"I'd love to," Frieda said, sliding her hand into the crook of his arm.
They strolled out along the edge of the little pond in front of the building. It was a clear, crisp night, with stars blazing silver in the black night, and only a few puffs of black cloud scudding in front of the moon. They sat down on a bench and watched the ripples in the pond send charming designs through the reflection of the sky.
Illya looked up and named some constellations. As he was talking about the summer sky Frieda moved closer and put her head on his shoulder. He gulped but kept talking, trying to ignore the warm presence of her dark hair near his neck.
"Look," he said suddenly, turning his head towards the southeastern sky. Frieda turned her face up and followed the line of his out stretched hand to a tiny white dot moving slowly and steadily to wards the northeast.
"A planet?" she asked.
"No. It's moving too fast. It's either a satellite or a plane."
"How beautiful," she said.
Illya cleared his throat and rose. "Say, I'd like another look at Dacian's gadget. Do you think we could get into the compound?"
Frieda Winter sighed. "I suppose so. You really don't let anything stand in the way of your job, do you?"
She went through the steps involved to admit them into the com pound without setting off the alarms, and they passed into the grounds where the scaffolding stood. It seemed to float in the sky, silhouetted against the graceful clouds that drifted before the moon.
As they stood there Illya realized that the heat generating from the shaft blasted by the device was causing the air over the scaffold to ripple. The moon and stars seemed to shimmer as they were being seen in a pond. The effect was weird and hypnotizing.
All at once, as he let his associations drift, an answer came to him and he snapped his fingers. "A satellite!"
Frieda looked up, searching the sky for the object that had passed across it a few minutes earlier.
"We'll find them by satellite," Illya elaborated, leaving Frieda as much perplexed as before.
"What are you talking about?"
"The box does emit one kind of radiation: heat. The way to locate one in operation is through infrared scanners. The moment one of Dacian's devices is activated we can detect it with infrared. And what better way is there to do that than via satellite? We already have several in orbit geared to pick stellar sources of infrared, and one trained on Russia and Southeast Asia to locate possible atomic explosions or rocket blast-offs. So we'll train our surveillance satellites on possible volcano sites. Come on. I want to get in touch with headquarters at once."
They hastened back to the laboratory, where Illya Kuryakin communicated with Waverly.
"Very good," the chief said as he digested Illya's report. "We'll start work on it immediately and try to line up a detection system. But what about locating the boxes before they're activated? And what about destroying them after they're activated?"
"We're still trying to figure something out on the former, but at least we have an instant way of locating the boxes once they're turned on. As for destroying them, what about missiles?"
"Negative," Waverly said. We need to send personnel to the site to ascertain that it is a Dacian device and not some other disturbance. Besides, a missile would be throwing out the baby with the bath water. We don't want to destroy a city while trying to save it."
"In other words, once we've picked up a site on the orbital scanners, we have to verify it and destroy it in person."
"Correct. I always prefer to use something more dependable than human resources," Waverly said, "but if we can't figure out anything better we'll proceed with that line of defense."
Within moments after Waverly concluded his conversation with Illya, he was exerting his prodigious influence to cut through red tape in the space program bureaucracy, and quickly arranged for special signals to be sent to those satellites equipped with infrared detection equipment.
One of the satellites passed over the southern United States, and trained its sensors on the thermal turbulence created by Dacian's experimental device. It relayed its information to analysts on the ground who computed the special mathematical coordinates of this manmade volcanic device. Once they had determined the unique infrared characteristics of a volcano box in action, they could signal a program to other satellites equipped with infrared gear.
This was done promptly, and within six hours a network of satellites was observing the earth, especially the Asian sector, with instructions to alert ground observers the moment a thermal pattern was detected which matched the one in Texas.
Illya Kuryakin was rewarding himself with a few hours of sleep when a signal from Waverly aroused him. Dreamily he reached for his communicator and murmured a sleep-slurred acknowledgement.
"I want you to proceed to Singapore at once," Waverly ordered abruptly.
"Singapore?"
"Mr. Solo is there, and we have good reason to believe that that's where the action will be. I will brief you more thoroughly once you're aloft. Instruct Miss Winter and the rest of the staff at the laboratory to keep working on a better detection and destruction system than the one we now have, and to phone me as soon as they come up with something. But we'll have to make do with what we now have until then, and I need your services in Singapore."
As soon as they'd signed off Illya threw his personal effects into a kit bag. He slid into his jacket and signaled an agent in San Antonio to make arrangements for an U.N.C.L.E. jet to be ready to take off for Singapore as soon as Illya's plane arrived from the laboratory.
He scurried down the hail and knocked on Frieda's door.
"I'm going," he announced calmly.
She thrust her lower lip forward in a sad pout. "So soon? We haven't really—"
"You're to keep working on a solution and to call this number and ask for this man as soon as you have something." He handed her a slip of paper.
She put her fingers on his cheek. "You haven't shaved."
"I never shave for the end of the world," he said.
"Oh Illya—come back when you've done your job." She threw her arms around his neck and put her lips to his cheek.
He ran his fingers through her auburn hair, wondering if it were the last feminine thing he would ever know.
TWO
THE BIG PLANE settled on to the strip at Tengah Airfield and a moment later its back-up system roared, braking the forward momentum of the plane and sending a flock of tropical birds screeching angrily into the sky. Illya Kuryakin looked out of the portal and saw very little activity, which was the way he preferred it.
In the briefing Alexander Waverly had advised landing at Tengah, a military airport controlled principally by the British R.A.F., instead of at Kallang. The latter was closer to the city of Singapore, but was a civil airfield, and Illya didn't want to risk recognition.
A long ride from Tengah to the city was to be preferred to assassination at Kallang. But after the long, arduous plane trip Illya was no longer sure which was the more desirable.
Waverly had instructed him quite thoroughly on every aspect of his mission. In essence, Illya was to contact Napoleon and exchange information, but they were strictly prohibited from meeting. Waverly wanted them to act independently to cut down the risk of their collective capture. Napoleon had April Dancer to serve in whatever capacity Napoleon thought best.
They had two primary objectives. The first, and most important, was to locate Dacian and his captors and destroy the formulas, equipment, and personnel before an aggressive action could be taken. But if that were not possible, they were to wait for Waverly's signal indicating that a satellite had detected a volcano box in action. They were to rush to the site and take whatever measures necessary to put the machine out of commission. They were to play it by ear, and to use whatever transportation and weaponry the circumstances called for.
"There is one aspect of this," Waverly had concluded, "that I cannot emphasize enough. Namely, that you will have
between twelve and forty-eight hours to pinpoint and destroy the box from the moment of detection."
"Yes, sir," Illya said, instinctively looking at his watch.
NAPOLEON HAD arranged for April Dancer to check into a small hotel downtown and to pass herself off as a tourist. She was eminently skilled as a linguist and could therefore submerge herself in the market place and listen without anyone suspecting she understood. There were several clubs and bars where underworld elements and spies hung out and, picking up an unsuspecting American tourist named Don Wirts, she made him take her to these places for drinks. She kept her eyes and ears open, while murmuring the usual hare-brained tourist clichés to her escort.
Napoleon, in the meantime, had made a number of attempts to find out the names of the principals of Singapore Oil, and the company's address. Singoil was its cable address, and this THRUSH front had been the clearing house for communications involving the volcano plot. But all of his inquiries, discreet and otherwise, had availed him nothing. Singoil was a completely false company with nothing indeed but a cable address. Furthermore, the messages received by the cable company were neither delivered nor picked up. Several times a day a man would call and in fair English, say, "This is Singoil; please read any messages." And so there was apparently no way to trace the principals.
Napoleon was walking off his frustration at quayside when Illya buzzed him.
"I'm in town," the Russian in formed him with the bland understatement of a fraternity brother checking in at a conference. "What's up?"
"The rats are far underground," Napoleon said. "I can't trace Singoil for all the tea in this part of the world, which is considerable." He explained the efforts he'd made so far.
"How about sending them a message which must be delivered in person?"
"They'll know it's a trap," Napoleon protested.
"Exactly. You'll let yourself walk into it, and that'll lead you to our playmates."
"It's a beautiful idea, and I thought of it before you did, but there's one thing wrong. Suppose, instead of capturing me alive for interrogation, they simply decide to gun me down on sight."
"That would be unsportsmanlike like," Illya said. "But I don't think they'd kill you until they knew what's brought you here, how much you know, and how much you've told other people."
"That's comforting," said Napoleon Solo, chuckling.
"Let April Dancer follow you. When the tag is made, she'll be right behind you. She can contact me and we'll drop in on the party before the firecrackers go off."
Napoleon reflected for a moment. "If you think it's such a fool proof idea, why don't you serve as decoy?"
"I'm too young," Illya explained.
It was arranged. The only hitch was that Don, April Dancer's escort, had grown intensely attached to her, and she couldn't shake him. Don Wirts was a burly Californian with plenty of money and a lusty passion to see and do everything. He was boisterous, yet innocuous and pliant, and he agreeably escorted her everywhere she directed. But this morning he would be in the way, and it took an act of considerable rudeness to make him go away.
April went to a ladies' room and, as soon as she was out of his sight, rushed into the noisy street of Singapore.
April took a taxi to the docks on Keppel Harbor and got out a few blocks away from the cable office. At 10:30 she saw Napoleon going into the office. He paused a second to look for her and, satisfying himself as he glimpsed her shock of ash-blonde hair, he entered it. Then he emerged after a minute, crossed the street and entered a bar.
April felt uncomfortably exposed here, for it seemed unlikely that a pretty, unescorted lady tourist would hang around the harbor longer than she had to. An hour passed, but at last there were results.
A messenger boy, in white ducks and a greasy, torn undershirt, entered the cable office and exited a second later. He crossed the street, went into the bar, and came out with Napoleon behind him. He looked around to make sure he wasn't being followed, but April had made herself invisible behind some huge baskets of fish.
Napoleon Solo was ushered to an old English Ford and pushed in unceremoniously. April signaled her taxi, which had been parked up a side street, and she took off after the Ford. She kept a respectable distance behind, but kept a special channel of her communicator open until she was relieved to hear a beeping sound on it. Good. Napoleon had planted a tiny transmitter in the car, and she would not have to keep the car in sight in order to track it down.
Nevertheless April didn't want to lose visual track yet, because she hoped to glimpse the men who had abducted Napoleon. The Ford made its way into the marketplace on the north side of town, where foot traffic was so heavy that the cars bogged down in a sea of orientals.
April observed three men getting out with Napoleon, and she quickly paid off her driver and leaped out of the taxi. She couldn't make out any faces, but by jumping up from time to time she could follow the four men as they wended their way through the throng. Then she got a chance to close in as the foursome ran into some sort of demonstration in the street, and the crowd in front of her momentarily thinned. But just as she was about to exploit her advantage she felt a strong hand close around her arm.
April Dancer's instincts directed her to bring her arm up to break the lock, then grab her assailant around the neck and drop to one knee. But while her nerves were tensing for the judo throw she recognized the voice. It was Don Wirts' drawl. "I thought for sure you'd been carried away by white slavers. I been looking all over creation for you, honey!"
His simple, grinning face blocked her view of Napoleon. "You lug, get out of my way." She thrust him aside and jumped up to see if her quarry were still visible. But Napoleon and his guardians were gone.
If it hadn't been a matter of life or death. April would have found Don's expression of injured dismay laughable. And if it weren't so genuine she might have suspected him of engineering this encounter. But no, he wasn't a THRUSH agent. He was simply a well-meaning oaf whose solicitude for her just might bring about the destruction of Singapore.
THREE
THE FIRST THING Napoleon Solo had done when ushered into the English Ford was hook a barbed, miniaturized radio transmitter on the pants of the man next to him. It was practically invisible, but it didn't have to be very big, for all it did was emit a steady beeping. It could do so for weeks. Napoleon prayed that the man was not planning to change his clothes immediately.
Seconds after taking this precaution he felt, as he'd expected, the jab of a hypodermic needle in his arm, and without hesitation an anesthetic—probably sodium pentathol—swept over his consciousness like the waves of the sea.
When he revived he'd been stripped and dressed in a pair of white pajamas. He was on a cot in a cell, looking into the round face of the man bearing the signal transmitter. Napoleon let his eyes wander to the man's pants, and the tiny silver nodule, looking like a feathery seed clinging to the fabric, was still there.
The man pointed a rather lethal looking Mauser at Napoleon's eyes, and gestured with it towards the open cell door, outside which stood another guard. The agent cleared his head, rose unsteadily, and staggered out.
They led him down a shiny, white-plastered corridor and into a dim chamber with a desk, some chairs, and a circle of oriental guards in white pajamas, the snouts of their Sten guns trained on choice parts of Napoleon's anatomy.
Behind the desk sat a powerfully built man with slanted eyes, straight dark hair, and an expression of monumental confidence.
"Kae Soong, I presume," said Napoleon.
The man smiled. "You would be Mr. Solo, if my dossiers don't deceive me."
Napoleon did not acknowledge.
"Mr. Solo, I would like to know why you have permitted yourself to be trapped."
"I wanted to meet you."
"You now have that pleasure. But am I unduly suspicious in suggesting you have your associates following you?"
"They aren't following me, but I'm sure they're looking for me."
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p; "I prefer to think your organization is not as haphazard as that. Acting on that assumption, I have prepared a welcome for any that dare think my headquarters are an open house." He scanned Napoleon's eyes for a reaction but found none to raise his hopes. "But it is of no consequence. This place will be abandoned tomorrow morning. Our work is done. Mr. Solo, now that you've located me, I imagine you must be brimming with questions."
"Only one. Where is Edward Dacian?"
"In our custody. In fact, he occupies the cell next to yours. If you would like to share his cell, we'll gladly accommodate you. I'm afraid you won't find his company terribly stimulating, however. He's rather dull these days. But he'll liven up, as the saying goes, when he sees the fireworks display we've planned for the city of Singapore."
"I guess it goes without saying that I'm invited too."
"Oh," smiled Kae Soong, "your presence is indispensable to its success. Although if you did miss this one, you would still have an opportunity to see many more around the world. We have a large number of them planned for the near future."
"Then Dacian—"
"Has told us everything." He nodded at his captive as if to conclude the interview. "There is much to be done, so if you'll excuse me—"
He rose, and Napoleon's arms were gripped by the strong hands of two guards. He was led, almost carried, back to the cell block, but this time was thrown into an occupied room. It took a minute to adjust his eyes to the darkness, but when he finally could make out the bundle on the cot next to the far wall he was appalled. The features belonged to Edward Dacian, but the emaciated body and hollow countenance belonged to a survivor of a concentration camp.
FOUR
AFTER IDENTIFYING and introducing herself over the communicator, April told Illya of her progress in locating Napoleon Solo. "I found the car and watched it for four hours, but nobody claimed it. I have someone watching it now, but I can't just sit around and wait. Who knows how long it will be before they go back to the car—and how can we be sure the car belongs to THRUSH at all?"
The Volacano Box Affair Page 6