Текст книги "[Magazine 1966-­02] - The Howling Teenagers Affair "

Автор книги: Dennis Lynds

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"What do you mean exactly by unpredictable?" Illya said.

Waverly filled his pipe. "Possible I should have the pictures run again for you, gentlemen. But in the interest of saving time, let me point out that in some of these cases there seems to be considerable method to the madness. I should think you could see-"

"The murder of the president," Illya said, "the stealing of the gold bullion, the burning of that laboratory, and the theft of the fuse plans, and-"

"And the killing of the deputy chief of security," Solo finished.

"Very good, gentlemen, I see all your training is not lost," Waverly said. "Yes, it is quire clear that in each of those cases random accident appears rather unlikely. Someone had much to gain in each instance. One such accident, yes. Two? Possible. Three, not really possible. Four, never."

"Mathematically all but impossible," Illya said. "Given the exact similarity of conditions-all teenage riots."

"What about the Russians?" Solo said. "Each of those cases was in the West except the deputy chief of security, and he was a Pole. It could have been some sort of purge."

Illya smiled. "Always ready to malign my poor countrymen."

"Your ex-countrymen," Solo pointed out.

Waverly cleared his throat, tapped out his never lighted pipe.

"Let me say it is not the Russians. Our friends at the Kremlin are not cooperative with information, as you well know, but in this case we have reliable data to show that other such incidents have occurred in the Soviet. They are, I believe, quite as worried as the West.

"THRUSH?" Solo said.

"I think we can safely detect their fine hand in this, Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "Especially since they appear to be out to stop us before we start. A sign, I believe, of the high priority nature of whatever scheme they have."

Waverly searched his tweed jacket for his tobacco pouch again.

"In addition, our Section-I representative for Africa, with whom I had the pleasure of speaking this morning, has some other indications. It appears that the man who will step into the dead president's shoes out there may well be a THRUSH man. That would make the new country another THRUSH satrapy, I fear. In any event, each case would benefit THRUSH in its work enormously."

There was a silence in the office. They were all thinking of the work of THRUSH. That supra-national organization, almost a nation of its own, had only one work—to dominate the world, to have the only power. To this end THRUSH had already invaded the body politic of the earth like some insidious virus. Everywhere on earth, high places and low, there were men who seemed to belong to various nations, but who, in fact belonged to only one nation—THRUSH

These men lived complete double lives, whether they were taxi-drivers of cabinet ministers. Their rank in the visible world did not necessarily coincide with their THRUSH ranking. A taxi-driver in New York could be a leader of THRUSH; a cabinet minister in Peru could be no more than a common soldier. At the head of THRUSH was the council—great men all, in both worlds: soldiers, industrialists, politicians, scientists.

Illya Kuryakin leaned forward across the circular table, his dark eyes fixed on Waverly. "I can understand the cases where THRUSH has something to gain. But what about the other incidents? Were they mistakes of THRUSH?"

"Possibly," Waverly agreed.

"Or a cover," Solo said. "Intended to hide the real incidents where they gained.

"Possibly," Waverly agreed again. The older man sucked on his unlighted pipe. "I think, gentlemen, that we are dealing with both mistakes and a cover, but not in the usual sense. There is something here that does not meet the eye. Teenagers have been rioting, running wild at times, for many years. It is a part of our modern world, it seems. But now we have a difference. Now we have what appears to be true madness, insanity. Some of it seems directed, some not. But in all cases, ultimate violence has ensued, and the young people, and others, have died—smiling! It is as if something had pushed the young people beyond the normal limits. We know they were not drugged in the normal sense, and despite much work we have discovered no agents provocateur. We are looking for something capable of turning great masses of young people into mindless monsters who kill, steal and perform planned atrocities apparently without direction! Something that works on great numbers, leaves no trace, and leads to single acts of definite method in some cases but not in all cases. That, gentlemen, is the key. Why does it work only in some cases? That is what we must know."

"Perhaps it is still experimental," Illya said. "That would explain why it doesn't work."

"That occurred to me," Waverly said. "And that is why we must move fast before it is perfected."

"How?" Solo said. "If there is no direction from outside, no agents, no visible contact with anyone, how can we trace it? You can't just go and question every member of a teenage mob!"

"Naturally not, Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "In any case that has been tried. The young people seem to know nothing, those who have survived. All they can tell us is that they suddenly felt the urge to be violent. In most cases, those who live have no true recollection of just how violent they have been."

"Like the alkaloid drugs," Illya said quickly. "Aware of what they are doing, but unaware of the speed, the degree."

"Exactly," Waverly said. "Over and over again authorities have reported that the teenagers appear to think they merely knocked down a person they have actually trampled to death."

"But they do know they have been violent?" Solo said.

"Yes, Mr. Solo. They know," Waverly said. The older man tapped his pipe on the circular table. "There is one more detail. Is is, I believe, vital. Over the past six months the cases have tended to be prolonged. That is, the violence does not leave the young people as soon. Each time they appear to remain in their madness longer. We have no time to lose."

"But where do we start?" Solo demanded.

"In Kandaville, I think," Waverly said. "You see, we now have one clue, our only clue."

The older man turned back to the screen and pressed a button. Instantly the scene of the airfield at Kandaville appeared. It was the same as before. Bodies of dead teenagers, the battered and bloody police and troops, the wrecked aircraft, and the dead president on his face.

But, as Solo and Illya watched, the picture began to narrow its field, as though focusing on a single point.

"You will note the small group of police near the edge of the airfield," Mr. Waverly said.

The picture on the screen became a close-up of this group. Four policemen, bloody and holding their heads-and standing with them, helping one policeman, a single man wearing the uniform of a native soldier.

Solo and Illya stared hard at the hazy face in the blow-up. Waverly placed two prints of the blow-up on the circular table and revolved the top until the pictures were in front of the two agents.

"That face, gentlemen, belongs to Azid Ben Riilah, a Somali of Muslim parentage. He was born, supposedly, in Somaliland, but he has spent little time there. He appeared in Kenya during the Mau-Mau troubles. He was seen in both Stanleyville with the Gizenga rebels, and in Leopoldville with the other side in the Congo affair. He has been identified in Zulu peace parades in South Africa, also as a native informer for the Apartheid Government in the same country. In actuality he is an agent of THRUSH, uncovered only four months ago by Section-II men in Africa. There is absolutely no evidence of any action on his part that led to the mob that murdered the president down there. But he was there. You understand, gentlemen?"

"Is he still in Kandaville?" Solo said grimly.

"As far as Section-II there knows, he is," Waverly said. The Leader of U.N.C.L.E. stood up in a gesture of dismissal. "He is your man. I assume you will think of just what to do with him?"

"Any suggestions, sir?" Solo asked. Waverly had returned to his desk. The older man seemed to have already forgotten the presence of his agents. The job he had just given Solo and Kuryakin was only one of many he had to consider each day. After a moment, Waverly appeared to hear and look up again.

"Eh? Oh, I'm sure you'll think of something—uh—Solo."

Illya was grinning like a cat as Solo turned away from Waverly. The two of them walked out through the door that silently opened and closed itself. They went to check on their transportation and on the Section-II agents in South Africa.

FIVE

Idlewild Airport, renamed John F. Kennedy International Airport, bustled with the night-departing passengers. Three giant jets were departing within the hour. Napoleon Solo, carrying a briefcase stepped to the loading desk to claim his seat on the London-bound B.O.A.C. jet.

Some buildings away, a small, bent old man with graying dark hair and a heavy beard shuffled up to the loading desk of the Air France flight non-stop to Paris. The uniformed loading clerk studied the old man closely but without giving himself away.

The old man muttered in French but with a heavy German accent. The loading clerk stamped his ticket, gave him his seating card, and turned his attention to the next person.

At the B.O.A.C. loading desk, the actions of a baggage handler were vastly different. Observing Napoleon Solo, the baggage handler suddenly bent over for a dropped suitcase.

At the loading desk, Solo was passed through and took his place on a seat to await the time to board. Idly, he noticed the baggage handler pushing his cart away down the long, bright corridor.

Solo became aware of the noise before he actually heard it. A rumbling like the sea, turning into a roar that came closer. Solo leaped up, walked quickly toward the fence that imprisoned him inside the loading area.

He was too late.

The first of a horde of teenagers appeared running at the far end of the wide and shining corridor. Behind the first few young boys and girls he saw a solid wall of howling teenagers coming toward the loading area. Solo whirled and sprinted for the door to the plane. It was locked.

Quickly he opened his briefcase and produced a small, circular object. He touched it to the electrically controlled door. He pressed a button. The door, activated by the special electronic circuit activator, sprung open. Solo dashed through, just as the howling mob of teenagers reached the loading area and smashed down the fence.

In the loading ramp, a long tunnel with corrugated sides like some giant bellows, Solo ran toward the door into the jet. Already the howling teenagers were in the tunnel behind him.

Solo ran into the jet, past the protesting stewardess, and along the aisle toward the pilot's cabin. Behind him the teenagers knocked down the screaming stewardess.

Solo, inside the pilot's cabin, locked the door behind him. Again he opened his briefcase and produced a small pellet. Setting the pellet on the escape hatch, he pulled a tiny cord on the pellet and jumped back.

The door was bending, breaking under the pressure of the screaming mob behind him.

The pellet burst into white, flame-less heat, a heat that would melt any metal known. The escape hatch dropped open. Solo threw his briefcase out, lowered himself through the open hatch and let go.

He seemed to fall for minutes.

He hit hard on the concrete, rolled and came up on his feet. Above him the mob of teenagers had reached the hatch. One was already jumping through.

The first teenager jumped down, tilted in the air and landed on his side, screaming with the pain of a broken arm. Solo did not wait. Others were already jumping down. He picked up his briefcase and ran toward the distant corner of the loading building.

He reached the corner and turned it, the mob of teenagers strung out now behind him, some limping but still coming on. As he reached the next corner he stopped, skidded to a halt.

A second howling mob was coming at him from the other direction. He turned and ran out toward the great open area of the airfield, running with the speed that had made him a track star in his younger days.

As he ran into the dark night, he pulled the transmitter-receiver from his pocket. He raised the thread-like antennae.

"Sonny to Bubba. Sonny to Bubba. Condition Red, condition Red." He pressed the receiving button.

"Bubba to Sonny. Instruct action. Am safely aboard."

Solo pressed his sending button, trying to speak clearly as he ran on across the dark field.

"Proceed. They are after me. I'll lead them off. Watch yourself."

"Can I help? Repeat, can I help?" the distant voice of Illya said from the tiny receiver.

Solo stopped and looked around. He could hear the howling mob still behind him, coming closer. He pressed his send button.

"Proceed on mission. Good luck."

Solo replaced the tiny set in his pocket. He listened. The mob seemed to be moving off, heading the wrong way. He smiled and began to trot, carrying his briefcase. He heard the sound of motors too late.

Glaring light pinned him in the night like a moth on a pin.

He dropped his briefcase and drew his U.N.C.L.E. Special. He aimed the Luger-like pistol at the lights. They were car headlights, one set on either side of him. He flicked the special button on his pistol to set it to fire bullets, not darts. He raised he pistol and aimed at the lights.

Something touched his neck. A faint, stinging prick.

He knew nothing more...

In his seat at the window of the Paris-bound jet, the old man with the beard muttered to himself. But it was neither French nor German he muttered. It was Russian—and his bright blue eyes were not old.

Illya replaced the tiny radio set in his pocket. He sat back in his seat. The disguise had worked for him. NO one had chased the old man who spoke such bad French. His head turned and he seemed to sleep facing the window of the jet.

But Illya was not asleep. His eyes peered out into the night. He saw the faint lights of headlights far off in the center of the

airfield. He had a sinking sensation as he looked at those strange lights and thought of Napoleon Solo. But there was work to do.

Soon, the jet took off. He had reported to headquarters the Condition Red call of Napoleon. There was nothing more he could do now, but get on with his task.

As the field passed below, all was dark.

ACT II: THRUSH and COUNTER-THRUSH

Napoleon Solo did not open his eyes. Awake, alert again, with no ill effects beyond a blinding headache and a pain in his neck where the dart had struck, he remained motionless. He was surprised to be still alive.

His hands, he knew, were bound behind him; his feet were encased in something soft yet strong. He probably did no have long to live, but the training of years never deserted him. He listened to the voices to remember them for future reference. Two men and a woman. He could not hear what they said, but he would never forget the timbre of their voices.

Cautiously, Solo opened his eyes. And saw nothing. He blinked, opened his eyes again—all was black, yet moving, fluttering with faint light.

As if his eyes were not open at all.

Yet he knew he was opening them; he knew the muscles were opening his eyes.

But his eyes were not open.

"Look, his eyes are moving," the woman's voice said. The voice of Maxine Trent.

"Fix the eyes," a man's deep voice said.

Something sprayed against his eyelids, a cool mist. He waited, blinked and his eyes came open.

"Hello, Napoleon," Maxine said.

She stood before him, changed now. The soft female face was longer, harder. Her languid clothes of the afternoon had been changed for a severe black suit, a wide-brimmed hat pulled low. But she was smiling the same smile. She was still almost six feet tall, yet not too tall. Solo sighed. Even here and now she was a beautiful woman.

"Hello, Maxine," Solo said, mustering up a smile.

Behind Maxine all was black. He could not make out any shape to the room. There was a bright light on a fine inlaid table, but the light did not seem to reach any corners anywhere.

Solo could just make out the shapes of two men behind Maxine. He could not see them. While he was pretending to stare hard to make them out, he tested his bonds. The rope around his wrists behind the chair he was sitting in seemed secure. The soft material encasing his feet would not budge.

He glanced down to be sure of what he was up against, and he stared. Maxine Trent laughed mockingly. Solo stared at his feet. There was nothing holding them—nothing at all. They were encased in nothing, yet he felt some soft but strong material holding his feet.

There was nothing holding his feet, yet he could not move them. When he tried to move them the unseen material clung and cut into his legs. Maxine laughed again.

"If you could turn around, Napoleon, you would see that there is nothing holding your hands, either. No rope at all. See?"

Maxine held two mirrors in such a way that he could see his bound hands behind the chair. There was no rope. There was nothing holding his hands, yet they were bound tight.

"A toy, Mr. Solo," the deep male voice said from the darkness.

"A simple hypnotic drug that paralyzes the muscles and induces the brain to ascribe some physical cause, such as ropes or a cement block on the feet. It is both effective as a restraining device, as a demonstration of our limitless sources of power."

There was a sudden hiss from the dark, an eerie sound like wind whistling through a thin reed. Reedy, hissing and yet it was a voice. It was the weird, toneless voice of the other man hidden in the dark.

"We waste time. He will tell us," the hissing voice said.

Maxine Trent seemed to stiffen like a dog whose master has whistled. Her beautiful face changed, became a mask. A tremor very like fear seemed to shudder through her.

Solo stared toward the point in the dark where the reedy voice had hissed. It was a voice that was inhuman, made not of flesh and bone but of metal and plastic, yet Solo knew now that this was the voice of a leader of THRUSH—a council member. It had to be, to make Maxine jump like a dog in obedience and terror.

"Tell us what Waverly told you, Napoleon," Maxine Trent said. "It will save time."

"I like to see THRUSH work," Solo said calmly. "Sometimes I even learn something."

The deep male voice snapped in the dark. "The needle."

Solo laughed. "Pentathol? How unimaginative. I really expected better, especially with a council member present."

The reedy hiss of the hidden voice neither laughed nor threatened. "Council Member N if that will help, Mr. Solo. And the needle does not contain pentathol. That would be far too slow and unreliable. NO, I have developed something much better. Its effect is similar, but it acts instantly; no one can withstand it."

"Proceed, Agent Trent," the deep male voice ordered.

Maxine approached with the needle. Solo thought about the deep voice. This had to belong to a chief agent, above Maxine Trent, but below the horrible hissing voice. Somehow he had to see them.

"Try to relax, Napoleon," Maxine Trent said. "You will anyway. In five seconds you will tell us all you know."

The beautiful woman raised the needle, found a vein in his paralyzed arm, and plunged the point into his flesh.

TWO

Illya Kuryakin leaned to look out the window of the small jet as it circled the city below. A white city, dazzling in the African sun, the great river curving like a snake around the buildings. Even from the sky, Illya could see the great white government buildings in the center, and the grey-brown shacks surrounding them where the people still lived.

Illya stared down. It was for this that he had left the service of his own country—to bridge that terrible gap between the great white buildings and the miserable shacks of the people. To free the great river that wound below to serve the people, all the people.

He had seen the failure of a dream in his own country, the failure of many dreams in many places, and other places where there had not yet even been time to dream amid the misery.

And, somewhere sown there was a man, Azid Ben Rillah, who served a "nation" that wanted to destroy all dreams—all dreams but the dream of keeping every misery as it was. Down there, somewhere, THRUSH was at work to keep the hovels dirty, to forever separate the power from the people.

It was a "nation" Illya would destroy, and all like it. Then, perhaps, he could listen to his jazz records, read his books, travel as he had always wanted to, alone and afraid of no on and nothing, with no one afraid of him.

"Fasten your seatbelts please."

The voice of the stewardess pulled Illya from his reverie. He fastened his seatbelt and waited. He had abandoned his disguise in Paris—even Napoleon might be made to talk—and now sat in the small jet a Specialist Tworkov of the Soviet trade mission to the new country. A drooping blond mustache hid his young face. He had acquired a creditable limp. Thick glasses hid his dark eyes. All his weapons were checked and in place.

Illya left the jet fourth in line. Behind the thick glasses his eyes watched. The field was clear. A fawning native porter ran up to clutch his suitcase. Illya casually fingered the deadly, needle-like knife in his side pocket. The native porter grinned up.

"Bwana have three more suitcase?"

"Can you carry three or six?" Illya said.

"Uphill three, downhill six," the native said.

"I have only one." Illya said.

"One is very good. I am twelve," the native said.

"I am nine," Illya said.

"So?" the native said. "Welcome to Africa, Mr. Kuryakin. Follow me closely."

Illya followed the porter across the field, his eyes, behind the thick lenses, scrutinizing everyone who neared them. The porter moved fast, did not pause on his way into the single main building of the airport. Once inside the building the porter led Illya to customs, and through customs under the regular procedure.

Illya continued to follow the porter out to a taxi. Once inside the taxi, Illya watched the porter vanish. The taxi driver waited for Illya's instruction.

"Imperial Hotel," Illya said.

The driver nodded and drove off. Once out of the area of the airport, with no cars in sight on the sunny morning, the driver reached into his pocket and brought out an innocent card. It was plastic.

Illya opened a small bottle of fluid and placed a drop on the plastic. A faint purple spot appeared. It had identified the driver as Joseph Ngara.

"You were supposed to have another man with you," Joseph Ngara said.

"We ran into trouble in New York."

"I'm sorry. Who was it?"

"Napoleon Solo," Illya said. The taxi swerved a hair. "Napoleon? I've worked with him. Damn, Kuryakin, we can't afford to lose chief enforcement agents like him."

"We haven't lost him yet," Illya said. "You're Section-II out here?"

"Chief enforcement agent for Section-II, Africa. Our Section-I man briefed me," Joseph Ngara said. "We had our eye on Rillah for some time, but we only got proof he was THRUSH a few months ago."

"Have you found what he is doing here?"

"Not precisely," Ngara said, "but he arrived less than a week before the riot that killed the president. We picked up one clue, a word: PowerTen. Two words, really, but our, ah, source says he heard it as one word: PowerTen."

"Your source is reliable?' Illya asked.

"Reliable but low-placed. He heard Rillah use the word twice when talking otherwise in code on the telephone. The word seemed to impress Rillah."

"Anything else? Any weaknesses we can use to make him talk?" Illya asked.

"You know better, Illya," Ngara said. "THRUSH agents don't have weaknesses."

"Everyone has a weakness somewhere, Ngara," Illya said. "Only THRUSH knows how to neutralize the weaknesses of their agents. Is there anything unusual about Rillah?"

"Yes, he likes modern jazz music. He frequents a place called The Yellow Zebra. Almost every night he's there."

"Jazz?" Illya said.

"It's more this rock and roll, the long-haired kids with guitars," Ngara said.

Teenage music! Illya's dark eyes narrowed. He sat back in the taxi.

"I think we had better visit The Yellow Zebra tonight," Illya said. Ngara nodded. By this time they had reached the Imperial Hotel. Illya paid Ngara as he would any driver, and went in to claim the room reserved for Comrade Tworkov. All was in order: the Russian trade mission was, conveniently, out of the city at this time. Section-V did not make mistakes when they arranged a cover. Illya examined the room, secured it against surprise attack, and slept soundly until time to go that night.

* * *

The Yellow Zebra was a loud neon glare in the night of Kandaville. It was a small club, down a flight of stairs from the street. A quartet of young men played and sang in strong rhythm on the bandstand. They played well, and Illya nodded his appreciation as he entered with Ngara. The young girls of the city whirled across the dance floor, their young bodies quick and alive.

"There," Ngara said.

Illya looked. Azid Ben Rillah sat alone at a table near the bandstand. The Somali lounged indolently, a long, Russian-made cigarette dangling slack from his full lips, a glass of some colorless liquid in front of him. His strong, dark hands fondled the glass like a lover, raised it to his lips from time to time.

Illya slipped into a seat at a table behind Rillah. Joseph Ngara sat with him. Illya had removed his disguise now. The Russian Tworkov was supposedly asleep in the Imperial Hotel.

The blond U.N.C.L.E. agent looked nothing more than a young music lover on the town, but his sharp eyes missed nothing. He noted the faint sign given by Ngara to a young waiter and to a lithe girl singer who came out now on the bandstand and smiled softly at Azid Ben Rillah.

"Rillah seems a little interested," Ngara said without looking at Illya. "But I'm worried. He's smart, and Mahyana is one of our newest agents. I'm afraid she'll overplay it. But someone has to get close to him."

"There may not be time," Illya said. "Whatever they have, it seems to be advanced rapidly. Perhaps a day, two days, but then we'll have to force his hand. We."

Azid Ben Rillah suddenly turned around in his seat and his deep-set brown eyes passed across Illya's face. To anyone but an agent as sharply trained as Kuryakin it would have appeared that Rillah barely noticed him, for the brown eyes immediately shifted away to look at another part of the room.

But Illya Kuryakin knew better. Azid Ben Rillah had been shocked within a hair of his life when he had seen Illya. There had been no more than a flicker in the brown eyes of the Somali, a faint stiffening of Rillah's body, a minute knotting of the corded muscles of the THRUSH agent's neck. But it had been enough to betray him.

Azid Ben Rillah had recognized Illya—and had been startled.

Which meant, at least, that Napoleon Solo had not talked yet. A man who had known Illya was coming would not have been shocked at the sight of him.

Illya felt a sudden coldness in his stomach.

What was it?

Something he, Illya, saw in the dark face of Azid Ben Rillah. What? Damn it, Kuryakin, he told himself silently, what was it?

He stared at the dark face of the Somali. Rillah, recovering instantly as befitted a trained agent of THRUSH, was casually continuing his contemplation of the lithe and soft young dancers. Illya abandoned all attempts at concealment. He stared at the dark indolent face.

Yes! It was the face. Something—something he had not seen in the fuzzy blowup in New York. A picture can only tell so much, and the picture in New York had not been a good one. Now, with the live face before is staring eyes, Illya saw something different, something—familiar!

Yes, familiar! He knew that face. Not as it was, not dark like this, and the eyes—Illya stared, forced his mind back and back. How far? How far back was it?

Rillah, he knew, had had a similar feeling; the Somali knew Illya from somewhere. But where, when? The eyes—blue! But no Somali had blue eyes. The face floating somewhere in the dim past of Illya's mind had blue eyes and a fair skin, not a Somali at all.

It was something no picture could show, but the aspect of that face, the real live face, was know to Illya. Far back. Before U.N.C.L.E. Yes, long before U.N.C.L.E. when he had served in the Soviet-

And he had it!

He knew who Azid Ben Rillah really was.

In that instant the Somali who was not a Somali suddenly stood and walked quickly for a curtained doorway at the side of the room.

Illya leaped in pursuit.

Joseph Ngara was right behind him. Ngara nodded sharply to the waiter, who was one of his men, and to the girl singer. The waiter dropped his tray and clawed under his coat.

The girl singer lifted her skirt showing long, beautiful legs like smooth brown marble—and showing a tiny holster from which she drew her small pistol.

The three African Section-II members converged on the curtained doorway. Illya had been quick but Azid Ben Rillah had been even quicker. The fake Somali vanished through the doorway.

Illya followed, through a passageway and out, suddenly, into the dark African night of an alley that stank of garbage.

Rillah was waiting.

The fusillade of shots from the semi-automatic pistol hammered the night, striking chips from the stone wall, bare inches from Illya's head.

Illya went down, his U.N.C.L.E. Special out. He clicked the control to the paralyzing-dart magazine. He needed Rillah alive—false brown colored contact lenses and all.

Rillah stepped out, firing madly.

Illya raised his pistol from where he lay and fired once, twice. The sharp spit of the pistol firing darts was barely heard in the night.

Azid Ben Rillah clawed at his neck and went down, rigid on the filthy stones of the alley.

Illya started to rise.

They came from both sides at once.

Joseph Ngara and his two agents came out the door, guns ready.

The six strangers came from the open end of the alley. Their guns were held out in front of them. They stood crouched, legs straddled wide, firing as they came.

Joseph Ngara went down, riddled and dead.

The waiter choked on his own blood in his torn throat.