Текст книги "The Assassination Affair"

Автор книги: J Hunter Holly

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Alone and helpless in the blackness of the blindfold, Napoleon Solo edged away from the kitchen door and crept on into the dining room of the old house. "Through the dining room, through the parlor, and out the front door," he told himself, making it a command. He inched along, a half-step at a time, using his feet to feel the way. He bumped into something, felt along it with his shoe, and sidestepped it. What was the shape of the room? Long and narrow? Square? He couldn't know.

Another step, and he banged shakily into an over stuffed chair. There was an ache in him just to sit down and be finished with the whole thing. It was tempting. He sighed and continued on his way, wondering where the defeatist attitude had sprung from. He had never harbored it before. Adams was right. There was a special, unexpected terror in this business that clawed at his will and ate up his courage.

He felt along the edge of the chair until he could safely take a step. He took it and ran straight into some thing else that banged at his shin and almost threw him down. As he struggled for balance in the dark, getting his feet under him, he moved unwittingly to the right and his right leg was bitten by a stiletto. It sank into his calf, and he froze.

He tried to bend and get his hands on the thing, but the rope about his throat caught him short in another spasm of coughing. He stood straight. He'd have to handle this one as he had the other. With a quick move to the left, he jerked his leg off the stiletto point and again felt blood following it out.

At least he knew what he was facing. There were things strewn in his path, things with blades and points on them. Adams had said he should bleed to death. But knives at arm and leg level weren't going to kill him. The terror lay in the thought that there might be some thing at face level, something to gouge his eyes, his throat. And he couldn't raise his hands high enough to protect himself against them.

He gulped in a deep breath and thrust his feet on.

Another two steps and another encounter. This was something low, like an ottoman, and this time the blade only cut his trouser leg, missing his skin. He walked on.

Solo tried to ignore the feel of blood dripping unseen on his arm and his leg, holding a new thought in his mind. If be could find a knife that was located high enough… He groped forward with his manacled hands, praying for such a knife.

Four steps more and he had one. It protruded from a bookcase, he could figure that much. And it was sharp on both edges. Carefully, slowly, he turned himself around, letting the blade run from his hands to his arm and then along his back so he wouldn't misplace it. With his back to it, he positioned himself, felt the blade tug the rope between his elbows, and began the painstaking sawing movement that would cut through the rope and give him the use of his eyes and hands. The motion choked off his air, but he coughed only once, then held his breath.

Out of the black dark around him came a lunatic shout, "Turn him! Turn him!" Adams screamed. "Don't let him free himself!"

There was noise in the room, feet and jumping bodies and the blast of a gun. A bullet whined beside Solo's head and wood splintered on him. Startled by the commotion, he jumped from the bullet impact, losing the knife blade, the rope still whole and tight about him. Another bullet whizzed in, and despite his determination not to panic he recoiled in the dark, taking two running steps away from the bookcase.

His leg smashed against the ottoman he had side stepped moments before and he fell to his knees, a double sharpness stabbing his right thigh. He stayed where he was, impaled, gasping for air and control of himself. He jerked free of the double blades, held very still to test his balance, and lurched to his feet.

He said into the darkness, "So you're still here after all, Adams. Enjoying the show?"

"Immensely," Adams answered from his left. "But you have yet to draw enough blood to suit me."

Solo smiled, and it was real this time. "Thank you for that information. I couldn't tell how much I was bleeding."

"And you had visions of arteries pulsing?" Adams laughed. "I shouldn't have told you, should I? Ready to give me those names?"

Solo stood still, letting the silence return, attempting to reconstruct his flight in his darkened mind. He swiveled slightly one way and then the other. Which way was toward the front of the house? He bit his lip, cocking his head to listen for sounds or creakings that would orient him. At last he turned full around. He had retreated in his panic. He had to go forward.

His legs didn't want to carry him. It was a tremendous effort of sheer will to make his feet move, especially now that he knew he had an audience to his agony. Yet the fact that they were watching pushed him on. He was fully aware of the reserves he had in his physical body. All he had to fight was the darkness and the terror.

He crept on as he had been doing, letting it form a pattern. Feel ahead with a foot, grope with the fingers, take the step. Feel ahead with a foot, grope with the fingers, take a step. He counted out forty steps that way, two more cuts in his clothing, and one more knife slice in his left calf, but he was gaining ground.

His hands, angling before him, ran into something solid. He felt it with his fingertips. This wasn't a piece of furniture. This was a wall. The front wall? Hope welled inside him. Adams had said the door was to the right. He groped along the wallpapered plaster and ran into no more sharpnesses. His hands felt wood and a quick motion up and down told him it was a door! He grabbed quickly for the knob and found it, turning it frantically.

It was locked.

Adams laughed from far behind him. "I forgot to mention that part, Mr. Solo. I have the key. You'll have to come and take it from me."

Solo leaned his forehead against the cool wood of the door, choked on the rope at his throat, and straightened up again. There was a commotion inside his chest that he recognized with utter humiliation. His breath was threatening to come out in a sob. He couldn't walk back the way he had come. It had taken everything in him to get to the door. He couldn't search in this black death trap for Adams.

Adams' voice came again, "Robard! Get him away from that door!"

More noise, and as he expected, another bullet slammed in close to his head. Solo stayed where he was. He would outlast them. He wouldn't budge.

But the sound of the bullets triggered the reflexes he had struggled so hard to acquire and he turned instinctively to take shelter. He stumbled away from the door, bumping wildly into things, bruising his legs and thighs, cutting himself once more.

He fell. He righted himself enough to stay on his knees, but made no effort to rise. He didn't have any idea of where he was in the room. Not even of which way he was facing.

"On your feet, Solo. Never say die. Isn't that our credo?"

"I'm fine where I am, Adams, thank you," he shouted back into the dark.

"Julius! Get him on his feet!"

Robard's voice came through. "Let him be, Professor. Kill him and get it over with. You've proved your point. You can beat U.N.C.L.E. any time you want."

Solo waited for the decision and the bullet that would arrow for his head if Robard had his way. But Adams answered, "Get him on his feet, Julius. You must keep on with this, Mr. Solo. You haven't even begun to explore the possibilities of this room. We can continue here for hours. Unless you're ready to give me the names."

Heavy feet clumped toward Solo and Julius' big hands hefted him under the armpits, setting him on his feet.

There was no possible way out of this, he knew that. He had few choices. He could struggle on until he died; he could stand still until he died. And they wouldn't let him stand still.

Despair weighted him down and he was afraid of it. Despair was one emotion he'd never felt during all of his years with U.N.C.L.E. Now it clutched him tight and made him want little more than to end this weird business by finding a blade at the proper height and ramming it home through his chest. He began to stumble about the room, being less careful. He couldn't fight everybody, himself least of all.

–

Illya Kuryakin, his wounded arm still numb from the anesthetic, slithered out of the U.N.C.L.E. wagon and took to the field beside the road. He was dressed in black from head to foot, his face smeared with charcoal to cut down the highlights of his fair skin, and his blond hair tucked under a black cap. His gun was in his hand, converted from the pistol to the U.N.C.L.E. automatic rifle.

He ran carefully, ducking down, jumping up to run again. The house was one hundred yards ahead yet, but he took no chances. Around him he could hear the faint twig-crackings as the men under his command – eight of them – moved parallel to him or streaked ahead to come up from the other side.

As the miles had slipped by under the wheels of the wagon, Mada had progressively fainted against Mr. Waverly, each mile making her disbelieve more and more that her Uncle Abel could be ruthless enough to kill Napoleon Solo. But Waverly, insisting on coming with the assault team, had held her up, quieted her tears, and gruffly forced her to show them .the way. After many false turns and dead ends, she had found the house.

Illya paused behind a tree. The rest of the space to the house was open lawn, but the grass was tall and would give some cover. His left shoulder rested against the tree trunk and it was a queer sensation not being able to feel it through the numbness. He checked his gun once more, unnecessarily. He was too eager for this attack and the pause was to force himself to calm down and follow proper procedure. His men were watching for his signal. It had to be right.

He scrambled away from the tree and sprinted for the house. It was old and tall, three stories high. Only the bottom floor was alight with lamps, and those were dim. Illya scuttled through the tall grass, then fell to his stomach to make the final approach. There didn't seem to be any guards outside. This Adams operation was certainly makeshift. Yet even with the amateurism, they had taken Napoleon. And killed him?

Illya crawled faster, angling for a side window. It promised the best light and he wouldn't need to g over the porch floorboards which were bound to creak. His breath came short and fast in the excitement and his hand clenched on the gun. He tried not to think ahead to what he might see when he peered through the window.

He stopped below it and inched upward until his eyes were above the sill and he could see inside. His throat tightened in astonishment. The room he saw was a shambles of furniture, and prickling from that shambles were icepicks, knives, hatchets – some of them stained a crimson color that made him shiver. There were no men visible.

He slipped to the other side of the window to get a longer view of the room. He saw them. The giant, Louie and Robard, and even Adams, crouching behind various pieces of furniture. Standing alone in the center of the floor, his arms tied in a strange pattern, was Napoleon. Blindfolded.

Illya's eyes took in the many rips and tears in Napoleon s gray suit, and the terrible stains of blood all over him. He was a pincushion!

Napoleon moved, and it was an unsteady, wobbly step he took. He was headed straight for an old piano that crouched at the side of the room, blades protruding from it at chest level. Illya envisioned him coming up against one of those blades, puncturing a lung, or his heart.

Dragging himself from the scene, Illya checked to the left and right for his men. He could see four of them in position. He raised his gun in signal, poising them for the first jump of attack.

"Now!" Illya screamed it loud enough to be heard at the back of the house, too, and brought down his gun in the signal to move in, smashing the window glass with the barrel in the same motion.

Glass jangled around him, most of it falling inside, and Illya opened fire, giving no warning. Julius was his first target. The giant was too dangerous to be left on his feet.

The men inside jumped up at the crashing glass, and Julius added to their confusion as he fell amid the furniture, dead.

Guns were raised inside the room but Illya struggled through the window. He was inside, and other men were coming through other windows.

Illya shouted, "Stand still, Napoleon! Just stand still!"

He watched Solo freeze, and turned, himself, to Adams. The room was alive with gunfire and whining bullets.

The other men could take Louie and Robard. Illya wanted Adams for his own. The old man faced him, deathly white, his hands empty. Illya started for him and Adams' hands dropped to a little end table in front of him. It came zooming forward on its castors, the knives speeding at Illya to impale him.

Illya propelled himself out of its way and bore down on the old man. But Adams wasn't giving up. He crouched behind a chair, liberally laced with icepicks, and shoved it ahead of him as he came to meet Illya.

Illya stood his ground, judging his moment. As the chair rushed at him, he tensed his thighs. As it came within inches, he leaped into the cushioned seat and over the back, coming down hard on the old man.

Adams sprawled and struggled, but one swift, slightly-pulled Karate chop to his carotid artery stopped the flailing and he settled down, groggy.

Illya scrambled up and whirled to help finish the room. Flashes of orange still came from the guns. Louie was bleeding on the floor. Robard fell. All down.

The violent noise halted as suddenly as it had begun. The U.N.C.L.E. team looked about for other targets. There were none. The only person in the room who was perfectly still was Napoleon Solo, slightly hunched, standing by the piano, not daring to move for fear of the knives and the bullets he couldn't dodge.

A great crash of glass cascaded from the wide front window and Mr. Waverly hopped over the sill, Mada in his wake. "Nobody opened the front door!" Waverly growled, hurrying straight for Solo.

Illya and Waverly reached Solo at the same time, and Waverly tore off the blindfold. Solo stood dazzled by the light, his forehead drenched with sweat, his body ready to collapse. He didn't say a word as Illya untied the rope and freed his arms.

Solo, his head released to movement, stared down at himself, taking in the rents in his suit and the blood. He glanced briefly about the room, noting the full horror of what he had been walking in for three hours, and still silent, held up his handcuffed hands to Illya questioningly.

Illya's blood was hot as he advanced to the place where Adams wavered between the guns of two U.N. C.L.E. agents. "If you have the key, Adams, don't hedge about it. Hand it over. Now!"

Adams smiled at him and dug out the key. "A pity," he said. "Ah, well, it's one for you, but I'll win the next one." His gaze lanced at Mada, angry and accusing. "But to be betrayed -!"

Mada cried, "Oh, Uncle Abel!" She stood in the center of the terrible room, unsure which way to go as she saw for herself what Adams had done.

Illya said for her, "She didn't betray you. You just presented her with one charm too many." He unlocked Solo's handcuffs.

His hands free for the first time in hours, Solo rubbed his wrists, but his movements were painful. The cuts and stab wounds were still bleeding and they had stiffened into fiery jabs.

Then Mada was upon him, her hands hard on his shoulders, her dress soaking up some of his blood. She peered into his eyes, her own red and wet. "I'm so sorry, Napoleon. You know I didn't mean to have anything like this happen. You know that."

Barely controlling himself, Solo stumbled back from her.

Illya pulled her off him and thrust her aside. "Napoleon has had enough Adams' hands on him for one night."

Waverly came closer, surveying the damage to his top agent. "All in one piece, Mr. Solo?"

Solo stared at Waverly, but said nothing, his jaw slack, his expression bewildered. Illya stayed close to him, watching, gauging, and as he did, the cold of ice seeped through Illya's stomach. Napoleon was too silent.

The blond agent laid a reassuring hand on Solo's good shoulder; pressing carefully. Solo tensed under his hand and shied from the contact. Illya didn't like any of it. Napoleon's eyes were dark and haunted. Illya had seen the look before – somewhere – and the recognition of it in his friend chilled him. He glanced over to Waverly.

The astute old man had caught the byplay and his scowl said he didn't like it, either.

Waverly stepped away, motioning Illya to follow. He stopped a few feet from where the captured Adams stood, and his voice was concerned when he spoke. "Mr. Kuryakin, you've been with Mr. Solo many times after an action. After an interrogation, even. Is he usually this quiet?"

Illya hesitated, peering back at the bloody, slightly huddled figure of Solo. He had to give Waverly the truth as much as he hated to. "No, sir. I've never seen him like this. He comes up cursing or making bad jokes, as a rule. Still" – he searched for an excuse – "the circumstances are most unusual. Almost... fiendish."

"Is that your Slavic, gypsy blood talking?" Waverly asked with no smile.

Adams cut in, "Why don't you ask me, Waverly? I set it up. I didn't manage to kill Solo, but I can tell you this – I ruined him! You'll never be able to use him again!"

Illya swung to Adams. "There is more to this room than the obvious knives and abuse?"

"Of course, you fools. I'm an expert on psychology. I pulled the teeth of your lion, Waverly. With three hours of my plotted treatment under his skull, you'll have to send him home to Mama for comfort." Adams laughed his short sneeze of a laugh.

Illya wanted to cross the few feet and slam into the old man with both fists, but Waverly ordered Adams away with disdain. "Take that man out to a car and secure him," he said. "See that he stays quiet."

Illya walked back to Solo, Waverly dogging his heels. The blond agent decided to play an old game. He would force Solo to look at the room that had done this to him, to face it once and for all. It would be a grim sort of shock, but he was sure of Solo's resiliency. He was equally sure that Solo must not be allowed to with draw any further into depression.

He put his hand on Solo's shoulder again, ignoring the wince it evoked, and exhaled an astonished whistle. "You're in pitiful shape, Napoleon, granted – but this is no time to feel sorry for yourself. I'd say you're lucky to be alive." When he got no response, he tried again, more bluntly, "Do you want me to pick up the knives and barbecue forks that have your blood on them? For your collection?"

Solo edged away, but Illya held him fast. "You're not going to retreat any further, my friend, unless you knock me down first. And I wouldn't say you're in condition for that."

Waverly whispered, "Easy, Mr. Kuryakin." But he understood Illya's maneuvering and was himself waiting for some starch to come back into Solo.

Solo stopped trying to pull away, his expression verging on anger. "Having a good time, Illya?" he asked.

"Not really," Illya admitted. "But now that you've found your voice, tell me, what kind of place is this?"

Solo stared about the room dully and shivered, his eyes livening. "A do-it-yourself murder scene," he muttered. "Don't ever try it." He pulled out of Illya's grasp and steadied himself against a chair, well away from the knives. There was more life in him. "I have a report to make, Mr. Waverly. Bits of information."

Waverly was scowling less as the words came from his agent. "I expect you do – but later." He took command. "Let's get out now and have our wounds licked. Two of you men stay behind and remove these knives, please. I wouldn't like any stray children wandering here in the dark."

The room came to life. Men escorted Mada out, and Illya and Waverly flanked a limping Solo. They walked slowly, giving the man time. But Solo didn't make it to the door. He lurched forward, unconscious on his feet, and Illya and Waverly caught him barely in time to save him from impaling his throat on a knife that jutted from the piano.

–

The sky outside Waverly's office was bright with sunshine when they met around the table. Solo had eased himself into his chair, dictated his report on Adams and Dundee, and now was simply waiting for the chance to take his aching body home.

It was amazing to him how the process of reentering U.N.C.L.E., having his wounds dressed, swallowing an anti-depressant the staff psychiatrist gave him, and being clucked over by the nurses had driven away the lethargy. He was himself again, and for a while he had wondered if he ever would be.

For the moment, he understood he had a thank you to offer to Lainy Michaels, who sat beside him at the table, her face bright and her entire soul caught up in playing nursemaid.

Mr. Waverly was finishing up the short briefing. "So Miss Michaels was the turning point for you, Mr. Solo. Mr. Kuryakin's alertness provided the key, but she turned it."

"With melodrama and infuriation," Illya said. His arm was again in the sling where it belonged, and from his slightly glazed eyes, Solo guessed the anesthetic was wearing off. But Solo had no words of thanks for the Russian. That was all understood.

Instead, he looked gently at Lainy. "You actually attacked Mada? For me?"

"I was boiling mad." Lainy flushed a pleasing pink. "I – well, you were always perfectly decent to me, and –"

Solo concluded for her, "And I have plans for being more decent. Now that the bleeding has stopped, I think I could use a steak, to rebuild the blood."

"For breakfast?"

"Let's call it dinner. How about it? Will you come and eat with me?"

Illya shook his head in serious-faced amazement. "Napoleon's safe, anyway, Lainy. If he gets fresh, just squeeze any of his arms or legs and he'll back off."

She melted into a blue-eyed pool of sympathy, reaching over to pat Solo's hand. "I'll come with you gladly, but on one condition. That the steak is cooked and eaten at my apartment and that we share it with my cat. She must feel deserted."

"Call her and tell her we'll be there in a half hour." Solo put his arm around Lainy and pulled her up. He shot one last look at Mr. Waverly. "It is all right if I leave now?"

"By all means. And" – Waverly cleared his throat – "all the alarm systems in your apartment have been reactivated. I think you understand my point."

Solo grinned. "Yes, sir."

"Report back the day after tomorrow, please. We'll have finished with Adams' interrogation by then and there may be something doing. Also – I have you scheduled to undergo a few tests."

Solo walked out with Lainy. Not even Waverly's mention of tests, which he knew would be psychiatric, could keep him from being warmed by the fact that U.N.C.L.E.'s list of agents was still a secret because of him. Lainy fell into step with his limping gait and he let her keep the illusion that she was supporting him. It seemed to mean so much to her.

Chapter 8

"Shotguns, You Know"

FIVE DAYS LATER, Solo and Illya sat side by side in a rented car, Illya driving, doing seventy miles an hour down a modern expressway in Michigan. Chicago and the jet flight were only hours behind.

It had broken quickly. Adams' interrogation had unearthed very little. Adams had merely been a research lackey working for Thrush now and then. He knew Dundee and that something big was up with Thrush – something to do with vegetation – but beyond that the drugs had proved he knew nothing more. His assassination scheme had been born out of Dundee's derisive joke that if he really wanted to help Thrush he should find a way to keep Solo and Kuryakin in New York for a few weeks. Adams had found the way, going Dundee one better with his idea to destroy U.N.C.L.E. single-handed.

As the days had passed and Solo's and Illya's wounds healed, Mr. Waverly kept digging – for Dundee, for anything. It broke in one meager roll of film containing two pictures of a farm in Michigan that had been taken by an agent named Taylor. Taylor sent the film to Chicago headquarters and had then been murdered. Two bullets through the head. That made two agents down in this Dundee case already.

Solo recalled the sober-faced Mr. Waverly as he had shown the pictures Taylor had taken. The first one was of a cornfield at the end of July, the corn hip high and green, waving in military rows. The second, taken only three days later, was of the same corn field. But the military rows were gone. The cornstalks were brown and wrinkled and lying on the ground as though dehydrated and stamped upon.

Along with the film, Taylor had sent a brief message:

"First indications of Dundee Project shown in film. Tests of topsoil show total destruction of life-giving elements. No more crops for minimum of ten years. Brief investigation indicates possibility of chemical to restore earth. Will contact when more information is available."

Whether or not he had ever gathered more information was unknown. Taylor was dead. And Waverly was up in arms. The implications behind such a Thrush plot were disastrous. If Thrush could treat the soil of the world and kill the vegetation, it could starve the earth into submission, promising the antidote only if the governments knuckled under. And they had an ace. By keeping certain lands clean and productive for them selves, Thrush could wait until starvation and riots set in, turning the knife for them in the stomachs of the world's hungry.

The order for the mission had been simple. Get the formula for, or a sample of, the counter-chemical. Then destroy the operation. The counter-chemical was top priority because once it was in the hands of the U.N. C.L.E. lab Thrush could sprinkle poison anywhere they wanted and it would do them no good. Finding chemicals meant finding the laboratory where they were produced, and no one believed that would be in Michigan. Michigan was simply the first lead.

Looking out of the car at the green that stretched for miles, Solo couldn't quite believe any of it. He saw the backs of farms that had been cut through for the roadway and everything was lush in the late July sun, soaking up light and water.

"That sign said, RIVERVIEW, NEXT EXIT," Illya said. "We're nearly there."

"The scene of Taylor's murder," Solo muttered.

"So? We'll be careful."

"Here, now," Solo chided his friend. "Quit reading something deep, and brooding into everything I say."

Illya wouldn't be riled. "Only checking. The psychological effects of what you went through might pop up at any time. The staff psychiatrist warned me."

"Is that so?" Solo was angry, in spite of himself. "And who gave you permission to talk to the psychiatrist about me?"

"The psychiatrist, of course." Illya smiled at Solo's consternation. "Seriously, Napoleon, it had to be done. I had to be briefed on you. But I don't want to keep the fact secret from you, either."

"And the psychiatrist told you?"

"What he told you, I presume. He said Adams ganged up on you psychologically, playing hard on every human fear in the book – fear of falling, fear of total darkness, of helplessness, of abandonment, of having the body punctured – plus an overwhelming certainty that you were going to die."

"He pronounced me capable of staying active," Solo challenged.

"Yes. With the foreknowledge that odd symptom might pop up here and there, and to expect them.'

"And not freeze up over them. I know," Solo sighed. "The battery of subjective tests I took showed the possibility. But it won't happen, Illya, so don't worry."

"I believe it, I believe it!" Illya said. "Just remember, if you ever need an extra ear -"

"Illya's here. Thanks. Now, don't miss the turn-off."

Illya swung off the highway at the exit and curved up the ramp. As the car came onto a narrow highway, a sign loomed up pointing out Riverview as five miles to the right.

Solo braced against the turn and changed the subject. Illya had guessed and had brought him nicely out of what might have become one of the moods he'd been having. Gloom and doom, Solo called them. "I thought Michigan Julys were hot," he complained. "I brought lightweight suits."

"Maybe we're lucky," Illya said. "I've never cared for heat, raised as I was in -"

Illya broke off as they rounded a curve on the narrow road. Solo leaned forward, an exclamation coming through his lips. Because the greenery stopped. Just stopped. Fifty feet ahead, the fields turned to brown desolation. The breeze stirred no crops and the fields looked as though a plague had descended upon them. It was a shocking sight. The only break in the brown sameness was an occasional tree.

"Why the trees?" Solo asked aloud.

"They send their roots deeper, I guess, so they aren't damaged – yet."

Solo bobbed his head to his partner's strange bit of knowledge and continued to stare at the farms. The houses were neat and carefully kept; the buildings were painted in the traditional barn-red, the houses white, and the machinery stashed about was shiny and clean. But the grass was brown and wilted. The flower beds were tangled masses of dead stems and withered blossoms.

"It looks like the devil himself walked by here and blew fire on it," Solo said.

"Pity the people who planted the crops and watched this happen overnight. This settles it, Napoleon. We've got to help them."

Solo laughed out loud. "How grand of you to decide to go along with Mr. Waverly. When I make our first report, I'll tell him and make his day happy.

They were coming upon signs of an approaching town. The farmhouses gave way to ranch homes; the fields withdrew to the backs of the properties, leaving dead lawns around forlorn-looking houses.

They had been ordered to stay at the Flower Hotel, the only one in Riverview. Solo guessed it wouldn't be hard to find. Riverview was a town of four thousand people. As Illya swung the car onto the main street, Solo sat back, satisfied. It was just as he had pictured it. One street full of stores that ran for four blocks, crossed a bridge over a narrow river, and resumed being a highway. The Flower Hotel loomed by the bridge, old and brick, rising four stories to make it the tallest building in town. Three church steeples poked their spires up between the trees.