The Unspeakable Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  "Shut up, Penny!"

  The Army man was deadly pale. "You've got to tell Mr. Solo. He can—" the girl began.

  Caslow turned even whiter. "Mr.—who?"

  "Solo," the agent said. "My real name is Napoleon Solo, and I work for the same people Diaz did."

  "Diaz?" Caslow almost whispered. "No."

  "You know what happened to him, don't you, Caslow?"

  But Caslow did not seem to hear. He was staring into space.

  "U.N.C.L.E.! You're with U.N.C.L.E.," Caslow whispered.

  "Tell me what happened to Diaz, and what you're mixed up in! We know, Caslow. We'll find out what it is," Solo said.

  "No more," Caslow whispered. "Don't ask any more!"

  Penny Parsons insisted. "Please, Mark, tell Mr. Solo!"

  "No more! You don't understand! No more!"

  Solo leaned close to the sweating officer. His handsome face was grim as he stared into Caslow's eyes. His voice was low and insistent.

  "We'll have to turn you over to the CIA. You realize that? You might as well tell us. If you don't I'll have to take you back to New York. We'll use pentathol, and—"

  Complete terror filled the eyes of the Army man. He seemed to be in the grip of a titanic struggle. Then he went limp.

  "All right," Caslow said. "I'll tell you what you want to know."

  There was a small, sharp explosion. A tiny puff of smoke appeared over Caslow's heart. The army man screamed once and fell off his chair to the floor. There was blood. Penny Parsons stared in horror and then uttered a small cry.

  Solo bent over the man. Caslow was dead. Solo opened the uniform coat, looked.

  "Thrush. It's their trick," Solo said. "A lethal charge inserted under the skin over the heart. It must have been programmed into his blood pressure."

  Penny Parsons stammered. "Blood pressure? Programmed?"

  Solo nodded. "Probably works like a lie-detector. Set to explode when a change in blood pressure indicates a man under interrogation cracks, decides to talk. The blood pressure would show that. Typical Thrush tactics. I should have guessed."

  "Who is Thrush?" Penny asked.

  "It's better that you don't know, Penny," Solo said. He looked down at the dead Caslow. He felt sorry for the man, it was a hard way to go. Still, there was no doubt that Caslow and Wozlak were somehow involved with Thrush. "What you don't know can't get you to end up like this."

  "But I do know," Penny said, "Don't I? I mean, I know about Mark and that awful Wozlak, and I know about you, and—"

  "I get the point," Solo said. "All right. It's possible we could use you anyway. Let's go, before Major Smart gets smart and starts looking for Caslow. I don't think the major would care for our explanation of how Caslow died."

  "Go? Go where?" the lab girl said.

  "Why, New Mexico, of course. I imagine we'll find our friend Wozlak there somewhere," Solo said.

  "But I can't get time off to—"

  "That will be arranged, Penny," Solo said. "New Mexico is the next piece of the puzzle. I think we will find more than our friend Wozlak —a lot more."

  THREE

  THE LINE of low brown hills was farther away than Illya Kuryakin had imagined. All afternoon, through the blazing sun and heat of the barren New Mexico land, he had walked toward them. Land fit only to be given to the sad remnants of a proud people.

  As he walked in the heat Illya wondered again at the hypocrisy of those who were shocked by Siberia but blind to the equal horror visited upon the Indians. At least, in Siberia, the condemned sometimes got their release.

  It was night when Illya at last reached the line of low hills. Moving carefully, he made his way up in the dark of the desert night. He reached the crest without seeing or hearing anything. He crawled the last few feet and looked over and out.

  He saw a long, narrow valley, dark and indistinct in the night. Apparently, it was barren and empty. And yet there was something odd. Nothing moved; there was no ray of light. Yet Illya had the feeling that something, someone, was down there. He opened his small suitcase and took out a pair of infra-red binoculars.

  Through the glasses the details were clearer in the night. There was nothing he could put his finger on, but he still sensed that something was odd down there. He watched for some hours, but there was neither light nor movement anywhere in the long, narrow valley below. There seemed to be no defenses of any kind.

  Could he be wrong? He remembered the nail-studded two-by-four on the highway. Had they set a trap to divert him, send him on a wild goose chase? It was possible, yet he did not think so. Somewhere down there was the strange black craft that flew so fast it glowed red.

  At midnight, Illya Kuryakin decided there was nothing more he could do until dawn. He needed sleep. He found a small, but deep culvert on the other side of the hills, and crawled in. He checked all approaches, set out four tiny alarm cells so that no one could approach without warning, and then lay down to sleep because it would be a long day tomorrow and he needed all his strength.

  * * *

  IN THE telephone booth at the Elk River airport, Maxine Trent looked out through the glass sides at a twin-engine plane taxiing down the runway. The deep voice at the other end of the telephone line was concerned.

  "Solo is leaving Elk River? Why? He could not have found anything, at least not so quickly. The computer said U.N.C.L.E. could learn nothing at all from Wozlak or Caslow."

  "Did the computer know about the girl?" Maxine said into the black instrument, her eyes still following the small plane on the runway.

  "Girl? What girl?"

  "Caslow's girl friend, a Penny Parsons," Maxine said. "Now Caslow's dead, and Solo and the girl are flying out to New Mexico."

  The deep voice swore. "Caslow's dead?"

  "The programmed destruct device worked. He was about to talk," Maxine reported. "It seems he neglected to tell us that he had a girlfriend, and our agents failed to detect her."

  "Someone will pay!" the deep voice snarled. "And Wozlak? What about him?"

  "Escaped to New Mexico. With Solo on to Caslow, Wozlak was no more use here," Maxine said.

  The voice cursed again. "Follow Napoleon Solo, alert our people at Noche Triste. The computer did not know about the girl."

  "That's the trouble with machines," Maxine said. "They can't think."

  "Let us see that you can, Agent Trent," the deep voice said. "Solo and the girl must be eliminated!"

  "A pleasure," Maxine said, as she watched the small twin-engined plane take off.

  Moments later she hung up and walked quickly to a second plane that waited on the runway.

  * * *

  ILLYA KURYAKIN awakened at the first light of dawn over the barren desert land of the Navaho Reservation. His hand on his U.N.C.L.E. special, he peered cautiously out of the culvert. There was nothing in sight. High up a golden eagle soared looking for food. The giant bird sailed high and undisturbed. Illya left his culvert, retrieved his four tiny warning cells, and began to crawl up to where he could look down into the long valley.

  Nothing had changed. The long, narrow valley between the brown hills was as empty as ever. Nothing but rocks and dry ground, cactus and stunted trees gasping for life in the arid land. And yet . . .

  Illya trained his binoculars on the bottom of the valley. Something was very peculiar. He studied the hills, and the distant ends of the valley.

  Then he started his binoculars at the tops of the hills across the valley and worked slowly down to the bottom.

  And he saw it.

  The contour was wrong! The valley was too shallow!

  The natural fall of the land should have made the valley deeper, narrower at the bottom. Now, studying the terrain carefully and knowing what he looked for, Illya saw the places where boulders seemed to suddenly bend in the middle and become flat, where trees on the slopes of the hills were too short. Camouflage!

  Almost perfect, it was. From the air it would have been totally impossible to see. Even as close
as he was he could not be absolutely certain. The entire bottom of the long valley was camouflage, and beneath the false bottom—?

  Carefully, carrying his equipment, Illya began to work his way down toward the bottom of the valley. It was hard going, steep, and he noticed, now that he was farther down the side of the hill, the wide perimeter of completely open space, a wide lane, just before the apparent bottom of the valley.

  Illya studied the situation from beneath his lowered brow. The sun was coming up over the rim of the hills and there was not much time. He searched for a better approach route to the bottom of the valley. There seemed to be no way. He would have to chance crossing the open area.

  He crouched very low in the dawn light and stepped out from behind a boulder to start across the cleared area. He took two steps and stopped again, crouched like a small animal in the dawn. His eyes stared at a tiny projection in the ground.

  He looked left and right. Caught by the first slanting rays of sun, the tiny projections stood a quarter of an inch out of the ground in a long and endless row all the way in either direction.

  Illya studied the tiny projections. Mines? He reached into his small suitcase, laid carefully on the hard earth, and brought out his small explosives detector. He placed it beside the miniature projection in front of him. The detector did not register. The projection was not a mine.

  He returned the explosives detector to his suitcase, and took out the flat, miniature electronic activator. He set the miniaturized instrument on detect and placed it next in the projection. The dial registered immediately. The small metal projections were the sensors of an alarm system.

  Smiling grimly to himself, Illya returned his equipment to the briefcase, and crawled slowly backward until he was again in the shelter of the boulder. He crouched again and studied the terrain right and left. He could risk crossing the open space, but he could not risk triggering an electronic alarm system. There had to be another way down.

  Carrying his equipment, Illya began to circle the area slowly, keeping out of sight above the cleared sector. He moved quickly and silently. At last he found what he wanted.

  A natural gully-like arroyo cut into the side of the mountain and led all the way to the bottom. There was cover from view all the way. There would be the electronic sensors, but out of sight he could move slowly enough to avoid them. He smiled his quizzical smile—no system was perfect.

  He moved down the arroyo, his eyes on the ground. He stepped carefully and lightly, avoiding the electronic sensors that stuck up from the ground almost invisible. He had moved halfway down to where a yawning shadow ahead showed where the space opened beneath the camouflage when he heard the noise.

  He jumped.

  His eyes on the yawning black opening ahead, aware of the alarm sensors, and yet hearing the noise of footsteps approaching, Illya leaped to a small boulder where there would be no sensors. On the boulder he saw an open space behind it, flat and smooth and hidden. He jumped down.

  His feet struck—and sank.

  In an instant he was up to his knees, halfway up to his waist from the force of his leap. His legs were under the smooth surface, held, immobile.

  Quicksand.

  Calmly, he laid his flat suitcase on the smooth surface and pressed against it to raise himself.

  Nothing happened.

  The suitcase pressed into the soft surface, but his legs did not budge. And slowly, very slowly, he was sinking. He tried to raise each leg separately. He could do nothing. He stopped struggling. The less he moved the slower he would sink. But he sank. Very slowly, almost imperceptibly, but he sank.

  He heard a noise and looked up. A man stood on the rock above him. The man carried an ugly Thrush rifle.

  The man stood there and looked down at him.

  "Good morning, Mr. Kuryakin," the man said. "Are you comfortable?"

  "Quite comfortable," Illya said.

  "Good. Alas, I'm sorry you cannot swim in that sand, or stand either. Interesting material, quicksand. Too solid for swimming, too liquid for walking. You will have much time to consider the error of your associations before you die."

  Illya watched the man. If he could shoot the man now, the man's body could fall across the sand and give him a hold to pull out on. The man laughed.

  "No, don't try to shoot me. You'd never move fast enough," the man said. "You're a rather small man. It should take about ten hours to sink all the way. I'll be back for the final inch."

  And the man was gone.

  In the quicksand, helpless and sinking so slowly, Illya remained icily calm. Movement would only sink him faster. He knew now that it was all a trap. The entire security set-up had been designed to force him into the arroyo and, finally, into the quicksand. And he had followed the path like a stupid mule.

  But there was no time to waste on his own stupidity. They had him, and there was only one way out. He opened the small suitcase and took out his pencil radio sender-receiver. He clocked it on.

  "Sonny, this is Bubba. Red alert! I need help! Sonny? Come in, Sonny."

  There was silence. The blazing sun was up above the edge of the arroyo now. As Illya Kuryakin slowly sank, the sun burned like a red-hot flame against his bare head. He continued to talk into his miniature radio as he slowly sank deeper and deeper.

  Even with the distance relay, there was no answer from the silent radio. Illya breathed deeply, the quicksand up to his waist now.

  "Sonny, this is Bubba, come in! Red alert!"

  FOUR

  NAPOLEON SOLO led Penny Parsons from the small plane at the Santa Fe airport. He looked up toward the other small aircraft that was now circling the field. Solo grinned. They were after him, but they were also telling him that he was getting warm.

  "What is that annoying noise?" Penny said.

  The pretty young scientist was staring at Solo. The noise was coming from his suit-coat pocket.

  "What are you, wired for sound?" Penny said.

  Solo took out his radio and clicked it on.

  "Sonny? Relay from Bubba. Acknowledge."

  Solo bent to the instrument. "Sonny here, relay Bubba."

  Illya's voice came on. A calm voice, yet Solo could hear the tension in the voice of his fellow agent and best friend. Illya was in deep double. Solo looked around. No one seemed to be watching.

  "Go ahead, Illya," Solo said. The voice of the small, blond agent had a faint edge.

  "I seem to be in a rather sticky situation, Napoleon," Illya's voice said. "Literally, I fear. Where are you?"

  "Santa Fe," Solo said. "What's the trouble?"

  "Quicksand. About chest high by now. They led me into it very nicely."

  "How long do you have?"

  "Perhaps four hours, even five. You say you're in Santa Fe?"

  "Yes. Where are you?"

  "A few miles from Noche Triste," Illya said calmly. "That's about two hundred miles from you."

  "I'll get a helicopter," Solo said. Penny Parsons was staring at the sight of Solo bent over a shiny pencil and talking. The other small plane had landed and was taxiing up. Solo watched it from the corner of his eye. Two men had appeared in the Santa Fe Airport building. They were looking at him and the girl.

  "No," Illya said. "One look at a helicopter and they would undoubtedly come back and do the job more quickly. You'll have to drive."

  "It'll be close," Solo said. "I think I have company."

  There was a silence from the other end, the distant spot where

  Illya stood up to his chest and sinking in the blazing sun.

  "We'll have to chance it, and come carefully."

  "Roger, right now," Solo said.

  "And Napoleon," Illya's voice said. "Bring a rope."

  There was no more time. The two men were walking toward Solo and Penny Parsons. Solo clicked off his set. The other small plane was halted, and Solo saw the woman emerge. He smiled. Good old Maxine. He gripped the girl's arm. Penny stared at him.

  "Now do just as I tell you," Solo whis
pered. "We're going on a drive, but first we have to get rid of some unwelcome friends."

  "But I—" the girl began.

  "Just do what I do," Solo said. Suddenly, his hand on the girl's arm, he began to walk toward the exit. The two men speeded up to cut him off. Behind him, Maxine and another man were in the door out to the field itself. Quickly, Solo doubled back and dragged Penny toward the baggage exit. The two men whirled to follow.

  In the doorway to the field, Maxine sent the man with her to block the baggage exit from outside. Solo doubled back again and headed for the restroom area, pulling the protesting girl after him. He was watching his pursuers carefully.

  He doubled back toward the street door once more. As he pulled the girl on this last maneuver, Maxine and his two other pursuers came after him on courses that converged. He hurried closer to them until he saw that in a few more steps they would all be at the same spot.

  He dropped the smoke bomb at the exact spot they hurried toward.

  Thick white smoke billowed up. People began to scream. A wild chaos filled the air terminal building. Solo gripped the girl and dashed straight through the smoke, exactly where his pursuers were struggling to break out of the smoke cloud. Maxine was shouting.

  "The other door! Quickly, you fools!"

  Solo and Penny Parsons brushed right past them in the smoke and emerged on the other side just at the exit. Solo grinned. He pushed the girl ahead of him through the exit and out into the driveway area. A taxi stood at the taxi stand. Solo and Penny hurried toward it.

  The fourth pursuer, the one sent to guard the baggage exit, came running toward the cab, his gun out, all caution gone now. Solo dropped him with a single shot from his special, a shot with a sleep dart. Puh! The man fell and skidded four feet. Solo pushed Penny into the cab and jumped in.

  "The nearest car rental agency, driver," Solo said, his pistol still in his hand. "I would suggest speed."

  The driver needed no further urging. Maxine Trent and her two henchmen were already coming out of the terminal building. Solo waved to them as the taxi drove away.