The Deadly Dark Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  “You know what I think of your rotten organization,” said Martin Bell.

  The young man’s face was bruised. His cheap slacks and white shirt were torn in several places. By contrast, Dr. Volta was impeccable in a double-breasted pin stripe, white shirt with two inches of cuff showing, large diamond cufflinks, a tie with a pattern of small red and pink flowers and a handkerchief that was a waterfall of white points at his breast pocket.

  Dr. Volta scowled. “Martin, THRUSH recognizes and appreciates the cooperation you have shown on the trip down here. I should hate to see you spoil your record now. I---what is wrong?”

  “I can’t do this. I can’t run the machines and bring that plane down. I---I thought I could. I thought I could make myself go through with it but I can’t.”

  Dr. Volta clipped Martin neatly on the cheek with the back of his hand. The THRUSH technicians went on working without turning around.

  “Kindly remember yourself,” Volta said. “If you fail to cooperate at any time, I need only to instruct my operator to open a channel on that radio---“ Volta indicated one of the pieces of equipment in the semicircle. “---and I will be in instant contact with our station near Saint Olaf. One word from me, dear boy, one small word and your American sweetheart will be subjected to the most excruciating of tortures. Next will come your father. Finally your mother. We can even arrange to have their shrieks and supplications for mercy piped in here, if you require additional persuasion.”

  “All right,” Martin Bell said.

  Dr. Volta continued to describe, with considerable relish, some of the specific tortures which would be employed. Finally Martin covered his face with his hands.

  “All right! I hear you! I’ll do it.”

  Dr. Volta lit up a long cigarette and nodded. “Why don’t you sit down, Martin? Where is that camp stool we brought along for our young friend?” He snapped his fingers. One of the technicians scuttled off, returned with the stool. Martin slumped into it. Dr. Volta patted Martin’s shoulder.

  “Calm yourself, my boy. Nothing is required of you until the equipment is hooked together. Plowshare will not take off until late this afternoon. Only at that time will you be called upon to operate the anti-power unit. Until then, amuse yourself! Think positive thoughts! Think of how you have saved your dear little girl and your parents from unmitigated agony! Martin?”

  Dr. Volta leaned forward, unable to get Martin’s attention. The young scientist still had his hands over his face. He appeared to be rocking back and forth in utter misery.

  Actually Martin Bell was quite wide awake, sharp-minded and grimly determined to do what he could about the situation. He could not stand by and let THRUSH force him to employ his machine at full power. And until now he had seen no possible way to save the situation.

  The technicians worked to ready the machinery. He watched then covertly from behind his hands. He was scared. He was not a born hero, not even a professional espionage agent. But he understood the dials of the complicated radio unit which Volta had pointed out a moment ago.

  As the hours of the morning ticked past, Martin studied that particular console until he knew it by heart.

  Food was brought in at noon. Around three, the technicians reported everything ready. Another hour passed.

  Shortly after four a signal light on the radio flashed.

  Volta jumped forward, threw over a toggle. “Yes, yes?”

  “Dr. Volta,” a man said, “this is station six. My car is parked just beyond the fence at the end of the main runway. Plowshare is now airborne. She just went up.”

  “Out,” Dr. Volta cracked, wasting no time. He snapped his fingers. “Martin Bell! Here, please!”

  Martin roused himself. His palms itched. His stomach was cold. The THRUSH technicians stood back to let him move up beside Dr. Volta.

  A radar unit began to beep-beep. A technician called out, “Plowshare in the pattern, Dr. Volta.”

  A small blip crawled into the center of the display glass.

  Dr. Volta gestured expansively. “My dear young friend, kindly take the generator controls. You know what you are to do. Focus your apparatus upon that plane, kill its power and bring it down. Damp all power, please. We want it to crash.”

  Dr. Volta giggled. “Then as soon as Plowshare is down, we shall spread the beam and black out our test area. Not fifty miles this time. A radius of one hundred miles which---Martin! You hesitate! Aren’t you delighted to see your device being tested at full capacity? What a magnum opus! One of the largest cities in the Western hemisphere orchestrated to a symphony of darkness and terror by you!”

  Volta sniffed. “Personally, I would be thrilled at the prospect. But you Americans---well, enough. You are delaying, Martin.”

  When Volta got no response this time, he shook Martin’s shoulder.

  “You are delaying, Martin. Operate the controls or---stop him!”

  Dr. Leonidas Volta’s strangled cry burst out as he was bashed over backwards by Martin Bell’s well-intended, though rather anemic punch. Still, the surprise of it gave Martin the moment he needed.

  Dr. Volta crashed against the small computer. The THRUSH technicians seemed too startled to move.

  Martin slammed his elbow into the head of the operator seated before the radio. As the THRUSHMAN slid off his stool, Martin’s hands shot out to the dials whose positions he had been memorizing all day.

  Over went this switch. Up went that gain. Needles peaked. Martin shouted into the microphone, “My name is Martin Bell. I am being held prisoner at a place called Bloor Brothers, a warehouse in Toronto. I am being held prisoner by THRUSH and being forced to operate my anti-electrical generator to bring down an aircraft which has just taken off from the Toronto airport. This aircraft is the Plow---“

  Dr. Volta was howling at his helpers, ordering them into action. Martin dared not look around. Feet slammed. A cruel hand grabbed his shoulder as he rushed on:

  “---Plowshare, the experimental plane which is carrying dignitaries from---“

  The first brutal blow landed from behind, smashing Martin Bell’s head forward against the quivering dials of the radio transmitter.

  Napoleon Solo said, “No one move, please.” In his right hand he held the long-muzzled pistol. “This plane is turning back.”

  At Solo’s feet lay the steward for the special flight, a tray of shattered glasses beside him. The bubbly liquid ran down the channels in the floor of the vast, undecorated interior of Plowshare.

  The great supersonic transport was lifting up off the end of the runway. Solo felt the thrust against the soles of his shoes, struggled to stand upright as the deck tilted. His suit was untidy. His tie dangled askew. He looked a fright, and his nerves were taut-strung.

  All up and down the interior of the great silver-sleek transport, various international personages in morning coats or the uniforms of their respective countries turned to stare. Here a bearded and turbaned Sikh gaped in astonishment. There a frock-coated Malaysian dignitary goggled. Further down, an overstuffed Englishman dropped his monocle from his eye.

  The twenty-two representatives of the nations which had cooperated in constructing the huge aircraft were seated in special armchairs bolted to the floor for this maiden flight. They had been peering out the windows at the sunlit Toronto skyline when Solo leaped aboard, slamming the hatch behind him just as Plowshare hurtled forward for takeoff, its six gigantic jets roaring.

  “FitzMaurice,” a tall ebony-skinned African diplomat said, “who on earth is this madman?”

  I don’t know,” said the man so addressed, a burly, red-cheeked Canadian air marshal with many rows of decorations on his uniform. “But we shall jolly soon find out.”

  Threateningly but cautiously, Air Marshal FitzMaurice lifted himself from the chair nearest Solo. “Whatever your scheme, you’ll be caught, of course. Executed, probably.”

  “My name is Napoleon Solo. United Command for Law and Enforcement.”

  Solo saw that they didn’
t believe him. He flung his credentials to FitzMaurice. Still the faces showed hostility, fear, skepticism. The gigantic transport was climbing steadily now, late afternoon sunlight flickering through the round window-ports.

  “There is going to be a power failure,” Solo said. “Its purpose is to knock this plane down and kill all of you. Tell the pilot to land.”

  Air Marshal FitzMaurice snorted. “Do you seriously expect me to obey such an order?”

  Dismally, Solo did not. He knew he looked like a gritty-eyed lunatic. His face was beard-stubbled and grimy. But he had been moving fast since leaving Toronto last night.

  First he had gone to Illya’s bedside in Saint Olaf. After long hours of interrogation, he had pieced together enough from Illya’s delirious ramblings to understand that THRUSH was striking in Toronto today, first at the MST-1 on its maiden flight, then at the entire city.

  Solo flew back to Toronto at once, landing just moments ahead of Plowshare’s takeoff. Security officers at the gate refused him admittance to the take-off area. There was no time to contact Waverly. Solo used two capsule of knockout gas, jumped the fence and leaped aboard the MST-1 just as the hatch closed.

  “Look,” Solo said. “What have you got to lose by taking a chance that I’m telling the truth?”

  Carefully, stiffly, Air Marshal FitzMaurice brushed at his flowing mustache. “A great deal, my dear fellow. The roadblocks which stood in the way of the construction of this internationally-financed aircraft were considerable. We cannot risk a setback in the program. And one would certainly occur if by an incomplete maiden flight. Furthermore, my good man, you have presented us with no evidence. You’ve only crashed aboard here brandishing that gun and crying alarms without foundation.”

  “Save your oration for the press corps,” Solo cried, charging up the aisle before FitzMaurice could stop him. He waved his pistol to and fro rather melodramatically, but the effect was achieved. Most of the dignitaries gripped the arms of their chairs and cringed back out of his way. He was well on the way to the unpainted bulkhead which led onto the flight deck when a beefy hand caught his shoulder, spun him around.

  FitzMaurice had caught up, plainly would not be cowed. “See here! I said you would not disrupt this flight.”

  “Air Marshal,” Solo said with desperate politeness, “if you don’t let go I’m afraid I’m going to have to deck you.”

  “Help me hold him! Don’t just sit there!” FitzMaurice called to his startled fellow-passengers, and wrapped Solo in a crushing, grunting bear-hug.

  “You idiot!” Solo yelled. A bearded Sikh discarded caution and leaped to help. Solo was tackled at the knees. In a moment he, the Sikh and FitzMaurice were floundering back and forth on the champagne-running floor.

  Solo shoved his elbow into FitzMaurice’s ribs. He was getting angry now, enraged at the way these stubborn fools refused to heed him. FitzMaurice responded by belting Solo’s midsection with a formidable fist.

  Another delegate joined the fray. Above the howl of the six mighty jets thrusting the plane higher into the twilight sky over Toronto, the voices of his adversaries rose to a clamor. Soon Napoleon Solo was inundated beneath a crush of bodies.

  At last Solo managed to squeeze his shoulders and head out of the octopus-tangle of foes. The moment he did, he found himself staring straight into the blazing eyes or Air Marshal FitzMaurice, who had his fist cocked back and was bellowing to no one in particular, “Knock him out! Knock him out!”

  If that meaty fist connected, Solo knew, it would very likely be lights out. Finish. And he could not squirm sufficiently to wrench himself out of the way of the punch.

  The fist rocketed wildly at Solo’s head---

  “Attention, please. Attention. This is Commander Godwin. We’re going down.”

  The urgent voice rattled over the cargo plane’s loudspeaker system. Startled, FitzMaurice pulled his punch a fraction of an inch from Napoleon’s jaw. He screwed his head around. “The pilot’s gone balmy too.”

  FitzMaurice disentangled himself from the chaos of brawling bodies, leaped up and lunged forward to the bulkhead. He did not bother to observe protocol and knock.

  He kicked the door open and cried, “Commander Godwin! What’s the meaning of this?”

  From his vantage point at the bottom of the human pile Solo glimpsed the strained faces of the four Royal Canadian Air Force fliers on the flight deck. Plowshare banked sharply.

  Some of the bodies slid off Solo. He managed to crawl to his knees as one of the flying officers unbuckled himself from his chair and rushed back to block FitzMaurice at the door to the flight deck.

  “We’ve been ordered down by Canadian Air Defense, sir. Something about a strange radio message. They picked it up a few moments ago. Some chap was broadcasting for help. Scientist feller or something. He said some sort of anti-electricity thingamajing was going to be turned on this plane to bring her crashing down---“

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along!” Solo shouted, finally extricating himself.

  The man up front in the pilot’s chair, evidently Commander Godwin, whirled round and yelled, “Who the devil is doing all that shouting back there? Get in your seats! Fasten your belts! We aren’t going to make any pretty pat-a-cake landing. Air Defense says take no chances. I’m going to set her down fast.”

  Racing ahead, Solo pushed by the protruding corporation of the baffled Air Marshal. He thrust onto the flight deck. Before Commander Godwin could order him off, he said, “My name is Napoleon Solo, Commander, U.N.C.L.E.”

  In terse syllables Solo explained how he had gotten aboard Plowshare, and why. Out beyond the cockpit windshield and the immense aerodynamic snout of the gigantic plane the Toronto skylines slipped past in a golden sunset haze. “Do you know whether the broadcast Air Defense picked up was legitimate?”

  “I monitored it,” said another of the officers, the one wearing telephones. “Got bits and crackles of it. The chap hollering sounded scared to death. But even if it wasn’t legitimate, if it was just some crank with a bolt loose in his noggin, Air Defense doesn’t fiddle around. I heard the chap give his name right at the first. Can’t quite remember what---“

  Solo sucked in a deep breath, hoping: “It wasn’t Bell, was it? Martin Bell?”

  “Bang on the nose if it wasn’t! And there was some funny jabber about a bird.”

  “A little thrush,” Solo whispered. “This attack on the plane was only the first stage. These people are planning to knock out all the power in Toronto and for miles around. Did Air Defense get a fix on the location of the transmitter?”

  “They usually do,” the radio officer answered. “By the time we land they should have triangulated to the point where the source can be identified, and---“

  Commander Godwin exclaimed, “Knock off the chatter and clear the deck! Power’s going.”

  Solo’s skin crawled. For the past seconds he had paid no attention to their situation. Through the cockpit window he now saw that Plowshare’s nose was pointed downward at the edge of the runway. They were in the final seconds of descent. Godwin’s face had turned white.

  The flight engineer flipped emergency toggles. The roar of the jets had diminished, blending now with the minor-key whistle of the wind. Even Air Marshal FitzMaurice stopped jabbering as Godwin called for a trim of flaps.

  The ground rushed up like a juggernaut. There were not even seconds in which to call for emergency fire crews to stand by.

  “Hang on, all,” said Commander Godwin, and eased his throttle back a fraction as the mammoth air transport flashed over the edge of the runway.

  Concrete whipped away underneath the nose. The great tires bumped, bumped again. “Give me reverse thrust, Charlie, and pray.”

  The sweating engineer threw switches frantically. “Reverse thrust,” he wheezed. The six huge engines coughed, shuddered. There was a single blast of sound, a sharp slackening of the craft.

  Eyes riveted to his controls, the engineer breathe
d, “That was the last gasp, Commander. Power’s completely dead.”

  We can make it now,” Commander Godwin said. “I am almost sure.”

  For long seconds there was strained silence throughout the plane as Godwin wrestled the controls. Finally Solo felt the craft slowing to a safe speed.

  Godwin negotiated a turn onto a taxi strip. Red crash trucks flashed toward the silver giant from all directions, sirens howling. Godwin simply let Plowshare coast to a stop on the hard-packed yellow clay beyond the end of the taxi strip.

  The commander wiped his glistening forehead and for the first time really turned to look at Napoleon Solo.

  “Whoever you are, my friend, you certainly had the right message.”

  Air Marshal FitzMaurice said under his breath, “Incredible! Positively incredible.”

  “The incredible part is just beginning,” Solo said in a raw voice. Look there.” The sprawling Toronto air terminal lay shadowed in the dusk. Every last light had gone out.

  THREE

  Dr. Leonidas Volta held Martin Bell’s left arm, bending it up at an excruciating angle behind the young scientist’s back. Another THRUSH technician had both hands clamped on Martin’s neck, holding him down onto the little camp stool in front of the semicircle of machinery in the Bloor Brothers loft.

  Dr. Volta’s bright marble-blue eyes burned in the dim light of the jury-rigged spotlights. There was the glow of madness in them.

  “No more little tricks, Martin,” he said. “No more little stratagems, please. Operate the equipment. You do not realize the depth of my feelings. Do you? Do you, hah?”

  Volta gave Martin’s left arm another wrench. The young scientist clenched his teeth, incapable of moving as the cruel pain wracked him. Volta hissed: “I am responsible for the success of this project. Upon this project rides my reputation, my status with THRUSH. I was the one who was supposed to conceive the anti-electricity generator.”

  “It was into my laboratory that THRUSH Central poured a fantastic percentage of its research budget. And I failed them. So this is my last chance. If you try to betray me one more time as you did with that radio message I will break your arm off and signal Saint Olaf to begin killing your mother. Am I quite clear?”