Man From U.N.C.L.E. 05 - The Mad Scientist Affair

by John T. Philifrent

  That had been just a mild foretaste, he thought, as he spun the wheel hard and sent the truck jolting over turf, off the road and in the lee of the wall to the left. He twisted his head around to see the following car take the hint and roar away to the right. He cut the engine.

  “So far,” he said, “so good. They can’t get out. Now let’s see if we can persuade them to let us in!”

  Kuryakin shoved open the door on his side and slid out into the gloom to circle the truck and pick out a rifle complete with infrared spotter-scope and spare clip. Sarah was close on his heels.

  “What can I do?” she demanded. “I’m a good shot.”

  “You’re a very clever girl in many ways,” Kuryakin said, smiling in the gloom. “You come up here with me.” And he gave her a strong arm to boost her up onto the roof of the cab. “Keep your head down! Wait just a moment.” He juggled the rifle into readiness and leaned forward to be close to the wall, edging the muzzle up over it. He handed her his handkerchief. “Now—you just wave that, quickly, above the level of the wall, and then duck. Ready? Now!”

  The man on the roof, whoever he was, had sharp eyes. The white had barely fluttered when there came a sharp crack and the scream of a bullet that gouged sparks out of the top of the wall and went wailing away. “That was no shotgun!” Kuryakin muttered as he pumped three rapid shots into the spot where that flash had been. He thought he heard a strangled howl from up there. Sarah evidently heard it too.

  “You hit him!” she cried, waving her hand excitedly. There came another spurt of flame from up there, from another spot, and the handkerchief was plucked from her fingers. Kuryakin swung savagely, pumped three more shots, and heard the scream and then the impact of a body falling.

  “I said keep your head down!” he said tensely, over his shoulder. “There were two of them up there!”

  “But you hit the first one!” she protested, stooping to collect the ripped linen and waving it again. He swung back as another flash sent a scream of death by her cheek, and drove three more shots into that area. Then he drew back and down, grabbed her arm and drew her down too.

  “Give me that handkerchief! You’ll get yourself killed!” He took the tattered white, draped it over the muzzle of his rifle, and poked it up gingerly. Nothing. He shoved it higher, higher—and there came a crashing blast of fire from the upper windows that whipped the linen away. “We’ve cleared the roof, at any rate,” he decided.

  Napoleon Solo, meanwhile, was flat on his face by the bottom of the edge of the gate, studying the situation. Intermittent gunfire came from the roof of the black car. He heard Illya’s successful attempts to clear the snipers off the roof. He had a bazooka over his shoulder, loaded and ready. Gray light was just getting good enough now for him to be able to make out the darker blotches of windows.

  “I think,” he mused, “that we will start upstairs and work our way down.” He took careful aim; the bazooka coughed and surged forward. The bomb went sloping up on a tail of smoke. There came the crash-tinkle of glass, and then a battering blam! as the explosion sent smoke and flames gushing out of the broken window. Almost by recoil there came a stuttering hail of machinegun fire from a lower window that kicked up the dirt in front of his face and gouged stone-dust from the wall. He scrambled back hastily.

  “I see!” he murmured. “All ready for a siege, are we?” He pulled out his transceiver and spoke into it to raise Stevens, on the other side of the gate. “They want to make it hard. I think we’d better help them. Grenades and gas-bombs, right?”

  He rolled over and stood up in the shelter of the wall, then circled the truck, climbing into the back. He picked up a grenade, tapped Sarah on the ankle to gain her attention and said, “Watch this carefully. You pull out this pin, you say ‘Eenie, meeny, miney, mo!’ and you throw it—that way!” He winced at the crash from the other side of the wall, and then grinned at her. Kuryakin bobbed up, let off a rapid rattle of fire at the windows and ducked again.

  “This is all very spectacular and noisy, Napoleon, but it’s not going to get us anywhere. All they have to do is keep down and away from the windows and laugh at us. We don’t have anything that can touch walls that thick—not even bazooka bombs will dent them.”

  The two men stared at each other in the graying light. “Stalemate!” Solo muttered. “And with every minute the light improves, it’s to their benefit. We might try a bluff. Suppose you talked to them with a bullhorn, Sarah? They know your voice. You can promise them that if they come out with their hands up—”

  “Wait!’ Kuryakin pointed away down the hill and into the gray sky there. “Maybe this will tip the balance on our side.” They turned and saw the whirling blades of a helicopter slicing the sky.

  “That’s Peterson!” Solo grinned, and pulled out his transceiver. “Ground to chopper. Good work, Pete, just in time. It would help a lot if you could lay a nice heavy egg right on—hey! What the blazes is he doing? Pete? Come in, Peterson!”

  He stared mystified as the helicopter swung away to one side and then swooped and streaked back in a run almost paralleling the wall. Just above the black car it released a small, dropping object. Instinctively, the two men ducked into the shelter of the truck, Kuryakin dragging Sarah down with him. The truck lifted and rolled back with the force of the explosion. Solo raised his head and peered at the bomb-crater in the ground just in front of the gate, then at the helicopter as it went swinging and circling away.

  “Whoever’s up there,” he said softly, “is not on our side, that’s for sure!”

  It had been a long, dreary and dull vigil for Lloyd Gumm and his partner, Louis Addel. Their instructions had been clear and concise: see Miss Sarah O’Rourke safely over to Shannon, and home, and then stay at the airport, watch incoming and outgoing flights and make sure she didn’t leave again, that none of the O’Rourke brood departed, and that nobody came in to interfere with Dr. Trilli and his operation. When the Thrush executive gave orders, it was wisest to obey implicitly. So the bored pair had watched all the flights, all afternoon and, in weary shifts, all night.

  Gumm was in a snarling mood as Addel shook him out of a snatched slumber, but he stifled his petulance as his partner announced, “They’re here, Lloyd. Big Uncle himself and a squad, in a private plane. They look like this is a showdown! What do we do?”

  “We watch and see what they do, stupid!” So they watched and saw the pickup being loaded, and the black car, then saw them both roar away. “We ought to chip in,” Gumm declared, not very enthusiastically.

  “With what, pop-guns?” Addel said sarcastically.

  As they hesitated and deliberated, they saw Peterson approach a uniformed official, and they were close enough to overhear.

  “How long before that helicopter will be ready? Time for me to grab a cup of coffee, maybe?”

  “You should just make it, sir. I’ll see that you’re called as soon as it’s ready for you.” As Peterson expressed thanks and hurried away, Gumm drew his partner to one side.

  “That’s us,” he said. “I can fly one of those things. Come on!”

  They made their way out and to the private comer of the field where a motor coughed into life and great windmill blades began to spin and speed up. Ducking under the downdraft, they ran up to the cab and Addel poked his head in.

  “You giving Uncle a ride, mister?”

  The pilot turned to grin and nod, and Addel shot him where he sat, then scrambled in, with Gumm on his heels to take over the controls. “Shove him in the back, out of sight!” he ordered. “We’ll wait a while.”

  “What the hell for? Let’s get going now!”

  “We wait!” Gumm snarled. “The U.N.C.L.E. guy will be along in a minute, and we want what he’s carrying. Now shift that body and shut up!”

  The blades whirled into full speed, and now Peterson carne, staggering under the weight of two large bags, to duck against the slipstream and up to the perspex cab side. He hoisted up the bags one at a time, and then climbed in
.

  “Two of you, eh? All right, maybe I can use the help. Let’s go!” And then Addel shot him, dragged him out of the way, took his seat, and the helicopter lifted up and away, swooping swiftly across the wide waters of the Shannon estuary.

  In the cold gray of dawn there was no one to notice as two bodies fell into the sleeping water down there.

  Solo glared up as the helicopter circled back over its tracks, then he flung himself down and aside as the clattering machine suddenly spat a rain of lead, plucking dust and stones from the ground in a dotted line. A bullet whanged off the front fender of the pickup. He saw Stevens crumple and go down in a heap, and cursed in helpless rage.

  Illya Kuryakin crouched in the back of the truck, his rifle steadied on the cab-side, his gray eyes steady and cold. He could just make out figures in that perspex cab up there. He fired, and the helicopter seemed to stagger in mid-air and go sliding away, around and over the castle grounds. He followed it grimly in his sights, saw somebody laboring to stand and throw something. He fired again, and saw the man fall back.

  Then the bucketing machine erupted in a great sheet of red fire and flames, the explosion blasting down into their ears. Shedding burning debris, it fell swiftly, struck the edge of the castle roof, and there was another explosion, twice as violent as the first. And then another, and a blazing ball of wreckage drifted off the edge and fell away out of sight. For a moment they all were stunned and silent. Then Sarah let out a shriek.

  “The stables! They’ll catch fire! The horses!” And she leaped down from the truck and ran heedlessly through the gate and away, heading for the far end where the fiery wreck had fallen.

  “No use calling her back!” Kuryakin said. “We’ll just have to make covering fire.” He sprang to the wall, aiming and triggering as fast as he could, sending a hail of lead at those threatening windows. Solo came up with the bazooka again and lobbed a bomb into the upper floors. Haycraft, on the roof of the black car, added his fire to Kuryakin’s. All at once the big arched door swung darkly open and a stick appeared, with a grubby white handkerchief on the end of it. The gunfire stopped. Kuryakin peered, caught a stir of movement from the edge of the roof up there, cringed as a bullet sent stone dust into his face, and snapped a shot in reply. He saw Schichi rear up and hang a moment, then fall in a whirl of limp arms and legs, to lie quite still. The stick waved to and fro.

  “All right!” Solo shouted. “Come on out!” He and Kuryakin dropped and ran around to the gate as a dismal file of battered defenders came out into the dawn. Kuryakin glanced away to where Sarah had disappeared.

  “I’d better go after her, Napoleon. You can manage here, and she’s bound to run into some kind of trouble on her own.”

  He ran off hurriedly, around the curve of the wall and into the twisting fingers of smoke. He saw her darting and ducking, trying to catch and free a heavy door, and coughing as the smoke caught at her breathing. The leaning roof was well alight and he heard the horses inside screaming in terror. Dropping his rifle, he put a hand over his face and dashed in, caught the hasp, jerked it free and pulled the door back. She ducked back with him as half a dozen panic-stricken horses galloped madly out.

  “There’s one more!” she cried. “Molly! Molly!” He heard the squeal from inside, drew a deep breath and darted in among the choking fumes to find a bay mare all saddled up and ready, but unable to break free. The reins were looped and knotted through a ring-bolt. He jerked them free and drew aside as the mare tossed her head and galloped out.

  “Just in time,” he said, coughing, as he got out into the open and heard the roof of the stable come down with a crash and shower of sparks. “Looks as if somebody had that one all ready for a fast getaway.”

  “I wonder who it could have been,” she cried as they ran back towards the forecourt and a scene of confusion. Haycraft stood just inside the gate with a rifle leveled while Solo took charge of the prisoners.

  He had just snapped a lightweight pair of handcuffs on Foden and Bridget, linking them together, when one of the scared horses took fright at the smoking bomb crater in the gateway and wheeled with a flurry of hooves. Faden saw a desperate chance, and took it. Yanking Bridget cruelly almost off her feet, he threw an arm over the prancing horse and swung himself up on its back. She screamed as she was dragged several feet. Haycraft swore, aimed his rifle, but couldn’t get a shot for the other horses milling around. Solo spun and was knocked sprawling by Molly. Foden growled something they couldn’t hear, made a mighty effort and hoisted Bridget up behind him, dug his heels into the horse and went galloping off through the gate.

  Kuryakin ran up swiftly, to see Solo snatch at Molly’s loose reins and go up into the seat.

  “Gimme your rifle, Illya!” he called. “They won’t get far!”

  “Bring her back alive if you can, Napoleon. She’s almost as valuable as the old man himself!”

  “I’ll see what I can do!” Solo promised, snatching the rifle and letting Molly have his heels. After a headshake and kick or two she got the idea, threw up her head and started to run. It took him a moment or two to get back the feel of being in the saddle again, but once he had settled he was in a mood to enjoy it. The mare had a sweetly powerful action, and she could travel, too, once she set her mind to it.

  “Easy, girl!” he murmured, balancing the rifle across his lap. “No need to run ourselves into the ground just yet. Let’s just see what they plan to do first, shall we? Foden is going to have to do something pretty soon. He can’t outrun us with a double load.”

  The pair ahead had broken out now onto a wide rolling stretch of green that offered no obstacles and no cover. Solo rode with a wary eye. He had a score to settle with Foden, and he had no reason to feel affection for Bridget, but he didn’t want to shoot an innocent horse. The light was very good now, the sun pushing up over the hills ahead of them in a blaze of golden glory. The soft green underfoot now was too even and smooth to be natural. Solo stared and realized that he was riding over a golf course.

  “I hope the greens committee wont be too upset about all this,” he muttered, and ducked as there came the snap of a pistol-shot from ahead, and then another and the sighing wail of a bullet going by. Unless he has the luck of the devil, he thought, Foden hasn’t a prayer of hitting me, with a pistol, at this range, and from the saddle. He must be crazy. The only thing he’s likely to do is scare his mount. And it looks like that’s just what the fool has done!

  For the galloping horse ahead suddenly threw up its head with a wild squeal and went away at a furious run, heading straight for a low hill. Solo put heels to Molly and she responded at once. Again there came the snap-snap of futile shots. He saw Foden raising his free hand to beat the struggling horse over the head in fury as it thundered up the hill.

  “You can’t keep that up for long,” Solo muttered, and tensed as he put the mare into the first slopes. The riders ahead were black silhouettes against the sunrise, the horse plunging and slowing—and then stopping, right on the crest. Solo slid down swiftly and rested his rifle across the saddle to take a very careful aim as that horse up there swung sideways. He fired, saw Foden jerk rigidly and then fall, and Bridget with him. He went up on Molly urgently, and put her at the slope as fast as she could make it.

  The runaway horse stood still, head down and blowing, as he came up to it and stared down the other side. He was just in time to see tangled bodies roll over, bumping and jolting the last few feet, to plunge into a smooth green surface that seemed to splash as they hit.

  “Hell!” he gasped, realizing what it was. In a flash he was down from the mare and shedding his coat. Frantically he unwound a hundred-foot length of nylon cord from about his waist, snagging the loop of one end over the mare’s girth-strap. Like Kuryakin, he had come prepared for just about anything, but his anticipations hadn’t included a bog.

  Tugging on plastic gloves, he went over the edge and down the steep slope in a mad scramble, paying out the line as he dropped, glancing frantica
lly over his shoulder from time to time, seeing those two inert figures slowly disappearing from sight. Foden—surely he had hit Foden? Then why was Bridget also so dreadfully still and lifeless? He couldn’t have shot both of them! Wild surmises filled his mind as he hopped and slid madly down.

  The bottom came close now. Foden was completely under. Bridget lay on top of him, only her head and one shoulder still visible. He let himself dangle, wrapped a twist of the cord around one leg, craned perilously down to stretch out a hand and grab, catching at her shoulder, twisting his fingers into the fabric of her dress, heaving hard. He felt stitches parting, but she came up fractionally. He heaved harder, the fine cord biting into his other hand. She came up more. And more.

  The stitching of her dress began to part under the strain, all down the back seam. She was slipping out of it, out of his grasp. He shifted his grip frantically and the stuff came away in his hand, wet and limp. He flung it to one side and stretched down to catch her under one armpit, got a savage hold on solid flesh, and heaved until he thought his shoulder blades were coming apart under the effort. But she came up, and up. He held, caught a breath, made a sudden grab and got her by the waist. This was easier now. A bit more up to where he could brace his feet and really heave.

  She came up limp in a jackknife position, one arm drawn taut and seeming to be glued into the bilious green stuff. He hauled again and panted. Either he was getting out of shape or she was the heaviest girl he had ever come across. He took a deep breath, set his feet, and heaved until the blood roared in his ears. And then he groaned as he realized what was wrong. Her dangling arm and hand had come clear of the ooze, and there was a slim chain. And Foden on the end of it, down there under the mire.

  He skidded recklessly down, digging in his heels, reaching to haul her limp body close so that he could stretch past it. Groping in his pocket, he brought out a tiny thermite bomb and strained, balancing perilously over the mud to jam it in the links of the chain, then teetered back and took the igniter cap in shaking fingers, snapped it into life, and sagged back with a grunt as the thing flared into a moment of searing incandescence, melting the links.