The World's End Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  Solo unloosed his most potent smile. "Miss Fong, you're the sexiest THRUSH agent I've ever seen. And I've seen scads of them."

  The smile on the lips of Miss Rachel Fong widened appreciably, as if in invitation.

  With this encouragement Solo advanced a couple of steps. Miss Fong did not fire a bullet into his stomach. That was even more encouraging.

  Solo was now barely; a step away from the girl's warm, moist mouth. Her pansy-colored eyes were lidded.

  Miss Fong closed her eyes and pouted her lips. Solo murmured, "You are young. Miss Fong. And pretty. Indeed you are pretty pretty -" Solo timed his last word to come out just at the moment he was pressing his lips to Miss Fong's and preparing to rabbit punch her.

  Miss Fong hit him in the stomach with her knee.

  Two more karate chops and one judo toss later, Solo lay on his back. Miss Fong drew her leg back gracefully and kicked him in the side of the head.

  "I didn't realize that in addition to being good with a gun you were the leading actress in the THRUSH theatre guild," Solo groaned.

  "That was your error," Miss Fong replied with a smile that was no longer dewy, but venomously delighted. "You U.N.C.L.E. agents are such naive fools. You think a mere flex of a bicep will strip us of our dedication to the most glorious organization in the history of the world." As if to emphasize the incorrectness of Solo's reasoning, Miss Fong hauled off and let him have another kick in the temple.

  This final act of defiance was her undoing. Solo grabbed her flying boot and gave it a terrific wrench.

  With an enraged scream, Miss Fong spilled backwards. Solo jumped on top of her. He tried to wrestle the gun from her hand. Her long, unpainted nails tore bloody channels down his cheek.

  The girl heaved from side to side to roll him off. She was incredibly strong. Solo clamped both hands on her gun wrist. Miss Fong twisted hard. The muzzle swung around, aimed at Solo's rib cage.

  Instantly Solo released her and jerked himself away. The abrupt loss of tension threw Miss Fong off balance. Her gun cracked. Two panes of the folded back French doors shattered.

  Solo doubled his list. "No lady kicks a gentleman where you kicked me, Miss Fong -" He connected.

  Miss Fong's head snapped back and hit the rug. The pistol spurted one more time as her knuckles banged the carpet.

  She lay still.

  Solo staggered to his feet. It took him only two minutes to arrange the effect he wanted. In one of the bedroom closets he discovered a collection of feminine clothing. The property of one of General Weng's lady friends, perhaps?

  Solo chose a black negligee. Then he dumped Miss Fong into the king-size bed, wrapped her in the negligee and drenched the room with a perfume atomizer from the dressing table.

  The room reeked with Essence d'Amour. Solo glanced at the slumbering THRUSH valkyrie.

  "I hope you can explain your loyal, efficient appearance to General Weng after the big blow, sweetie," he said. He kissed his fingertips at her and ran for the door.

  Five

  On the bustling Hong Kong street outside the plush hotel, Solo merged into the polyglot crowd. He walked briskly for five minutes, trying to organize his thoughts.

  As he walked he kept glancing up past the bizarre shop signs with the Chinese characters and English legends side by side. A small cloud had rolled across the sun. Around him, clipped British accents mingled with singsong dialects in typical midday unconcern.

  At an intersection Solo found a rickshaw and hopped in. "Hotel Hong Kong International, chop-chop."

  The rickshaw driver set off down the cobbled way at a brisk run. He shrieked and cursed at pedestrians and small European cars which got in his way.

  Solo knew he had major trouble on his hands the moment the rickshaw driver pulled into the wide, sweeping semicircular drive of the Hotel Hong Kong International.

  The wind had a banshee sound. The sky was virtually black. Electric lights had come on in buildings along the streets. Further down from the hotel, a power line had fallen. A frightened man, hurrying for shelter, ran into it and died in a waterfall of bluish sparks.

  Solo ran up to the knot of Crown Colony police at the hotel entrance. He looked like a ghost, but they looked little better.

  "- unnatural, that's what it is," one policeman was saying, staring at the sky.

  "I have to get in the hotel," Solo said, starting past them.

  A revolver was thrust hard into his midsection. The policeman with the bushy red mustache blocked his way.

  "No you don't, sir. We have our orders. No persons can be admitted to the International without the proper identity card from the management."

  "I lost my identity card!" Solo had to shout to make himself heard above the gale. "My name is Napoleon Solo. I'm an agent of the U.N.C.L.E."

  "Be that as it may, no identity card, no admittance. If anyone tries to break into this hotel without identification, we're authorized to shoot. Now sling your hook before we all get killed in this bloody storm."

  Solo grabbed the man's sleeve. "You don't understand! The International is going to be destroyed. You have to get the delegates out of there -"

  "What delegates?" the policeman bawled.

  "The delegates to the Seminar on Asian Cultural Resources."

  The policeman's shout was emphatic: "Never heard of it. Now I warn you, move along -"

  "But this storm is being manufactured!" Solo yelled over the din of rain and wind.

  "Balmy!" the officer exclaimed. "I knew it the minute I spied you mixing it up with Charlie Luke. This bloke's a drunk or a hophead or worse, lads. Let's give him the

  heave-ho!"

  "Wait, wait, dammit, you don't understand! My name is Napoleon -"

  With a thud Solo landed on the cobbles at the foot of the drive.

  He came up like an angry animal, his temper raw because the fools wouldn't pay attention. He took an impulsive step toward the half dozen policemen who had assisted in his departure. All at once the strain showed on their faces. They drew guns.

  The ring of police pistols hemmed Solo in. A hissing lightning bolt sent weird blue fires dancing in reflection along the gun muzzles.

  The mustached officer said, "Be of, now, or we'll shoot you where you stand."

  For one crazy moment, Solo wanted to wade in. Then reason checked him. He whirled and raced across the street.

  A few stragglers fled past him. Portions of a roof went sailing over his head. On the fifth floor of the International several windows blew out with great explosions of glass.

  The very street under his feet seemed to rock as the force of the storm increased.

  Soaked and shivering, Solo darted into the comparative cover of the devastated fried eel restaurant. He pulled out the pocket communicator and pressed the concealed spring stud which opened the secret control panel. With the communicator close to his face, Solo said:

  "Open Channel D."

  It was the last resort. In a moment, a clear, controlled voice from the box said, "This is Alexander Waverly speaking."

  "Solo, sir. I'm in Hong Kong, and -"

  "Solo! Great heavens, man! I thought you had been killed."

  "No sir. It's Illya. He was captured while I escaped from Tibet. THRUSH has probably put him to death by now, along with our contacts there who -"

  "Mr. Solo," Waverly interrupted, "what is that dreadful racket? I can barely hear you."

  "Just a bit of rain we're having," Solo's face was harsh. The street ran with rivers of rainwater now, rainwater which carried debris and now and then a pitiful human

  corpse.

  Solo explained what had happened. He concluded, "The THRUSH storm generator is working perfectly. But I don't know where Weng has set it up. I can't get past the police to warn the delegates at the conference. Is there an U.N.C.L.E. man inside the International? I could call him with the communicator if I knew the frequency -"

  Solo's last hope faded as Mr. Waverly said, "We have no agents inside the hotel. We were
relying upon you and Mr. Kuryakin. Forget the hotel, Mr. Solo. The repercussions of this can be far greater than simply the destruction of the conference. You must find the storm generator and smash it."

  "But it could be anywhere in Hong Kong. It could take hours. By then -"

  "Find the generator, Mr. Solo!"

  Rain lashed from the inky sky and dribbled down Napoleon Solo's face. He stared a moment at the small box cupped in his hand. Mr. Waverly was asking the impossible. Unfortunately only the impossible could save Hong Kong from annihilation.

  More windows burst. On a high balcony a frantic guest slipped on a terrace, hit the railing, spilled over and fell, howling. Down the street the entire wall of a brick warehouse caved in under the wind's pounding.

  The crackle of Mr. Waverly's voice pulled him to his senses:

  "Mr. Solo? Do you hear me? Find the generator."

  "Acknowledge," Solo said. He pressed the button which silenced the communicator.

  He leaped forward as he heard a grinding sound overhead. He landed face first in the torrent of water filling the street. A few feet behind him the facade of the building had given way, and dumped several tons of wood and masonry onto the spot where he had been standing.

  He'd acknowledged Mr. Waverly's command. But where in the maelstrom did he start'? He staggered up and said under his breath, "The incredible we do in five minutes. The impossible takes a little longer."

  Slipping, stumbling, Solo began to run back in the general direction of the hotel where he had left Miss Fong unconscious. Weng had told him that she did not know the transmitter's location. Had he lied? Solo doubted it. THRUSH discipline regarding secrets was both inflexible and uniform. Lower echelons were kept in the dark.

  Still, Miss Fong was his only hope.

  All around him buildings collapsed, fallen power lines hissed, people shrieked in fear. And despite the rain, fires were breaking out. Solo ran until his lungs ached.

  He had gone only a few blocks when his pocket communicator began to beep frantically.

  Act IV: "It Never Rains But It Pours…"

  So far Dr. Dargon had been unusually cooperative. This indicated to Illya that the scientist intended to betray them at the first opportunity.

  Illya was tense. The slightest odd sound or innocent-appearing shadow brought cold sweat to his forehead.

  Dr. Dargon had led them through a series of maze-like passages. They had climbed three stairways and ridden two elevators. In between sucks at his tooth, Dargon kept assuring Illya that he was showing them the only safe escape route. Consequently, the further they went without detection, the more Illya became convinced that Dargon was attempting to lull him into false security.

  It had taken them nearly half an hour to wind their way upward to this brilliantly lit corridor with gray cinder block walls.

  "Only a short distance more," D argon whispered.

  "And then we fall through a trap door into a pit of ravenous bears?" Illya asked.

  Dr. Dargon's hands fluttered near his waist. "No, no, I assure you -"

  "Please spare me your assurances," Illya cut in. "Where is the hangar?"

  Dargon indicated blue steel doors in the distance. "Just through there."

  They moved ahead. Mei walked close to Illya on his left side. Her pretty face showed the ravages of fatigue and pain.

  "Mr. Kuryakin, do you think you can fly the airplane the doctor told you about?" she said.

  Illya shrugged. "He described it as a Nova Class IV two-jet fighter-bomber. I have had some training with that type of aircraft. Enough to give it a try, anyway. While I'm at the controls you will have to watch our guide."

  The girl paled. With some weariness, Illya said, "For heaven's sake why are you trembling?"

  "I - I have never been in an airplane before."

  He didn't bother to tell Mei that he had been boasting about his flying ability. He could pilot smaller planes under reasonably normal circumstances. He had not taken over the Air Pan-Asia jet because of the weather, and his lack of formal training on huge commercial aircraft. He quite possibly might crack them all up on one of the Himalayas, provided they got that far.

  "We'll come out of this all right," he reassured the girl. "I'll use the plane's radio to call Hong Kong and warn those at the conference to evacuate the Hotel International. There are many people depending on us, Mei. We have to come through."

  Kuryakin, he thought to himself, you are a shameless liar.

  Dr. Dargon had reached the blue steel doors. He turned around. Ceiling lights flared off the lenses of his spectacles.

  "I can offer no guarantee that the aircraft will be in the hangar, Mr. Kuryakin."

  "For your longevity's sake," Illya said, "I hope it is. Please go ahead."

  With a bob of his head Dr. Dargon extended his hands in front of him, as if to use his palms to push the door open. His gesture brought instant pandemonium.

  Sirens and bells went off. Illya was getting rather used to the racket by now. Sections of cinder block wall pivoted back and the impersonal lenses of television cameras began scanning the corridor. Illya gave Dargon a smack in the back of the head with the captured pistol.

  "You filthy double-crosser! I didn't see you touch anything -"

  Dr. Dargon giggled. "The detectors concealed in the frame of these steel doors are extremely sensitive. They detect even heat emitted by human bodies. Thus the slightest change in corridor temperature activates the alarms. No physical contact is necessary for -

  down here! Save me!" Dargon squealed, glancing past Illya.

  THRUSH had appeared at the corridor's far end. Illya dragged Dargon around in front of him to serve as a shield. He squeezed off a shot at the officer in the lead of the pack. It was Major Otako.

  Illya's bullet missed. The major flattened against the wall. His S-scar shone with pallid ugliness. Illya said over his shoulder, "Try the door, Mei."

  After a moment he heard her say, "It is locked." Panic edged into her voice.

  "Don't shoot, don't shoot! It's I, Dargon!" the scientist cried, struggling in Illya's grip.

  Major Otako seemed unconcerned that the THRUSH intellectual was currently serving as Illya's shield. Otako wigwagged with his swagger stick. "What are you waiting for, men? Fill the old gas-bag with bullets if necessary. His work is done. I want the U.N.C.L.E. agents."

  Savagely Illya tightened the crook of his left arm around Dargon's neck. "Well, Doctor," he snarled, "they have as few scruples as you. So we'll all die together, unless you know how to open this door."

  Dargon thought it over only for a second. "The - the middle hinge. It contains a removable section. Inside you will find a small button."

  Mei bent over the hinge. Illya squeezed off two more shots. They tore holes in the cinderblocks but missed Otako. The THRUSH soldiers had formed two ranks. The ones in the first were kneeling, aiming their rifles. Illya felt a tug on his robe. He turned and leaped through the door, pulling Dr. Dargon with him as a volley of shots ripped into the wall around the opened door.

  Illya and Dargon sprawled on oil-stained concrete. Illya jumped up. He dragged Dargon by the collar. Their shadows sprang out before them in the huge hangar. Behind, Otako screamed frenzied orders.

  The fuselage door of the Nova IV fighter-bomber stood open. A mechanic poked his head out. He yelled as the party of three escapees came pelting toward him.

  The mechanic tore a pistol from his coverall pocket. Illya shot. The mechanic dropped out of the fuselage door and thudded on the cement.

  "Inside, and don't stand on ceremony," Illya said. He shoved the flailing Dargon up to the fuselage door and gave him a kick aft to help him along. Then he spun around and fired a shot which felled a THRUST soldier.

  Major Otako was urging his men forward. He had found a submachine gun which he was leveling at Illya as the latter boosted Mei into the plane and scrambled after her.

  A second after Illya closed the hatch, bullets began to ping their way along the skin
of the aircraft. No holes appeared. Evidently THRUSH had built well, using some armored alloy.

  Illya tossed the gun to Mei and indicated Dargon. "As the major put it so eloquently - if he moves, fill the old gas-bag with bullets."

  He raced for the cockpit. Bullets spanged and thudded against the cockpit windows as Illya dropped into the bucket, ran his eye down the controls. He hit two of the labeled switches. The wide corrugated steel door of the hangar immediately began to grind aside on a motorized track.