Текст книги "The Final Affair"

Автор книги: David McDaniel

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On Valencia, the Thrush Fiat led the U.N.C.L.E. van south at the sober speed of thirty miles an hour while Illya raced down deserted Van Ness at seventy. The ringer would be out of their sight for another space of fifteen to twenty seconds at the corner of Valencia and Army. Up an alley nearby waited the tanktruck, its diesel turning over. A Section Three technician on nearby rooftop held the remote control which would send the rolling bomb out to meet the truck which Illya drove, while the U.N.C.L.E. duplicate would vanish quietly.

His synchronized Accutron, matched to every other man’s on the team, brought him to the shadowed side of the selected intersection with twenty seconds to spare. He took a few deep breaths while waiting for the Fiat to appear and pass, its passengers still alert for any threat to their convoy.

The car made its left turn onto Army. and Illya swung the Thrush truck out of the alley before his counterpart swung in.

Five seconds later he braked to a stop on his marks in front of a parking lot two buildings from the corner. Ten seconds, he’d dragged a lump of discarded meat behind the steering wheel. Fifteen seconds, and he was sprinting for the shelter of the alley with the sound of a diesel gathering speed pounding at his heels. Twenty seconds, and a fist of concussion slapped his back as building fronts lit up before an impossibly huge yellow flare.

He almost stumbled as the shock wave punched past him, then recovered his long stride. His new shadow danced, black and elongated along the street before him as he staggered up to the U.N.C.L.E. van and was helped in as their engine revved up and they shot away up the side street while leaping flames licked against the sky behind them.

Illya found a communicator in his hand. “Kuryakin here.” he said.

“Detonation successful. Do we have the merchandise we came for?”

“Indeed we do.” said Mr. Simpson’s voice unexpectedly. “As.. well as I can tell in five minutes’ examination, .e have accomplished all we could have hoped for this evening.”

“Okay. that’s it then,” came Napoleon’s voice. “Teams One and Two are relieved as soon as they have their areas secured. Illya, I’ll see you back at the office. Everybody else – thank you. It’s been a pleasure working with you. This operation is officially completed.”

And in U.N.C.L.E.‘s San Francisco communications room. Alexander Waverly leaned back from his console and smiled. The first knot in a fatal skein had been tied, and the web which might ensnare Thrush was strengthened. A chance encounter and an unlikely friendship had spun the first strands three years ago, and now for the first time in nearly a quarter of a century he could Almost foresee the beginning of the end to which his life had been devoted.

He smiled the smile of patience rewarded, the smile of the hunter who has finally cornered the old grizzly, and began to pack his pipe.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Great Balls of Fire.”

Illya got to see it the following afternoon. In twelve hours a mixed bag of technicians from Sections Four. Five and Eight had disarmed the autodestruct mechanisms in the Thrush terminal. and now it rested on a table in the basement laboratory of U.N.C.L.E.‘s San Francisco office. No complex of cables sprouted from its comfortably paneled sides – only a single well-shielded AC cord which terminated in a standard two-prong locking plug.

Instead of the wall socket, this was plugged into the front of a tall wheeled rack which displayed eleven panels including three quite different oscilloscope traces. This rack was plugged into the wall.

Napoleon stood behind a white-coated technician, watching as she expanded a small portion of the complex waveform on the second ‘scope into close focus and made some notes. Illya stared over his shoulder for several seconds before he spoke.

“Is that signal going in or coming out?”

“It IS coming in,” said Mr. Simpson. who had appeared quietly. HIt’s part of a multiplexed carrier-current signal which can be received at least in the central San Francisco area – we haven’t started carrying the terminal around to find just how far the signal extends.”

“It looks like white noise.” said Napoleon critically.

“Well, it is, pretty much,” said Mr. Simpson. “Except mathematically.

There are about fifty channels, I’d guess, and they’re all scrambled.”

“But the system has a key which our computer can work out?”

“Oh, no. That would be simple. This unit has broken synchronization with the Ultimate Computer; effectively, it has been disowned. Any direct attempt to signal into the operational banks would result in the erasure of the terminal IS own working core, as well as triggering its autodestruct circuits.”

“That IS what we need the maintenance access code for.” said Napoleon accurately, if ungrammatically. “Well, Harry’s on the job. Are you ready to start work as soon as you get it?”

“Well. I won’t be doing that part. Once we have communication established a Mr. Gold will be taking over. My expertise gives way to his once you get away from how the machines think into what they think about.”

“Communication? Two-way?”

“Of course. We have to be able to tell it what we want. Otherwise all we could do with this would be tap Ward Baldwin’s private line to Central.”

“I can remember when that alone would have been worth all we’ve gone through,” said Napoleon, impressed.

“Then they left the unit fully functional,” said Illya. “They didn’t disable it.”

“It wasn’t destined for the scrap heap; Thrush is never wasteful.

According to Mr. Stevens’ last report. it was to have been overhauled.

reconditioned, modified in a few modules and sent to one of the emerging African Satraps.”

“But won’t anybody notice an unauthorized signal coming in?”

“They have no reason to monitor terminal channels – Central has nearly fifteen thousand anyway, some of which only call once a month. And security on the terminals themselves is much easier than questioning each call. Yes, it’s a weakness; it took us some effort to find it, and we hope to make the roost of it.”

“Then the whole. contents of the Ultimate Computer will fall into our hands like – like an egg?”

“Well, not that simply. Thrush doesn’t trust most of its own workers -which you must admit is reasonable —and the roost interesti”9 sections require the highest priority and the most obscure passwords. This is what Mr. Gold will be doing for us. In the persona of a qualified and cleared Thrush system analyst, he will identify himself convincingly and proceed to talk his way into the vaults.” ,

“You’re anthropomorphizing,” said Illya.

“A bad habit.”

“And the Ultimate Computer won’t get suspicious?” asked Napoleon-.

“Remember,” said Mr. Simpson, “a computer is an idiot. And a big computer is a big idiot. You just have to handle it more carefully.”

“And I suppose the Ultimate Computer would be the ultimate idiot,” said Napoleon.

“We hope so, Mr. Solo. We sincerely hope so.”

Nobody heard from Harry all that day. Napoleon and Illya were called into Mr. Waverly’s office late that evening to meet Mr. Simpson again and view some ninety feet of Super-8 film shot by an agent near Gilroy.

“Miss Fletcher’s camera was over a mile from_the Thrush test site,” said Mr. Waverly, “and a lens of some magnitude was used. You will notice interference from atmospheric haze and several intervening trees; also the image is not as steady as we might wish. Several sequences have been analyzed fr~~e by frame for computer study, but I thought you might like to see the KugelBlitzGewehr in action.”

He dimmed the lights with a finger-touch, and the opposite wall lit up to display a block-lettered title with a long code number. It was replaced by a vertical white line which took exactly a second to cross the screen. Then, through blurred foliage, a group of men could be seen clustered around a lean deadly-looking device mounted on a tripod on a small concrete slab. A husky backpack with cables running to the stock hung by its straps between the legs of the tripod, and another single line ran through a coil to a control box.

The image jumped and the figures vanished. A second later some thing which was rather 1ike a bubble and rather like the sun burst into existence at the tip of the tapering muzzle and spat away out of the picture in a dazzling blur of flame.

“Gawp,” said Napoleon.

“You can see that frame by frame if you’d like,” said Mr. Waverly. “Here comes another one.”

It seemed to take about a quarter of a second to swell up to the size of a basketball and vanish to the left.

“Yes, I would,” said Illya.

The image flickered, and a streak of light appeared at the left and was sucked into the needlepoint at the center of a deep two-foot dish of clear plastic with wires laced through it; a few seconds later another was drawn after it. The picture flickered again and grain pattern suddenly appeared as a single frame was held. The wall darkened and brightened alternately four times before a spot of intense light could be seen at the tip of the muzzle.

“That would seem to be about half an inch wide,” said Mr. Simpson. “The temperature is somewhere over ten thousand Celsius, but I can’t tell how far over. It could be twenty thousand.”

The screen changed, and a three-inch sphere of brilliance obscured the tip of the discharge point. Dark and light alternated again and the circle of burnt-out emulsion on the film doubled its size. On the fourth frame a globe a foot or so in diameter was only inches from the point and slightly elongated. On the fifth frame a streak of light ten feet long blazed beyond some bushes, flaring among the frozen leaves.

“It’s not really very fast,” said Mr. Simpson. “The plasmoid has a peak velocity in the neighborhood of five hundred feet per second.”

“That’s stil1 a little too fast to duck.”

“Well, it’s not really intended as an anti-personnel weapon. There is more film…”

The second fireball was launched again, followed some seconds later by a third. Then the scene cut to an awkward angle of a number of test walls —apparent1y brick, wood, concrete and stucco. There wasn’t much left of the wooden one, and the stucco was distinguished by shiny stubs of fused chickenwire which stuck out from its shattered edges. A piece had been knocked from the brick structure, and as they watched a ball two feet in diameter slapped into it and in a flare which fogged to the edges of the frame it vanished, taking a quarter of the wall with it.

“Could we see…”

“Certainly.” Time reversed, and a cloud of rusty fragments leaped together in a flash of fire which shot away to the right. Grain appeared on the screen for a moment, and the fami1iar light-and-dark alternation brought a fuzzy -.

ball of brilliance into one corner of the frame…:“Notice it’s larger and traveling more slowly. Our photographer says the range was about one hundred yards. Nevertheless, I believe the temperature of the plasmoid is still over ten thousand degrees, though probably not by much.”

In the next frame a quarter of the wall was obscured but displacement was clearly visible in the brickwork pattern close to the edge of the burned-out part of the image. The third and fourth frames were both nearly transparent except at the corners, and the fifth was normally exposed with blurred fragments suspended in mid-air and black slag running shiny as oil over the shattered edges of the wall. In two more frames the bits of brick were gone and froth was beginning to burst and freeze in the slag.

Normal speed was resumed, and with hazy telephoto unsteadiness they were shown four more impacts against the concrete wa11; the third cracked enough loose to expose steel rods bracing the structure, and the fourth melted the exposed rods and blasted more cement loose around them. Then the film ran out and the room lights faded up.

A signal was flashing insistent1y at Waverly’s elbow. He touched a button and said, “Yes?”

“Sirrocco just checked in sir,” said a clerk. “Stevens signaled her about six minutes ago.”

“That’s our call, I believe,” said Napoleon. “By the way, where are we going this time? I hope you1ve picked a better location for the drop.”

“Hmm. There are perils in picking a site at random from the telephone directory. Yes. we have a meeting place of the highest character. The drop wi1l be handled as before, with two or three minor variations in the floor plan —when you go to his booth after he leaves. the access code will be written on the inside of a matchbook and tucked behind the lamp on the wall just above the table.”

“How soon do we start?”

“Shortly. It’s only half a mile from here. but Mr. Stevens is programmed to make the drop at 12:36 this time. Still, if you haven’t eaten and would like to catch the midnight show, Jack Packard has recommendedd the Casa del Gato. I’m sorry dinner cannot come under your expense account, but the cover charge and one drink each would be deductible.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Napoleon. “I’ve got time to find a clean shirt downstairs. Illya, do you think I need to shave?”

“I think you’re beautiful just the way you are. Come on – I just realized I haven’t had anything to eat since two o’clock.”

CHAPTER SIX

“It’s Clobberin’ Time!”

Unlighted doorways with heavy gratings across their shuttered windows lined the narrow alley; trash bins stood against the walls with garbage cans here and there among them. A flashing neon sign near the T-cross of another alley threw a wash of red across the building fronts and picked out the rough cobbles underfoot. The crude outline of a mangy-looking cat intermittently shone over an entrance. signaling any customers who might pass. but promising nothing.

Napoleon and Illya in California formal attire. with raincoats. sauntered down the sea-damp alley to pause beneath the blinking beacon. “Casa del Gato,”

Napoleon read. “I hope we don’t need reservations.”

Pungent music welled out around the door as they entered, with the mixed scents of smoket red wine and searing meat to fill nostrils sharpened by the chill night air. Inside a slender girl spun and stamped to the music of a Gitano guitar. and a swarthy man “with a gold ring in his left ear led them to a table in the shadows. Biftek Barbados and Paella con Pollo were accompanied by a Basque rose and an impressive display of Flamenco talent. and most of an hour passed agreeably..

“Harry should be along in the next few minutest” Napoleon remarked as he stirred a cafe-con-leche. The stage was dark again and an unseen guitarist wandered alone amid esoteric harmonies. “Do you think 1111 have time for a dish of flan?”

“It’s only a third past midnight.” said Illya over the last of his saffron rice. “You have fifteen minutes. And while we don’t want to appear to leave before we’re finished. we don’t want to sit over an empty table for any noticeable period. In other words. make up your own —”

The door burst open with a crash that startled the cafe into silence and three burly unshaven men in tattered jackets shouldered in. More were visible crowding behind them. In the moment of stillness as the echoes of their entrance faded the leader roared. “T. Hewettt you ******!! We’re here to return your call!” He slapped the levi-jacketed giant next to him on the arm and said. “Kill, Thing!”

The gorilla-like partner leaped into the center of the room with an unearthly yell and kicked over .the two nearest tables. scattering customers like pigeons. As the other two cleared the doort what appeared for one stunning moment to be a barbarian horde poured into the night club. torn leather jackets, grime-crusted levis and biker boots their uniforms.

Twenty, thirty, forty, Illya counted mentally as customers fled in all directions before the invasion. They kept coming in. the main mass in action within fifteen seconds, smashing chairs. kicking over tables and slashing the upholstery along the walls.

Their leader, having established himself. led a small charge towards a specific table where sat the object of his opening address, a lean, keen-featured man in a casual sport coat over a white shirt over a black turtleneck. This individual spoke briefly to his companion, a beautiful brunette in a silver panne velvet pants suit, who looked coolly up at the advancing force, then opened her .

evening bag and flicked out a nine-inch switchblade. The main focus of hostility rose smoothly to his feet with the chair between him and the approaching bikers.

He handled himself like a professional, but somehow Napoleon Solo didn’t like the idea of twenty to one.

A cashier was frantically jiggling the hook on her dead telephone as Napoleon suddenly got up from his table and started forward.

“Where do you think you’re going?” said Illya9 catching his arm. “If you get into this you’ll be noticed. Thrush is just as likely to have Harry followed tonight as they did two nights ago. Maybe more likely. Do you want w blow this whole scene?”

“But Napoleon stopped, one hand on the wrought-iron railing that separated their table against the wall from the main floor.

The man, presumably Hewett, stood with his back to the matching railing at the front of the low stage. His hands gripped the top of a chair, and it was obvious without a spoken threat that the first arms and legs to reach for him would be broken. His companion remained seated, and had not opened her knife, but she eyed half a dozen hairy brutes on her side of the table, and none of them wanted to be the first to move.

Halted, several detached themselves from the fringes of the pack and started around onto the stage from both sides. A score more were content with systematically smashing the front of the club, ripping fixtures from the walls and slashing drapes and pictures.

Napoleon looked at Illya, then back at the stage where a deadly drama was developing. “Call HQ and have them call the police riot squad, code three.

Call anonymously. I can’t stand here and watch this – just don’t tell Mr.

Waverly!”

He vaulted over the rail and leaped to the stage, grabbing at a piece of wrought-iron decoration as he landed. He stumbled and a two-foot section with a twist in the middle broke off in his hand. Three bikers turned to face him.

“Keep out of this, you verbing adjective noun.” one of them warned.

“You don’t have more than a couple minutes before the riot cops get here, punk,” snapped Solo. “Do you want to leave walking, riding, or being carried?”

The unkempt biker laughed, a snort of derision. Then with a crash battle joined on the main floor. There were other knives in evidence, but the very press of numbers around Hewett prevented more than half a dozen coming within attack range of him. His stance was still solid, with a leg from the now-broken chair in each fist, and from his coiled crouch a hand or foot could dart and strike between thought and deed.

Along rip in one shoulder of his light jacket had laid bare the skin and a trickle of blood welled forth, but his breathing didn1t seem hurried and his hair was undisturbed. He balanced like a dancer, holding off the first rush with the help of his companion, who stood straight and silver as a sword blade; a steel sliver stood from her dainty fist and its point flickered like a flame in a breeze – a respectful circle drew back from its bite, but a charge of animal rage was moments away.

Not all the clientele were huddling towards the exits – several otherwise unconcerned citizens had stayed to join the brawl. Most of them seemed unexpectedly able to take care of themselves against the undisciplined biker gang —experienced-looking men, ‘several with scars of more than age, and cold professional eyes – but one or two were unlikely allies. A plump little man with gray at his temples wielded a neatly furled umbrella like a rapier, jabbing at faces and stomachs with the grace of a trained fencer; at his back a taller man who looked like an out-of-condition executive distinguished by.

the white forelock on his otherwise black head swung a chair.

“Hiram,” he gasped over his shoulder, “are you sure we should stick. around?”

“you wanted to come here, Clarence,” said the other. before lunging forward to half-impale a sweaty sternum.

The detachment expected to surround the embattled pair had been delayed by Napoleon more than ten seconds before the U.N.C.L.E. agent finished his repartee with the biker stud, who laughed and said. “No fuzz coming here.

man. Sparky pulled the phone wires. We got five or ten minutes. You wanna go-round?”

“How many of you does it take to pull down a man?”

“As many as it takes, man – there’s lots of us.” He lunged suddenly for Solo and a heavy waterglass hurtled out of nowhere to burst against the back of his head. His footing vanished and Napoleon sidestepped as he flew past with an inarticulate cry and shot full length off the stage.

During the moment his two cohorts took to react. Napoleon cracked one across the shins with his iron rod and just managed to ram the second in the pit of the stomach as he leaped forward. Now five more were coming towards him.

The first in the pack was floored by a heavy pitcher which entered the scene stage right along a parallel trajectory to that of the preceding glass.

Napoleon glanced beyond him to see Illya in mid-air between their table and the back of another biker who was borne to the floor and did not rise again.

Then Illya was on the stage with his partner and their battle was fully joined.

They had the stage cleared in the matter of a minute. and held the position for most of another minute until a wail of sirens pierced through the din and brakes squealed in the alley outside. Four masked and helmeted patrolmen ran in.

batons at ready. cans of assorted incapacitants at their-belts. Two were on the floor amid rubble before they had taken three steps; one was holding his own against five but more were leaping to join them. The fourth backed hastily out to call for reinforcements.

“Napoleon.” Illya yelled over the general noise. “I think this is getting out of hand. Unless you want to be arrested along with everybody else. we should begin to disengage. Besides. I’m allergic to tear-gas.”

The half-circle around Hewett and his striking friend had dissipated. tempted away by the prospect of policemen to loot. and the center of the brawl had shifted to the fallen guardians of public order. Suddenly the two men from U.N.C.L.E. found themselves with nobody to fight. The erstwhile target of the bikers’ wrath stared after them for a moment, then the girl looked down at her silver velvet suit and swore a longshoreman’s oath. “They spilled the Chateau d’Yquem all over my panne!”

Hewett turned to the team behind him on the stage and nodded. “Thanks,”

he said. “Care to go another round?” He indicated the embattled officers with a toss of his head. Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to his companion. “You can sit this one out. Kish,” he admonished her, then picked up a fresh chair and darted forward like a cat. Napoleon started to follow, and Illya grabbed him by the shoulder.

“We’re not supposed to be noticed!” he hissed. “Harry’s not going to walk into the middle of this. If anybody spots us and Baldwin hears and this project is blown, Mr. Waverly isn’t going to care if I did my honest best to stop you and failed —he’ll have us both cataloging fingerprints in Kansas City for the next five years! A full riot squad will be here in a matter of minutes —I saw the fourth officer get outside to call for help. Now will you put down that crowbar and come the hell with me?”

“Not for a minute.” said Napoleon, pointing at the front door with his crude jag-ended weapon. “Look. Here comes Harry.”

There in the doorway. staring uncertainly around him, was the man they were supposed to meet – inconspicuously.

“Let’s go get him,” said Illya. “Everything is waiting for the key word locked up in that scrambled head.”

“Just walk right out there and get him? I thought you didn’t want to be noticed?”

“We’ll stay close to the wall. In the middle of World War Three, who’s going to notice?” The Russian started towards the low railing along the fore-stage, but even before he could vault that barrier, Harry’s presence registered on the fringes of the main riot, and their mission became one of rescue.

The night club was a shambles. Only one table was still upright and unbroken, and it had been swept clear when the tablecloth had been ripped off to serve as a makeshift sling for hurling ashtrays at the overhead lights.

Hewett had sprung into the fray armed as beforet and nearly a dozen floored figures lay as testimony to his speed and dexterity; fists and chains and bottlest furniture and bodies flew about him but he dodged among them unscathed as though possessed of some extra-sensory radar. He didn’t seem to notice Napoleon and Illya making their ways around the edges of the fray.

It took most of a minute to traverse the margins of the dance floor and Harry had scarcely been standing in the doorway ten seconds before the strug9ling mass threw out a pseudopod and dragged him in. The two men from U.N.C.L.E. were still forty feet away when the entrance improbably opened again and a pair of familiar faces stared in: one was that of the Falstaffian individual with bushy red hair who had followed Harry to the Blue Angel and had noticed neither Solo nor Kuryakin; the other belonged to Bruno, Ward Baldwin’s chauffeur.

Napoleon joined his partner on the floor behind a table. “They didn’t see us – I think the fight may hold their attention.”

Illya nodded. “They’re looking for Harry.”

“So are we. But —”

Harry, his shirt torn and his nose bleeding staggered out of the mob and fell over a chair to land across the upper edge of the toppled table which concealed them; he hit hard and slid to the floor. Still conscious but obviously dazed he opened his eyes and stared directly into the face of Napoleon Solo a foot from his own.

Slowly his expression changed and he started to snake his head. .Not” he said under his breath. “Solo. No. I’m…” He shook his head harder and managed to get his palms against the floor and brace himself. “No!” he said vehemently. “No! No! No!”

Napoleon grabbed for him a moment too late. Harry was on his feet, unsteadily, and heading for the kitchen exit with the beginnings of hysteria in the incoherent cry which trailed raggedly behind him.

Illya’s eyes were elsewhere, peeking around the other corner of the table towards the center of action. At the moment the two Thrush seemed to care little for anything but their own immediate survival; Bruno had been foolish enough to pull a gun and had had it taken away from him unceremoniously by a shirtless and tattooed weapons collector who then proceeded to teach him a few things.

The red-headed Falstaff was equally involved but doing better. Neither seemed to be concentrating on the kitchen exit or to be at all aware of Harry’s precipitous departure. Fortunately someone else was.

“We’ve gotta get Harry!” said Napoleon, grabbing Illya’s arm. “I think his head-glue is softening.”

“Huh?” asked Illya perceptively.

“Harry! I think he recognized me, and he didn’t look at all well, even apart from all the blood.”

“Where’d he go?”

“Kitchen.” Napoleon took off, running in a crouch for several feet, hugging the sparse concealment of shattered furniture until he picked up his stride into a sprint for the back door. Illya was close behind him.

“Hoy, Thing!” somebody yelled. “There go the two guys from the stage!”

Illya ducked through the door last. Steel tables and racks gleamed in the steamy deserted kitchen. and Napoleon was already out into the alley.

The swinging door slammed open behind him and a voice roared, “Hey, Blondie —I wanna talk to you!”

An instant later something bit into his ankles and tangled them, and he stumbled, catching himself on the edge of a counter – a bike chain had tripped him, slung along the floor like a bola. He clawed it free and flung it back at the grinning unshaven face of its owner.

Thing caught it across a raised forearm, though the sharp links drew blood where they slashed the hairy muscle. He staggered back a step to an aluminum sink bolted to the wall behind him, as Illya gathered himself for a rush. Feeling cold metal “under his hands, the biker turned and gripped the rolled metal edges. He flexed his knees and tendons stood out like granite ridges until a terrible creak and tearing sound gave Illya a momentary impression his bones were snapping under the strain —then there was a roar and a white fountain of water from the ruptured plumbing in the wall as snapped pipes belched hot and cold. Swinging the metal sink like a hollow boulder, he pivoted and flung it at Illya.

The Russian watched his timing and leaped out of its path an instant before it struck a steel table with a noise like all the garbage cans in the world being emptied at dawn. A two-foot frying pan hung polished on a hook close to the business end of Illya’s arm; it described a short arc terminating in a musical but unresonant sound before the sink had stopped rolling, and Thing stared at him until Illya began to wonder if he was going to have to hit him again before he would fall. Then the stare began to go out of focus, and he gave an oddly gentle sigh as he teetered and went down like a felled tree.

Outside, Solo braced Harry up against a brick wall and waved the silver communicator before his face. “Basingstoke. Harry. Basingstoke! Come on, Basingstoke!”

It seemed to be helping —he’d stopped struggling so hard. but he was half-sobbing incoherently as he stared at the communicator. “Harry. don’t worry.

You’ll be okay with us,” Solo said soothingly as he relaxed his grip a bit at a time. “Harry. we’re going to take you out of here and home again. You1ve got something you were going to leave inside there, and you know I’m supposed to get it. You can give it to me now – it’ll be okay.”

Harry wasn’t sure. He looked at Napoleon. and shook his head slowly -not refusing the request so much as willing himself to reject Solo’s presence entirely. “It’s… it’s… my pocket…” He gestured weakly and leaned against the wall.