The redhead cried out. In fear, in apology. April growled and followed her down the stairs.
And suddenly, swiftly, the lights of the hallway began to flicker and coalesce in alarming waves of shadows. April swore under her breath. It was too late now but she realized what had happened. Grimly, she flung Arnolda Van Atta violently from her tight hold. The redhead sprawled headlong to the floor of the hallway, white legs flashing. April sagged against the wall, raising the automatic handbag. Even as her numbed fingers tried to do something about blasting away at the Sikh, the apache and the Chinaman, she knew with a sinking sense of doom that she wouldn't be able to—
Their faces and figures wavered before her, tilted alarmingly and then blackness rolled in. It was in this negative state of mind that her eyes closed and she toppled on the stairs, unconscious. The black tam on her head rolled down the steps.
"Quickly," the Sikh barked. "There is little time left." The apache and the Chinaman galvanized. They clambered up to April like agile monkeys, straightened out her limp figure. The Chinaman hurriedly produced a roll of poster-size paper from beneath the folds of his purple robes. Arnolda Van Atta rose stiffly from the floor, evened out her skirt and sweater and red hair with quiet, almost majestic satisfaction. A hard, cruel light shone in her green eyes.
"I thought I'd never get the chance to needle Miss Uncle," she remarked tersely. "She never let me get close enough."
The Sikh glared at her. "How is that? You could have hidden a dozen places in that apartment."
Arnolda Van Atta's eyes glinted with fury. "Small matter of a snake nobody mentioned to me, my friend. This woman saved my life."
"Snake?" The Sikh was too busy with the manner in which the Chinaman and the apache were preparing April Dancer for the street. "Speak plainly."
"No time now," the redhead snapped. "Let's get the hell out of here."
"Wah, Missy Sahib," the Sikh boomed, no courtesy evident in his tone despite the title of honor. "Hurry, you two!"
So it was that five minutes later, passersby on East Twelfth Street were treated to one of the odd sights of the day. People stopped to stare, gawk and wonder, shake their heads and move on about their business. It was the sort of thing one could expect in these sickening times of national crisis and world unrest. What with young men burning their draft cards, civil rights mobs picketing City Hall, anything could happen in New York, and very usually did. What could this be but one more way to state an opinion—or advertise a theatrical enterprise.
Still, it was a lulu, all right.
A Chinaman and a French apache character carrying the body of a very American woman. As though she were a corpse. Her body was as stiff as a board. Ahead of them, stalked a majestic Hindu, turban, beard and all. At his side walked a strikingly beautiful redhead. Tall and proud. The body of the American woman was tented with one of those sandwich-board posters so that the same message could be read from either side of the street:
WAKE UP, AMERICA!
OUR BOYS ARE DYING IN VIETNAM
SO ARE CIVILIANS!
WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT?
The curious quintette, boldly proclaiming the presence in town of ROMEO'S LEAGUE OF NATIONS EXHIBIT, but not saying exactly when or where, turned down a side street and approached a large blue panel truck which was parked in front of a store that sold typewriters. The flat sides of the truck also advertised the fact that ROMEO'S LEAGUE OF NATIONS EXHIBIT was an enterprise on wheels.
Within seconds, just scant strokes of time away from the advance of one very inquisitive cop on the beat, the group had entered the truck and driven off. The redhead and the Hindu were seen to sit in the cab of the vehicle while the Chinaman and the apache entered the rear with the woman who was playing the role of the corpse.
The driver of the truck was an enormous Negro with visored chauffeur's cap and tremendous brown hands that dwarfed the steering wheel.
"You took your time, snake charmer," he rumbled crisply to the Hindu. "We may get a lecture about this delay."
"Drive," the Sikh commanded coldly. "We have succeeded and no one will quarrel with that. Not even Riddle."
Arnolda Van Atta flung him a sideways glance. "Riddle? When did he get in?" Her lovely, classical face became a mask of surprise.
The Sikh laughed hollowly, pleased that he had piqued her interest.
"Riddle is the answer to everything."
Romeo's blue panel truck merged with the flow of traffic on the East River Drive and headed North. The water lay like unbroken glass in the pale sunlight.
The driver hummed a Dixieland tune as he played with the wheel.
On the hard wooden floorboards of the van, April Dancer lay inert. The powerful drug which Arnolda Van Atta had injected into her hand via the platinum wrist watch, kept her drugged and unconscious. Her lithe figure was as supine as a felled tree.
The apache had relieved her of her handbag, personal effects, and even her bra (without having had to undress her). The bra had proven to be of black silk with a curious flexibility. The apache was certain that it was as innocuous as the other secret weapon. There was no telling until certain tests could be made.
The Chinaman was industriously examining a hand grenade—an American make, U.S. Army M-1. He handled the grilled, egg-shaped object deftly as his slanted eyes regarded the shapely beauty at his feet. A flicker of male interest shone in his expression. The apache leered at him, and pushed an expressive thumb ceilingward. Both men smiled at each other and continued with their own private business, and thoughts. On both sides of the panel truck, a veritable arsenal of weapons stood on view. More grenades, Thompson submachine guns, land mines and an amazing amount of drums and ammunition bandoliers. The blue panel truck was a veritable armory on wheels.
In the cab, the Negro driver still rumbled his disapproval aloud to the Hindu leader of the operation.
"Riddle, huh? Then you'd better make your story twice as good, Swami boy. Riddle doesn't like to be kept waiting on everyone to make his next move. You know what a fanatic he is on Chess. Knight to Queen Three and all that jazz."
"My name is Bora Singh," the Sikh said caustically. "You will do well to remember that. I do not care for nicknames."
"Sure, sure," the driver chuckled, winking at Arnolda Van Atta. "Bora Singh. That and fifteen cents will make you head of THRUSH some day."
Arnolda Van Atta folded her arms and stared straight ahead. She said nothing. Her green eyes were far away and remote. Bora Singh lapsed into a hostile silence. The driver hummed his Dixieland tune again.
The blue panel truck whipped on toward the Bronx.
Mr. Waverly controlled his nearly feverish impatience and studied the teletype streamer once again. The yellow ribbon of communications felt like a hot potato in his lean fingers, and was more indigestible for a man in his position to swallow. Section IV, Intelligence And Communications, had rushed the message to his office as soon as it had come in.
It was decidedly unpleasant reading matter:
IF YOU WISH MARK SLATE BACK ALIVE, WE AGREE TO EXCHANGE HIM FOR ZORKI. A FAIR TRADE IS NO BARGAIN. CONTACT GRAND CENTRAL STATION, LOCKER 705, FOR FURTHER DETAILS. NO LATER THAN MIDNIGHT TODAY.
MISS EGRET
There it was. No doubts about it. A plain black and white swap. Agent for agent. A valuable agent like Mr. Slate for the Great Zorki. The information about Slate had come over the teletype thanks to a suit of brown clothes being left by the pressing iron in Del Floria's tailor shop downstairs. So THRUSH knew about that too.
And Miss Egret was involved again. The mysterious Miss Egret. Sometimes, Dr. Egret, many times, a mysterious, faceless woman who could assume a wealth of disguises. The range of her operations and triumphs for THRUSH was simply incredible.
Egret. The most dangerous bird in the wide spectrum of the THRUSH aviary of espionage.
Mr. Waverly frowned at the tiny watch on his wrist.
April Dancer had not put in an appearance yet. The events of the morni
ng and early afternoon had left the usually implacable head of U.N.C.L.E. in a highly charged state. For once, he had found no comfort in fondling his world collection of pipes. It made one almost take up the foul tobacco habit again.
Oh, U.N.C.L.E., Where Art Thou?
"Wake up, April," a familiar voice said. "You look a sight."
Somebody was speaking in a low, unhurried voice. It was a gentle sound, for all the wryness and sarcasm in the words. Like the soft wash of sea water against a friendly shoreline. Yet, there was a penetrating quality to the voice. A dispassionate strength as subtle as cold steel. This, as well as the familiarity of the voice, made April Dancer open her eyes.
"Good morning, Mark," she said cheerily, long before she was even able to assess her condition, position and senses. "For a time there, I thought you'd gone back to the British."
The room swam into focus. The mocking, intelligent features of Mark Slate bobbed into view like an apple in a dunking game. She saw now the lank sandy hair, the sensitive eyes and the mobile mouth. Slate's handsomely rugged face blurred for an instant, then filled out. A photo developing in a dark room. April blinked, shaking herself. Beyond Slate's face, she made out the outlines of a wall where it met the ceiling. She struggled for a second, separating what had happened from what was happening. She had a vague memory of a nasty redheaded woman with an assortment of United Nations villains. A Hindu, a Chinaman and an apache. The stairway. The needle injection from whatever Arnolda Van Atta was wearing around one wrist. Clever. She groaned and sat up. Wasn't too bad. Must have been a drug like Sodium Pentathol. She had no after effects, save a great lethargy.
"Heaven or Hell?" she asked; they were in a blank, four-walled cubicle devoid of all furnishings. Behind Mark Slate stood the framed square of a doorway.
Slate smiled and she saw for the first time that he was wearing nothing but a T-shirt and boxer shorts. The shorts were firehouse red—typical Mark Slate flamboyance. "All good agents decidedly to to Heaven, April. Since we are not dead, this inevitably is purgatory. What happened to you?"
April stared down at herself. They had reduced her to her unmentionables. Black silken panties and the matching bra. But something had been done to the bra. She could feel the difference. It had been de-activated; the tensile fabric which could be reformed into a fine line of spun steel that could have supported a grand piano had been removed.
"The dorm at Radcliffe was never like this," she sighed. "Disgraceful the way they treat the opposition these days." She smiled at Mark, glad at least that he was still alive. "You, first." She had no compunctions about Slate seeing her garbed in her underthings. The big brother demeanor of the wry Briton was still all too plain.
Slate shrugged. "Simple. There was a knock on my door. A redhead entered, jabbed me with a hypodermic needle and here I am."
"I met the witch. She jabbed me too. Do you know Arnolda Van Atta? Nice name for a witch, isn't it?"
"Is that milady's name?" Slate's expression was bleak. "We hardly had time to make introductions. I did so want to make her a cuppa."
"Why did you let her in?"
"She had a most persuasive calling card, beside her red hair, green eyes and that smashing figure of hers. A .45 caliber automatic."
April stood up, flexing her muscles. Apart from the slight chill and demoralizing state of dress, she felt no ill effects from the drug. "I see. Wonder what she did with the .45? I didn't see that on her. Mr. Waverly sent me looking for you when you didn't show up at Headquarters." It was useless to go into details about snakes and the UN brigade. "Any idea where we are?"
"Yes. The sunny Bronx. One of my jailers, a talkative Negro, was injudicious enough to mention Southern Boulevard. From what little I know of this delightful borough, that is a main artery of the Bronx."
"Check. Runs North and South." April looked around the room. It wasn't large at all. No windows, no furniture, plaster walls, a boarded floor and the door. The floorboards were ancient. "Well, they took our clothes, including shoes, which leaves me feeling kind of helpless."
"Not quite," Slate whispered, his eyes rolling to indicate the room might be bugged. "I was able to trigger the homing device in my shoe before they undressed me. You see, I was conscious when they entered me in the nudist colony. We came in a blue panel truck."
"That's fine," April said aloud. "Have you any ideas what this is all about?"
"Certainly. We do have Zorki, don't we?"
"The Great Alek Zorki," April agreed. "Their most valuable man in New York. You think a trade is planned?"
"A fair trade, April. Though I must confess I don't know how fair it is. Two of us for him. But wouldn't that strike you as the only jolly conclusion for us not being dead yet?"
"Our friends from Thrush, then?"
"I would make book on it, to steal a very abominable Yankee phrase."
April laughed. "You ought to put on a few pounds, Mark. You look undernourished. Get some of those lady friends of yours to cook some good meals for you." She walked to the wall, running her hands across the plaster. It felt thick and substantial. "This could be an apartment house building. The flooring is the sort that is featured in most of those cheap tenements they crowd the poor into. I wonder—"
Mark Slate, who was really as lithe and supple as an Olympic athlete, looking ready for a javelin throw, eyed her questioningly. April shook her head. "Guess we just have to sit and wait until out jailers decide to powwow with us."
"I would say they are powwowing with Mr. Waverly as of this moment."
April sighed. "Hate to put the old man on the spot like this. You know how he disdains to put his emotions on the line."
"Perish the thought," Slate said grimly. "He'll make no deals with Thrush."
She knew Mark Slate was right. Mr. Waverly, apart from his great respect and fondness for them both, would think twice before making a deal with THRUSH. Especially when the prize was a big fish like Zorki. Zorki was the key to the entire New York organizational setup of THRUSH. Waverly was more than likely to stall and see what could be done about the magnetic homing device in the heel of Slate's shoe. Every U.N.C.L.E. agent was equipped to let Headquarters keep tabs on their whereabouts. A steady electronic blip would register on the large map screen in the Organization Room and all of Security would be alerted. But had their jailers destroyed their clothes? If that had been done, there was no chance left of the troops coming to the rescue. Also, if—
"Lady and Gentleman, your attention please!"
Instantly, they both started, their bodies responding reflexively to the abrupt sound of a man's voice that seemed to emanate from the four walls. Yet, there was no box, no amplifier, no vent or opening through which a voice could be piped.
"This is Mr. Riddle speaking. We have not met nor will we ever. I feel it incumbent upon myself to explain your presence here, and the utter helplessness of your status. I will give you five seconds to adjust your senses to the sound of my voice before continuing with what I have to say."
April stared at Slate. The voice coming from nowhere was friendly and impartial, almost like the bland, emotionless voices one heard at airports announcing flight arrivals and departures.
"All of your clothing and personal possessions have been examined. Therefore, do not hope that any of your devices and gadgets will serve as lifesavers. Alas for you, we have burned your clothing and dismantled all your arsenal weapons. The homing devices and electronic transmitters will gain you nothing, as they have been destroyed. The explosive compounds and jellies which you managed to carry about your person are no more. Most ingenious, I would say, were it not for the fact that it merely duplicates our own inventiveness. Further, I will add, there will be no one coming to see you or talk to you, lest you manage some miraculous escape. You will remain as you are until U.N.C.L.E. agrees to our offer. As you may have guessed, we are arranging an exchange of agents. It should come as no surprise to you that the release of Alek Zorki is our main objective. Since you both had a hand
in his apprehension, it is somehow fitting that you should also be the instrument that affects his return to our ranks. Therefore, rest easy, try nothing foolhardy and do stay away from the door of your cell. It is electrically charged and sufficiently high-voltage to render you very dead in less time than it would take to turn the doorknob. I really do hope you will both be sensible and remain patient. If I were you, Mr. Slate, and I were left alone with a woman of Miss Dancer's obvious charms, I should certainly know what to do so that time did not hang heavy on my hands. Au revoir, Mr. Slate and you, Miss Dancer. May we never meet again."
The room was suddenly silent once more. The flat, bland voice had vanished as quickly as it had come.
"Isn't he sweet?" April said, low.
Mark Slate, eyes thoughtful, nodded. "Very friendly type."
April sat down on the floor and looked at the toes of both her feet. Mark Slate did likewise. Without a word to each other, they began to inspect the nails of each of the toes on their feet.
They worked quickly and fluidly, hardly looking at one another. If Mr. Riddle could have seen them, he would have imagined they were quite mad.
"Mark," April murmured, working the thumbnail of her right hand against the big toe of the corresponding foot. "I know how to solve a riddle."
"Roger," Slate chuckled. "But how did your Benjamin Franklin discover electricity, really?"
"Easy. You go fly a kite."
Security had given them the last desperate measure of self-protection. Underneath their bantering conversation, to allay the suspicions of any of the enemy who might be listening—they were both scraping enough polish off their nails to produce five ounces of X-757. This extremely volatile explosive chemical, manufactured by the research laboratory of U.N.C.L.E., was a harmless substance until wadded into a compact ball. Once ignited, it could fuse a steel door into molten metal.
The Girl From U.N.C.L.E.: The Birds-Of-A-Feather Affair Page 3