by Unknown
Napoleon didn't say anything. He looked at Waverly, then he looked at Illya. Then he took the paper from Illya's hand and read it all the way through again, carefully.
Finally he said, "After he shot himself, whatever was chasing him caught him. And where is this little village of Pokol?"
"Eclary's report was filed from the city of Brasov," said Illya. "That is just south of the center of Rumania, in the foothills of the Transylvanian Alps."
Napoleon looked closely at Illya. After a moment he said, "You're looking inscrutable. What are you thinking about the Transylvanian Alps?"
"Nothing in particular," said Illya slowly. "Just thinking. What does Transylvania suggest to you?"
Napoleon laughed. "Old movies. Bela Lugosi, werewolves, bad photography and melodramatic scripts."
"Has it ever occurred to you to wonder why they were always laid in Transylvania?"
"Now that you mention it, no. I suppose because the first one was."
"There are traditions in Rumania, Napoleon. Traditions and legends which..."
"Mr. Kuryakin!" Waverly's voice cut across between the two of them. "We are not dealing here with superstitious nonsense. We are dealing with the death of a very real agent of our organization. Unless you wish to request transfer to another assignment, you will be accompanying Mr. Solo to Pokol to investigate the circumstances surrounding this death. You are no more satisfied with the simple statement of suicide than I am. I suggest you make an attempt to keep your minds off nursery tales and things that go bump in the night, and concentrate on identifying the person or persons responsible for the murder of your co-worker. You will also want to clarify the circumstances surrounding his death in an attempt to arrive at an adequate explanation of the cause or causes. To this end," he continued, rummaging about in a drawer, "I have informed Budapest to expect you Friday afternoon. You will have all day tomorrow to pack and prepare." He came up with two envelopes and handed them across the table. "Here are your tickets. You will leave Kennedy International tomorrow night and change at Copenhagen."
He stared at Illya, then at Napoleon. "Unless you would rather let this assignment go by?"
"Oh, no," said Napoleon quickly. "I've had almost a month's vacation, and this sounds like it might be interesting."
"Yes, of course," said Illya. "The mountains are especially beautiful at this time of year."
"Very good," said Waverly. "There will be no further discussion of the folklore of the area."
"Yes, sir," they said together.
"If there are any more questions, they will be answered by the head of the Budapest office."
"Yes, sir," they said again, picked up their tickets, and left.
Once outside, they paused and looked at each other. At last Illya said, without looking at his partner, "I wonder whether a silver crucifix would be considered non-standard equipment?"
Napoleon stared at him with surprise. "Don't tell me you actually think that..."
"Of course not," said Illya quickly. "All the same, it wouldn't be any extra trouble to carry."
Napoleon laughed. "Oh, come on!" he said. "Next thing you'll be down in the armory asking them to run you up some cartridges with silver slugs in them."
Illya glanced sideways at his friend, and pursed his lips thoughtfully. "You know," he said, "that might not be a bad idea...." Then he sighed. "No, they'd only make snide remarks. And they'd want to know why. And then I'd have to tell them.... No, I guess it's not worth it."
"Okay," said Napoleon seriously. "If you want to bring a silver crucifix along, I promise not to kid you about it."
"I appreciate your consideration," Illya said thoughtfully.
"By the way," said Napoleon suddenly after a minute's silence, "do you think you could manage to make that two of them?"
Chapter 2: "What Does 'Vlkoslak' Mean?"
The flight was uneventful, except for the usual frustration of having only three hours between planes in Copenhagen—too long to sit around the airport, and not enough to go anywhere. Napoleon tried to call a couple of old friends, and found a girl named Gütte who had shared action with them over a year ago. She came out to Kastrup airport, bought them lunch, and kept their minds occupied with inconsequential chatter until the flight for Budapest left at noon.
At 4 o'clock their S-A-S jet thundered low over the outskirts of the Hungarian capital and landed them, if not behind the Iron Curtain, at least within one of its shallower folds. Passports and visas had been checked through the United Network Command office from Copenhagen, but as usual in this part of the world something had gone wrong.
Illya, fluent in Hungarian, attempted to deal with an official who held custody of the validating stamp, and who seemed to have an almost pathological fear of anything not covered explicitly in her book of regulations. Illya alternately bullied her and comforted her until she was completely confused, while Napoleon anxiously scanned the faces in the concourse for someone from the local branch of U.N.C.L.E.
With one ear he tried to follow the conversation between his partner and the clerk. Illya was saying, "My dear madame, we are (—something—) tourists who want (—something—) to see your beautiful country. Would you have us stand here three days and (—something—) the next airplane back to Copenhagen?"
Napoleon usually left the more guttural Slavic tongues to Illya, who possessed a native ability to pronounce interminable strings of consonants as if vowels were an unnecessary bourgeois luxury. Rumanian had enough in common with Italian, however, that Napoleon could make himself understood quite adequately, even if his accent left something to be desired.
A tall dark man with a long, mournful face came hurrying across the floor towards them, wallet in hand. As he came up to Napoleon the wallet popped open and a gold card caught the light. "Mr. Solo?" he said. Napoleon nodded. "I am Djelas Krepescu. Sorry for the delay—we had automotive trouble. Is there any difficulty here?"
He turned toward the counter, where Illya had stopped talking and was looking at him. He frowned at the clerk, whose eyebrows crept up her forehead, and spoke swiftly in Hungarian. Illya answered, and Krepescu said something to the clerk, emphasizing with a wave of his hand. She nodded vigorously and stamped the passports. She smiled apologetically at Napoleon, displaying a glittering row of metallic teeth, and said something to Illya about the noble gentlemen being very patient.
Once in the car, Djelas explained, "The clerk was being uncommonly difficult. She thought you were both Russian tourists, and there are many Hungarians who have no reason to love the Russians. As soon as I explained to her that you were Americans, and friends of mine, she was pleased to cooperate."
Napoleon glanced at Illya, who sat staring out a window, apparently lost in thought. It would be hard to explain to the poor woman how someone could be both Russian and American at the same time. "Well," he said, "we appreciate your help. We're going to need a lot more before we get out of here. Is everything cleared for us to fly to Bucharest this weekend?"
Djelas looked very sad. "The swiftness with which this has come upon us has made air reservations impossible to obtain. However, you can leave by rail Monday afternoon and arrive in Brasov Tuesday evening. It will be faster than waiting a week and flying to Bucharest, and then making rail connections from there."
Napoleon nodded. "It'll give us a better look at the country. I hear it's beautiful this time of year."
"Yes," said Djelas. "The air is rare and clear in the mountains, though it is quite cold."
Illya looked away from the passing view of the Andrassy Avenue and said, "What do you know about our reason for going to Brasov?"
The long face grew even longer. "The tragic death of Carl Endros. I met him only once, but I do not think such a man could kill himself unless something very wrong had happened to him. He was here for a few days on his way to Brasov about a month ago. We heard some strange things reported to our office in Bucharest, and Carl was interested to go and look them over."
"What sort
of strange things?"
Djelas was hesitant. "Very strange things indeed—things which the peasants talk about among themselves and blow out of all proportion. We have the reports available for you to study. But please remember the facts are not known—all we have are rumors."
"What sort of rumors?" Illya persisted.
Djelas toyed with the end of his tie and looked about him. "As well as we can find, a pair of months ago or more or less, a body was found in the woods near the village of Pokol. Then, some few days later, another body. Both were dressed in peasant clothes, but neither was known to anyone in the area, and of course neither had any identification. Both were apparently killed the same way—very brutally. They were buried in the community cemetery at Pokol, with more ceremony than you would expect for total strangers."
Illya sighed. "And I suppose the bodies were both drained of blood?"
Djelas looked at the floor, and then out the window. At last he said, "I do not know of any medical report on the bodies. As I said, the peasants make up such stories and then expand them out of all proportion—"
"In other words, they were," said Napoleon.
"We don't know that," said Djelas quickly. "Under the circumstances we have begun proceedings to have the bodies exhumed and examined. All we know is that two bodies were found in the woods. The government is very sensitive about appearances..."
"And the whereabouts of all its citizens," muttered Illya.
"... and the fact of the bodies and the burials is quite well documented. But the rumors around them grew so prevalent that Mr. Endros went to Pokol to interview some of the witnesses. His one preliminary report was vague, but indicated he had traced the individuals who found the bodies. They swore to him that they had been bled dry."
Napoleon laughed. "Sounds like a psychotic killer in the village. A bit of detective work, Illya, and we can go home again."
"I hope so, Napoleon," said the Russian agent slowly. "I sincerely hope so."
* * *
They spent the next few hours reading over the reports that had been filed as referring to the finding of two unidentified bodies in the Transylvanian forests, and learned nothing. The rumors had placed the bodies at a dozen different spots in the mountains, from the Rosul Pass to the Prahova Valley; there were as few as two and as many as fifteen; they were all men, or men, women and children. But all the rumors agreed on the essential point—the manner of death.
Napoleon put the last sheet down and sighed. "Someone has gone to a great deal of trouble collecting all these," he said, indicating the sheaf of pages. "I'm sorry I don't appreciate them more."
Illya nodded. "We know nothing now that we didn't know four hours ago, and we have in addition received a great deal of confusing and contradictory data which is not only unnecessary, but a possible liability."
Napoleon chuckled. "You're starting to sound like Djelas. I think he learned English by memorizing a dictionary." He leaned back in his chair and stretched. "Well," he said, "now what? It looks to me like a plain case of murder. Some poor backwoods Rumanian has spun out, and killed two tramps in the woods. Carl was onto something, possibly went to his suspect, and got the same treatment. Now we go in, solve the puzzle, hand it over to the local police, who will proceed to take all the credit while thanking us privately, and then go home. I wonder if we could wrangle few days free in the area. There's a good ski resort at Poiana Brasov...."
"Possibly," said Illya. "Did you check with our host about accommodations for the weekend?"
"We can stay here. It's less trouble than trying to arrange for a hotel." He looked at his watch as a dark and pretty secretary came in and started gathering up the papers. "It's about eight o'clock, if I have my time zones straight. Is there any night life in this town?"
Illya looked surprised. "Napoleon, this is the capital city of Hungary. There is more night life here than in Madrid, Athens or Amsterdam. And I have never heard you complain about their quiet." He thought. "Dinner at the New York, and probably a show at the Budapest Night Club."
The secretary looked up. "The New York? Where is that?"
Illya considered. "That's right. It's the Hungarica now."
"Oh!" she said happily. "If you can drive me home, I can be ready in fifteen minutes."
Illya looked at Napoleon, who grinned and shrugged. "Certainly," he said, and smiled. "You will be our native guide."
* * *
The food at the Hungarica was as good as Illya had promised, and they were on their way to catch the last show at the Budapest. Napoleon felt ill at ease among the deserted streets—the broad boulevards almost empty of cars, and pedestrians scattered along the sidewalks bundled like stuffed dolls against the freezing air. The streets were well enough lit, but seemed quiet. He missed the flashing neon and garish colors that no main street in America was without—lights that shouted of life and action. Here there were only streetlights, and a few modest signs.
Elena, their secretary-guide, poked Illya and said, "Over there."
Illya looked, and saw a group of men hurrying along together in a tight knot. Something about the way they moved smelled of trouble. He said, "Napoleon...." and the American looked too.
"Wonder what it is," he said. "Looks like a lynch mob."
"Not good," said Elena nervously. "I think we stay away from them. You are strangers, and many people, even here, are suspicious. Besides, Mr. Krepescu would blame me if you got into trouble with the Security Police."
"Well, they don't look like police to me," said Napoleon. "And I'd hate to be whoever they're after."
"There he goes," said Illya suddenly. "He just ducked out of the doorway and headed down the side street."
"Pull around the block, and maybe we can give him a lift somewhere. If he turns out to be wanted, we can always say he forced us."
Illya nodded, and ran the car around a series of four corners. In a little over a minute they were coming up the street towards a lone figure who was walking quickly along, close to the building fronts, but not hiding.
"There he is," said Elena, resigning herself to becoming involved. "Oh, comrade—" she called out the window.
He stiffened and looked around him, but said nothing. They couldn't see his face, but he was tall and lean, well dressed, with a light felt hat at a rakish angle on his head, and a walking stick.
Illya stuck his head out. "Is there any trouble?"
"None at all, my friend. Merely out for an evening's stroll."
"And walking a whole pack of dogs," Napoleon said under his breath. "Illya, stick around until that bunch comes around the corner."
It was only a moment's wait. Perhaps half a dozen men, mostly young, moving in a close-packed group, appeared around the corner. They paused as they caught sight of the car, and then came forward hesitantly, breaking apart a little.
The well-dressed gentleman took an involuntary step a little closer to the car, then caught himself. "I really must be getting on," he said. "Thank you for your consideration." And he started off again.
The group broke into a trot, and as they passed the car Illya asked, "What's going on here?"
Apparently a trace of accent gave him away, because one of the younger men snapped, "No concern of yours, Russkya."
Illya put the car in gear and made a tight U-turn in the deserted street. Then he was cruising along in the same direction as the gang, with his open window facing them. He spoke casually, as if disinterested. "If you're not chasing him, why do you stay so close behind him? And if you are chasing him, why don't you catch him?"
"You wouldn't understand if we told you," said another youth. "We just don't want his kind around here."
Illya touched the gas pedal and pulled ahead until he was abreast of the lone man. "They say they don't want your kind around," he said. "What kind are you?" He sounded only idly curious, and not at all dangerous.
The man turned his head only slightly. "I am Rumanian. But I have not been to my home in many years. Now I am sorry to
see how my neighbors have changed, and I fear my own land will have changed more."
Illya touched the brake and waited for the gang. "He says he's Rumanian. What do you have against them?"
An older man, breathing heavily, stepped towards the car. "Yes, he is Rumanian. But we have no dislike of them. He is hated by them as well, because they know him better."
"What has he done?" asked Illya, now genuinely interested.
The old man gave a sound between a snort and a grunt. "What has he done?" he repeated. "He is Vlkoslak—that is enough. We cannot kill him, but we may drive him away."
The lone man stopped and turned. "A lie," he said. "And you will apologize." He took a step towards the man who had spoken and raised his stick threateningly.
Then the sidewalk was suddenly active. Two young men leaped forward and seized the stick while two more charged at the well-dressed one. The two older men started to move in as Illya set the brake and leaped from the car. Napoleon was right behind him.
With instinctive division of labor, Napoleon went for the two who had grabbed the stick. Aware of his uncertain status in a country touchy about foreigners, his style was cramped by the need to avoid any injury to his opponents while they were bound by no such rules.
In a moment he had the stick, and one attacker was doubled over clutching at the part of his stomach where the ferrule had driven the wind out of him. The other just avoided a nasty crack in the shins and bored in on Napoleon, fists swinging wildly. Napoleon sidestepped neatly, and caught him a paralyzing blow on the bicep that would not even leave a bruise. When the young man swung around to attack with his remaining good arm, Napoleon casually reached across and clipped it too. Taking advantage of a free moment, he turned to look around.
The lean man was not an easy customer to handle. Apparently he was well-trained in la savat, the French style of foot-fighting which makes even a tough knife-fighter think twice before attacking. He stood lightly balanced on the balls of his feet, in a half-crouch, his two hands clasping his elbows and his interlocked forearms held perhaps six inches in front of his chest. One of his assailants was stretched out on his back, unmoving, apparently having caught a toe under the jaw. The other was circling, looking for an opening. Before he could react, a foot shot out, close to the ground, and his own legs were swept from under him. He sat down very hard on the pavement.