Текст книги "The Vampire Affair"

Автор книги: David McDaniel

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Chapter 15: "My Sense Of Humor Will Be The Death Of Me Yet."

Somehow Napoleon's primary emotion was one of relief. He was captured and Thrush was getting away with a fortune; and he had failed in his assignment to bring the murderer of Carl Endros to justice. But his beliefs had been vindicated—there really was a logical, rational explanation behind the whole thing. There were no vampires, no werewolves; only good old Thrush, up to its unusual tricks. And once again Napoleon felt he was on a solid footing with the universe.

Besides, all was not lost. Illya was out there in the darkness somewhere, and rescue would be forthcoming. In fact, the canny Russian had probably taken the suggestion and hurried back outside to call for assistance. A small army could be flown in from Bucharest in the next few hours, and Thrush would not get another ounce of this gold.

Meanwhile, they were being taken up a flight of stone steps. The fluorescent lights overhead were spaced economically, but there was more than sufficient illumination to keep the steps safe.

They climbed what seemed to be several hundred feet but was probably no more than the equivalent of eight or ten stories. As they climbed, their host continued talking.

"I really thought the idea of starting a vampire scare was a bit of inspiration. We needed to keep the local citizenry indoors at night so our flights would remain unobserved, and to keep them away from the castle. They're so terribly superstitious that it was easy. Two lower-echelon workers in another satrap of Thrush were discovered taking advantage of our organization and materials for their own personal profits, and were ordered executed. It was no less than fitting that their deaths should serve to repay the trouble they had cost. Wasting lives is as foolish and inefficient as wasting anything else that can be made to work for you.

"So we had them killed, dressed them in local working clothes, and drained their blood. Then the bodies were left where they would be found and start rumors. It was really quite simple. We had not counted on the credulity of the authorities—the idea of their believing in these rumors to the extent of actually sending someone to investigate never occurred to me. As I am sure you are aware, the greatest strength a real vampire would have in this modern time would be the fact that no one would believe he existed."

He smiled to himself. "Perhaps we feel a certain amount of kinship. Certainly there are few people outside of high-level circles who really believe Thrush exists. As a result we can accomplish many things which would otherwise be beyond our abilities. Disbelief is the strongest shield anyone can have."

"How much longer does this go on?" asked Napoleon under his breath.

"The stairs or the monologue? A few more minutes. They will end simultaneously, I promise you."

"Good. I came here to be captured, not talked to death."

The Thrush smiled tolerantly. "Bear with me, Mr. Solo. It is seldom we allow a captive to carry information about us to the rest of the world. You three will have that privilege."

"Forgive my curiosity, my friend," said Zoltan, "but why release us? Are we not enemies?"

"That is of no importance. Friends and enemies are alike to Thrush. We have no reason to kill you. When our operation is done here we will be far beyond anyone's reach. This is why we did not kill you before this. Our only goal was to frighten you—to lower your efficiency, keep you running around in the forests with nothing material to work on while we completed our liberation of the treasure."

He shrugged. "U.N.C.L.E. agents are like wasps—if you kill one, you'll have the whole nest after you."

Napoleon raised his eyes from the floor and saw the end of the stairs ahead. "Your calculations were a little off," he said. "You should have known better than to kill Carl Endros."

Almost on cue, cutting off his last word by a fraction of a second, the howl of a hunting wolf floated eerily between the rock walls.

The Thrush looked back down the stairs and frowned. "Franz," he said to Hilda's guard, "was that ahead of us or behind us?"

"Could not tell, sir," said the guard. "Echoes."

"Klaus can take care of the girl—you look ahead. Don't worry about shooting the damned beast; we've got dozens of them."

Franz snapped a salute and hurried up the stairs and out of sight. During the silence that ensued, Peter said casually, "I had wondered about the security of those pens. I hope no more than one is loose—they have been a great expense to the organization."

There was another pause. Napoleon looked at his two guards, each a couple of inches taller than himself. "I suppose you two are Hans and Fritz?"

One of them permitted himself a flickering expression of surprise, and both looked at Peter. He in turn looked closely at Napoleon. "How did you know that?"

Napoleon covered his surprise with a little shrug and a smug smile. "Oh, after all," he said, "U.N.C.L.E. isn't entirely without resources." He looked up the stairs consideringly. "What do you think had happened to your scout?" He threw a glance out of the corner of his eye at Peter, whose eyes narrowed.

"Franz," he called. "Do you find him?"

There was no answer. Peter looked around, and then said, "Come. We cannot stand on the stairs forever. Klaus—Fritz—have your weapons at ready."

They started cautiously up the last few steps. As Napoleon's head came above the level of the floor he looked down the long hall that stretched off into darkness ahead of them. There was a single light at the top of the stairs, and no other.

A moment later the seven of them stood in a little group in a pool of light, surrounded by two stone walls and darkness. Peter was distinctly nervous by this time. "There must have been a power failure," he said. "This light is on the emergency circuit. But with that wolf prowling around somewhere..."

Somewhere ahead of them came a low, menacing growl. Peter looked quickly around, saw the flashlight clipped to Zoltan's belt, and seized it. Its beam flickered around the corridor. A few crates were stacked there, and a few statues. There was nothing living in sight. But the growl sounded again.

Peter spun about, and flashed the light back down the stairs they had just ascended. And as he did so, Hans gave a little sigh as his gun clattered from his limp hand to the floor. With a rustle of uniform and a loose-limbed thump, he fell to join it.

The Thrush leader looked down at his guard, an expression of fear growing in his eyes. Fritz let go of Napoleon and was standing a few feet back, gripping his sidearm tensely and eyeing the U.N.C.L.E. agent suspiciously. Peter looked at him too.

"What have you done, my friend?" he asked in a voice that was edged with danger. "Have you killed him?"

Napoleon radiated innocence. "You were watching me every minute," he said. "I never even looked mean at him."

Klaus knelt beside his fallen comrade and turned him over. "He's not bleeding, sir," he said. "His pulse seems all right." Then he lowered his head as if to look for something. His head kept right on lowering as his body collapsed across the other.

Peter swung the flash up the corridor instantly, where there was still nothing in sight. But out of the distance, echoing down the corridor, came a sound of a gloating evil chuckle that lasted until every head was looking along the pale golden beam of the failing flashlight.

With scarcely a glance at her, Peter took the one from Hilda's belt, thumbed the button, and added its fresher white light to the yellow one. And still nothing unusual could be distinguished.

He looked at Fritz, whose gun wavered uncertainly among the three prisoners. "You take care you do not fall over like your fellows. Walk behind us, and guard carefully." He looked coldly at the U.N.C.L.E. agent. "If this is your doing, you may not be released alive after all," he said. "You and the girl walk in front as we go down the corridor."

They started off, leaving the two bodies in the pool of illumination behind them. As they walked, the spot of light from the flash Peter held danced along the floor in front of them, sweeping back and forth, throwing long swaying shadows, dodging behind piled boxes, swinging over statues.

They were halfway down the corridor when the searching beam ducked behind a crate and stopped as Peter gasped. Huddled in the light was the body of a man in Thrush uniform. Peter reached forward and pulled him out. His head lolled limply; his eyes were closed. It was Franz. As they looked down at him, Fritz sighed deeply and fell over.

Peter whirled around as his pistol hit the stone floor, and his flash glanced out. And again there was nothing. And again that gloating triumphant chuckle floated out of the distances of the corridor at them. Then finally his nerve broke.

He ran from them down the corridor to the foot of the next flight of stairs and fumbled frantically for something in the wall. Then he yammered, "Alert! Alert! Corridor Twenty-One. There's something wrong down here. It's struck down four guards without a sound. I have the U.N.C.L.E. people here—I think it's a trick of theirs. Send a troop quickly." He waited for an acknowledgment and then put the handset back.

Turning to face Napoleon, Zoltan and Hilda, he once again seemed master of the situation. "There will be a force here in two minutes," he said jerkily. "Let's see if your invisible power can evade them."

Napoleon smiled. "Or if they can evade him. You see, Peter, U.N.C.L.E. is not without its tricks too. Perhaps it would be better if you just surrendered quietly and let us take you away to a nice safe comfortable cell...."

Peter's gun centered on Napoleon's midriff. "No!" he said shrilly. "You will pay for this. You will..."

"You will die before he does!" A deep distorted voice echoed out of the tunnel behind them. Napoleon turned and saw, silhouetted against the distant light, a figure which cast a shadow the whole length of the tunnel. It was one of the statues come to life—a figure in Roman armor, short sword raised high and a shield covering its chest. The flashlight beam stabbed down the corridor and picked out the sturdy figure, the blond hair under the crested helmet, the gleaming iron of the sword and buckler.

Peter made an inarticulate noise in his throat and fired blindly at the apparition. The echoes of the shots rumbled away and were drowned in ghastly laughter. "We can only die once," said the voice as the figure took a stride towards them. "And you have disturbed our rest. Now you must join us."

The thunder of the automatic shook the walls as Peter emptied the rest of the magazine at the inexorably advancing figure and then fled for the stairs. Napoleon caught Hilda as she slipped to the floor in a dead faint, and Zoltan stepped forward to meet the figure. He raised an arm and commanded, "I am Zoltan Stobolzny-Dracula. Leave my friends in peace."

The figure lowered its sword and snorted. "Oh, come on, Zoltan," it said. "Don't be melodramatic."

Illya pushed back the legionnaire's helmet that hid most of his blond hair and propped his sword against a case. "Was I really that good?" he asked, looking down at Hilda.

"You laid 'em in the aisles," said Napoleon. "I thought it was you when I heard the imitation wolf-howl. But why did you only use the sleep-darts on the guards?"

"I wanted Peter to sweat a little. I think we owed him some. Besides, I found this set of armor that was just my size, and wondered how I would look in it."

Hilda opened her eyes. Then she opened them even wider than usual. "Illya!" she said. "How on Earth..."

He held up his U.N.C.L.E. Special and pointed to the fat cylinder screwed to the end. "Knock-out darts, and a new design of silencer. If I hadn't felt the hammer fall, I wouldn't have known when I'd fired."

"But he was shooting at you!"

"I had a shield which was good enough to deflect a glancing shot. It wouldn't stop a direct hit, but I expected him to be too frightened to shoot straight. I was almost right," he said, exhibiting a streak of blood along one forearm. "A near miss. Do you happen to have a band-aid?"

Zoltan shook his head. "You go to great lengths for a joke, Illya. I think you put yourself in unnecessary danger."

Illya shrugged. "My sense of humor will be the death of me yet."

Footsteps rattled on the steps above them, and Napoleon asked quickly, "How did you get up here? Can we get out?"

"The lift-conveyor opens out for a ways. It can be climbed. Come on." As they ducked down the corridor and then to the left, Illya said, "I blew out a circuit breaker by shorting one of the light sockets. I had hoped to do something to their power generator system, but apparently it didn't work. In here." He pointed to an area darker than most of the wall. Napoleon put out an exploratory hand and found it to be an opening.

They boosted Hilda through and Zoltan followed her, then Napoleon and Illya.

"Climb fast," the Russian whispered as pounding feet hit the bottom of the stairs and started down the corridor. They pulled themselves up the steps of the steeply slanting belt and hung there, waiting. The footsteps hurried past, and Napoleon hissed, "Keep climbing!"

They did. They climbed in total darkness until their arms ached, but as they climbed Napoleon explained, "This conveyor was being used to hoist the boxes to wherever the helicopter took off from. If we can get there, we'll be right at the heart of the whole operation. Illya, do you feel up to repeating your performance so soon? It'll be a fresh audience."

"I doubt if the second show will get quite the same raves. Remember, I spent five minutes warming him up for my appearance."

"It may help anyway. Hilda, can you hang to one side and let us get past you for our big entrance?"

There was some rearranging in the dark, and Napoleon was thankful for the fact that the belt was only on about a 30° slant rather than vertical. Such maneuvering would have been practically impossible.

Then the belt leveled off and they paused. Illya inched ahead and looked out into the light, then crept back.

"This looks ridiculously easy," he said. "There's a helicopter out there—with huge blades, no doubt so it can fly silently—and only about a dozen men around it. We have carried the day."

"It looks to me," said Zoltan doubtfully, "as though we may have some work still to do."

Illya shook his head, and pulled his transceiver out of the recesses of his helmet. He extended the aerial and spoke softly. "Channel L, please....Hello, there. We are ready—make your drop in the courtyard of the castle. We'll be waiting." The little metal tube whispered an answer, and Illya folded the antenna.

"That's all there is to it," he said. "As soon as I found out Thrush was involved—this morning, while you were lying slugabed, Napoleon—I sent off to Bucharest for a small assault force. When you were captured I radioed and found them just at Pokol, awaiting only specific directions on where to attack. They should be here in fifteen minutes. Thrush does not have an exclusive copyright on the use of helicopters."

Chapter 16: "He's Lying, Of Course."

After a few minutes there were voices out in the courtyard, shouting back and forth to each other:

"No sign of them below—have you seen anything up here?"

"Nothing. How's the power coming?"

"Be restored in another minute. Make sure no lights are where they can be seen—we tried a lot of switches, and some of them might have been left on."

"All lights are covered—go ahead."

There was a few seconds' pause, and then suddenly the conveyor belt began to shake, and lights sprang on ahead of them. And then the belt was moving.

Napoleon had just time to draw his automatic before he was carried out into the icy night air and dumped unceremoniously on top of Illya, who was already sprawled on snow-dusted stones at the end of the belt. They managed to scramble out of the way before Hilda was catapulted, kicking, to the floor, closely followed by Zoltan, who managed to land on his feet.

Before he landed, however, there was a shout from a guard and a bullet screamed off into space from the stone near them. Napoleon and Illya each grabbed an arm and carried Hilda backwards between them to a place of cover behind the conveyor belt, which had just ground to a stop again. Zoltan leaped to join them a moment later, slugs yapping at his heels.

"They're only being foolish," said Napoleon. "After all, we have them at our mercy."

"Perhaps we should tell them so," said Illya. "Why don't you just stand up and order them to surrender?"

Napoleon declined to answer.

Soon the gunshots stopped from the courtyard except for an occasional slug which spattered off the wall above them. One showered them with particles of metal and stone, but none came close enough to cause any damage.

"They're trying to hold us down," said Illya. "They're probably working their way around us at this moment. I think we had better relocate before they move in, and the property values suddenly go down."

The nearest cover was a pile of crates a good twenty feet away. Napoleon looked at his partner "Feel like being a running target?"

"Not especially, but I prefer it to being a sitting one. Can you give me cover?"

"No trouble." Napoleon stuck his gun hand and sighting eye around the end of the conveyor and fired in the general direction of their sniper. An instant later Illya was off and running, his figure crouched low in the dimness. There was a shout from across the yard, and a spotlight swung towards them. Napoleon smiled and shook his head as he leaned out once again and let off three quick slugs at the light. There was a shattering of glass and the spot was gone. He ducked back and fished out his transceiver.

"Illya? You okay?"

"Just fine. Come on the over when you get a chance—there's a regular warren behind these crates. We can hide out here for hours."

"Sounds like a nice place to wait for our reinforcements. Give us about thirty seconds to get ready, and then put up some covering fire." He closed the transceiver, and crawled over to where Hilda lay up against Zoltan, his arms around her protectively.

"I hate to disturb you when you've just gotten comfortable," he said, "but there's a much nicer place just next door, and this place may be flooded out any moment now."

"What do you mean?" Hilda started to ask as she sat up, but she was interrupted by the scraping of a footstep on the other side of the conveyor. Napoleon sprang to his feet, forgetting the cover, and fired almost point-blank at an unprepared Thrush soldier no more than five feet away. He had three more slugs in three more men before their weapons were ready, his U.N.C.L.E. Special leaping in his fist as fast as he could swing it and pull the trigger.

He ducked down again as a hail of lead shattered the stonework behind where he had been standing. "Don't look now," he said, "but we're being invaded. Get out there and run as if a real vampire were after you. I'll be right behind you, and if you don't move fast you'll be stepped on. Now move!"

They moved. Bullets sang around them, but none struck home, and after a few seconds which seemed like five minutes they dropped into a crouch behind the first pile of packing crates.

Hilda looked around nervously. "How safe are we here?"

"Not very," said Napoleon casually. "The boxes are only thin wood and cardboard. All they do is give us more hiding places. If they really wanted to get rid of us enough to use a machine gun, they could stitch the whole area full of holes in a matter of a few seconds, ruining a lot of perfectly good boxes in the process. If they start that, all we can do is lie very close to the ground and cross our fingers. But for the time being..."

A few shots sounded hesitantly from across the courtyard, and slapped through the boxes several feet from them.

Hilda started, but Napoleon shrugged. "Just shooting in the dark," he said. "Trying to keep us nervous. They don't dare come in here after us—we could pick them off from ambush." He dropped the empty clip from his automatic into a pocket and replaced it with a full one. He worked the slide once, and then let the hammer down gently with his thumb.

Out in the courtyard a starter motor whined briefly, and then the roar of an internal-combustion engine filled the night. It coughed, roared again, and then the sound softened to a whisper. Something went whuffa-whuffa-whuffa-whuffa, and Illya said, "They've started the helicopter. I was right—it is quiet." He snapped his fingers. "There's our vampire—a flying harness slung from the copter. There was always fog, and..."

"Of course," said Napoleon suddenly. "There was always that wind when he showed up—you mentioned it the time you saw him in Hilda's room. I should have recognized it in the forest. Nothing makes a wind like that except a helicopter."

"I think you can be forgiven," said Illya, "under the circumstances."

The sound of the blades speeded up and the soft note of the engine deepened. "They're taking off," said Illya suddenly.

Then they could hear, coming closer, the familiar sound of an unmuffled helicopter. Their transceivers twittered in unison, and Napoleon answered.

"Solo—Kuryakin," cracked the voice. "We are coming in. Are you all right?"

"We are all right," said Napoleon. "But watch out for another copter coming up to meet you. It's probably armed, and dangerous."

"Thank you. We are considered dangerous, too."

"I hope so," said Napoleon, but he had cut off his microphone before he said it. Then he turned to his friends. "Well," he said, "if the sky were clearer, we could see a most exciting aerial battle...."

"Here comes our copter," said Illya. "They're below the cloud cover."

As they watched, the Thrush helicopter climbed gracefully into their field of view and soared away into the sky. The U.N.C.L.E. craft, smaller and wider, sailed over the wall, and then started to climb after them. Lights flickered around the sides of the Thrush copter, and a few seconds later the crackle of machine-gun fire drifted down to the audience below.

The smaller copter shot up and engaged the other in fairly close-range combat. Darkness hid them half the time, but the flashes of gunfire were visible from both. The U.N.C.L.E. helicopter leaped about in the air like a hornet—hovering, darting in and out, diving, side-slipping, and always presenting the narrowest target to its larger, slower enemy.

But the Thrush craft seemed to have the advantage in firepower. There were at least two machine guns firing, the tracers making a flickering V from the belly and tail of the craft with the point dancing around the U.N.C.L.E. copter.

It was a touch and go battle high in the cold mountain night, with the snow clouds pressing low above the peaks, and the resolution of it was to remain a mystery. The Thrush copter suddenly began climbing again, and in half a minute it had been lost to sight in the clouds. The U.N.C.L.E. pilot followed it up, and then he was gone too.

Napoleon brought his gaze reluctantly back to ground level, and rubbed his neck. Then he looked around. "Do you smell something?" he said, to no one in particular.

Hilda lifted her nose and sniffed. "Smoke?" she suggested.

Illya looked sharply down the corridor between crates. "Smoke. They're trying to drive us out by setting fire to the boxes. I think they know they're done for now, and want to take us with them. We'll have to stick it out here as long as we can," he said grimly. "If we break into the open, we'll be shot down."

The fire spread only slowly, but they had to retreat from it. There were only two ways to go—to the wall of the castle or towards the open courtyard. To the wall there would be no escape—in the open there was always a chance.

Then they heard a roaring of motors overhead, and looked up. Three more helicopters swung into sight over the wall, and started to descend. Napoleon whipped out his transceiver and called to them. "Solo here—watch out for Thrush rifleman under cover. We're back here near the fire, so you can shoot everywhere else."

"What are you doing, Solo—lighting a beacon so we can find the place?" asked the voice from the landing party. "We've got radar, after all."

"It was a cold night," said Napoleon. "We're about out of sausages, but we have some marshmallows left if you care to join us for dessert."

The three helicopters settled into the courtyard with a great roaring of wind and thunder of engines. As they sputtered and died, an amplified voice ordered, "Throw out your guns and surrender. You are covered, surrounded, and outnumbered. Coöperate and you will not be killed."

There was a pause, and Napoleon looked over the top of the crates. One by one, rifles were being pushed out into the open, and joined by men in gray uniforms, with raised hands.

Then there was a whistling in the air, far above them, and they looked up. Out of the clouds a helicopter was falling—out of control, windmilling weakly. It was coming down far too fast, spinning blades holding it back only slightly. The fuselage was turning, nose down. It grew larger and larger, and then flames began to show along its side. It would miss the courtyard, it would miss the castle—then it seemed to swing to one side, and a moment later it disappeared beyond the wall.

There was a second of absolute silence, and then a long tearing crash as it ripped through trees and plowed into the side of the mountain. Then there was a muffled explosion, and a flare of light against the sky as the fuel tanks burst and detonated.

Then every eye was turned skywards again, looking for the victor. After many seconds the other helicopter appeared, motor roaring, and sank swiftly towards the anxious audience. It was small and round—the U.N.C.L.E. helicopter.

As it landed in the midst of the watchers, it could be seen to be riddled with bullet holes through the fuselage. But the pilot leaned out and gave a "thumbs up" sign as he cut the motor.

Just at that moment there was another sound, which was more felt than heard. The ground shook, and the deepest rumble came from beneath their feet. Four seconds later clouds of dust erupted from the door and the mouth of the conveyor tunnel. Illya looked at it, and this time it was Zoltan who spoke first, his voice a whisper of shock.

"They have blown it up," he said, with the sound more of disbelief than of rage or surprise. "They have blown it all up, and collapsed the caves."

Then another figure stepped into the courtyard, hands raised, but with an expression of triumph on his face. It was the Thrush they knew as Peter.

All four then started across the courtyard towards him, but Zoltan reached him first. Before the Count could speak, Peter anticipated him.

"Yes," he said. "It is gone. It is buried under thousands of tons of rock, and you will never recover it. The charges were planted to destroy every trace of our work, but they were ready. And when it became obvious we had been defeated, I detonated them. It should have been ours—no one else will ever profit from it."

And then the U.N.C.L.E. agents were all around them, and handcuffs were being clamped on gray-clad wrists, and Peter was led away with the rest while Zoltan looked around at his castle.

"Is this to be mine again?" he asked. "Now that the pestilence is removed?"

"If you want it," said Napoleon. "You'll have to check with Colonel Hanevitch, but I don't think Thrush's claim will be recognized by the local courts."

"But have a check made of the foundations," said Illya practically. "That explosion couldn't have done them any good."

* * *

The following evening, their last in Pokol, they saw Peter for the last time in the inn, which had been established as Operations Command Post pro tem. The Thrush was in handcuffs and under guard when they spoke to him, but he was unhumbled by his condition.

"Just a few questions remain," Napoleon said to him. "I don't intend to stay awake nights worrying if you don't tell me, but I'd like to know just how you controlled those wolves. We've got the radio receiver, but how was it handled?"

"You could figure it out for yourself easily enough," said Peter generously. "The transmitter was in the helicopter, and the entire situation on the ground was monitored by infra-red floodlights and scanners. Each wolf was sensitive to two frequencies—a general one, and a group frequency so we could direct some of them one way and some another."

"What about your own appearance as a vampire?"

"The fangs were simple tooth caps; the cloak was designed to unfold as a bat's wings. The rest was simply acting ability." The Thrush smiled smugly.

"But you were shot at...."

He gave Napoleon a patronizing look. "Surely you've heard of bulletproof vests? There was an element of chance involved—you might have missed my body and hit me in the head, for instance—but you are all good enough shots that I figured I would be safe."

"That first night we came here, Hilda and I were scared silly by something which must have been artificial. What was it?"

"When you picked up the glass, I thought you had discovered us already. There was a subsonic generator in the room, putting out a fourteen-cycle note at about sixty decibels. This frequency causes an instinctive fear reaction. We had not allowed for the vibrations of the table, which almost gave us away when they began to move the glass across the table. Fortunately, I was able to distract you." He looked patiently at Napoleon. "Is there anything else?"

"Why did you have that empty coffin set up down in the family crypt? You couldn't have expected us there."

Peter's eyebrows drew together in a frown. "What coffin? We made use of no coffins...."

"I have a question," said Illya. "Why did you pretend to be driven off by the cross Hanevitch made of silver knives?"

The Thrush shrugged. "I was pretending to be a vampire. If you had realized I wasn't, you would have also realized why I was immune to your bullets, and aimed for a vulnerable spot. Besides, as I told your friend, we had no need to do more than frighten U.N.C.L.E. agents—not kill them."