Man From U.N.C.L.E. 01 - The Thousand Coffins Affair

by Michael Avallone

  It started with two beautiful girls.

  Napoleon Solo met Denise Fairmount in Paris, and that night in his hotel suite they were attacked by an eerie barrage of killing sound…

  He met copper-haired Jerry Terry in a plane going to Germany, and before long they were shot down…

  Then he met the twisted genius Golgotha, whose face was a skull-like travesty of hideously scarred tissue, and he learned of the endless variety of horror.

  DEDICATION:

  For my brother Pat—

  who never lost his smile.

  THE U.N.C.L.E. ORGANIZATION

  (United Network Command for Law and Enforcement)

  THERE IS A ROW of buildings in New York City, a few blocks from the United Nations Building. At the south end of the row is a three-storied whitestone which appears fairly new in comparison to the brownstone buildings which make up the rest of the street. At the north end is a public garage. The brownstones are occupied by a few lower-income families living above the decrepit shops and businesses which rent the space on the street level. Del Floria’s tailor shop occupies the street level space in a brownstone near the middle of the block. The first and second floors of the whitestone are taken up by an exclusive key-club restaurant known as The Masked Club.

  On the third floor of the whitestone is a sedate suite of offices the entrance to which bears the engraved letters “U.N.C.L.E.” In this suite of offices, a rather ordinary group of people handle mail, meet and do business with visitors, and in general seem to be a normal organization engaged in some special charity project or a Fund Foundation operation.

  All these buildings are owned by the organization known as U.N.C.L.E.

  If it were possible to peel away the outer, decaying brownstone skin of the four old buildings, a surprising edifice would be found. For behind the walls is one large building consisting of a complex modern office setup of three floors: a steel maze of corridors and suites containing brisk, alert young personnel of many races, creeds and backgrounds…as well as complex masses of modern machinery and equipment, all of a highly technological nature.

  There are no staircases in the building. Four elevators handle vertical traffic.

  Below the basement level an underground channel has been cut through from the East River, leading out to sea. On the roof of the building is a large neon-lighted advertising billboard whose supporting pillars contain a high-powered short-wave antenna as well as elaborate receiving and sending gear.

  This is the heart, brain and body of the organization named U.N.C.L.E.

  The personnel of the organization is peculiarly multinational. And their line of work tends to cross national boundaries with such nonchalance that a daily shortwave message from the remote Himalayas fails to flutter any eyebrows—this even though there is no recorded wireless in this Himalayan area according to the printed international codebooks.

  An Organization Chart for U.N.C.L.E. would read as follows:

  SECTION I: Policy and Operations

  SECTION II: Operations and Enforcement

  SECTION III: Enforcement and Communications

  SECTION IV: Communications and Security

  SECTION V: Security and Personnel

  Napoleon Solo is the Chief Enforcement Agent for U.N.C.L.E.

  THE THOUSAND COFFINS AFFAIR

  WHAT HAPPENED TO STEWART FROMES?

  A CORPSE is always interesting.

  Rich man, poor man, beggar man or king, who a man is and how he died is of far greater interest to mortal man than, say, the price of eggs in Istanbul. The corpse that comes into being for strange and exotic reasons, of course, is of paramount interest to the police and law enforcement agencies of the world. And while all of us are touched in some phantom way because another human being has been singled out by the Grim Reaper, the death of a special agent is naturally a vital matter to the body of men of which the corpse was a member.

  Stewart Fromes was just such a man. Just such a corpse.

  Fromes died in Oberteisendorf, Germany at approximately five-fifteen (German Central Time). He was 37, in excellent physical condition, a master field chemist for the organization known as U.N.C.L.E. In Korea, he had won a Silver Star for staying seven days on Heartbreak Ridge before a hand grenade put him out of action. In Oberteisendorf, there were no battles and no medals. There was only the long, unending far-into-the-night research which had brought him to the little town below the Bavarian Alps in the first place,.

  On the day he was to die, he did three interesting things.

  At five o’clock that last afternoon, Stewart Fromes was taking a bath in the wooden tub placed at the rear of the tiny laboratory he had set up in Frau Morganstern’s home. He was thoughtfully soaping his lean, angular body when he experienced the odd dizziness which had become particularly chronic this past week.

  Fromes waited no longer. He stepped naked from the tub, heedless of the soap and the chill of the drafty house. His bare feet sloshed across the wooden floor to the rear of the laboratory. There, a rickety wooden cage revealed a carrier pigeon nestling quietly. With quick, deliberate movements, Fromes affixed a tiny banded scroll to the pigeon’s right claw and set it free. He hardly waited to see it spring for the Eastern sky, its wings fluttering rapidly.

  The second interesting thing that Stewart Fromes did was to suddenly fall flat on his face in the center of the room, kicking over a low table on which he had set his clothes. He began to thrash about violently, his arms and legs twitching uncontrollably. Had anyone been present, he would have been amazed and terribly frightened to hear Stewart Fromes, third in the ’47 Class of Cornell, begin to babble incoherently. The walls of the laboratory echoed with a string of moaning, gibbering sounds. The dampness of his naked body left small patches of moisture wherever his vibrating body touched.

  And then Stewart Fromes did the third interesting thing before he died.

  Through the haze of pain and the complete seizure of his limbs and muscles, he reached blindly for the clothing scattered on the floor—his coat, trousers and shirt, which had toppled from the low table.

  Stewart Fromes was dying. Slowly. Terribly.

  Yet even as he rolled around on the floor like a frenzied mad dog, he began to dress.

  Alexander Waverly, fingering one of his many unsmoked pipes in the quiet office of the U.N.C.L.E. building in New York, was unhappy. As head of Policy and Operations, he was no alarmist. Yet the transatlantic message from Paris Headquarters had been upsetting. Stewart Fromes had been on to something; that had been most apparent from his reports of the last few hectic weeks. Now, suddenly, he was dead.

  Five men, of various nationalities, guided the Policy operations of U.N.C.L.E. Waverly was one of that very select five. Yet a casual observer would be forgiven if he thought this elderly-looking man to be a gentle old college professor who tended toward crabbiness.

  Waverly pocketed his cold briar pipe and walked to the wide, high window of his office—the only window in the entire fortress known as U.N.C.L.E. Before him spread a sunny panoramic view of the United Nations Building, poking like a modernistic glass finger from the depths of the East River.

  “Napoleon Solo,” Waverly said aloud. “Of course.” The Fromes affair was obviously a matter which called for the special talents of the chief enforcement officer of U.N.C.L.E.

  Clucking to himself as if chiding a personal error, he hurried back to his desk. A row of five enamel buttons lay at right angles to his fingertips:. one orange, one red, one gold, one blue, one yellow. Waverly thumbed the blue one.

  There was a click as a connection was made somewhere in the offi
ce. A smooth, unworried voice abruptly filled the room, seeming to emerge from the four walls: “Section IV.”

  “Cablegram,” Waverly said, putting his forefinger to his nose. “Napoleon Solo, Hotel Internationale, Paris.”

  “Yes, Mr. Waverly.”

  “Fromes Dead In Oberteisendorf, Germany. Claim Body Immediately. Your Uncle Greatly Upset.” Waverly paused. “Remember To Call His Mother. William Daprato Sends His Best.”

  “Is there more to the message, sir?”

  “No, that’s all. Do you want me to repeat any of it?”

  “No, sir.”

  Waverly thumbed the blue button again. He smiled, thinking about Solo. If past performances were any yardstick, Solo had already found Paris a most charming place to be on assignment. He’d much rather his top agent spend more time on enhancing his mind—at the Louvre, say, or even the Left Bank—but Solo was one of those young men eternally inclined to study the opposite sex.

  Waverly snorted to himself, turning to the mystery of Stewart Fromes’ sudden, untimely demise.

  That was something that demanded his immediate attention.

  “Anything wrong, Napoleon? You look so worried. Is the cablegram bad news of some kind?”

  “No. But I would like you to excuse me for a minute or so. A business matter, pet.”

  “Napoleon, look at me. Is that from another woman?

  Napoleon Solo studied the long-legged brunette raising herself from a languorous position on the gilded love seat. Denise Fairmount was worth more than one look. Her amber eyes looked beautiful even in anger. Her silver lame gown shimmered as she rose, emphasizing the almost feline beauty of her body. Solo reflected briefly that the Hotel Internationale’s plush, brocaded Suite Four One One was a completely appropriate setting for her. She was like some regal holdover from another century of French beauty—with just enough Americanizing to make her doubly interesting.

  He smiled at her. “If the cablegram were from another woman, I’d simply tear it up and put on another long-playing record.”

  She lifted her chin, eyes sparkling.

  “Very well then. Go read your important cablegram in privacy. I’ll mix us another aperitif. We can get back to where we were soon enough, n’est-ce-pas?”

  He winked. “Be back in a jiffy, Beautiful.”

  She nodded, watching him move toward the bedroom. The yellowish lights of the suite seemed to cast a halation around Napoleon Solo’s form. Denise Fairmount sighed softly, and shook her head, bewildered by the unexpected sexual appeal of this man.

  He had become far more than she had bargained for. Yesterday, on the Champs d’Elysee, she had picked him up as he sauntered on the sunny thoroughfare. He had been easy to pick out of the crowd of tourists on a spree. The foolishness she had invented about lost directions had not deceived him, she knew. She had not intended that they should. And so they had flirted, dined at Maxim’s that evening…and that was that. They had spent the night here in Suite Four One One.

  She shivered in memory. An interesting man, Solo. An extraordinary charmer. It was a pity that he would have to die.

  In the bedroom, Solo moved like a cat. His movements reflected tensile strength and an economy of effort that marked him for the trained athlete he was. His face, oddly boyish and pleasant, could become a cold mask of intellectual resolve when he was not smiling.

  He was not smiling now.

  Waverly’s cablegram, held under a bed lamp, was upsetting:

  NAPOLEON SOLO

  HOTEL INTERNATIONALE PARIS FRANCE

  FROMES DEAD IN OBERTEISENDORF GERMANY CLAIM BODY IMMEDIATELY YOUR UNCLE GREATLY UPSET REMEMBER TO CALL HIS MOTHER WILLIAM DAPRATO SENDS HIS BEST

  WAVERLY

  Stewart Fromes was dead. Solo scowled and the lines in his face hardened.

  William Daprato sends his best.

  It was quite unlike Waverly to be so cryptic in a straight, harmless telegram. The death of Fromes was a blow, of course—a very personal one which Solo, who had known and liked the man, felt deeply. But the reference to Bill Daprato was something else again. “Booby traps for booby troops,” Solo said, tasting each word as he said it. That was Bill Daprato’s best—the one GI line of advice to all combat rookies. Solo folded the cablegram and put it into his coat pocket. There was something damnably odd—

  Before he could further explore the meaning of Waverly’s message, Denise Fairmount screamed shrilly from the living room.

  A high, thin scream of mortal terror.

  “SOME OF MY BEST FRIENDS ARE SPIES”

  SOLO REACHED the door of the bedroom in something less than one second, and he paused there, his eyes taking in the scene in quick, darting glances.

  At first, the tableau seemed just as it had been when he’d left. Denise was still half-reclining on the love seat—but now every line and angle of her body was taut, frozen, as if she dared not make the slightest movement. Her beautiful face was a pinched mask of horror. The amber eyes seemed fixed on a point before her, between the love seat and the carved oak coffee table. Her hands were clutching the golden bolsters of the chair.

  Yet there was nothing in the room.

  Solo eased toward her, his hand streaking reflexively for his shoulder holster. He restrained a low curse, realizing that the romantic tenor of the evening had made him injudicious enough to leave his gun somewhere other than on his person. Moving closer he held his breath, his eyes on the woman.

  It was then that the noise came to him. Suddenly, unbearably, there was a tingling sensation in his eardrums—a light, almost feathery sound of some kind like the low hum of a generator. He stopped short. Denise Fairmount moaned.

  “My ears—oh, my God…” It was a cry of agony.

  Solo shook his head, trying to clear it. The tingling feeling had begun to expand so that his brain seemed alive with the concerted buzz of a horde of bees. He felt his body tremble violently.

  Denise had begun to writhe in torment. And still the low, humming, throbbing sound continued—rising in volume so that it filled the entire room.

  The lights danced before Solo’s straining vision. The details of the room—the furniture and the drapes and the paintings—tilted with alarming abruptness. The floor seemed to move beneath his feet. The maroon carpet twisted in Daliesque convolutions. The sound expanded, moving to the walls as though it were something solid that needed a vessel to contain it.

  Solo staggered, fighting the waves of dizziness that rolled over him. It was difficult to breathe now. His hearing had magnified so that the slightest tremor of the sound made him want to scream, to run, to hide. Panic tried to hold him, arrest his mind.

  The hum of sound grew louder.

  Solo moved with fierce momentum. He hurled himself toward the wall near the door. Still the noise in his head rose with tremendous shrieking violence. He fell down, literally hammered to his knees by the force of the sound. Yet he crawled to the base of the wall, and his dazed eyes found the square metal frame that housed the wall plug. Thank God, it was not in use.

  Working in a screaming, smothering blanket of pain, his hands shaking almost uncontrollably, he managed to find his key chain. With a last thrust of concentrated will, he rammed the first one he found into the exposed wall circuit.

  There was a blinding, flashing crackle of blue flame, and he was flung back from the wall by the short-circuiting electrical currents. The room plunged into darkness. Sudden, inky midnight.

  And the sound stopped.

  Solo lay on the floor, his face ground into the carpeting. Waves of relief rolled over him. His body stilled as the humming, throbbing noise receded like the distant, fading sound of a jet engine. The abrupt silence was nearly as stupefying as the humming itself had been.

  For awhile, there was only the racking, terrible sobbing of the girl on the love seat.

  The blinding pain that had filled his head faded in the wake of the sound, leaving only a sense of utter weariness and near demoralization. Solo remained on the floor,
breathing in great gulps of air. He could feel his heart beating furiously. And then, that slowed down too. The only thing that remained of the awesome sound was an amazing sensation of the noise of the sea battering a shoreline.

  Later—he could not tell exactly how much later—he got to his feet. He reached into his pocket, drew out a pencil flash, and thumbed it on. It showed him Denise Fairmount lying exhausted on the lounge. He shook himself, moving unsteadily to the escritoire on the opposite wall. His gun was in the top drawer.

  It was more Luger than anything else, bearing a slight resemblance to the P-38 of World War Two origin. Solo’s automatic was unique, however. There was an engraved letter “S” stamped on the heavy butt. He couldn’t remember when he had ever felt more relieved to have it in his hand. The persistent, piercing sound had rocked him as few things ever had.

  He returned to the girl, after he had found one of the ornamental candelabra on the marble mantelpiece in the center of the room. Candlelight would have to do now that the electrical power in the suite was out.

  In any other circumstances, Denise Fairmount would have looked enticing by candlelight. The spray of burning radiance washed over her curves, making her body gleam invitingly. Solo stared down at her.

  “Wake up,” he said coldly, prodding her with his free hand. “The Steinmetz Exhibit is over.”

  She groaned, her eyelashes fluttering.

  “Rise and shine, Denise. We have to talk a bit.”

  She opened her eyes. She swallowed hard, looking at him.

  “Oh God—my ears ached so—”

  ‘My ears too. Where did you put it, pet?”

  “Put what?” She blinked up at him.

  His smile was icy. “The little gadget known more properly as a transistor. Probably no larger than a woman’s earring. You going to tell me or shall I start pulling your arms and legs off right now?”

  “Napoleon, I—” She started to rise, almost angrily, and he pushed her back. “I don’t know what you mean,” she protested. “I was in this room, too.”