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

by Michael Avallone

  Waverly swiveled in his armchair and pointed the meerschaum for emphasis. “Fromes gave me enough data to suspect the worst. If Thrush has come up with such a weapon—and there is evidence to support their participation in this business—then we have something far worse to worry about than missiles and nuclear war.” The man at the window faced Waverly. His face was hidden in the half-light of the room.

  “You mean that obscure African village—Utangaville, was it? And Spayetville in the highlands of Scotland.”

  “Yes, yes,” Waverly said, almost impatiently. “If they can destroy towns like that with a mere thimbleful of the stuff, there’s no estimating the consequences. Test towns, pure and simple. Places that would not attract the notice of the world. What else? Typical Thrush tactics, sir. We have to be prepared for the worst.”

  The visitor shook himself. His voice rose, almost sadly.

  “I have a large illumined globe of the world in my office. A gift of the people who pay the taxes. Now, there is a nation named Thrush in the world. You know it and I know it. Yet if we were to examine that globe as carefully as possible, we wouldn’t find the name engraved anywhere. And time and again, I’ve passed my fingers over that globe, on country after country, never really knowing which one has become a territory under the domination of Thrush. Satraps, my political advisors call them—satraps for the supra-nation we call Thrush. And they intend to dominate the earth. By degrees, they can turn a country into a satrap—or do the same with a school or a hospital. Or an industrial plant. Who knows? And all we can do is sit, wonder and play international chess while they work underground. Waverly, Waverly—what can we do this time?”

  Waverly rubbed his pipe.

  “The recovery of Fromes’ body is all we can do at this point, sir.”

  “No ideas at all what killed him?”

  “The laboratory will have to answer that. The acquisition of his body is our first and only step.”

  The distinguished visitor shook his head. “I wish I could share your enthusiasm, Waverly. Were the corpse that important, they wouldn’t have been so cooperative about returning it, don’t you think?”

  “Hard to say. Blocking our efforts to do so might have proved more dangerous.”

  “I’m sure you know what you’re talking about. I tend to high pessimism these days.” The man straightened. “Who is claiming Fromes’ body?”

  Waverly’s gloomy face brightened a trifle.

  “Solo. My best man.”

  “Odd name. Well, Waverly, I’d best be going. You’ll keep me up-to-the-minute on this, I trust? I have my own VIP’s to keep alerted.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Both men shook hands warmly. “Waverly.”

  “Yes?”

  “It is a comfort that U.N.C.L.E. exists. A far greater comfort than I can ever publicly laud or acknowledge. Do you understand?”

  “I think so, sir. Thank you.”

  Waverly was still fingering his pipe in happy memory of what the man had said long after the secret elevator had whisked its important passenger down to the underground garage where the Secret Service agents waited. Fromes’ body was the key to the whole Thrush matter. And Napoleon Solo was the man to turn that key.

  SHADOWS OVER OBERTEISENDORF

  LE BOURGET WAS a red glare against the inky backdrop of the Paris sky. Blinding, powerful arc lights traversed the airdrome. A long line of fire trucks and police cars filled the perimeter of the terminal. It was quite like the night Lindbergh had landed on his historic one-man solo flight from New York to Paris. Hordes of onlookers thronged the outskirts of the field, their jostling and shouting drowning out all sanity and order.

  Napoleon Solo dismissed the cab driver and alighted. The front doors of the terminal were yet a good quarter of a mile away. Though it was fairly obvious that normal civilian entry was now impossible, Solo walked slowly in that direction. He only paused when he found one of those glass-walled telephone booths. Amidst the hubbub and uproar, he was but another meaningless figure added to the bedlam. The night was alive with sound and fury. It was impossible to estimate exactly what had occurred. An explosion, the cab driver had said. Accident or sabotage?

  Solo dodged a trio of hurrying, overalled, grease-stained men, and stepped into the booth. He dropped a coin into the slot and waited. When an operator answered, he asked for a number in the Overseas Press Club. Soon he was connected with a man named Partridge.

  “Partridge here,” a British accented voice said.

  “What is good for hives, Mr. Partridge?’

  “Bees.”

  “What flies forever and rests never?”

  “The wind.”

  “When is a door not a door?”

  “When it is ajar.”

  Solo breathed easy. The simple code, though no great shakes, was unfailing.

  “Billy, Le Bourget is in flames.”

  Partridge’s chuckle was grimly unhumorous. “Indubitably, old sport. Somebody set off a few big ones on the runways at seven this evening. Anything to do with you?”

  “It’s a possibility. I am supposed to fly out of here.”

  “What’s your destination?”

  “Hitler’s backyard. Any ideas? Time is, as they say, of the essence.”

  He could almost hear Partridge thinking before the answer came. The ex-Major Partridge of British Army Intelligence was U.N.C.L.E.’s liaison man in Paris, a safety guarantee factor for just such exigencies as this one.

  “Got a car?”

  “I’m walking so far.”

  “I see. How far into the backyard are you going?”

  “The Redoubt. I’m picking up Fromes.”

  “Listen carefully.” Partridge spoke quickly now. “There’s an air strip at the northeastern tip of Rouen. Nothing much. But a Frenchman named Landry will rent you a plane for a price. Good man. No political convictions save money. Try him.”

  “That’s fine. How do you suggest I get to Rouen?”

  “Hmmm.” There was another pause. “Where are you now?”

  Solo peered through the glass walls of his booth. There was a painted sign and a number staring down at him from the stucco side of a shed of some kind.

  “Le Bourget. Tool shed seven-oh-three-three-nine. About five hundred yards from the eastern approach to the main terminal.”

  “Stay put. A Jeep will be there directly. You may leave it with Monsieur Landry.”

  “Partridge, I love you.”

  “Don’t mention it. And I am sorry about Fromes. He was a decent chap.”

  Napoleon Solo hung up soberly, staring for a moment at the silent phone box. A decent chap. A glorious testimonial to a man who had given his life for his country. Fromes would understand though. There were no medals, no financial bonuses, no awards to win with U.N.C.L.E. Only the memory of men like Partridge.

  Outside the booth, the thick aroma of smoke mixed with gasoline and oil assaulted his nostrils. He winced, turning up his collar. The night air was biting, despite the proximity of the smoldering blaze igniting the area as far as the eye could see.

  Sighing philosophically, he fished out a pack of French cigarettes and lit one from his jet-flame lighter. He reversed his Tourister on the shorter end and sat down to wait.

  All about him, Le Bourget was a madhouse.

  To American GI’s of World War Two, Rouen had been easily, almost charitably, dubbed The Road to Ruin. For it was here that the long march into Germany to end the combat in the European Theater of Operations usually began. Once troopships landed at devastated Le Havre, Rouen was the first step on the leg of the journey for all ETO Task Forces. Solo had served in Korea, being but a stripling in the days of Pearl Harbor, but many a retread on Heartbreak Ridge had regaled him with yams about Rouen. Armored Division men had long memories, and their GI French was interwoven with the history of the little border city just outside the harbor. Patton had filled his gas tanks there; every Army of the U.S. that swept through fortress Europe had known Rouen
for at least a day.

  Now, as he wheeled the jeep swiftly over the unpaved roads, with forests of trees engulfing him on either side, Solo thought about Waverly’s cryptic note. Memories. of Rouen had recalled William Daprato, the combat M.P. to whom Waverly had referred in his cable. Daprato had been in Rouen. His outfit had landed there after a stint in North Africa. It was here that his poignant warning had been given birth.

  A squad of his men had entered a bistro on a mop-up campaign following the German evacuation of the town. When one unwary M.P. had picked up a bottle of Pommard wine and foolishly tugged up the cork, there had been little left of the soldier save a bloody mass of flesh. “Booby traps for booby troops,” Corporal Daprato had cursed bitterly. The remark had become legendary—filtering down through the ranks, the divisions, the platoons and squads until one night it had reached the ears of First Lieutenant Napoleon Solo, First Cavalry Regiment. He had burned the remark into his consciousness of war. When the time came for his fitness report as a member of U.N.C.L.E., it had been included as code information on his file. Hence the simple use of the name William Daprato meant a volume of words—a code no enemy could ever break because it only meant something to Napoleon Solo.

  But what did its usage mean in the assignment of recovering Stewart Fromes’ corpse? Did Waverly actually mean to suggest that he thought Fromes’ body was mined in some way? That was ridiculous—or was it? Still, it was something to think about, wasn’t it?

  Solo thought a great deal about it as he spurred the jeep along, the needle far beyond the 60-mile mark. The mechanized bug shot over the road, whipping like the mechanical rabbit at a quinella. The slipstream flung Solo’s tie like a pennant in the breeze.

  The stars had vanished behind a sudden all-enveloping darkness. It was hazardous going. Solo peered carefully through the windshield, his eyes alert to abrupt dips and bends in the roadway.

  Partridge’s jeep had been delivered by a silent U.S. Army sergeant who had done little more than turn over the ignition keys and make an idle comment about the Le Bourget fire. Partridge had his own methods, obviously. Solo had quit the vicinity of the airfield as soon as was possible. He hadn’t quite forgotten the nasty set-to in Denise Fairmount’s company. Something was up all right, and it all seemed to point to Stewart Fromes—and/or Thrush.

  Bright lights winked up ahead. Rouen.

  Solo slowed for a high grade, put the jeep in low gear and rose sharply. The lights were to his left. He consulted his watch. Close to ten-thirty. He found a map in the glove compartment of the jeep and scanned it thoroughly. The compass needles set artfully in the watch face indicated northeast. Grimly, he swung the jeep where the road suddenly forked to the right. Landry’s airship shouldn’t be too far away, by his reckoning.

  It wasn’t.

  Past a cluster of houselights and streets of poor illumination, he spotted a dirt road leading to the northeastern end of Rouen, then a bevy of scattered farms. A cow mooed in the night. Solo concentrated. It would be easy to lose sight of his destination in the deepening gloom.

  Then he saw what he was looking for: ten kerosene markers glowing in the night. There was a wide expanse of earth lighter-colored than the rest of the brown French ground, then a long, low hangar of sorts. Dimly against the horizon he spotted the trim outlines of the airplane.

  Landry was waiting for him. “You fly, my friend?”

  “Yes. I will pay you well.”

  “Good—on both counts. I am sure you will like the plane we have for you.”

  The man was a parody of France—fat, bereted, potbellied and dirty as a swine. A burned-down cigarette barely peeked from beneath a clump of walrus mustache. Solo’s nostrils curled. The man wasn’t worth trusting. Yet, Partridge had vouched for him.

  “I would like to leave immediately.”

  “As you will, my friend. The plane is already being warmed up.”

  Solo reached into his pocket for his billfold. His eyes searched Landry’s unkempt face. Landry shrugged his mountainous shoulders.

  “I prefer American money if you have it. One thousand dollars will do nicely.”

  It was Solo’s turn to shrug. “Will ten traveler’s checks at one hundred each do?”

  “Quite nicely, yes.”

  From outside, came the muted roar of the aircraft. Swiftly, Solo signed ten checks, tore them neatly from the blue folder and handed them to Landry. The Frenchman grunted and tucked them in the waistband of his dirty trousers. Ludicrously, he wore a fashionable cummerbund about his expansive middle.

  “How long will the flight take?” Time was the main concern now.

  ‘Where do you journey?”

  “Oberteisendorf or any place near enough to make it worthwhile.”

  Landry considered that. “Three, maybe four hours. As I say, the plane is a good one.”

  “I’m sure of it. Au revoir, my friend.”

  To Solo’s great surprise, he found the plane to be a modern, streamlined Beechcraft Debonair: a real custom-built American job, the plaything of millionaires and Riviera scions. His respect for Landry mounted. He waved back a farewell to the shed where Landry stood at the window.

  Solo reached the ship, the fine swath of propeller shining like a million stars in the gloom. He spotted a figure, helmeted and goggled, sitting in the cabin, jerking a gloved thumb at him. Solo pulled the airdoor back and placed his Tourister in the roomy space beyond the two front seats of the cabin job. As he squeezed in, the helmeted figure slid over to the far seat. Solo frowned. Before he could mutter a surprised protest, the short, snout-nosed barrel of an automatic pistol jammed against his midsection.

  “Climb in and close the door and don’t make any other moves,” a bright voice snapped.

  Solo’s eyes went cold but he did as he was told. The closeness of the cabin made the gun held against his rib cage seem like the bore of a cannon.

  “Is this part of Monsieur Landry’s plane service?” he asked drily.

  “It’s my idea,” the voice answered. In the gloom of the cabin, he could not make out the face of his captor. “Now prove to me that you are Napoleon Solo. You look like him and you talk like him, but that’s not enough. Can you show me some proof?”

  Solo sighed and stared straight ahead, eyes probing the night.

  “May I reach for my identity card?”

  “Go ahead. But no tricks.”

  Very carefully, he took from his inner pocket a small stack of business cards and plastic-coated licenses, and handed them over.

  “Here,” he said. “Leaf through those, find the one you want, and perhaps you will win a large, shiny automobile someday.”

  “You fool!” But his captor said nothing else and took the cards. Solo folded his arms, listening to the smooth tune-up of the Debonair’s engine. For a brief second, he watched as the helmeted figure took his U.N.C.L.E. identity card and applied a small applicator of some kind to its surface. A drop of some form of liquid washed over the face of the card. Nothing happened. There was a satisfied grunt from the occupant of the other seat in the cabin.

  “Very good. On all counts. You may take us up now, Mr. Solo. It’s time we got out of here.”‘

  Solo shrugged and busied himself with the controls. He too wanted to get into the air. He swung the Debonair about, pointing its nose to the East, and began to taxi along the hard, lumpy earth. He checked his instrument panel and .hummed to himself. The slender figure at his side had pocketed the snout-nosed automatic quite suddenly.

  He drew back gently on the stick, his mind occupied with the takeoff. The nose of the plane knifed forward, seeming to head straight for the high wall of trees before them. Gradually, almost unnoticeably, the wheels left the ground and the Debonair lifted like a graceful bird. The propeller clawed. The instrument gauges danced, the multiple needles busy with recording the flight into darkness.

  The dark earth fell away; the trees vanished. Monsieur Landry’s fortuitous landing strip faded back into the past.

&
nbsp; Solo rubbed at his right eye, yawning, feeling the strain of the night’s events. He looked idly at the figure who was now sitting quietly at his side.

  “Well, unknown friend and fellow traveler. Are you going to tell me all about it or do we ride in perfect silence the rest of the way?”

  His companion’s nose, in profile, was as straight as a ruler, the mouth almost lush. A confirming bell went off in Solo’s head. He laughed lightly, waiting for the answer to his question.

  “You are not a man, I take it. Neither are you somebody who is crazy about airplanes and would do just about anything for a joyride.”

  The snapping voice laughed back.

  “You win, hero. I came here specifically to go with you on your trip. My destination is your destination.”

  “I see. Will you unmask now or are you going to hide behind the helmet and goggles forever?”

  The girl laughed—a warm, vitamin-packed laugh which had all the vigor and go-to-hellishness of a Marine drill sergeant. He looked on admiringly as the helmet and goggles were swept to one side by a long, taperingly slim hand. Coppery, shoulder-length hair spilled in a golden cascade. A bright, brown-eyed face smiled at him through a chocolate film of grease over the lower half, framing white, impeccable teeth.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. This is your co-pilot, Geraldine Terry. On unchartered flight to Oberteisendorf, Germany. I tested your ID card with a special acid and since it didn’t corrode, it’s the real thing. I didn’t kill the man who was supposed to warm up your plane—just cooled him with a little Judo and helped myself to his clothes so that I could get onto the field. Any more questions to relieve your mind?”

  He stared at her. It was inconceivable, but there she was. Bright, sunny, a real American Beauty, yet she had maneuvered as sweet a switch as he had ever encountered.

  “Geraldine Terry,” he mused. “Girl spy?”

  “Government girl if you please,” she snapped back, her eyes on the air lanes ahead as if she still didn’t trust him. You can call me Jerry Terry.”

  The Debonair plunged on smoothly through the night skies over France.