"Very likely they couldn't," Waverly said. "In order to cause disaster, they'd need to control no more than two or three, perhaps only one. They count on shock and reaction to help after the value of free world currency is forced down."
Illya persisted. "How could they control even one director who must be known down to his smallest vice by the World Bank and by his own people?"
"We have that answer, too," Waverly said. "THRUSH owns the Ultimate Computer, as you men well know. All known facts about World Bank directors are programmed into their ultimate computer. From these known facts, the Computer gives them the unknown facts, the weaknesses, strengths, perhaps even the most carefully guarded secrets in the pasts of these men. THRUSH would then find the weakest link and—" Waverly spread his hands, letting them complete the thought in their own minds.
After some moments Waverly said, "Our task is clear. Simple. We must uncover the plot and expose it. One factor THRUSH cannot overcome in an operation like this is publicity. Once their victim of blackmail pressure extortion is located, once that black secret is exposed, this particular gimmick will no longer work for them."
Illya spoke slowly. "But we must have proof, eh? To air suspicions, without proof, would only increase the panic—"
"Right. And play THRUSH's game for them," Waverly agreed. "I see I've chosen the right two men for this vital mission."
Solo spoke without much hope., "Our computers weren't able to supply the name of the man or men that THRUSH has gotten under its control?"
Waverly smiled sourly. "Our computer is not the Ultimate Computer, Napoleon. Using it against THRUSH's ultimate machine is a sad battle of unequals."
"We know nothing more than whet you've told us, then?" Napoleon Solo asked.
"We know only that THRUSH, through its Ultimate Computer, can learn men's weaknesses, can control them, and through this man or men, can control and wreck the world financially."
"Their man might be anyone in the World Bank," Illya Kuryakin said.
Waverly nodded. "And he will defy exposure, because he will have even more to lose, from his own view, than THRUSH. Exposure will mean disgrace and death to him. This is how THRUSH was able to get him under control in the first place."
"Where do we start?" Illya asked.
Solo yawned helplessly. "I could start with a shower and a beauty-rest."
Waverly said, "Hope you liked Paris, Napoleon."
"It wasn't dull." Solo touched gingerly at his face.
"We're sending you back there on the next jet."
"I wasn't that enthused about it—"
"Directors of the World Bank are meeting in Paris with the U.S. Secretary of the Treasury and De Gaulle's finance men. This seems an ideal moment to test THRUSH's strength and power."
"Should be easy, Illya," Solo said in a low ironic tone. "All THRUSH has is the Ultimate Computer—and after all, we have each other."
"Precisely my view," said Alexander Waverly.
THREE
THE AIRFRANCE jet screamed homing in on the black fabric of its runway laced across the Orly airfield. The lights of Paris shone distantly an hour before dawn. Even at this hour the City of Light glowed, sparkling like thrown gems.
Solo and Kuryakin left Customs, crossed the lobby to pick up the Citroen which had been reserved in their names. The vivacious French girl at the rental desk handed over the keys and bade them in French to have a good time.
Two menacing forms materialized from the fading night shadows as Solo and Illya approached theft car.
Solo hesitated a few feet from the Citroen, touching Illya's arm warningly.
The Arab girl and the huge Moor lounged against the hood of the Citroen.
"So you came back," the Moor said to Solo in pity and contempt.
"Do you have the fright concession at this airport?" Solo asked.
"Only when we need it," the Moor said. "Only when men like you refuse to learn."
"Friends of yours, Napoleon?" Illya inquired.
Solo spoke from the side of his mouth. "Watch his gloves. Metal lined."
"Come quietly," the Moor said, standing erect. "No one need get hurt."
"Oh, I think it's time someone got hurt," Solo said urbanely.
Solo lunged suddenly toward the Moor.
"Look out, Albert!" the Arab woman screamed.
The Moor laughed, setting himself. "I'm always careful, Gizelle."
Coming in close to Albert, Solo feinted with his left. Laughing, the Moor swung upward.
Solo danced lightly beyond the reach of the wildly swinging arm. He clasped Albert's wrist as the big Moor drove forward.
Grabbing the arm in both hands, Solo moved with him, smashing the gloved fist into the fender of the nearest car.
Albert sobbed in agony. Solo did not even hesitate. He chopped Albert across the neck with the side of his hand. Albert toppled, his face striking the car fender. The sound was like a boulder pounding metal.
Gizelle watched for one horrified moment. She sprang at Illya, fighting a switchblade from her pocket.
"Don't forget you're a lady, Gizelle," Illya warned, "Or I'll have to."
Gizelle sprang the blade free, flicking it open. At this moment she walked into Illya's fingers, driven short and hard into her throat.
"You left me no alternative, ma'am," Illya apologized.
Gizelle retched, dropped her knife. She sank to the pavement on her knees, hands pressed to her throat, face livid.
Illya jerked his head toward the Citroen, opening the door as he did.
Solo however, tossed him the keys. "I want Albert to recall this evening for a long time," he said curtly.
Illya scowled. "It's not like you to let rage suspend reason, Solo."
"I've never been quite this angry."
"You're making a mistake, So lo. Let's get out of here."
Fatigue and outrage made Solo hoarse. "I think it would be a mistake to let them off so lightly."
Illya slid across the seat under the wheel. He inserted the key in to the ignition switch, watching Solo through the windshield.
Solo lifted the car hood. On the pavement the Arab Gizelle remained crouched, watching in anguish. Solo hefted the Moor, draped him across the fender, both his gloved hands extended over the engine block.
Solo thrust the lead-lined gloves over the spark-plugs, lowered the hood across Albert's back.
"Start the car," he ordered.
Illya turned the key. The car motor sprang to life. Albert screamed; the hood was thrown upward. Albert lunged away, falling across the walk. He trembled all over. People turned, staring.
Calmly Solo lowered the hood, secured it.
He got into the ear beside Illya.
"Now let's go," he said.
Illya laughed. "Vengeance is a great thing with you, isn't it, Napoleon?"
Solo shrugged and laid his head on the seat rest. He stared at the ceiling of the compact. "My grandmother told me that if I always vented my rage on the objects of my rage, I wouldn't build up frustrations and end with a tic."
Illya reversed the car, turned it toward the Paris exit. "She must have been a great old lady. Wonder what she'd say we should do about a car that is following us?"
Solo sat up, checked through the rear window.
"Lose it," he advised.
"Your grandmother was a crunchy old girl, wasn't she?" Illya said, flooring the accelerator.
"She was all we could afford at the time," Solo replied. "And we wouldn't have been here without her."
The car behind them made no pretense it was not trailing the Citroen.
When Illya touched the brake at the highway entrance, the convertible slapped against the rear bumper.
Illya raced forward, turning in to the sparse truck traffic of early morning.
The convertible swung out behind them. Solo twisted on the bucket seat, watching it. He touched at the U.N.C.L.E. Special in its Berns-Martin shoulder holster.
"How many in the car?" Illya i
nquired, gripping the wheel with both hands.
"The top is up," Solo said. "Too dark to see. We know at least there's a maniac at the wheel."
"Got a bit of sticky news for you," Illya said after a moment. "Sixty seems to be our top speed."
The convertible pounced forward alongside them. Illya jerked the wheel, taking the Citroen to the edge of the road, slamming on brakes and then gunning it as the convertible whipped toward them.
"Couple of vegetable trucks," Solo said. "There's room for us between them. We won't make any time, but it's the safest spot I can think of at the moment."
"That convertible won't let us pass that rear truck." Illya protested.
"Perhaps not on the left," Solo agreed calmly.
Illya's blue eyes widened. "Pass on—the right?"
"My grandmother's watchword was resourcefulness, Illya."
"I wish she were driving."
"So do I, but we can't have everything."
There was the scream of metal as the convertible nudged at the Citroen's rear fender.
Illya swerved the car hard to the right, kept going. The Citroen struck the road shoulder, bouncing and chattering.
The trucker ahead, catching a glimpse of the compact in his off-mirror, struck his horn violently. His Gallic curses turned the dawn a savage blue.
Illya swung in ahead of the truck, missing its huge right front wheel by inches.
Both Illya and Solo grabbed leather, because at this same instant, the convertible whipped from the left into the narrow space between the two trucks.
Horns blared, brakes squealed. Only the swearing, weeping driver in the truck behind averted a collision by stomping on his brakes, fading behind them as if carried away on the wind.
Illya muttered something in a language that Solo didn't understand, and that perhaps Kuryakin didn't understand, either, words invented for this fearful moment.
The convertible bore in upon them, forcing them off the pavement.
"One small last trick remaining in my bag," Illya said half to himself.
He jerked hard right on the wheel and floored the gas pedal, whipping the Citroen to the inside of the lead truck, as he had done the first one.
They saw the convertible, still pulling into them, try to straighten. At this moment, the truck driver, alerted by horns and brakes behind him earlier, now slammed on his brakes instinctively.
The convertible in that brief instant raced toward the rear of the slowing truck on collision course.
At the last moment it was wheeled hard right, turning at a forty-five degree angle, going off the pavement, across the shoulders, down a ditch between stately chestnut trees, smashing hard into a five-foot hedgerow.
Illya battled the Citroen back into the inside lane of the highway. His knuckles showed gray on the steering wheel. His mouth was a taut line and he breathed heavily through flared nostrils.
He kept his stricken gaze on the highway ahead.
Solo turned on the seat, watching the convertible disappear in the distance behind them. "I was just wondering—"
"Yes, Napoleon?"
"Where could we get breakfast at this hour? You and my grandmother have worked me up one ring-a-ding of an appetite."
FOUR
SOLO AND ILLYA walked into the offices of Lester Caillou in the Paris banking district at ten that morning.
The reception room, done in contemporary French styling, was vacant when they entered. A chair was pushed back from the receptionist's desk. The typewriter was uncovered. A telephone lay off its cradle.
Subdued voices washed in from the connecting office.
Illya wandered about the room, gazed through a window at the view of the gardens and the river beyond. Solo rapped at the inner door.
Instantly, the voices ceased. Presently, a tall young woman in tight skirt, white blouse, hair piled dark and high in a lacquered roll, came through the door and closed it carefully behind her.
"What do you wish?" she asked in French. Her face was pale.
"We wish to see Monsieur Lester Caillou," Solo said.
She tossed a troubled gaze across her shoulder, attempted a smile that made her wan cheeks more bleak. "M'sieur Caillou arrives at eleven o'clock."
Solo nodded. "Then we'll wait."
"Could I be of some service?" the girl asked, perspiring.
"But certainly," Illya said. "Tell M'sieur Caillou we are here."
"He arrives at eleven," the girl repeated, in French.
"She's lying," Illya said to Solo in English. "She's really lovely, though."
"Yes." Solo gazed admiringly at the secretary. "I'd say about forty-five—"
"Forty-five?" Illya looked astounded. "Twenty, perhaps."
"Forty-five-twenty-four-thirty-six," Solo said smiling. The girl smiled too, unwillingly. "That's better, Mam'selle. I wondered when you'd admit to speaking English."
"M'sieur Caillou still doesn't arrive until eleven," she said.
"We are old friends," Solo said. "Would he mind our waiting in his office?"
He walked past her and opened the door. She caught at his arm and he heard her sharp intake of breath.
Her gasp matched his own.
In the inner office, staring at him, stood Albert, Gizelle and a young blonde woman who appeared possessed of more physical assets than the World Bank itself.
The blonde also sported a swollen, purpled eye, and her left arm rode a sling. In her other hand she held a small, snubbed .25 caliber pistol.
"Do come on in, Mr. Solo," she said.
Across her shoulder, Solo spoke five sharp words: "Get out of here, Illya."
Illya beat a hasty retreat toward the connecting office door, but Solo barred their way.
The blonde said, "Don't force me to shoot you, Mr. Solo. Because of you, I'm lucky to be alive."
"You don't drive well, do you?" Solo said.
"Don't push it," she warned.
Albert and Gizelle caught him roughly, pulling him into the inner office.
Solo saw in surprise that the secretary followed.
"I don't understand this," she said shakily. "I don't know these people."
"You don't have to know us, Yvonne," the blonde said. "Just keep your mouth closed and do as you're told."
Yvonne sagged against the door, watching them.
The blonde nodded toward Solo. "Search him, Albert."
Albert moved warily around Solo, gripping his arms, pinning him helplessly. He motioned to Gizelle, who removed Solo's gun from its shoulder holster and then retreated as if relieved to be out of Solo's reach. Gizelle had learned one thing this morning: a healthy respect for her enemy.
"That's all," Gizelle said.
"Secure him," the blonde ordered.
"You'll look pretty wild walking me through the Rothschild bank building in handcuffs," Solo said.
She did not smile. "Allow us to fret over details."
With Albert holding Solo, Gizelle moved in warily. She clipped chained cuffs to Solo's wrists. The chains in turn were fastened to a metal belt about his waist, concealed by his jacket. The hidden chains permitted little movement of his arms but were unnoticeable unless one searched purposely.
"Ingenious," Solo said.
"You'll find we get everything we want—eventually," the blonde said. "All right. Let's go. You walk out between Albert and Gizelle. The first move you make, I fire this gun into your spine. You have a great deal more to lose at this moment than we do."
The corridor was vacant. The blonde nodded and Albert nudged Solo forward.
Solo walked between the hoodlums, aware the blonde was immediately behind, the small automatic concealed by her purse.
The elevator opened. The operator looked bored. "Down?"
"Ground floor," the blonde said.
Solo took one last check of the corridor. There was no sign of Illya. He sighed heavily, entered the ornate brass cage between Albert and Gizelle.
The blonde stood behind the operator, some feet fro
m Solo.
Solo watched the floor-indicator, saw the red light calling for a stop at the third floor. He set himself.
As the operator lifted the handle to stop at the third floor, Solo brought his hand forward as far as the metal permitted, then slapped backward upon Albert's gloves as hard as possible.
His hunch was correct. Albert cried out in sudden pain. Gizelle screamed in reaction, lunging back away from Solo.
Solo snagged the tails of Gizelle's jacket, wrenching her between himself and the armed blonde.
The lift stopped, but before the door slid open the blonde acted.
She jabbed the gun in the operator's back. "Don't open that door—"
"But, madame—"
She pressed the gun harder. "This is police business. You will proceed to the ground floor. At once, without stopping."
By now, Albert had his agony under control. He held his painful hands out at his side, but used his bulky body to bull Solo back against the wall.
"Now, Mr. Solo," the blonde said. "What have you gained with your foolish games?"
Solo shrugged. "A good question. Unfortunately, I have no good answers."
At eleven Lester Caillou entered his inner office, accompanied by his secretary.
Caillou stopped so abruptly just within his door that Yvonne walked into him, and flustered, cried out apologetically.
Illya Kuryakin perched at ease in the window seat beyond Caillou's desk. He swung his legs, watching them with intent interest.
Caillou gazed at him blankly, and then peered at his secretary. "Who is this man, Miss Petain? What is the meaning of this intrusion?"
Yvonne Petain was unable to reply. Flustered and unnerved by this incredible morning, she burst into tears.
"There you are," Illya said. "That explains everything."
Caillou stared a moment at his secretary, then he said placatingly, "It's all right, Yvonne. I will call you later. You may go now."
Yvonne stopped crying, gazing at her employer, her eyes red-rimmed. "You don't wish an alarm?"
"Of course not. This is no time for notoriety. I'm quite capable of handling this young man." He turned again toward Illya as the secretary closed the door behind her. There was still no faint light of recollection in his dark eyes. "How did you get in here?"
Now Illya stood up, finding that he gazed at Caillou as puzzedly as Yvonne had. First, Caillou seemed at ease, master of all situations as Illya remembered him from the wild days in Iran.
The Brainwash Affair Page 2