The Mind-Twisters Affair

by Thomas. Stratton

  Whateley chuckled again. "Although I find Thrush an admirable organization, dealing with individuals devoid of principle does require some discretion. For example, I am the discoverer of the drug that you and Mr. Kuryakin are so interested in. I am also the only man in the world who knows how to make it. Anyone with a good laboratory could analyze its composition, of course, but they might be a little surprised if they tried to duplicate it." He smiled. "Like so many modern drugs, the secret is in the manufacturing process and I doubt that anyone could duplicate mine. I doubt that many people would even believe mine. But, as I started to say, this gives me a much securer niche in the organization than most Thrush satrapy heads possess."

  "An astute maneuver," Napoleon said admiringly. "I assume you also invented the rather complicated system of administering the drug and the subliminal conditioning?"

  Whateley leaned back against the iron maiden and smiled, looking as if he would be happy to lecture Napoleon for the rest of the night.

  "Actually," he said, "the administration and conditioning were determined by the action of the drug. As you have no doubt guessed, its entire effect is to make people susceptible to suggestion, but both the dosage and the conditioning must be gradual for the best results. Drugging the drinks in Falco's vending machines was an ideal method of administration: half a dozen times a day, five days a week. In the early stages there is a tendency for the subject to regress over weekends; in the long run this is unimportant, but it enabled you to talk Armden into going with you. If you had arrived in the middle of the week, you would never have convinced him. As I was saying, it is the subconscious of the subject that we must work on. Direct orders are not feasible, while subliminal conditioning works wonders."

  Napoleon looked puzzled. "But Illya and Dr. Armden obeyed direct orders when they were drugged the other day."

  "Ah, but they had been given a massive dose. Such a dose does enable the subject to respond to direct orders; unfortunately he doesn't respond to anything else. His willpower is temporarily destroyed. We want to obtain scientists with their initiative and creativity intact. Also, conflicting orders given to anyone with a massive dose of the drug produce hysteria and collapse, as you observed in Dr. Armden's reactions last Monday. I would have preferred not to give him that dose, but you forced our hand."

  "But wouldn't normal brainwashing techniques accomplish the same thing?" Napoleon asked. "You have all sorts to choose from, from the Chinese to Madison Avenue."

  "I'm afraid not. Efficient brainwashing requires that the subject be under the complete control of the operator for long periods of time. Not at all suitable for our purposes."

  "Is this just a test run, then?" Napoleon hazarded.

  "Yes, our first field application. Previously, we tested one of our own agents, not having any U.N.C.L.E. agents to practice on. Also, your men are so frequently conditioned against drugs. Terry was expendable, so we turned him into an U.N.C.L.E. admirer. Worked very well; in fact a little too well. We hadn't counted on his escape; I had a few bad moments when I realized he was on the threshold of U.N.C.LE. headquarters with traces of the drug still in his bloodstream. Fortunately, we got him back."

  "And changed him back to a loyal Thrush, I assume?"

  "Oh… no. Effects are cumulative; after a certain number of doses, the conditioning is permanent. We're very close to that point here at Midford now. Once we got Terry back and completed our tests, we had to dispose of him."

  "I suppose the next thing is a full scale assault on the scientists of the world?"

  "We haven't decided. Probably we will seek to influence scientists, but there is always the possibility that we'll go into mass production of the drug, infiltrate the major TV networks for our messages and condition a majority of the citizenry. How does 'Whateley For President' strike you?"

  Napoleon shivered inwardly but kept an outward calm. "How it would strike Thrush Central might be more to the point. They just might have other candidates in mind."

  Whateley chuckled. "Yes, I suppose they might. But I control the drug, and I do think I might conjure up a few helpers from somewhere, if necessary. It wouldn't be too hard."

  Napoleon shuddered slightly. "What about me? You mentioned some time ago that it was expedient for you to keep me alive."

  "I'm glad you remembered the word I used, Mr. Solo. Expedient. That applies equally to Mr. Kuryakin when he arrives. As soon as I get a new batch of the drug made, you will be given massive doses, after which you will report to Mr. Waverly that the anti-U.N.C.L.E. feeling was a mere misunderstanding that has now been cleared up. And then... well, I'm afraid that even though I enjoy such an interesting conversationalist and splendid audience, you and Mr. Kuryakin will both have a regrettable but fatal accident on your way back to New York. It will be a pity for U.N.C.L.E. to lose their two best agents and their remarkable new car in one fell swoop, so to speak, but turnpike driving can be terribly hazardous these days."

  With a final chuckle, Whateley turned and walked away down the corridor. Napoleon listened to his dying footsteps. They produced a slight echo, as though one of his demons was pattering along in front of him.

  Chapter 14

  "This Isn't Exactly What I Had In Mind"

  AFTER RECEIVING NAPOLEON'S second call, Illya reluctantly got out of bed and dressed, meanwhile considering ways and means of getting from Lem Thompson's farm to the Whateley mansion. Lem's car had the clutch burned out, a circumstance Illya had not discovered until Lem left for Fort Wayne in his pickup truck. As a result, the only self-propelled vehicles on the farm were a tractor and a power lawn mower, neither of which seemed quite practical for driving several miles and sneaking up quietly on the Whateley house.

  Once dressed, Illya picked up his communicator from the table by the bed and called the New York office. Waverly replied. Waverly always replied, no matter what time of day or night an agent called in. When he slept, or if he slept, nobody knew. Illya had heard idle speculation that the head of Section Two of U.N.C.L.E. was actually a robot. Impossible, of course, but still - when did the man sleep?

  Illya passed along Napoleon's report on the Thrush base and inquired if any other agents were nearby and available.

  "I'm afraid not, Mr. Kuryakin. The Fort Wayne agent was called to help with a case in Cleveland; we haven't had a report from the part-time agent at Midford University for some time. I'm afraid we must assume that Thrush's drug has caused a temporary, ah, shall we say defection? I will alert the Chicago office to stand by if you wish, but even with their helicopter, they are hours away. I fear that, as usual, affairs are entirely in the capable hands of Mr. Solo and yourself."

  "Very well, sir. We'll do our best to handle it."

  "Quite, Mr. Kuryakin. Keep me informed."

  Illya stared momentarily at the silent communicator, then hurried downstairs. A minute later he was dialing Sascha Curtis' number.

  In answer came the impolite noise that telephone companies use for a busy signal. Illya held the receiver out and glared at it. What was Curtis doing, using the phone at this time of night? Honest citizens should be in bed. He hesitated, but there was now little choice. U.N. C.L.E. had only one other trustworthy ally in town. Reluctantly, he called Rita Berman.

  She answered almost instantly, sounding sleepy. "Who is it?"

  "Illya. I'm afraid I have a favor to ask."

  She yawned slightly before answering. "Ask away."

  "I'm at Lem's. I have to get to Whateley's right away to help Napoleon, and I need a car. If you could pick me up here, I could drop you off at home on my way through town."

  "You can have the car - on one condition."

  "What's that?" Illya asked, with a sinking feeling that he already knew.

  "I come with it."

  "No," he said firmly. "This could be dangerous. Whateley is a Thrush, and he has quite an army at his command."

  "Then," Rita pointed out, "you need all the help you can get."

  "Spying on Thrush is danger
ous enough for professional agents, trained for the job. It's nothing for amateurs to get mixed up in."

  "Then you can't have the car. It isn't trained either, and what sort of driver would I be if I ordered my car to go where I wouldn't go myself?"

  "Look, this is serious!"

  "So am I. Where the car goes, I go."

  Illya continued to protest, but eventually gave in. Rita promised to pick him up as soon as she could get there. She arrived a short time later. As Illya approached the car and started to enter, he came to a sudden stop.

  "Professor Curtis! What are you doing here?"

  "I thought you were in a hurry," Rita said. "Get in and let's go."

  Illya climbed into the front seat.

  "Where do you want to go?" Rita inquired. "I know you said Whateley's, but were you planning to drive up to the front door, or were you planning to try coming up on them from downwind, so to speak?"

  Illya sighed resignedly. "All things considered, the more indirect the better. Is there a place where you could hide the car, say a half-mile from Whateley's house?"

  "Aye, aye," she said, saluting with her free hand as she drove. Illya looked at her curiously. For the occasion, she had donned dark slacks, a sweater, a black scarf to cover her blonde hair, and a jacket with a suspicious bulge in one pocket.

  "What's that?" Illya inquired, looking at the bulge. For answer, she drew out a .25 caliber Walther automatic pistol. Illya looked pained.

  "That's what I was afraid it might be. Did I ever tell you that I once saw a man who had been shot seven times with one of those things?"

  Rita looked horrified. "No! What happened to him?"

  "He was on trial for manslaughter. After being hit seven times, he'd beaten the other fellow's head in with a shovel. If you ever have to use that, you might as well throw it at somebody. Don't bother to shoot it." He snorted. "I said this game wasn't for amateurs."

  Leaving Rita looking crestfallen but determined, he swung around to Curtis. "What are you doing here?"

  "I had to go right by his house," Rita explained, "and I saw his lights on, so..."

  "I've been up half the night," Curtis said. "It's this survey. All the anti-U.N.C.L.E. types have taken to calling me up in the middle of the night. It's really a very interesting phenomenon, considering the fact that the basic motivation is artificially induced. But it does get monotonous. When Rita stopped, I jumped at the chance to come. I suppose you could call it a field trip. I've never had a chance to observe actual criminals in action before. These should be particularly interesting; I've never heard of anything quite like what they are attempting in Midford. It should be fascinating; I hope to get much of it recorded." Curtis reached in one of his pockets and pulled out a miniature tape recorder.

  Illya stared at the machine for a moment, then turned to face forward and slumped down in the seat. After a few minutes of silence, Rita suddenly swung the car off the rough back road she had been traveling and rocked to a stop next to a wild raspberry thicket.

  "We're well hidden," Illya admitted. "But where are we?"

  "A half mile from the Whateley manse, as requested," Rita said. Illya noted unhappily that she seemed to have regained her spirit of adventure.

  Curtis, meanwhile, was staring happily out the window at the raspberry patch. "I must remember this location," he said. "Raspberry yoghurt has always been one of my favorites, but it's difficult to find really good raspberries." He glanced at Illya who was beginning to look ill. "I must be sure to return here next summer.

  "Now look here!" Illya shouted as he jumped out of the car. "I don't think either one of you realize what's going on. Your friend Whateley is a killer. Napoleon has found the lab where the drug is made, and it's in Whateley's basement - or in a secret passage next to the basement. Whateley is a Thrush, and regardless of what you think about him, he is not just a harmless crackpot!"

  For the first time, Curtis and Rita both looked slightly taken aback.

  Illya looked at both of them for a moment. "Now that I have your attention, there is something you can do if you really want to help." Rita and Sascha both nodded, somewhat submissively. "Good. First, get this car turned around so you can get out of here fast. Then get inside, lock the doors, and be ready to move quickly. If neither Napoleon nor myself gets back here within two hours, go back home and telephone this number in New York City." Illya hastily scribbled a number on a piece of paper and handed it to Curtis. "Ask for Mr. Waverly and say you have information about Solo and Kuryakin. Then tell Mr. Waverly everything, and follow his instructions. And if anyone - and I mean anyone – other than Napoleon or myself shows up, get going. The way things are in Midford at the moment, any of your friends could be either Thrush agents or brainwashed. Understand?"

  "Perfectly, Mr. Kuryakin," came a deep voice from the darkness a few yards behind Illya. "You express yourself very well. If you will hold perfectly still and not twitch a muscle for the next few minutes, I'll allow you to go on expressing yourself, at least for awhile."

  Illya did as instructed, putting a dejected slump into his back and reflecting that the sort of man who enjoyed the sound of his own voice as much as this one did would be more apt to make a mistake than a less flamboyant villain.

  "All right, Mr. Kuryakin," the Thrush's voice came again. "Turn around now, slowly, with your hands be hind your head. And walk just a few feet away from the car."

  Illya turned to face in the same direction as Rita and Curtis. Three men stood about ten feet away. The one in the center was pointing a double-barreled shotgun at Illya's midsection. The others had standard Thrush rifles. Behind them, a section of a hollow tree had opened like a door, revealing a stairway leading into the ground.

  Illya decided it was a good thing he had suppressed his initial impulse toward immediate action. The time to fight was when your enemy was unprepared. After a moment, one of the Thrushes put down his rifle, walked behind Illya and very carefully removed his gun. Then, more boldly, he took the U.N.C.L.E. communicator and began removing various pieces of odd-looking equipment from unlikely parts of Illya's person. He paused a second.

  "Are you sure this guy's an U.N.C.L.E. agent, boss? He's got enough burglar tools on him to outfit half of San Quentin."

  "You search and let me do the thinking," admonished the man holding the shotgun. The searcher obediently resumed his rummaging through Illya's clothing, while Rita looked on admiringly.

  "And people make jokes about women's handbags!" she exclaimed.

  "No conversation," the chief Thrush snapped. "By the way, what's that bulge in your pocket? No, don't show me! Keep your hands where they are! Walker, are you through with Kuryakin yet? Get that thing out of her pocket."

  The Walther was duly confiscated, as was Curtis' tape recorder, the latter over strenuous objections by the psychologist.

  "But it's important that I record this!" he protested. "Think of the psychological insights that will go to waste here if I can't get this all down on tape where I can study it! What will I do for my next scientific paper?"

  The Thrush chief turned to Illya. "Haven't you taught this guy the facts of life yet?" he asked in amazement

  Illya shrugged. "I tried."

  The three of them were prodded into the hollow tree by the muzzles of the Thrush weapons. With the guns within reach, Illya calculated his chances of jumping his captors, but decided they were poor. He led the way down a steep stairway to an underground passage with a dirt floor and walls made of rough stone. They walked for a long way. Once or twice Illya attempted to start a casual conversation in the hope of gaining some information, but the Thrush leader discouraged conversation. Curtis, usually ready to talk under any conditions, seemed discouraged by the loss of his tape recorder; he walked along dejectedly.

  They came to an intersecting passage, and the walls and floor changed to concrete. They passed two closed doors. Illya asked about them, but the Thrush leader evidently felt that he'd used up all his good lines and had no inten
tion of talking again until he'd prepared some more. They turned down an intersecting passage. It was totally dark, with a glare of light coming from a room at the end, but before Illya could take advantage of the situation one of the guards flipped a switch and the passage was bathed in the harsh glare of naked electric bulbs. At the end of the passage was the dungeon. As they entered, Napoleon greeted them from his cell.

  "When I asked you to come over and join me, this wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

  "I can't say your choice of meeting places overwhelms me, either," Illya returned as he was shoved into a cell on the opposite side of the dungeon from Napoleon. Rita and Curtis were unceremoniously shoved into cells on either side of Illya.

  "You'll never get away with this!" Rita called after the Thrushes as they departed.

  When the Thrushes were out of earshot, Napoleon called to the others. "The place is bugged," he informed them. "That thing in the ceiling is a microphone. Whateley may or may not be listening, but don't tell me anything you wouldn't want him to hear."

  Illya and Rita nodded. Professor Curtis sat grieving for his lost tape recorder.

  Sounding as casual as was possible under the circumstances, Napoleon remarked, "Since they just dumped you in the cell, I assume you've been thoroughly searched?"

  Illya nodded, mentally pricking his ears. Napoleon was apparently hinting that, taped and handcuffed as he was, he hadn't been totally defanged. So if any of the others could get to him... But most of the tools would be for escape, and if any of the others reached Napoleon, it would be because they had already escaped. Still, it was a point to remember.

  Before he could think of a solution, however, there was a commotion in the corridor. Lem Thompson appeared, wrestled along with a Thrush holding each arm and a third prodding him with a Thrush rifle.