Illya fought his eyes open. The chattering continued. Now Illya recognized the source. Not the birds at all.
Beyond the barred window of the little shack the black fronds of jungle shrubs nodded in a fetid breeze. The shrubbery was illuminated from the left by the glare of a small spotlight. It was night out there, and not much better in here. The hut was lit by a portable battery lantern set in one corner of the dirt floor. Two heavy wooden beams imbedded in the dirt rose to the center roof tree, which was the only substantial looking thing in the little hut except for the window bars. The chattering dinned, a maddening cacophony---
It came from the dozens and dozens of cages around the walls, cages ranged from ceiling to floor. Inside each cage was a small to medium-sized monkey. Some had full, curling tails. Others were of the stubby, tailless variety. Some shook the bamboo bars of their cages. Others crouched in the dark corners of the cages. All of them showed their teeth and chattered in fear, their curiously human faces peering at him like distortions from a nightmare.
Indra Bal was lashed to the post on Illya’s right. Her dark skirt and white blouse were filthy with mud and dust. Her hair hung in her face. Her wrists were tied behind her back and around the post by means of a thick leather strap. Barely conscious, she mumbled to herself.
By tugging, Illya Kuryakin discovered that his bonds were equally secure.
“That will do no good at all, Mr. Kuryakin,” said a voice, the source of breathing on his left.
Turning, Illya stared at the man. Very tall, almost emaciated, he wore a spotless white suit and matching shoes which showed not the slightest trace of mud. The man rubbed his hands together, an old, papery sound.
He stepped around in front of Illya. He cocked his head and peered at his captive with a mixture of curiosity and loathing.
“My little station,” said the man, “is well hidden in the jungle. We are quite a few miles from Mr. Bal’s home. To be most accurate, the home of the late Mr. Bal. And, we are also a good distance from any of the principal cities of Purjipur. The provincial police never range this far. Finally, I have expert teams of men trained by THRUSH to guard these premises. One is on duty directly outside. Others are strategically located in case you should attempt to break out in another direction. Thoughtful of Mr. Chandra to bring you along, you and the girl. Yes, thoughtful. We shall have an amusing little time before we’re done.”
Illya Kuryakin licked his lips. “You must be Edmonds.”
The man had a peculiar courtliness about him. It was accented by the way he used his bony-fingered hands for theatrical gestures of emphasis. As he bowed in response to Illya’s words, his black string tie fell away from the high collar of his shirt. His hair was long, thick and brown. It almost curled into ringlets at the nape of his neck.
Edmonds’ aquiline face had the look of genteel starvation. His nose was sharp and long. Below his mouth dangled a wisp of a brown goatee to further heighten the air of rather Bohemian elegance. The man’s round brown eyes were full of amused hatred as he replied: “That is correct. Dantez Edmonds, at your service.”
Edmonds clicked his heels together. The count, thought Illya. He’s playing the role to the hilt and enjoying it. A man from yesterday; a perverted, fanatical modern Monte Cristo who affects the beard and the postures to maintain the image.
With a little inward shudder of repulsion Illya tried to remember his professional training, tried to keep himself from growing unnerved as memories of what had happened earlier tonight flooded back. His jaw pushed out at a defiant angle.
“Do you have Napoleon Solo a prisoner here too?” he asked.
Edmonds caressed his cheek with a bony index finger. “Your comrade? No, I believe Mr. Chandra left him at the airstrip. But be assured; your friend will never find you. Not here, not in this forest. The road in here is not easily found by outsiders. We are quite alone, you and I and the charming Miss Bal.”
Edmonds lifted the moaning girl’s limp hand, then let it drop. We’ll know what to do about her.” Suddenly, his mood shifted with manic swiftness. He lunged forward and seized Illya’s sleeve. His eyes shone hellish bright in the glow of the battery lantern, and flecks of spittle caught in his goatee as he spewed out words:
“Where were the scruples and the sensibilities of your filthy organization when I was on trial? Trial! Hah! A kangaroo court! One which thought nothing of my sensibilities when it locked me away on that misbegotten Isle for the rest of my life.”
“Your stay was relatively short,” Illya countered. His forehead hurt. He tired to gather his wits. He must stay alert to possibilities of escape. He tested the wrist thongs behind his back and found them very strong, said: “Like a bad penny---or a mad dog---you have come back.”
“Did they think I wouldn’t? Oh, did they think I wouldn’t?” Edmonds suddenly squared his shoulders. “You saw how important I am to THRUSH. You saw that! They assisted in my escape. And when I showed them what I had stolen from the Isle, THRUSH Central gave me unlimited funds. Unlimited---funds, do you hear?”
Edmonds spun and flung a hand out toward the cages. “Do you see those, my friend? Every one of those monkeys is now inoculated with the serum drawn from the body-fluid of the research monkey which I stole. THRUSH Central recognizes this for the breakthrough it is.” He leaned close again, his breath faintly foul and tinged with a smell of cloves. “This country, Purjipur, is only a pilot experiment.”
“How many of the diseased animals have you already let loose?” Illya asked.
“A mere dozen. And I think we both know the damage those twelve have done just in the past few days.”
“To my knowledge there has been no damage of any---“
Edmonds danced forward and slashed Illya Kuryakin viciously across the cheeks with his open hand.
“Liar! You know all about the infected villages that have been torched because of the disease.”
Illya’s voice was toneless. “I am not aware---“
“Oh yes, yes, naturally!”
Laughing and weeping at the same time, Edmonds drew an immense white silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his white jacket. He wiped his eyes, rocking back and forth Illya noticed that Edmonds wore men’s dress pumps in patent leather, with formal satin bows.
“Naturally,” Edmonds chortled, “naturally you must deny knowing anything of the destruction my little pets have already wrought. For your information, Kuryakin---“Edmonds completed wiping his eyes. He thrust the handkerchief away with a sniff. “---there will be more, much more. Before another week is out, all ninety-eight of my infected pets will be loose in Purjipur. Not only in the hills and forests, but in the cities. Imagine the panic! The riots, the fires! One monkey can infect hundreds in an hour!”
All of the grisly pictures Edmond conjured could easily be imagined by Illya Kuryakin. But he didn’t want to show how shaken he was.
As if sensing this, Edmonds tried for additional shock effect.
“And THRUSH shall benefit. Oh yes, definitely. My men are already at work to make certain that damaging evidence is found in one of Purjipur’s most important cities. Evidence to indicate that Purjipur’s neighboring state is responsible for the pestilential influx.” Edmonds slitted his eyes and giggled. “Do you see what that implies?”
Clearly Illya did. Purjipur and the state with whom it was having a border dispute were already on war’s brink. Other nations throughout Asia and even into the Middle East were aligning themselves, taking a position and hardening it.
Edmond whispered sibilantly: “There will be war, Mr. Kuryakin. War in Purjipur. Then war throughout Asia. War sweeping into Africa and the Suez. And always THRUSH will be there. Gaining strength. Consolidating. Taking over tottering governments with shadow cabinets and puppet presidents---
“Little monkeys in cages can’t do all that,” Illya said. But he was afraid they could. He’d seen the devastating way Plympton died, and the fires burning across Purjipur.
Edmond drew himself
up to full height. “To men of limited vision, Mr. Kuryakin, men such as one finds in your group, of course it’s impossible. We of THRUSH possess one thing you do not. Dedication. The dedication to turn the improbable into a reality. Pestilence is a deadly weapon. It spreads fear. And fear births more fear---“ Edmonds giggled a last time. “There is also another matter. Yes, now that both Jurrgens and Mr. Bal are dead, there is another matter. The third man. The one I hate most of all.”
“Alexander Waverly.”
“Correct. The monkeys will kill him too, Mr. Kuryakin.’ Edmonds’ eyes burned coal-bright. “Mr. Waverly will feel their bite and die an exquisite death.” Turning, he started for the door. “In the meantime we shall take excellent care of you. I want you alive to receive a first-hand report of his death. I intend to go to America to accomplish it.”
Cursing, Illya lunged against his bonds. It was no use. Edmonds stepped outside. His voice rang silvery and macabre behind him; “A plague on your house, Mr. Kuryakin. A plague on the house of U.N.C.L.E. I myself will bring it. And sooner than my old friend Waverly expects.”
The laughter died out there in the jungle.
The spotlight glared on the humidly stirring fronds of jungle foliage. The monkeys kept up their horrendous din. Illya Kuryakin pulled and pulled against his bonds.
Finally, panting and sick with defeat, he gave up.
Blood leaked down his wrists. It dripped from his fingertips behind the post and struck the dirt with a gentle plopping rhythm. In the distance a truck motor revved up.
Indra continued to moan softly, slumped back against the post where she was bound. Illya tried to quench the fear Edmonds had kindled inside him, fear that the man might, just might have formulated a plan which could incinerate this entire part of the globe in war, and leave the world situation ripe for a THRUSH coup.
The final victory? It might even come to that. The feral eyes of the monkeys stared back at him from their cages.
Illya’s spine crawled as he thought of the toxic poisons in the bloodstreams of the little creatures. He knew that it was up to him to break free and stop Edmonds.
The long, steamy night wore away. Mr. Chandra looked in once to taunt them. Illya gradually became aware of the voices of many men moving outside the hut.
This must be a relatively large THRUSH station. Trucks came and went all night long. A ferocious looking Sikh stepped in at one point and removed three cages from one wall, careful to keep his hands away from the bars. Carrying the cages, the Sikh vanished. A few moments later another truck roared off.
From out in the jungle came the sounds of animals. Large animals, snarling and roaring. How far was this station from civilization? Could a man make it through that jungle?
Presently Indra Bal woke up. She looked at him feverishly. “Illya, Illya, this place---it’s their station?”
He nodded.
“We must get away from them. Dear, we must!” She was hysterical.
He said quickly, “Of course we will, Indra.”
He thought of Dantez Edmonds somewhere out there in the night plotting Mr. Waverly’s execution. He doubted his own words. But he repeated them anyway: “Of course we will. There is always a way.”
The words were on his tongue, bitter as gall. This time, he was afraid there might be no way out at all.
ACT III
TIGER, TIGER, BURNING BRIGHT
Five nights after Illya Kuryakin first confronted Dantez Edmonds in Purjipur, Napoleon Solo sat in a dim little bar in New York’s East Fifties, getting quickly drunk. A jukebox played a moaning rock and roll number. The bartender dozed. Ordinarily Solo never got past one social drink when he was on assignment. It was bad for stamina, for professional endurance.
But this was different. This was pain and frustration too deep to bear. Plus unholy waiting that gnawed the nerves and filled the mind with phantoms. For one thing, he was certain Kuryakin was dead.
“Another,” Solo muttered. The bartender refilled his glass without question.
Thinking back, Solo wondered what he’d done wrong. He’d awakened at the edge of the airstrip of Bal’s property. He stumbled up to the house and discovered the red carnage in the foyer: Mr. Bal smashed to death and the U.N.C.L.E. agents gassed. Solo blamed himself bitterly.
Like a man berserk he ran through the house, shouting for Indra and Illya. Both were gone. Truck tracks in the mud behind the house disappeared down a feeder road that led into the jungle.
The rainstorm diminished by morning. Solo called for reinforcements and a ‘copter load of U.N.C.L.E. agents arrived by nine. The teams fanned out through the jungle, following the truck tracks. Shortly they came upon a light van, abandoned. Its left tires were mired in mud.
The searchers beat on up into the infernally hot jungle for the remainder of the day. But those they pursued were skillful. There was no noticeable trail, no clue to be found. The Thrushmen had simply melted into thousands of square miles of rain forest that spread across much of Purjipur.
Solo gave up, returning to the capitol city to organize a larger search team. The news in the city was bad. More monkey attacks were being reported. Villages were being burned by the dozens. The border dispute was heating, and tanks were rumbling toward the frontier.
On his first night in the hotel, Solo received a call from an anonymous voice informing him that Alexander Waverly would be the third and last man to be killed by Dantez Edmonds. Immediately he called Waverly on his communicator. The latter seemed less perturbed than Solo was. He ordered Solo to return by the first flight to New York.
Solo protested. Waverly overrode him. And so Napoleon Solo came back to New York, with nothing to do, and no orders from Waverly except a cryptic one---wait.
He tried to do paper work during the day. No good. He prowled the bars at night and tried to sleep a few hours along toward dawn. Weight was dropping off him at an astounding rate.
Solo’s hand clenched around the glass, his face ugly with frustration. He wanted to throw the glass at the back bar, hear bottles smash. What stopped him was the bartender tapping his arm.
“Your name Solo?”
“Yes.”
“Just had a phone call for you. Your uncle said to tell you that Aunt Xenia was down with the virus again.”
“The virus?” Solo’s eyes narrowed. The virus!” He leaped off the stool, flung bills on the bar, charged out toward the taxi rank.
It was the Priority Alert.
TWO
Ten minutes later he was tramping back and forth in Mr. Waverly’s office.
“Don’t be so agitated, Mr. Solo.” Waverly seemed the soul of composure, tenting his fingers as he leaned back in his massive chair. His eyes were speculative. “I received a radio message from our friend Dantez Edmonds just moments before I got in touch with you.” He coughed. “You---ah---had forgotten your pocket communicator, I’m afraid. Hence the telephone. Be careful of the alcohol, Mr. Solo. It’s not like you.”
“It’s not often I face the possibility that my best friend is dead!” Solo shot back. “Sir.”
“Yes, yes, quite understandable. But Mr. Kuryakin is alive.”
“Alive!”
“Or so Edmonds led me to believe. I tend to put faith in that much of his message.” Waverly’s gaze remained cool, unruffled. “Of the three of us, he has saved me to the last. I think he will want to meet me in person and try to kill me himself. I have been hoping he would use some such approach, which is precisely why I returned you to duty here. It seems Mr. Dantez Edmonds is willing to bring Illya Kuryakin to New York and turn him over to us in return for a sum of one hundred thousand dollars.”
Sickened, Napoleon Solo plopped into a chair. “So that’s it. If Edmonds hasn’t killed Illya, policy will. U.N.C.L.E. never ransoms its agents.”
“Policy,” said Waverly, “is only useful so long as it does not hamper efficiency. In this case, Edmond is our target just as I am his. I agreed to the bargain in principle.” While Solo sat stunned,
Waverly continued, “I am to receive another message tomorrow at noon covering details. Naturally it’s a trick, a stratagem to lure me to whatever Edmonds wants me. But I intend to be there. And you’ll be with me, Mr. Solo.” Waverly rose, clapped Solo on the shoulder. “Agreeable?”
For the first time in days, Solo grinned. “Of course. But is Illya really---“
“Alive? I am hopeful of it. I assume it would serve Edmonds purpose better to bait me with a live Kuryakin than a dead one.”
Unexpectedly, Napoleon Solo chuckled. “If I may say so, sir, you’re a fox.”
Thank you, Mr. Solo.” Mr. Waverly harrumphed modestly. “One does like to keep in practice and not turn everything over to you younger fellows.”
Waverly indicated one of the lighted card boards. “I am already assembling a half dozen of our best men. You will take charge. And when Mr. Dantez Edmonds gets in touch with us again, I shall agree to whatever he requests. I shall be prepared to meet him anywhere with the ransom fund. And together, we shall be prepared to turn back the jaws of his trap and close him in one of our own.”
THREE
In the little hut where the cages monkeys chattered, the days and nights had become nightmare.
Illya Kuryakin and Indra Bal were treated little better than the plague-carrying inmates of those tiny barred boxes ranged round the walls. Their guards, a mixture of European and Asian THRUSH personnel, took every opportunity to torment or make sport of them. Indra particularly was subjected to some vile and humiliating physical abuse.
But surprisingly, since her first hysterical outburst the night Edmonds captured them, she had shown remarkable composure. Though she was already growing thin from lack of food, she withstood the manhandlings of the coarse-mouthed THRUSH guards with cool reserve. Only after the guards left did she break down and begin to shudder with rage and disgust.
After the first night, Illya and Indra were freed from the posts and allowed a period of exercise in a wire-fence enclosure to the rear of the hut. Here too were the latrine facilities, which they were allowed to use on a set schedule, accompanied by guards armed with machine pistols. A thick planting of jungle shrubs grew up all around the outside of this fence. Consequently it was impossible for Illya to see very much of the THRUSH station.
The Man from Yesterday Affair Page 7