04-The Dagger Affair

by David McDaniel

  Inside there was a closed knife switch. Mentally crossing his fingers, he jerked it open.

  Suddenly there was a fusillade of explosions, and shouts of surprise from the other side of the rack. He forced himself past another rack to a corner, and found a little ladder leading up to the roof of the office area. He ran up it like a cat and leaped lightly from the roof to land beside Illya.

  "Hi. I found the off switch."

  "Good. Here's Keldur," Illya said, holding up a limp figure. "He wouldn't come quietly. Chernik had a knife — he got it returned to him, and did not survive it. Holt may live; I think he has a concussion. I think we taught them a lesson."

  "So I see. What were those things that sounded like shots?"

  "I was about to ask you. Did you..."

  Waverly's voice cut across their conversation. "Clear the building and drag our prisoners out with you. Whatever went off has started a fire."

  Napoleon snapped his fingers. Of course. The rounds he had fired after the machine had been switched on had finally detonated when the field had collapsed.

  For the next few minutes he was busy dragging prisoners out through the one available door. The flames were climbing, licking around the framework of the flimsy building and catching the scaffolding around the machine.

  Once outside, Waverly used his transceiver to make a rush call for the local fire department, but they might not arrive in time to save the machine. The flames were visible through the door, and were spreading.

  Nobody was watching the prisoners, and before they were aware of it Kim Keldur had recovered from the blow that had felled him. Suddenly he sprang from behind them and dashed for the door.

  Garnet screamed, and Waverly snapped, "Stop him!" But it was too late. He was through the door, into the flames. There was a long moment of silence. Illya started to say something.

  And then the flames dwindled and died.

  "He's got it started again!"

  "I know where the switch is," said Napoleon grimly. "I'll have to go in there and stop it." And he headed for the door. About ten feet away his feet seemed suddenly gripped by mud, and his breathing grew strained. The light from his flash vanished, and his head was stuffed with cotton. He fell forward, hearing a faint distant voice calling his name.

  * * *

  "Napoleon!" Illya jumped forward as he saw Solo fall. "He's not only got it going, he's got the Theta up. Give me a rope, quick!"

  Garnet dashed to the car and found one in the tool kit. Illya took it and swiftly fashioned a rough loop in one end. Swinging this, he advanced until he began to feel the effect of the fringes of the field. Then he whirled the loop a few times around his head, and threw it. And missed.

  Feeling dizzier, he hauled it in and moved back a step. He threw the rope again, and almost caught Napoleon's leg with it. As he leaned forward he almost fell over. The field was expanding! Each time he missed he would have to move back farther, or be caught in the field himself. Fixing every bit of concentration in his mind on the bent leg of his partner, he swung and tossed the rope again — and it caught. He pulled gently to see if it would hold. It did.

  Then he put his weight on it, and began to drag Napoleon out of the field. It was expanding faster now; he was over twenty feet from the door and feeling slightly affected by it when he got Napoleon to him.

  Napoleon had to be almost carried back to the car, still semiconscious from the effects of the Energy Damper. They stood by the car, wondering if the field would stop, and how soon, and where.

  There was nothing left they could do. Cut off the power? The machine itself did that. Once it had started, it was a law unto itself. There was no way to turn it off from the outside, and nothing could function inside that field. A long, jointed level with a system of mirrors and lenses could be reached inside and around corners to the switch — but by the time such a device could be made it would be far too late to do any good.

  And the field was still expanding.

  Suddenly Baldwin turned to face them, and there was a gun in his hand. "All right," he said. "There's nothing more to be done here. Get into the car and drive as I tell you. You aren't going to like this, but there is no time now for half-measures. With luck and quick work we may have a chance. Illya, drive."

  Working with one hand and holding his gun with the other, Baldwin turned on the radio. He fumbled out the microphone and called. A moment later there was an acknowledgment. Illya started the car as Baldwin began to speak into the microphone. He recited a short list of letters and numbers, and concluded tersely with, "Execute — Priority Absolute Prime."

  He waited for another acknowledgment, then replaced the mike. He gestured with his gun. "Let us depart. Illya, I want to be half a mile away from here within two minutes."

  They were. The Rolls paused near the edge of a golf course at Baldwin's direction, and they looked back. A moment later he pointed to the sky. "There," he said, as a pair of bright lights appeared. "Watch that, gentlemen, and pray. It is our last hope."

  It was a large twin-engine cargo plane, landing lights bright, coming in low as though making a landing approach. But it swerved uncertainly as it came down. And it was coming down too steeply for the runway. It was coming down short....

  It hit the wall of the hanger just above the ground. There was a great grinding crash which reached them clearly across half a mile of field, and a great flash of light. Two seconds later a giant fist of the shockwave slammed them on the chests as they watched the hanger walls bulge outward horribly for a fraction of a second, and then a shattering roar came as the whole building vanished in a billowing cloud of smoke and flame.

  No one moved or spoke for a full minute.

  Then Baldwin broke the silence.

  "Kinetic energy, directly applied, was the only thing that could affect the machine inside the field. I was not intending to use this, but I knew it could become necessary. I simply arranged for the largest convenient mass with the greatest amount of kinetic energy available — in this case a robot-controlled plane, directed by my wife through a television camera in the nose — to be dropped on the machine. The success of this unfortunately final but ultimately necessary action is now terribly obvious. Mr. Waverly, my apologies for destroying your prize, but I think you see my reasoning."

  They drove back toward the site, and arrived almost simultaneously with the fire engines. Many excited questions were asked, but none were directed toward them. The efforts of the firemen were almost totally oriented toward the protection of nearby buildings — those that had been set afire by the blast. The hanger was already more than a total loss. Not more than a few smoldering sticks and a fused mass of metal would remain.

  They got out of the car to look at the spot, and said nothing. Napoleon stood with an arm around Garnet's shoulders. He felt them shaking slightly with her suppressed tears, and said gently, "Garnet, he must have died as soon as he threw the switch. The explosion destroyed only the machine."

  She turned to face him, and the roaring flames lit her face with red and orange and shone in the drying tear-trails down her cheeks.

  "Napoleon, my brother died almost two years ago. Now perhaps he has found his peace at last."

  "I'm sure he has," Napoleon said, knowing that somehow that was an inadequate thing to say, and saying it anyway. "I'm sure he has."

  Chapter 16: "'The Object Of Power Is Power.'"

  There was nothing more to be done. The rounding up of the various members of DAGGER was purely routine, and would be handled by Jerry Davis' men at the San Francisco office of U.N.C.L.E.

  The individuals who had contributed money to Keldur would probably never know what happened — eventually they would decide they had been conned, and would be a little more cautious the next time a thin young man with brilliant eyes came asking for contributions to save the world from itself.

  Napoleon and Garnet, Illya and Waverly had spent the promised day seeing San Francisco with Baldwin, Irene and Robin, and now it was evening
again, and time for them to go.

  They had been driven back to the airport in the official Thrush Rolls Royce in plenty of time for Garnet to catch her flight to Los Angeles, and with an hour to spare before the U.N.C.L.E. flight to New York.

  "Well," said Baldwin as they stood up from the table in the airport lounge, "our common goals had been achieved, and our alliance is ending."

  "Yes, it is," said Waverly. "Tomorrow we will be enemies again. I am afraid if we meet again, it will be with bars between us. Still, I must admit it has been most interesting working with you."

  "Thank you; may I say the same? You are a fine man, a good fighter, and a worthy opponent. And Mr. Solo, you showed admirable courage in your attempt to re-enter the hanger."

  "Well, I left my automatic in there, and I didn't want to lose it again...."

  Baldwin smiled. "Nevertheless, there is no courage where there is no fear. Someday we may be able to find you a place in our organization. Mr. Waverly, you have a staff worthy of you." He shook his head sadly. "It's tragic that you're on the wrong side."

  Waverly, too, shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't see it that way. Our ultimate goals are too much opposed. We want the world to belong to its citizens — you want it to belong to yourselves. There is no middle ground, and we must fight to the death." He paused, frowning. "What do you plan to do with the world if you should take over? Other than restoring the cable cars, tearing down the Embarcadero Freeway and resuming the ferry service, and a few other improvements I must admit I tend to agree with, that is. What exactly will be the purpose of your power?"

  By this time they were out on the main concourse, walking in a tight group. Baldwin paused in his stride, and reached into his inner coat pocket. "Here," he said. "This might explain a part of it." He withdrew a paperbound book and extended it, face down. "Page 217. The passage is marked."

  As Waverly took the book, the loudspeaker called, "Flight 93 for New York is boarding at Gate 12." And another voice announced, "Mr. Ward Baldwin, take a courtesy phone. There is a call for you."

  * * *

  Baldwin shook hands all around quickly, and hurried away. Irene said, "It's really been great fun having you here. I wish we could invite you back sometime. Perhaps you will be our guests in a few more years."

  Robin said nothing, but let her eyes shine up at Napoleon and Illya as she pressed their hands in turn. When she came to Waverly, though, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him. Then she and Irene were gone in the crowd.

  Waverly stood looking after them for a full minute, a bemused expression on his face, the book Baldwin had given him resting in his hand, a finger inserted to mark the page. Eventually he collected himself and cleared his throat impressively. "Well! Gentlemen, we have a plane to catch."

  He slipped open the book and glanced at the marked passage on page 217, and did not walk toward the ramp. Napoleon and Illya each looked over a shoulder, and read:

  "We seek power entirely for its own sake. We are not interested in the good of others; we are interested solely in power. Not wealth or luxury or long life or happiness; only power, pure power.... No one ever seizes power with the intention of relinquishing it. Power is not a means; it is an end. The object of persecution is persecution. The object of torture is torture. The object of power is power. Now do you begin to understand me?"

  * * *

  Napoleon read it through once, and again. He looked at Illya, and said, "That is a statement of Thrush policy." It was not a question.

  "Yes," said Illya. "It is."

  "What's the book?"

  Illya looked at him with slightly raised eyebrows, and then looked down significantly. Napoleon followed his gaze.

  Mr. Waverly had closed the book, and was looking at the cover. The title was big and black beneath the author's name – 1984.

  He turned idly to the front pages, and stopped at the flyleaf. It was inscribed in dark green ink, in strong, jagged handwriting. Alexander Waverly, from Ward Baldwin. For reasons too complex to transcribe. November 1965."

  After a few seconds of contemplation and a snort which might have become a chuckle had it been allowed all the way out, Waverly closed the book. As an afterthought he rifled the pages carefully and felt the spine. Then, satisfied it was not a fiendish device of some kind, he tucked it carefully in his inside pocket.

  "Now," he said again, "We have a plane to catch."

  They started up the corridor toward the loading ramp that had been called. It was approaching flight time, but there seemed to be no other passengers around. Then Napoleon stopped. There were four men coming towards them, up the hall. With a slight shock he recognized one of them — the Thrush who had led the party that had rescued them in Oakland three days before. He didn't look as friendly now.

  Napoleon glanced over his shoulder and saw four more coming toward them from behind. He sighed deeply.

  "Excuse me, sir," he said to Waverly, who seemed lost in thought. "Exactly when was the alliance with Thrush supposed to end?"

  "End? Supposedly, when we arrive safely in New York the hostages will be released. But the way Baldwin shook hands..." He saw the men approaching, and his eyebrows arched. "They don't look like a farewell party, do they?"

  "I'm afraid not," said Napoleon.

  Illya had his gun out, and was walking with it concealed under his overcoat, which was draped across his arm. Waverly said quietly, "An incident at this point would be most unsatisfactory. Is there an exit?"

  Napoleon nodded. "Over there. It says EMERGENCY ONLY."

  "I think this qualifies," said Illya. "Napoleon, you'll pass closest. When we are even with the door, hit it hard and go through quickly. We'll be right behind you."

  Without breaking their pace, they continued down the corridor until they were even with the gray door, and then Napoleon kicked suddenly at the panic bar and jumped through.

  And then he was falling, bashing himself painfully in several spots on angled things, losing his gun entirely, and scraping some skin off his palms as he came to rest in a tangled heap on the floor, some ten feet below where he had begun. Above him he saw Waverly standing at the top of the stairs looking down at him with moderate disapproval, and Illya latching the door securely behind them. He groaned and shifted himself. At least nothing was broken. He sat up slowly.

  Illya came down the steps behind Waverly and looked at him doubtfully. "What are you doing?" he asked.

  Napoleon glowered at him as he got to his feet. "Now here's another nice mess you've gotten me into. Where's my gun?"

  "Over there. Did you notice the stairs?"

  "Not at first. Let's say I became aware of them one at a time. Did you see any reaction from the enemy to our disappearing act?"

  "Some. You made quite a racket when you hit the stairs, and I think some of them were laughing."

  Napoleon picked up his Special and checked it over carefully. And he had been doing so well, too. He thought his bad luck had ran out. Apparently there was still a little bit left in the bucket. He looked around the little cubicle and saw another door, and a couple of small windows which showed the surface of the taxiway outside.

  He stepped aside and nodded to Illya. "This time, you get the door." Illya turned the knob with his left hand, automatic ready in his right, and stuck his head out. He looked around, then pulled it in again and nodded. "All clear. Shall we try for that plane from the ground, or do they take people in only through the gates?"

  "We'll see," said Waverly. "Come on, they won't wait forever."

  Illya and Napoleon preceded him out onto the apron, guns drawn. The only sounds were engines warming up and the occasional whine of an electric baggage cart. One came humming across the field toward them, a train of little loaded trucks trailing behind it. It swerved to pass them at a distance of about twenty feet.

  Illya suddenly shouted something, and leaped for cover behind a large wheeled stairway. Waverly moved with remarkable agility for a man of his years as two figures stood up from the other si
de of the high-piled baggage on the trucks and two sub-machine guns began blasting a hail of lead at them. Napoleon fell flat, too far from cover to make the leap. His U.N.C.L.E. Special was out and spitting flame, and one of the attackers dropped his weapon and fell from the truck. The other one fell victim to Illya's accuracy, but by the time they reached the spot the baggage cart had gone around a corner and disappeared.

  Then lead smacked the blacktop beside them. The lights of the building dazzled them, and Illya and Waverly ducked for cover again. Napoleon dashed in a frantic zig-zag toward the source of the shot. Slugs spattered all around him as he sprinted for the cover of the building wall. Then there were two shots from behind him — Illya, with the telescopic sight on his U.N.C.L.E. Special cutting out the glare from the floodlights. No more shots came from above.

  Under the temporary protection of the wall, Napoleon drew his little transceiver and pulled up the antenna. "Mayday — mayday — mayday. Agents Solo and Kuryakin and Director Waverly at San Francisco International Airport. Acknowledge, please."

  A pleasantly cool female voice said, "You're on the distress line now. Go ahead."

  "We're under heavy attack by Thrush. Call New York and tell them to hold those hostages, and get some reinforcements out here at once. Solo out."

  "They're on their way," she said.

  Only as he was replacing the transceiver did Napoleon stop to wonder if he'd really gotten through to the U.N.C.L.E. office, or whether Thrush had intercepted the call. He put the thought out of his mind. Even if it had been intercepted, U.N.C.L.E. would have received the transmission. And if they hadn't, the game was up. That was all there was to it.

  Napoleon rejoined Illya and Waverly. "I called home," he said. "They'll be sending someone for us."

  "All we have to do is wait for them," said Waverly. Napoleon couldn't tell whether there was a slight hint of sarcasm in his voice or not.