by Unknown
The girl lifted a hand to tuck a few stray hairs in place beneath the golden curve of her chignon. "It's kind of you, Mr. Solo," she said huskily, "but I'm afraid it would be impossible."
Solo tried hard to keep his eyes off the taut hemisphere profiled so agreeably by the raised arm. "I don't see why," he said.
She looked him full in the eye and smiled slowly. "Our own flight arriving at midday is booked solid," she said. "I've had to take seats on Air France Flight A.F./022—and it doesn't arrive there until ten to seven in the evening."
"Dinner then? We'll be just in time."
Helga Grossbreitner dropped her arm. She shifted slightly on her haunches. "Yes," she said. "I think I should like that..."
The agent was still grinning to himself out on Fifth Avenue. The Mustang had jolted up onto the wide sidewalk, lined itself up and begun to roar towards him before the scattering of passersby; the expressions of frozen astonishment and a single girl's scream percolated through into his conscious mind. He looked up to see the high-fronted, wide sports car bearing down upon him at what seemed a fantastic speed. His mind, suddenly in top gear, worked like lightning: there was ten yards or more to each side before he could reach the shelter of shop front, parked car, newsstand or tree. A flick of the wrist, a swerve from that high-geared steering, and he wouldn't have a chance.
He took three tremendously quick steps towards the roadway and sprang desperately upwards, his out-stretched hands reaching for an ornamental arm projecting from a light standard. As his fingers closed over the green-painted ironwork, he let the impetus of his jump carry his legs on and up, drawing his knees towards his chin like a trapezist.
Missing him by fractions of inches, the Mustang snarled past below with a scream from its highly tuned engine. Fifty yards down the sidewalk, its brake lights blazed momentarily red as it spewed, rocked into a left turn with a screech of tires, and shot through the line of parked cars by a fire-plug. It slewed sideways as it hit the main road, was expertly corrected, and accelerated away towards the river with a bellow of its twin exhausts.
Solo breathed out. He relaxed his fingers and dropped to the ground, brushing his suit with automatic hand as the lunchtime strollers reemerged to exclaim and complain.
"... kind of a madman was that, for God's sake?"..."missed this guy here by inches—inches, I tell you!—Sure you're okay, bud?"..."and I always said there should be a special license for guys with..." "... I mean! Cars roaring down the pavement on Fifth Avenue..." "If you hadn't done a Tarzan up there, boy..."
The man from U.N.C.L.E. brushed aside the kindly-intentioned inquiries and rushed to the curb to flag down a cab. The Mustang had jumped the lights at the next intersection and gone. It was a black car with, he thought, a Philadelphia registration—but what the hell! The plates would have been switched within a half hour. And there were plenty of Mustangs in New York. He had not seen the driver's face, but he had the impression that there were at least two men in the front seat. So...
The cab driver was amused by the long and penetrating scrutiny Solo gave him.
"You lookin' for a long-lost brother, bud?" he asked. "You give me one good reason to do it—like a legacy from a distant aunt or sump'n—and I'll be your brother all day long."
"My cousin drives a cab," Solo told him with a grin. "We quarrel. He's a Republican, you see. So I prefer to—er—avoid..."
"Yeah, yeah, sure. Jump in, mister. Where you wanna go?"
"Just take me somewhere near the U.N. building, will you?"
"As near as you like, bub. Watch out, though. Everybody's your cousin there! Brothers they got for all the world at that place..."
"I'll bear it in mind."
"You do that," the cabby said, slamming the door. "Too many brothers—that can be a suffocatin' thing..."
Chapter 7 — The ray on the hill-top
"It may not be significant, Napoleon," Illya was saying, "but Sherry and I have been checking various things in the T.C.A. records here—and one thing emerges right away: all three of the crashes took place when the planes approached from the southwest; when the runway was being used in the direction from Cannes towards Nice."
"How many runways are there?"
"Only the one—that's the point, you see. Most of the airport is on reclaimed land, and the main runway runs parallel with the coast and the motor road...They keep on extending it every year—to take bigger and faster planes, I suppose—but it just spreads further along the coast, never further out to sea. And it can still only be used from southwest to northeast, or from northeast to southwest."
"And you say all three crashes took place when it was being used from southwest to northeast?"
"Yes. It could be only coincidence: they use the runway much more in that direction than in the other. But they do use it the other way sometimes—especially when there's a mistral blowing."
"Why's that?"
"The mistral comes from the west," Sheridan Rogers answered. "It's very gusty here when it blows—and it blows like the devil, too! Any plane landing from the southwest would have the mistral as a tail wind, so naturally they bring them in the other way. The same goes for take-off."
"Do they use the same runway for landing and take-off?"
"Yes, they do."
"What do you deduce from these facts, then?" Solo asked, turning towards Illya with a smile. "Mr. Kuryakin, you have the floor..."
"Since there is no record of any mishaps when planes land from northeast to southwest, but there were three bad crashes when T.C.A. aircraft came in from the other direction, I go out on a limb and say..." Illya paused. "I say that, since the Murchison-Spears gear proved to be in A-one condition afterwards, then THRUSH—or someone—must be using some kind of device to mess it up only temporarily—and I say further, Napoleon, that this can only be used successfully if the plane approaches from the west."
Solo nodded. "As far as the temporary bit is concerned, that's very much what old man Plant thought," he said. "Any further comments?"
"Yes. Since the device, whatever it is, appears to be in a sense dependent on direction, one is forced to consider the possibility of some sort of beam or ray."
"Yeah. That's what I figured...You mean something actually sited on the west side of the airport, so it can only be used if the ships come in from that side?"
"Exactly—and this implies it must be fairly short-range, too. I should be inclined to suggest something aimed or beamed straight at the plane as it glides in towards the runway over the sea...probably one of the many hilltop villages just behind the coastal strip."
"Or from a boat, maybe?"
Kuryakin shook his head. "We checked that. It would have to be moored or anchored, and there's no record of any such ship—besides, the fisherman from Cagnes, the water-ski schools, the speedboat owners would all notice it: it's a very busy piece of ocean, just there!"
"Okay, no boat. So what about your hilltop villages...?"
"Well, there's Mougins, Biot, Vallauris, La Colle, St.-Paul-de-Vence, Gatti�res, Haut-de-Cagnes—all of them look down on the flight path from the hills dotting the country between the mountains and the sea. You can stand on the ramparts and look down and see the planes silver against the blue sea as they glide in."
"Very poetic...but where do we start looking?"
The Russian smiled, spreading his arms in a gesture of indecision. "It seems to me," he said, pushing the tow-colored hair out of his eyes, "that there's only one possible lead for us to take."
"And that is?"
"To follow up every conceivable angle on the social life of T.C.A. staff based here in Nice. Watch and listen; get to know them; find out how they—how do you say?—tick...Because members of THRUSH must have infiltrated the organization somewhere, and if we can get on to them —"
"You mean once we locate which of the personnel belong to THRUSH, we can tail them and at least get a start geographically?"
"Exactly. It would provide a starting point. After all, we ca
nnot very well knock on every door between here and Cannes and ask: 'Excuse me, do you happen to have a secret ray in the parlor?', can we!"
They were sitting over coffee and brandy on the terrace of a waterfront restaurant at Villefranche. Helga Grossbreitner still kept an apartment somewhere near Nice and she had gone to check that everything was in order there. The other three had decided to hold their council of war in as agreeable a locale as possible. Violet sea water lapped at the piles of the balcony on which they sat and fragmented the reflections from the windows of the customs house on the far side of the harbor. Out in the bay, someone was having a party on one of the big steam yachts. The sound of laughter and music drifted across to mingle with the footsteps and voices of the holidaymakers thronging around them. Farther out, two American cruisers dressed overall added their complement of light to the garland of lamos outlining the whole inlet from Villefranche to Cap Ferrat. Above, the headlights of cars traversing the Basse Corniche, the Moyenne Corniche and the Grande Corniche threaded their way between the brightly illuminated villas rising tier upon tier into the velvet sky. A breath of warm air stirred the purple bougainvillea draping the balustrade by their table.
"I entirely agree with your suggestion, Illya," Solo said as he called for the bill. "As it happens it works in well with an arrangement I've already made. I thought we ought to have a look at the murdered stewardess' apartment—not the one she was sharing with you, my dear; her own place by the Avenue Malausséna—just in case. Miss Grossbreitner has arranged to get the key from T.C.A. and she's meeting me there tomorrow morning. I'd be most grateful if you could join us, Miss Rogers."
Still profoundly shocked by the killing of her friend, Sherry nodded a pale face. "Naturally, if there's anything I can do..."
"Bless you. I don't for a moment imagine we'll find anything significant. But your help will be invaluable in case we do."
A few minutes later Solo said good night and took a cab back to the airport, where he had a rendezvous with T.C.A.'s Technical Director for France. They were to go over the mechanics of the Murchison-Spears equipment—with which Illya was already familiar—and the various safety devices incorporated in the airline's Tridents. Kuryakin and the girl wandered for a few minutes among the steep stone staircases which served as streets between the old houses perched 1,300 feet above the sea, and drove back to Nice along the Moyenne Corniche.
For a long time the girl was silent. Then at last she turned in her seat. "Illya," she said, "do you honestly think you and your friend will be able to clear up all this...this mess?"
"What—the way the crashes were engineered, you mean?"
"Everything...Deliberate sabotage, murders, innocent people dying because a plane crash is to some stock-manipulator's advantage...it's horrible. And then those poor people slaughtered in America...and someone trying to run your friend down in a car...It makes me feel sick."
"It is not a pretty business, I am afraid."
"And what's your business, Illya? I know you and your friend are some kind of investigators—are you G-men or members of the—what is it?—the C.I.A.?"
"Those are United States bodies, Sherry. We work for something like that—but it is an international organization."
"You mean the U.N.?"
"Well—something like that. Let's leave it there...As to whether we can succeed in clearing up the problem, in stopping the crashes and the other deaths: I think we can. Provided T.C.A. itself has not become a THRUSH Satrap, that is..."
"Illya—you have mentioned that word several times: THRUSH. Just what or who is THRUSH?...And what, for pete's sake, is a Satrap?"
The Russian pulled the Peugeot into the side of the wide road. They had just turned a corner and now the lights of Nice lay spread out before them—a measureless tide of bright pinpoints surging against the dark bulk of the hills, heaving itself into groups and clusters and twinkling constellations, spreading almost as far as the eye could see in a corruscating flood.
"Oh," the girl breathed, "isn't it beautiful? I never tire of seeing Nice from this viewpoint."
"It is one of the classic sights," Illya agreed. He turned and took the girl's two hands in his own. "You ask me what is THRUSH," he said. "It is difficult to answer you truthfully—for who knows what THRUSH is? It is an organization, a way of existence, a dedication to evil...it is almost a nation, although you will not find its name on any maps. And yet, again, if you looked at a globe, there would hardly be a country you could touch which was not in some way or another under its influence."
"But who runs this...organization?" Sherry asked practically.
"It is directed by a Council—a collection of industrialists, scientists and intellectuals who see themselves as superbeings whose mission is to rule over others. Each of them is a tremendously powerful individual in his own right in the ordinary world; each has an important cover position—but all of them owe their allegiance only to THRUSH."
"It sounds tremendously sinister. What does THRUSH do, though?"
"Under the direction of the Council it infiltrates, seduces, corrupts, perverts, dominates and finally takes over...anything. An industrial organization, a chain of stores, a college, a manufacturing complex, a radio station, an army even. And, once taken over, the system dominated continues to all intents and purposes to function as before—outwardly. Only now its whole purpose is to serve the aims of THRUSH...And these concealed outposts, as it were, of the supranation called THRUSH are termed Satraps."
"But how does the organization take over these...things, places, people?"
"As I said—infiltration of key personnel, bribery, blackmail, murder, maneuvering the markets (that's what they are trying to do with T.C.A., you see). You name it, they'll do it. Nothing is too rough for them."
"You said the—Satraps?—the Satraps outwardly carried on 'business as usual', but that really they only served the aims of THRUSH?"
"I did."
"Well—what are the aims of THRUSH, Illya?"
"THRUSH has a single purpose, Sherry. It's not for hire. It may appear at times to favor one nation as against another—but strictly for its own reasons. However limited a THRUSH objective may appear to be, however much it may seem to be an operation for financial reward, say—you may depend on it that in some way that operation advances the Cause."
"And that is?"
Kuryakin sighed. "THRUSH's purpose," he said, "is to dominate the earth..."
"And you and your friend—your organization, that is—try to stop them? You ferret out the Satraps, wherever you find them and...destroy them?"
The Russian turned the ignition key and started the motor. He gestured at the panorama beyond the windshield. Below the road the glittering sea-front instigated a chain reaction of street lighting that stretched in a brilliant and dwindling necklace the whole twelve miles around the bay to Cap d'Antibes. "Look at the lights," he said soberly. "Who knows how many hundreds of thousands of people are taking their pleasure, innocent and not so innocent, behind those lights...and behind other lamps just like them all over the world?"
"There are people—let us say—who are trying to put those lights out. We are trying our best to keep them blazing..."
Chapter 8 — A missed appointment—another surprise
Andrea Bergen's apartment was in a small new block not far from the main railway station in Nice. Illya parked the rented 404 on the pavement between two of the plane trees which shaded the quiet avenue and went upstairs with Solo. The place was on the third floor—a large studio room with kitchen and bathroom. It was at the back of the building, the least expensive position, they guessed, facing the rear of a supermarket across a marshaling yard full of trucks carrying imported Italian cars. The police had been quite cooperative about letting them have the keys—though dubious about the chances of their finding anything.
"I must emphasize," Solo had said to the superintendent, "that we are not in any way attempting to go over your ground a second time; nor, indeed, to cast
any reflections on the efficient work of your department—professionally speaking, we are not interested in the murder."
"Thank you, Monsieur Solo. It is a crime we appear far short of solving, however. Nobody has come forward—and nobody recollects seeing the short, dark man you described as being near the murdered lady."
"I didn't think they would. It was only a longshot—and anyway the man may be perfectly innocent: my colleague seeing him twice that afternoon may be entirely a coincidence."
"I should doubt that, Monsieur. To professionals such as yourself, the man intent upon doing wrong appears almost to cast an aura, so that his presence and intentions virtually declare themselves. I have every faith in your—what do you say?—eighth sense."
"You flatter us, Monsieur: it is only the sixth sense!"
"Ah. Perhaps justly, my countrymen are celebrated for their courtesy, Monsieur Solo...However, to return to our muttons, as you Americans say—you will hope, then, to discover some things bearing on the airplane crash in which Mademoiselle Bergen was injured?"
"I very much doubt it—but I feel we have to try."
"You will find, I am afraid, no diaries with carefully reasoned résumés of Mademoiselle Bergen's recollections of the incident—for she came here only for a half hour, having been discharged from the hospital, before leaving to share an apartment with a friend."
"Miss Rogers. Yes, we do know that. In fact, Miss Rogers is to meet us at Miss Bergen's apartment to see if she can remember anything the murdered girl said in that half hour—or whether the place reminds her of anything that may be of interest or of use in our inquiry."
"So. Well, I wish you luck, gentlemen, in your quest with the charming Mademoiselle Rogers..."
But the charming Mademoiselle Rogers seemed singularly reluctant to keep her appointment. "What time did Sherry tell you she'd be here?" Solo asked Illya when they had been examining the place for twenty-five minutes—and had found nothing.