The Girl From U.N.C.L.E.: The Birds-Of-A-Feather Affair

by Michael Avallone

  Mark Slate, however, now asked the vital question:

  "Can we match that?"

  "We," April Dancer said firmly, a humorous light in her warm brown eyes, "shall try."

  Bora Singh, his spade beard wagging fiercely, stared across the battered metal desk, at the man sitting there impassively, with hands pyramided together. At Bora Singh's left, Arnolda Van Atta, her flaming tresses gleaming brilliantly in the lights of the room, sat quietly. She seemed to be studying the long, slender fingers of her own hands. Bora Singh was a tower of rage. His turban bobbed as his tall, warrior's body quivered with indignation.

  "Are we children that we play games with one another?" Bora Singh was bellowing. "Why must you wear that ridiculous mask? Don't you trust me?"

  The man behind the desk, his face hidden by a Frankenstein monster mask, such as are sold in novelty shops all over America, shrugged. The shrug did not match the fixed frozen leer of the rubber monster face.

  "Calm down," the man said. It was the same voice which had mysteriously filled the bare prison room that housed April Dancer and Mark Slate. "Control yourself, Singh. Thrush has its own methods. My face is not to be made known to you."

  "Riddle," Singh sneered, his dark face contorting as if he wanted to spit across the desk. "Very well, then. But why the delay about Zorki? We have the U.N.C.L.E. agents. Why must you procrastinate?"

  The Frankenstein face said nothing.

  Arnolda Van Atta shifted in her chair, looking up. Her classic face, so proper for the cover of Vogue or Redbook, became ugly.

  "Simmer down, you turbaned hothead. Whose brilliant notion was it to plant that snake in Slate's apartment?"

  Bora Singh looked at her. A wicked smile split his beard and moustache, framing large white teeth.

  "A diversion. Why not? You will admit it would have kept the Dancer woman very occupied until we returned?"

  Arnolda Van Atta's green eyes went cold. "Yes, and it very nearly killed me."

  "Who asked you to interfere?" Singh snarled. "Is this woman's work? You should have left the room as soon as you rendered the other one unconscious. Why did you loiter?"

  "That," the redhead said, "is none of your affair, Bora Singh." She lowered her eyes and reached into a large, corduroy clutch bag now visible on her lap, as though wanting a cigarette.

  Mr. Riddle coughed through the mask. The sound was incongruous, coming from behind the Frankenstein face.

  "Bora Singh, you should really not get too excited about these things. Nor must you concern yourself with the movements of the rest of our agents. Surely, you realize that Thrush has many heads, hands, arms and legs. You are but the East Indian representative in this enterprise."

  Bora Singh glowered at the rebuke.

  "Riddle, I must protest. Since we have all been allotted this Zorki mission, I cannot see why we do not have a mutual share of interest. Was it not myself who arranged this Romeo's League Of Nations Exhibit as a cover for the kidnapping? How else could we have gotten away so easily with two prisoners in broad daylight?"

  "Yes, yes," Mr. Riddle said almost abstractedly. "An ingenious piece of work. But now comes the finer, more subtle business of arranging the trade with Uncle Headquarters. I prefer that you stay out of that part of it."

  The Sikh wagged his awesome head, eyes blazing.

  "And I say I will not! You and the woman here are glory-seekers! You think to load yourself down with honors to curry favor with Central Headquarters. Therefore, I protest. You understand me?"

  "Yes," Mr. Riddle said mildly. "I understand."

  "Good. And you—" Bora Singh whirled to glare down at Arnolda Van Atta. "What is your decision, Missy Sahib?"

  Arnolda Van Atta smiled up at him.

  "A simple one, snake charmer. You want a medal and you're going to get a bullet."

  Bora Singh blinked. "What's that, woman? You dare to threaten me—"

  Mr. Riddle laughed. "Yes, I think that's best, Arnolda."

  "Fine," she said lightly, and took her hand out of the large clutch bag. A mammoth .45 Colt automatic, Army issue, seemed to train itself at Bora Singh. For a second, the Sikh stood his ground, then he blurted in fear and tried to run, breaking for the door behind him. He had not gotten further than three feet away before there was a muffled, yet somehow thunderous burst of sound.

  There was no nicety about the murder.

  The heavy bullet caught Bora Singh in the back of the neck just below where the white border of the turban met his shoulders. He flew against the doorway, propelled by the impact. His hands pawed briefly at the panel before he fell heavily. He was very dead by the time he hit the floor.

  Arnolda Van Atta replaced the .45 in her clutch bag. She looked at Mr. Riddle, eyebrows arched.

  The Frankenstein mask nodded.

  "I rather thought that would be necessary, Arnolda."

  "It was," she agreed. "Very. Tell the truck driver to get rid of his body in the usual way."

  Mr. Riddle made a steeple of his fingers again.

  "Charleston will like that. He didn't care for our dear departed Bora Singh."

  "That makes two of us." Arnolda Van Atta regarded her fingernails again.

  The Frankenstein face regarded the crumpled mass that Bora Singh's body made on the floor. The mask wobbled as he shook his head.

  "It is always amazing to me to see the amount of trouble a man can get into when he doesn't use his mouth judiciously."

  "Yes," the redhead said. "It is something worth remembering, Mr. Riddle."

  The man behind the mask seemed to shudder visibly. His voice now sounded almost tentative. "Perhaps I should check on Mr. Waverly. He has the communiqué. We should—"

  "Get Charleston first and have him move the Hindu out of here," Arnolda Van Atta said quietly, still not looking at him.

  "Of course, Arnolda."

  She stretched suddenly, raising her long arms, yawning attractively so that her bosom was sharply defined in the cashmere sweater. Her smile was mocking.

  "Our friends from Uncle must be very restless with their clothes off. I wonder if they are making love."

  "It is a good idea," Mr. Riddle agreed, reaching for an enamel buzzer set in the surface of the metal desk. "One that a beautiful woman such as yourself would think of."

  She made no comment to the compliment and studied the right forefinger of her hand. She had broken the bright red fingernail.

  Mr. Riddle spoke quickly into the tiny transmitter affixed to the buttonhole of his left lapel.

  Within a matter of minutes, the Negro truck driver pushed into the room. His eyes widened when he saw the corpse, then a wider smile eclipsed his cocoa-colored face. An irreverent light twinkled in his eyes.

  "Charleston," Mr. Riddle purred. "Put Bora Singh away. Acid treatment, since we don't want to use the furnaces."

  "Stepped out of line, huh?" Charleston chuckled. "Knew he would. Too big for his turban. Just like I said. Who popped him?"

  Mr. Riddle's Frankenstein face still showed only the frozen leer but his voice said: "Miss Van Atta did the honors."

  "Good girl," the Negro chortled. "You got class, lady."

  He bent down, poking his big hands under Bora Singh's armpits. Arnolda Van Atta watched, no emotion visible on her cool face. Charleston hummed softly as he worked, adding some words as he swung the dead Hindu astride his broad shoulders. "Way down upon the Swami River...." Mr. Riddle laughed mirthlessly. Blood from Bora Singh's blasted skull dripped to the floor.

  The laughter halted only because of a large, explosive rush of sound from somewhere outside the room. The walls rocked with thunder. Plaster cracked. Arnolda Van Atta uncrossed her shapely legs and sprang erect. Charleston paused in the doorway, Bora Singh's body draped over one muscular shoulder. His eyes popped with fright.

  Mr. Riddle came from around he desk. He was very tall. Tall and cadaverous. A gaunt, skeletal sight with a Frankenstein face.

  "It's them," Arnolda Van Atta said in a low voice. "That
came from their room—those damn Uncle swine—what have they done now?"

  The question hung unanswered as echoing bursts of sound raced around the room.

  The room seemed to tremble with violence.

  The Great Zorki

  "My compliments, Mr. Zorki," Alexander Waverly said. "Your colleagues place the highest price on your services."

  The man with the head of a bull glowered across the polished glass of Waverly's desk. His savage black brows met in a V of impatience.

  "You mock me?"

  Mr. Waverly shook his head, his professorial facade mild and good-natured.

  "One does not mock an agent whom Thrush would go to such great lengths to return him to the field, my friend. No, I do not mock Alek Yakov Zorki. I would be a fool if I did. I am all too aware of your triumphs with Thursh."

  Zorki's bestial face, framed in a skull that was a living portrait of the charging bull rampant, smiled. His massive shoulders, enhanced by the gray turtleneck sweater which accented the thickness of his neck, hunched forward. His teeth were grotesquely small and even in his big face.

  "So, my dear Waverly. The bargaining has begun then?"

  "Yes." Waverly indicated the yellow streamer of teletype on his desk. It lay on the blotter pad between the two men—the difference between life and death. It was an odd afternoon to think about morbid combats: sunlight flooded the picture window of the office, revealing the glass architecture of the buildings in the background. Countless windows, reflecting the sun, glistened like emeralds.

  Zorki, staring past Waverly's lean shoulder, seemed mesmerized by the view, like an immigrant viewing the Statue of Liberty for the first time. But the head of U.N.C.L.E. was not deceived.

  This was Zorki, a man who had been to America too many times to be mistaken for a guileless foreigner. The same Zorki who had sabotaged the waterfront situation, delaying countless cargoes of supplies crucial to the running of a democracy. God knew what else.

  Alek Yakov Zorki. KKK on the books. Code name: Bomber.

  The agent's eyes glittered. "Have you agreed to the terms?"

  Waverly pursed his lips. "Not yet. We must talk first. A fair exchange is no bargain—I've heard that somewhere. Your people have one of my best men. Perhaps they now have two. A most unique young lady you may well remember. I prize these people very highly. But I fear I may prize you even more. Therefore, I must think a little longer on the matter."

  Zorki snorted. "And how much time do you have to—think?"

  "Midnight today. Your friends suggest I contact a locker in Grand Central Station."

  "Ah, yes. Grand Central. I nearly blew that place up once. It would have been a glorious thing. Think of it. New York's vital traffic bogged down for weeks, months."

  "Perhaps," Waverly murmured. "In any case, I didn't bring you in here to discuss your exploits for Thrush."

  Zorki's bushy eyebrows rose.

  "So? To specifics then. Are you going to agree to the terms?"

  "No," Mr. Waverly said. "I am not." He stared down at the tips of his spatulate, leathery fingers, then searched the top of the desk for one of his pipes. But there were none there. Only the row of enamel buttons of all colors. Zorki followed his gaze, impatiently. "You see, my dear Zorki, I am fearful of your health. A man such as yourself must often catch colds. I have found that true of most large men of my acquaintance."

  "Bah," roared Zorki. "What are two agents compared to the Great Zorki? A mere man and a woman—"

  "The man," said Mr. Waverly, "is impulsive, a bit of a nonconformist but he is highly skilled and intelligent enough to be a candidate for this very desk one day. As for Miss Dancer, apart from being dedicated to good work, she has poured every molecule of her being into the fight against cosmic evils like Thrush. She's a bit penurious—her Maine background—but I find that refreshing when it comes to turning in expense accounts. Miss Dancer actually is worth five of you to me, Mr. Zorki. But we were talking about your health, were we not?"

  Zorki leaned out of his chair, his arms resting on the lip of the desk. His small eyes were angry. "What is this nonsense about my health?"

  Waverly's eyes met his, a slight smile tugging his mouth.

  "Don't you notice anything peculiar in the air? A bit of a chill—?"

  Zorki frowned, his nostrils curling. Suddenly, a look of dawning wonder flooded his bull face. He gazed about wildly, then he tried to rise. Too late, he sensed the subtle, cool fragrance about his chair. It was then and only then that he managed to push up from the chair. He cursed, clawed at his throat briefly and fell over backwards, missing the chair. His heavy body thudded to the soft carpet of Mr. Waverly's office.

  Waverly hardly gave him a glance. He thumbed the yellow button on his desk. A female voice, issuing from seemingly nowhere again, abruptly crackled with sound.

  "Section Six, Mr. Waverly."

  "Send Mr. Wilder in, please."

  "Yes, Mr. Waverly."

  He pressed another button on his desk. The green one. This activated an air current that issued from the edge of his desk and kept the gas that had knocked out Zorki from reaching him. Waverly steepled his fingers, sat back in his chair, and waited.

  A door on his left, cleverly merged with the pale umber color of the wall, opened with a slide of panel, and a man stepped into the office.

  Mr. Waverly spun about in his chair and scrutinized the newcomer carefully. As if by prearranged signal, the entrant to the office stood at attention and said nothing.

  Yes, Wilder would most certainly do. Only Zorki's mother could have told them apart.

  Security and Enforcement Agent James Wilder was the spitting image of Alek Yakov Zorki. It was more than the similar costume of rough tweed suit, gray turtleneck sweater and plain, scuffed shoes. The bull head, massive shoulders and the artfully made-up face, would definitely serve to fool anyone coming as close as five feet. The Lab had once more performed one of their highly specialized tricks.

  James Wilder turned around for Mr. Waverly's benefit, walked a few paces and then paused, cocking his head. As his chief studied him for defects, he too scarcely paid any attention to the man on the floor.

  "Good, Mr. Wilder. You'll do. Concentrate a bit on that flinging of the head. Our dear Zorki's bullishness is one impression he leaves with the most casual acquaintance."

  "Right, sir."

  "Now I suggest that you find our sleeping friend a cell to sleep it off in. Continue to study him until eleven tonight. All details, all physical mannerisms. Using a glass mirror, of course. By that time, we will have formulated our plans for the midnight rendezvous with our other friends from Thrush."

  Wilder came further into the room and bent over Zorki. He rolled the heavy agent over on his back. Zorki made not a sound. Wilder's smile was bleak.

  "Sleeping like a baby."

  "Yes," Waverly nodded. "The depression of the cushion on that chair he sat in is rather unique, I think. Harmless enough but most effective in releasing the gas. Took a bit longer to work this time. Have the Lab check out the formula for possible flaws. It took nearly five minutes to incapacitate Mr. Zorki."

  "Right, sir." Wilder paused, as he slung Zorki to his shoulder. "Any word on Slate and Dancer?"

  "No. That will be all, Mr. Wilder."

  Mr. Waverly turned to look out the picture window. The panorama of the East River and the shore beyond was always a pleasing sight. It had a soothing effect on whatever strain he experienced in his duties for the organization known as U.N.C.L.E.

  He was upset now, though his headmaster's manner indicated no such thing to observers like James Wilder, who was already removing Zorki's bulk from the office. It was one thing to dupe the enemy and prepare a fine plan to rescue two valuable agents, but he was all too aware of the duplicity of THRUSH.

  What if April Dancer and Mark Slate were already dead?

  For one tiny second, he wistfully wished that Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin were not thousands of miles away in Rangoon on that
infernal ray affair.

  He tried not to think about that as he watched the sun's rays dance off the numberless windows on the opposite side of the river.

  April Dancer and Mark Slate were a team, too. As such, they would have to play the game. The game that can be lost just once.

  The deadly game of Spy, U.N.C.L.E., Spy.

  Don't Blow Your Top

  The corridor was empty.

  Behind them, the fused, crumpled door, a twisted testimonial to the effectiveness of X-757, now revealed the glowing chamber, their recent cell. The hallway stretched ahead, long, dark and unknown. No light gleamed. In the shadowy gloom, April Dancer could see the pale blur of Mark Slate's half-naked body. The woman in her made her grin wryly, despite the situation. There was something indecent about having to operate without a full set of fig leaves.

  Silken panties and bra were not exactly the standard uniform for U.N.C.L.E. assignments, either.

  "Where to now?" Mark Slate whispered.

  "Let's wait till we hear a noise. No sense in playing blindman's buff."

  It was a good idea. No hue and cry had been raised since the muffled explosion of the door. A cemetery silence filled the corridor. A silence more discomforting for the noisy blast that had preceded it.

  A darkened corridor was ideal for the onslaught of sudden attacks. Especially when one had not the faintest notion which way led to freedom.

  They didn't have a weapon between them. THRUSH had seen to that. Good old reliable Mark, who seemed to think of everything sometimes, had had the good sense to secrete a tiny blasting cap in the hollow of his armpit. It was that and that alone which had triggered the wadded clump of X-757 in the door jamb. But what now?

  "Mark—"

  "Yes?"

  "Listen—"

  From somewhere at one end of the corridor came a click of noise. April tensed, clutching Mark Slate's forearm in warning. They both froze where they stood. No door had been opened that they could see; no telltale light lit up the darkness. Yet they both knew from long experience that someone was in the corridor with them. Perhaps, more than one—