The Brainwash Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  He reached for his gun, realizing in that instant that it was gone and that he had alerted the two men who might not until this moment have been certain he was their prey.

  He walked faster, reaching the key toward the lock. But as his hand touched the door, it was pulled open.

  He hesitated, seeing they were waiting for him everywhere, and he had walked into a trap.

  He would have retreated, but Illya reached out, snagged his wrist, jerked him through the opening. Illya slammed the door in the faces of the pursuers.

  "Welcome to the Tower of London," Illya said.

  Solo flinched, "How about this? Prisoners, at twenty-five dollars a day!''

  Illya exhaled and sat down on the bed. "They've been out there for some time. I tried to go out, but they were unpleasant about it, and I changed my mind. I've been thinking about calling the law."

  Solo exhaled. "We are the law, Illya."

  Kuryakin grinned. "Oh, yes. I keep forgetting. This means we're in something of a real bind then, doesn't it?"

  "If you care for understatement."

  Solo prowled the room. From his window he saw men standing in the street below, peering up at him.

  Solo lifted his gaze. In windows across the busy street he saw other men, armed with guns, telescopes, fixed on his window.

  He retreated a step.

  He spoke over his shoulder. "The doctor is really mad with us."

  "Who's the doctor?" Illya said.

  "It beats me."

  He moved his gaze across the faces of the watching men, men in shadows, without faces, standing tautly. They waited down there, and he knew they were in the corridors.

  "That's the way I feel about Caillou," Illya said behind him.

  Solo moved away from the window.

  "What do you mean?" he asked.

  "Caillou. It beats me." Illya shook his head. "I got back into his office. I waited in there until he came in."

  "You talked to him?"

  "I talked to Caillou's face."

  "What are you talking about?"

  Illya scowled. "I only learned one thing in that office. The man I talked to isn't Caillou."

  Solo stared at him. "Are you coming unglued?"

  "I don't know. I may be. All I know for sure is that the man in Caillou's office is no more Caillou than I am." Illya paced. "Are you sure the man you met that night at Orly was Caillou?"

  Solo considered. Finally, he nodded. "It was Caillou, all right. He recognized me—"

  "And your watch?"

  "Yes. It was Caillou. Besides, they tried to kill Caillou. That night."

  They sat some moments in silence, trying to add what they had. At last, Illya said, "Suppose that man at Orly was really Caillou. Suppose he was trying to get away."

  Solo nodded. "Sure. THRUSH got something on him. They forced him to go along with them. Then it got so bad that Caillou couldn't stomach it. He tried to run. They were after him—that's why he was so scared when I spoke his name. Out on the runway they tried to kill him—"

  "Maybe they have," Illya said.

  "I didn't see him any more. Albert and his Arab girlfriend pushed me in a corner—"

  "Then they must have finished Caillou off and put a ringer in his place at the banking company. The guy there didn't know me until I told him who I was. And he had no idea at all that the real Caillou had given me this watch!"

  "Little trivia that THRUSH's computers overlooked," Solo said.

  "How about this?" Illya said, his eyes glowing as he figured the angles. "THRUSH saw that Caillou was going to be hard to handle, so they got a ringer ready to run in his place. Only Caillou broke and ran ahead of time, and we showed up, and that forced them to bring in the ringer—"

  "Before he was fully briefed!" Solo nodded. "They had to use him before he was ready."

  "Which brings us right back to the real Caillou. Where is he? Is he still alive? Dead?"

  "That's not fair. You've got all the questions and I don't have any answers."

  "We've got to find the real Caillou, haven't we? Before the ringer can really take his place?"

  "There you go with the questions again."

  "We can't sit around here, can we? How are we going to get out of here?"

  "I told you! Try with some answers already."

  "Are you nuts? If I had answers, I wouldn't have to stand around here yakking like this."

  A knocking at the door rasped across his words. Solo and Illya exchanged glances. The knock was repeated, frantic now.

  Illya pounced across the room like a lynx. He pressed his face against the door facing. "Who's there?"

  "I. Yvonne. Please. Let me in. Hurry!"

  "Wonder what your grandmother would say in this situation?" Illya said. He slapped off the locks, opened the door.

  His eyes widened.

  Two men bore down on Caillou's terrified secretary from both ways along the corridor. Their guns were drawn. As they reached out for her, Illya grasped her extended arm and yanked her through the opening.

  She went stumbling across the room, trying to catch her balance.

  "Solo!" Illya whispered.

  Solo leaped to his aid. He struck the door with his shoulder as the men outside landed against it. During the next fraction of a second, which seemed an hour, the door trembled, neither closed, nor open.

  Then the lock clicked into place. Illya slapped the second lock into place, and he and Solo sagged against the door, sighing.

  They stared at the secretary, who finally had straightened and stood facing them, her eyes wide, swimming with fright.

  "I hope you don't mind," Illya said to Yvonne, "if I ask you a few questions."

  "He's a bear for questions," Solo said. "Not much for answers, but wild with questions."

  Illya stared at Yvonne. "How did you get in here?"

  She stared at him, her full lips parted. "You helped me in! Those men—"

  "Those men just let you walk up to the door?"

  "Yes. Then they came running toward me—"

  "All right. We'll let that go for now. How did you know where to find us?"

  She frowned. "Why, I knew all along. We got a telegram from the director of the World Bank saying you and Mr. Solo would be at this hotel, that you would visit Mr. Caillou, and we were to offer you every assistance."

  "You mind my saying I don't believe you?" Illya said.

  "Another question," Solo interposed.

  Yvonne straightened angrily. She looked even more intriguing with her shoulders back. "If you doubt me, then I will leave," she said. "I will not stay where I am not trusted."

  She turned and strode across the room to the window.

  Sole sprinted from the door. She wheeled around, gazing at him in terror as he raced toward her. He thrust her away from the window as a bu1let splatted into its sill.

  She toppled this time, landing hard on the carpeting. She stared up at them, her lips quivering.

  "We're only trying to make you feel at home," Illya said.

  "I want to get out of here," Yvonne sobbed.

  Illya shrugged. "We share your sentiments. But at the moment we're not sure just how to work it."

  "What he means is," Solo said, "we don't have an idea in the world."

  Solo helped Yvonne to her feet and led her to a couch. He sat down with her, dabbing at her eyes with his handkerchief.

  "How come you take all the best assignments?" Illya said.

  Solo put his arm about Yvonne. She was on the brink of hysterics.

  "Why did you come here, Yvonne"

  Her lips trembled. "I need help. My employer, Monsieur Caillou, needs help. Something is wrong. I never saw him act like he did today."

  "There was something wrong with him today, all right," Illya agreed.

  She looked up, troubled. "Oh, did you notice it, too?"

  "In what ways did he seem strange to you?" Solo prompted.

  "In the calls he made. In the people who came to visit him—peo
ple I have never seen before. He didn't know where anything was. His temper, so short—Monsieur Caillou is one of the most patient of men."

  "This was one of his off days," Illya told her.

  "Something is very wrong," Yvonne persisted. "As soon as Monsieur Caillou left the office today, I came looking for you. I hoped you could help him."

  "At the moment I'm afraid we could use a spot of help ourselves," Illya said.

  Solo said, "Where did Caillou go when he finally left his office, Yvonne?"

  "I don't know. To his chateau, I suppose."

  "Do you know where it is'?"

  "Yes, of course."

  Solo sighed heavily. "Suppose we were some way able to get out of this room, Yvonne. Would you take us to Caillou's chateau?"

  "But of course."

  Solo grinned. "Well, that part was easy." He stared at Yvonne a moment, and then at Illya. "Suppose you start, Yvonne, by giving Illya your dress."

  "What?" Yvonne stared at him.

  "I echo that," Illya said. "I don't even want her dress. It'll never fit me."

  But Yvonne was already loosening zippers, pulling the dress up over her head.

  Her hair mussed, her face flushed, Yvonne handed her dress to Solo. He gazed a moment, admiring her in a black lace slip, then tossed the dress to Illya.

  "Put it on," he told Kuryakin. "Give Yvonne your clothes."

  "I'll just go in the bathroom to change," Illya said. "After all, I'm not wearing a black lace slip." He took a step toward the bath, paused. "You mind saying why I'm doing this?"

  "That dress is your color," Solo told him. "It will do magic things for your eyes. Besides, if you can get out in the hall, make the guards out there think you're Yvonne until they get close enough, you can explode a gas pill. That'll give us time to clear out of here."

  Illya shook his head. "With me looking like a female impersonator."

  "This is Paris," Solo told him. "Don't fight. Switch."

  As Illya turned toward the bath room again, there was a knock on the door. He hesitated, tautly, glanced across his shoulder. "I had no idea we were so popular."

  Solo crossed the room. He stood

  "Bellboy, M'sieur. I have a message."

  "Push it under the door."

  There was a pause. Then, "I'm afraid I can't do that, sir."

  Solo and Illya exchanged knowing glances.

  "Here we go again," Solo said. He spoke toward the door again. "Just a moment."

  Illya tossed the dress to Yvonne. "Put it back on. We've just abandoned Plan One. Alternate Plan Ten."

  "Plan Ten?" Yvonne stared at him, puzzled. "What on earth is Plan Ten?"

  "Pray a little," Illya told her.

  They waited for Yvonne to pull on her dress, straighten it. She was still yanking at zippers, patting at her hair, when Solo caught her arm and pulled her close against the wall behind him at the doorway.

  "Monsieur?" the bellboy said in his calmest, most polite tone.

  Yvonne was trembling, her teeth chattering.

  Solo gave her a pen-sized aluminum vial with a plastic cone at its top.

  "Oxygen," he told her. "What ever you do, don't take that nose cone from your face until we're out of here."

  The bellboy called again, impatiently. "M'sieur, the message is most urgent."

  "I'm anxious to get it," Solo called pleasantly. "I'm just not quite ready for guests."

  He stared at Illya, pressed against the wall, across the door from him. Illya nodded.

  They timed their movements precisely.

  As Solo unlocked and opened the door, thrusting it wide, Illya smashed a gas-pill upon the floor.

  Instantly, grey clouds of smoke erupted from the carpeting. The room turned white with smoke.

  In that same moment, the bell boy was thrust into the room ahead of two armed men.

  They were carried forward into the room under their own impetus.

  "This is the message—" The man stopped talking, his nostrils attacked by the acrid gray gas.

  The three of them heeled around, trying to retreat.

  Illya slammed the door and stepped out in front of it.

  The bellhop fell to the carpeting, gagging.

  One of the men turned all the way around, swinging his gun, blinded by the gas. Illya waited until he was faced away from him, then clipped him across the neck.

  Solo struck the other in the belly, and when he folded forward, he chopped him across the back of his neck. The two men hit the carpeting at almost the same time as their guns did.

  Yvonne stood rigid against the wall. Above the plastic nose cone, her eyes were wide.

  Illya scooped up one of the guns, Solo the other. Leading Yvonne by the elbow, Solo opened the door and thrust her into the corridor. He and Illya moved beside her, fingers on the triggers of the guns.

  The corridor appeared empty.

  Wild-eyed, Yvonne kept the cone covering her face, though Illya and Solo had removed theirs.

  With Solo leading the way and Illya guarding their rear, they ran along the hall to the elevator bank. Solo pressed a button.

  The elevator appeared almost at once. The doors slid open. Solo, Illya and Yvonne retreated as if executing a ballet step. Two armed thugs moved forward from the elevator.

  "Sorry," Illya said, "we've changed our mind."

  He tossed a gas pellet into the cage as Solo slapped at the down button.

  A thug raised his gun to fire as the doors slid closed on him. Down the elevator glided. For a moment they could hear the thugs coughing and yelling for help.

  They turned, running again.

  Solo pushed open the stairway door. They went through it.

  They paused beside the up-and-down flights.

  "You go up," Solo said. "We'll go down. That way, part of us have a chance of getting out of here."

  Illya gave them a jaunty salute and bounded up the stairs.

  Holding Yvonne's elbow tightly, Solo moved them toward the down stairwell.

  Yvonne cried out and staggered against him.

  Solo got no more than a glimpse of the two men at the landing below them. He swung around, dragging Yvonne after him. They ran up the stairs.

  Illya paused, waiting, staring down at them. "What's wrong?"

  "We decided to go with you," Solo said.

  "That's too bad, because I'd just decided to go with you," Illya said. He jerked his head upward. "Gun boys—two flights up."

  Solo nodded toward the exit; "Go out on this floor."

  Illya nodded. He held the door open. They heard men running down the stairs and up them. They ran out into the corridor. They turned toward the elevators, but at this moment one of them opened and two men ran out, guns drawn.

  Illya fired instinctively. The two men ducked back into the elevator cage.

  Solo dragged Yvonne after him. They ran toward the end of the corridor.

  "It's six floors straight down that way," Illya warned.

  "You got any better ideas?" Solo panted across his shoulder.

  "I'm with you," Illya said. He turned, firing again to discourage the gunmen from leaving the elevator.

  The stairway door opened, then closed.

  Doors along the corridor were thrown open. Women screamed and men yelled, demanding to know what was going on.

  Illya laughed, pleased. The more crowded the corridor, the safer they were.

  Solo thrust up the window, swung his legs through. Illya opened his mouth to yell until he saw the metal rails of a fire-escape.

  He followed Yvonne through the window to the fire-escape landing. He slammed the window closed. Solo took a step downward, but bullets struck the metal railings near him, singing.

  "High-powered rifle!" Illya gasped.

  Solo turned, pushing Yvonne ahead of him.

  "Where to?" Illya said.

  "Up," Solo said, as bullets whistled past them. "Where else?"

  They clambered up the old iron fire-escape to the seventh floor.


  Illya reached for the window to open it when he saw two men running along the seventh floor corridor with guns drawn.

  Illya, spent, sagged back against Yvonne.

  "Up again," he said.

  They climbed swiftly. Below, they heard screaming. The streets teemed with people, stirring like ants in a broken nest.

  Illya paused, gazing down. "They watching us get knocked off?"

  Solo shook his head, still climbing. "No. It' a run on the banks. rioting against the government. THRUSH has got the world in a panic."

  "It's doing a fair job on me," Illya said.

  Bullets whistled past them, the sound of gunfire nearer.

  Yvonne whimpered, pointing to the floors below, where armed men clambered through windows. They paused only to fire.

  Illya spoke gently to Yvonne. "Don't be scared. Bullets lose their thrust fired up at this angle. At least that's what they told me in ballistics. Hope they knew what they were talking about. Is that really true, Napoleon?"

  Solo did not answer. He was already over the wall on the hotel roof. Yvonne struggled. Illya helped her over the parapet before he saw what had struck Solo dumb.

  Illya stared. Parked on the roof were two of the smallest, reddest helicopters he had ever seen, their blades churning as if they were idling, waiting.

  He glanced below. The armed men poured upward on the metal ladders. Shrugging, Illya climbed the wall and stood beside Solo.

  Two men in brown zippered flight suits stood near the small helicopters, holding their high-powered rifles negligently.

  Illya stared at the impassive faces. There was no doubting they were THRUSH hirelings, as were the gunmen still racing up the fire-escape ladder.

  "This is where they were chasing us the whole time," Illya said in disgust.

  Solo nodded. He glanced at Yvonne. "You can take that nose-cone away from your face now, Yvonne."

  "It doesn't matter," she said. "I'm not breathing anyway."

  THREE

  THE FLIGHT-SUITED men motioned them politely into the small helicopters. They were most gentlemanly, except that they gestured with guns.

  When Solo and Yvonne were in one helicopter, the pilot pressed a button. The small seats compressed tighter, locking them in and metal bands clicked together securely across their chests and legs. Neither of them could move.