Pulp Fiction | The Synthetic Storm Affair (May 1967)

by Unknown

  "Yes, sir," Solo said and broke the connection.

  He walked back outside just as Illya was helping Lupe de Rosa into the cab. He couldn't help noticing the very friendly manner in which she smiled at Kuryakin.

  TWO

  In the cab Illya Kuryakin found Miss de Rosa exactly the opposite from the silent sphinx of the plane. She talked quite animatedly. On the plane she seemed angry at the world in general, but now her mood had done a one hundred eighty degree turn. He knew that she had made a phone call after leaving customs and before coming out of the terminal. He wondered if this accounted for her change of spirits.

  But knowing women, he wondered how long her good humor would last. It took him twenty-two minutes to find out. It was just exactly that long after they left the airport that she said, her voice changing from its feminine chatter to a grim coldness:

  "Mr. Solo—"

  "I'm Kuryakin!" he said wearily.

  "It makes no difference. Do you see this!"

  She lifted the bag in her lap. Illya saw a tiny automatic with the barrel directed straight at him. Her finger was on the trigger and she had a business-like expression on her face. It told him she could and would pull the trigger if she had to.

  He eyed the gun and quirked his eyebrows up in an exasperated quirk.

  "I take it we aren't friends any more," he said.

  His voice was light, but his eyes were wary. This woman had shown during the storm that she had nerves of steel.

  "Don't move!" she snapped. "And don't try to signal to the car following us!"

  Illya Kuryakin leaned back, his eyes half closed, watching the girl.

  "Whatever you are up to, I can be more help to you as a friend than as an enemy," he said quietly.

  "I don't think so," she said. "You strike me as the kind of person who would be burdened with that most useless of things: a conscience!"

  Before Illya could reply to that surprising observation, the girl leaned forward and spoke hurriedly to the cab driver.

  "How much longer before those fools are going to stop the car following us?"

  "Just after we come out of the tunnel," the driver said, half turning his head. "Don't worry. They'll shoot a razor dart into the car's tires. Then we'll get away before Napoleon Solo can get another cab."

  "There were two men with him in the terminal. I saw him signal to them," she said hurriedly.

  "Stop worrying! We know our business!" he snapped. "We'll throw them off the track and get you there."

  "Mind if I smoke?" Illya said. "Looking down a gun barrel is sort of hard on the nerves."

  "Shut up!" she snapped. "There's nothing you can say I want to hear!"

  Suddenly the driver floorboarded the cab's accelerator. The car shot forward. Illya glanced in the rear view mirror. He saw the cab carrying Solo dropping back. Tires screeched as their own cab took a corner on two wheels.

  The driver went up one block and then took another turn. There was nothing haphazard in his attempts to throw off Solo's pursuit. He drove exactly like a man who has every turn of the wheel plotted in advance.

  He made two other turns and drove into the garage back of an industrial building.

  "Get out!" Lupe snapped to Illya.

  "You might say please!" he said, giving her an amused quirk of his lips that definitely did not reflect his inner feelings.

  She gave him an angry glance. His casual manner was beginning to worry her. She paused and looked at him sharply. Her indecision was mirrored clearly on her face.

  "He's taking this too easy," she said to the fake cab driver. "Do you think there's still another car following us?"

  The driver shrugged.

  "You can never tell anything for sure when you're up against these U.N.C.L.E. rats," he said. "They're tricky, Lupe. Just remember that if you expect to pull this deal off."

  She nervously bit her lower lip. "Don't let him kid you, lady," Illya said, twisting his own lips in a peculiar grin. "Solo and I are the Laurel and Hardy of U.N.C.L.E. Just a couple of clowns. You don't have to worry about us."

  Lupe's face flared. She was goaded to the point of explosion by Illya's mockery—which was what he intended. She suddenly swung her purse at him.

  His heart leaped as the purse slammed against the side of his face. It was just what he was hoping for. The blow gave him an excuse to stagger back without causing the driver to jump him. He doubled up and hit the driver's legs.

  Lupe cursed, and jerked the gun around to shoot. Illya swung the startled driver and shoved him into the girl. The two hit just as she squeezed the trigger. The jar spoiled her aim. The bullet slammed into the metal cross beams overhead.

  Illya caught the driver with a hard knee to the stomach. The burly man collapsed with a choking sputter.

  Kuryakin twisted, trying to grab the girl before she could get to her feet.

  He caught her arm as she swung the gun toward him. She jerked back, but couldn't tear loose from his desperate grip.

  "Now—!" Illya Kuryakin began—and pitched forward on his face.

  A tall man slipped the gun he used to pistol whip the man from U.N.C.L.E. back in its shoulder holster. He was breathing hard and all of it was not from running to join the fight. He glared coldly at Lupe de Rosa.

  "My dear," he said, his voice heavy with menace, "for all your brilliance as a scientist, you are a complete fool!"

  "You can't talk to me that way!" she flared.

  The man's bleak face flushed slightly. "Can't I?" he said softly. "Your work with these storms is very important to us, my dear, but in THRUSH nothing is so important as being a member of the team! There is no place in our organization for individualists. If we don't work together, U.N.C.L.E. will destroy us. Important as you are, you are worthless to us if we must treat you as a prima donna."

  Lying on his face on the concrete floor, Illya Kuryakin could hear them talking. The blow, for all its savagery, had but stunned him momentarily. He half opened his eyes. He could see his assailant's feet. They were close enough that Illya thought he could upset the man. He hesitated because he could not yet place the position of the cab driver. It would be fatal to make a move now."

  "And what about your end of the bargain!" Lupe flared. "You almost killed me with that damned storm!"

  "We had no idea you were on the plane," he said coldly. "You should have contacted our man in Rio for instructions instead of jumping off on your own. We could have told you not to take that plane. We had already learned that Waverly himself arranged for two passenger seats to be cancelled to make room for Solo and Kuryakin."

  "Santos-Lopez tried to treat me like a slave!" she cried. "I don't intend to exchange one slave master for another. I don't have to account to you for every minute of my time."

  "You saw what happens when you don't!" he snapped. "You almost got yourself killed. And now you almost made a mess of things by trying to shoot Kuryakin. Can't you understand? Murder must be handled with finesse in this town—especially murder of an U.N.C.L.E. agent."

  "He tried to—"

  "You were under my surveillance every second. He did not have a chance in the world of harming you," the tall man said impatiently. "I am not going to argue. This is your last chance. Play by THRUSH rules, or you may not play at all!"

  "Are you threatening me!"

  "Call it what you will!"

  "I want to talk to Mr. Leach about this! We'll see what he has to say."

  "Mr. Leach works for me. He does what I tell him. And you will be expected to do the same!"

  Illya Kuryakin couldn't see the girl's face, but knowing her, he was sure that she was furious. It gave him a thrill of anticipation. He was sure now that the girl's resentment of THRUSH's regimentation could be used to his advantage.

  He slowly reached his hand around where he could pull his pen-communicator from his pocket. While the man and Lupe were arguing he surreptitiously twisted the cap. The antenna shot up six inches. He pulled the tiny communications set down against h
is body where it would not be seen, but where it could pick up and pass to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters the incriminating conversation between the girl and her THRUSH boss.

  But the only thing he was able to transmit was his own gasp of pain! A heavy boot caught him in the ribs. He doubled up with a groan. The same foot that kicked him ground a heel down on the communicator.

  "What is it?" the THRUSH man cried, whirling about.

  "He was trying to sneak a fast one, boss," the cab driver said. "Look here!"

  "Did he get anything transmitted?" the man asked in alarm.

  "I don't know. I don't think so."

  "In this business you can't afford to think!" the man rasped. "We've got to get moving!"

  "Get this rat into another cab. Get a driver who is expendable. Place some article of Lupe's in the seat beside Kuryakin. Then arrange a wreck. You understand?"

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Martin," the driver said hurriedly.

  "Good! Don't leave anything to chance. Be sure Kuryakin and the driver are dead. Have a prepared witness to tell the police what happened. Arrange a story that will look as if the girl was kidnaped and the two men killed by a South American revolutionary group who want the girl's knowledge of storms to help their revolution. Be sure THRUSH is not connected in any way."

  Illya only dimly heard the man, Martin, reading his death warrant. He groaned and tried to sit up. Something like volcanic fire burst in his head as he took another savage kick. This time it was against his temple.

  He pitched forward on his face.

  Martin smiled down at his limp body.

  "You see," he said. "The men from U.N.C.L.E. aren't at all the supermen some of our faint-hearted members seem to think. They are just human. They can be hurt and defeated, just as any other human can!"

  He laughed softly and turned to the girl.

  "You see, Lupe," he said, "you did not make a mistake agreeing to work with THRUSH. Nothing stands between us and total victory except U.N.C.L.E. and you see how we deal decisively with that organization!"

  ACT V: "SO LONG, LUPE!"

  When their cab's left rear tire started bumping, Napoleon Solo grabbed his pen-communicator.

  He quickly transmitted his identification and added, "Mr. Waverly! Emergency!"

  "Go ahead, Mr. Solo."

  Alexander Waverly's quiet, confident tone was a direct contrast to Solo's clipped anxious voice."

  "One moment, sir," Napoleon said. He turned to the two men with him. "Get out quickly! Try to thumb a ride from anyone who will stop for you. See if you can spot where that cab went with Illya and the girl!"

  Then into the transmitter, he said hurriedly, "They're getting away from us, sir. The girl suddenly had a change of character and got chummy with Illya. I think now it was a trick. I think she's leading him into a trap."

  "What can we do here to help you, Mr. Solo?" Waverly asked.

  "I'd like an all-points alarm put out for this cab. You have the number. I phoned it in from the airport. I suspect it is not a regular cab driver. Possibly the cab was stolen. Also I'd like the tri-angular magnetic locators manned. Illya may get a chance to open his communicator. If so, we can get a fix on their location from it."

  "Very good, Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "Within five minutes every policeman and every cab driver in New York will be alerted to watch for this car and its passengers."

  "Thank you, sir," Napoleon said. "I'll leave my pen-communicator open so you can contact me instantly as well as keep abreast of all our developments."

  "Excellent, Mr. Solo," the U.N.C.L.E. chief said. "I do not understand your statement that Miss de Rosa led Mr. Kuryakin into a trap. Isn't it possible that THRUSH agents trapped both her and Mr. Kuryakin? After all, she was Santos-Lopez's assistant in his storm breaking activities."

  "Yes, sir," Napoleon replied. "But it seems to me she had a definite change of character after she made a phone call on landing. Call it a hunch if you wish, but I don't believe she is a victim of THRUSH. I believe she is part of THRUSH."

  "Mr. Solo, I personally would never rely on a hunch," Mr. Waverly said severely. "I must have something concrete and definite upon which to base my actions."

  "Yes, sir," Solo replied.

  "However, that is my personal feeling about my actions," Waverly went on. "I am also aware that on at least three notable occasions your hunches kept us from total defeat. So I am not going to stop you from following any hunch you may have, Mr. Solo."

  "Thank you," Napoleon said. "I'll keep you informed, sir."

  Traffic was partially stalled behind the stopped cab. Solo looked down the line for a likely car to commandeer. He hit on a hot rod driven by two teenagers as the most likely to give him cooperation. Although an international law enforcement group, he had no power to commandeer a vehicle as the New York City police could do. He could only request.

  However, he found the two boys not only willing but absolutely eager to help when he flashed his U.N.C.L.E. identification.

  "Gee!" one of the said. "Wait until I tell my girl I'm a genuine man from U.N.C.L.E.!"

  "You won't be a man until you're twenty-one," his companion said.

  "Just help me pull this off and I'll tell her for you that you're every inch a man and a big one at that!" Napoleon said.

  "Hang on, Unk!" the boy cried. He must have been all of sixteen. "Awaaaaay we go!"

  He took off with a spin of screeching rubber that almost threw Napoleon out of the topless car. They took the corner on two wheels.

  "Where to now, Unk?" he yelled back over his shoulder at Napoleon.

  "Take a left," Napoleon said, after the slightest hesitation.

  "That's a dead end. It leads right down to the river," the other boy said.

  "Then make a right," Solo replied. "Another hunch gone wrong. Just keep cruising up one street and down another. It's anybody's guess where the cab went. We—"

  The open circuit on the pen communicator in his jacket pocket crackled into life.

  "This is Waverly. We have a report. No cabs cross the bridge. They must be holed up somewhere in your neighborhood. We have another report that they did not go back toward the airport. I'm sending seven police cars out to ring in the area. I— Wait!"

  Listening tensely to the micro-speaker hidden in the fake fountain pen, Napoleon motioned for the driver to stop. Both boys leaned back, fascinated by the tiny communications set.

  "Waverly again!" the speaker crackled into life. "Evidently Mr. Kuryakin managed to get his pen-communicator into action for the briefest second!"

  "Did we get sufficient reception to do any good?"

  "They must have caught him just as he opened the circuit," Waverly said.

  His voice still sounded calm to the unpracticed ear, but Solo knew his chief so well he could detect the thin note of anxiety under the outwardly steady voice. In a man with Waverly's self control this was about the same as sheer panic in another's voice.

  It told Napoleon Solo how desperate their chief thought Illya's situation was.

  "All we got was a gasp of pain from somebody, an angry shout from another, and the briefest snatch of voices in the background but blurred by the louder noises close to the microphone."

  "Can the scrambler—" Napoleon began.

  "We are working on it," Waverly said crisply. "Also we hope to get a tri-angular fix on the radio reception. There is a bare chance that the directional beam finder can work on so small a reception if we set up the microphone and keep repeating the reception signal. Stay where you are. I'll call you back as the scrambler starts feeding us data. I should have a preliminary report in three minutes."

  "Yes, sir," Napoleon said crisply. "We'll stand by."

  TWO

  A car swung around the corner, its lights flashing on them. Napoleon Solo whispered an urgent order for the two boys to duck. He drew his gun from its shoulder holster.

  Then he relaxed as he recognized the man leaning out the back window. It was one of the two U.N.C.L.E. agents who had jo
ined them at the airport. Napoleon motioned for him to stop.

  "Aw gee!" the younger of the two boys said in a disgusted voice. "No shooting!"

  "Relax!" Napoleon said grimly. "You'll get shot at quicker than you need to be!"

  He hurried over to the other car for quick conference. He sketched briefly for his co-agent what Waverly transmitted to them.

  "That broken cry on the pen-communicator sounds like Illya got it," the other U.N.C.L.E. man said, his voice grim.

  "Don't bet on it," Napoleon said, his voice growing harsh to hide his own grave concern. "Illya's lives can run any cat competition."

  "Okay," the other man said. "I'll pull down to the intersection. That way, if we flush them out, we'll be set up where one or the other of us can take off instantly without having to turn around."

  Napoleon nodded and went back to the boys in the hot rod.

  "What's this scrambler thing?" they asked him, referring to the mysterious reference Mr. Waverly made in his transmission.

  "The short reception U.N.C.L.E. headquarters got from Illya Kuryakin was recorded as all calls to headquarters are," Napoleon explained hurriedly. "The scrambler is an electronic means of separating the voices and rerecording each alone."

  "Then you can tell what each said?"

  "Yes," the man from U.N.C.L.E. replied, "but the big question here is how much was received. It might not be enough to do any good."

  "Then—!"

  "Wait! I'm getting a call from headquarters!"

  Napoleon Solo pulled out his transmitter.

  "Yes, Mr. Waverly?" he said.

  "The first scrambler report is in," Waverly said crisply. "We converted the words unscrambled into oscillograph impulses and compared them with oscillograph voiceprints we have on record. The cry of pain came from Mr. Kuryakin. The curse of the man who evidently struck him is from a known THRUSH agent named Paul Wicker. We are working on the two voices in the background. That is all right now."