Текст книги "The Thousand Coffin Affair "

Автор книги: Michael Avallone

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THE WINGS OF THRUSH

JERRY TERRY said, “Oh!” and that was all. For Napoleon Solo, it said it all. Oh, indeed. The wings of the Debonair shivered and seemed to flap wide open under the withering hail of lead. And then the black shadow had shot past them into full view.

Solo’s eyes opened wide as he saw the plane. It was an MIG fighter, one of those Russian destroyers he had seen in action in Korean skies. The Debonair was a go-cart compared to it. He and Jerry Terry didn’t have a chance.

“Go down,” he barked. “Right now. We haven’t got a prayer staying up here with him. One more pass and he’ll rip our wings off like canceled stamps.”

“Hang onto your breakfast,” she sang out. “There’s only one way out of this.” He knew what she meant. Even as he scanned the skies for the MIG, he knew what she would do. He had gauged her mind and her courage well. She wasn’t an Army Intelligence officer because she had nice coppery hair or good legs.

The Debonair heeled over, almost whining in protest, as she worked it into a flat spin. A dangerous maneuver but with death staring at them over the muzzle of twin .50 calibre machine guns, it was the only chance worth taking.

And the MIG had banked and roared on back at them.

Jerry Terry’s quick-thinking slip down caused the fusillade of new fire to spray harmlessly across the heavens. The Debonair had one advantage—it could fall faster than the MIG could fly forward. Unless the MIG decided to follow them down. Solo bit his lip to ease the tension. He felt helpless and useless. She was doing all the work.

The Debonair dropped like a rock, the wings dancing erratically because of the gaping wounds in the metal. The pilot of the MIG barrel-rolled beautifully, shortened a pass that would have carried him miles away and hummed on back for another try. But the altitude was giving away. Another loss of five hundred feet and the MIG couldn’t dare stay close.

Still, the unknown pilot had his instructions—and cast-iron nerves. Even as the Debonair spiraled swiftly toward the ground, reaching that point of no return where Jerry would have to level off, the MIG pilot was setting itself for one last-ditch, all-out effort.

The MIG loomed in the rear-view mirror. A black phantom of unbelievable speed, shooting at them from nearly a forty-five degree angle to catch them as they passed his angle of observation.

“Brace yourself,” Solo gritted. “Some more singing telegrams coming this way.”

“Watch out for yourself,” she snapped back.

The air came alive with the pounding of machine-gun fire. Solo cursed. This time it was for keeps. Pounds of lead found a home in the right wing. He watched it happen, too fascinated to turn away. A stitching, ripping pattern of trouble worked along the left wing to the point where it met the fuselage. Too late, he shouted a warning. Too late, he saw the wing crumple backwards, like an arm being bent at the elbow. And then came the tearing, grating song of doom. The wing buckled and flew off like a leaf in a gale wind. The Debonair flipped over on its side, throwing Solo against the girl. Flying on one wing now, the plane plummeted helplessly like a rock cast down a deep well. Jerry Terry screamed once.

Solo ignored her. The earth was rushing up at them. Time was lost now. So was letting anybody else do the thinking for him. Solo seized the stick from Jerry and pulled back.

The sky reeled over, the terrain spun in a dizzy kaleidoscope, scored with the diving whistle and whine of the Debonair..

But the reversal of direction on the stick, coupled with the wing loss, had a nullifying effect on the power of their dive. The plane tried to climb, losing a lot of its flying speed. But the crippled wing caused a conflict of desires, aerodynamically.

Solo kept his eyes riveted to the earth. The flat ground rocketed toward them. The Debonair flipped on its side, groaned mightily and swooped back downward again in a pancaking sweep of the ground.

It was only then that Solo closed his body over the girl’s and burrowed her head into the cushion of his shoulder. There was nothing left to do now but count ten and pray.

The Debonair came down with a groaning, wounded glide of erratic flight and crumbled on its landing gear.

And then came the jarring concussion of the crash.

For Solo, it was an exploding, pile-driving thunder of reverberation which seemed to lift the top of his head off. The world blazed with light and the ringing of bells—and then the darkness rushed in.

Napoleon Solo’s last conscious thought was that somebody had gotten pretty damn angry just because he had wanted to take a close look at the beautiful cemetery of Orangeberg.

In the jet bomber carrying Stewart Fromes’ corpse back to America, Waverly sat in the forward compartment, quietly studying his report folders. His bony forehead was beaded slightly with perspiration. His hands toyed endlessly With the silver pellet Napoleon Solo had found—the little round enigma discovered between the fourth and fifth toes of a very important corpse.

The bomber soared above the choppy green Atlantic.

Staring down from his window seat, Waverly could see the limitless expanse of water. Far off on the horizon, he could make out the tall funnels of an ocean liner plowing toward France. Probably the S.S. United States, he thought idly. He was giving far more attention to the problem of Utangaville, Spayerwood and, possibly, Oberteisendorf.

Waverly sighed. He wished dearly for a lengthy chat with his laboratory technicians. The time lost in travel was irksome. The Air Force was extremely cooperative, thanks to the General and his top priority classification, yet there was no one on board to confide in. Thrush was no matter to discuss with pilots, bombardiers and navigators. Nor with crew chiefs, no matter how well intentioned.

He studied the silver pellet, rotating it in his strong fingers. Was this, perhaps, the answer to the problem?

He restrained a sigh. U.N.C.L.E. had its limitations, for all of its vast organizational powers. Too often, the future had to rest in the hands of a single agent—capable and highly trained, to be sure, yet still only one man. A single human being, in the last analysis.

The range and scope of problems attacked by U.N.C.L.E. was enormous. There was usually a sense of something international about all of the organization’s activities. But, just as some of the smaller nations of the world called upon the U.N. for assistance with certain domestic problems beyond their own abilities to handle, so did U.N.C.L.E. find itself called in on occasional local situations. Anything which affected large masses of people, or which could set up a general reaction affecting other countries or forces, was a target for U.N.C.L.E.

An organization’s attempt, for example, to cause the accidental firing of a missile from one friendly power onto the territory of another friendly power, in order to cause complications within the Alliance, would suffice to bring U.N.C.L.E. agents into the field. Or the vagrant wandering of a tube of germ bacilli lost from an experimental station would have U.N.C.L.E. tracking down that bottle before all hell broke loose on the international scene. Any attempt to manipulate a nation’s currency values would demand U.N.C.L.E.’s immediate countermeasures.

So it was. So it had to be. Waverly had devoted his life to U.N.C.L.E.

He sighed again, recognizing the mental process he was going through as personal justification for his own existence, and reached for his pocket ballpen. Time to make notes, jot some specific memoranda that would give him a starting point once they reached New York—

“Mr. Waverly?”

He looked up to see Captain Hendryx staring down at him. The man was tall, efficient, with a pioneer look to him. One could have imagined him in buckskin and beaver cap rather than his crisp Air Force uniform.

“What is it, Captain?”

“It’s the coffin, Mr. Waverly. You’d better have a look.”

Waverly rose in alarm. “Out with it, man. What’s wrong with the coffin?”

Captain Hendryx shook his head.

“Wish I knew for sure. But the damnedest odor is coming from it. The coffin’s in the rear hold, beyond bomb bay. Sergeant Peters has been checking it every now and then—”

Through the maze of narrow passageways, with the ribs of the ship seeming like the inside of a whale in a museum, Waverly followed the Captain. The hold was a narrow, cramped space just before the tail section where stood a baffled-looking young Sergeant, poised respectfully beside the oblong box containing Stewart Fromes’ body.

Waverly stooped and sniffed. An awful odor of decay was present. Waverly straightened, trying to hold back a sense of loss and defeat.

“Sergeant,” he said, “raise the lid, please.”

The body had been carefully packed in dry ice. Curls of cold vapor wafted up as the Sergeant raised the lid. Waverly gasped. He couldn’t help himself. It was one of the few times in his well-ordered life that he didn’t know quite what to say. Or think.

Captain Hendryx said, “Oh, my God!” and the young Sergeant was about to become suddenly, violently ill.

With the lid upraised, the sight was there for all to see. To give the lie to the dry ice, the time of death and the scientific mind.

Stewart Fromes’ face, hands and feet were skeletized. His flesh had vanished, leaving the bone-white, dull gleam of his skeletal figure. It was unearthly, it was weird—it was impossible.

It was a condition which no mere two days could have brought about. The sight was awesome and terrifying. The corpse’s teeth were bared, the hollow eyes staring sightlessly up at the men surrounding the coffin.

“Close the lid, will you, Sergeant?” Waverly said calmly. “There’s nothing that we can do now.”

“Shakespeare,” Waverly reminded Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin in U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters. “I kept being hoisted on Hamlet’s line. Act Two, wasn’t it?”

“Hamlet?” Kuryakin looked puzzled.

“Yes, Hamlet, man. What was the line—about Yorick—‘How long will a man lie i’ the earth ere he rot?’”

Kuryakin nodded. “Yes. I see what you mean. Only rotting isn’t the thing now, is it? We have a skeleton to contend with.”

Waverly grunted, his smile blank.

“Well, it’s your department. What’s the answer?”

The Russian pursed his lips thoughtfully and considered his reply for a few well-chosen seconds before answering.

“I can’t tell you exactly how rapidly decomposition works—that could only be determined by where the body was buried, under what conditions and just how long the interment continued—but I can tell you one thing. It certainly is a far greater period of time than three days. More like two months.”

“Exactly. And that is the condition of Fromes’ body on Sunday when he only died on Friday of the same week.”

“We’re working on it, sir. We need just a bit more time.”

“And Solo’s pellet? What of that?”

Kuryakin frowned. “It’s not just a pellet, we’ve found. It’s actually a capsule—inside is a chemical substance which we’re analyzing now. Every available researcher in Section II is on it—we’ll have a report within hours.”

“Hmmm.” Waverly selected another briar from his desk drawer. “And Solo. Any word yet from Paris?”

“Nothing on the teletype. No cablegrams, no transatlantic phone calls. Which is not like him.”

“No, it isn’t.” Waverly consulted his watch. It had been a mere three hours since the jet bomber had set down on the La Guardia runway. Time and more than time. U.N.C.L.E. should have heard from Solo hours ago. He would have reached Paris long before Hendryx landed in New York. After all, they had had an entire ocean to contend with.

Perhaps the girl—no, that couldn’t be. She had checked out thoroughly with Security. Damnation. Things were getting a bit thick.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Kuryakin?”

“When we finish analyzing the chemical in the pellet, I’d like to go to Paris.”

“Oh? Why, may I ask?”

“He might need a hand.”

“He has one. Two, in fact. Two very pretty ones.”

Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin grinned. It made him seem more harmless than ever, his straw hair untidily youthful.

“Three agents are better than two.”

“You are needed here, Kuryakin. But we shall see. Time enough to decide when we clear up these lab matters.”

“Peculiar about Fromes’ clothing, sir. It must mean something.”

Waverly smiled. “You too, eh? Perhaps you and Solo are correct. It is odd to find a body dressed that way.”

“Any ideas?”

“A few. None that would interest you right now. If you’ll be good enough to return to your office, I shall make some inquiries about our dear Solo.”

“Yes, of course. Goodbye, sir.”

When Kuryakin had gone. Waverly put a few well-oiled wheels of communication into motion. Within twenty minutes he would know if Napoleon Solo had returned to Paris.

It was damned worrisome that the young idiot hadn’t gotten through to Headquarters as yet.

The frightened people of Oberteisendorf had another mystery on their hands. The afternoon sky had been full of the angry, violent buzzing of two airplanes in a battle of some kind.

They had seen the fall of the lighter plane and the frenzied attack of the black one. Then the awful crash that made the ground shudder. The most ambitious and adventurous of the townspeople, a blacksmith named Goethal, set out in his battered truck for the scene of the crash. He was certain the plane had fallen somewhere in the vicinity of Orangeberg Cemetery.

When he returned two hours later, he had a grim report to make.

Yes, it was the plane that the American had come in. Yes, the plane was a mass of twisted wreckage.

No, he had not found the bodies of either of the Americans.

It was as if the earth had swallowed them up.

TWO MORE UNFORTUNATES

NAPOLEON SOLO had a dream.

In the dream he experienced no pain or pleasure, only a kind of concentrated euphoria. He was weightless, bodiless, airborne—in an existence which through vague distortions told him somehow that he was dreaming, that all he saw and did was in no way the slightest bit real.

Jerry Terry was in the dream, too.

He saw her as he had never seen her before. She was resplendently free and completely naked. The sight would normally have delighted him, yet for some reason, in his dream, it did not. Instead, it was somehow alarming, sinister. He fought to clear his head.

She was crouched before him huddled like some shapely question mark of damp, quivering flesh. Her long, slender arms were encircled with cuffs of some leathery kind. All of her superb figure was taut and stiff with her face lowered to the ground. Behind her, close to her naked flesh, he could make out a curious lattice of bars or rungs of some kind. With a sudden start, he realized, or rather he sensed, that the bars and rungs were before her now. He watched, through a haze, as she crouched and knelt, not standing erect or moving to any degree. It was quite as if she were frozen into this clumsy position of obsequiousness, as though she were humbling herself before some ancient idol

He could see that the terrible position had cost her. Her rib cage was drawn taut, showing muscular hollows, thrusting her fine breasts into a painful cramp of beauty. The long, coppery hair had fallen limply athwart her shoulders, dangling like the rest of her. Her thighs shone with perspiration. He could hear the sketchy, impure sound of her breathing.

The walls surrounding her were ladders of bars, crossed and criss-crossed. Damp stone gleamed from a wall behind her. Somewhere not far off, he could hear the mossy mutterings of drops of liquid. Water, perhaps.

Solo blinked his eyes. It was ridiculous but—there it was. And it would not go away or shimmer into unreality like a dream.

She was still half-bent and stooped in that terrible position when he re-focused his eyes. And now he sought to determine his own place in the scheme of his dream, or his nightmare.

He tried to stare down at himself.

He was hardly surprised to find that he too was naked; that he too was staring at his own knee-caps, performing the same weird ballet as was Jerry Terry. His own lithe body of a hundred and eighty pounds was contorted and doubled like some fantastic pretzel not of his own making.

The trouble was, he felt no pain as yet. The euphoria of his dream had not worn off.

And dream or not—he and the girl were each and separately imprisoned like some strange species of bird in awesome cages of iron. Cages large enough to hold their bodies but not big enough to permit them to stand or lie down, and so constructed that they couldn’t even maneuver into a sitting position.

There were leather thongs on his wrists, holding him away from the iron lattice surrounding him. Why?

He tried to think about the Debonair.

He could remember the MIG, the big round holes in the wings and the dizzying spin into nowhere. It was all so hazy. What had happened, really? Was he dreaming or was he dead? Was this reality or simply hell? Himself—who had always loved the ladies—staked out naked in an oval cage while the loveliest lady of his immediate acquaintance was similarly indisposed a scant but inaccessible few feet away. He laughed harshly but he did not hear the sound of his own laughter. If this was Hell, they had indeed picked the right one for him.

Why didn’t he feel pain? Surely, the leather thongs had bitten deep into his flesh. And the muscles of his body should be racked and spent from the ordeal. Instead, he felt simply puffy and lifeless, like a wad of absorbent cotton.

He closed his eyes and tried to think.

He tried to move his leg. It brushed against the bars of his cage. He pulled it back as quickly as his lame muscles would respond. The reason for the thongs was self-evident now: the bars of his cage were electrically charged and the leather bands had kept his body suspended away from contact with them. Why?

Later, he heard the door slam. It shut with a dull thump of noise. It brought him back to reality though the numbness had not left his body. He stared, twisting his stiffened neck away from his arched shoulders to see what had made the noise.

A man had come between him and the iron cage that enclosed the naked body of Jerry Terry.

A tall man, muffled in a long dark cloak of some kind, wrapped tightly about his neck. Yet if he should have hidden anything at all, he should have masked his face.

The dream-nightmare had continued.

The man’s face was a grotesque mask of outraged flesh—hairless, nearly fleshless. At some time, this man had been in a great fire that had left his face a skull-like travesty of scarred tissue. His nose was merely a pair of twin holes studding the distance between the pit of a forehead and an ugly gash of mouth. His head was an encrustation of scarred, dead tissue. Only the browless eyes showed any evidence of life. And the expression they held was not…quite…sane.

“How do you like The Little Ease, Mr. Solo?” the man said, his death’s-head face looming in the half-light of the cavern. “The Medieval cultures had their interesting torments, did they not? You can neither sit nor stand. Nor can you lie down. Fortunately for you, I have strapped you so that you cannot accidentally electrocute yourself. The same for the lady, of course. The electricity is, of course, a refinement we’ve added to the original specifications. We like to keep up to date.” The eyes in the awful face seemed to glow. “You will recover the use of your voice in approximately ten minutes. If you have recovered your hearing, as I suspect you have, please nod your head.”

Napoleon Solo nodded, trying hard to swallow.

“Good.” The mans voice was as spectral and unreal as his appearance. It was brassy and hollow…like the clang of a metal door in a vault. “We must talk even though I have reduced you to these unpleasant extremes. Do not confuse the exotic nature of your torment with any wish on my part to be glamorous and occult. Nakedness is a powerful depressant, a humiliation to the feelings of the modern, so-called civilized man. It can be used as a psychological weapon, therefore.” He paused. “Do you feel any physical pain as yet?’

Solo shook his head.

“Splendid. The drug always performs as desired. You would find it useful in your role as enforcement officer for U.N.C.L.E., but I’m afraid you will never see America again. At least, not unless you consent to certain articles of behavior. The same code applies to the lady. I appreciate her beauty, I assure you, and there will be much done to her before she finally ends her usefulness…but we were talking about the drug. It is called anakalinine. One tablet induces paralysis of the vocal cords for as long as two hours. You could imagine the purpose it could serve with prisoners and people one wouldn’t want to have talking all about the place. You are extremely fortunate, as it is. Anyone else would have perished in that plane crash.”

A dull, gnawing sensation of pain began to work along Solos racked body. It began with a series of faint, hot flushes starting down from his shoulders. The cage swayed above the stone floor, adding to his sense of unreality. It must be suspended from the ceiling, Solo decided—and twisting with effort to look at Jerry Terry’s cage, he saw that this was true.

“Actually, anakalinine also serves as a pain depressant and seems to affect the hearing as well. There are several qualities of the drug which we haven’t quite explained even to ourselves as yet. No matter. Oh, forgive me. My name is Golgotha. You will appreciate the beauty of the title, considering the fact that you must be acquainted with the Christian mythos. Golgotha was the hill shaped like a skull, was it not?” The death’s-head might have leered, but it was impossible to tell.

“Now, to particulars. Since a kindly fate did not allow you to die in the crash—you and the lady were thrown from the plane, since you seem to have worked the side door open even in your semi-conscious state—I have granted you a respite from death. Your fine organization cannot hurt us now. We are on the march. This time Thrush will succeed totally. Do you feel any pain now, dear Mr. Solo?’

Beads of perspiration had formed on Solo’s face. From behind the tall shadow came a whimper of agony from Jerry Terry. The death’s-head turned to look at her and there was a strangling noise of terror.

Golgotha laughed his metallic laugh.

“She’s fainted,” he said without bitterness. “Women always do at first sight of my magnificent ugliness. Rather like your Phantom of the Opera movie, I imagine. I saw that many times as a child in Ujpest. Little did I dream that one day I would most certainly resemble your Mr. Chaney—” He broke off, as if he had betrayed himself in a moment of revelation. “No matter. Your friends are on their way back to America with Mr. Stewart Fromes’ body. They will learn nothing from it. His corpse will be nothing but a skeleton by the time they reach the coast and your scientists will never trace the impossibly perfect drug which brought it all about. It leaves absolutely no trace. Think of it, Mr. Solo. A catalyst which vanishes once it does it work. Something your medical science has never encountered before and of course, since it will have ceased to exist, cannot encounter now. Try saying something, please.”

Solo made a strangling sound in his throat. It was the barest croak of sound.

“You see? A few minutes more and you will wonder why you couldn’t speak when. you wanted to. So let me tell you my offer. As I say, you must die. But everything has two sides, even the matter of dying. You may die swiftly and without pain. Swallow a simple tablet, lie down, and it is ended. Or you can die by degrees, so slowly and with such monumental agony that you will scream and beg for the peace of death which I will not give you. Unless, of course, you agree to the conditions of my proposal.”

Solo closed his eyes. The pain had begun to rise in waves of agony, washing down his back and thighs. He bit his lips. Golgotha would not have the satisfaction of seeing him come to heel.

“Do you hear me, Mr. Solo? Nod if you do.” Napoleon Solo nodded.

“Good. My request is simple. I want the names and locations of each and every agent known to you in the entire U.N.C.L.E. organization. This will be extremely valuable to us, as you must realize. When Thrush assumes its role as world leader, we of the Council must be certain that there are no small pockets of resistance left. It is imperative that we destroy U.N.C.L.E. You should feel flattered. We respect your organization. We regard it as our greatest threat. Do you understand? Tell me what I want to know and I will inject you with a pain-killing drug which will nullify the effects of anakalinine. You have only to draw up a chart containing the names and whereabouts we require.”

Solo’s mouth worked. He gasped for sound. The drumming fiber of Golgotha’s voice was sending rivers of agony into his ears. Another minute more of this would be too much.

“W—wh—what—”

“Try, Mr. Solo. You should have voice by now.”

“The—the—” It was impossible. Solo could feel the tautness of his throat.

“Breathe deeply. Shout if you must. Hear yourself.”

“The—girl—same thing—”

Golgotha’s eyes glittered coldly.

“Of course. I will even spare her the amorous natures of my colleagues, Mr. Solo.”

“I’ll do it,” Napoleon Solo whispered. “But first—sleep. Must sleep—I’m out of my mind with pain—” The cage seemed to shiver with vibrations.

Golgotha stepped in closer, peering into the eyes of the man crouched before him. His voice was a menacing murmur now.

“Good. You will not be sorry. But please remember this—if you have agreed now only to say no later, you will be more sorry than I can possibly suggest. You may fool me now. But my wrath will make the gods cry out in pain.”

“I promise—damn you—the needle—I can’t stand this—”

Golgotha studied him intently for one second, he dug into the folds of his dark cloak and produced a flat, black medical case. Fanning it open expertly, he selected a long hypodermic needle from a velveteen bed of similar objects. Napoleon Solo’s eyes followed his every movement.

The bareness of the room was still unreal. It was as if there were no door, no window, no sound from anywhere else in the wide, wide universe.

Golgotha came closer, pointing the needle at Napoleon Solo’s bulging right bicep. His tongue clucked approvingly. His face, like a distended Halloween mask, was horribly near, bobbing through the metal bars of the cage.

“Your arm is like stone. I will loosen your bonds and open the door of your cage. You must flex your arm, Mr. Solo, to restore the blood circulation.”

Solo nodded quickly, his eyes almost pleading now. With grim speed, Golgotha stepped before the cage and unlatched a fitted section of bars. Magically a door swung outward, showing freedom. The skull-faced man began to unwind the leather wrappings which bound Solo’s right arm to a cross-work of bars. It took a mere ten seconds to loosen the cuffs. Like a dead fish, Solo’s right arm fell to his side. His fingers were as senseless as if they had never been alive. Golgotha stepped back as Solo’s body sagged through the narrow opening of the cage, half-in and half-out, his left arm still fastened by a thong to an iron bar.

“That’s it. Work your arm up and down till the sensation returns. Otherwise the needle will never penetrate your arm, I’m afraid. Your muscles are like rock, now.”

Solo nodded, gasping for air. Golgotha saw the giant tendons popping in his neck.

“—Better now—” Solo gasped. “The needle—now, please—”

Golgotha, eyes glittering, stepped forward.

And Napoleon Solo’s free right arm came down in a murderous swath of released fury, meeting him full across the neck where it joined his cloaked shoulder.

A karate blow that hammered Golgotha to the stone floor.