The Finger in the Sky Affair

by Peter Leslie

  Chapter 11 — Solo and Illya take a back seat

  A fringe of waves laced the edge of the blue-green Mediterranean as the Trident turned in a shallow bank and headed east along the coast towards Nice, gradually losing height. There had been stray banks of cumulus building up over the Basses Alpes and their passage over the Rhône delta had been quite bumpy. Once they passed Toulon, however, the sky cleared and the air was calm and still as the giant plane sank into the dusk which was beginning to shroud the fishing villages south of the Massif des Maures. The creased, iridescent surface of the sea dulled to a somber violet, reflecting the pinpoints of light beginning to twinkle among the craft massed in the harbors of Lavandou and St. Tropez.

  Illya Kuryakin crouched with Solo in the airplane's rear baggage department, fiddling with a mass of dials which studded the steel surface of a complicated chassis packed, with other electronic equipment, in a huge suitcase lying open before them. The whining roar of the three jet engines above their heads made conversation difficult in the confined space.

  Solo glanced at his wristwatch. "Stand by for action any time now," he shouted over the din. "We should be just about over Ste. Maxime."

  The Russian nodded, spreading a sheet of squared paper marked with labeled columns across a board and clipping it into place at the top and sides. "I hope your hunch is correct, Napoleon," he called back. "I should have spotted that camera myself. Where exactly was it?"

  "You know that enormous relief map fixed to one wall of Matheson's office—the one with all the mountains in Europe humped up across the surface?"

  "Yes, I saw it."

  "Well, you probably noticed that all the airports between the mountains—and those on the plains for that matter—were marked by small circles of colored glass; presumably to light up when T.C.A. planes were using them, or needed maintenance there or something."

  Kuryakin nodded again.

  "The camera lens had replaced the glass indicating one of the airports among the Alps—Zurich, I think—where it was least likely to be noticed among the relief. Fortunately, I happened to see it just when there was a slight movement...probably an alteration of aperture.. and the movement drew my attention to it."

  "In turn, I hope my hunch is also correct," Illya said.

  "It has a good chance. If what you tell me of your theory is true, the exact location of the Murchison-Spears box is critical—which is why we're lucky that T.C.A. equips its Tridents with a baggage compartment as far back as this."

  "Yes, our duplicate box is as far away from the one in the cockpit as possible. I suppose that's why you made such a point of mentioning that we would be up front with the pilots—to tempt them to concentrate on that end of the plane."

  "Sure. I figure that, since they know we're aboard and we know something of the system at least, then they're bound to try to bring the plane down. But it's a terrible risk, in a way—the crew's lives are at stake as well as our own."

  "But we did manage to get all the passengers transferred to a relief flight ten minutes later, Napoleon."

  "True. Nevertheless I—Wait a minute! The intercom's coming on!"

  Over the noise of the jets, a metallic, disembodied voice was speaking: "Hello, hello. Third pilot here. We are just passing Fréjus and the M-S gear is in action. Are you ready to start operating? Are you ready to start operating? ..."

  "Solo to Third Pilot," Napoleon Solo said crisply above the racket of the jets. "We are ready to start....And just for the record, here's a recap on the M.O. You have the airplane's normal M-S box in your cabin, receiving signals from Nice and the ground, and the box interprets them and adjusts the plane's controls in such a way as to effect a correct landing. We have a duplicate M-S box back here, receiving the same signals but not hitched up in any way to the controls. The aim of the operation is to check the readings of the two boxes one against the other—and spot any discrepancies if present: okay?"

  "Roger. Our box up here has dials indicating distance from touchdown in meters, glide angle, and height in meters. I am to read you the relevant figures from our dials at quarter minute intervals, and you will write these down and check against your own readings at the same time."

  "Roger. You can start any time you like."

  "Wilco. First reading coming up in fifteen seconds."

  Solo picked up the board with its prepared paper and poised a ballpoint over its surface as Illlya Kuryakin threw a switch and studied the needles trembling across the dials in the suitcase. In the dim lighting of the baggage compartment his bland face, normally so placid, appeared strained and anxious.

  "First reading," the clipped voice on the intercom was saying: "Distance seventeen thousand five hundred; glide angle five per cent; height five thousand and forty."

  "Seventeen thousand five hundred; five per cent; five thousand and forty," Solo repeated, writing the figures on the chart as Illya bent over the dials.

  "Check," the Russian called. "One seven five double-o; five; five-o four-o."

  Solo wrote the second set of figures below the first.

  "Second reading: fourteen six fifty; five per cent; four thousand six hundred."

  Solo repeated the figures, wrote them down and looked across at Illya.

  "Check," Kuryakin called again. "One four six five-o; five; four six double-o."

  "Third reading: twelve thousand; eleven per cent; four thousand and fifty."

  "Check. One two o double-o; eleven; four-o five-o..."

  Through the small double window on the port side of the baggage compartment, isolated lights spangled the dark bulk of the Alpine foothills massing against the sky to the north. Something on one of the luggage racks squeaked protestingly as the Trident's angle of descent steepened. Over the clamor of the engines, now altering in pitch, a faint rumble followed by two distant thumps marked the lowering of the wheels.

  "... Fifth reading: six thousand and twenty; fifteen per cent; one thousand six hundred."

  "Check."

  The lights of the coastal strip streamed past the port window, long chains of street lamps, illuminated hotels and automobile headlights whirling past them into the darkness as the great plane forged inexorably onwards towards the invisible runway. Through the starboard porthole, a lighthouse far out to sea winked twice against the dark.

  "Sixth reading: three thousand two hundred; eleven point five per cent; eight hundred and fifty."

  "Check. Three two double-o; eleven point five—No! Wait, wait...the altitude reading's different! Napoleon—look!"

  Solo was beside the dials in a flash. The needle of the height indicator was sinking steadily from 830 to 820.

  The equipment in the cockpit, which was directing the plane's controls for landing, was registering the ground as between twenty and thirty meters lower than it actually was.

  "Seventh reading: eight hundred and fifty; seven per cent; two hundred and ten."

  The needle on the altimeter trembled past the 170 mark.

  In seconds the pointer would be at zero—while that on the gear controlling the aircraft would still show between 40 and 50...

  "Emergency!" Solo shouted into the intercom. "Emergency! For God's sake take over on manual and overshoot—your altimeter reading's gone all to hell!"

  "Wilco." A different voice spoke coolly from the amplifier. "Second pilot speaking. Hold on—I am going to overshoot."

  The thunder of the jets rose to a shrill scream; the Trident lurched forwards and up under the surge of power. Illya saw trees, airport buildings, parking lots, a Boeing 707 being refueled on the airport apron, whisk past and down, and then they were away and climbing over the glittering crescent of the Baie des Anges with the twin ribbon of the Promenade des Anglais dwindling beneath them.

  "... and tell your Navigator for God's sake to get a fix on the position where the readings began to differ—the sixth, I think it was," Solo was calling as the Trident banked seawards in a steep climbing turn and headed back for its second approach.

 
; A few minutes later they made a perfect touchdown under manual control and taxied slowly back to the apron.

  Matheson and the airport director met them in a jeep. "I thought we'd be going back with two empty seats for a moment," Matheson said as they climbed down the portable companionway to the ground. "You were flying straight into the deck like the one last night. Still—Warwick caught her just in time and all's well that ends well, eh? I expect you could do with a drink..."

  Solo mopped his brow with a handkerchief. "I guess it was a pretty close shave at that," he admitted. "As for the drink—the answer's yes, please!...Illya's just superintending the unshipping of both sets of Murchison-Spears equipment so that your boys can get to work right away on comparison tests. Now perhaps we'll be able to say just how the deed is done..."

  But at midnight, Matheson came up to them in the airport restaurant, where they were sitting over coffee and cognac, and dropped into a vacant chair at their table with an expression of astonishment on his face. "It beats me," he said blankly. "We've really done the most exhaustive tests on both sets of equipment—even had them taken up in a helicopter to check them under operating conditions—and what do you think we found?"

  "That both sets were working perfectly—and giving precisely the same readings all along the line," Solo said with a grin.

  The Technical Director started, absently catching his empty pipe as it fell from his mouth. "But that's just it!" he exclaimed. "How on earth did you know? What have you chaps found out?"

  "We don't know," Illya said. "It was a reasonable deduction; it fits the pattern, that's all."

  "Well, I'm blessed! You mean something or somebody distorts the altitude stage of the gear as the plane lands—but that it's returned to normal a short while afterwards?"

  "Yes."

  "And that whatever it is has such a fine adjustment that it'll bitch up equipment in the nose of the plane—but leave similar gear in the tail unaffected?"

  "That's what we think."

  "Well, I'm blessed," Matheson said again. "All the same, it doesn't really get us much further, does it? I mean we're confirmed in our ides of what happened roughly—but we're no nearer to finding out who did it. Or how."

  "I think you mistake our aims, Mr. Matheson," Solo said. "The point of the operation was, of course, to confirm this—but the main idea was to find out where it's done from. And that in turn will give us a lead to who."

  "Can you find out where it's done from, then?"

  "If your Navigator has been able to fix the position of the place where the readings began to differ—yes, we should be able to. Has he managed, do you know?"

  "Yes, he has, as a matter of fact. He asked me to tell you. All the stuff is up in the tower, if you'd care to come along."

  Illya went to see if he could find any news of Sheridan Rogers while Solo and Matheson made their way to the chart room of the control tower. He joined them a few minutes later with a long face. "I'm very much afraid, Napoleon," he said shaking his head sadly, "that things look very black for that girl. She hasn't been seen since the night she came out to dinner with us at Villefranche—apart from that disagreeable incident at Haut-des-Cagnes, that is. She didn't show up for her shift yesterday morning—and there's still no reply from her apartment."

  "Relax, Illya," Solo said soberly. "Whatever's happened to her, she's not the bird we're looking for: the thrush flies in quite a different direction."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Take a look at this." The Chief Enforcement Officer of U.N.C.L.E. was sitting with Matheson at a huge table strewn with papers. In the center was a large-scale map of the coast from Fréjus to the Italian border.

  "We've charted the Trident's flight path here," Solo continued, pointing with a pencil at a dotted red line running approximately southwest to northeast a few hundred meters off the coastline. "And the Navigator has given us a fix on the position where the two sets of gear began to register differently—that is, the place where whatever it is began to affect the box in the cockpit. We were exactly here"—He leaned over and made a mark across the dotted line—"when the Third Pilot was reading out the details of the sixth check. Right?"

  Kuryakin nodded, looking intently at the chart.

  "Right. Well, here's the touchdown point." He made another mark a short distance from the end of the runway indicated on the map. "And we have already agreed that whatever device is beamed at the planes must be pretty short-range."

  "Yes—otherwise it could presumably reach them when they were flying in from the other side of the airport...landing from northeast to southwest."

  "Sure. So looking at these two points and the distance between them—and bearing in mind the distance between each of them and the far end of the runway—would you agree that ten kilometers would seem a fair estimate to allow for the range?"

  Illya studied the chart for a few minutes in silence. "Ye-e-es," he said slowly at last. "Yes, I guess so, Napoleon."

  "Okay. And we have further agreed that the device is probably operated from one of the hill villages just inland from the coast, right?"

  "Right."

  "Swell. That's all we need then." Solo picked up set square, protactor and scale, and set to work on the map. "Here's the position of the sixth reading...here. And here's the touchdown point...here. Now if we mark off the ten kilometer range and triangle inland...like this...we should be able to narrow down the number of hill villages we have to consider." He ruled a final line and stood back from the table.

  Kuryakin stepped forward and gazed at the wedge of country thus marked off. "There's only one village eligible, then," he said slowly, " Vence is too far inland; Gatti�res and La Colle are just outside the triangle."

  "Exactly. There's only one hill village in the triangle—and that's St. Paul-de-Vence."

  "But Napoleon..."

  Solo sighed. He looked past Matheson and out of the window at the darkened airfield. The lights of a liner moved slowly across the sea beyond. From the floor above the voice of the controller in the green-windowed operations room could be heard faintly as he talked down a private plane that was landing.

  "I know," he said at last. "I know. Helga has an apartment in St. Paul-de-Vence. And apart from Matheson here and the crew of the plane, Helga was the only person we told of our plan. The only one..."

  Chapter 12 — An interrupted journey

  The small, dark man with the bad-tempered expression dropped the spool of tape back into its box, shut the lid of the portable recorder, and got out of the car. He walked across the parking lot and pushed open the swinging doors leading to the foyer of the airport building. Inside there was a babble of transatlantic voices: the Air France flight from New York had just arrived and the place was a seething mass of tourists, porters and taxi drivers. In the alcove behind the semicircular inquiry desk where the post office and bureau de change were housed, there was a line of passengers waiting to change money and send telegrams announcing their safe arrival. It was some minutes before the trim brunette dealing with the post office section was able to connect him with the telephone number he asked for.

  "Your call to Cros-des-Cagnes, Monsieur," she said at last. "Cabin number two, please—on the left."

  The dark man scowled more darkly still and shouldered open the door of the booth. Snatching the receiver from its cradle, he asked brusquely for Madame Vernier, drumming his fingers impatiently on the glass while he waited for the woman to come to the phone. His fingers were short, spatulate, nicotine-stained, the bitten nails rimmed with black.

  Eventually a female voice rasped in the receiver at his ear.

  "Hello, Celeste?" the dark man said. "You certainly took your time. Where in hell were you?...Never mind, never mind. Look—there's important information to relay. Is Number One up at the house?"

  He waited while the receiver quacked in reply and then spoke again.

  "Okay. Pass this on—and listen carefully. There was a conference in the director's office this morn
ing. I was able to get it bugged in time and I've just played back the tape. The fools are going to try their little detective game again...Yes, tonight—on the flight from Paris. But get this: it's not the same flight they tried last night...No. It's the later one, the one that lands at ten thirty-five....Of course it's a T.C.A. flight, you idiot. They're flying up to Orly in a private plane later this afternoon, and they'll pick up the Trident there....God knows. They don't seem to have a clue. I suppose they'll just sit and watch, poor fools....Yes; yes of course...And I hope the people up at the house don't bungle it again tonight. I can't think what went wrong...No—they didn't mention it at all...Stay where you are after you've reported. I may have more news later. 'Bye."

  The big woman in the orange terrycloth beach robe replaced the receiver momentarily and then lifted it again. As soon as the high-pitched calling tone sounded, she dropped two 20-centime pieces into the coin box and dialed a number. The tone changed to a continuous burble, there was a click, and then the melodious single note repeated which indicated that the number was ringing.

  Outside the beach café, a wind whipped foam from the tops of the waves. A few bathers were daring the backwash, but most of the vacationers sat or lay on striped mattresses on the shingle. Waiters in aprons and Tee-shirts bustled up to the bar with orders for drinks. It was hot and close in the small wooden building.

  The woman in the beach robe pushed a strand of wet hair from her eyes. The ringing tone had stopped, the receiver at the other end had been lifted.

  "Hello?" she said. "Madame? Celeste here. Larsen has just telephoned an urgent report. Solo and the Russian are going to try again. They are flying to Orly this afternoon to catch the T.C.A. Trident coming in to Nice tonight. I am to emphasize that they'll be on the later flight: the one that lands at ten thirty-five."

  She paused and listened for a moment.

  "No, Madame. Larsen managed to tape a conference in the director's office, but apparently nothing was mentioned about the methods they were using...No, they said nothing about last night's flight...No. Nothing about that either. He didn't know if they knew an attempt had been made or not...Yes, ten thirty-five...Very good, Madame."