The Brainwash Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  Yet hadn't Solo pegged Caillou's behavior at Orly Airport as surreptitious, the actions of a man sick with fright'?

  And most mystifying of all, why couldn't Caillou remember him? If it hadn't been for him and Solo, Caillou's carcass would now be rotting under a few feet of desert sand.

  Still, the shaky condition of world finance, of the World Bank itself, could explain erratic behavior, even Caillou's not recognizing him at once, unexpectedly confronting him in his own office.

  "Why shouldn't I get in here?" Illya asked, watching the banker. The years had made inroads. The thin face was lined, the hair grayer, the eyes less lively. "In France one can always find someone to bribe, eh?"

  Caillou did not smile.

  Illya laughed. "And anyhow, an old Arab buddy of yours from firing squad days like me—who would be heartless enough to deny me entrance through your private exit?"

  Caillou studied him intently. A look of relief washed across his face. He came around the desk, hand extended. "Of course! How stupid of me! Of course, you're Il1—Illya—"

  "Kuryakin," Illya said warmly, shaking hands.

  "Kuryakin, the man who saved me from a firing squad. How good it is to see you again, ma chere ami."

  He nodded toward a leather chair pulled near his ornate desk. He placed his hat upon a hat tree, studied himself in the dark mirror, sat behind his desk.

  "You met another old friend a few nights ago, Lester," Illya said. "At Orly Airport. You didn't recognize him, either."

  Caillou appeared to search desperately in the files of his mind. "Solo—Napoleon Solo?"

  Illya smiled. "He was upset when you brushed him off."

  "Brushed Solo off? What does this mean? I was upset. Yes. This terrible business. So much on my mind. I hope you will apologize to him." Then Caillou sank back, hardly at ease, even in his own office. "In what way may I serve you?"

  Illya grinned. "Solo and I had hoped to be of service to you— with your help, of course."

  "Anything. But how could you hope to serve me?"

  "I'm sure it's no news to you that the dollar, the pound and the ruble have been devalued in the world market. A sudden, inexplicable drop in their value, a demand for gold payments—"

  "A desperate situation—for some countries."

  Illya stared at him, frowning. "Lester! Those nations lead the world."

  "Perhaps it is time for a new world leader."

  "Is this you talking? Surely De Gaulle's government knows a devalued dollar will further depress the franc—"

  "It is nothing Bon Charlie would wish."

  Illya leaned forward. "We've a good idea who would want panic and fiscal chaos. That's why I've come to you."

  "Me?"

  Caillou straightened. "What would I have to do with such matters?"

  "You've gotten nervous since the old days in Iran," Kuryakin said. "Staying alive in the world of finance can be a slower, but more agonizing death than that of the firing squad, my friend.

  "We plan to expose the plot to wreck money values. We plan to expose the people behind it. I came to you as an old friend to enlist your aid in checking on the actions taken in international monetary affairs. We believe that through you, we can locate the people responsible and expose them."

  After a moment Caillou nodded. "Naturally I'll do anything I can."

  Illya smiled and stood up. "Good. This is what we were sure we'd hear from you."

  "What else would you anticipate to hear from an old friend?"

  Illya laughed and nodded. "Right. You see, I still wear it." He held up his wrist, shooting his cuff and displaying the twin to the Swiss chronometer worn by Solo.

  "What?" Caillou looked con fused.

  "The watch, Lester!"

  Caillou gazed at the watch, puzzled. "Yes. Very nice watch, indeed."

  Illya caught his breath and retreated a step, staring at the banker.

  Caillou stiffened. "What's wrong, old friend?"

  Illya dampened his lips with the tip of his tongue. "Nothing, old friend, I've just sort of goofed, that's all."

  He continued to back across the lavishly furnished office, not taking his gaze from Caillou's face. He reached behind him, turned the knob. He opened the door, stepped out into the midoffice of the suite.

  Closing Caillou's door, Illya turned and walked swiftly toward the reception room.

  Entering it, he heard the rasping buzz of the intercom summon Yvonne into Caillou's inner

  Yvonne sat at her desk, face gray. She ignored the buzzer. She stared up at Illya.

  "It's been one of those mornings when nothing goes right, hasn't it?" Illya said sympathetically. He walked out.

  The buzzer continued waspishly. Yvonne got up, entered Caillou's office.

  Caillou stood in the center of the room. He held out a small card with a telephone number on it. His hand shook.

  "Get me a private, outside line," he ordered. "Call this number."

  "For whom shall I ask?"

  Caillou's voice crackled in rage.

  "Never mind! Just get me the outside line. I'll talk to whoever answers."

  PART TWO

  INCIDENT OF A WORLD IN PANIC

  ILLYA OPENED the corridor door of Caillou's office and stepped outside.

  "Kuryakin!"

  The name was whispered at him, hissed.

  He wheeled around. He was not fast enough. As he turned, leaded gloves smashed across his eyes. He grunted in pain, and so did Albert.

  Sickness spread out through Illya from the bridge of his nose.

  Rocked on his heels, Illya staggered. He toppled against a wall and shook his head, trying to clear it.

  Albert advanced upon him.

  Illya gazed up through an occluding red haze at the pointed beard and old-bronze features of the Moor.

  The Moor laughed. "So I get you at last, eh?"

  Illya managed to speak lightly through the pain clouding his mind. "What kept you?"

  Albert showed him the snout of a Biretta. "Never mind that. Do you come quietly?"

  Illya looked at the gun.

  "The only way to go," he said. He straightened. Albert inclined his head toward the rear of the corridor.

  "I warn you," Albert said. "Do not push me. You are worth nothing to us alive."

  "You keep talking like this, Albert, and I'll begin to think you don't like me," Illya said.

  Albert snorted. "Keep walking."

  They passed the bank of public lifts, walked to the service elevator.

  Keeping the gun fixed on Illya, Albert pressed the button.

  The doors parted. Albert motioned with the gun. Illya preceded him into the cage

  The elevator plunged downward.

  Suddenly Illya lurched toward the controls, grabbed the lever, thrusting it downward.

  Albert pressed the trigger instinctively,

  The sound was like a cannon in the metal cage.

  The roar reverberated through the well, bouncing off the sump and the roof.

  The bullet imbedded itself inches from Illya in the metal. He wheeled around, whistling. "I never thought you'd do that. They must have heard that in every part of this building!"

  "I could have gotten you between the eyes if I wished."

  "What would you do carrying a corpse around?"

  "Keep pushing me! You will find out!" Albert stepped forward, waving the gun. "Let go of that handle!"

  As he spoke he reached out for it.

  "As you say," Illya said. He held his breath, timing it perfectly.

  He released the handle. It flew upward as Albert's hand came toward it.

  Albert screamed in pain as the handle slapped across his agonized hand.

  Illya brought his fist upward, sinking it wrist-deep under Albert's belt. Albert fired again, the shot going into the flooring. Illya chopped Albert across the neck with the side of his hand.

  For what seemed a breathless eternity, Albert stood unmoving, staring at Illya in a mixture of pain and c
ontempt.

  Illya caught his breath. His hand ached as if he had karate-chopped a four-by-four, and yet the big Moor continued to stand, peering at him.

  The elevator moved downward again.

  Illya stood tautly, waiting for the Moor to attack him again.

  Albert disintegrated gradually.

  First, his gloved hand loosened and the gun toppled to the flooring.

  Then a strange new emptiness veiled his eyes, they rolled up on their sockets.

  Albert slumped to his knees. He gazed up at Illya for another moment as if unable to believe what was happening to him. Then, as the elevator stopped, its doors parted, he sprawled forward on his face and lay still, in the elevator doorway.

  For a moment Illya hesitated. Through the open door he saw the elevator had reached a supply basement.

  He knelt, took up the gun Albert had dropped. Then he dropped it into his pocket and stepped across the prone hoodlum's form.

  He paused, gazing down at the unconscious man.

  "I do hope you won't be too inconvenienced explaining to your friends bow this happened, old fellow."

  Illya turned then and hurried toward an alley exit.

  TWO

  GIZELLE UNLOCKED the door on the third floor of a sidestreet hotel.

  Solo waited politely, but the blonde put her hand in the small of his back and thrust him forward into the room,

  Gizelle and the blonde followed. The blonde locked the door, removed the key and dropped it down into her copious bosom.

  "Marie," Gizelle said, worried. "Where is Albert? He should be here by now."

  The blonde gazed at her coldly. "Can't you live five minutes without that Moor?"

  Gizelle winced. "I would not be in––this—except for Albert. This is not my kind of thing."

  Marie laughed harshly. "No. We know what kind of thing yours is—luring suckers into the alley for your precious Albert to mug them. You're in something big this time. If you do what you're told, maybe you and your sweet Albert will have enough so you won't have to rob drunks in an alley anymore."

  Gizelle walked to the window and stood staring down at the street.

  She shivered.

  Marie's voice rasped at Gizelle. "Come take this gun and guard him. I must call the doctor at once."

  "Aren't you feeling well, Marie?" Solo inquired in mock solicitude.

  Marie lashed out, shoving Solo, and he fell upon the bed on his back. "And stay there—"

  "Alone? Like this?"

  "And keep quiet." She spoke over her shoulder. "Come on, Gizelle. Take the gun."

  Gizelle crossed the room unwillingly.

  She took the gun reluctantly. Solo saw that her earlier encounter had left her frightened, even when she held the artillery.

  Marie backed to the French phone, lifted the receiver.

  Solo made a false leap toward Gizelle. The dark-skinned girl screamed and almost dropped the gun.

  Marie threw the phone into its cradle, ran across to her. Her face was livid.

  "The next time he does a thing like that," Marie raved, "shoot him."

  Gizelle nodded numbly.

  Marie turned, her face twisted. She placed her hands on her hips. "You think I don't know how to quiet you down?"

  Solo grinned up at her. "I know how to quiet you down, too, Marie."

  Marie tossed her blonde head in contempt. "Is that all you think about—love?"

  "If you've never thought about it, Marie, don't knock it," Solo said.

  "Save this kind of talk for women like Gizelle—"

  "I like big blondes, Marie."

  "You'll never get me in your arms."

  "That's too bad. You don't know what you're missing—"

  "Huh!" Marie's mouth twisted. "All men are pigs."

  "That's why you're so full of war, Marie," Solo taunted her. "You hate love."

  "I hate men."

  "Sure. And you're turning to vinegar."

  After a moment of staring down at Solo, unblinking, Marie returned to the phone.

  Gizelle retreated a couple of steps, holding the gun on Solo in a trembling hand.

  Solo smiled at her. "I think you'd be happier back in the alleys, Marie."

  Her chin tilted. "We are going to be rich."

  "You and Albert?"

  "That's right. We are through with the old life. We will be rich."

  "Albert tell you that?"

  "Be quiet!" Marie ordered. "This call is important."

  Solo lay silently on the old iron four-poster bed, watching the blonde at the phone. She spoke finally, "Hello, Doctor. Marie. That's why I called you. No. I have not failed this time. I told you I would not. No, I don't have both of them. I have Napoleon Solo, and soon the other one will be here. Albert is returned to find him now. Cars are coming for us? How soon may we expect them?"

  Solo sat up on the bed as Marie continued to speak with deference and servility to the "doctor" on the phone.

  "Stay there," Gizelle ordered weakly. She tilted up the gun.

  "Press the trigger, Gizelle," Solo said.

  She winced, her face bleak.

  "I don't want to have to kill you," she said, almost pleading.

  Solo stood up. "Looks like you'll have to, Gizelle."

  Marie slapped her hand over the phone speaker. "Shoot him, you fool!"

  Solo leaped forward, going around the table. He caught at Marie, slipping his arm about her waist, putting her between him and Gizelle.

  Marie was raging crazily at her. Gizelle whispered frantically, "Oh, Albert—"

  "Albert won't help you now!" Marie raged. "I tell you, shoot him." She spoke again into the phone. "No, Doctor, I assure you everything's under control here."

  "The doctor's going to think you're an awful liar," Solo whispered into Marie's ear.

  She kicked backward, striking his shins with her pointed heel.

  Solo gasped, but tightened his grasp on her. As she tried to re place the receiver, he caught it.

  He ripped it from her grasp, brought it across her throat. Marie gasped, wheeling them around. She was stronger than Solo had believed.

  Gizelle fired. Only the fact that she was trembling in terror saved either Solo, her target, or Marie. The bullet whipped past them, splatting against the wall.

  Solo caught the wire, looping it around Marie's arms. He spun her until the wire held her immobile. She spat at him, raging.

  Across her head, Solo saw that Gizelle had retreated to the door. She braced herself against it, holding the smoking gun at arm length as though she hated it almost as much as she feared it.

  "Shoot him!" Marie raged at Gizelle.

  Reaching across Marie's shoulder, Solo thrust his hand down the front of her dress, coming up with keys to his cuffs and the door.

  "Delightful cache you have there, my dear," Solo said.

  Marie swore at him in blistering French, English and Italian.

  Holding Marie before him, Solo unlocked his cuffs, let them fall before him.

  Then he loosened the chain about his waist.

  As Marie raged, he snapped one of the cuffs on her. Then he thrust her forward, moving her toward Gizelle.

  The dark-skinned girl wailed at them. "Stay there! Stay away from me!"

  Her hand shook so badly she almost dropped the gun.

  Marie screamed at her.

  Suddenly Gizelle wheeled around, grabbing at the doorknob, trying to fight her way from the room.

  Solo pushed Marie against her. He snapped one of the cuffs on Gizelle. The Arab girl sobbed, between rage and relief.

  Solo reached out and took the gun from her unprotesting fingers. It was as if she were pleased to lose it.

  Sole led them at the end of the chain to the foot of the bed. He locked the chain to the iron post.

  "I'll leave you girls now," be said. "I know you've got a lot to say to each other."

  Marie turned the air blue with her swearing.

  Solo spoke to Gizelle. "She's begi
nning to repeat herself. Why don't you teach her some Arabic?"

  Marie spat at him again, frustrated.

  Solo stood another moment, regarding them. "You might pull the bed over to the phone, but you've pulled the phone out of the wall." He shook his head. "Au revoir, Marie, Gizelle. I hope you're able to think of something except bad words."

  "You pig!" Marie wailed at him. "Are you such a fool that you believe the doctor will let you get away with this?"

  He locked the hotel room door behind him. As he came off the lower step, he could hear Marie screaming.

  At the street door he paused. A black sedan sped into the street and slammed to a screeching stop at the curb.

  Holding his breath, Solo retreated into the shadowed hall. The doors were thrown open on the car. Four men piled out, hurrying across the walk.

  Solo leaned against the wall until the four of them ran past him, going up the steps. When the last one was on the first landing, Solo stepped through the door, went down to the sidewalk and walked away rapidly.

  He did not look back.

  Twenty minutes later he reached the hotel where he had registered earlier with Illya.

  As he took the key from the room clerk, he caught a faint shiftiness in the man's eyes. He went taut, thinking that death played with you—it missed you only by inches—it had allies everywhere.

  Two men moved from chairs to ward the elevator. Solo saw them from the corners of his eyes.

  He thanked the room clerk, turned away. He walked toward the elevator, at the last moment changed his mind and strode swiftly into the stairwell.

  He ran up the steps. At the second floor, he looked back; the two men were following him.

  He moved against the wall, going upward swiftly.

  Panting, he came out of the stairwell on the fifth floor. The first thing he saw was a man standing too casually at the far end of the corridor.

  He turned, seeing another at the other end. He shifted his jacket up on his shoulders, thinking that the doctor worked swiftly when aroused.

  The two men moved away from their posts. Behind him, Solo heard the hurrying steps on the stairs.

  He strode purposefully, trying to conceal any sign of panic, toward his door. He held his key ready to thrust it into the lock. Then he thought: even if he made it that far there was no time to unlock the door. They'd be on him.