The Burning Air Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  His eyes betrayed his concern. But knowing April Dancer so well, he realized she would bitterly resent any implication that she was not more than self-sufficient. Waverly sighed. This was just another of several times when he was annoyed by the girl's fierce independence.

  He waited with outward patience until the automatic security scanners checked her identity again and opened the door for her.

  “Won't you sit down, Miss Dancer?” he said, motioning to a chair opposite Randy.

  April lowered herself down gingerly. Her manner indicated that she had taken quite a bump on an anatomical portion of her body that made sitting down not exactly a pleasure.

  “I know I look a sight,” she said lamely.

  Mr. Waverly fought down the impulse to be solicitous. Instead he said, “You are here as an operative, Miss Dancer, not as a woman. We are more concerned with your information than your personal appearance.”

  “Yes, sir,” April said. “I--- we---”

  Her head fell forward. She would have plunged from her chair had not Randy leaped to catch her. He looked uneasily at Waverly.

  “Call Dr. Michaels,” Waverly said.

  He got up and walked over to look closely at the unconscious girl sprawled in the chair.

  “I think she is only exhausted, but I do not want to take a chance,” he said.

  The doctor came quickly. He agreed with Waverly's diagnosis.

  “I don't want to endanger her health,” Waverly said. “But it is imperative that I question her as quickly as possible. Mark Slate's life may depend upon it.”

  “Well, she has the constitution of a lady Tarzan. She'll snap out of it quickly. I'll give her an injection. Give her about ten minutes for it to get through her system. Then she'll regain consciousness automatically. It will be safe to question her then, if you don't overdo it.”

  It was a long anxious wait for the girl to open her eyes. Randy's face mirrored his relief, but Mr. Waverly acted as if nothing had happened. He picked up the reference to her appearance as if not a second had elapsed.

  “Let us forget your appearance,” he said. “What happened to you and Mr. Slate?”

  For a moment April looked bewildered. It seemed to her that something had happened, but looking at Waverly's calm face, she doubted her impression.

  “I don't---” she began.

  She started to say she did not remember coming to the U.N.C.L.E. headquarters at all. But she caught herself in time to prevent such a show of what she stubbornly called weakness. She frowned, trying to recall what had happened since the attack on her and Mark Slate.

  “Start at the beginning,” Waverly said quietly. “This is very important because Mr. Slate is still missing.

  “Oh!” April said and half rose from her chair. “I thought Mark got away.”

  “No,” Mr. Waverly said. “Now what happened?”

  “Mark and I had to leave Los Angeles when our suspect in that United Nations spy case departed for New York. We traveled on different airlines in order not to arouse any suspicion that we were working together. We met as if by accident at the airport here. We took a cab together. On the way we were forced off the road by another car. It drove on and we thought it was only a drunk driver.”

  “I see,” Mr. Waverly said, picking up an unlighted pipe and then putting it down again. Only by this unconscious gesture did he betray his concern.

  However, April's sharp eyes caught the movement. She sat up a little straighter in her chair. She seemed to draw strength from Waverly's suppressed alarm.

  “There were six men hidden in some bushes beside the road. They jumped us. Mark and I split to divide their attention. There was a battle.”

  “From your appearance, I'd say you put up quite a struggle,” Waverly said. “You are a very tough young woman, Miss Dancer.”

  April smiled wanly at him. She was more flattered than if he had told her she was beautiful.

  But her smile faded as quickly as it flashed up. “Mark?” she asked, her face mirroring her deep concern for the young ex-RAF pilot who shared her dangerous missions.

  “We received a sort of communication from Mr. Slate,” Waverly said. “He apparently succeeded in getting his pen-communicator in operation without his captors knowing it. We received no word from Mr. Slate himself, but we were permitted to listen in on a conversation from two men guarding him.”

  He moved a selector switch on the console. The tape made from the communicator broadcast began a replay for April's benefit.

  She listened intently. Her eyes sparkled with growing excitement. Watching her, Alexander Waverly thought he had never seen any girl who thrived so much on danger. A perfect U.N.C.L.E. agent, he thought.

  When the tape ran out, Mr. Waverly said, “Is there anything you saw or heard during the attack which would explain anything we heard here?”

  The girl shook her head reluctantly.

  “No, and it also ruins my theory of what happened,” she said. “I thought the attack was connected with the spy case Mark and I were working on. But THRUSH isn't connected with the spy ring. This is something new.”

  “And if the men we heard are sincere,” Waverly said, “the world is faced with a terrible threat. This is more important than the spy case you are working on, Miss Dancer. You will devote your full time to finding out what THRUSH is so afraid of.”

  “But if THRUSH is afraid, it would seem to me that the threat to us is nonexistent,” the girl objected.

  “No,” Waverly said slowly. “I have fed all the known facts we have into the computer while we waited for your arrival. We are faced with several alternative explanations. The one I favor most is that something THRUSH is developing has gotten out of hand. It is something so terrible it could destroy the entire world.”

  “Then the threat to us is as great as the threat to THRUSH,” the girl said.

  “That is correct,” Alexander Waverly said. “Now the conversation indicates that a woman is the key to solving this problem. And that Mark Slate has some unexplained contact with this woman. So here is your first task: Find Mark Slate!”

  “Yes, sir,” April said.

  It pleased Waverly that she did not ask how or for specific instructions.

  “You were in contact with Mr. Slate in Los Angeles,” Alexander Waverly went on. “Do you have any idea who this mysterious woman is?”

  “Mark has a roving eye, you know,” she said somewhat ruefully. “It might have been anyone.”

  “Finding her, next to rescuing Mr. Slate, is our number one project,” the U.N.C.L.E. chief said. “This vital task must fall on your shoulders, Miss Dancer. That does not mean you are working alone. Far from it. I intend to throw the full resources of our organization on this case. I believe it that important.”

  “Yes, sir,” April said.

  “However, I have been receiving world-wide reports of unusual THRUSH activity,” Waverly went on. “That means I cannot bring our people back here. The key to this thing may lie elsewhere. We must attack on every front. Once we pinpoint the source, we will pull everyone in.”

  “I'll find the woman for you,” April said.

  “How?” Mr. Waverly asked curiously.

  She smiled back at him. “Somehow,” she said. April got up. “If I may go now---”

  Waverly hesitated, mindful of the beating she had taken. In the end he thought it best to trust to April's estimate of her own capabilities.

  “As you wish,” he said.

  “Maybe I could go along and take Mr. Slate's place temporarily,” Randy said hopefully. “Until he is rescued, of course. I wouldn't want to try to beat him out of his job.”

  “A noble sentiment,” Waverly said dryly. “But I fear, Mr. Kovac, that I need you here.”

  “There'll be another time, Randy,” April said, amused, yet touched by the young man's disappointment.

  A light glowed on the console. “One moment, Miss Dancer. Perhaps---”

  Waverly switched on the pen-communicator rec
eiver. After an exchange of codes to prove the call genuine, April heard a voice say, “Karman Caine, a definitely identified THRUSH agent in Los Angeles, has inserted ads in both the Times and the Herald-Examiner seeking a Mrs. Felix Harvey-Lancer. Caine is posing as a lawyer seeking to settle a rich estate.”

  “Who is Mrs. Felix Harvey- Lancer?” Waverly asked.

  “No one knows,” the agent replied. “She checked into a hotel for a day and then left. No one knows where she went.”

  “Find her!” Waverly snapped.

  “She may be the key---”

  He caught a glimpse of April's half-amused, half surprised face and stopped.

  “Never mind,” he said into the voice receiver. “I think I can find the lady myself. You cover Caine and find out what his interest in the lady is.”

  After he broke the connection, Alexander Waverly looked at April again. “Am I right in assuming that you are the mysterious lady, with the hyphen?”

  “Yes, sir,” the girl from U.N.C.L.E. said. “I had to go to a place where there was a possibility of being recognized. So I got a red wig, lame green contact lenses for my eyes and added something else which delicacy forbids me to mention, but which put me definitely in the Jayne Mansfield class of figure.”

  “It was a good disguise?” Waverly asked.

  “Well---!” April grinned. “I met a Mr. Mark Slate in a cocktail lounge and the line he handed me was definitely different from the one he hands April Dancer. I was flattered!”

  “So you met Slate!” Waverly said speculatively. “Then you must be the one these men kidnapped Slate to find. Why are they so anxious to find you?”

  “I don't know, sir,” April replied. “But if they think I can help them blow up the world, they have a wrong number. I like it here.”

  “This is very odd. The taped conversation definitely indicates that this red-haired woman is a key factor in their fear. Yet that woman is you.”

  “Well, it looks like the best thing I can do is to dig out my red wig and other accessories and add a hyphen to my name,” April said.

  “Will you insert an ad in the personal columns of all the New York newspapers for me?” Have it read: 'Blackboard--- I think our enemies can figure that out as meaning 'Slate'---'Blackboard, must get in touch with you at once. Call me Blackhawk Hotel. H-L.'“

  Randy looked startled. “You're setting yourself up as a decoy to draw these men out!” he said. “You can't do that. It's too dangerous!”

  April smiled. “So it is dangerous,” she said. “Danger is my business, Randy.”

  The sparkle in her eyes showed that she loved that business.

  THREE

  CAUGHT

  A willowy girl about twenty-three years old with flaming red hair and what Mr. Alexander Waverly would call---er---Jayne Mansfield attractions, picked up the telephone in the sitting room of an expensive suite on the seventh floor of the Blackhawk Hotel in Manhattan.

  “Yes?” she said in a voice that carried a strong Down East accent

  “Mrs. Harvey-Lancer?” a pleasant voice said at the other end of the line.

  “Oh, yes!” April Dancer replied “Are you the gentleman who is going to assist me in finding a place?'“

  “No,” the voice said regretfully.

  “I am calling in regard to the ad you placed in this afternoon's Times. The inquiry about Mr. Mark Slate.”

  “Oh!” April said. She hid her elation behind a mask of suspicion. “How did you know it was I who placed the ad?”

  “I didn't,” he said and from his tone she could almost picture his smile. As a woman she did not find it unattractive at all. As an U.N.C.L.E. agent she sternly reminded herself to keep her mind on the job. Handsome counter-agents have been the downfall of more than one woman spy, as Alexander Waverly informed her during her training.

  “Then how---” she began.

  “Mr. Slate, of course,” the voice said. “No one else would have recognized the initials or understood the significance of that 'Blackboard' opening. Mr. Slate is unable to call himself. He asked me to contact you and do anything---anything for you. Is there any way I can be of service?”

  “I don't think so,” April said hesitantly. “I must see Mr. Slate. It is very important.”

  “That can be arranged,” the man said quickly. “It will be about two hours before he returns. Let me. See---it is just after dark now. Say---in two hours? If you could meet me at the Golden Ball Club---”

  “I don't know about meeting a strange man,” April said quickly.

  “I understand,” the voice said and chuckled. “Mr. Slate, of course, will be with me.”

  “Oh, then it will be fine,” April said “I'll be there and thank you so much. You don't know how much this means! It is so important that I contact Mark.”

  She hung up with a smile of satisfaction and opened her purse. Rummaging through the usual junk a woman loads down her bag with, she removed an expensive looking fountain pen. She twisted the end and a thin antenna shot up several inches. A faint bleeping noise came from inside the pen-communicator, a marvel of miniaturized super-radio equipment.

  Instantly a reply came directly from Alexander Waverly in U.N.C.L.E. headquarters across town.

  “Yes, Miss Dancer?” he said. “The fish are nibbling at the bait, Mr. Waverly,” she said. “I am to meet them at the Golden Ball in two hours.”

  “Good!” the U.N.C.L.E. chief said. “We will have the place surrounded. Carry on, Miss Dancer.”

  “Yes, sir,” April said. “I---” “What is it? What is it, Miss Dancer?” Waverly called.

  “The phone call was just a trap to get my attention away from the window!” she said hurriedly. “They're breaking in!”

  “Miss Dancer! Don't take any chances!” Waverly said. “If---”

  But April, afraid the two men rushing her would discover the secret of the pen-communicator, slammed down the antenna which cut the connection. This left Alexander Waverly talking into a dead receiver.

  She whirled to confront the two men who had crept along the building ledge to force her hotel window.

  They split, coming at her from two directions.

  April leaped back, jerking the phone cord loose and hurling the instrument at the nearest man. It caught him in the chest. He fell with a muffled curse.

  She leaped for her purse with its array of U.N.C.L.E. protective devices, but the would-be abductor grabbed her. She swung at him, a hard karate chop. It knocked him back and off balance. She grabbed the shirt front for a judo throw, but the cloth tore in her hands.

  He swung a wild haymaker at her jaw. April ducked, but her foot hit the telephone she threw at the first man. She fell, sprawling back across the suite's couch.

  Both men dived for her again.

  She kicked the heel of her shoe and a switchblade, thin, strong and murderous, shot out of the spike heel of her shoe. She kicked her leg, aiming the blade in a murderous slash at her opponent's throat.

  He dodged back. April reached down and grabbed the shoe off her foot. Holding the toe, she hurled it at the second man. The blade just barely ripped his cheek as he ducked.

  For a moment the movement left him off balance. It permitted April to dodge past him. She grabbed the edge of a table and upended it in front of the other man rushing her.

  She darted around him as he fell, and grabbed for her purse. But as she raised her head she saw the man on the floor aiming a queer-shaped gun at her. There was a peculiar twang as he pressed the trigger April felt a sharp sting in the calf of her leg. A strange numbness flashed out from the tiny wound. Her leg gave way. She collapsed.

  The contents of her purse scattered around her. They were all things which had saved her life at one time or another---all U.N.C.L.E. protective devices.

  There was the pen-communicator for instant contact with Headquarters, U.N.C.L.E.; a lipstick with a hidden hypodermic syringe to inject either knockout drops or sodium pentothal truth serum; a rattail comb which made a murderous
stiletto; candy mints that threw off a blinding smoke screen when dropped in water; a compact that was actually a super-miniaturized tape recorder; a perfume dispenser that had a secret tear gas compartment; and several other similarly useful items.

  As the sickening paralysis flashed over her body with alarming speed, she tried to grab the tear gas dispenser. One of the men dropped to his knees and grabbed her wrist.

  April seized at his jacket, but her body was paralyzed to her waist now. With only the strength of her arms, she couldn't flip him over.

  The paralysis was creeping higher, moving more slowly now that its toxin was being diluted by her blood. But it was still moving. She knew it would only be a few more seconds before she lost control of her arms as well.

  When the THRUSH man jerked the tear gas dispenser from her hands she rolled over as if to get away. Actually she was covering some of the other items with her body. And under this cover, she grabbed the compact tape recorder, a package of the smoke bomb mints, and the stiletto handle comb. She managed to shove them into the pocket of the tailored jacket she wore. Then she tried to get the lipstick with its secret hypodermic syringe, but her rapidly numbing fingers couldn't grasp it.

  She tried to move, but her body was immobile now. She could move nothing above her shoulders. The paralysis was creeping up her neck. She knew that she only had a few more seconds of consciousness before the end.

  Already her mind was becoming hazy. She heard the two men speaking. It seemed to her that their voices came from a great distance, but she still had enough of her faculties to catch their words. The voices were familiar. It was the two men who attacked them before. She recognized the voices from the tape recording Mr. Waverly made of the pen-communicator broadcast from the kidnap car.

  “You fool!” one snarled. “You were told not to use that damned numbing gun on her. It may interfere with the interrogation machine getting a correct answer from her. That thing is touchy. Any undetermined factor cranked in can upset its delicate balance.”

  “What could I do?” the other said in an aggrieved tone. “She was digging in that purse. I thought she had a gun in it. I couldn't take any chances.”