"Check! Can you be there in ten minutes?"
"Make it fifteen," Slate said. "I didn't want to mention it before, because I was afraid you'd think I was weaseling out of doing the human-fly bit with you, but my legs are so stiff and sore I can hardly navigate. My reptile assailants, aided and abetted by Dr. Conrad's blood-suckers, literally knocked me bowlegged."
April Dancer paused in her climb, half-way to the open window, as her hip began to vibrate. She and Mark had agreed on an alarm code. If Mark spotted anyone, or heard a suspicious noise, he would press the sending button on his fountain-pen transmitter until she received six distinct vibrations.
A pause, while she counted to twenty; then three more beeps would signify that all was clear. She clung to the wall and peered down to the spot where she had left her colleague. Inky blackness! She couldn't even see Mark's outline. The vibrations continued. "Five-six." She breathed a sigh of relief as the count continued on to twenty.
It was not the code signal. One of their agents was trying to contact them. Mark had allowed the count to continue until it reached twenty before he responded to the call, to assure her there was no danger.
April Dancer continued her ascent. In a surprisingly short time, one hand was grasping the window- sill. The other followed. One quick heave and she was in the room. The tennis shoes she wore made little whispering sounds as she made her way slowly to the dais.
The grill that concealed the ventilating system was the next step. She felt its surface carefully. Lucky break! It was constructed of wood. Her fingers explored the edges. She exerted pressure on a corner. The grill moved. This was a break! April wouldn't need any of her midget tools to dislodge the grill from the wall.
More pressure on the corner she had loosened. One more yank. The grill was in her hands. Placing it carefully on the floor, she tilted it against the wall and reached for the tiny flashlight.
A moment later she was on the inside of the aperture. The first thing she saw was an enormous tank with an attached nozzle that obviously was used to spray the mist into the music room. April's heart sank. She could never budge this monstrosity. Moving the tiny flashlight in her hand, she saw that the space behind the grill was surprisingly large.
She gave a little gasp of delight. Stacked neatly in a corner of the room were a dozen small tanks. Several of the tanks were attached to something that looked like shoulder straps. Portables, she decided. She peered more intently. Gas masks. At least a dozen of them.
"What could be sweeter?" she crooned softly. "Portable sprays and masks to protect us when we use them."
April Dancer bent over one of the portables and examined it closely. "Here goes," she muttered. "I've got to make sure,"
She slowly turned a valve. A hissing sound signaled the escape of some pressurized substance. April put her face close to the nozzle and sniffed. An odor between ether and attar of roses assailed her olfactory nerves. She gasped. Even this small amount was potent. She felt herself blacking out. A quick tug at the valve and the hissing stopped.
"Talk about instant blackout," April marveled. One good whiff of this stuff will put you out like a light. I can't wait to try it out on a big, bad THRUSH."
She decided that two of the portables would never be missed, if she restacked them carefully. The gas masks were an untidy pile. There was even less chance of their absence being noted. All of the equipment was light. It took very little effort to readjust the pile and lift two of the portables and masks through the aperture. The grill slipped easily back into its niche.
In no time at all she was standing by the open window, fastening the twine to one of the tanks. One flash of the tiny beam. She saw an answering flash below and lowered away. A tug on the line and she pulled it up. The second portable and its attached masks went down without incident. Slipping the twine back into her knapsack, she threw a shapely leg over the sill and began the descent.
At almost the identical spot where she had received the "false-alarm" vibrations, April felt the tiny pen throbbing against her hip. She began the count. "Four-five-six- It had stopped." She counted an interminable twenty seconds. "Thank Heavens! There it was. Three distinct throbs."
She started to grope downward with an exploratory foot and found to her horror that both of her legs had become locked in a charley horse of bunched muscle, during her tense pause.
"It's like a cramp when you're swimming," she assured herself. She disengaged one hand from a crevice and began a slow and systematic rubbing of the rigid muscles. She could feel the muscles gradually relaxing. Soon the pain and the rigidity had completely subsided. As she started downward again, she thought: "Funny, the crazy things that pop into one's mind when you are exposed and vulnerable."
As April had clung spread-eagled against the stone-wall, part of her mind had been busy checking the vibrations and thinking of the probable danger on the ground, below. The other part had gone back up the wall and into the open window, above her.
The thought that had flashed into her mind was--- "Wouldn't it be ironic if someone spotted me, stuck his head out of that window and sprayed me with mist. Spray for a human fly!"
EIGHTEEN
TEARS FROM U.N.C.L.E.’S BABY
The man at the prow of the sled took a long swig of hot coffee from his thermos before crawling across to the opposite end. He looked down at the sleeping youngster. It was a shame to awaken the kid, but Illya Kuryakin had given them strict orders to change shifts every two hours.
"This sub-zero cold will put you in a mental fog, if you don't," he explained. "I'm leaving you only one sleeping-bag. That way, the man on guard won't be tempted to be noble and stick it out for another thirty minutes."
He grinned wickedly. "Also, it eliminated the temptation to crawl in the sack for forty winks when you're on guard duty." The man shook the sleeping form gently. "Sorry to disturb your dreams, Randy, but Illya was adamant about our changing shifts every two hours."
Randy Kovac stretched his mouth in a prodigious yawn, before struggling out of the cumbersome covering. "Right you are, Johnny. Did you hear anything while I was asleep?"
Johnny Corrigan played it dead-pan. "Yeah. I heard some very alarming sounds."
The youngster looked at him in astonishment. His voice started at low register and rose to an indignant squeak.
"Why didn't you wake me up? Illya was very definite about our alerting each other if we hear the slightest sound out of the ordinary. What was it?"
"I had a hard time tracking it down," Johnny said. "At first, I was sure it was a couple of berserk bears locked in a death struggle, but when I finally located the noise, I realized it was coming from our community sleeping-bag."
Corrigan reached for the discarded bag. "Take my advice, Randy. When, or if you get married, don't ask for separate beds. Insist on separate rooms. Otherwise, you're apt to have the shortest honeymoon on record."
Randy chuckled. There was relief in the sound. The only thing that could get a rise out of him was the possibility of fouling up a mission. He catalogued the constant ribbing of his older colleagues in the same bracket with changing voices, pimples and other adolescent plagues. It was the price one paid for growing up.
He waited until the other man had fastened the sleeping-bag at the throat before looking at the luminous dial on his watch. Their relief team was slated to arrive in three hours.
He smiled at the already snoring Corrigan as he set the tiny alarm for five. That would give his team mate an extra half-hour's sleep.
"The old guy needs it," he thought. "I hope somebody gives me a break when I'm over the hill."
Johnny Corrigan was thirty-five years old.
While U.N.C.L.E.’s youngest agent was philosophizing on growing pains and senile decay, there was a hum of activity on the opposite side of the island. General von Krause had just stepped out of the cable-car with his bodyguard and six of the plateau's Arab guards.
Krause returned the salute of the two men at the door of the cottage.
A moment later, he and Fritz Waller were shaking the occupants into wakefulness.
Krause gestured toward the stove as he spoke to Waller. "Put some coffee on, Fritz."
To the men, he said, "Get into your warmest clothes. Each of you will pilot one of our sail-sleds on a complete circle of the island. A guard will accompany you."
He looked at his watch. "The first sled will leave immediately. The others will follow at three-minute intervals. We are using the sails because silence is essential. Try not to make any more noise than you can help. Captain Waller has been training you with the sails for just this emergency. He and I will remain at the dock with the power-sled."
Krause beckoned to the Arab guards who had followed them into the room. "One of you will go with the pilot, on each sled. You know how to operate the walkie-talkies I gave you. Call me immediately, if you sight a sail-sled or any moving object on the ice. I will give you your orders then.
"Be sure that you keep at least a half-mile apart on your round. If you spot anyone, try not to alarm them. Stay close to the cliffs. If there is anyone contacting the plateau, they will be there."
Waller waited until the last of the sails had melted into the stygian darkness before he spoke.
"Now, Herr General, perhaps you will tell me the reason for all this sudden furor. You yank me out of a sound sleep, rush me down here in a dizzying cable-car, then send the men scurrying off like a pack of hunting-dogs. Come now, at least give me a clue. What has happened?"
The two exchanged smiles. There was no mistaking the camaraderie that existed between these ruthless and hardened men. They had fought side by side in innumerable bloody encounters. Each had saved the other's life on numerous occasions. Perhaps their strongest bond was the unholy pleasure they shared in seeing an adversary writhe in agony under sadistic torture.
Krause said, "Actually, I find that a difficult question to answer. I awakened from a sound sleep tense, nervous and, yes, even fearful. I had a sudden flashback of yesterday's incidents. The butler's capture, Dr. Conrad's disobedient attempt to kill him in the snake-pit, the frantic efforts that saved his life and my talks with Slate in his quarters. I found my mind dwelling on that conversation. The more I reviewed our talk, the more I became convinced that this man has to be an enemy."
He made an impatient sound. "To be honest with you, Fritz, I can't put my finger on any one thing he said or did that makes me so certain. Call it intuition. Call it a sixth sense, developed during years of espionage and sabotage activities for der Fuehrer. Or lay it to my subconscious mind, working away while I was asleep.
“Call it anything you like, but I suddenly knew this man was an U.N.C.L.E. agent. As you are aware, our powerful scrambling rays make it impossible for anyone on the plateau to communicate with the outside world. When I became fully awake, I realized that Slate must have fellow-agents nearby. It would not be too difficult to signal them with semaphore from the cliffs. "
Waller nodded. He had a great deal of respect for his friend's hunches. There had been occasions when they spelled the difference between life and sudden death. Before he could speak, the walkie-talkie crackled. A subdued voice came through. "General Krause, are you receiving me?"
"Yes. Quick, man. What is your name? What have you found?"
“I am Abdul Gamal, General Krause. We are in the first of the sail-sleds you sent out. I heard the sound of voices coming from the ice. The cliffs seem to act as a sounding-board at this point.
"The voices were plainly audible. I heard a man say, ‘Illya was very definite about our alerting each other if we hear the slightest sound.' The flapping of something that sounded like a sail drowned out the rest. What are your instructions, sir?"
"Alert others at once. Use your short-wave. Tell them to furl their sails and proceed as slowly as possible until they reach you. Tell them to watch their radar flashes carefully so there is no chance of a collision. After you have them together, put out your ice-anchors.
"Leave one man to guard the ice-craft and advance afoot with the others to the spot where you heard the voices. If you can catch them unawares and they are not too large a force, seize them. If they put up a fight, fall back and call me at once. I don't want them killed. They are far more valuable to us alive.
"Also, I don't want any shooting. Try to conduct the operation silently. Captain Waller and I will be there two minutes after you call. We have something aboard that will take care of them efficiently and quietly. Over and out."
Krause grinned as he adjusted the shoulder straps of portable mist-spray around his subordinate's shoulder. "This will do the job, eh, my friend?"
Waller laughed. "We will have them singing 'Deutchland Uber Alles' before you can say 'Heil Hitler!' "
Krause cracked his knuckles impatiently as the moments sped by.
On the other side of the island, Randy Kovac sat motionless in the stern of the ice-sled, straining to the slightest sound and peering in all directions. This was one time when hearing was more important than sight. It was impossible to see anything a foot beyond the ice-craft.
He picked up his ears. Was the sound of shuffling feet? The noise ceased, then resumed. Randy reached into his shoulder-holster and yanked out his dart-gun with one hand. He shook Corrigan roughly with the other.
Years of experience in tense situations kept Johnny Corrigan mum as he felt the tug. He wasted no time. Unfastening the sleeping bag, he kicked it off. Another moment and his dart-gun was in his right hand, a tear-gas spray in his left.
White figures suddenly loomed out of the night. Corrigan was the first to act.
"Use the tear-gas," he shouted as he pumped gas at the approaching figures.
There was a chorus of gasping coughs. The white line halted. A sound behind them caused Corrigan to turn. Something hard and heavy descended on his head.
After firing his spray-gun, Randy turned, just in time to see Corrigan slump into the bottom of the sled. He placed a well-aimed dart in the forehead of the figure that was bending over his teammate. The man fell over the recumbent Corrigan, but another white-robed figure took his place.
Before Randy could pull the trigger again, his head was yanked back in a throttling hold and his arms were locked behind him in a vise-like grip. A very smelly hand shoved something into his gaping mouth. An equally odorous cloth pinned the gag in place. He felt an abrasive rope being twisted around wrists. Another smelly cloth blotted out his sight.
He heard a voice with a distinctly guttural accent say, "Mission accomplished, General. There were only two. We have them tied up. What are your instructions?"
Randy Kovac recognized the rasp of walkie-talkie transmission in the voice that answered.
"Good work, Abdul! Light a flare to guide us. We will be there in a few moments." The roar of a motor came through, then silence.
The boy from U.N.C.L.E. groaned. What a way to wind up his first really important assignment! His stomach constricted as he thought of Corrigan's prone figure. Randy had never witnessed violent death, but his teammate's limp body had seemed completely lifeless.
The distant sound of a motor became a roar. There was a swishing sound and a bright light filtered through Randy's blindfold. A man spoke. Randy recognized the voice that had come through the walkie-talkie.
"Phew! So they used tear-gas on you. Here, Fritz. Circle around the area with this spotlight. We must make sure there are no others. What's wrong with that man? Has he been shot?"
The voice of Abdul replied. "I pulled a dart from his forehead. He seems to be paralyzed."
"Paralyzed? Give the dart to me, Abdul. I must have it analyzed."
Rough hands yanked the blindfold from Randy's eyes. The blinding beam of a flashlight caused him to wince. When his eyes became accustomed to the glare, they focused on the face that had been shoved almost against his own.
Randy's first thought was, "What an extraordinarily handsome man!” He suddenly realized there was something incongruous in that face. The tanned features w
ere classic. The eyes were satanic. The gleam of white teeth creased the dark and beautiful face. The man before him laughed uproariously.
"What have we here? Don't tell me an infant caused this havoc? Come, Fritz, you must see this face. It is unbelievable. As I live and breathe, a baby U.N.C.L.E.!"
NINETEEN
ZERO HOUR FOR UNCLE VERSUS THRUSH
“Oh no! Not again," Mark Slate moaned. Only the discipline of years kept him from reaching into the coat pocket of his pajamas and throwing the pulsating transmitter across the room.
"Talk about above and beyond the call of duty," he muttered. Fumbling inside the jacket, he extracted the tiny set and elevated the aerial.
"Slate here. And, I don't mind saying I wish I was somewhere else. Can't it keep until daylight, Randy?"
April Dancer's voice came through. "Disconnect and go back to sleep, Mark. I'll take it. Go ahead, Randy."
"This is Jim Schwartz. You'd better stay with us, Mark. Tommy Taylor and I sailed in a few moments ago and found nothing but a pattern of gashes on the ice where Kovac, Corrigan and their ice-sled should have been. No blood, I hasten to add. Whoever captured them pulled the trick without undue violence.
"Judging from the marks on the ice, I'd say Randy and Johnny were overwhelmed by a sizable force. There's a trace of tear-gas left. They must have put up a battle. We were due to relieve them at this hour. I called you first. You two are in charge of the operation. I want instructions from you before I contact headquarters."
Mark Slate said, "You first, April. You're the strategist of the team. Besides, I'm in an absolute fog."
"Thank you, Mark. Jim, your first move should be to ask Mr. Waverly for reinforcements. Tell him they must be skilled in handling ice-sleds. You can rent the sleds from the same man who supplied your present craft. He has dozens of them. When you get your flotilla organized, take them to the opposite side of the island from where you are now.
The Mesmerizing Mist Affair Page 11