“Can't anyone understand that THRUSH is mixed up in this?” April cried. “That changes everything.”
“Does it?” the commissioner asked.
April sighed and clinched her hands in frustration. “May I call Mr. Waverly?” she asked.
The police official nodded.
Mindful of Inspector Gabin's warning, April contented herself with just informing Waverly by trans-Atlantic phone that she was safe.
The U.N.C.L.E. operations chief understood her position. He simply expressed his concern for her narrow escape.
Following this call, April Dancer received a vigorous interrogation from officials of the French Foreign Ministry. Throughout the questioning she kept insisting that the attack on her was due to a misunderstanding by her attackers. She had been engaged in no investigation that remotely concerned them.
They released her after about two hours, with the pointed suggestion that reservations had been made for her on a plane for New York. Both Mark Slate, her usual partner, and Illya Kuryakin, who ordinarily worked with Napoleon Solo, were waiting for her.
Except for a few words of greeting the three from U.N.C.L.E. were silent until the cab dropped them at a hotel on Rue de Lafayette where the two men had previously arranged for her a room.
Once inside they checked the room carefully for bugs and planted microphones. They found three. After these had been inactivated, Mark Slate turned on water in the bath tub and raised the volume all the TV set with these to confuse any directed amplifiers that might be tuned in on their conversation, the girl and men from U.N.C.L.E. sat down to talk.
April Dancer was a self-sufficient young woman, well able to take care of herself in any situation. However, the presence of her two fellow members of U.N.C.L.E. was a distinct lift to her spirits. Mark Slate, dreamy-eyed and dressed in overly loud Carnaby Street clothes, sprawled back in a slouch that disguised the athletic body that not long before had made him a member of the British Olympic ski team.
The Russian Illya Kuryakin sat across from them. His Slavic features were settled in a deceptive unconcerned mask. Blond like Mark Slate, he had the same ragged non-haircut.
Kuryakin passed her his pen-communicator to report to Alexander Waverly in U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, New York. Waverly acknowledged her call almost instantly.
“I'm sorry if I've caused you trouble,” she said contritely.
“No trouble,” he replied firmly.
“What happened?”
She described the attack at the apartment, including the identity of the dead men.
“I can understand now why Paris was so disturbed,” Waverly said.
“We are going ahead, aren't we?” Kuryakin asked, somewhat anxiously.
“That depends upon what April has to tell us,” Waverly replied. “When the attack came she was going to tell us something of the utmost importance.”
“Yes, sir,” the Girl from U.N.C.L.E. said quickly. “When I was checking on the possible connection of Francoise LeBrun with THRUSH I discovered that he met with Franklyn Pierce in Paris soon after the nuclear scientist defected from the U.S.! You know Washington reported that Pierce knew no atomic weapon secrets. In checking back on him I found his defection was caused by his resentment when Air Force evaluators laughed at his idea for an orbiting H-Bomb. They claimed that it was more practical to hit a target from earth with a rocket than to try and reenter one from space.”
“That is true,” Waverly said.
“That is why no one is orbiting atomic bombs. It is why UN officials tell me the Red Satellite I is no threat to earth.”
“Then why do you believe it a threat, sir?” Illya Kuryakin put in via April's pen-communicator by bending his head close to hers.
“Because THRUSH is involved. I don't know how the threat is to be accomplished, but if THRUSH is involved there is a threat. I'd stake my life on it.”
“Well, sir,” April said. “I learned that Pierce's original plan was not to orbit single bombs because, like you said, they can be delivered more precisely by intercontinental ballistic missiles. He wanted to orbit clusters.”
“Clusters?” Waverly repeated.
Mark Slate came out of his slouch, sitting bolt right. Illya Kuryakin's face turned grim. He turned to look at Slate. His eyebrows lifted questioningly. Slate nodded shortly.
“Yes, sir,” April said. “It called for orbiting not a giant H-bomb but as many clustered baby bombs as possible. He claimed as many as fifteen with the power of the Hiroshima bomb could be orbited in one casing. At the moment of firing they would all be pre-directed to a predetermined orbit---each one falling on a different city!”
“Good heavens!” Waverly cried.
“If this idea works and he has joined THRUSH and Red China, that Red Satellite I could knock out every capital city in the Western hemisphere!”
“If properly scattered,” Illya said, “one such cluster bomb would completely immobilize half the world!”
“I believe improved bombs of the Hiroshima size would immobilize a city ten miles in all directions from ground zero,” Alexander Waverly said.
“If fifteen could be packed in a cluster,” Illya Kuryakin added, “they could definitely knock out every major capital from Moscow to Washington.”
“We do not know that this is what is behind Red Satellite I,” Waverly said, “but it is a definite possibility. You see, when China exploded its H-bomb, experts said it constituted no threat to the Western world because China did not have an ICBM capability to deliver these bombs in quantity necessary for war. This is true.
“But,” Waverly went on, a tinge of excitement coloring his habitually calm voice, “this will permit them to advance their timetable by ten years and attack now!”
“How did they get the thing up there anyway?” Mark Slate asked.
“When Red China announced it wanted to participate in peaceful space exploration, both Russia and the United States offered assistance,” Waverly said, “They thought it would help lessen world tension.”
“And the result is a THRUSH stinger hidden under the peaceful cover,” April said.
“And do you know,” Waverly said thoughtfully, “I suspect that in the end China will find itself double-crossed. THRUSH is not about to share any world conquest with any nation. China, whether she knows it or not, is as much in danger as the rest of us.”
“I think---”April began.
“One moment please,” Waverly said. “I have an emergency message.”
He pressed a blinking red button on the communications console in New York. In Paris the other three heard a woman's voice say, “Mr. Waverly, you asked to be notified if any information was received about Red Satellite 1.”
“Yes, yes!” Waverly said. “What is it?”
“China has just announced that it has placed a twin, Red Star II, in orbit also. It is circling the planet on the opposite side of the earth from Satellite 1.”
“Thank you,” Waverly said, a slight tremor betraying his shock. Then, into the circuit to Paris, he added, “Gentlemen, and Miss Dancer, this means that these would-be world conquerors can hit both the eastern and the western hemispheres!”
“Do you think the United Nations will believe you now?” April asked.
“I doubt it,” Waverly said. “But we will not wait for the world to realize the terrible atomic threat it faces. Such a wait will be fatal for all of us.”
“Then we will go it alone?” April asked.
“Yes!” Waverly said. “No matter what political pressure is put upon us. If I am wrong---it is the end of U.N.C.L.E.! But if I am right, it is worth the risk!”
“Shall we join you in New York?” Illya asked.
“No, separate to confuse any of the enemy who might be watching you. Then get to Taipei and join Mr. Solo as quickly as you can. Millions of lives and avoiding the terrors of atomic war depend on you now!”
FIVE
TERROR IN TAPEI!
It was night when Napoleon Solo land
ed in Taipei at the International Airport. He waited around the airport lobby for several minutes, hoping that his contact would meet him. Finally when it became apparent that nobody would, Napoleon took a taxi to the Golden Dragon hotel, where he had wired for reservations.
The place, built for a largely non-existent tourist trade, was like something out of old China. Solo almost expected to see the Dowager Empress enthroned behind the lobby desk. The old man who conducted him to his room looked like something directly out of Fu Manchu.
As the old man started to withdraw, after showing Napoleon to the room, he hesitated. In completely unaccented English he said: “I will be back as soon as it is safe.”
The humility of a Chinese servant in the Orient momentarily disappeared from his voice. He spoke as one speaks to an equal.
Napoleon's well-schooled face did not betray his surprise.
“Of course---Mr. Chu, is it?”
“Chu,” the old man said and started to pull the door shut behind him.
It closed all but a crack when he suddenly stopped. Solo, suspicious of any action even slightly out of the ordinary, slipped his hand inside his jacket to feel the reassuring grip of the U.N.C.L.E. Special in its shoulder holster.
The door swung in. Mr. Chu crumpled and fell to his knees. For a second he clung to the ornate door knob. Then he collapsed on the thick rug. A golden dragon woven into a tapestry on the hall wall looked down at him with a cruel, unblinking stare.
Solo only barely glimpsed the glitter of light on the curiously carved knife handle protruding from the old man's back as he threw himself to the floor.
There was a brief flash of a kimono through the open door. A twin to the knife in the dead man's back hurtled through the air in a direct line for Solo's face.
Napoleon jerked back and a second blade skimmed his cheek as it came from the open moon window behind him.
He kicked over a heavily carved teak table to protect his back and faced the window as the greater threat.
All he could see was a dark form through the lacquered lattice that screened the huge circular window. He saw what appeared to be a gun in the man's hand. But it gave a hiss instead of a bang and another knife flashed out of the hand launcher.
Solo switched his U.N.C.L.E. Special cartridge selector from steel slugs to the needle-thin paralyzing pellets with a practiced flip of his thumb. With his first shot he caught the knife-wielding assassin in the chest.
He whirled to face the one at the door. He could not see the killer's position because of the overturned table. Doubled up as he was, Napoleon was in a difficult position to move rapidly. That, he knew, could well be fatal in this desperate situation.
Gripping the U.N.C.L.E. Special in his right hand, he jerked off his shoe with the left. Bracing himself for a fast rise, he skimmed the shoe to the right.
Gambling that the sudden movement would pull his stalker's attention, Solo threw himself in the opposite direction.
Instantly it flashed in his mind that he had made a fatal mistake. The killer had not been taken in. As Solo jerked his head around the side of the overturned table, he saw the looming form of the knife man. The launcher in his clawish hand was pointed straight at Solo.
Napoleon tried to bring his gun up fast enough to beat the other's shot. He knew he had no chance!
He fired anyway. His hasty shot went over the killer's shoulder. But strangely, the man did not shoot back. His knees sagged under the floor-length man's kimono. He pitched forward on his face. The knife-launcher in his hand slipped across the rug. The tip of the blade in the gun-like barrel glittered wickedly.
Solo's eyes lifted from the dying man to the door. A girl was pushing it shut behind her. Solo was certain that she had shot the assassin, but he could see no sign of a weapon in her hand. Nor had she dropped it on the rug.
She closed the door and stood leaning against it, staring straight at him. He stared back at her in wonder. It irrelevantly flashed through his mind that he had more to stare at than she did.
She was what Old China called “the Willow and the Moon.” Her body, delightfully outlined by the revealing cheongsam split on the sides all the way to her hips, was slender and supple as a willow. Her face had the placid and round beauty which the Chinese poets likened to the moon rising full on a summer evening.
There was about her eyes, however, a smoldering spark that belied the calm temperament displayed by her lovely face. She gave Solo the uneasy feeling that here was a woman who could love or kill with equal passion.
“Good evening, Mr. Solo,” she said in accent less English.
There was a chiming quality in her voice that somehow made him think of distant temple bells ringing softly through evening gloom.
“It is good to know that you are here,” he said.
The all too obvious admiration mirrored on his face caused a faint flush to twist the girl's features.
“This is strictly business, Mr. Solo!”
The bells in her voice changed from soft bronze to ringing iron.
Solo smiled grimly and looked down at the two dead men, the old Chinese and the man she had killed.
“Rather bloody business, I'd say,” he remarked softly.
She shrugged her slender shoulders.
“Blood is messy,” she said indifferently. “But often necessary.”
“I am sorry,” Solo said. “I have forgotten my manners. The sight of such beauty---”
“Please, Mr. Solo!” she snapped, her dark eyes flashing. “I have a mirror. I am well aware of what I look like. Can we save time by passing over an enumeration of my so-called charms?”
Solo grimaced. “May I---” he began.
“I hardly think so,” she said. “Just let me say that the matter you were to see Mr. Chu about has been arranged. You will contact a man in Tainan who will see that you are put aboard a Nationalist Chinese Air Force reconnaissance plane which will drop you in Communist China.”
“And how will I recognize this man?” Solo asked.
“It isn't necessary,” she said. “He will know you.”
“Doesn't that make it rather one-sided?” Napoleon asked.
“Perhaps,” she replied. “But if it is disagreeable to you, you can always return to the States, to your pipe and carpet slippers, Mr. Solo.”
“Oh, I think I'd rather stay in Taiwan with you.”
Her eyes were frosty. “Stay in Taiwan, if you please, but without me. Now, if you please, don't bother about the bodies. They will be removed for you. There will be no police investigation. Everything will be taken care of.”
“How convenient,” Solo said.
“Yes, isn't it,” she said indifferently. “Good-by, Mr. Solo.”
“Wait!” the U.N.C.L.E. agent said hastily.
She paused with her hand on the ornate bronze doorknob.
“I don't know who you are,” he said.
“It doesn't matter.”
“I think it does,” Solo said quietly, but his eyes were as hard as her own. “I do not follow just anyone, regardless of the fact she may rival both the moon and the willow in loveliness. A smart trapper baits for rats with cheese---for men he uses beauty.”
For the first time since she came into the room, she regarded Solo with something that halfway resembled favor.
“Mr. Chu was to make the arrangements for you. He is dead. It is my job to carry on for him.”
“Why you?”
“Because Mr. Chu was my father.”
Solo's eyes narrowed slightly.
Chu was dead there on the floor at their feet. She did not seem disturbed about it.
The girl seemed to read his thought. She gave him a steady look.
“When I cry, I cry alone,” she said and slowly closed the door in Napoleon Solo's face.
SIX
WALKING THROUGH WALLS
Napoleon Solo scarcely had time to go through the pockets of the dead assassin before two silent men came to bear the corpses away. While the room was
being straightened and the blood cleaned up, Napoleon went down to the lobby.
An inquiry about the girl produced nothing. The desk clerk denied seeing her. A generous tip to a bellhop produced nothing either. Later Napoleon wandered around to the back. More tipping likewise brought no information. Apparently the girl had some secret way in and out of the place. Likewise, guarded inquiries about Mr. Chu brought only polite, but equally blank looks.
He finally turned in for the night. It seemed that he had but touched the pillow when the bedside phone shrilled in his ear. He sat up instantly, his hand automatically sliding under the pillow to close on the U.N.C.L.E. Special. Light streaming in through the moon window showed that he had slept longer than he thought.
“Mr. Solo?”
It was a woman's voice and it carried the chimes of distant temple bells in the evening mist.
“Yes!” Napoleon said eagerly.
“Could you come to room three hundred and two, please?”
“I will be delighted!” he said quickly.
Her voice turned cold. “I will not be there myself!”
“Oh!” Napoleon said and grimaced. “That correspondence course guaranteed me a pleasing personality. Oh, well---”
He dressed hurriedly and walked up the stairs to the third floor. The hall boy sat impassively at his desk, seeing everything, but appearing to see nothing. He saw very clearly the bill Solo dropped in front of him. It disappeared into his sleeve with a speed that was close to miraculous.
“Who is registered in Room three hundred and two?” Solo asked in a low voice.
“An American lady,” the boy replied.
“Pretty?”
The boy shrugged. “Beauty, the wise ones say, lies only in the eyes of the beholder.”
“In other words, you are too polite to say she looks like hell,” Solo observed.
He walked down to 302. He rapped lightly and stepped back. He pulled his U.N.C.L.E. Special from its shoulder holster.
There was a short wait. Then the door opened. A woman blinked at him from behind horn-rimmed glasses perched far down on her nose.
The Sinister Satellite Affair Page 3
