The Moby Dick Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  Illya thought of Solo. For the tenth time in an hour he reached out, jerked an olive-green phone off its prongs. Mr. Waverly watched, strain showing around the corners of his eyes.

  Illya had difficulty hearing. There was a constant buzz of communications traffic in the booth. He said into the phone:

  "Kuryakin here. You'll have to speak up."

  "U.N.C.L.E. station three-a-one," replied a clipped voice. "We are getting feedback from our corps of agents covering the city. But so far we have nothing positive."

  "How many private airfields can there be around London?" Illya barked.

  "Enough to make investigation difficult, Kuryakin. Air traffic is at its peak, what with evacuation helicopters taking off everywhere. We also have no reliable way of monitoring flights. The THRUSH airplane you referred to may already be up, and the field which it used abandoned. Our agents are having trouble reaching outlying sections of the city at all. Reports are coming in, but it's taking time. The streets are a madhouse."

  Illya's face wrenched. "I'm not interested in excuses—"

  The duty officer interrupted:

  "Excuse me, Kuryakin, but please remember yourself. We have no direct evidence that the THRUSH detonation signal will be given from the aircraft. And we have other assignments at a time like this, you know. Records to remove. Personnel to evacuate. Liaison with the government. I realize the life of Mr. Solo is important to you, but in time of crisis, well—"

  He did not finish. Mr. Waverly extended a hand toward the phone, his expression asking, Need help? Illya shook his head. The duty officer finished: "Look, Kuryakin, I'll signal you the moment we learn anything."

  "Yes. Thank you. My—apologies for blowing up."

  Mr. Waverly said, "Anything promising, Mr. Kuryakin?"

  Illya struck his fist against the arm of the chair. "No aircraft. No airfield. Nothing."

  "At least," said Mr. Waverly quietly, "if the worst happens and Mr. Solo is not heard from again, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that his quick work made it possible for one of you to escape, and get this evacuation started."

  Gloomily Illya Kuryakin turned to look at his superior.

  "Yes, sir," he said. "You're correct in one way. But in another, it's not nearly enough."

  To their right the sharp voice of the Minister of Defense called for sound from one of the TV monitors. Rumbling booms filled the booth, mingled with agonized screams.

  A mob near the Abbey had started flinging homemade fire cocktails at the British armor. The armor commanders responded with warning blasts fired at the sky.

  "Tell those jackasses to hold their fire," the Defense Minister shouted.

  But somehow communications with the armored unit had broken down. The cannons continued to roar.

  Illya stared numb. He swung his gaze down the line of monitors. Everywhere he saw mobs, chaos, fear.

  The madness was spreading.

  And again the clock hands moved.

  Perhaps, Illya thought, Napoleon was better off dead.

  ACT IV

  THE HOUR OF THE HARPOON

  AT THAT EXACT moment Napoleon Solo was seated in a lime-green lounge chair of infinite cost and luxury. Across from him, on a wide cove seat of identical color, Commander Ahab was relaxing with a whiskey and soda, craning for a view out the window. The jet was flying an erratic pattern at 33,000 feet. Thin clouds prevented all but an occasional flash of the city far below.

  On Ahab's right hand, Cleo St. Cloud sat with her shoes kicked off. She was admiring her gold- painted toenails in an offhand way, as if she were part of a scheme to butcher millions of people nearly every day of the week.

  Solo's neck was clammy with perspiration. The tightly-zipped flyer's coverall was steamy. He'd found himself dressed in this garment upon awakening around noon.

  "Wish we could see a bit more," Ahab commented. "Of course it may clear by signal time."

  Cleo St. Cloud sniffed. "I hope some silly RAF pilot doesn't bang into us, Victor."

  Ahab said, "Yes, there are quite a few planes up. Poor nitwits. Trying to evacuate the entire city of London." He glanced across at Solo. "That must be Kuryakin's work, eh?"

  Solo simply shrugged.

  Ever since he wakened in a plain-walled room, his mind had been clicking frantically, hunting for a way to stop the devastation that would descend upon London in a roaring, gigantic wall of water.

  Commander Ahab and his cohorts had managed to elude discovery because of the unique location of their airfield. It consisted of the top three floors of a grimy warehouse covering an entire city block. Long out of business, the warehouse displayed boards where window glass had once let in sunlight.

  The floors of the top two stories had been removed, providing a chamber the size of a hangar. Into this Solo was led shortly after waking up. He boarded the aircraft, a stub-winged plane with a cluster of jetpods aft and a rotor-like arrangement on top, just behind the cock pit.

  From the window of the lushly appointed interior, Napoleon Solo watched the motorized roof of the ancient building roll back. Commander Ahab, already aboard, discoursed on the marvels of THRUSH, particularly the development of a vertical takeoff aircraft no larger than the conventional business or private jet.

  Straight up past the rolled-back roof the sleek plane shot, straight up into thin clouds. Then the aft jet cluster took over, thrusting them forward in a normal flight attitude.

  They'd been aloft for a little less than two hours now. Solo had consumed two cups of tepid tea and munched one damp, leftover cruller served by the plane's steward, a THRUSH thug with a butler's striped vest which barely concealed the pistol in the waistband of his pants. This worthy was currently guarding the entrance to the cockpit, a few paces behind where Solo was seated.

  The two other THRUSH minions, Hadkins and Blightsome, relaxed in another cove-shaped lounge at the rear of the cabin. Hadkins had his gun in his lap. He was reading an illustrated motor sport publication. Blightsome, however, had done nothing but glare at Solo all the time they'd been in the air. Blightsome's foot was a clump of white bandages, the result of Solo letting the Daimler fall on it that morning. Blightsome never let go of the butt of his pistol.

  Now and then he gave Solo a humorless smirk to indicate that he was just waiting for his opportunity to enjoy a bit of revenge.

  Three against one, even counting out Commander Ahab and Cleo.

  Upon awakening Solo had also searched for his pocket communicator. Apparently they'd taken it from him while putting him into the flyer's coverall. He had to make a move somehow. And soon.

  "I wonder—" Solo began. "My throat's getting dry."

  Ahab clapped his pudgy hands. "Feeling the effects of tension at last, eh? Splendid, splendid! You U.N.C.L.E. types usually try to pretend you're constructed of stone."

  Solo fixed a discouraged expression on his face. "I have a right to be tense. We've lost."

  "Quite right," Ahab agreed. "Most gracious of you to admit it." He summoned the combination thug and galley attendant. "More tea for Mr. Solo, Thrasher."

  "Hot this time, if you don't mind," Solo said. Now that he had decided to act, take a chance no matter how rash it might be, he felt a bit of his old aplomb returning. "The last two pots were about the same temperature as a retired vegetarian's showerbath."

  Grunting at the insult, the galley man retreated behind a curtain. Solo heard the pop of a gas ring being lighted.

  Pointedly, Solo stared again at the expensively veneered console panel which divided the cove seat across from him. The closed cover concealed the console's contents from view. Solo kept staring. Finally Ahab noticed.

  With a flourish he touched a button. The console's lid snapped all the way back into the depths of the lounge seat, revealing a double row of bright-colored studs. Ahab's eyes sparked with pride as he waggled his fingers at .the control board.

  "You've guessed, haven't you, Solo? Yes, this is the center from which I shall consummate Project Ahab.
However, lest you get overly ambitious, hoping to jump over here and throw several of these controls to upset things—" Ahab paused significantly. "Blightsome? Come up here, please, and keep Mr. Solo covered at close range."

  The Thrushman with the round lump of bandage on his foot limped up the aisle. The private plane's jets whispered eerily. Rags of thin cloud slipped past the fuselage.

  Ahab indicated a large yellow button on the console.

  "This is the control which will raise the curtain on our aquatic novelty act, Mr. Solo."

  Solo eyed the malevolent-looking yellow thing. "How does it work?

  "It broadcasts a signal on a frequency which is eventually picked up under the North Sea. In the event something should happen to me—a foolish attack on your part which would result in temporary struggle before Blightsome shot you—"

  "The signal is so arranged that it is automatically relayed through the master control board of the Moby Dick cruising somewhere to the north of England. Thus the temporary commander aboard the sub can detonate the explosives also. By the same token, should something happen to his craft, and the charge fail to detonate because the sub and its relays were out of action, I have merely to set this—"

  He indicated a purple button.

  "—and we recycle for direct signal from our plane to the explosives. No middleman, so to speak. In addition—"

  A bright blue button.

  "—we have controls to abort the Moby Dick in its entirety—blow it up. And also—"

  A black one.

  "—to do the same to this aircraft. A whole range of checks and balances, you might say."

  Solo licked his lips, staring at the controls just a short distance away from him. He realized it was a temporary checkmate. Commander Ahab's black eyes were slitted down, all humor gone. The THRUSH chief watched him speculatively.

  Ahab wanted him to try for the control panel. Actually expected him to do so. Ten seconds ago, Solo had planned to do exactly that. He discarded the plan.

  With a swirl of curtain, the THRUSH man appeared from the galley, carrying a silver serving tray. Blightsome reached across the aisle. He dragged a low taboret over between himself and Solo. The galleyman put down the tray. Solo picked up his cup.

  The surly man took the teapot and begun to pour.

  As the dark, rich liquid fell in a stream into the cup, the THRUSH agent managed to spill some of it onto the back of Solo's hand. It scalded.

  "Hope it's warm enough for you," the man grunted, hardly able to conceal a snicker.

  Solo's skin hurt ferociously. He was having trouble holding the cup. Ahab was peering out the window at the clouds again. The cup jiggled in Solo's hand. In that split second he realized that the THRUSH galleyman's deliberate ploy of burning him gave him the perfect opening.

  He swallowed once, said a mental farewell to all the thousands of pretty girls in the world he'd never gotten around to meeting or kissing, and upset the teacup straight into Blightsome's face.

  "Too blasted hot—" Solo yelled like a man confused. It was an act, a cover, misdirection. He dropped the cup and grabbed for Blightsome's gun, got it away from the startled, cursing man.

  Solo used his knee to lift the taboret and tip it over with a clatter. The noise made the galleyman leap back in alarm. Commander Ahab was using both hands to shut the console cover, evidently believing Solo would go right for it.

  Instead Solo jumped up, bashed the stumbling galleyman across the nose with the gun to drive him out of the way. He seized Cleo St. Cloud's wrist. "Sweetheart, it's time for you on stage again."

  He thrust her forward. Squealing and clawing at him, she presented quite an obstacle to progress. But he managed to slide the cockpit door aside by reaching around her.

  Inside the cockpit the pilot kept on the controls, while the co-pilot snaked a gun out of his harness. Solo shot fast. The man doubled forward, retching, a dark hole in his right cheek.

  Behind him as he crowded through the cockpit door, Solo heard confused scrambling, profanity. He spun, starting to slide the cockpit door shut. He had a fragmented picture of Blightsome lurching in the aisle, face dripping scalding tea as he leveled his pistol. Solo was a fraction faster. His bullet took Blightsome in the middle and sent him rubber-legged and dying all the way back along the aisle to the plane's rear.

  The slamming cockpit door muted Ahab's enraged bellows. Solo shoved past Cleo, moved to the right, out of the line of fire. To the pilot, a pasty-faced young man with fantastic eyes, he said, "Take this plane down. Land at the nearest airfield."

  Carefully the pilot licked his lips. "No."

  Solo had banked on this. "Take us down or I'll kill you where you sit."

  "Shoot me," the pilot replied. "I refuse to obey your orders."

  Distraught and sobbing, Cleo squealed again as Solo caught her wrist, dragged her forward to where the pilot could see her from the corner of his eye.

  "This is Miss St. Cloud." Solo's lips were peeled back in an ungentlemanly expression. "She's Commander Ahab's little friend. Your commander grows very angry and does nasty things to people who damage his possessions."

  The dart struck. The pilot's right cheek showed a muscular tic. Apparently he knew of Ahab's potential for wrath. Solo pressed on:

  "Commander Ahab will do something very nasty to you, my friend, if I shoot Miss St. Cloud through the head. Which is exactly what I'm going to do unless this plane starts losing altitude."

  Fear, uncertainty glittered in the pilot's eyes. Struggling, Cleo St. Cloud burst out, "It's a rotten bluff. Don't listen! An U.N.C.L.E. agent would never kill a woman—"

  Wiggling his left hand around her head and down over her mouth, Solo managed to silence her. Cleo began gnawing on his fingers with considerable savagery. Solo tried to ignore this minor distraction and concentrated on the pilot. The man's cheeks were filmed with sweat as he tried to weigh his duty to THRUSH against his personal well-being, should his decision turn out to be responsible for the girl's sudden demise.

  Solo had to keep the man from thinking too much. So he shouted at him: "Start this plane down right away or she gets it! Bam, bam!"

  That jarred the man's nerve sufficiently. He took a deep breath, grasped the control wheel more firmly, inched it forward. The nose of the sleek jet began to drop into the tattered cloud. Solo took time to gulp a deep breath of air.

  It was his only respite. With a horrendous jerk, the nose of the plane came up again. The pilot goggled. He hadn't moved the controls. Then understanding dawned. He tittered.

  "Override controls in the rear," he said. "I forgot them. Commander Ahab is flying the plane. I can do nothing."

  Desperately, Napoleon whirled around. He shoved Cleo St. Cloud out of the way, rolled back the cockpit door. A bullet chopped wood paneling out of the wall inches from his face as he dodged back. One glimpse had been enough.

  The galleyman, not Ahab, was flying the plane. He was using a set of controls which were mounted to a pedestal that had apparently sprung up through the floor near the cove seat. Crouched beside him was Hadkins, the other THRUSH agent with the bowler. Hadkins' gun was trained on the cockpit. He had fired a moment ago.

  The pilot yelled in terror. Solo craned around the door's edge once more, triggered a shot. Hadkins uttered a low shriek, spilled over' on his side. The galleyman, alone, turned white with fright as he held onto the auxiliary control wheel mounted in the pedestal. The air craft had leveled out but was bumping along somewhat erratically.

  And where was Commander Ahab? Napoleon Solo couldn't see him anywhere in the rear compartment.

  The galleyman kept one hand on the controls and reached for Hadkins' fallen gun with the other. Solo stepped through the cockpit door, wigwagged his gun muzzle.

  "Both hands on the controls, please," he said.

  The galleyman lifted his right hand back and fastened it on the auxiliary wheel.

  Quickly Solo glided down the aisle. He stopped opposite the cove lounge seat. He kicked th
e top of the console with his heel. The lid snapped back. Then Solo moved to his right one pace. He jammed the muzzle of his gun down on the bright blue button and pushed.

  Somewhere on the surface of the North Sea Solo imagined a tremendous mushroom gout of water, flame, thunder and spray as the THRUSH submarine blew up. "So long, Moby Dick," he breathed.

  "A foolish gesture," said a voice in the rear. "Don't lift the gun!"

  Solo kept the muzzle down hard on the blue button. Commander Ahab had thrown back the curtain surrounding the galley where he'd been hiding. He menaced Solo with a pistol. White straps crisscrossed his chest. He wore a parachute pack over his hastily-donned overcoat. His cheeks puffed in and out with rage.

  "You have cost us billions of dollars, Mr. Solo. Billions!" Spittle streaked out with the words. "But your cheap little act of bravado cost you a moment's advantage—and that is what will lose the game for you and win it for us."

  Ahab lashed out with his right foot. His toe hit some kind of electric control plate set low in the galley's outer door. Four explosive bolts popped. The door fell off and disappeared, tumbling down the sky.

  Wind howled into the cabin as Ahab screamed, "There is another detonation device somewhere in London, Mr. Solo. It's in a place you could not possibly find in the time left. But I will reach it. I must, for THRUSH, even though I will drown with the rest of them. Good- by, Solo. I won't kill you because I want you to be alive at four-thirty for the last trick. Mine—"

  Ahab whirled and plunged through the door.

  Solo darted around the terrified galleyman, battered by the wind pouring into the cabin. He hung precariously in the galley's open door, looking below. A white circle bloomed just above heavy clouds, sank swiftly into them. He heard a brittle laugh, whirled.

  Cleo St. Cloud stood in the aisle, clutching her midsection. A random patch of gray light from one of the windows caught her gold wristwatch and made it glitter. Her makeup was smeared. Rather blearily, she laughed again.

  "I haven't got a parachute, Solo," she said. "But I wouldn't be any good playing prisoner the rest of my life, anyway. We all carry these, you know." She lifted her watch hand, tapped the crystal which flew back to reveal a small empty compartment "One pill each. I just took mine."