by Unknown
Napoleon didn't like being called "fella." He leaned down on the counter so that his face was level with the clerk's. "I don't have twenty dollars to spare right now," he said coolly. "Will this do?"
His wallet snapped open in front of the clerk's nose, and the light from the window flashed off the gold card identifying Napoleon Solo as an agent of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.
The clerk swallowed his chewing gum, and rocked back from the counter. "Oh, sure, officer, sure! Anything for you! We just have to be careful, y'know — can't just give out information to anybody."
"We appreciate your zeal," Napoleon said, folding his wallet and replacing it. "But the girl's name and address?"
The clerk was fumbling in a file drawer. "Should be right here on top.... Yeah, here it is." He laid a yellow flimsy on the counter. "Garnet Keldur — from Los Angeles. Uh...that address there isn't the one on her license — she said she'd moved. But that's her, anyway."
Napoleon wrote down the name and address given. It was on Wilshire Boulevard, near the Country Club. An expensive area. "What about the car? Anything left in it? Anything unusual she said or did?"
The clerk thought. "There's a nick in the upholstery in the back seat, just a little one. And there's dents in the back floor-mat, like something heavy had been stood there."
Napoleon, who had just asked the question for effect, heard the answers and forgot them at once. "Okay, thank you. If we need anything else, we'll call you. What's your name?"
The clerk gave it; Napoleon repeated it and forgot it too. But the clerk wasn't quite through.
"What'd she do, anyway? Kill somebody? I didn't see any blood in the car. Robbery?"
"Do?" said Napoleon with mild surprise. "She didn't do anything, as far as I know."
"She didn't? Then what are you after her for?"
Napoleon looked the little man straight in the eye and said coolly, "I just want to ask her for a date, that's all," and slid the glass door closed behind him.
* * *
At 5:30, Illya Kuryakin was sitting at the window seat on the jet-liner which would take off for Los Angeles at 6:00. Napoleon was late. He looked across the darkening field of Kennedy International Airport at another jet taking off, at a helicab lumbering along, then leaping awkwardly into the air, thrashing its arms to keep its balance. He looked up at the sound of a soft footstep, and his partner slipped into the seat beside him. "You're here early, Illya," said Napoleon.
The Russian smiled slightly. "I was about to comment on your lateness. It is 5:51 by my watch."
Napoleon smiled indulgently. "Your watch is fast." He held up his wrist. "5:46 on the nose."
"Then the master clock in the airport building is off by five minutes also. I set mine by it some seven minutes ago just as I boarded."
Napoleon stared at his own timepiece, which hummed ever so softly. Then he scowled. "So much for that. This battery-powered chronometer is supposed to be guaranteed accurate to two seconds a month. And it was set by WWV not a week ago."
"Must have a lose wire. I prefer the old-fashioned type. Springs and gears have less that can go wrong with them and are easier to fix when they do."
Napoleon said nothing. He was proud of his watch, and it had let him down. He set it ahead, looked at it a moment, shrugged, and set it back three hours. He'd adjust it to the second when they got to Los Angeles.
Shortly after they were airborne, the PA system gave the usual "Welcome aboard" announcement, and informed the passengers that they would be flying at thirty thousand feet while watching the latest James Bond film. Napoleon settled back happily and adjusted his headset as the cabin lights dimmed. Illya looked over at him and shook his head. "I'll never understand what you see in that escapist nonsense. I should think professional pride " He realized Napoleon was already lost in the opening credits, which featured a girl with an amazingly supple figure. Illya smiled. He understood already.
He slipped his earphones on, set the dial to the classical music channel, where a Prokofief symphony was beginning, and got out his briefcase. By the yellow glow of his seat lamp, he fished out a set of essays on The Nesting Habits of the Greater Western Thrush.
Chapter 2: "What Do You Know About DAGGER?"
It was warm when they stepped off the plane, and the black surface of the taxiway gave back the heat of the California day which had just ended. Ten minutes later they were in an ordinary-looking black car which bore them north along the San Diego Freeway a few miles in air-conditioned silence. Half an hour after landing, they rolled into a run-down garage on Washington Boulevard in Culver City, and heard the heavy steel door sigh closed behind them.
Their driver hopped out and opened their door. "Elevator straight ahead," he said. "Mr. Feldman is on level three, and he's expecting you."
Ralph Feldman stood up as they came into his office. "Napoleon — Illya," he said. "Good to see you. Sit."
They did. So did the head of the Los Angeles office, as he continued, "Things have been so quiet here in the last month we've been thinking about laying off some of the help. But now that you two are in town I expect the crime rate to go up again, right?" He laughed, then remembered his duties. "Look, did you two have dinner on the plane? Good. And I suppose Waverly briefed you on what's been happening — namely nothing? Okay. There isn't much I can tell you that isn't in the files. We've been watching known Thrush operatives continuously, and haven't even caught one running a red light. All we have to go on is what they were doing up to the 10th of last month. And that's in these two folders. Ah, the one with the blue tag is from Northern Section, headquarters San Francisco. Davis sent them down by teletype last night for you. If you can figure out anything from them, you're better than the local brains. You'll probably want to spend a while looking over them. Right now the night shift is on, and most of our field workers are off. We don't work day and night, like you New Yorkers do — especially since the dry spell hit. About the most excitement we've had has been a couple of twenty-dollar pots in the office poker game. But look here, I've been doing all the talking again. Since you're here to stir up Thrush's nest, as it were, you should have maximum security quartering. We have a comfortable apartment fixed up down on level five, private bath, kitchen privileges, maid service; a car will be placed at your disposal at once. Do you have any arrangements that would conflict?"
Illya was the first to realize that this was a direct question and an answer was expected. "No, we don't."
"Fine. I'll have your bags taken straight down to level seven. You two are automatically cleared for access to the whole operation here — your New York badges are keyed for our detectors too. How about the car?"
This time Napoleon spoke first. "Yes, I'll need one tonight."
"And I'd like to change clothes," said Illya. "I too have somewhere to go tonight."
Feldman raised both eyebrows. "That's amazing. You're in town half an hour, and already you've got angles of investigation. Will you be wanting tails? The feathered foemen certainly know you're in town, and may be after your scalps. It'd be damned embarrassing to report your loss to Mr. Waverly."
"Thanks, but no," said Napoleon. "Tails are long awkward things to drag around, and I'd be worried about losing him. Besides, if we can't take care of ourselves by now, we shouldn't be here. After all, Mr. Waverly just let us fly all the way across the country without even a tag pinned to our lapels so the stewardess would know where we were going. And we made it with hardly any difficulty."
Feldman laughed. "Sorry if I offended you. A natural precaution. Okay, if Waverly trusts you out in the big world, so do I. Check in about nine o'clock tomorrow morning, and let me know what you've found."
In their apartment on level five, Napoleon emptied his suitcase into the closet, freshened himself and changed to a crisp shirt. Illya put on his most casual black slacks and turtleneck sweater, and slipped a black leather jacket over his shoulders as they started out. Napoleon looked him up and down appraisingly. "L
ooks like we'll be exploring two different levels of society tonight, old friend. Can I drop you somewhere, or will you check out a motorcycle?"
They rode up to the garage, where Napoleon signed for a specially-equipped red sports model similar to his own and Illya chose a well-worn Harley-Davidson. Moments later they roared out onto the streets and away on their separate missions.
* * *
It was almost 10:00 A.M. when Napoleon drew up in front of his goal — a glittering high-rise apartment on Wilshire Boulevard in West Los Angeles. The address he'd copied from the car-rental contract in New York included the apartment number. He sauntered inside, past the row of numbered but nameless mailboxes, and into the elevator. He didn't notice the girl at the small switchboard in an alcove, who stared at him in wild surmise and then touched a set of buttons.
Suite 12-A was at the corner of the building. Napoleon used the one-way glass in the door to center his tie and pat a stray hair into place. He set his fingertip gently on the button and the door swung open violently. The knob was gripped in the hand of a tall and striking brunette. Napoleon's first impression was that she was about to strike him. "Solo, you officious rat! What are you trying to pin on me this time?"
For a few seconds Napoleon's mind was occupied with rearranging itself. This was not the girl he had raced with this morning — this was..."Helena!" he exclaimed. This girl was one of the most attractive features of an otherwise unattractive organization — Thrush! Well, he wanted to find out about them anyway. Always land on your feet, my boy, he thought to himself, and added aloud, "Well! Journeys end in lovers' meetings!"
"I deny everything," she said flatly. "Categorically and individually. I not only have done nothing you could possibly prove, I haven't done anything you can't prove. Now what do you have to say before I throw you out on your ear?"
"Why, Helena — sultry, beautiful Helena, my favorite little Thrush! How could you think..."
"Because it's true, you rat, and you know it. Now pick up your jaw and bug off before I call the house manager and have you thrown out the window."
"Helena, I'm ashamed of you. I know you haven't done anything, and I just came by on a social call. It seemed that every time I saw you, we ended up shooting at each other. Now, I hate to mix business with pleasure, so I thought that since for once we have no business, we might..."
"You have no business, you fink," she snapped. "And you'll have no pleasure either if you're still here when I finish dialing this phone."
Napoleon backed out the door again, shaking his head sadly. "Helena, your problem is that you have no romance in your..." He dodged the vase that shattered on the opposite wall. "None at all. How..." A candy dish followed the vase into oblivion. "How empty your life must be." He retreated to the elevator, which had waited for him, slipped between the closing doors, and pushed the ground floor button.
In a few seconds he was fast asleep.
* * *
Farther north, on Sunset Boulevard, a slender, sullen-faced young man with straight blond hair sulked into a dimly-lit coffee house called The Fifth Estate. His eyes flickered over the entrance hall as he paused in the door. His black outfit made him appear to be a creature of the night out of which he had come. He ordered brusquely at the service window and found a corner seat near a practicing amateur guitarist who was struggling bravely to master a C-minor chord.
The crowd ran mostly to long hair, with beards on the men to distinguish the sexes; the clientele ranged around college age and a little over. Some were dressed less formally, with levis and open shirts; some more formally, with an occasional tie. Illya's motorcycle-black garb was about midway in the social spectrum, and blended well with the lighting — or absence thereof — which was his primary reason for wearing it.
Thrush did a small amount of recruiting in this milieu, but The Fifth Estate was a regular meeting place and information exchange center, not only for Thrush but for other, more politically oriented groups. Illya had hopes of spending several evenings there, getting into conversations and possibly picking up some useful information.
His spiced cider arrived, borne by a tall, leggy girl with straight black hair, and too much eye makeup. Illya flipped her a fifty-cent piece and settled back in his wicker chair. There was a fire in the fireplace — welcome in the chill autumn night — and Illya stared into the flames while sipping his cider, with most of his attention given to the mumble of voices at the other tables. Occasionally he would catch a word, but never anything of import.
Some time later, he became aware that staring into the fire was making him a little sleepy. He remembered his interrupted rest that morning, and remembered also that it was three hours earlier here than in New York. He stood up, intending to get a breath of cool air outside. He stretched his arms, breathed once deeply, and fell over. The boy with the guitar and the waitress caught him before he hit the floor. Only one customer noticed, and he shrugged. They should keep drunks out of this place.
* * *
Napoleon Solo felt something hard against his back, and a stiffness in his neck. There was something cold and metallic under his arms, and beneath him as well. He cracked his eyelids, and saw his lap. He straightened up slowly and forced his eyes to focus on his surroundings. He was in the center of a perfectly cubical small metal room. Experimenting with his arms and legs, he found he was fastened into a metal chair which was solidly bolted to the floor. A rubber tube of some kind was about his chest, and a rubber cuff gripped his left forearm snugly. Wires ran from them to connections on the chair.
Directly in front of him was a small TV screen; above it was a small industrial television camera with a wide-angle lens, trained upon him. Everything was silent. The screen was blank. The room was evenly lit from some invisible, shadowless source.
He had just absorbed these facts when the TV screen in front of him flickered, formed a picture, rolled over, and steadied. He seemed to be looking down on a figure in a position identical to his own, fastened into a chair and hung about with wires. Seen from this position, the apparatuses were readily recognizable as the sources for a basic Keeler polygraph — a lie detector. But the figure was not his own. It was blond, and dressed all in black.... Napoleon sighed deeply. A very neat double-play for Thrush.
"Welcome, Mr. Solo." A voice spoke gently from somewhere just behind him. He twisted his head, but couldn't quite..."No, I'm not behind you. I'm some distance away. But the fidelity of the sound is quite remarkable, is it not?"
"Just wonderful," said Napoleon, with a little less than enthusiasm. "Where'd you buy the setup?"
"It was built to our own designs by native craftsmen under exclusive long-term contracts. Ah. Excuse me a moment."
Napoleon looked carefully at Illya's image on the screen. It had not moved. He was still unconscious. The voice spoke again. "Mr. Kuryakin," it said gently, "your skin conductivity and pulse changes indicated your return to consciousness some sixty seconds ago. I'm afraid your neck will be quite stiff if you continue to feign this condition."
On the screen, Illya straightened up slowly. He shook his head carefully, and winced. His voice came from behind Napoleon, somewhat more faintly. "What was in that cider, anyway?"
"A harmless potion of our own compounding. There should be no aftereffects, save a slight headache."
"Ah — I think the gas you used on me is a better formulation," said Napoleon, with the attitude of an interested professional. "It took effect almost instantly, and left no aftereffects at all."
"Yes," said the disembodied voice, "the gas is generally preferable, but is often impractical, such as in the case of one subject in a crowd, as with Mr. Kuryakin. Under these circumstances, either slipping the drug into their cider, or in some situations injecting it with a hypospray..."
"This is very interesting," said Illya, "but we have other calls to make tonight. Could we get to the business at hand?"
"Mr. Kuryakin," the voice said with mild reproof, "as you are our guest at the moment, I sh
ould hope your manners would be at their best."
Illya twitched slightly in his chair and caught his breath. The voice continued. "Consider that a reminder. Now, Mr. Solo, we want to know only one thing. Cooperate with us and depart as friends. What do you know about DAGGER?"
Napoleon cocked his head at the camera. "Absolutely nothing," he said.
Illya looked straight out of the screen and said, "Neither do I."
"The organization known as DAGGER — D, A, G, G, E, R — is unknown to you?"
"Completely."
There was some thirty seconds of silence. Then the voice spoke again. "Your arrival in Los Angeles was opportune — why did you come here?"
Napoleon looked down with an air of embarrassment. "Well, I was looking for a girl I met in New York."
"And I came along in case she had a friend," Illya said coolly.
A mild electric shock ran through the arms of the chair, and Napoleon winced away from it unsuccessfully. The voice spoke again. "This current can be increased to become quite painful. I asked you both to cooperate, and you are...What?" The last word was fainter, as if the speaker had turned away from the microphone. A moment later the electricity was cut off.
After a few seconds the voice came back on, sounding vaguely disturbed. "My apologies, Mr. Solo; you...ah...appear to be telling the truth, though I cannot say the same for your partner. Once more, what do you know about DAGGER?" it snapped suddenly.
"Nothing," both the U.N.C.L.E. agents snapped back at once.
The voice said nothing. Illya spoke again. "Were you looking for information on this 'DAGGER' when you broke into my apartment in Brooklyn Heights last night?"
There was no answer for some time, almost a minute and Napoleon counted the seconds. He was no longer expecting any response when the voice came back on, perfectly level. "No Thrush personnel have been in your apartment in Brooklyn Heights for the last six months."