Текст книги "The Vampire Affair"

Автор книги: David McDaniel

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Illya spoke first. "Is this what we were looking for?"

Napoleon shook his head slowly. "I don't think so. There's nothing here of vital interest to us. There probably isn't even another way out." He scanned his light around the walls, slowly. The spot of light slid over the tarnished squares of metal to the far wall, and traversed it slowly. Then it stopped on something large and black. Instantly Illya's light swung to join it.

Twenty yards away across the floor a black drapery hung from the low ceiling. It spread as it fell, and formed a canopy around a stone dais. And on the dais rested a black coffin. Though dust was thick through the rest of the room, not a speck marred the dull surface of that sinister box—it looked as though it were polished daily.

On the side of the coffin a large medallion bore the Stobolzny arms, which Napoleon recognized from his researches. The spotlights centered on it and stopped. Even from this distance they could see that the lid of the coffin was slightly ajar.

"That one looks opened," said Napoleon carefully.

"That's right," said Illya. "It looks open."

Each glanced at the other, and neither said anything else for a long moment.

Finally Napoleon said, "Well! Let's...let's go take a look at it."

Illya considered this. "You take a look at it," he said. "I'll guard the door."

Napoleon managed a slight smile, and started hesitantly towards the coffin. It seemed to be quite a distance from Illya and the other light, but he walked boldly the twenty-five paces across the musty, silent, dust-shrouded tomb to the low stone dais where it lay.

At last he stood beside it.

"Illya..."

"Yes?" Illya's voice seemed distant, and more muffled than sixty feet should have accounted for.

"It is open." He ran his light slowly over the lid, and stopped it on the plaque. "It says Voivode Tsepesh Drakula-Stobolzny – 1671...Uh...there's no date of death here."

"Remember, Napoleon, his body was never found."

"I remember." He paused. "I wonder who used this coffin?"

"Why don't you look and see?" Illya suggested.

Napoleon glanced over his shoulder. His partner was still close to the door. He turned back towards the coffin, and the faintest of smiles might have danced momentarily across his lips. "All right," he said. "I will."

The lid was loose, and he shifted his flashlight to a more convenient grip. He slipped his fingertips under the edge of the lid and lifted. There was a blood-chilling groan from the concealed hinges and the ponderous slab of wood swung back and thumped down on a rest with a deep BOOM which echoed through the chamber for many seconds.

Napoleon had jumped back automatically as the lid had come up in his grip, as easily as if it had been counterbalanced. But as nothing burst out of the dark recesses of the coffin at him, he quickly recovered his balance. He lifted the light to shine over the edge and peered hesitantly in.

"Well?" said Illya impatiently.

"The coffin is empty," said Napoleon slowly, looking into the box. The red satin lining was as bright as if new, but there were smudges of something at the foot end—they looked like dried mud—and stains of something brown and slightly crusted near the head end. While he was looking, Napoleon kept speaking.

"Not exactly empty," he said slowly. "There's a layer of dirt in the bottom of the casket, and what looks like the impression of a body in it...."

He glanced over his shoulder to see the effect this was having on Illya, and continued: "Wait a minute...here's a piece of paper, with something written on it." He pretended to pick something out of the empty coffin. "It says...Out to Lunch??"

Illya grimaced in exasperation. "Napoleon," he said very patiently, "is there anything there or isn't there?"

Napoleon smiled briefly. "No, not really. I just thought we were being awfully serious about this. After all, here we are, two grown men skulking about in somebody's cellar, as nervous as little boys playing in a haunted house. I decided it was time to break the mood."

Illya was silent for a moment, as Napoleon came back across the vault towards him. Then he glanced at the coffin. "Aren't you going to close the lid again? We wouldn't want anyone to know we'd been here."

Napoleon took an automatic step back towards the coffin, then turned to Illya. "I just finished saying there's nothing..."

"Somebody has been dusting it," said Illya mildly, and Napoleon stopped in mid-sentence. His face changed as he thought about that, then without another word he walked quietly back across the chamber, reached over the coffin, pulled the lid towards him, and let it down gently. Then he came back to the door.

"Now are you happy?"

"Deliriously. Now can we return to looking for a way out of here?"

Napoleon was reluctant. "Our original purpose in this little invasion of privacy was to find out if someone was using this castle for something, or someone was staying here, or something."

"Well, we've found out."

"What?"

"Something," said Illya. "Now let's go. It's well after midnight, and..."

A sharp and strangely familiar whistling note sounded within the chamber, and echoed from the heavy stone walls. It was several seconds before they recognized it, and Napoleon reached for his communicator. It seemed so out of place in this dark medieval chamber that he stared at it for a few seconds as if he'd never seen it before. Then he pulled up the antenna and said, "Solo here."

"Good morning, Mr. Solo," said the familiar voice of Alexander Waverly. "I hoped you would still be up at this hour. I've been looking for an interim report from you. What have you accomplished so far?"

"Well, it's...kind of hard to say, sir. We don't exactly have any concrete results, but we feel we're making progress."

"Hmph. Have you found any evidence of what killed Endros?"

Napoleon and Illya looked at each other. Illya nodded intently, but Napoleon thought about it for a minute. "Ah...not exactly, sir. The...ah...the situation here is—sort of unusual."

"Where are you at the moment? Your signal is weak, and your voice sounds as if you were in a cave."

"Well, we are...sort of in a cellar, you might say."

"Prisoners?"

"Uh, no—more like trespassers, actually."

"I hope you have a good reason. Remember, you're supposed to be investigating Endros' death. Have you any clue as to his slayer?"

"Not yet, sir, but we're working on it."

"I have no doubt of that." Was there the slightest touch of sarcasm in their superior's voice? "It's a good thing I have a great deal of faith in you and Mr. Kuryakin—it is often strained but usually justified. I expect you to maintain your record. Good night."

"Good night, sir," said Napoleon.

Chapter 11: "There Must Be A Logical, Rational Explanation."

Somehow the voice of their superior officer had come at just the right time, and said just the right things. As Napoleon tucked the transceiver away, he glanced around the little vault. Now it seemed almost cozy; a quiet, peaceful cave where ancient remains could molder away the centuries after lifetimes of toil and sorrow.

He looked at Illya, and shrugged. "You're right. We may as well go home. This ridiculous situation must have affected our minds. For a while there I'd forgotten there must be a logical, rational explanation for all the things that have been happening."

"Yes," said Illya. "Let's just hold that thought while we get out of here."

Napoleon nodded.

Soon they were back in the wine cellar. The darkness beyond the range of the lights began to prey on Napoleon's nerves again as they crossed the dust-carpeted floor, but the relatively comforting stone walls of the tunnel eased his tight back muscles a little.

Suddenly he stopped. "Illya," he said. "I just realized we have been going about this all wrong."

The Russian raised an eyebrow at him.

"Yes," said Napoleon. "We know this rabbit warren opens somewhere into the outside world. Therefore there should be a current of air blowing towards this opening. All we have to do is follow it, and it'll lead us back to safety."

"Brilliant, Napoleon. Now tell me, which way is the air current blowing now?"

Napoleon looked around. The air was perfectly still, as nearly as he could tell. He frowned, then reached into his pocket and smiled. He pulled out his cigarette lighter and struck it. The flame rose bright yellow, and stood perfectly steady. He looked at it with a betrayed expression.

"Well, in the book it said..."

"Don't worry, Napoleon. Maybe there will be an air current farther along."

"But it said...Oh, never mind." He closed the lighter and dropped it back in his coat pocket, and then walked down the passage after Illya, thinking hard.

* * *

A long time later he stopped and looked around quickly. Something very faint and chill had brushed ever so softly over the back of his neck, and he didn't think it was nerves. "Illya..." he said.

The Russian stopped, and looked around.

"Watch." Napoleon pulled out his lighter and struck it again. The flame sprang out, and this time it flickered. It danced agilely and the tip of it pointed in the direction ahead of them.

He smiled happily. "See?" he said. "Air currents. What did I tell you?"

"That's nice," said Illya, "but we were already going that way. Why not save it for times when we come to an intersection and can't decide? I'm sure it would be more dependable than flipping a coin."

Napoleon didn't say anything as he put his lighter away. Apparently hearing from Waverly didn't affect Illya quite as salubriously as himself; his partner still seemed edgy. He shrugged it off; he hadn't been perfectly cool all evening himself.

They continued down the corridor at a steady pace. The stone floor angled down gently, and only occasional small tunnels branched off to the sides. The air continued to caress the backs of Napoleon's ears. At last the tunnel narrowed and branched, and the cigarette lighter was called into service once more.

Five more times in the next half-hour the lighter sparked and caught the gentle drift of air directing them to the exit. And then at last they could smell wet vegetation, and the air grew colder around them.

The walls of the tunnel drew in closer and became rough stone; the roof became lower until they had to stoop.

Then leaves whispered under their feet, they ducked around one last projection of rock, and there was a wind again, and all the night of the forest was around them. Napoleon stood up very straight and stretched his arms.

"Oh! That feels good!"

"Don't be too relieved, Napoleon," said Illya. "We're not out of the woods yet."

Napoleon froze, and looked quizzically at Illya.

"This isn't the entrance we went in by. We still have to make our way through the forest and out the other side to the village." Illya looked around and shook his head. "For all I know, we may have come out on the other side of the mountain from Pokol."

Napoleon glanced at the sky and nodded. "And this overcast very effectively prevents celestial navigation." He shrugged. "Let's find a tree and see which side of it is mossy."

"That may not be a bad idea. If it's the side away from the mountain, we'll know the village is ahead of us. If it's the side towards the mountain..."

"We look for road and try to hitch a ride. Let's worry about that after we check for moss. And Illya—in the future, remind me to bring a compass."

The first tree they examined had no moss on it; the second had moss all around. The third had moss on one side, the fourth on the other. Illya finally looked at Napoleon with an expression of infinite patience. "What else did you learn in the Boy Scouts?"

"I can start a fire by rubbing two matches together, treat snakebite, and hot-wire a car. I belonged to a very progressive troop."

"Forget I asked. If we walk downhill long enough, we'll probably come to a road of some kind, and following that will lead us to some form of civilization."

They set off downhill. The ground was soft and damp, as though it had rained earlier that evening, and it stuck to their feet. The air was icy cold—not quite freezing, but nearly. Higher on the mountain the ground would have been crusted with rime. The fog moved in on them as they descended, and soon white fingers were writhing around the dark tree-trunks in the beam of the flash. Illya's was weakening, after a full night of use, and they were about to switch over to Napoleon's when they struck a path at last.

It ran along the hillside, which had leveled off a short time before. Illya looked both ways on it, and frowned. "We're still lost," he said. "One way will lead downhill, the other will lead up."

"We'll split up," said Napoleon. "You go right and I'll go left, and we'll keep in touch with the transceivers. When the path starts to go down, give a call to the other end and we'll be off on the road to Pokol."

Illya nodded. "Why didn't we think of giving one of the transceivers to Hilda or Zoltan?" he asked suddenly. "Think of all the trouble that could've saved us."

"Why don't you ever get these great ideas when they'll do us some good?"

Illya sighed. "But that would take all the challenge out of life," he said.

* * *

Napoleon's chosen path wound among widely spaced trees which rose up out of sight into the mist. The woods seemed terribly silent, as if the trees were holding their breath, waiting for something to happen. His feet made no sound as they sank into the damp dirt of the forest floor. The yellow cone of light from his lantern stood out through the mist and swept soundlessly over the trees and bushes and the bare earth of the path he was following.

Then the air began to move about him, and the trees began to whisper and mutter to themselves, as a strange directionless wind moved down among them. It stirred Napoleon's hair and plucked lightly at his clothing. And then he saw something standing in the path ahead of him. He stopped, and focused his light on it.

It was tall and black, surrounded by curling tendrils of fog which enshrouded it with ghostly white. Then, as Napoleon stared, part of it moved down slowly, revealing a death-white face with flaming eyes. The figure lowered its arms and took a deliberate pace towards him. Napoleon took half a pace backward and stopped. The face which caught the light from his lantern and the eyes which threw the light back were those he had seen in the cave, those he had seen in a miniature painting of a man dead two hundred and fifty years. It was the Count Tsepesh Stobolzny.

Napoleon took another step back as the Count came forward, the shadow cast by the lantern rising behind him great and black as his cloak billowed about him. He stopped ten feet away, and a slow horrible smile contorted his face. Solo's hands dived for his shoulder holster and flipped out his U.N.C.L.E. Special. He held the gun low enough that the other man could see it in the light and said, "Okay—stop right there or I'll shoot."

A moment later he realized he had spoken in English, and repeated in Rumanian, "Opreste ce va spun ori trag!"

The Count's lips parted and a ghastly dry creaking laugh welled from him as he took another step toward Napoleon and reached out a gloved hand. He was so close his teeth were clearly visible—the two canines unnaturally elongated and pointed, almost like fangs.

Napoleon's fingers spasmed on the trigger of his automatic and it roared in the silence of the forest—once, twice and again, slamming solidly against his hand.

The Count took a small step back, then looked down at the gun. His bloodless lips opened and a gust of demoniacal laughter rang among the trees. He raised his arms and spread them wide, and his cloak fell from them like great black wings for an instant before he clapped them down and leaped.

Napoleon fell to his knees and fired again as the Count soared over his head. A moment later he heard a last burst of laughter echoing down through the fog from somewhere high above him, but the Count had disappeared into the darkness.

He was still on his knees on the ground when his transceiver whistled.

"Napoleon, are you all right?" It was Illya's voice. "Was that you shooting?"

He fumbled out the little silver rod and extended the microphone clip. "Illya? Yes, I'm okay—I think. It was Count Tsepesh again. I'll tell you about it when I see you."

"Okay. I found where the path starts downhill. Shall I start back up to meet you?"

"No. Just keep a sharp eye on everything around you—and above you. And, ah, if you see something in gray and brown running down the path toward you, don't shoot, it's me."

"I'll be waiting."

"Oh, and Illya..."

"Yes?"

"If you do have a silver crucifix, I suggest you hold onto it tight."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later they were standing side by side where the path curved over the edge of the hill and started down again. The long walk through the woods and the passage of time had given Napoleon a little more perspective on what had happened, but he was still upset. He had described the entire incident to Illya with as little emotional coloring as possible, and Illya had made no comment of any kind.

Now the Russian agent was leaning against a tree, having just removed the clip from his automatic. Napoleon couldn't quite tell what he was doing with it, though, and asked.

Without looking up, Illya said, "Napoleon, you understand that I am not superstitious, and I am not falling prey to the blind unthinking terror which seems to grip less sophisticated people than we."

"Yes...."

"And I want you to be sure that I fully agree with you that there is a rational, logical explanation for everything that has been going on."

"Yes...."

"So for the time being I have rationally and logically decided to carve a cross on each of my bullets."

* * *

Some minutes later they started off downhill again. The fog grew gradually lighter as they descended, and after some time only an occasional wisp came past them like a vagrant spirit. The forest was silent, and both were beginning to breathe more easily. Eventually the path would come to a road, and along the road would lie a village. And there would be hot food and warm beds, and safety. The long night was almost over.

And then their necks pricked and their hands started for their shoulder holsters almost together as the forest darkness was filled with a sound—a sound which they knew and remembered.

It was the howl of a hunting wolf.

Chapter 12: "You're Looking Inscrutable Again."

Neither one of them said anything as they slowly turned to look at each other. The howl was echoed to both sides, and then a fourth gave cry ahead of them. They were surrounded.

Napoleon extinguished his lantern at once, and Illya slipped two fingers over his to cut down on the light it gave. Now they both had their automatics in hand, ready to fire. The U.N.C.L.E. Special had, among other qualities, the ability to fire double-action, without working the slide by hand. This had saved Napoleon's life on more than one occasion, and might again. It is generally bad practice to run through a dark forest with a cocked gun in your hand.

When they heard the soft sound of feet padding along the trail behind them, Illya said quietly, "I believe it's time for a tactical retreat."

Napoleon was darting quick glances into the darkness around them. "You mean you think we should run for it," he said.

"Yes," said Illya, and another howl echoed from the night.

They began to run.

The light from the one flash picked up the path before them, and the black shades of trees and bushes fled past on either side. The wolves gave no further tongue after the four howls that had warned them, but there were sounds back in the brush of heavy bodies crashing through dead undergrowth to either side of the trail.

Once Illya's light caught two green sparks from something too far to be illuminated, and both guns barked flame as the eyes disappeared. They ran forward, and found nothing but the pad marks where a great wolf had crossed the trail. They looked around, even directing the light among the trees, but saw nothing more.

Neither of them was about to go off the path to look for more targets—they had too much the feeling of being targets themselves.

The path had leveled off, and the forest was more open, but low dense clouds still covered the sky. Napoleon's lungs began to ache with the cold, and his breath formed puffs of vapor which blew about his ears and hung in the air behind him as he ran.

And even as they ran, they heard sounds behind them that told of deadly pursuit. A deep and vicious growl which seemed to be almost at their heels added to the speed of their flight, and heavy panting and once in a while a barely stifled whine stayed close behind them.

Then miraculously the trees opened out, and the road appeared before them. There would be open ground the wolves would have to cross to get to them, and even at running speed they could pick them off as they came.

There was scarcely a moment of hesitation as they hit the road. Downhill was to the left, and downhill they continued. The going was easier now, and the sounds faded away behind them.

Eventually they slowed down, panting a little from the exertion, but listening sharply between breaths. Only the occasional crack of a tree branch in the deepening cold broke the quiet.

At last Napoleon stopped and leaned against a tree. "I think we've lost them," he said.

"I wouldn't count on it," said Illya, sitting down on a rock. "Maybe they're just quieting down before sneaking in for the kill."

Napoleon shook his head. "The cold," he said sagely. "Wolves don't hunt when the temperature gets below freezing."

Illya looked at him in amazement. "You're thinking of rattlesnakes. Wolves just get more active when it's cold. I remember when I was a little boy in Siberia, being chased by a pack of wolves all the way from Yakutsk to Kirensk in the middle of winter—and the temperature was about forty degrees below zero."

"Oh, come on," said Napoleon. "It's seven hundred and fifty miles from Yakutsk to Kirensk."

Illya shrugged. "Well, we were on a train...."

"And the wolves chased you at sixty miles an hour for seven hundred and fifty miles?"

"Twenty-five miles an hour—this was the Trans-Siberian Railway. And I don't know if they were the same wolves all the way; maybe they ran in shifts and slept in the baggage car."

Napoleon gave up and started laughing. "Never mind," he said. "Besides, the last time you mentioned it, you were a little boy in the Ukraine."

"We moved around a lot."

Napoleon stood up again. "Well, this is only Rumania, but it still gets cold enough for me. Let's head on down the road, and see what we can find in the way of civilization." He squinted up at the sky and shook his head. "Besides, I wouldn't be surprised if it started to snow before morning. Look at those clouds."

Illya got to his feet slowly. "As long as it doesn't just get colder." He glanced at his watch. "It's still about three hours until dawn."

They started off down the road again. After some time Napoleon said, "I wonder just how many roads there are in this area. This one looks familiar. Weren't we chased along here by wolves just a few nights ago?"

"I shouldn't be at all surprised."

The cold seemed to lessen as Napoleon thought about that and realized how near they were to the village. Just a few more miles down the road were warm beds, hot food, and civilization. They'd be there in just a few more...

There was something in the road ahead of them, too far way to be seen clearly. Illya looked hard, and said, "I think it's the car!"

Napoleon smiled with satisfaction. "The end of a perfect evening," he said.

And a chorus of howls went off right behind them.

Napoleon and Illya broke into a dead run. But the pack had been right behind them when they had given tongue, and as Solo threw a quick glance over his shoulder he could see the running gray shapes fifty feet behind them. He didn't look around again—all his attention was devoted to running.

Then the car loomed up in front of him and he sprawled across the hood before he could stop. His back tensed, expecting a furry weight to hurdle itself upon him. After a moment, it hadn't, and he looked up.

The wolves had stopped in a half-circle twenty feet away from them, and stood with lowered heads.

Slowly and cautiously, making no sudden moves, Napoleon reached for his pocket, where the keys to the car waited. His hand slid in and found the chill metal. He spoke quietly, keeping his eye firmly fixed on the wolves.

"Get ready, Illya. I'm going to try to get the door open. Once we get inside we'll be safe."

"Right. I've got my gun ready, but I won't use it unless they start towards us."

"Check." The key was in Napoleon's hands now, and he began to edge along the side of the car. When he started to move, a couple of the wolves growled warningly. He stopped, one foot slightly lifted, and waited for a count of twenty before lowering it again. Then he moved much more slowly.

When he felt the door behind him, he reached around and began searching for the handle. A couple of the wolves took a slow stiff-legged step forward, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Illya's automatic swing slightly towards them.

"If I have to shoot," said his partner tensely, "get that door open as fast as you can and I'll try to hold them off and jump for it."

"Check."

The handle was there—now where was the lock? There. And which way did the key go in? Did he have the right key? It didn't seem to fit....There! It slipped in. He turned it carefully to the right, hoping the lock hadn't frozen. The tumblers caught with a sharp click as the key turned.

The noise triggered two wolves. They sprang forward so fast he could barely see them move. Illya's automatic blasted twice, and a shaggy body slammed against Napoleon's chest and drove his instinctively raised arm hard against his face. His other arm jerked desperately at the door handle and the door came unlatched and banged his leg as he tried to open it.

The wolf that had hit him fell away from him again, its jaws locked in his overcoat and blood oozing from its chest. The other wolf had fallen just short of Illya, and lay in a crumpled heap with an exploded skull from the head shot, almost at his feet.

Napoleon tore his coat from the death-grip of the fangs that had so nearly met in his throat. Then, as he swung the door open and leaped inside, he saw to his amazement that the rest of the wolf pack was disappearing—fading back into the forest.

Illya stood, amazement and disbelief scrawled broadly across his face, pistol hanging loosely in his hand, watching them go. Then he collected himself hurriedly.

"Something's wrong," he said. "There's no reason, rational or irrational, why they should just leave like that."

"Let's discuss it in the car," said Napoleon. "I feel an irrational urge to emulate them, and right now."

Illya holstered his gun slowly, then bent over and looked at the wolf he had saved Napoleon from. He suddenly knelt and looked even closer. Without looking up, he said, "Turn on the car light for a moment, will you?"

Napoleon reached over and pulled the knob, and the headlights came to life. Enough light was thrown back by the ground and the bushes nearby that Illya could see quite well. Napoleon looked over his shoulder from the left-hand seat of the car.

The Russian agent had lifted the wolf's head and was examining it, running his fingers along it as though patting a dog. Something seemed to glitter amid the fur. Napoleon stared at him.

"What in the world are you doing?" he asked. "Do you want to wait for them to come back?"

"This is worth another minute," said Illya, a strange quality in his voice. "Give me a hand here—I want to get this wolf into the trunk of the car."

"Are you out of your mind?"

"Quite the contrary," said the Russian. "I think I am in it for the first time in longer than I care to consider."

Napoleon looked at him suspiciously. Illya was wearing a secret little smile, and his voice hinted at unsuspected things of great interest. Napoleon got out, opened the trunk, and helped load about a hundred pounds of dead weight into it. Then he got back behind the wheel, let Illya in the other door, and started the motor. There had been no further sign of the other wolves.

He wondered about this, and commented on it to Illya, who just nodded, and kept smiling.

Napoleon scowled at him. "You're looking inscrutable again," he said. "Will you tell me your little surprise if I ignore you long enough?"

"It won't be necessary," said Illya. "I don't really know anything yet. But when we get back to the village I expect to be very busy in Gheorghe's kitchen for some time."

"Oh, great," said Napoleon. "I've always wanted to try barbecued wolf meat."

Illya shook his head. "Not barbecued wolf, Napoleon. I have the feeling it will be a roasted bird this time—almost certainly a cooked goose."