broken the trigger spring.
He twisted frantically, rolling back under the stalled cab. It was a moment of extreme danger. If the driver recovered and started the car, he would be run over.
He dug in his pocket for the guard's gun. It was a bigger, heavier .45 caliber. Solo's own gun was a snubnosed .38, carried because its smaller size would fit more unobstrusively under his coat. He wished desperately he had the supremely accurate U.N.C.L.E. gun, but its bulk prevented it being carried on the person.
He pulled himself up against the left rear wheel. The driver of the limousine and his woman companion did not try to escape by driving away. That made Solo suspect that Illya was a prisoner in the cab.
This supposition was borne out when he heard the man yell at the girl: "Hurry! The shots will bring the police in a few minutes! Take this package of gas tablets! I'll keep that U.N.C.L.E. rat pinned down! Throw one of these pellets in the back of the cab. Suffocate our prisoner. He may have heard too much and can incriminate me. We've got to remove him."
"Okay!" the girl gasped. "How do I use them?"
"They're glass. Just throw one inside. Hurry! We haven't a second to lose!"
The two split, coming on opposite sides of the car. Napoleon groaned. There was no way he could cover both sides of the car. He tried to move toward the side the girl was approaching, but a bullet ripped the air at his ear. He whirled and fired back, but his shot went wild.
He whirled. He saw the girl's ankles. It was all of her he could see of her from his position under the car. He realized then that he made a tactical error in climbing under it. He would have been better off taking his chances in the open. That way he could have maneuvered. Now he was completely pinned down!
He tried to draw a bead on Lupe's a
nkles, hoping he could knock her off her feet before she could hurl the suffocating gas in on top of Illya Kuryakin.
But she moved too quickly. The right wheel got between them. He tried to snake his body around for a better shot, knowing that he was exposing himself to a deadly shot from the gun of Maxwell Martin. It was a chance he had to take. Otherwise his U.N.C.L.E. partner would die!
As he turned he saw the girl stagger back. He couldn't understand what hit her. Maxwell Martin also was so startled that he whirled to face this new danger without shooting at the exposed Napoleon Solo.
Solo, suddenly suspecting the truth, ignored the girl. He whirled and fired at Martin. The THRUSH man staggered, falling with a wailing cry.
Solo rolled the rest of the way from under the cab. He saw Lupe stagger to her feet. She was holding a handkerchief to her nose. A greenish phosphorescent cloud was swirling about her. In her fall she broke the suffocating gas bulb.
Solo took a deep breath and held it as he whirled to aid his companion in the back of the cab. The cab door was open. Kuryakin lay on the floor. It was obvious to Napoleon what had happened.
Although bound, Illya managed to pull down the door handle to open the door, but keeping it pulled closed. Then, when the girl approached to drop the gas pellets inside, he kicked the unlatched door with his bound feet. The unexpected blow knocked her back and down against the pavement.
The extreme danger was not over. The gas cloud was a terrible threat to the bound man. Illya sat up. Napoleon gasped out a quick order for his partner to hold his breath.
He grabbed Kuryakin about the middle, pulling him from the cab. Then, swinging his co-agent up over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, Solo staggered back away from the poisonous green cloud.
He dropped Illya beside the guard shack. Kuryakin was bound hand and foot. He had a gag in his mouth. Solo jerked out the gag and cut the bonds on Illya's wrist.
"You can get out of the rest," he said hurriedly. "I'm going after Lupe. She's getting away!"
"Let her go!" Illya gasped. "If she's free, there may be a chance we can follow her to the THRUSH cell operating this storm gimmick."
"You're right," Napoleon said. "I'll shadow her. Are you in shape to come along?"
"Get moving!" Illya snapped. "Don't waste time on me. I'll be right behind you!"
But before Solo could leave, one of the hot rod boys yelled from the gate: "We got her! We got her! Hey, Mr. Uncle! We got the woman who was running away!"
"Who's that?" Illya asked, getting to his feet after cutting his leg bonds.
"Two boys helping me," he said exasperated. "They are too much help!"
"Yell for them to let her go!"
"No," Napoleon replied. "We'll have to think of some way to let her escape. Otherwise she will know we released her just to follow her to THRUSH headquarters."
Illya rubbed his wrists. He said wryly, "You can always get more than enough help when you don't need it any more!"
"Oh, don't start blaming the boys. They thought they were being helpful. And they were helpful. It was their idea that you might be here. Otherwise we might not have found you in time."
"Then I change my mind," Kuryakin said with a grin. "There is hope for the younger generation!"
"And I'd say there is hope for the older generation to muddle through while we have kids like these to help us!" Napoleon said with a grin. "I'm going to ask Mr. Waverly to write them an official U.N.C.L.E. letter of commendation. I'll mean a lot to them."
"And I want to add my thanks at the bottom," Illya said. "I was in one tough spot."
ACT VI: WATERLOO?
After thanking the boys for their help, Napoleon Solo promised them they would be receiving an official letter from Mr. Waverly. Then he and Illya Kuryakin took Lupe into the dead Maxwell Martin's car.
Solo made quite a show of holding the gun on the girl to keep her from escaping. She looked at it and shuddered.
"M-must you point that terrible thing at me?" she said.
Solo smiled.
"I'm sure you aren't tough enough to overpower both of us," he said.
He slipped the .38 special into his pocket. This was his own gun, the one he had fouled when he struck the guard and the cab driver. The.45 he took from the guard was passed to Illya, who slipped in the front to drive the car.
"Please!" Lupe said breathlessly. "Things are not the way they seem. I know it seems to your Mr. Solo—"
"Kuryakin," Illya said wearily.
"—Mr. Kuryakin that I was aiding Mr. Martin," she went on. "But it isn't true. You see, I knew what they did to Dr. Santos-Lopez. I had to play along with them to protect myself. I was just trying to find out how they are able to generate these terrible storms. Then I intended to call the police."
"I hope your story checks out, Miss de Rosa," Napoleon said. "Of course that is outside our department."
She leaned breathlessly close to him. In the front seat Illya watched her performance with a cynical eye.
"But you believe me, don't you?" she whispered.
Her hand touched his arm in a pleading manner.
Illya Kuryakin watching in the rear view mirror, smiled cynically as her hand dropped suddenly, grabbing the unworkable gun from Solo's pocket.
She jumped back against the opposite side of the car, shakily pointing the gun in a wavering arc that included both Kuryakin in the front seat and solo across from her.
"Stop the car!" she snapped.
Illya braked to a stop. Watching her closely, Napoleon wondered if they were doing right in letting her get away.
"Get out of the car!" she snapped to both men. "Get out or I'll shoot."
Solo hesitated, but Kuryakin said, "Come on, Napoleon. You've met your Waterloo!"
"What's that? What's that?" the girl cried in a strangled voice. "How did you know—"
She broke off. "Move faster!" she said through clinched teeth. "I haven't got time to fool with you now!"
The two men stepped down to the curb. They stared after the car as she sped off. Napoleon looked at Illya in surprise.
"What brought on that last outburst?" he asked.
"You got me," Kuryakin said. "Apparently she has a phobia about the word Waterloo. I don't know why she should be bothered by it. If I recall correctly, that was where another Napoleon took his worst defeat. The word should bother you, not her."
"Remember this letting her go was you idea," Solo said. "I'm beginning to wonder if she is safe to let run around. For my money she is a genuine kook."
"I don't know," Illya said thoughtfully. "I just hope those two keep her in sight."
"They're good men, both of them. They caught my signal as she pulled away. They'll do as good a job sticking to her as we could. Better, perhaps. She knows us and they are strangers to her—I hope."
"What do we do now?" Illya asked.
"I'll call Mr. Waverly."
He tuned in the pen-communicator and reported their actions to the U.N.C.L.E. chief. Waverly gave them instant approval of their gambit in permitting the Storm Girl to "escape."
"Mr. Kuryakin is right," Waverly said. "We have no lead to the THRUSH cell operating this storm generator. This girl should be able to lead us to them."
"I hope so," Napoleon said. "But I keep remembering the cool, smart way that girl reacted when it looked like our plane was going down in that hurricane. She has brains and courage. We must not underestimate her."
"I agree, Mr. Solo." Alexander Waverly's calm voice said.
"And, sir—" Illya put in.
"Yes, Mr. Kuryakin?"
"Does the word 'Waterloo,' in connection with this case, mean anything to you, sir?"
Just the faintest note of surprise broke the calmness of the U.N.C.L.E. chief's voice. "As a matter of fact, Mr. Kuryakin, it does!"
"What is it, Mr. Waverly?" Solo put in. "Illya mentioned the name as a pun on my own name. This girl, Lupe de Rosa, seemed quite disturbed by it."
"I fancy she might well be," Waverl
y said. "Let the New York unit keep track of Miss de Rosa. You gentlemen report to me here as U.N.C.L.E. headquarters as rapidly as possible! Our situation is growing more grave by the second. It is far worse than when I spoke to you at the airport. We have received additional information that indicates THRUSH is ready to strike!"
TWO
After they broke their connection with Waverly, the two men from U.N.C.L.E. walked soberly to the main intersection, where they stopped at a drugstore to phone for a taxi.
Neither of the spoke much on the drive over to Manhattan. They were both deep in thought most of the time, trying to piece together the puzzling series of facts they faced these last twenty-four hours.
They dismissed the taxi in the lower fifties and headed in a fast walk back toward the United Nations building towering darkly against the night sky by the East River.
But instead of continuing on, they made a sharp turn and walked past a whitestone building in the middle of the long block.
A tailor shop was still open in the basement. Solo said to his friend, "We look a sight. We'd better get a press before we report to the boss."
Illya Kuryakin nodded. The two turned and went down the short flight of steps. Solo pushed open the door marked "Del Floria—Tailor" and the two went in. A little man past middle age rubbed his hands on his tailor's apron and nodded to the two.
The two men walked to the back of the shop. They entered a small dressing room and let the curtain drop behind them. They paused for a moment while a cleverly concealed electronic eye scanned them. Then the back of the dressing room wall swung in. Napoleon and Illya stepped out of the old world tailor shop into a modern, well appointed reception office.
A smiling girl at the desk asked them to place their hands on a frosted glass on her desk. She pressed a button and their prints were electronically verified from master records in the banks of computers jammed in the long steel corridors of the ultra-modern offices hidden behind the prosaic whitestone front.
Only after a verification signal from the identifications computer buzzed on her desk, did the admissions clerk give each of the two men a peculiarly shaped triangular badge to pin to their lapel. Electronic scanners would instantly sound an alarm if anyone not wearing the U.N.C.L.E. badge tried to enter any of the hundreds of top secret rooms in the headquarters.
