Pulp Fiction | The Vampire Affair by David McDaniel

by Unknown

  The man shrugged. "On occasion. I am modestly pleased that you found my performance convincing."

  Napoleon scowled and looked around. Zoltan and Hilda were there, each held firmly by uniformed guards in the gray uniforms he had expected—but Illya was not in sight. Had he gotten away after all? If he had, he might be listening.

  Zoltan had apparently given up struggling, but his face still showed anger. "You have masqueraded as my ancestor," he spat, "and brought disgrace on my family name. You are nothing more than a common criminal."

  The target of this abuse arched one eyebrow. "On the contrary, my dear Count," he said. "I am quite a bit more than a common criminal—in fact, if I may say so, I am rather an uncommon one." He shifted his gaze to Napoleon. "Can it be possible that you have not told them who we are? You must have suspected."

  Napoleon thought back. "No," he said finally. "I don't believe I did. Tell them, that is. If I hadn't been certain it was you, I wouldn't have come."

  "You really should have given us more warning," said the false Count with mild reproof. "If we had known you were coming, we'd have wired a bomb."

  Napoleon turned, as well as the firm grip of his guards allowed, and nodded at his friends as he introduced them. "Hilda Eclary, U.N.C.L.E. Technician from the Bucharest office. Zoltan Dracula-Stobolzny, the real Count of that title, whose ancestor you have been doing impressions of. And this is our host," he concluded, addressing the other two, "who also does a less successful imitation of a gentleman, as you see. Do you also do Jimmy Cagney?"

  Their host permitted himself a slight smile. "I adopted the role of the Voivode Tsepesh because of an accidental physical resemblance and a well-developed sense of humor. My real name is unimportant—you may call me Peter."

  "This," said Napoleon to his two fellow prisoners, "is Peter Unimportant, who in real life is apparently something fairly important in an organization known as Thrush."

  "Thrush?" Hilda's face paled, but Zoltan looked puzzled.

  "An international criminal conspiracy," said Napoleon by way of explanation.

  "My, Mr. Solo, you are melodramatic," said Peter. "We prefer to think of ourselves as a highly independent organization of consulting technicians."

  "Well, could you tell us exactly what you're consulting about right now? I seem to remember it's accepted practice to explain everything to the prisoners before you kill them."

  Peter shook his head sadly. "Really, Mr. Solo. I said before that we don't need to kill you—you will simply be held prisoners and released when our work here is through. And we need have no secrets from our guests." He smiled. "Besides, releasing you afterwards will be so much more humiliating."

  He raised an arm and touched a large switch-box. Immediately the next cave came ablaze with light.

  "Here, my friends, you see the remains of a once-proud treasure trove which would have dazzled your eyes and staggered your imagination." He waved his arm, and they looked.

  Now Napoleon could see what had been stacked around the walls of the cave. There were heaps of gold—literally heaps, almost as high as a man and twenty feet across at the base. The gold was formed into ornaments, some jewel-studded, some plain. Religious forms seemed to predominate; statues and crucifixes were most common. One life-sized figure of Christ seemed cast in solid gold.

  When he was able to tear his eyes away from the sight, he looked around. There were more statues along the walls, some only of painted wood, some of stone. There were great gem-encrusted books a man would stagger under the weight of, and suits of ancient armor, one of which Napoleon had mistaken for a person in the darkness. There were no suits of full armor—only breast-plates, intricately inlaid and chased, some leg-pieces, shields, short-swords. None of the horde seemed to date from a time more recent than the late Roman period.

  At last he looked back at Peter, who nodded. "Impressive, isn't it? When Attila the Hun sacked Europe in the tenth century, his base of operations was here in Rumania. He stripped the churches and palaces of more than half the continent, and carried his loot into what was then considered the far east. Twelve years ago some ancient manuscripts came to the attention of our research department in Paris—manuscripts which referred to Attila's Golden Horde in terms which implied it was his treasure store rather than his army which was referred to.

  "Subsequent to that discovery, this area was subjected to an exhaustive search. Other moldering documents were discovered, and analyzed for clues. At last, six months ago, our years of effort were crowned with success. We believe this to be the main store of Attila's treasure, so hidden as to defy the treasure-seekers of the world for a thousand years. And it now comes to swell the treasury of Thrush, who will put the wealth it represents to uses Attila could not have dreamed of."

  "A fitting inheritor," said Napoleon coldly. "He'd be proud of you."

  The intended insult seemed to pass Peter completely, as he merely nodded complacent acceptance of the statement.

  "But you are no better than thieves," said Zoltan. "This treasure is not yours. It belongs to—"

  "To whom?" asked Peter sharply. "Half the nations these were stolen from no longer exist. The treasure was on your land, it is true, but your family inhabited it for over five hundred years and never suspected its existence. We, on the other hand, have spent years of labor and hundreds of thousands of dollars in a scientific search for the treasure—not to mention the cost to our front organization which bought this castle. We have worked for the treasure, and now we have it."

  "But think of the archeological and historical value," said Hilda suddenly. "This should belong to the world."

  Peter smiled slowly, and suddenly he looked like the vampire he had pretended to be. "My dear girl—when we take over the world, it will."

  There was no answer for that. Napoleon decided to change the subject. "As long as we are in the midst of explanations, what are you doing with all your loot right now?"

  "We are packing it carefully and shipping it out by air to another location—and this is something I'm afraid I cannot reveal to you. But it is carried by our Thrush helicopter, which uses the courtyard of the castle for a landing area. During the day the helicopter is stored away under cover with our Thrush trucks and other vehicles, in an upper level of these caves which we have expanded to suit our purposes."

  "Thrush-helicopters and Thrush-trucks? And I suppose you call this your Thrush-cave?"

  "Yes, as a matter of fact it has been referred to that way."

  Napoleon leaned forward towards Peter, lifted the flap of his coat, and looked intently at his waistband. The guards had their hands on their weapons, but Peter merely glanced down. "What are you doing, Mr. Solo?"

  "Looking for your utility belt."

  The Thrush scarcely batted an eye. "Oh," he said. "I only wear that when I'm in my bat costume."

  And he turned and started towards the stairs, motioning the guards to follow him. Napoleon was seized again and hustled off, followed by a passive Zoltan and a complaining Hilda.

  As they started, Napoleon scowled after him. "Five thousand Thrush agents in Europe," he muttered aloud, "and we had to be captured by a wiseacre."

  Chapter 15: "My Sense Of Humor Will Be The Death Of Me Yet."

  Somehow Napoleon's primary emotion was one of relief. He was captured and Thrush was getting away with a fortune; and he had failed in his assignment to bring the murderer of Carl Endros to justice. But his beliefs had been vindicated—there really was a logical, rational explanation behind the whole thing. There were no vampires, no werewolves; only good old Thrush, up to its unusual tricks. And once again Napoleon felt he was on a solid footing with the universe.

  Besides, all was not lost. Illya was out there in the darkness somewhere, and rescue would be forthcoming. In fact, the canny Russian had probably taken the suggestion and hurried back outside to call for assistance. A small army could be flown in from Bucharest in the next few hours, and Thrush would not get another ounce of this gold.


  Meanwhile, they were being taken up a flight of stone steps. The fluorescent lights overhead were spaced economically, but there was more than sufficient illumination to keep the steps safe.

  They climbed what seemed to be several hundred feet but was probably no more than the equivalent of eight or ten stories. As they climbed, their host continued talking.

  "I really thought the idea of starting a vampire scare was a bit of inspiration. We needed to keep the local citizenry indoors at night so our flights would remain unobserved, and to keep them away from the castle. They're so terribly superstitious that it was easy. Two lower-echelon workers in another satrap of Thrush were discovered taking advantage of our organization and materials for their own personal profits, and were ordered executed. It was no less than fitting that their deaths should serve to repay the trouble they had cost. Wasting lives is as foolish and inefficient as wasting anything else that can be made to work for you.

  "So we had them killed, dressed them in local working clothes, and drained their blood. Then the bodies were left where they would be found and start rumors. It was really quite simple. We had not counted on the credulity of the authorities—the idea of their believing in these rumors to the extent of actually sending someone to investigate never occurred to me. As I am sure you are aware, the greatest strength a real vampire would have in this modern time would be the fact that no one would believe he existed."

  He smiled to himself. "Perhaps we feel a certain amount of kinship. Certainly there are few people outside of high-level circles who really believe Thrush exists. As a result we can accomplish many things which would otherwise be beyond our abilities. Disbelief is the strongest shield anyone can have."

  "How much longer does this go on?" asked Napoleon under his breath.

  "The stairs or the monologue? A few more minutes. They will end simultaneously, I promise you."

  "Good. I came here to be captured, not talked to death."

  The Thrush smiled tolerantly. "Bear with me, Mr. Solo. It is seldom we allow a captive to carry information about us to the rest of the world. You three will have that privilege."

  "Forgive my curiosity, my friend," said Zoltan, "but why release us? Are we not enemies?"

  "That is of no importance. Friends and enemies are alike to Thrush. We have no reason to kill you. When our operation is done here we will be far beyond anyone's reach. This is why we did not kill you before this. Our only goal was to frighten you—to lower your efficiency, keep you running around in the forests with nothing material to work on while we completed our liberation of the treasure."

  He shrugged. "U.N.C.L.E. agents are like wasps—if you kill one, you'll have the whole nest after you."

  Napoleon raised his eyes from the floor and saw the end of the stairs ahead. "Your calculations were a little off," he said. "You should have known better than to kill Carl Endros."

  Almost on cue, cutting off his last word by a fraction of a second, the howl of a hunting wolf floated eerily between the rock walls.

  The Thrush looked back down the stairs and frowned. "Franz," he said to Hilda's guard, "was that ahead of us or behind us?"

  "Could not tell, sir," said the guard. "Echoes."

  "Klaus can take care of the girl—you look ahead. Don't worry about shooting the damned beast; we've got dozens of them."

  Franz snapped a salute and hurried up the stairs and out of sight. During the silence that ensued, Peter said casually, "I had wondered about the security of those pens. I hope no more than one is loose—they have been a great expense to the organization."

  There was another pause. Napoleon looked at his two guards, each a couple of inches taller than himself. "I suppose you two are Hans and Fritz?"

  One of them permitted himself a flickering expression of surprise, and both looked at Peter. He in turn looked closely at Napoleon. "How did you know that?"

  Napoleon covered his surprise with a little shrug and a smug smile. "Oh, after all," he said, "U.N.C.L.E. isn't entirely without resources." He looked up the stairs consideringly. "What do you think had happened to your scout?" He threw a glance out of the corner of his eye at Peter, whose eyes narrowed.

  "Franz," he called. "Do you find him?"

  There was no answer. Peter looked around, and then said, "Come. We cannot stand on the stairs forever. Klaus—Fritz—have your weapons at ready."

  They started cautiously up the last few steps. As Napoleon's head came above the level of the floor he looked down the long hall that stretched off into darkness ahead of them. There was a single light at the top of the stairs, and no other.

  A moment later the seven of them stood in a little group in a pool of light, surrounded by two stone walls and darkness. Peter was distinctly nervous by this time. "There must have been a power failure," he said. "This light is on the emergency circuit. But with that wolf prowling around somewhere..."

  Somewhere ahead of them came a low, menacing growl. Peter looked quickly around, saw the flashlight clipped to Zoltan's belt, and seized it. Its beam flickered around the corridor. A few crates were stacked there, and a few statues. There was nothing living in sight. But the growl sounded again.

  Peter spun about, and flashed the light back down the stairs they had just ascended. And as he did so, Hans gave a little sigh as his gun clattered from his limp hand to the floor. With a rustle of uniform and a loose-limbed thump, he fell to join it.

  The Thrush leader looked down at his guard, an expression of fear growing in his eyes. Fritz let go of Napoleon and was standing a few feet back, gripping his sidearm tensely and eyeing the U.N.C.L.E. agent suspiciously. Peter looked at him too.

  "What have you done, my friend?" he asked in a voice that was edged with danger. "Have you killed him?"

  Napoleon radiated innocence. "You were watching me every minute," he said. "I never even looked mean at him."

  Klaus knelt beside his fallen comrade and turned him over. "He's not bleeding, sir," he said. "His pulse seems all right." Then he lowered his head as if to look for something. His head kept right on lowering as his body collapsed across the other.

  Peter swung the flash up the corridor instantly, where there was still nothing in sight. But out of the distance, echoing down the corridor, came a sound of a gloating evil chuckle that lasted until every head was looking along the pale golden beam of the failing flashlight.

  With scarcely a glance at her, Peter took the one from Hilda's belt, thumbed the button, and added its fresher white light to the yellow one. And still nothing unusual could be distinguished.

  He looked at Fritz, whose gun wavered uncertainly among the three prisoners. "You take care you do not fall over like your fellows. Walk behind us, and guard carefully." He looked coldly at the U.N.C.L.E. agent. "If this is your doing, you may not be released alive after all," he said. "You and the girl walk in front as we go down the corridor."

  They started off, leaving the two bodies in the pool of illumination behind them. As they walked, the spot of light from the flash Peter held danced along the floor in front of them, sweeping back and forth, throwing long swaying shadows, dodging behind piled boxes, swinging over statues.

  They were halfway down the corridor when the searching beam ducked behind a crate and stopped as Peter gasped. Huddled in the light was the body of a man in Thrush uniform. Peter reached forward and pulled him out. His head lolled limply; his eyes were closed. It was Franz. As they looked down at him, Fritz sighed deeply and fell over.

  Peter whirled around as his pistol hit the stone floor, and his flash glanced out. And again there was nothing. And again that gloating triumphant chuckle floated out of the distances of the corridor at them. Then finally his nerve broke.

  He ran from them down the corridor to the foot of the next flight of stairs and fumbled frantically for something in the wall. Then he yammered, "Alert! Alert! Corridor Twenty-One. There's something wrong down here. It's struck down four guards without a sound. I have the U.N.C.L.E. people here—I think it
's a trick of theirs. Send a troop quickly." He waited for an acknowledgment and then put the handset back.

  Turning to face Napoleon, Zoltan and Hilda, he once again seemed master of the situation. "There will be a force here in two minutes," he said jerkily. "Let's see if your invisible power can evade them."

  Napoleon smiled. "Or if they can evade him. You see, Peter, U.N.C.L.E. is not without its tricks too. Perhaps it would be better if you just surrendered quietly and let us take you away to a nice safe comfortable cell...."

  Peter's gun centered on Napoleon's midriff. "No!" he said shrilly. "You will pay for this. You will..."

  "You will die before he does!" A deep distorted voice echoed out of the tunnel behind them. Napoleon turned and saw, silhouetted against the distant light, a figure which cast a shadow the whole length of the tunnel. It was one of the statues come to life—a figure in Roman armor, short sword raised high and a shield covering its chest. The flashlight beam stabbed down the corridor and picked out the sturdy figure, the blond hair under the crested helmet, the gleaming iron of the sword and buckler.

  Peter made an inarticulate noise in his throat and fired blindly at the apparition. The echoes of the shots rumbled away and were drowned in ghastly laughter. "We can only die once," said the voice as the figure took a stride towards them. "And you have disturbed our rest. Now you must join us."

  The thunder of the automatic shook the walls as Peter emptied the rest of the magazine at the inexorably advancing figure and then fled for the stairs. Napoleon caught Hilda as she slipped to the floor in a dead faint, and Zoltan stepped forward to meet the figure. He raised an arm and commanded, "I am Zoltan Stobolzny-Dracula. Leave my friends in peace."

  The figure lowered its sword and snorted. "Oh, come on, Zoltan," it said. "Don't be melodramatic."

  Illya pushed back the legionnaire's helmet that hid most of his blond hair and propped his sword against a case. "Was I really that good?" he asked, looking down at Hilda.

  "You laid 'em in the aisles," said Napoleon. "I thought it was you when I heard the imitation wolf-howl. But why did you only use the sleep-darts on the guards?"