by Simon Latter
"Pressure-filled," he muttered. "One little touch of this button and a solution of K.S.R.6 is sprayed sideways." He smiled grimly. "Imagine a gang of dolly-chicks in K clothing riding through a shopping centre pressing little buttons!" He touched the button. A fine mist spray squirted out. "Oh Gawd! There goes me flipping cash again!"
He spied another slope at the side, checked it, saw that it led up to the rear of the house. The up-and-over door wasn't locked. He swung it open, raced back, grabbed the first Noddy bike, then paused as he heard voices above him.
"It's Miss Ingrid! Looks like she's been drugged! You two—carry her to where Sam and Greco are. We'll get them all out of here."
Mark inspected the ceiling. The floorboards were old nine-inch-thick oak, part of the original house. Wide gaps between them let the sound of voices carry, yet the stoutness of the planks helped muffle footsteps. "We'll get them all out of here," the man had said. Mark glanced around him. "Why not?" he whispered. "What better way?"
Action sped on the heels of thought. He raced around the rows of Noddy bikes, turning on the petrol-tank taps. Soon the odor of loose petrol grew strong, and small iridescent pools oozed over the floor to join with others. Mark tested the compression on the bike he had selected for himself, cast around for a suitable fuse, and found a wad of cotton waste on a workbench.
He kick-started his machine at the foot of the slope, flicking his lighter to the waste. As it flared he threw it as far as he could among the Noddy bikes, then roared up the slope, to emerge into a courtyard. He braked, skidded wildly and went, bucking-bronco fashion, legs lashing air, twice around the yard before he got the surprisingly fast little bike under control. As he passed a doorway, a man in a metal suit came out.
"How do!" said Mark, thrusting out a foot as he went by. The man fell back. Mark zoomed the Noddy bike through an open gateway and on to the moor. The track was actually no more than a footpath and Mark had driven some way along its curving length when he realized it led back to join the main track leading to the driveway. Through the trees he glimpsed silvery figures dashing from the house towards a Land Rover.
He swung the Noddy bike around and headed across the moor to a high section past two of the K.S.R.6 "ranges". He got past these okay, but the little Noddy didn't seem to care for heather, grass and peaty mud jamming up under the mud-guards of its tiny wheels. With a mechanical moan the drive-gear sheared, the engine seized. Mark shot gently off the saddle, to land on his ear.
He glanced back, and saw the Land Rover heading from the driveway and turning in his direction. He raced up the slope towards a large rock outcropping. As he climbed higher he could see down to the road, and for precious moments watched the speed duel between April's Aston Martin and the Jaguar.
"Good girl!" he muttered. Then he heard the helicopter. "Good old Sama!" He glanced back again. "And the hell with you lot!" he said, as the Land Rover bumped over the moor.
With his back to the rock he waited, gun ready. No sense in running any further. This golden light would fade soon, for already the moor was dark with shadow. Once beyond the rock on higher ground, he'd have as much chance as a pheasant against five or six guns. And not only guns. The moors looked lovely in this golden light. Like a woman full of promise, beckoning you to her scented embrace. And two men friends waiting behind the curtains with coshes. Shot, lost, stuck in a bog, or lying with a busted leg. Mark preferred the solid rock at his back and the gun in his hand.
He saw the helicopter sidle down to hover above the Aston Martin, saw the car jerking and slowing. He loosed a few accurately directed shots at the men who were now fanning out to surround him, having stopped their Land Rover on a hummock of soft ground. The range was almost at limit, but one of the men appeared to be hit in the arm.
A burst of fire from four guns spattered bullets near Mark. One or two spanged off boulders, but their range also was difficult. Suddenly came a bonanza! An orange-blue glow from the house basement sent eerie light waves over the darkening moor.
Mark's attackers turned as one man. The Jaguar careered off the road and turned over. The helicopter, ladder swaying, came tilting down towards him. The guards turned again in Mark's direction. The ladder swung down—end trailing backward.
Mark leapt, caught the third rung up, trapeze-spun his body to counteract the whip-lash effect of sudden weight, using the chopper's lift to climb swiftly up the rungs. In these seconds, the guards below him let loose a swathe of gunfire which pitted the rock face at what would have been stomach height. They swung to aim upward, but Sama Paru quickly dipped the chopper out of range.
As Mark reached the open hatch he looked down and back. The house on the moor was alight from end to end. An open truck was speeding away from it.
April had the night glasses to her eyes as Mark clambered into the chopper.
"They got her out," said April. "Sam and Greco too. Poor Ingrid!"
"I love you too," said Mark.
She grinned at him. "Firebug! I presume it was you?"
"Me and a few Noddys."
"A few what?"
"Forget it. Hi there, Sama!"
Sama Paru waved a hand. He was busy with radio contact as the chopper cleared the English coast.
"Where away?" said Mark.
"Le Havre." April tapped the bag.
"Ah! This is where we lose you to the boys in the back room. Do we recap about this little lot on yonder moor?"
"Not now. I'll see you in New York. This thing's only just begun. Sama wants to go to the help of Count Kazan."
"Without me?"
She patted his cheek. "You little boys go play while Momma does some homework."
"When Sama has finished his relay, I'd like to let Jeff know his Auntie's car is safe."
"You know the strangest people. I thought that super car was laid on by your British Special Branch friends?"
"So it was. Jeff's Auntie lives in Exeter. The old lady is a little mean. She doesn't like buying petrol. Did it run dry?"
"It did. Old Lady?"
Mark nodded. "The Duchess—they call her. I think she was a chum of Mata Hari. Jeff likes to make her feel she's wanted. The British S.B. boys don't run to Aston Martins. Besides, Jeff is a favorite nephew and Auntie can't last forever."
"How old is she, for Pete's sake?"
"I'm not sure whether it's seventy-two or eighty-two. Something like that."
"This will look bee-u-ti-ful in a report from S.B. to back up our expenses claim on U.N.C.L.E.!"
Sama Pam heard this last remark as he finished his radio contacts.
"Something else will look bee-u-ti-ful in your report," he observed. "Your London boys have lost Dr. Karadin—and his daughter. The clinic received a fake call in our code and released the girl. Karadin was picked up when he left his helicopter, but the squad car was rammed, the two guards coshed, and Karadin rescued."
"Oh, great!" said April. "Just great! Who runs the security back there?" She glared at Mark. "One of your Jeff's aunts?"
CHAPTER EIGHT: THE WRECKERS
OUTSIDE Le Havre they dropped April at the small heliport, where a car waited to take her to the laboratory.
"You'll contact Mr. Waverly?" said Mark. "And ask Paris to stand by? That will help us keep radio silence."
She nodded. "Watch yourself, lover boy. See you in New York."
"I hope so. And April, me old darling, try to have a quick word with Robbo in London and get him to send on my new gear, will you? I'm fresh out of new weskits."
She laughed. "Shame! Okay, I'll see what I can do. I've some clothes I need sending on too. 'Bye now!"
They watched her drive away. Sama Paru said:
"There goes one exceptional lady."
"Mmm," said Mark. "It's good English you speak, old boy, but deuced mild, if I may say so." Then he shrugged. "Not that I know any English words to really describe April Dancer." His manner became brisk. "Now—how about Kazan? Let's have some grub and take a look at maps while your chopper is bei
ng refueled."
"Ah!" said Sama. "The food and some rest are most necessary—but there is a night ban on helicopter flying, so we shall have to rest whether or not we need it."
"But it was dark when we flew in. The hell with bans."
"No, thank you," said Sama. "Choppers are easy targets for police bullets. I received permission to land by saying I had engine trouble over the Channel and could not turn back to England."
"I suppose you know your own red tape best. How about chartering a small plane?"
"By the time we get a plane it will be time to leave here. Kazan is somewhere among the forests back of the hills. A plane would not help us much. Not to worry, mon ami, it is the best way."
Mark didn't really regret the delay. Sama borrowed a tiny Renault car, drove like a demon for some six kilometers to a bistro where he was welcomed like a prodigal son by Madame and her three daughters. One was twelve and about to go to bed. The other two were of a more mature age. It was the most enjoyable night Mark had spent in a long while.
Sama Paru had known the family Lecheron since he was a boy. Adele and Lia shared an apartment in Paris, Adele, the eldest, working as a model, Lia still at University. They were a strangely happy family. Strange, because there was no bickering or jealousies which, in Mark's experience, usually beset families consisting only of women. Papa Lecheron had died two years ago.
Adele and Lia were on holiday from Paris and, apart from their company and the truly excellent meal, they gave Mark and Sama a hot lead in this affair of the Global Globules—as Mark now referred to it.
"Tin dresses?" said Sama Paru. "Tell us again."
Lia giggled. "It is so funny. A lot of the girls—they want to be models, like Adele, you see. But it is not all so easy and big fun like they think. It is very much training and long hours, and many jealousies and back-kicking."
"Biting," said Sama. "Back-biting."
"Ah yes—these English sayings! So, you see, it is all a dream with these girls."
"And no big money just for the asking," said Adele. She shrugged. "Oh! I do not complain. I have plenty of work, but it has taken a long time to become known. These stupid little innocents, they think all the couturieres—and, oh yes, the men—will fall over themselves to offer jobs and mink coats."
Lia roared with laughter. "So when a man chooses many of these girls and offers them big money, they all fall—plomp! They think of gorgeous gowns, and costumes and furs, and what do they model in? Tin dresses!"
Mark and Sama exchanged glances.
"An advertising agency, eh?" Mark suggested.
"Not advertising," said Adele. "They were picked by a—how you say?—a big no-good. He is an agent, yes, but not for the real model business. The fringe man—very nasty."
"But he offered high fees—or payment of some sort?"
"In pieces," said Lia. "First he say: you model these dresses where we tell you. We pay you five thousand francs. These girls—their little eyes go pop and they sign the papers. Like a contract it is, and they receive one hundred francs and their ticket to Lyons or Chartres or Monte Carlo—lots of towns. Then they are paid another hundred when they wear these tin dresses. So they don't have five thousand francs in one big piece like they think."
"To Lia, it is a joke," said Adele. "And to me at first, because always there are these silly girls who call themselves models. But I think it is a bad joke. Some of these girls are in strange towns with little or no money. Some have not returned to Paris. Such business should be stopped, but there is no law against it, only—what is it you say?—expiation?"
"Exploitation," said Mark. "Are these girls trained, or told who are the buyers of these tin dresses?"
"Ah no—not trained," said Adele. "But one or two older girls—not so good girls, you know what I mean?—took these jobs, went away for a time. Training, they said, but they had plenty of money. And they have been taught to ride little motor bikes. I think perhaps these tin dresses might be a new kind of 'mod-gear', like they say in London."
Mark questioned them further, but they knew only a few first-hand facts and a great deal of rumor. He left for a while, saying he needed some fresh air, found a pay-phone and got through to the Le Havre laboratory.
April was annoyed at the interruption.
"This is going to take hours to crack—maybe weeks. Why are you still local?" She listened. "Oh, yes? Well, sorry I sparked off—this is certainly another angle. The chicks in Carnaby Street were a mixture of ga-ga teenagers kidding they were models and some hard-bitten floosies. There's a whale of a market all over for that mixture—a veritable army could be mobilized. This means there must be training and selection centers where the tough ones are picked, probably as leaders or local organizers."
"Separate centers from the distilling and testing and packing centers," Mark suggested.
"Well—those don't have to be very large. Moorfell could produce enough K.S.R.6 for a mammoth spraying fiesta. Any large country house in a quiet area subject to fogs, mists or above-average rainfall would do. But a training and selection center would attract more attention. I'm contacting Mr. Waverly at four a.m., our time. I'll pass this idea of yours to him. Is that all, Mark?"
"For now, for me—it's enough. The idea of thousands of bright young bints welded into a tin-dress army, captained by floosies, riding Noddy bikes through every town in the country scares the sanctimonious hell out of me! Cheerio, darling—be good and clever!"
"Aren't I always?"
"Yum!" He hung up, went back to the bistro, slept for an hour, then kicked Sama Paru awake. The chopper took off at first light. By sunrise it was over the olive hills behind the shimmering sea, slipping and wheeling for Mark to sight a suitable landing area.
They found the spot where Count Kazan had come down. The chopper was in a small clearing, its rotors leaning at an unusual angle. Efforts had been made to camouflage it by lacing leafy tree branches over it, but the blades peeped through enough to attract a searching gaze.
Mark said: "I think I sighted buildings among the trees. That must be near where Kazan last called in."
"Okay—I'll put down on that farm."
The farmer ran up as they climbed out, jabbering furiously. Sama Paru flashed money and the jabbering grew less explosive. When he produced more money, the farmer smiled a cracked smile. Then they conversed like old chums.
At last Sama turned to Mark "Yes, there is a hush-hush building in the woods," he said. Local rumors say it's a Government-research training center, but they are not curious around here." He grinned. "Not while someone at the center lays a wad of folding money in the local kitty. I have arranged transport."
"Comical," said Mark ten minutes later as they proceeded down a dusty-white lane on the back of a donkey. "Dead comical, you are, mate! Transport, you call this?"
"His car is broken down. His farm cart and horse delivering produce—what would you?"
"I would de-louse this brute for a start." Mark scratched several delicate places.
They parked the donkey at the edge of the woods, for Sama Paru had bought information not normally found on maps.
"Expensive, these small farmers," he observed. "How do I describe it on my expense sheet?"
"Local produce." Mark grinned. "If Karadin and his outfit succeed in this Globules affair, all you'll get is a wad of ugly money anyway! What the hell are you looking for?" he demanded as Sama moved, crouching, through the trees.
"Truffle tracks."
"Listen, chum—truffles and caviar come later." Mark hesitated. "Is this part of your pricey farmer's info?"
Sama nodded. "Better to follow his tracks than a clear patch. He says there are booby-traps—trip wires and such—over the main paths into the forest. We follow where he has found truffles. He marks the trees—see?" Sama pointed to a whitish nick in a nearby tree. "The farmer can go right up to the fence without their seeing him."
"So he's been truffle-picking and peeking?"
"Must have—he says lot
s of the girls sun-bathe. He seemed annoyed that they did it during milking time so he couldn't always get away from the farm. But they do some sort of training or practicing in silver dresses and trouser suits in the morning. They never come into the village. They have their own transport which takes them down to the coast."
"Well organized, huh?"
"It would seem to be so." Sama halted. "Look!" He parted the branches of thick bushes. A fence just beyond the bushes encircled a compound which had been smooth-layered with asphalt.
"Too early," Mark whispered. "Has Count Kazan got all his U.N.C.L.E. field agent's devices with him?"
"He should have."
"You've got yours?"
"Surely."
"Then call him up on the micro-transmitter—see if we can raise him. No sense making war palaver and rushing the dump if we can save time and effort."
Sama Paru operated the transmitter, while Mark used the waiting period by climbing high into a fir tree, from where he could look down on the layout. He used the U.N.C.L.E. micro-camera to good effect, obtaining full shots of the whole area. The early sun slanting through the clearing gave some high definition to his shots.
He rejoined Sama, who nodded, smiling.
"Count Kazan is on his way to join us. He broke out last night. Ssh!" They heard branches creaking. A twig snapped. Bushes away to their right quivered. Both drew their guns as sunlight glinted on a silvery figure.
"Hold it right there, tin-man!" said Mark, pushing through the bushes towards the figure.
"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Count Kazan. "I am so glad to see you! Have either of you two gentleman got a can-opener?"
They stifled roars of laughter as he stood up, stiffly. His body bulged, perspiration streaming down his face. He was unshaven. Altogether, the elegant Count Kazan was not easy to recognize.
"I am in agony—and you laugh! It is not funny I have had a terrible time!"
"If you had to dress in that gear, couldn't you find one to fit you?" Mark chuckled.
"The suit fit," said Kazan. "They are very cleverly made and will adjust to all normal sizes. But I robbed their piggy bank. The suit is stuffed with money as well as me. There was no other way to carry it."