The Electronic Frankenstein Affair

by Robert Hart Davis

  Solo nodded and looked around the steel-walled, soundproof room in which the briefing was taking place. "U.N.C.L.E. has few friends in that particular area," Harris went on, as if aware of Solo's thoughts. "But by the same token, few enemies to worry about. You can travel for miles and meet no one at all. The native guides and trackers don't give a hoot about politics. The camels probably know more about ideology than they do—because when some harsh little official has a mission to complete you can be sure he doesn't spare them."

  "Planes haven't replaced camels to any extent, then?" Illya asked. "I thought perhaps tractors and even tanks had become quite common."

  "Only in certain areas," Harris said. "In many parts of the desert the transportation system hasn't changed in four thousand years.

  Harris glanced at his wrist-watch, set his steel-rimmed glasses a little more firmly on his nose and looked down at a paper on his desk.

  "Everything has been arranged," he said. "Your itinerary will be a three-stage affair. You'll be flown by jet from Tokyo to a secret U.N.C.L.E. landing field in Inner Mongolia and from there by 'copter to the Gobi and northward to the area where Blakeley vanished. Then the 'copter will take off but remain on call, and you'll go on with the three desert guides we've engaged to help you make sure that nothing that would be invisible from the air escapes you.

  "You'll have to circle around quite a bit and examine many landscape features at very close range—the slow, patient way. A 'copter would have to keep setting you down and taking you off, and even then—"

  "Yes, I understand all that," Solo said, nodding. "Mr. Waverly explained it to us in New York, stressed just how important experienced trackers are. The natives know as much about the Gobi as they do about the lines on their palms. We, of course, are amateurs with a vengeance, as far as the Gobi is concerned."

  "But not otherwise, Mr. Solo," Harris said, the smile returning to his lips. "Your desert accomplishments in other parts of the world would merit a double row of medals, if U.N.C.L.E. did not have a prejudice against rewarding merit in that way. It has always seemed to me a needless restriction."

  His gaze passed to Illya. "You also, Mr. Kuryakin. Your reputation has gone before you, if you'll forgive my saying so." The levity went out of his eyes.

  "The instant you leave this building you will be driven straight to the plane which will fly you to Inner Mongolia. Mr. Waverly felt no conversation should pass between us concerning the precise moment of your departure until I set the time myself at the end of your briefing. The pilots of the plane do not even know the exact time of your arrival. They have merely been instructed to be ready to take off the instant you appear at the airfield."

  Harris restacked the papers on his desk into a slightly neater looking pile and arose. "Well then," he said. "I guess that takes care of everything. Good luck to both of you."

  THE TWO GUARDS stationed at the high, mesh-wire gate of the airfield had apparently signaled the control tower that an authorized car was coming, for the gate swung slowly open as the limousine bearing the two U.N.C. L.E. agents approached.

  As the car swept past the guards, who stood stiffly at attention, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin relaxed a little. They were certain that they had not been followed. The car continued on across the airfield toward the seven jets that stood at irregular intervals on the far side of the control tower. There were several empty runways and no stir or activity at all around the slender gray planes.

  There could be no doubt that U.N.C.L.E.'s Tokyo unit had planned well. Careful timing could apparently work miracles.

  In a competitive industrial set up, as Harris had explained to them before their departure, secrecy could be carried so far that the arrival and departure of planes adhered to no set schedule, and the customary activities of an airfield could slow, at times, to a standstill.

  Government inspection was, of course, unavoidable. But it could be made infrequently by a scrupulous avoidance of flight requirement violations, and a little judicious wire-pulling.

  Among the nondescript Japanese jets there would, Solo felt, be a plane of quite different character. Silk contracts and the discreet consignment of forbidden merchandise to the highest bidder would have nothing whatever to do with its swift takeoff. He was equally certain that the agent at the wheel of the limousine would be quick to recognize that particular jet.

  He was not mistaken. But its distinguishing mark, a tiny glow-dot on one of its swept-back wings, was so inconspicuous that Solo would have failed to notice it if the driver hadn't halted the car and called it to his attention.

  "Well, here's where we part," he said. "You'll be high in the sky in just about eight more minutes. Setting you down in Inner Mongolia will be no problem for Hart and Ovenden. They're not just competent pilots. There are none better anywhere."

  Kuryakin said, "Just how top-echelon are the pilots who'll be waiting for us in the helicopter?"

  "Just as experienced," the U.N.C.L.E. agent at the wheel said. "They made six flights over the Gobi before Blakeley' disappeared."

  "There are a lot of things we don't know," Solo said wryly. "Including what the Gobi does to you when you look down on it from the air for the first time."

  The agent at the wheel grinned. "Don't worry. The lads who'll meet you at sunrise survived it and are in the best of spirits. Good luck now. Success all the way."

  "Thanks," Solo said, returning the other's grin. "Luck should be at a premium in the Gobi. But maybe we can scrape up enough to see us through."

  Solo and Illya descended from the car, and crossed to the jet with out looking back. The aluminum ladder had twenty-five or thirty rungs, but they ascended so swiftly that they were inside the plane be fore the usual transition from sun light to artificial light could be adjusted to gradually.

  For a moment their vision remained hazy and they could barely make out two tall figures standing just outside the pilot compartment where the double row of seats terminated. They could hear the ladder being drawn up as one of them advanced toward them, his features a blurred oval.

  His hand was extended in greeting and before he spoke Solo's vision became much clearer, and he recognized the man from the description which Harris had given him.

  "You got here in good time," the tall pilot said. "Mr. Harris instructed us to take off immediately. That we can do. Unless, of course, there's something he may have neglected to tell us you'd like to talk about first. We're in no immediate danger and a few extra minutes—"

  Solo shook his head. "The sooner we're in the air the better I'll feel," he said. "I'm not sure just how detailed Mr. Harris' instructions were. But we have reason to believe that what we're saying now could set off an alert that could prove dangerous at the end of— well, say fifteen or twenty minutes. It would all depend on how quickly a THRUSH plane or armored car could get here."

  The pilot's equally tall companion had joined him in time to catch what Solo .was saying. "Yes, of course, we realize that," he said, replying without waiting for the other to nod in agreement. "I'm Thomas Ovenden. This is Mr. Hart. Our instructions were very detailed. Your briefing took place under unusual precautions, in a soundproof room. And you were rushed here immediately, with the time and destination not revealed to you until you were ready to leave—solely as an added precaution."

  He paused an instant, then went on quickly: "We had no knowledge as to precisely when you would arrive. We were just warned to remain on the alert, that your actual arrival would take the place of a transmitted message. Now that you're here I agree that we should take off immediately."

  "We can risk perhaps another minute—against my better judgment," Solo said. "Just how were your instructions conveyed to you—remaining on the alert and all that? Surely not in short wave, scrambled or otherwise."

  The pilot who had identified himself as Ovenden and whose hawklike features and British accent matched the description Harris had supplied shook his head. "No range finding risk, if that's what you're thinking. We've neve
r sent Harris a message or received one on this airfield. This plane has been here for a week, and all arrangements concerning it were made before your arrival in Tokyo. Previous to your arrival it was used by our Tokyo unit for other purposes. We received our instructions in the same soundproof room where you were briefed, before Mr. Harris met you at the airport. Then we drove straight here. A three-hour drive, as you know."

  "We're wasting precious seconds," Illya Kuryakin said. "Pilots are seldom briefed that extensively. But I guess it was necessary in this case. Since you know so much we can have an enjoyable time discussing it. But not now."

  There was a harsh impatience in Illya's voice, but neither of the two pilots appeared to resent it. They nodded, turned and strode swiftly back along the aisle to the pilot compartment. The dividing panel opened and closed and Solo remained standing very still for a moment, staring at Illya in surprise.

  "That came close to a reprimand," Solo said. "It wasn't their fault they were told so much. Harris must have had a reason—"

  "There's something about this I don't like," Illya said. "I can't pin it down, exactly. But when you said, 'We can risk another minute' they seemed to leap at the opportunity of spelling everything out. At least, Ovenden did, as if he was afraid you wouldn't believe him."

  "He just answered my question," Solo pointed out. "Fairly concisely, I'd say. He could see I was concerned. If that's all that's bugging you—"

  "If THRUSH could pick human voices right out of the air on a Newfoundland headland and send that pickup instantly racing along undersea to a THRUSH submarine in a matter of minutes anything is possible," Illya said.

  "You're suggesting, then—" Solo paused, to stare at Illya intently. It was a thought which, unknown to Illya, had flashed for the barest instant across his own mind. But he had dismissed as too incredible, in view of the fact that the two pilots conformed to the descriptions which Harris had given them, even to Ovenden's British accent. But the fact that Illya appeared to take it seriously gave him pause, for he had the highest respect for the younger agent's judgment.

  "I'm not sure," Illya said. He hesitated, a look of deepening concern in his eyes. He was returning Napoleon Solo's stare.

  "They seemed to know more than Harris could have told them," he said, clearly unaware of how much progress he had made in that respect. "One or two small details almost on the—well, the all-seeing level. All-seeing as far as this particular operation goes, if you know what I mean. That may sound a little far-out, but—"

  "It doesn't," Solo said quickly. "It fits, in a way, and I don't like it either. But there are—"

  They both saw it at the same instant, a thin ribbon of blood snaking across the passenger cabin between the double row of seats close to where they were standing.

  SOLO DREW in his breath sharply, and gripped the arm of the last seat on the left side of the aisle as he stared down at it. Kuryakin gripped Solo's arm just as tightly, and pointed in silence at the scarlet trickle. He seemed not to realize that there was no need for him to draw Solo's attention to it.

  Though Solo's voice, when it came, was perfectly controlled its very calmness had a forced quality.

  "Now we are sure," he said. "Stay right where you are, and watch the pilot compartment while I look. They've been dragged out of sight somewhere behind us—no room under the seats. If the panel opens shoot to kill."

  "Right," Illya said. "But make it quick. If the plane takes off—"

  "We've got to risk that," Solo said. "If they're still alive, we'll need them. If they've been killed we'll have at least a fighting chance of forcing those THRUSH pilots to set us down in Inner Mongolia. The odds against us will be heavier if we don't know what the score is."

  Illya nodded and worked a special pistol with a five-inch barrel loose from its holder beneath his coat. He trained it on the pilot compartment, his lips set in tight lines.

  "Go ahead," he said. "We could be making a mistake by not blasting that pair right out of their seats first. But it's almost a toss-up. They'd be no good to us dead, as you say."

  Solo gripped Illya firmly by the shoulder for an instant, his voice reassuring. "It will only take a minute to find out. Then we'll know exactly where we stand."

  Solo swung about and moved swiftly into the shadowy rear section of the passenger cabin where the seats terminated. He glanced just as swiftly around him, his eyes sweeping over the entire section. He saw nothing at first but a gray expanse of metal hemming him in on four sides. Then he looked down and saw that the ribbon of blood— it had widened slightly—led from the last of the seats to a point mid way between the seats and a paneled doorway which matched the one which opened on the pilot compartment at the opposite end of the passenger cabin.

  He was not interested in what he might have found beyond that doorway, because the ribbon of blood terminated in another panel set midway in the rear section.

  It could hardly have opened on a large compartment, in view of its location. He was almost sure that it opened on a small storage compartment.

  The panel did not open when he tugged at the small metal knob which projected from it. He removed from his pocket a knifelike device as specialized as the extremely short-barreled pistol which Illya was keeping trained on the pilot compartment and set to work on the knob and the lock on the inner side of the panel which prevented him from turning it.

  The knifelike device had six blades and the one which he used on the knob was hollow. From it there came a beam of heat.

  The knob glowed white-hot for an instant, then disintegrated. The glow vanished without spreading and an ash-encircled aperture an inch in diameter replaced the vanished knob.

  Into the aperture Napoleon Solo inserted another blade terminating in a tiny metal hand, flexible-fingered. There was a faint clicking noise as the lock opened and the metal panel glided slowly leftward under the steady pressure of his palm.

  He found himself staring into a lighted storage compartment about nine feet square.

  His lips tightened as he stared. But it was not as shaken as he might have been if he had not visualized in advance almost precisely how the two U.N.C.L.E. pilots had fared.

  They were both securely bound. One sat upright with his eyes wide open in the middle of the compartment, two feet from where the other lay with his back to the panel, his body grotesquely contorted.

  Both bore a twin-close resemblance to the two THRUSH agents in general build, the pilot sitting upright a facial resemblance to the most talkative of that spurious pair which identified him as Ovenden.

  The thin ribbon of blood was coming from beneath the right shoulder of the pilot lying prone, but it was wider than a ribbon at its source. There was an unmistakable look of recognition in Ovenden's eyes as he returned Solo's stare and, tightly bound as he was, he made an effort to rise.

  Solo shook his head, gesturing as he spoke. "No, don't try to get up," he cautioned. "I'll have you untied in a moment. You must be Ovenden. I'm Napoleon Solo. But we've no time to talk. Just lie still now—"

  "Hart's badly wounded," Ovenden said, nodding. "He may be dead. I don't know. They took us by surprise—"

  "How long ago?" Solo asked kneeling at Ovenden's side and setting expertly to work on the cords at his wrists.

  "An hour perhaps. One of them clobbered me, but I don't think the blackout lasted for more than a minute or two. The panel was just closing when I came to."

  "They bound you up fast and left. Is that it?"

  Ovenden smiled faintly. "That's right. My own twin brother clobbered me. At least that's what any one would have thought. He even had my Sussex accent down pat. The other one shot Hart, when he put up a fight."

  Solo had freed Ovenden's wrists and was working just as expertly at the cords at his ankles when he paused an instant to grip him firmly by the arm.

  "Listen carefully. The THRUSH agent who clobbered you and the one who made us believe he was Hart are sitting in the pilot compartment about ready to take off. Kuryakin is sitting
with a gun trained on the panel, in case something makes them suspicious. There's something more—"

  "Go on," Ovenden said, as the cords at his ankle fell away. "I can see we'll have to act fast—"

  "You've guessed it," Solo said. "With your help we'll have an even better chance to take them. Three against a very dangerous two. Make no mistake about that. They're armed, of course."

  "Don't I know it!" Ovenden said.

  "This time U.N.C.L.E has the advantage of surprise. But first you can help me find out just how badly Hart is wounded. We've got to turn him over and raise him very gently, in case it's real bad."

  It took them only a moment to find out just how bad it was. When they knelt on both sides of the prone pilot and raised him to a sitting position his glassily staring eyes made it impossible for them to doubt that he was dead.

  They eased him just as gently back to a prone position and stood up. A moment later they were moving swiftly toward the double row of chairs, where Illya Kuryakin was still sitting motionless with his gun trained on the closed panel of the pilot compartment. Just as they reached his side a distinct tremor passed through the plane and an all-too-familiar hum made their eardrums vibrate. The jet had taken off.

  SIX

  STAY ALERT—OR DIE

  A SURPRISE ATTACK on two armed THRUSH pilots in a jet that had broken the sound barrier could so easily have sent the plane spiraling earthward, perhaps in flames, that Solo, Illya and the man at their side paused for an instant to discuss it in whispers before opening the panel wide.

  "We may have to shoot it out with them," Solo said. "But let's hope we can avoid that risk. With guns at their backs we should be able to persuade them to surrender their pistols and set the controls to keep the plane stable and on course until we've walked them back here. Guns at their backs first. Is that clear?"