The Ugly Man Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  “You heard correctly, Mr. Kuryakin. A confession. An admission, if you will, that I did not give you and Mr. Solo all of the background details concerning the Ffolkes-Pryce assignment.”

  Waverly’s expression grew dour. “I did not do so because I did not have full clearance. Those of us in Policy and Operations agreed amongst ourselves that the threat which now faces this organization could be of such magnitude that we dared not make a move until we had translated our speculations into a reality. The speculations, as you will understand in a moment, posed a peril to U.N.C.L.E. of a kind only imagined in our wildest nightmares. With your return of the good doctor’s corpse to our laboratories, you have indeed translated this speculation to a reality, and made it imperative that top agents be assigned to take counter measures at once.”

  Waverly drew in a long breath. “We may face the most massive, insidious and potentially devastating threat to U.N.C.L.E. in our entire history.”

  Napoleon Solo had been inclined to laugh a moment ago. Now the lines of Waverly’s face, the intensity of Waverly’s expression, convinced him he’d better not. But he did say:

  “I can’t imagine what could be that devastating, sir.”

  “Can’t you, Mr. Solo? Consider this. Manipulation of U.N.C.L.E. personnel, including those with the highest of clearances such as Ffolkes-Pryce, so that they become willingly or unwillingly, the instruments of THRUSH. Consider a traitor within our own ranks, Mr. Solo, and how much potential damage that traitor could do. Then multiply a single traitor by ten, and ten again. That is the magnitude of the threat we may confront.”

  Stunned, Solo said, “Defection?”

  “On an incredibly vast scale.” Waverly clicked his cold pipe against his teeth and sank into a chair. “Nothing more and nothing less. A dreadful prospect, eh?”

  “Ffolkes-Pryce was one of the defectors?” Illya asked.

  Mr. Waverly nodded. “And our internal intelligence has not broken down. Those of us at the top in Section I cooked up the story about the Beirut leak as a cover. We knew about Ffolkes-Pryce peculiar behavior. But if a good number of our people got wind of what we suspect, panic would spread. Brother against brother in our ranks, so to speak. We mustn’t have that. Hence the fiction about Beirut. However, it has now become imperative for us to place you two on this assignment.”

  Waverly stared out from beneath his rather prodigious brows. “I needn’t lecture you gentlemen on the burden of secrecy which is now upon you.”

  A grim silence then, filling the elaborately equipped room with an almost tangible tension. Against the window pane, forlorn raindrops ticked. The early evening shower blurred the lights in Manhattan’s skyscrapers.

  Solo and Illya had flown the specially refrigerated corpse of Dr. Ffolkes-Pryce back to America aboard an U.N.C.L.E. prop-jet. They arrived late in the afternoon. Hungry and fatigued, they went directly to Waverly’s office to report. They were still there, without having eaten or rested. This too served to drive home to Solo the terrible seriousness of the situation which he did not as yet fully understand.

  The man slumped in the chair, Alexander Waverly, served as the chief of Section I, Policy and Operations. His office was equipped with computers, built-in TV monitors and a large, circular motorized conference table which revolved at the touch of a button. Few outsiders had ever seen the room. Fewer still of the eight million plus people in New York were even aware that it existed.

  This headquarters room was the strategic center of the entire U.N.C.L.E. complex, which was secreted behind the facades of a row of buildings a few blocks from the United Nations enclave in the city’s East Fifties. The buildings consisted of a large public parking garage, four dilapidated brownstones and a modern three-story whitestone.

  The first two floors of the whitestone were occupied by an exclusive key-club restaurant, The Mask. On the third floor were sedate offices. These, a front, belonged to U.N.C.L.E. They interconnected with the maze of steel corridors and suites which hid behind the decaying fronts of the brownstones.

  There were four known entrances to the three-story U.N.C.L.E. complex, one of them being through the third-floor offices in the whitestone and another through a carefully contrived dressing room in Del Florio’s Tailor Shop on the level just below the street.

  Within U.N.C.L.E. headquarters proper no staircases could be found. Four elevators handled all vertical traffic. And inside the steel-walled rooms, where signal lights of red, amber, purple, green, royal blue blinked constantly in coded sequences, worked a crack cadre of alert young men and women of many races, creeds, colors and national origins.

  The equipment installed for their use was the most sophisticated known. The complex devices for communication included high-powered shortwave antennas and elaborate receiving and sending gear hidden away behind a large neon advertising billboard on the roof. These resources, utilized by top agents like Solo and Illya, stood between the world and the collapse of a delicate balance of terror---and should the balance tip, the supra-nation of fanatics known by the code name THRUSH would soon step in to claim the spoils.

  Finally Napoleon Solo spoke. “I hate to say it, sir, but I’m a little disappointed. After all, I should think Section I could trust us by now.”

  “Of course, of course, Mr. Solo. In all conventional affairs. But this latest THRUSH threat is so appallingly unconventional that Section I decided not to leak it even to our own, until we were sure.

  Mr. Waverly stared at Solo intently, as though trying to convince him via the earnestness of expression. Waverly was a middle-aged, rather seedy man with a rather long, lined face. His hair was the neatest thing about him, combed down on one side from a precise part. He wore now, as always, exquisitely baggy Harris tweeds.

  Speaking sometimes with deceptive slowness, Mr. Waverly seemed an anachronism in the sleek modernity of the office. But his outward appearance and manner hid a man incredibly tough and tough-minded.

  Illya sat with a leg hooked over the arm of a conference chair. He looked bookish and introverted as usual. His blond hair fell nearly to his blue eyes, which had circles of tiredness beneath them. I response to Waverly, he said: “You are telling us, sir, that this Ffolkes-Pryce was not an isolated case?”

  “I am saying precisely that. Before you go on this assignment, I want you to review the taped data thoroughly. So far only members of Section I have seen it. It contains the names, dates, complete summaries of dozens of similar incidents which have occurred within U.N.C.L.E. during the past few months. We have lost top Operations and Enforcement operatives. We have lost research people. We have lost clerk-typists. In short, up to now it has been a closely guarded secret that not only have many of our people taken to acting strangely and then disappeared---quite a few of them have actually proved to be double agents, right within our own ranks.”

  Solo shook his head. His dark eyes were hooded, thoughtful. They reflected the glow of flashing computer lights along the wall. Solo was wearing dark gray slacks, a matching double-breasted blazer with silver buttons engraved with the Canadian maple leaf, and a pair of his $75 hand-lasted shoes from London.

  Illya rose and began to pace. “Well, sir, perhaps we’d better have some specifics. How many have actually taken place?”

  Mr. Waverly needed no statistical tables at hand. He had nearly total recall of everything he read:

  “Twenty-two since last April. Eighteen were aborted, but the first four succeeded, so far as we know. The personnel involved in those four incidents---chaps like Whiteman, our top Section II fellow in Burma, and Dr. Arkojenian of the cryogenics lab---simply vanished. Then of course there have been others in less advanced stages. Once we got onto the pattern, we began to shift some of these critical people, remove key responsibilities from their hands in case they---ah---did go over. We have not succeeded in every case. Witness Ffolkes-Pryce.”

  Solo walked to the window and stared out at the rain. “A minute ago, sir, you made reference to U.N.C.L.E. people acting stra
ngely. Now you just referred to a pattern.” Solo swung around, somber faced, no trace of his usual good humor visible. “Just what do you mean?”

  “Oh, ah,” said Mr. Waverly. “Excellent question. It has become apparent that those U.N.C.L.E. operatives who turn into security risks suffer from something which, at first anyway, resembles merely the effects of over-work. Extreme fatigue, bad dizzy spells, nervousness---“

  “I feel that way often enough myself,” Illya commented with a wry look.

  “Naturally, for brief periods, we all do,” said Waverly. “But those whom this THRUSH malady strikes---we call it a malady for want of a better term---are perpetually afflicted. The symptoms become worse day by day. Efficiency takes a sharp drop. Loyalty, determination, spirit---these suffer markedly and visibly.

  “We really had no idea of what was happening at first, when the first defector disappeared in Nairobi and was later seen being very chummy with some known THRUSH operatives in East Berlin. Others afflicted with symptoms have apparently continued to work in our organization, and it now becomes clear that perhaps they have been assigned by THRUSH to do just that. Continue at their stations, as double agents.”

  Solo snorted. “I can’t buy it, sir. How could THRUSH undermine U.N.C.L.E. that way? By spooning drugs into our food? Hypnotizing us while we sleep? Our security precautions are too tight for things like that to happen.”

  “Agreed,” said Waverly. “Which is why Section I watched this state of affairs with such utter dismay. Then you gentlemen brought back the corpse of Doctor Ffolkes-Pryce.”

  Solo understood. The hair on his neck prickled. But Illya spoke it first: “His blood.”

  “Exactly,” said Waverly.

  “Abnormal,” said Solo. “More like some kind of serum or foreign fluid.”

  “Right again,” said Waverly. “The lab, incidentally, is having great difficulty breaking down the samples they took from Ffolkes-Pryce.”

  Waverly pulled a sheaf of blue flimsies from a pigeonhole in the edge of the circular conference table.

  “Glance through these if you wish. All they say is that the fluid found in Ffolkes-Pryce’s circulation system contains traces of three of the hydrobrionic alkaline class. Those compounds are suspended in the fluid base whose formula as yet defies isolation. But the hydrobrionics, I am informed, are most effective at robbing a person of will power and softening his mind.”

  Napoleon Solo rubbed his palms on the arms of the chair. His skin felt clammy and cold. “In other words, sir, you’re suggesting that THRUSH has found a way to alter the composition of a man’s blood---and therefore his will?”

  Mr. Waverly gave a troubled shrug. “A hypothesis only. Thus far, when we have aborted defection, the bodies of the defectors have either been stolen or destroyed. We have had no physical evidence to go on. Ffolkes-Pryce is the first. But it does seem like a valid, if gruesome premise. After all, those marks---“ Mr. Waverly gestured vaguely.

  Illya said, “Yes, the marks on his throat. Two tiny pricks.”

  “I thought of the old vampire bit in London,” Solo said with a rather nervous laugh. “Castles in Transylvania, noblemen who drink blood from the victim’s throat---“

  Mr. Waverly nodded slowly. “I would scoff too, but I know the depth of the technological resources of THRUSH. I also know that in principle such an idea might work. Suppose the neck impressions were the marks of small needles.”

  Horrified, Solo tried to thrust the significance of it from his mind. Its irrationality terrified him. Yet as a professional operative, he could not allow himself to become emotionally unstrung by phantoms and fancies.

  Still, the word vampire persisted in his mind.

  And he saw at once that if Waverly’s version were correct, THRUSH could have found the ultimate weapon. Utilizing this weapon, THRUSH could strike at U.N.C.L.E. from within and destroy it, bringing about the victory, at last, which THRUSH had so far been unable to achieve by other means. Solo vividly remembered the pale transparent pinkish fluid dribbling down Ffolkes-Pryce’s neck, staining his collar and the Oriental rug there in the carnage of the funeral parlor---

  Illya Kuryakin broke the silence: “If the lab fellows aren’t making progress, sir, what’s to be done?”

  “We cannot wait for results from the lab,” Waverly replied. “We have a much more pressing assignment. It involves a young woman from our own staff who is scheduled to depart tomorrow on a most critical and delicate mission. Here, let me show you.”

  Stepping to a wall console of dials and frosted glass display panels, Waverly spoke into a microphone: “Mr. Jacques, let me have the picture, please.”

  The projectionist hidden away in an adjoining office answered with an affirmative syllable over the loudspeaker. A low whine filled the room. One of the display panels lit. On it appeared a full-face view of an exquisitely lovely young girl, all sandy-gold hair, wide, intelligent amber eyes, a delicate nose and a pink, full-lipped mouth. She looked to be in her late twenties.

  Napoleon Solo’s fingers went white as he held the arms of his chair. “Elisabeth!”

  Illya covered his eyes. “Good heavens.”

  Mr. Waverly frowned.”Mr. Solo, are you feeling quite all right?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s just that---seeing Elisabeth’s picture startled me. I haven’t seen her---in person, I mean---for several months.”

  “Miss d’Angelo was one of our most trusted operatives in Section II,” said Waverly.

  Now the horror clutched tight at Solo’s throat. “Was?”

  “Two weeks ago, Miss d’Angelo began to exhibit the symptoms of which I have spoken. Fatigue. Dizziness. Nervousness. This was just a week after the start of her indoctrination for the very important mission she is scheduled to undertake for us tomorrow.

  “In fact---“ Mr. Waverly glanced at the ranked clock faces in various world capitols “---Miss d’Angelo is scheduled to depart Kennedy Airport for Rome at eight tomorrow morning. I am saying , Mr. Solo, that THRUSH may have hold of her. And if that is the case, she could bring destruction down on all of us. We---“

  Suddenly Waverly stopped. He stared at Solo. “Oh, ah, yes. I understand. Evidently you and Miss d’Angelo have been something more than simply fellow workers?”

  Remembering the tart sweetness of Elisabeth’s mouth one rainy night in Central Park, Solo said with a hollow voice, “Yes, sir. We were good friends for quite a while. In the natural course of things, with assignments taking each of us all over the world, we sort of drifted away from each other. But she’s still one of my---sir, they can’t have gotten to Elisabeth!”

  “The symptoms,” said Waverly, “are identical with those of Ffolkes-Pryce and the others. I’m sorry, Mr. Solo, but that is the short of it.”

  Illya said, “What’s this assignment she’s carrying out in Rome, sir? Not something to do with the Mid-Eastern Peace Conference, is it?”

  “Just that.” In a gloomy tone Waverly proceeded to explain.

  During recent months---as Solo and Illya both knew well---relations between two of the largest oil states in the Middle East had frayed to the breaking point. Shootings, lootings, border assaults became daily. Charges of provocation were hurled by both parties. Behind the scenes, U.N.C.L.E. agents worked desperately to amass evidence to indicate that THRUSH was actually fomenting the trouble, hoping to touch off a Middle Eastern war and then step into the breach and seize both countries during the ensuing chaos.

  In a last-minute move to head off holocaust, reasonable men from both nations had agreed to assemble in Rome for a conference to work out their difficulties. U.N.C.L.E.’s Section I cabled that it would send a top operative carrying microfilm documents and tapes to prove conclusively to the delegate’s that THRUSH was behind the attacks supposedly staged by nationals of both countries.

  Waverly finished: “Miss d’Angelo was the agent chosen to carry the evidence to Rome, address the delegates and present U.N.C.L.E.’s case.”

  Scowling, Solo sai
d, “Why don’t you pull her off the assignment? If she’s involved with THRUSH---but I still can’t believe that!”

  On his feet, white-faced, Solo faced Waverly, who made a placating gesture.

  “Mr. Solo, I have never said our people have voluntarily placed themselves under THRUSH’s domination. That is what I hope you and Mr. Kuryakin may learn. Indeed, it is imperative that we do learn how THRUSH is taking over these people. And the most active case at this point is Miss d’Angelo. She is the only one of our agents currently in a position to directly sabotage and jeopardize our work in favor of THRUSH. We must prevent her, of course. But we must also seize the opportunity to learn what we can about this latest threat.

  “That is why I cannot and will not cancel her assignment. Besides, to do so when her presence has already been announced to the conference delegates might possibly prejudice our position. No, Mr. Solo, even though your personal feelings are involved, I shall have to insist that you be on that flight to Rome in the morning along with Mr. Kuryakin. Your tickets are reserved. I have already sent a man to your respective flats to pack your things.”

  Solo turned, staring out at the rainy-drenched night skyline. He thought of Elisabeth’s lovely face. Of the marks on Ffolkes-Pryce’s neck. Vampire, he thought uncontrollably. Vampire.

  Illya yawned, stood up and said softly, “Arriverderci, New York.”

  Turning, Solo glowered. His face resembled a skull. The eyes were shadowed, the cheeks tired and gaunt. “Arriverderci sanity would be more like it,” he said.

  TWO

  The thin, cold rain fell without letup all through the night. It splashed against the windshield of the taxi that carried Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin to Kennedy airport in the half light early next morning.

  Solo slumped grumpily in the cab’s rear seat as it swung up the drive to the large international terminal building looming in the mist. A whine of engines shook the cab faintly, indicating that the lowering weather had not yet curtailed all flights.

  Illya reached in his pocket for bills to pay the driver. “A miserable morning.”