04-The Dagger Affair

by David McDaniel

  Illya knelt by the doorframe and examined the area around the lock closely. There were no visible marks of any kind.

  After a few moments, his guide said hesitantly, "Uh, Mr. Kuryakin, it's getting to be my quitting time. If you'll be much longer, I can tell the night watchman you're here and to let you out when you're through."

  Distracted, Illya glanced up. "Yes, thank you, Mr. Friedan. I may be some time yet. I would like to examine the area where the tubes were stolen, and check over the detectors of your alarm system."

  "I guess that'll be okay. I'll tell him when I go out. Just stop by the office on your way out and tell him you're leaving so he can secure after you."

  Illya nodded and went back to his work.

  An hour or so later, it had become fairly clear that if the tubes had been removed by someone from outside, it could have been done only by an expert with the best Thrush equipment, and probably a small Energy Damper to stifle the alarms. And they had been inconsiderate enough to leave no footprints, monogrammed handkerchiefs, matchbooks, or other standard clues behind them. The only sign of their passage was the absence of four uncommon electronic tubes.

  He suddenly realized it was dark, and looked at his watch. The only light came from shielded bulbs spaced twenty feet apart in the dim distance of the ceiling. He was sitting on a packing case under one of the pickups for the alarm system, which he had just finished examining. It was chilly, and very quiet.

  And softly, far back in the distance, there was the scrape of a footstep.

  Illya didn't move, but every sense was suddenly extended to its fullest awareness. Without lifting his head, he shot his eyes around the part of the warehouse he could see. The shadows of the crates sat like puddles of ink around leaking bottles. There was no movement in his range of vision, so slowly and casually he leaned back against the case behind him. After a moment he yawned elaborately, and got to his feet. As he stretched, his hand slipped to his transceiver and palmed it.

  Shifting his weight and looking around the edges of the ceiling as if for a leak, he crossed his arms and brought the hand holding the transceiver to his mouth. He thumbed the transmitter button, and the little device vibrated softly. He knew Napoleon was somewhere in the area, and would feel slighted if he weren't invited to the brawl, especially since it looked as though it might be a good one.

  With the microphone touching his lips, he murmured his identification and a request for Agent Solo.

  * * *

  "But Napoleon, it still doesn't sound possible. It sounds like some insane gimmick from a horror movie."

  "Believe me, Gloria, it is real. I know. And anything you could tell us about Keldur could possibly help."

  She sighed and turned to refill her glass. They were inside the living room now, as the evening had grown chill, and she had put some more clothes on. "On the other hand, you are a government agent. And you could really want to suppress the device."

  "U.N.C.L.E. is not a government agency of any kind. We are supported by most of the major governments of the world, but we are not responsible to any single government. Believe me, if we can stop Keldur from using his machine to destroy the human race, our own technicians will make every possible effort to use it to save the human race."

  She sat down and shook her head slowly. "I'm sorry," she said. "I just don't dare risk it. I can tell you nothing."

  A quiet whistling note filtered out through Napoleon's jacket, and he pulled out his transceiver.

  "Solo...Of course. Where?...How many of them are there? Okay. I'll be there in ten minutes. Play hard-to-get."

  Gloria looked at him questioningly as he rose.

  "I'm sorry too," he said. "There's an emergency. My partner is in trouble, and he thought I might like to join him."

  "Trouble?"

  "Yes. He's under attack by about a dozen gentlemen who appear to be working in the interests of DAGGER — and Kim Keldur."

  She sat there staring at the closed door for a full minute after the car motor roared and the wheels spat gravel and Napoleon Solo took off into the night.

  * * *

  Illya crouched behind a packing case carefully selected for difficulty of access to and ease of escape from. His assailants were no longer trying to keep quiet, and had even gone so far as to snap off a shot or two at him before he had sought cover.

  He was in contact with Napoleon, and had kept him informed of the conditions as they became apparent. When he arrived, he would be fully aware of the entire situation and be able to function within it. Theoretically.

  The DAGGERs had done nothing for a minute or two, and Illya was beginning to wonder whether they had given up and gone home. Napoleon should be outside about this time, and he might meet them leaving. Illya opened his transceiver again.

  "Napoleon — be careful when you come in. They're so quiet I can't be sure what they..."

  Phud! Something burst a few feet from Illya and a white cloud of vapor spread out around it. "Never mind. I just found out. They're using gas. Get in here quick." The sentence used up the last of Illya's breath, but before he inhaled again, he was able to fish a small plastic case out of his pocket. His chest was beginning to ache as he opened it and pulled out two little rubber devices that looked a little like ear-plugs.

  It is much harder to hold breath out than to hold it in — he just had time to fit the plugs into his nostrils before taking a deep breath. He took it slowly, because the filters passed air slowly. It would be impossible to take any violent exercise with them in, but it would have been just as difficult after a few deep inhalations without them.

  It seemed a shame to disappoint them, Illya thought, so he fell over anyway, pulling a crate down with him. He made quite a satisfying clatter, and added to it with a few well-chosen gasps and groans before becoming still.

  And in the next few seconds, while the attention of every attacker out there in the near-darkness was focused on Illya, Napoleon Solo came silently through the back door. Looking quickly around, he spotted a steel ladder in deep shadow, leading up to a gridded catwalk around the whole room some thirty feet above the floor, from which he would be able to command the entire area of the warehouse. As he slipped up the ladder, the scene below him took on a new dimension.

  Silent figures were moving among the packing cases, converging cautiously on a spot where a broken crate lay beside a still form. Napoleon could see only part of the focus of interest — a leg and part of an arm were visible. That was enough.

  Illya, you've done it again, Napoleon thought, and, bracing his automatic on the railing, drew a bead on the back of one of the moving figures.

  The faint rustle of cloth sliding against skin warned him a fraction of a second before the blow fell. He jerked to the side, and a heavy wrench smashed against the railing inches from his hand. A sound like a leaden gong rolled through the room, and the moving figures disappeared as Napoleon spun around, the gun ready to fire.

  A foot burst out of the darkness and caught his wrist, sending the pistol spinning away into space. With his left hand he grabbed for the foot, caught it and pulled.

  His attacker fell heavily, and Napoleon leaped upon him, landing painfully on the metal catwalk as the other rolled quickly aside and leaped to his feet. Napoleon swung a leg, and swept the other's feet from under him. Then they were in a clench, rolling against the concrete wall and then toward the edge.

  A pair of hands fumbled for Napoleon's windpipe. He grabbed for a wrist, and wrenched it hard. The other hand caught his tie and slammed his head against the railing. Lights flickered momentarily before his eyes and he brought his knee up hard, feeling something soft give before it. There was a whoosh of breath.

  His attacker didn't slow down more than a moment. A head caught Napoleon under the chin, and he tasted blood. He caught a flailing elbow in both hands, and bent it the wrong way. There was a muffled sound like a nut being cracked, and the other man gasped in agony and fell away. He made weak, pain-filled sounds as Napoleon
quickly searched him. A security badge pinned to his shirt identified him as "Pat Frieden, wrhse mgr," and, by implication, fink for DAGGER. He was unarmed.

  As he stood up, Napoleon became aware of the noises on the floor below. Something slapped against the wall a few feet from his head, and something like a hot spark stung his cheek for a moment. At the same instant, he heard the thunder of a heavy automatic pistol echo through the room. He hit the catwalk again, and made his way on his belly to the spot where the ladder ran down to the floor.

  He peered over the edge, and saw a flash of fire from Illya's location. Apparently his fellow-agent had most of the baddies pinned down, but one of them somewhere was dedicated to keeping Napoleon out of the battle until Illya's ammunition ran out.

  A desperate situation, Napoleon decided, calling for desperate measures. He got out his transceiver, and set it to a local frequency.

  "Hello, Illya! If you can hear me, fire two shots at your friends down there."

  A pause, and then Blap! Blap! came two silenced shots.

  "Okay. I'm up on the catwalk. I'll work my way around till I'm directly over you, and then I'll lay a couple of tear-gas eggs. If you can spare a minute, get your filters on. When the eggs hatch, be ready to take off to your left — to your left — over two crates there and straight for the door. Hit anything that comes out that isn't me. If you got all this, fire two shots in the direction you're going to jump."

  Blap! Blap! Two spurts of flame went off toward Napoleon's right, Illya's left.

  Cautiously, Napoleon began working his way along the catwalk. It was a gridwork, rather than a solid plate, and his figure would be clearly visible from beneath. He could see only one crouching figure under the catwalk between him and his goal.

  Staring into the darkness, Napoleon finally spotted a gleam of metal. There was the wrench Frieden had come after him with. He would be no help to anyone for quite a while, but his wrench could come in handy — Napoleon tucked it in his belt and started quietly along the catwalk.

  He moved without a sound, but there was a light glow above the walk directly over the spot where one of the enemy crouched, casting a cross-hatched shadow down the whole height of the wall. The passage of that spot would be the hardest part.

  Napoleon moved cautiously to the very edge of the cone of light, and then slipped the wrench from his belt. Looking carefully across the floor, he saw no one looking in his direction. He rose to his knees and leaned far out, holding onto the railing with one hand, and flipped the wrench.

  It caught the unsuspecting lurker squarely in the back of the head. He slumped forward and lost all interest in the proceedings. The thump and clatter of the wrench were loud in the stillness, and then there was another shot from Illya and a couple of answering shots from concealed attackers. Before the echoes of the thunder died away, Napoleon was off and sprinting across the light. He passed, as nearly as he could tell, unnoticed.

  The two tear-gas bombs he had ready really were about as big as eggs. They contained no explosive other than their own internal pressures, released by impact, to spread their contents over a large area.

  In a moment of afterthought, Napoleon got out his nose-filters and slipped them in. He hoped Illya had had time to get his own on. He should have — the firing was sporadic now.

  The eggs arced down, and a few seconds later the floor of the warehouse was a blanket of smoke. Illya burst out of the fog and headed for the door, followed blindly by a number of choking, weeping men.

  Napoleon sprinted along the catwalk back to the ladder, and dropped down it, hardly touching the rungs. As his feet hit the floor he was jumping for the door by which he had come in.

  Illya dashed around the corner and leaped into the car as the engine roared into life, and the little car took off with a squeal just as three figures appeared at the edge of the building and began letting off shots after them.

  "They appear sorry to see us leave," said Illya.

  "I can tell," said Napoleon, "they're are all broken up about it. Incidentally, remind me to go back there after the air clears and pick up my pistol. I hope it can be repaired after that fall. "

  "I didn't want to bring this up, Napoleon, but there appear to be three or four cars following us. It would seem a fairly large force of DAGGERs has come out to welcome us."

  "You must really have stepped on some toes. What all did you find out?"

  "Nothing, really," said Illya casually as the car suddenly whipped into a 90-degree turn and shot off down a side-street. "I sort of looked around and got a few ideas. It looks as if one of them may have been correct." He popped open the glove compartment and produced another automatic as Napoleon tapped the brakes and twisted the wheel, and with hardly a bit of momentum lost they spun and headed up an alley.

  It turned in the middle, and he had to brake sharply to make the corner. Half a block ahead, a car was parked crosswise, blocking the alley.

  Illya spoke again. "I hate to be the first one to suggest this, but I think we're outnumbered. Would you rather die heroically or call for help?"

  Napoleon had his transceiver out.

  "Agents Solo and Kuryakin, requesting assistance."

  A voice answered almost at once, requesting situation evaluation and location. Napoleon gave them.

  "Thank you," said the voice. "We will have a flying squad there in five minutes."

  "A flying squad?" said Napoleon blankly.

  Then something shattered the windshield, and shards of glass burst into the front seat between him. They flung open their respective doors and dived out.

  There was one single streetlamp high overhead, right where the alley turned. It cast the shadow of their car ahead of them, and picked out several moving figures, ducking behind garbage cans, rubbish bins and the one telephone pole. There appeared to be about a dozen of them.

  A moment later Illya appeared beside Napoleon. "I just checked around the corner," he said. "There's another team moving up the other end of the alley."

  Napoleon shrugged. "You drew yourself an assignment," he said. "You stop yours, and I'll stop mine."

  "And if you don't?"

  "We'll think of something." He half-rose from his concealed position and snapped off a shot at something moving. When he ducked down again, Illya was gone.

  Two quick shots from behind him meant his partner was on-post, and his rear would be as well-protected as any one man could accomplish. He turned his full attention down the alley.

  Something lobbed through the air, and Napoleon buried his head in his arms and clutched at the ground. There was a dull explosion, and the car was suddenly wrapped in flames. Under the rising cloud of smoke, Napoleon saw a number of pairs of legs running toward him, zig-zagging as they came.

  He began shooting at them, slowly and carefully. Two men went down, and his garbage can was hit three times by others. Then a gas-masked figure loomed out of the smoke and Napoleon fired point-blank at him, feeling a mild surprise when nothing happened as his gun jammed. Without wasting a moment trying to fire, he leaped sideways as the masked man's gun roared flame. He snatched up the garbage can and slung it at waist level.

  It caught the other man across the stomach and the gun hand and bowled him over. Napoleon was in the air by the time he hit the ground, and landed with both knees on the other's rib-cage. He caught the swinging gun neatly across his shoulder and felt pain lance down his arm. He swung his own gun backhanded across the other man's face, tearing off the gas-mask and laying him out unconscious.

  The car was burning merrily now, and Napoleon felt glad for the sealing gas-tank that was standard equipment on all U.N.C.L.E. cars. An explosion in this confined space could be quite uncomfortable.

  On the other hand, the burning car now effectively blocked the alley from the end he was guarding. He picked up the .38 Special he had been attacked with, tucked his own malfunctioning weapon back in its holster, and looked cautiously around the corner.

  Illya was standing behind a teleph
one pole a few yards down the alley. Napoleon called to him.

  "Can you use any help? I got my half."

  Illya glanced over his shoulder. "Thank you, no. I'm well matched. They are very bad shots."

  All the same, Napoleon experimentally drew a careful bead and ricocheted a slug off the brick wall approximately into the midst of the hiding figures. There was no reaction, so he shrugged and pulled back. Never was that good at cushion shots, he thought.

  A sudden roaring sound like a low-flying jet went off behind him then, and he spun, dropping into a crouch with his gun at ready. Then he saw a white cloud of vapor swelling up through the flames of the burning car. A moment later the flames shrank and began to vanish. Through the clouds Napoleon could see several figures in black suits and gas masks. Heaving a tired sigh, he raised the gun.

  "Don't shoot," came a muffled voice. "We're your rescue party."

  Then he could see on every breast pocket a white patch with the black emblem of Thrush. He sat down on the pavement and leaned back against the brick wall as a fusillade of shots sounded from around the corner. Of course — the other half of the rescue party.

  This just wasn't right! Not only had he and Illya blundered into a trap, they had been forced to call for help to get out of it. And to top off the complete humiliation, they had been rescued by Thrush. They must have been monitoring the frequency complex of U.N.C.L.E.'s transceivers, and had answered his call. That was why the voice had promised "a flying squad."

  The shots from around the corner stopped, and the sounds of voices came, followed a few seconds later by Illya, surrounded by a troop of heavily-armed Thrushes. His head was down and his shoulders didn't quite have the usual set. Napoleon got slowly to his feet as the rest of the rescue party vaulted over the smoking remains of the car.

  The leader stuck out his hand, while peeling back his mask with the other. "Mr. Solo? I'm John Whiting, your friendly neighborhood Thrush rescue party leader. Any casualties on our side?"