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

Автор книги: Dennis Lynds

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ACT III: TRIO OF BEDLAM

The harbor of Sydney is spanned by a giant semi-circular arched bridge that towers above the water. It is the first thing you see as you fly in. Then came Customs. The third would be, for more weary travelers, one of the Australian city's modern hotels, or perhaps the great beaches later for a swim.

For Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, after Customs there was only a clandestine meeting, a joining of forces.

After that came the howling teenagers.

Four hundred howling, screaming young people, dancing a frenzy to the music of five quartets of long-haired, bearded young men under high hanging cages, where slim-legged and full-breasted young girls danced behind the hanging bars.

The Bedlam.

The muscular man on the door, far beyond his teens, checked their ticket.

"Sorry mate, tickets only. That it? Right, go on in."

The big man beamed at them and turned his attention to the next group trying to enter the madhouse of music and stamping young feet. For his sortie into Bedlam, Solo had changed his usually impeccable clothes for a shoddy sweater and tight jeans.

Illya did not have to change; his tight black trousers and usual black shirt, coupled with his blond haystack hair, made him seem part of it all.

Behind them, with a carefully procured ticket, was the dark, slim Mahyana.

Illya had brought the African Section-II agent with him—what better agent for The Bedlam than a girl singer?

Inside the door, deafened by the howling mob of dancers and screamers, they appeared to meet, Illya and Mahyana. Two young people with mutual interests, ready for life.

Solo led them through the rocking room toward the first bandstand. Four young men with long hair gyrated, handling their electronic instruments perfectly. Above them in the cages the girls moved sinuously, their eyes closed, their young bodies moving in perfect rhythm with the beat of the music.

"Four," Solo said. "Hardly a trio."

Illya pointed out, "The sign on the stand says they are the Waif Wailers."

"I hope that whatever PowerTen is, they don't feed it to all of them here and send them after us," Solo whispered.

"You have the most charming thoughts," Illya said.

"Just what are we looking for?" Mahyana wanted to know.

"If we knew that, my dear, we wouldn't have to look," Solo said.

The beautiful brown-skinned girl smiled at solo. Illya sighed. He hoped that both Napoleon and Mahyana would remember that there was work to do, dangerous work. Illya grinned wryly. Perhaps he was just jealous. And perhaps he had a right to be. After all, he had seen the girl first. She had almost saved his life.

Solo whispered to Mahyana, "I think our Illya would prefer it if we tended to business."

"It is hard to look into each other's eyes and still look for trouble," Illya said.

They had reached the next bandstand now. Five young men with beards sang and stamped, banged hard on their instruments. The sing on the bandstand read: The Beavers. The banjo man suddenly bent down.

"Daddy, you following me?"

Solo studied the bearded young man who grinned down at them from the bandstand. "Is this a friend of yours, Illya?"

"I would like you to meet Fighting Joe Hooker from Hoboken," Illya said.

"You puttin' me on, Dad?" Hooker said.

Mahyana smiled at the bearded boy. "Fighting Joe Hooker was an American Civil War general, Mr. Hooker. I think Mr. Kuryakin means it as a compliment."

"I knew I should have finished kindergarten," Joe Hooker said, and smiled at the pretty singer. "You brought the cool chick, Dad. That makes my night. Put away your weapons and sing a chorus, doll."

"All right," Mahyana said.

The girl climbed onto the bandstand with her fluid motion, the slim brown body hiding the muscle of an athlete. Illya and Solo circulated slowly, watching the room. Joe Hooker strummed his banjo, beating time, grinning at the girl as she sang. Illya nodded toward the other bandstands across the milling mob of teenage dancers.

"I see no riots, Napoleon. Perhaps they are not here tonight?"

"Then why did the doorman act as if they were?" Solo said without looking at Illya, his body keeping time as if the music were his only interest.

"I don't know. Perhaps Mr. Hooker will tell us," Illya said.

Solo nodded, snapping his fingers, his eyes studying the room. Everything seemed normal: the youngsters were dancing a storm, a bright happiness on all their faces. With the exveption of the doorman outside and some of the musicians, it did not look as though there was a person in the room over twenty years old.

"Nice, real nice," Joe Hooker said as Mahyana finished her chorus and The Beavers took a breather. The bearded banjo man squatted down on the platform. "This moving is too much, Dad. Yesterday Kandaville, today Down Under, crazy."

"Mr. Hooker," Illya said.

"Joe, Dad, just Joe. Mister is for TV stars over fifty."

"All right, Joe," Solo said. "What can you tell us about The Bedlam Trio?"

"Local group. This is home base," Hooker said, "Only—"

"Do they travel a great deal?" Illya broke in.

"No, man, they sit, you know? I mean, this is their pad. Only thing is, they—"

"Is there anything peculiar about them? Anything unusual," Solo said.

"They're on, Dad, if that's what you mean."

"On?" Illya said.

"Turned on, man—the pot, you know?"

"Marijuana?" Solo said.

"They smoke up a storm, and that's kind of funny, you know? I mean, the new rock and roll boys don't usually make that scene. They're the only group I know, way out. Only, Dads, maybe you've got another sort of group in mind."

"Why?" Solo snapped.

"Well, The Bedlam gang here ain't a trio. They're a quartet. See, over there."

Illya, Solo and Mahyana turned quickly to look at the four muscular young men on the last bandstand across the dancing room. There were four-and they were also very strange looking. They wore black leather jackets, bulky jackets that could hide almost anything. But it was their eyes.

Solo whispered "Look at their eyes!"

"The same as in the pictures—maniacal," Illya said.

"Are thinking what I'm thinking?" Solo whispered, his voice still smiling as if he was talking about nothing more important than the music.

"I am," Illya said. "A trap. That ticket was left for me to find. It must be a standard booby trap, intended to bring anyone who captures or kills on of their men straight here."

"I agree. And I think we are going to have trouble getting out," Solo said.

"I would say a diversion is indicated," Illya said.

"But we should talk to them, The Bedlams," Solo said.

"Later would seem wiser," Illya said.

"I agree," Solo said.

The two agents spoke low and casually to Mahyana. The girl nodded her understanding. Joe Hooker squatted down again on the bandstand above them.

"If you're interested, Dads, The Bedlam boys look mighty interested in you."

The bearded banjo man nodded toward the far bandstand. The four muscular young men in the black leather jackets had put down their instruments and were looking toward Illya and Solo. Illya pointed to the doorman standing with them. Solo nodded.

"All right, now. Listen," Solo said. "We'll head for the door together. If they start to cut us off, I'll drop a smoke bomb; that should shake this place up. When I do, make a run for the door. I'll cover the rear."

"Now!" Illya said.

The three agents started for the door. From the bandstand, the four leather-jacketed youths began to move to cut them off. Illya and Solo pushed the girl ahead of them. It looked for a moment that they would make it.

Then it happened.

From out of the hordes of dancing teenagers, single young men and girls began to appear—all wearing black leather jackets. The boys wore jackets and blue jeans, the girls the same jackets and tight stretch pants. They seemed to appear all through the room—and al their eyes had a steady, fixed, maniacal glaze. Eyes that were almost insane, yet happy, exhilarated.

"They've got us blocked off!" Solo said sharply. "If I throw the bomb it won't stop them all."

Illya looked around quickly.

The three agents had stopped now. They stood in the center of the room, surrounded by the wildly dancing young people, the bands beating a frenzied rhythm. Everywhere in the room the strange teenagers in the leather jackets seemed to come up out of the floor. Then there was a voice.

"Looks like you need the Paul Revere act again, Dads."

Joe Hooker had come up to them.

"I know the back way. Make with the feet, fast!"

They nodded. Solo suddenly threw his bomb. Smoke billowed up in a great cloud in the room.

The screaming began.

Illya, Solo, and Mahyana followed Joe Hooker toward the rear, under the rear bandstand and crouched low, emerged into a concrete corridor.

Two black-jacketed teenagers appeared with guns at the far end of the corridor, their eyes blazing insane joy.

"This way," Hooker cried.

Illya snapped off two quick shots from his Special at the two black jackets. The two did not even duck. But they did not fire; they just came forward at a trot. Illya turned and ran after the others.

They came out of a door into a dark parking lot. Behind them black-jacketed teenagers poured into the corridor like a boiling river. Now they began to howl like wild beasts on the trail of food.

The three agents raced across the parking lot, Joe Hooker with them.

Mahyana stumbled, fell.

Joe Hooker stopped to help her.

Another horde of teenagers, all in black jackets, poured around the corner of the building. Illya and Solo stopped for a second. Hooker and Mahyana were up again and running.

"They're cut off!" Illya cried.

"We can't help now; too many of them."

"Run, Napoleon!" Illya cried.

Solo ran. Illya ran behind him. They reached the far side of the parking lot, where there were buildings and a street. Solo went around the corner of the first building, with Illya twenty yards behind him. Illya cried out.

"I'll lead them off. They can see me."

Solo did not pause. He knew that Illya was right. He, out in front, could turn the next the next building and be out of sight. The raging, howling mob behind was too close to Illya. The weird horde of black-jackets had already swarmed over Mahyana and Joe Hooker. One of them had to remain free.

Solo turned the corner. He was out of sight for a full thirty seconds.

Illya came around the corner, the mob in close pursuit.

Solo had vanished.

Smiling grimly, Illya ran on down the dark Sydney street. They were persistent, the teenagers behind him, not like a simple mob, but Illya was a trained athlete and he slowly pulled away. He ran on toward the outskirts of Sydney.

The mob poured after him.

For a long minute the dark street was filled with howling, raging black jackets. Ten teenagers forced Joe Hooker and Mahyana into a black car that appeared from nowhere. The street shook as the horde poured on after the fleeing Illya Kuryakin.

Then, suddenly, the street was empty again.

Nothing moved on the dark Sydney street under the Southern sky.

Then a manhole cover opened slowly. Napoleon Solo climbed out into the night. Alone, he listened for a moment, then turned and walked quickly away in the opposite direction.

TWO

The sun rose slowly over Sydney. In his hotel room, Napoleon Solo spoke urgently into the tiny radio set in his hand, the two thread-like antennae extended.

"Bubba, this is Sonny! Come in, Bubba. Report, Bubba. Come in, come in, this is Sonny."

Solo pressed the receive button. There was only silence. He rubbed his chin. The set had a range of five miles on local transmission. Illya knew that Solo would be in the hotel. But Solo had been trying to raise the small Russian for hours. By now, if Illya had escaped the mob, he should have managed to make his way to within five miles of the hotel.

"Bubba, come in. Sonny is here, come in. Bubba?"

There was only silence.

Solo made a tiny adjustment on his miniature set and pressed the send button again.

"Anzac, this is Sonny. Come in."

He pressed the receive button. Immediately a crisp female voice spoke.

"Sonny, this is Anzac Control."

Solo spoke urgently to the girl at U.N.C.L.E. in Sydney. "Has Bubba called in?"

"No report from Bubba," the crisp female voice said. "A report to the Sydney police detailed a riot at The Bedlam. Many hurt—no mention of Agents Kuryakin or Mahyana. The report stated that a musician, one Joseph Hooker, was missing."

Solo thought for a moment. Then he pressed his send button again. "Overseas relay to New York, Section-I priority."

"Immediately, Sonny," Anzac control said.

Solo waited. The room had come to seem stifling now. Where was Illya? Had they caught him? And where were Mahyana and Joe Hooker? Dead—or just captured? There was one hope: THRUSH always tried to capture U.N.C.L.E. agents if it could.

Solo paced. Joe Hooker was of no use to THRUSH. Solo only hoped the bearded musician had the sense to let them think he was with U.N.C.L.E. It would be safer for now. Solo paced. Where was he to go from here? The only lead was The Bedlam, and with his escape they would have abandoned The Bedlam by now. He had to have a lead.

The tiny transmitter-sender wailed its undulating bell-like signal. He pressed the receiving button.

"Sonny, overseas relay from New York. Proceed." Anzac control said.

"Are you there, Solo?" the familiar voice of Waverly said.

"Yes, I'm here, sir. Illya is missing. They have Agent Mahyana, African Section-II, and a musician named Hooker."

The voice of Waverly showed no emotion. "Very well, Mr. Solo. Section-II, South Pacific, will conduct a search for Mr. Kuryakin. However, I think we must continue with our problem. I have a possile area of investigation for you."

"Yes, sir," Solo said. He did not protest. In the work of U.N.C.L.E., only the problem counted. The people were expendable—all, including Waverly, if that had to be.

"With the aid of South Pacific Section-II we have identified the suit worn by the council member N in your picture. A tailor in Sydney, one Max Booth, verifies that he made it. We do not wish to approach Booth for details with local people. So I think it should be in your hands."

"Yes, sir," Solo said.

The tiny set went silent. Solo looked at it for a moment. Then he went to work. His weapons in order, a clean suit on, he left the hotel and walked out into the Australian sun.

A simple check of the telephone directory showed that the shop of Max Booth was only a few blocks form the hotel clerk. The hotel clerk informed Solo that Booth was a very good, if expensive, tailor.

Solo found the small, exclusive shop without incident. He walked in, the picture of the young executive looking for a suit. A small, wizened man hurried to him.

"Yes, sir?"

"I'd like a suit," Solo said simply. The small man cocked his head. "American? May I ask how you heard of me?"

"Through a friend. He saw one of your suits on a man he met and liked it," Solo said.

"You know this man who wore my suit?"

"No, but he was small, thin, about sixty, I'd say. My friend thought he was an industrial scientist, probably a chemist. They were at a chemical convention."

"Ah," Max Booth said. "Yes, small, thin, and a chemist. I made him a fine tweed."

Solo nodded. "That was it, a good tweed. Just what I had in mind. What did you say his name was?"

"Fitzhugh, Marcus Fitzhugh," Max Booth said. "A very wealthy man. One of my best customers. Ah, he's a great man, is Mr. Fitzhugh."

Max Booth turned and walked back toward a curtained fitting room.

"Tweed, you say? Well, perhaps we can suit you. Of course, it will take some weeks. I have a long list."

Solo spoke to the tailor. "He has a strange voice, this Mr. Fitzhugh?"

The tailor stopped, turned. "Voice? Hardly, young man. Marcus Fitzhugh is a deaf-mute. Are you sure you have the right man?"

"I never met him, myself," Solo said, but he was thinking of something else. A deaf-mute! Of course. No wonder they had no record in the files of that voice! A man like Marcus Fitzhugh was certainly in U.N.C.L.E.'s files, but without a voice to cross-reference.

Marcus Fitzhugh never spoke in public, he had said that himself! No wonder. Now all he had to do was contact Waverly and run a check on Marcus Fitzhugh. The man was sure to be in the files. All.

Solo looked up. The tailor was gone. His sixth sense was suddenly alert. It had been too easy. The tailor had told him too much. Why? To throw him off guard. It was a trap.

Solo whirled, half ran for the door. He reached the door and opened it. No one was in the shop or on the street. He pulled on the doorknob.

A puff of cool vapor struck his face.

Solo froze like a statue with his hand still on the doorknob. He could see, think, but he could not move.

* * *

Illya waited four hours in the dank cellar of the Sydney slum. The mob did not return. By the time Illya cautiously left the shelter of the cellar the sun was up over the city. He took out his miniature sender-receiver.

"Sonny, this is Bubba. Come in?"

He pressed the receive button. There was no response. Illya put his tiny set away. Napoleon had certainly gone back to the hotel if he had escaped. The hotel was out of range, and so was Anzac control from here.

Carefully, cleaning up his clothes as much as possible, he worked his way toward the center of Sydney. The people going to work stared at him. He knew he must look odd—a small blond man wearing a black shirt and tight black trousers all stained with mud.

To be sure, Illya took evasive action every time a long black car came near. He wondered about Mahyana and Joe Hooker. He felt angry about the innocent young musician. Still, they would probably be safe enough for now. THRUSH would want to `talk' to them.

His progress was slow. The sun was halfway up the morning sky when he reached the range of the hotel. He took out his radio set again and raised the two threadlike antennae. He sat in a hidden doorway to be unobserved.

"Sonny, this is Bubba! Sonny, come in."

Solo did not answer. Illya felt cold. He made the tiny adjustment on his set.

"Anzac, this is Bubba."

The female voice was cool. `Bubba, Anzac control. Where are you?"

"Safe," Illya said. "Have you heard from Sonny?"

"Yes, an hour ago. He was instructed by New York to proceed to Max Booth's tailoring shop. Are you well?"

"As well as can be expected," Illya said dryly. "Any word on Mahyana or Hooker?"

"None on Agent Mahyana. Hooker is reportedly missing."

"No other word?"

"No. You are coming in? Arrange contact."

"No," Illya said grimly. "I am not coming in."

He clicked off his set and went to the nearest telephone. He located the address of Max Booth's shop. As fast as he could he walked toward the shop. The address was in range of his radio set, and Napoleon had not answered. Illya walked faster.

When he reached the street of Max Booth's shop he stopped. The street was deserted. That was strange at this hour. Then he saw the policeman directing traffic away from the street. What had happened? Had something happened to Napoleon? He was about to approach the policeman when he saw the long black car drive up.

The policeman waved this one through!

Illya flattened back against the wall in the shadow, where he could see the street.

The black car glided to a halt in front of a shop. It was Max Booth's tailor shop! Illya watched. Moments later, two men—a giant and a big, dark-haired man—came out of the tailor shop. Napoleon Solo walked between them.

Except that Napoleon was not walking. He was being carried by the two men—carried upright, rigid, like a statue carved out of stone.

Behind the two men, and the grotesque Solo, Illya saw a third man. This man was small, thin. The small man turned to look up and down the street. Illya shuddered. The man's face was only half a face—the left half was a mass of scars.

The three men pushed Solo into the black car, climbed in after him. The car turned and came back the way it had come. As it paused at the corner near Illya, the policeman who had been directing traffic, suddenly jumped into the car.

The car roared away.

But in the instant of pause to pick up the policeman, Illya had run quickly to a parked car. It was only a matter of seconds for the blond U.N.C.L.E. agent to press his small, round electronic circuit activator to the ignition. The car started with a roar.

Illya drove off in pursuit of the black car.

THREE

Solo was aware of all that was happening. He could see the giant shape of Gotz in the front seat, the man in police uniform driving. He could see the big, deep-voiced chief agent of THRUSH on his right, and the small, thin, horribly disfigured man on his left. The small man had not yet spoken, but solo knew that this was Council Member N—Marcus Fitzhugh, famous and respected scientist and industrialist.

He was aware of the barren land. It stretched all around the speeding car as far as the eye could see. Bleak, hot and dey, with twisted trees. Low sand hills, patches of tough grass, rocks and glaring clay. Here and there tall structures stood above the parched earth. They were, Solo guessed, the heads of mine shafts. This was Central Australia.

It looked more like the surface of Mars—deserted, barren, malignant.

He was aware of it, as he had been aware of the whole trip the thousand miles or more from Sydney. First the black car to a small airport, then the cargo aircraft with the car loaded right in it, then the hours of driving since they landed here in the center of nowhere—a nowhere that looked like the borders of hell. A dry, empty land like the white and glaring land around Green River, Wyoming.

He was aware of all of this, and of the fact that he was alone.

But he could neither speak nor move.

Rigid, propped upright in the seat, even the muscles of his eyes were frozen; he could see only what was directly in front of him. But his brain was as clear and active as ever, and he could hear.

Marcus Fitzhugh talked in that horrible hissing voice. "You see, Solo, your escape was only temporary. You have caused us far too much trouble. Because of you we have lost men, have had to close down two of our operational centers, and been put to all the inconvenience of chasing you. Such foolishness slows down my work."

"It won't slow us down long," the deep-voiced chief agent said.

"Gotz has a score to settle with you, Mr. Solo."

"First we learn what he knows," Marcus Fitzhugh said. "And this time, Herarra, we must not fail. This time we have tall the time we need."

"He won't get out The Belly," Herarra said. "Gotz will make him talk."

"Just keep your monster in hand, Herarra. We want answers, not smashed bones—not at first," Marcus Fitzhugh said.

Solo tried to move. He forced the orders from his clear brain to his muscles. He did not move a hair. His brain reeled with the effort. It was no use. The drug they had used rendered him totally rigid. He heard Marcus Fitzhugh laugh—a terrible sibilant sound like escaping air.

"I believe an eyelid actually twitched that time, Mr. Solo," Fitzhugh said. "You are a remarkable man. I can't remember when anyone managed even a hair twitch under that particular little drug of mine. Yes, a remarkable man. It is too bad. Our poor stupid Maxine was right. It is too bad you are U.N.C.L.E."

The disfigured industrialist laughed his reedy hiss again. "But, I too am a remarkable man. The world failed to see that. Because I am disfigured, my larynx and vocal chords destroyed, they think I am only a freak. The fools!"

"The fools, they believe the accident in my laboratory not only made me a horror to look at, but a deaf-mute. And I wa mute. This voice you hear, terrible though it is, is a voice I created for myself. Yes, I build a new power of speech with plastic and metal. I can do as much for others, and I will when we of THRUSH rule this stupid world."

"We must rule because we can rule. Have you read Plato? Of course you have. He was a genius. Only those who can rule should rule. The herd cannot rule. Look at what they have done? Stupid children are allowed to run free, to do as they want. What idiocy! Children, teenagers, must be shaped, told, commanded."

Solo tried again. His brain commanded, cajoled, begged his muscles to move. It was no use. He could do nothing but listen to this madman, stare at the back of Gotz's bull neck. The sight of the giant made him as afraid as he could be. He had seen the look in the pig eyes of the giant. Gotz would not forgive him for knocking him out. That blow would have killed anyone on earth except the giant.

Solo felt the car turn off the dirt road onto a smaller one. Clouds of dust rose in the hot Australian air. The car bucked and slewed, but Solo felt nothing. It was his hope. They would have to free him from this paralyzing drug to torture him. His only hope was that they would torture him, not kill him at once.

He strained again. Useless. Marcus Fitzhugh laughed his hissing laugh. Solo stared ahead beyond the bull neck of the giant to where the desolate countryside was visible as the car climbed a small hill. Sky and sand hills and glaring sun—a vast, empty desert. Not a stick of cover anywhere, only the tall mine shafts standing up against the blue sky.

This time they had searched him completely, removed everything except his clothes. If he ever got free, that would be their mistake. The thin thread of silicon carbide woven carefully into his trousers, saw edged and hard enough to cut all but a diamond. The loop of the same material, thin as hair, that was, in the hands of an expert, a deadly weapon, and that was sewn, woven into his jacket.

"Well, my dear Solo, here we are. There you see my true home. The Belly, they called it when there were people here. There are no people within two hundred miles, I saw to that. They called it The Belly, because that is what it is—a great belly inside the earth. NO hill, just flat earth, unseeable from the air or anywhere."

Solo saw it ahead. A shabby mine-shaft exactly like all the others they had passed. Yet there was a difference. To his trained

eye, the shabby shaft was not wood at all but metal. The dilapidated two by four hanging at the top was a radio antennae. The circular shaped bucket lift was a radar pickup.

There was nothing else as far as he could see except flat land—treeless, coverless, empty.

And he could guess that beneath the disguised mine shaft was the stronghold of Marcus Fitzhugh. Hidden in the bowels of a flat earth, with no clues as to its location from the land or sky—The Belly.

FOUR

To Illya Kuryakin, the desolate country looked like the arid deserts in the southern part of Siberia. He had been to that harsh area once on a job before he came to U.N.C.L.E., and he had thought then that there was no land on earth so abandoned, forgotten, like a piece of some distant and dead planet. But he had been wrong, this land was as utterly desolate and silent.

To follow them had been as difficult as it had been bizarre. First to the airport near Sydney, where he had managed to attach the directional signal device to the black car before it had been loaded into the giant cargo plane. Then, in the air, at the controls of the fast Beechcraft, maintaining contact by the directional signal and by radar.

Finally he had found a man at the bush airport, where they had landed, who had a battered jeep—for a price.

Now he drove along the dusty road, with the very faint cloud of dust from the black car far ahead. He drove much too far behind them to be detected, following his directional signal. Grimly he continued the long chase, awaiting only the chance to move in with some hope of success.

There had been time in Sydney only to report the description of the small man with the disfigured face. After Sydney, the distance had become too great, and there had been no time anyway. Only at the bush airport had he managed to leave a message-a carefully coded message locating where he was, that would be telephoned to U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters in Sydney.

There was nothing more he could do now but follow the black car, check his weapons, and hope.

The distant, faint dust cloud continued to move steadily across the vast and deserted land. The glare of the sun reflected as if from water. Nothing at all moved in the land, not an animal, not a lizard.

Illya had not seen a human being or a house since leaving the bush airport-and they had been driving all day. At least a hundred and fifty miles had been covered already without a trace of human life or habitation.

The sun itself was low in the sky when, at last, the signal on his direction finder told him that the black car had turned off the dusty main road. Illya slowed down. If they were looking for pursuers it would be now that they would leave a man to check. From the aspect of the countryside, he guessed that any vehicle would be suspect, it was that deserted.

He drove ahead very slowly, letting the car move on ahead of him. The beep of the direction signal showed that the car ahead was proceeding slowly and at right angles to the road they had been travelling. The only danger was that it would move out of range before he found the side road, but he did not think that was likely at the speed it was maintaining now.

Then the car ahead stopped.

Illya stopped, leaned down to listen closely to his direction finder. There was no doubt, the signal was no longer moving. The black car had stopped somewhere less than ten miles ahead. Illya started the jeep and moved on very slowly. Then he stopped again. There was no sense in taking chances by becoming too hasty. The sun was low; he could wait for night. And he would avoid the road ahead if he could.

He got out of the battered jeep. He took out the small box of the miniature direction finder all U.N.C.L.E. field agents carried disguised as a box of wooden matches. With the small box in his left hand and his U.N.C.L.E. Special, loaded, cocked and ready in his right hand, he left the jeep and the road and started out across the hot land.

There was no cover, but he did not think they would look for a man on foot. In any case, it was a chance he had to take. The open, completely empty aspect of the country worked for him as well as against him. There were no high hills, no trees, no cover of any kind for an observer. There were only low, flat rises bare on top, and shallow gullies that might once have contained water.