Dohm tittered. “Yes, for him. And wait till he finds out how I plan to do it. No more chatter now. Give me full power!”
“Full power,” Brocade called, throwing levers. With a roar and a thrust that left Napoleon Solo dizzy, the flying saucer rose straight up into the dark, rain-drenched sky.
What chance did he have? Solo wondered.
Worse, what chance did the world have?
ACT THREE
PERILS IN PARADISE
Less than one hour after the saucer craft lifted from the roof of the toy works, Illya Kuryakin was within three miles of the same factory.
Illya was driving along one of the six-laned New Jersey superhighways. Against the night horizon flaring with city lights Illya suddenly noticed a spreading scarlet smudge.
A huge green sign over the superhighway indicated that his exit was next. Riding both the accelerator and the brake of the little gray fastback car taken from the U.N.C.L.E. car pool, Illya swung onto the down ramp.
He glanced quickly at the street map lying on the leather cushion beside him. The site of the Cosmo factory was X-marked in red grease pencil.
With alarm Illya realized that the flame-smudge staining the sky just west of the superhighway was in the approximate location of the toy works. His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
Illya had no way of knowing for certain that his destination was going up in flames. Yet his knowledge of the way THRUSH worked told him this might be the case. He took the exit ramp on two howling tires. He barreled through an intersection on a yellow light and shot down a dismal street of warehouses.
The shadow of the fast little car leaped out ahead. Several blocks away, flames engulfed both sides of the street.
Illya Kuryakin hadn’t slept for---it seemed like days. Anxiety gnawed him. Where was Napoleon? In the hand of the enemy at the site of the holocaust ahead? Or had he already been flown off somewhere in the saucer? Either way, the Cosmo works remained U.N.C.L.E.’s only tangible clue to the current operations of the supra-nation.
And if the factory were being burned, just as the Westchester hangar site had been destroyed, Mr. Waverly’s worst fears were being realized. It would indicate that THRUSH was scorching the earth to clear the way for a massive offensive.
Driving at eighty-five miles an hour down the deserted street, Illya was nag-ridden with guilt because of his delay in getting here. Actually, U.N.C.L.E. had moved at top speed considering the problem, and solved it in rather remarkable time.
The preceding dawn, Illya Kuryakin had dashed into cover among the beech trees on the hill overlooking the Westchester site. Down below in the little valley, Solo was lost somewhere behind the belching stream of fire put out by the flame thrower. Illya pelted on over the hill, firing back across his shoulder as other Thrushmen came after him.
He ran until he found a brush-tangled gully. On his stomach he crawled beneath the covering of the underbrush for what seemed a quarter of a mile or more. Several times his pursuers were quite close, crashing up to within a foot or two of where he lay. Each time he held his breath until his lungs ached. Finally the pursuers turned back.
Illya clambered up, made a wide looping circuit back through a field in order to come up to the valley from a new direction. Crouched low, he moved through the morning grayness. He’d almost reached the hillside when a thunderous explosion sent flames and dirt toward the sky.
Stunned by the sound, Illya stood up. Other explosions followed. He realized that the demolitions men had already set their charges. The underground hangar site was being destroyed in blast after booming blast.
Illya Kuryakin wondered agonizingly whether Solo was alive or dead. Just then, truck engines roared. Illya whipped his head to the right. Limned against the increasing light on the crest of a hill, the trio of demolitions trucks were preparing to leave.
All of Illya’s professional coolness left him. Practically berserk with rage and frustration, he charged up the hill, firing round after round at the trucks. Thrushmen returned his fire, though sporadically. Clearly the demo teams were anxious to get away now that daylight had arrived.
The little valley boiled with smoke. A dozen fires crackled. Vision was difficult. For a moment Illya lost the trucks as they went down the hillside in reverse. They backed out toward the road.
Lungs hurting, Illya ran harder. The first truck rolled toward the road, accelerating on its heavy tires through the weeds. The second truck followed. Illya caught up with the third, leaped, managed to get a double hand-hold on the handles of the rear doors.
But his foot missed the bumper by inches.
His hands tore at the truck metal as it pulled away from him. He landed flat on his face, stunned, as the vehicle rumbled off.
Illya Kuryakin sat up, swearing, glanced down disgustedly at his gloved hands. Suddenly his pale eyes went down to slits.
He lifted his left glove, studying the tip of his index finger.
A small flake of gray paint measuring no more than an eighth of an inch across adhered to the fabric.
Illya had the presence of mind to tuck the flake carefully into a zippered breast pocket of his black night-warfare suit. Then he trudged back to search the ruined rubble of the hangar site.
He couldn’t get very far into the valley because the rocks were smoking hot. Had Solo been blown up along with the station? He mustn’t think about that.
Illya sat down a safe distance from the smoking ruins and called headquarters on Channel D of his pocket communicator. Within forty minutes, several fast U.N.C.L.E. limousines arrived.
One brought Mr. Waverly. Illya Kuryakin spent an hour showing his chief through the ruins and directing the search for possible clues.
At the end of that time, the U.N.C.L.E. teams confirmed what Waverly and Illya had already seen with their own eyes. The job of destruction had been thorough.
Mr. Waverly was the first to use the ominous words: “Clearly a scorched earth policy. They must be drawing back, getting ready for something big.”
Illya remembered suddenly, “The paint!”
“What paint, Mr. Kuryakin.”
“This, sir.”
Carefully Illya took out the tiny gray flake. He explained how he’d gotten it. Mr. Waverly’s usually phlegmatic face showed sudden animation.
“For heaven’s sake, Mr. Kuryakin, don’t wave it about and lose it! Put it back in your pocket! We’ll take it back to the laboratory immediately. If we can use it to identify the make and model of the vehicle, and then co-ordinate with the proper registration authorities, we may have a lead to Mr. Solo’s whereabouts.”
Illya zippered the paint flake back into his pocket. “Yes, sir. Provided he is alive.”
“Don’t think otherwise, Mr. Kuryakin. To do so is to court all sorts of mental turmoil. You should know that by now.” Waverly searched the pleasant blue of the morning skies. “And if U.N.C.L.E. has ever needed all its wits, I fear the time is now.”
TWO
A dismal rain began at noon. The laboratory seemed to take hours to complete. Finally the pigment was identified. But the motor vehicle authorities, though Waverly goaded them by phone incessantly, required several more hours for a proper identification. A list of nine possible owners of the same type of vehicle was finally drawn up at 3:30 in the afternoon.
Teams of agents were dispatched. By mid-evening, the only lead which had not been checked out was Cosmo Toys, Inc, across the river in Jersey.
Illya Kuryakin had remained at headquarters to receive all the reports. But since Cosmo was the last possible suspect---the firm owned a fleet of six similar trucks---Illya told Waverly he wanted to make the check himself.
Mr. Waverly looked fatigued. “I understand, Mr. Kuryakin. I’ll have a car sent round in front of Del Florio’s right away.”
Strapping on his shoulder holster, Illya said, “The fastest one in the garage, if you please, sir.”
“Naturally, Mr. Kuryakin.” He understood, and shared, the concern for N
apoleon Solo.
In minutes Illya was racing toward New Jersey.
Droplets of rain splattered against the windshield as the little fastback howled down the warehouse street. Illya cut the distance to four blocks, then three. Ahead, buildings on both sides of the street were burning fiercely.
He crossed an intersection a block from the holocaust. He applied his right foot gingerly to the brake. Who had set the fire to the facilities? THRUSH? If so, had the arsonists already departed by another route?
Suddenly headlights glared in a truck delivery bay on the ground floor of the burning building on his left. A huge stake-sided truck swung out, gathering speed as it roared toward him.
Chunks of rubble were falling into the street below. The upper stories of both buildings had been fired first, and part of an antiquated signboard which announced the firm’s name came tumbling down onto the sidewalk. The letters OSMO trailed fire and sparks. As the truck careened down the street, Illya instinctively cut the wheel of his fastback over toward the right curb. The truck had a canvas top rigged over support struts which arched from one of the staked sides of the bed to the other. The canvas had come untied in several places.
It flapped and revealed nightmarish figures grouped in the back of this truck. The dozen men in the truck wore gray asbestos suits with face plates of dark glass.
The truck had nearly reached him. Without even putting the thought into words, Illya understood that this was the THRUSH arson brigade departing. Strident factory alarms rang. Illya spun the wheel over, zooming the fastback straight at the cab of the truck. At the last second he wrenched himself out from under the steering wheel.
Into the clamor of bells blasted a rip and crunch of metal. Illya’s world spun. Big truck tires howled. His head struck the fastback’s ceiling as the little car started to telescope. Illya levered the right-hand door open and rolled out.
Jumping up Kuryakin dragged his long-muzzled pistol from under his coat. The fastback had crashed into the left front fender of the truck, jamming the wheel and bringing the truck to an abrupt stop. The men in asbestos suits shouted in confusion. One of their number seemed to be the leader.
“Get away on foot, you imbeciles. Someone use the flame sticks you’ve got left and kill that meddler, whoever he is.”
Illya went for cover behind the wreckage of the fastback’s rear deck. He lifted his gun hand up and over, fired twice. Two of the men in asbestos suits, hit, reeled backwards like bizarre stuffed animals.
The leader was taller than the others. He cursed foully as he dragged something loose from a wide black belt at his waist. The left hand window of the truck cab rolled down. Sweating face lit by the fireglare of the burning buildings, a Thrushman leaned out with a rapid-fire pistol.
Illya swung round on his knees, shot once. The man in the cab shrieked and pitched forward. He hung down over the cab’s side.
The leader of the fire crew lobbed whatever it was he’d taken from his belt. It arched up and over the wrecked fastback and landed within three feet of Illya.
White-yellow liquid fire spewed out like a fountain. A dollop of it touched Illya’s coat, set it to blazing. Frantically he tore the garment off and flung it away. His shirt began to burn.
The asbestos-clad Thrushmen tumbled from the truck, running in all directions. Another section of a Cosmo building came crashing down. Two of the Thrushmen died beneath it, crushed.
The incendiary device thrown by the THRUSH leader shot out tendrils of liquid fire along the pavement. Illya went stumbling backward in the street.
He was a clear target. He had to get away from that crawling, expanding pool of fire. It swallowed the asphalt, turned it to bubbling tar as it ate its way into an ever-widening circle of flame.
One of the running Thrushmen clubbed clumsily at Illya’s head with his fist, Illya jumped aside just as another of the firesticks came tumbling end over end in front of him.
He threw himself to the right like a diver, slamming down on the sidewalk as the device spurted out its fountain of liquid fire. His left trouser leg started to burn.
He kicked his leg against the brick wall of the building, heedless of the pain. At last the fire went out.
He dodged bricks tumbling down from overhead. Fire and police sirens were shrieking somewhere. Illya searched for the tall figure of the arson leader.
Nearly all of the Thrushmen had melted away. Only one remained near the truck. It was the leader.
Illya Kuryakin extended his right arm full length. The muzzle of his pistol glared in the firelight. More bricks and mortar crashed down along the sidewalk as the leader, a bizarre figure in the asbestos suit and reflecting face-panel, whipped his arm all the way back to throw.
“Stand where you are.” Illya shouted. “Stand there or I’ll kill you.”
The leader hesitated, arm raised high to throw the last fire device. Illya advanced toward him through the rubble-littered street. A police car rounded a corner a block away, slewing wildly. It braked fast as it pulled up to the wreckage in the street.
Illya took another step forward. Another. The leader of the arsonists remained immobile, arm upraised. The fire-stick was a black wand in his right hand, as he watched Illya walk slowly.
Sweat streamed on Illya’s face. Bricks rained down just behind him. One hit his shoulder hard. He walked on, eyes never swerving from the asbestos-clad figure.
When Illya Kuryakin was within ten feet of the Thrushman, the man said:
“Why did you stop us? Who are you?”
“I’m from U.N.C.L.E.,” Illya Kuryakin said. “Now please put that thing down before---“
From behind the dark glass faceplate came a wild, fanatical scream. And Illya Kuryakin knew in a split second that he had taken a risk and lost---lost to the fanaticism of THRUSH.
The leader of the arsonists did not intend to be captured alive by U.N.C.L.E. He whipped his hand down, twisted the top of the wand-like thing and then charged forward, arms wide.
Illya hesitated. He did not want to shoot the man in cold blood. The fanatic leaped, caught Illya Kuryakin in a maniacal suicide hug.
Writhing, kicking, Illya tried to break the man’s hold. In a moment the incendiary device would go off. They’d both be engulfed in the yellow-white fire.
Ugly panting sounds came from behind the faceplate as Illya wrestled with the asbestos-clad man. The man had his hands locked behind Illya’s back. Illya stamped on the man’s foot, slammed his palm against the faceplate, battered it. Seconds now, surely only seconds left---
In their struggling they had careened toward the sidewalk. A massive chunk of falling cornice smashed Illya’s temple a glancing blow, then struck the Thrushman’s faceplate. The impact separated the two antagonists. The Thrushman dropped the fire-stick.
White-yellow fire bloomed, blinding Illya with a brightness that brought physical pain. Moving by instinct, he grabbed the Thrushman’s arms and spun him. The asbestos suit became a shield between Illya and the fountain-burst of fire that ate up asphalt, brick and fallen concrete.
The Thrushman felt the heat, shrieked. Illya jerked him backwards.They fell, and Illya rolled away.
The Thrushman writhed back and forth in agony. Illya crawled toward him. Fire engines were clogging both ends of the street now.
Policemen appeared, running, along with stretcher-bearers from an ambulance.
Illya pried up the man’s faceplate, saying a wordless prayer.
Eyes glared out, hateful, fanatic. The Thrushman was alive. He struggled feebly.
Illya kept the arson leader pinned down by sitting on his chest. The pool of yellow-white fire from the last stick was creeping steadily toward them again. The Thrushman ground his teeth and swore. Illya lifted himself, sat down again hard on the man’s chest.
“There, my friend. That’ll stop your histrionics. I know you’re dreadfully sorry to be alive. Your suicide won’t be enshrined on the THRUSH honor roll after all. But we want you in a cage where there are so
me devices highly conducive to making little thrushes sing.”
Almost laughing with relief, Illya Kuryakin cried, “Stretcher! Over here!”
The bearers ran up. Illya identified himself. One of the bearers said, “We’d better get out of here. That wall’s about to come down.”
“Fine.” Illya had recovered some of his aplomb. He brushed plaster dust out of his hair. “Which way to your ambulance, gentlemen? We are all going on a fast ride into Manhattan. Oh shut up,” he added to the Thrushman in the asbestos suit.
The man was still grinding his teeth as he was carried away.
THREE
High-intensity surgical lights flooded the center of the chamber. At the edge of the light, whitish figures moved. A control console glowed off in the gloom, its dials quivering every time the patient on the surgical table breathed.
The man on the floodlit table was covered with a sheet. The sheet was not quite big enough to accommodate his big frame. His bare feet stuck out grotesquely. Clear tubes full of fluid were connected to the man’s arms. Other wires ended in metal wafers clamped to his temples, wrists, sternum, and inner elbows. The wire ran off into the dark toward the control console.
Alexander Waverly stepped into the light, tick-ticking the stem of his cold pipe against his front teeth. To someone in the dark he said, “Can’t you speed it up a bit, doctor?”
One of the white-coated men appeared, checked a pinch clamp on one of the clear tubes. The physician unfastened the clamp so that the flow of the liquid was unimpeded. Inside the tube, the colorless fluid ran faster down toward the captured Thrushman’s left arm.
“I’ve doubled the rate of administration,” the doctor said. “We can’t risk more.”
For a long moment no one stirred in the room. Then the man on the table groaned.
The man rolled his head to one side. He had a horsy, ugly face. His cheeks contorted. He bared his teeth as though he knew, even under drugs, that he was in the enemy camp and must resist.
Mr. Waverly frowned, waved his pipe,
“Try him again, Mr. Kuryakin.”
Illya moved forward in the circle of light. He looked paler than usual. A soot-smudge still stained his cheek.
The Dolls of Death Affair Page 7