Текст книги "[Magazine 1967-­05] - The Synthetic Storm Affair "

Автор книги: I. G. Edmonds

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"Please tighten your seat belts!" she cried above the noise of rain, thunder and jets. "Please be calm! There is no danger. We have just run into some turbulence. It will pass in a few minutes!"

Solo watched her in admiration, but Illya Kuryakin did not even glance in her direction. He was too busy with his lovely companion. She was neither brave nor afraid. That is what surprised him. She was furious. Her face was flushed. Her eyes flashed as vividly as the lightning outside.

"Damn them!" she cried, balling her fists and beating on the back of the seat in front of her as an outlet for her fury. "What are they trying to do to me! They should have checked to see which plane I boarded!"

Illya Kuryakin looked at her in astonishment. It seemed like a very curious time to get mad.

He put his hand over and caught her fist.

"Take it easy," he said. "Everything is going to be okay. It's just a strong front."

He raised his voice to make himself heard for the slap of rain on the metal skin of the plane was loud as hail.

But before he finished speaking there was a sudden lull between rain gusts. His loud claim that it was just a strong weather front carried halfway down the passenger compartment.

A man in the uniform of an officer in the U.S. Air Force leaned across the aisle.

"Don't kid yourself, buddy," he said to Kuryakin. "Before I went on military duty in South America I flew hurricane patrols out of Florida. This is no front. It is a genuine hurricane!"

Illya thought so too. His remark was intended to calm the furious girl beside him. Yet the weather report when they left Rio was for calm weather all the way. The meteorological reports might miss a budding storm, but this one was full-blown. Anything so large should have been discovered by hurricane hunter planes.

It was impossible for so large a storm to have gone completely undetected.

But was it?

He remembered what Napoleon told him regarding the call to Mr. Waverly.

Was this a THRUSH-made storm? That would explain its unusual sudden appearance.

Just then there was another lull in the driving rain. The former hurricane hunter across the aisle leaned over and said to Illya: "There is something very strange about this storm. I know something about hurricanes. This thing is absolutely impossible!"

"How do you—" Illya Kuryakin began, but the full fury of the storm struck the plane again. It was impossible to be heard. He gripped the armrests of his seat as the storm-tossed plane almost went into a loop.

His stomach heaved from the furious up and down motion. He hoped that he wasn't going to disgrace himself before the girl by losing his supper.

There was another short lull between gusts of rain. He heard the officer talking to himself: "It's impossible! There couldn't be a storm like this!"

ACT III: THE STORM GIRL

The pitching of the plane grew more violent. The hard driven rain was becoming hail. The alarm of the passengers increased.

Suddenly the girl unbuckled her seat belt. She stood up, bracing herself by holding to seat in front of her.

"Just a minute!" Illya said to her. "You can't—"

"Mind your own business!" she snapped. "I know what I'm doing. That fool of a pilot is going to get us all killed. I've got to do something to keep alive!"

"All you will do is hinder the pilot," Illya said. "Everything will be all right. These men are experienced—"

"Get out of my way!" she said.

She had the look of a person who knew exactly what she was doing. She stepped over Illya's legs. The plane lurched, but she kept her feet. She started making her way down the aisle, holding to the seat backs for support.

At the end of the compartment the stewardess tried to stop her. The girl brushed on past. The plane almost rolled over. She caught the knob of the compartment door.

Illya Kuryakin unbuckled his seat belt and got up. However, the girl braced her herself in time to avoid being thrown off her feet. When the plane righted itself, she opened the door and stepped into the pilot's compartment.

Illya hesitated for a second, then went after her. The wind was becoming gusty. The plane shivered and rolled between moments of comparative calm.

The stewardess half rose from her seat by the compartment door.

"Please, sir—" she began.

Illya patted her shoulder and said, "Don't worry!"

"But you can't bother the pilot at a time like this. He needs to keep his attention on the plane."

"I'm going to get that girl out of there," Illya said. "I—"

"You are from U.N.C.L.E.," she said.

The plane twisted. Every strut and rivet groaning under the strain. Illya could imagine the pilot's struggle to bring them back to an even keel.

"How did you know that?" he asked the girl when he could get his balance again.

"That woman—the one who went in the pilot's compartment. She asked me about you when you first got on the plane. She saw you coming up the ramp and she asked me to make sure nobody took the seat beside her. She wanted one of you to sit there."

"Thanks," Illya said. "Thanks for telling me."

He went on up front, fighting constantly to keep his feet. The tossing of the plane was getting worse. It was building up to the most ferocious storm he ever encountered.

He found the girl standing between the pilot and co-pilot. Both men's uniforms were stained with sweat.

Their faces were strained and tired from the constant struggle to keep the plane from tossing over and losing lift.

"You've got to climb!" It was the girl screaming in the pilot's ear. "These storms only rise about twenty thousand feet. It you can break out of the worst circle of wind, you can rise above it!"

"I've tried!" he yelled back. "I can't gain any altitude. It's taking all our power just to keep out of the sea!"

"Then turn with the wind!" she cried. "Let it carry you—"

"Lady, let me fly the plane, will you? Now get the hell back there in your seat. You're stopping me from-"

"Can't you understand!" she screamed at him. "I know plenty about these storms. I—"

"If you don't get out of here—!" he cried.

She grabbed his arm. The plane pitched to one side. He shoved her and pulled back on the wheel with all his strength in a desperate attempt to bring the nose up.

Illya Kuryakin caught the girl just in time to keep her from being thrown against the control panel. When the plane was half on an even keel again, the angry pilot switched to intercom and called the stewardess.

"Come up here! Get this crazy woman out of here before she wrecks us!"

"You stupid fool!" the girl cried wildly. "You'll kill us all if you don't listen to me!"

Illya braced himself as best he could, and pulled out his U.N.C.L.E. identification. He flashed it to the startled pilot.

"Better do what she says," he shouted. "I've a hunch she knows more about this thing than any of us!"

"I can't take a chance on hunches!" the pilot yelled back. "I've got a two million dollar plane and the lives of ninety people to think about!"

"Do you think we've got a chance to get out of this alive?" Illya asked. "Be honest. A lot depends on this."

"No," the pilot replied. "This is the worst storm I've ever encountered. We're continually losing altitude. Unless a miracle happens, nothing can keep us from going into the ocean!"

He wasn't a coward. Illya Kuryakin could see that. He just spoke the plain truth based on long experience as captain of an international jet.

"Then try it her way," Illya said persuasively. "Things can't get any worse."

The pilot hesitated. The reputation of the men from U.N.C.L.E. was so great that he nodded.

"I guess you're right," he said. "Things can't get much worse, no matter what we do."

"Thank you!" the girl said breathlessly to Illya. "You can stop worrying now. We'll come out okay. There's a rhythm in these things. If we turn on the pulse, we can make it into the eye.

He was amazed by her confidence. He moved back to make room for her beside the pilot. As he did, he backed into someone. He turned his head and saw Napoleon Solo.

"I saw you rush up here," Solo said. "So I followed. What gives?"

"I don't know!" Illya said into Solo's ear. "But this girl seems to know more about storms than anyone."

"Who is she?" Napoleon asked.

There was another flash of that frightening blue lightning outside. In the brief glare Illya saw the suspicion on Solo's face as he stared at the girl's back.

"I don't know," Illya said. "But I would like to."

Solo nodded. Together they watched the girl. Her swaying body, slenderly outlined against the glow of the cockpit instrument panel, bent half doubled so she could shout her instructions into the pilot's ear.

TWO

The wild turbulence increased in fury. It was beyond anything either of the men from U.N.C.L.E. had ever experienced before. At one point it appeared that the groaning, straining plane would be torn apart. But somehow, it struggled through.

Outside another crash of lightning illuminated the cockpit with a ghostly glare. It shocked Napoleon to see how helpless the crew was now. But he was even more struck by the calm confidence of the girl.

As the plane continued to fight the wild wind and rain, the two men from U.N.C.L.E. began to realize that the girl was right. There did appear to be a rhythm to the storm's gusts.

Cleverly the girl was anticipating this stormy rhythm and informing the pilot when to make his banks.

Then suddenly the solid wall of surging clouds was gone from in front of them. The plane's tail gave one last upward loop as they left the circling winds. Then they were flying in still air.

The stars were visible above them, dimming with the approach of dawn. The sea beneath was whipped to an indescribable fury and a circling wall of clouds hemmed them in.

"We're in the eye now," the girl said calmly. "In all storms of this kind the winds circle about a dead section of air known as the eye of the storm. This eye moves along with the hurricane."

"Thanks," the pilot said, mopping his dripping face. "You knew what you were doing. I'm sorry I doubted you, but'

"Forget it," she said crisply. "My life was at stake here too, you know."

She turned to go back to her seat. As she passed Napoleon Solo, he stopped her.

"This is quite a remarkable thing you did," he said, giving her an engaging smile. Illya noted with amusement that Solo's charm was lost on the young woman.

"How does it happen that you know so much about storms?" Solo asked.

She gave him a steady stare.

"Are you a policeman?" she asked, her voice cold and harsh.

"No," he said quickly.

"Then, until you get your badge, keep your questions to yourself!' she snapped.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I was just curious."

She brushed past him.

He turned to follow, but she slammed the compartment door in his face.

Illya chuckled. Napoleon turned to look at him.

"How many times have I told you to let me handle the pretty girls we meet up with? Girls require finesse, you know. You just confine yourself to masterminds and old ladies. Let me handle the young pretty ones!"

Solo gave his partner a sour look.

"Are you a betting man, Mr. Kuryakin?" he said, an edge in his voice.

"Definitely not, Mr. Solo," Illya said formally. "But on occasion I have been known to slap down a chip or two."

"Okay," Napoleon snapped. "I'll bet you a drink when we get to New York that you don't have what it takes to even get her name."

"Mr. Solo, you have yourself a bet! And no fair putting it on your expense account. This has to come out of your pocket, as punishment for doubting my romantic abilities!"

Solo smiled. "Trot back and start your pitch. I've got to call Mr. Waverly. That young lady will bear watching. I want to arrange for a shadow to pick her up when we land."

"Okay, I—" Illya began, but broke off suddenly when the pilot's compartment door opened.

THREE

The storm girl—as they came to call her—stood there looking at them. Her expression was half angry, half malicious. Obviously she had not gone to her seat, but remained against the other side of the door listening to them talk.

"And I bet both of you two drinks that neither of you get anywhere with me!" she snapped.

She slammed the door, leaving the two young men looking at each other with embarrassment.

"You made a bet," Solo said. "I'm holding you to it."

"I'll find out who she is," Illya retorted. "She has thrown me a challenge."

He went back to his seat. The girl didn't look at him as he slid into it. She kept staring out the window at the gradually lightening sky. The pilot was circling inside the eye of the hurricane, gaining altitude as he sought to fly over the storm.

Illya Kuryakin felt a curious sense of uneasiness as he stared at her lovely, but determined, profile. He had a peculiar hunch that this woman meant trouble. He couldn't put his finger on the source of his uneasiness. He did not believe her part of the THRUSH organization.

If the storm was an artificial one created to destroy him and Napoleon Solo, it seemed unlikely that a THRUSH agent as resourceful as this one would have been expended.

Then he caught himself with a start. He recalled something that had slipped his mind in the rush of events. This was the angry exclamation of the girl when the storm first broke so unexpectedly.

He shot her a narrow glance. She still had her eyes focused on the swirling clouds outlining the eye of the storm. He recalled her anger.

They should have checked to see which plane I took!"

Those had been her words; as nearly as he could recall them. At the time he thought they referred to someone who should have seen her off. Now, in view of her extraordinary knowledge of the storm, he wasn't so sure that there wasn't something more sinister behind them.

Still in the pilot's compartment, Napoleon Solo was in contact with Mr. Waverly in New York. He made a hasty report of the unusual storm.

"Yes," Waverly said. "I have just received a report from Weather Central. Everyone is dumfounded by the sudden appearance of the hurricane."

"Was it really artificial?" Napoleon asked. "It seemed like the real McCoy to us in it!"

"There is a real curious thing about this storm, Mr. Solo," Waverly replied. "It is so strange that Weather Central is flabbergasted. They can't understand it. To me that is proof positive that the storm was created."

"What is that, sir?" solo asked.

"The storm is turning in the wrong direction!"

"What?" Solo asked. "I don't understand."

"Hurricanes and typhoons are the same," Waverly said. "They are most monstrous circling storms, revolving about a calm eye. The difference is that the hurricane is in the Atlantic and the typhoon is the name given to Pacific Ocean storms. There is one other difference and that is what concerns us here."

"And that is, sir?"

"The direction of rotation of these storms are always from right to left on the north side of the equator. On the south side of the equator they revolve from left to right."

"Ours didn't?"

"It did not. You were south of the equator when you were struck. Radar planes from the international weather service have picked up the storm on their scopes. It is circling from right to left. This is the first known case of this ever happening in the history of the weather service."

"That seems to indicate that this might be an artificial storm after all," Solo said.

"Yes," Waverly replied. "Other storms we caught which we feel may also be THRUSH tests behaved normally. The only explanation is that this storm was generated to destroy you and Mr. Kuryakin. I suspect your attempt to contact Dr. Santos-Lopez made THRUSH suspect you knew something about these experiments."

"Do we have any kind of lead as to where these things are generated, sir?" Napoleon asked. His brow creased with worry. If THRUSH had so mastered the elements that it could create a storm of such cyclonic fury, the evil organization was close to being ready to launch a stormy attack as a prelude to destroying the world's governments.

"There is only the smallest possible lead and it may prove false," Waverly said. "A sea-going yacht was spotted off the fringes of two Pacific typhoons. It may be a coincidence or it may have something to do with generating these monstrous things. We are investigating."

"There may be something else," Napoleon said. "We got out of this because of a girl—a rather odd young lady. She showed a surprising knowledge of the storm."

Waverly had his chief enforcement officer describe the girl minutely.

"Hang on a moment," he said. "I want to see what the computer has to say about anyone with that description."

Solo waited impatiently. In U.N.C.L.E. headquarters the giant computers, storing a fantastic amount of criminal and scientific data ground out Waverly's request in forty-five seconds.

"The description you gave me could fit a young woman names Lupe de Rosa," Waverly said. "Does she have a Spanish look about her?"

"Vaguely," Napoleon said. "But she does not speak with an accent."

"Miss de Rosa has no accent. She was born in California. She was a brilliant student, specializing in meteorology. A paper she wrote brought her to the attention of Dr. Santos-Lopez. She was his assistant until about eighteen months ago. She quit after a quarrel. The quarrel seems to have had something to do with her belief that she was providing all the genius in his experiments while he was taking the credit."

"That could well be this lady," Napoleon said positively.

"If so, please cultivate her," Waverly said. "She could be very important to us. She should know all of Santos-Lopez's secrets. She could be extremely important in helping destroy THRUSH's storm maker."

"Much as I hate to mention it," Napoleon said, "but you may have to call in Mark Slate. This lady is under the present impression that Illya and I are first class bums."

"Well, whatever you have done to give her that impression, undo it at once!" Waverly snapped. "I have a horrible vision of a series of those killer storms striking the United States. Our situation is desperate!"

ACT IV: VANISHING LADY

The plane kept spiraling up, circling inside the still eye of the hurricane. It was growing lighter outside by the minute. Slowly the big jet climbed above the boiling clouds, breaking out into the clear air above the storm.

Several times Illya Kuryakin tried to engage the girl in conversation. She ignored him and kept staring out the window. After about an hour of this, he got up and went back to see Napoleon Solo. The two men walked up forward, where they could talk without being overheard. Solo quickly filled him in on Waverly's hunch that the girl was the dead meteorologist's former assistant.

"That means she is probably in danger herself," Illya said.

"That is right," Napoleon replied. "And we must do a better job of taking care of her than we did her former boss."

"She has the same opinion of us that he did," Illya said wryly.

"Mr. Waverly will have some people at the airport to help us keep her under surveillance," Solo said. "She is our best lead. If THRUSH strikes at her, we must be prepared."

Illya nodded. But I wish she would say something to me," he said. "I don't expect a kind word, but she could at least curse me. Anything is better than that frigid silence."

"Try a new tack," Napoleon suggested.

"What?"

"How do I know? Am I supposed to do your romancing for you?"

"Just go back to your seat," Illya retorted. "I'll win that drink from you yet!"

When Illya slipped back in the seat beside the girl, he decided the best thing was a direct, honest approach. The girl was obviously no idiot. Her record as a meteorologist showed that she had brains to match her beauty.

"Miss de Rosa," he said. Her shoulders jerked unconsciously at the mention of her name, but she still did not look around at him. He knew, though, from her unconscious flinch that the name struck home.

"Miss de Rosa," he repeated. "I am sure you heard just before we took off from South America that Dr. Santos-Lopez was killed."

She did not answer, but she started breathing harder. The rapid rise and fall of her breast showed clearly that what he said was having an effect upon her, even though she continued to ignore him.

"We have reason to believe that you might be in similar danger," he said. "Dr. Santos-Lopez was killed because of work you shared with him. We would like to protect you from a similar fate if we can."

She turned then and looked at him. There was an odd light in her deep dark eyes. It wasn't exactly anger, but it was partially that, plus a mixture of exasperation and amusement.

"Mr. Solo—or are you the one they call Kuryakin?"

"Illya Kuryakin, I—"

"Well, Mr. Kuryakin, I do not care to be protected by you or Mr. Solo. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself! Perfectly capable, thank you!"

She turned to her absorbed study of the morning sky. He did not get so much as a glance from her the rest of the flight in to New York.

As they went through customs, Illya contacted Waverly and received word that two other U.N.C.L.E. agents were at the airport to help them watch over the lovely meteorologist. This made both he and Solo feel a little better.

Solo spotted both of them as they came out of customs. He joined the two men for a quick conference while Illya followed the girl out to the taxi stand.

Suddenly she turned to face him. He braced himself for another angry blast, but she fooled him.

"Mr. Solo—or is it Kuryakin?"

"Kuryakin," he explained patiently for the second time.

"Oh," she said with a smile that brightened her face and seemed to give her a new and more inviting personality. "I never could keep names straight! I'm sorry I was so rude to you on the plane."

Illya tried to play down his startled pleasure.

"I'm afraid it was I who was rude," he said. "You had ample reason to be annoyed with me."

"Well I was annoyed. It was the first time I've ever been the object of a bet between two young men. I didn't quite know how to take it."

"I must apologize. It was extremely ill-mannered of us."

"I thought so at the time, but now that I've had time to think about it, I'm not sure but what I should have been flattered."

"Anyway, you had your revenge," Illya said with a grimace. "You caused me to lose."

"If I recall correctly, in my annoyance I made a bet with you."

"You did," he said. "You offered to bet a drink yourself that I wouldn't succeed in learning your name. But I did, didn't I?"

"Yes, and I suppose I must be a good sport and buy you one."

"Why not?" he said quickly.

"I suppose you are going down town," she replied. "Why don't we share a cab? I'm going to Park-Plaza."

"Right on my way!" Illya lied quickly. "Let me get my bag and I'll be right with you!"

He walked hurried back inside the terminal, passing Napoleon Solo who stopped just inside the door to light a cigarette.

"Watch me and learn how to get along with the girls!" Illya whispered quickly as he went past. "Park-Plaza!"

Solo gave no indication that he heard. He finished lighting the cigarette and went over to a phone booth.

Instead of dialing he removed his pen-communicator and called U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

When he got Waverly, he said, "Illya has made contact with the lady. They are off by taxi to the Park-Plaza to have a cocktail together."

"Excellent!" Waverly said. "Tell Watson and Armat to put a stakeout on her room there. Contact the hotel management and ask their cooperation. We want a twenty-four hour watch on her. However, keep out of sight. This woman is not a criminal. We are protecting her, but we must be positive that we do nothing that can cause her to complain that her right of privacy has been invaded."

"Yes, sir," Solo said and broke the connection.

He walked back outside just as Illya was helping Lupe de Rosa into the cab. He couldn't help noticing the very friendly manner in which she smiled at Kuryakin.

TWO

In the cab Illya Kuryakin found Miss de Rosa exactly the opposite from the silent sphinx of the plane. She talked quite animatedly. On the plane she seemed angry at the world in general, but now her mood had done a one hundred eighty degree turn. He knew that she had made a phone call after leaving customs and before coming out of the terminal. He wondered if this accounted for her change of spirits.

But knowing women, he wondered how long her good humor would last. It took him twenty-two minutes to find out. It was just exactly that long after they left the airport that she said, her voice changing from its feminine chatter to a grim coldness:

"Mr. Solo—"

"I'm Kuryakin!" he said wearily.

"It makes no difference. Do you see this!"

She lifted the bag in her lap. Illya saw a tiny automatic with the barrel directed straight at him. Her finger was on the trigger and she had a business-like expression on her face. It told him she could and would pull the trigger if she had to.

He eyed the gun and quirked his eyebrows up in an exasperated quirk.

"I take it we aren't friends any more," he said.

His voice was light, but his eyes were wary. This woman had shown during the storm that she had nerves of steel.

"Don't move!" she snapped. "And don't try to signal to the car following us!"

Illya Kuryakin leaned back, his eyes half closed, watching the girl.

"Whatever you are up to, I can be more help to you as a friend than as an enemy," he said quietly.

"I don't think so," she said. "You strike me as the kind of person who would be burdened with that most useless of things: a conscience!"

Before Illya could reply to that surprising observation, the girl leaned forward and spoke hurriedly to the cab driver.

"How much longer before those fools are going to stop the car following us?"

"Just after we come out of the tunnel," the driver said, half turning his head. "Don't worry. They'll shoot a razor dart into the car's tires. Then we'll get away before Napoleon Solo can get another cab."

"There were two men with him in the terminal. I saw him signal to them," she said hurriedly.

"Stop worrying! We know our business!" he snapped. "We'll throw them off the track and get you there."

"Mind if I smoke?" Illya said. "Looking down a gun barrel is sort of hard on the nerves."

"Shut up!" she snapped. "There's nothing you can say I want to hear!"

Suddenly the driver floorboarded the cab's accelerator. The car shot forward. Illya glanced in the rear view mirror. He saw the cab carrying Solo dropping back. Tires screeched as their own cab took a corner on two wheels.

The driver went up one block and then took another turn. There was nothing haphazard in his attempts to throw off Solo's pursuit. He drove exactly like a man who has every turn of the wheel plotted in advance.

He made two other turns and drove into the garage back of an industrial building.

"Get out!" Lupe snapped to Illya.

"You might say please!" he said, giving her an amused quirk of his lips that definitely did not reflect his inner feelings.

She gave him an angry glance. His casual manner was beginning to worry her. She paused and looked at him sharply. Her indecision was mirrored clearly on her face.

"He's taking this too easy," she said to the fake cab driver. "Do you think there's still another car following us?"

The driver shrugged.

"You can never tell anything for sure when you're up against these U.N.C.L.E. rats," he said. "They're tricky, Lupe. Just remember that if you expect to pull this deal off."

She nervously bit her lower lip. "Don't let him kid you, lady," Illya said, twisting his own lips in a peculiar grin. "Solo and I are the Laurel and Hardy of U.N.C.L.E. Just a couple of clowns. You don't have to worry about us."

Lupe's face flared. She was goaded to the point of explosion by Illya's mockery—which was what he intended. She suddenly swung her purse at him.

His heart leaped as the purse slammed against the side of his face. It was just what he was hoping for. The blow gave him an excuse to stagger back without causing the driver to jump him. He doubled up and hit the driver's legs.

Lupe cursed, and jerked the gun around to shoot. Illya swung the startled driver and shoved him into the girl. The two hit just as she squeezed the trigger. The jar spoiled her aim. The bullet slammed into the metal cross beams overhead.

Illya caught the driver with a hard knee to the stomach. The burly man collapsed with a choking sputter.

Kuryakin twisted, trying to grab the girl before she could get to her feet.

He caught her arm as she swung the gun toward him. She jerked back, but couldn't tear loose from his desperate grip.

"Now—!" Illya Kuryakin began—and pitched forward on his face.

A tall man slipped the gun he used to pistol whip the man from U.N.C.L.E. back in its shoulder holster. He was breathing hard and all of it was not from running to join the fight. He glared coldly at Lupe de Rosa.

"My dear," he said, his voice heavy with menace, "for all your brilliance as a scientist, you are a complete fool!"

"You can't talk to me that way!" she flared.

The man's bleak face flushed slightly. "Can't I?" he said softly. "Your work with these storms is very important to us, my dear, but in THRUSH nothing is so important as being a member of the team! There is no place in our organization for individualists. If we don't work together, U.N.C.L.E. will destroy us. Important as you are, you are worthless to us if we must treat you as a prima donna."

Lying on his face on the concrete floor, Illya Kuryakin could hear them talking. The blow, for all its savagery, had but stunned him momentarily. He half opened his eyes. He could see his assailant's feet. They were close enough that Illya thought he could upset the man. He hesitated because he could not yet place the position of the cab driver. It would be fatal to make a move now."

"And what about your end of the bargain!" Lupe flared. "You almost killed me with that damned storm!"

"We had no idea you were on the plane," he said coldly. "You should have contacted our man in Rio for instructions instead of jumping off on your own. We could have told you not to take that plane. We had already learned that Waverly himself arranged for two passenger seats to be cancelled to make room for Solo and Kuryakin."

"Santos-Lopez tried to treat me like a slave!" she cried. "I don't intend to exchange one slave master for another. I don't have to account to you for every minute of my time."