THIRTEEN
THRUSH BARES HIS CLAWS
Mark Slate peered through the overhanging boughs. There was no one in sight. He scanned the ground below. A cushion of pine needles promised a soft landing. His eyes roamed over the length of fence. The points of the barbed-wire gleamed wickedly in the dim light.
He cocked a trained ear. The sleepy chirp of birds, the clack of crickets, the squeaks of foraging chipmunks, the sound of nuts being cracked by sharp teeth and the rustle and squeals of predatory field mice. Nothing alien to normal life among the creatures of the forest.
Peering down on the forbidden side of the fence, he measured the distance to the ground. Much too high for even a calculated risk! This was not the time nor the place to chance a broken limb.
Ah! There was the ideal combination. A lofty spruce on the safe side of the fence, linking limbs with a tree, half its size, within the spiked barrier.
The pine-needles muffled the sound as he landed with bent knees. Another period of watchfulness, before he flitted through the shadows, silent as the scurrying creatures around him.
A shrill chorus of bird calls froze Slate in his tracks. He was concealed within the spreading boughs of a tiny spruce by the time the cause of the feathered alarm appeared. Two men, muffled in parkas, passed within inches of his place of concealment. The belts around their bulky coats bristled with lethal-looking weapons.
Even in the murky light, Slate could trace the outlines of holstered pistols, dagger sheaths and dangling objects that he guessed to be hand-grenades.
"'Krause doesn't miss a trick," he thought admiringly. "If his guards flush out an intruder who shows fight, they slice him up at close quarters. If he runs, they shoot him. If the poor guy manages to hole up somewhere in the forest and returns their gun-fire, they blast him to bits with hand-grenades. "
Slate's jungle training told him to remain motionless long after the two men had passed beyond his view. He grinned wryly at the success of his strategy, as a single, bulky figure loomed up in the mist, treading softly in the wake of the advance guards.
The third man's tread was barely audible in the distance, when Slate resumed his course. The murk became almost impenetrable darkness. Looking up through the trees, he saw that he had reached one of the canopies of camouflage designated in the aerial photographs. Slowing his progress to a noiseless shuffle, he peered about him. A flicker of light showed through the trees. Soon, it was a steady beam that served as a guidepost.
Slate had been prepared for a sizable operation, but the building he saw through the trees was much larger than he had anticipated. Ablaze with light, the structure sprawled over several acres of cleared land. The hum of dynamos reached him as he edged closer. Through the windows of the building, he could discern figures moving in and out through a complex of machinery. Further along, he saw white-coated men in a gleaming white-tiled laboratory, bristling with various types of chemical equipment.
The cautiously advancing Slate had made an almost complete circle of the building from the shelter of the forest before he spotted the entrance. There were no guards posted outside, but he could see two heavily armed men in the dimly lighted entrance-hall, behind the glassed doors.
Finally convinced that there were no roving men patrolling the area, Slate left the shelter of the forest and approached the structure. Keeping well away from the large splashes of light that filtered through glass openings, he edged along the walls to a latticed window and peered through the slats.
Row upon row of stacked cylindrical objects met his startled gaze. Practiced eyes identified the gleaming cylinders as the type of container used to store volatile gasses. An enclosed corridor of metal projected from the huge store-room. Slate followed its course into the forest. Obviously a loading chain and it was equally apparent that it led to the landing field for THRUSH’s supersonic air vehicle.
"The mist, of course," Mark Slate muttered, as he scanned the towering piles. "They've got enough of the stuff stored here to anesthetize literally millions of people."
His mind flashed back over the information U.N.C.L.E. had managed to accumulate, to date. "That's it! Incredible as it seems, THRUSH is planning to mesmerize entire cities and military centers.”
His pulse quickened. The pieces of the puzzle began to fit themselves together. THRUSH now controlled the major transportation facilities of the United States, through its "disciples!”
His military flying experience told him that there was only one way to bring that mist to urban, military and industrial complexes. Planes would spread it in the same manner used to disseminate crop-dusting insecticides. Men in other planes would broadcast directives to the submissive multitudes. Still other planes would bring in hordes of top-level mercenaries to take over the military reins. Trains, buses and trucks would rush necessary equipment and personnel to strategic points to enable the invader to remain in control.
“I can see obstacles to a takeover of this sort," Slate thought, "but it's a hundred-to-one bet that THRUSH has figured out a way to overcome them."
The hum of voices distracted his attention. He decided they were emanating from another latticed window, to his left. A moment later he was peering into an elaborately furnished office. He recognized Dr. Conrad. The medico was seated behind a huge desk. Three white-coated men were erect and listening, in chairs clustered around the desk.
Slate quickly fastened his acoustical device to the window-sash. Conrad's voice came through clearly.
"We have around forty-eight hours to finish our preparations for phase two. Our space ship arrives day after tomorrow. We will begin loading as soon as it lands. You have examined the craft's storage space, Dr. Aber. How many trips will be necessary to transport all of our mist to the designated flying fields?"
"I checked with the pilot and flight director," was the answer. "From the figures they gave me and the data I have accumulated here, seven flights will be necessary. Frankly, I would advise ten. Time is no object. The space ship can make that many round-trips, including loading time, in less than four hours."
Conrad nodded. "I agree. Why risk overloading? Now, as to the activities of you gentlemen and your staff. Do you feel that your men have been sufficiently drilled in spreading the mist?"
A cadaverous man with a nasal voice said, "As you are aware, our practice-flights over the wilds of New Guinea were completed without a hitch. Our lingual staff followed the mist-planes within five minutes. The drugged bushmen carried out all of the orders we broadcast through aerial audio-phones from the second formation of planes. I assure you, Herr Doktor, my crew is letter-perfect."
"Good! Now, we come to phase-one of General van Krause's invasion plan, with which we must dovetail. The general informs me that he and his technicians blacked out the entire East Coast of the United States on their recent test run with a single electronic scramble from the space ship to a vital point in the power lines.
"We are to meet with General van Krause in his tower office in exactly thirty minutes. He and his staff will have determined by this time, how many vital points they must scramble to paralyze the nation's entire power complex and how long the job will take. Are there any questions?"
The third man in the room said, "With your permission, I would like to drill my crew at least once more before invasion day."
Dr. Conrad said, "Of course. Will you need the gas-chamber?"
"No. We have no problems there. The gas-masks are leak proof."
"More parachute practice, per-haps?"
The man shook his head. "My men are veteran jumpers. It's not that. I want to make sure they know exactly what to do and how to do it, when they are confronted with military personnel who might conceivably have not been overcome by the mist. Our job is a tricky assignment. A lot depends on us."
Conrad's voice was soothing. "I do not have the slightest worry about your part of the operation and I know General van Krause has the utmost confidence in you. By all means, drill your men as much and as often a
s you think best. I know your reputation as a perfectionist. "
The man's pale eyes glowed with pleasure. Conrad smiled at him, before turning to the others. "I think we are in good shape for our conference with the General. Any more questions, gentlemen? I see that there are not. Let us---What is it Eric?" he asked, as a man in a white lab-coat burst into the room.
Slate stiffened involuntarily. A sixth sense told him this was trouble. He heard the man say, "Our sensitizor has picked up a foreign vibration in the area."
Conrad said, "Are you sure it is not from our own guards?"
"I've checked," the newcomer said. "They are well outside the magnetized area, making the usual rounds of the fence. This is definitely a stranger."
The medico leaped to his feet. "Alert the fence guards," he said to the speaker. "The rest of you go to your departments immediately and see that your men are under strictest security procedure. I will take some of our inside guards and flush out the invader. He won't get far, I promise you."
Slate cursed softly. He knew the odds against him. Removing the listening device from the window-sash, he ground it into the dirt with his heel and rapidly smoothed the surface over it, before heading for the nearest clump of trees.
Once inside the shelter of the forest, he moved cautiously toward file distant fence. He heard the sound of crashing branches behind him and realized that he had been spotted, as a shot rang out and a bullet whined by. Looking ahead through the trees, he saw the flashlights of another searching party.
His eyes went upward. He could never make it to the lower limbs of any of the surrounding trees, before his pursuers reached the spot.
Mark Slate shrugged and halted his progress. There were two finished bird sketches and one partially completed sketch in his knapsack. It was a remote chance, but his only one. He would plead absorption in his hobby.
"Don't shoot," he called out. "I surrender."
His hands were raised above his head when flashlights pinpointed him. He recognized Dr. Conrad among the panting men who surrounded him.
"I'm Slate, Mrs. Pine's butler," he said, as two of the men seized roughly. "Sorry to have caused such a disturbance. Must have lost my bearings when I was crawling around in the trees."
He tried to make his smile disarming as the flashlights continued to blind him. "I'm not very bright, but it seems obvious that I jumped down on the wrong side of that barbed-wire fence."
Something struck his head with sickening force. Before he blacked he heard Dr. Conrad say, "You idiot! We do not want him killed"
FOURTEEN
WILL U.N.C.L.E.’S SLATE BE ERASED?
Dr. Conrad surveyed the unconscious figure on the couch a worried frown. His fingers drummed a staccato beat on the desk. Casting an oblique glance at the stolid faces of the two guards at the door, he shook his head impatiently.
This would never do. Fear was contagious and uncertainty could wreck their plans. He must bring his emotions under iron control. He drew a deep breath. The fingers ceased the nervous tattoo.
The primary factor, of course, was to determine whether or not the man was as absent-minded as he claimed to be, or a clever agent of their implacable foe, U.N.C.L.E. The medico's fingers poked through the contents of Mark Slate’s knapsack that lay strewn on the desk.
There was nothing that did not bear out the captive's statement, but his presence here, at the most crucial stage of THRUSH’s preparations, seemed to be stretching the long arm of coincidence out of proportion.
Dr. Conrad sighed. If the man on the couch were one of the nondescript minor servants on the staff there would be no problem. He would put him through the third degree, with Nazi refinements, then, regardless of the outcome of the questioning, liquidate him.
Mrs. Pine's major-domo was another story. The medico knew that Slate had been brought in specially to cater to the wealthy disciple's wants. Only convincing evidence that he was a spy would justify the risk of upsetting the owner of the plateau, by eliminating her butler.
Conrad sighed. "Why couldn't this troublesome fool have waited a few more days to barge into the forbidden zone of the plateau?" A groan from the man on the couch stirred the doctor to action. He beckoned to the guards.
Mark Slate opened his eyes slowly. The face above him was a blur. He tried to sit up. Firm hands pressed him back. He heard a voice say, "Tie him securely. We don't want to take any chances."
The man on the couch groaned as rough hands rolled him over. "Easy there!" he cautioned, as the rope bit into his wrists. "You're cutting off the circulation." He gasped, as his captors twisted his legs in back of him and linked the rope at wrist and ankle.
"Mrs. Pine is not going to like this," Slate muttered through pain-wrenched lips. "A few more minutes of this torture and I'll be out of commission for weeks. At least, loosen the rope enough to allow the blood to flow. The pain is unbearable. "
Dr. Conrad's voice was grim. "The rope will be loosened when you tell me how much you have learned about our secrets. Don't bother to repeat your lies about stumbling into this zone by accident. We have proof that you are an U.N.C.L.E. agent."
Slate spoke through clenched teeth. "If you are asking me if I am ready to say 'Uncle' the answer is Yes. Uncle! Uncle! I've had enough."
"Then, you admit you are an U.N.C.L.E. agent?"
Slate groaned. "I'll admit to any thing, if you will loosen this rope."
Conrad motioned to the men. The rope slackened perceptibly.
Slate flexed his wrists and ankles. "You certainly play rough, Doctor. Now, suppose you tell me whose uncle I'm supposed to be. Whoever it is, I'm it. I don't want to get twisted back into that position again."
The medico motioned to the men. The rope tightened. Mark Slate uttered an involuntary moan.
Conrad said, "Agent Slate, I would advise you to cooperate with us. What you are undergoing now is fun compared to what will happen if you do not tell us how much U.N.C.L.E. knows and where your accomplices are."
"Loosen the ropes. I'll talk," Mark promised. He re-flexed wrists and ankles again. "There. That's better." Mentally, he was calculating the time. During the conversation he had overheard at the window, Dr. Conrad had said they were due for a conference with Krause in thirty minutes.
"Now, would you repeat your question, Dr. Conrad? I was in such agony that nothing you said made sense.
The medico made an impatient sound. "I advise you to quit stalling, Slate. I will give you one more chance. How much does U.N.C.L.E. know of our plans?"
"That's an easy question to answer," Slate said. "Uncle knows all and sees all. Next question."
As Conrad lifted a hand to signal the men, he said, "Before you go any further, I would advise you to contact my friend, Krishna. He will verify my story. As a matter of fact, Krishna would be with me, now, if he hadn't been too busy to go walking, today. He said he'd go with me if I put it off until tomorrow."
He twisted his features into a grimace. "Lucky Krishna! Unlucky me! If I'd had the gift of foresight I would have bearded Mrs. Pine in her den and insisted on having my off-day changed so he could come along. This is one time when misery would love company."
The medico's eyes were skeptical "A likely story," he said contemptuously.
A moment later he was speaking to the operator at the wireless tower. "This is Dr. Conrad. I wish to speak to Krishna. Yes. That is correct. Please tell him it is urgent."
There was a brief pause, before he spoke again. "Hello, Waller. No, you won't do. I must speak to---" He hesitated again. "Tell him we found Mrs. Pine's butler, Slate, snooping around in forbidden territory. Slate claims that he entered the area accidentally, while he was getting ready to do some sketching. Yes, we have him here, in this room.
"Frankly, the more I talk with him the more I am convinced that he is an U.N.C.L.E. agent. Slate says Krishna promised to go with him, if he would wait until tomorrow. Yes, but wouldn't it be simpler if I spoke to him, personally? Oh! I see. Very well, then. I will wait."
/> Dr. Conrad muttered something indistinguishable during the pause that followed. "In twenty minutes?" he said. "Excellent. I will interrogate the man while we are waiting."
He cradled the receiver and beckoned to the men.
"Let us make the most of our time," he said harshly . "We will take him to surgery. My new truth-serum will stop his play-acting. Hurry, now. Untie him. He will react more normally, if his limbs are freed."
Mark Slate decided that he had never seen a needle so long and shuddery as the one in Dr. Conrad's hand. He winced as the point pierced his flesh. The first shock of the drug had an impact like a blow. He wondered what the medico would think if he knew that his subject had slid a far smaller needle into a vein and then tossed the needle away, before submitting to capture. Mentally, he crossed his fingers. U.N.C.L.E.’s anti-truth serum had always worked before, but the medico's new drug was an unknown quantity.
Dr. Conrad looked at his wrist-watch. "Enough time has elapsed. Now, you will answer my questions truthfully. What is your name?"
"Mark Slate."
"Are you an U.N.C.L.E. agent?"
Slate's voice sounded genuinely puzzled, as he parroted the question. "Are you an Uncle agent? Are you an Uncle agent? I don't understand."
"Very well," the medico said.
"Forget the question. Now, think carefully. Why did you cross the barbed-wire fence and sneak into this area?"
"I don't remember crossing a barbed-wire fence," Slate said in a dazed voice. "I was in the tree, sketching a bird on its nest. I climbed down from the tree when I heard shouts and something that sounded like a shot. Something struck me."
His mouth worked silently for a moment. "I don't remember a barbed-wire fence," he repeated.
"You are lying!" Conrad shouted. "Tell me the truth. How much do you know about our mist? Where are your confederates?"
Slate's mouth seemed to be shaping words that would not come out. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse.
"Mist? Mist? Oh yes! There was a heavy mist. It was difficult to see very far into the forest."
The Mesmerizing Mist Affair Page 8