Текст книги "[Magazine 1968-012] - The Million Monsters Affair "

Автор книги: Robert Hart Davis

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Napoleon nodded without committing himself to the hint.

“What happened to Miss Mallon?” he asked.

“Her father’s lawyer got her released. She seemed genuinely bewildered. From her past history, I am inclined to believe she really didn’t realize at all what she was doing.”

“Very strange,” Solo said thoughtfully. “Was there evidence of any kind of narcotic influence?”

Leffler shook his head.

“None,” he said. “It was just as if something had taken possession of her brain for a short time.”

“I can understand something like that happening with hippies like those brutes who attacked Napoleon and me,” Illya said. “But if they can possess the mind of a woman like Miss Mallon was reputed to be -”

He left the rest unfinished. Leffler nodded glumly.

“That is right,” he said. “She was definitely not the beatnik type. She was an intellectual and reputedly quite a brilliant research scientist. If they can grab her brain, they can grab anybody’s.”

“Including yours and mine,” Solo put in.

“I’m thinking the same thing,” Leffler replied.

“Have there been any police reports involving her father in the last year?” Solo asked.

“I’ll check it out for you, but I haven’t heard of any,” Leffler said.

“How do you feel?” Napoleon asked Illya.

“Great!” Kuryakin said hastily. His leg wound had been dressed by the police surgeon. He was told before that he could walk, but to take things as easy as possible.

Solo got up. “Well, it’s been a hard day. I think we’ll turn in. You can call us at the Wilshire Hilton if anything turns up.”

He and Kuryakin took the elevator to the ground floor of the high-rise police building. As the elevator door closed behind them, Solo opened his coat. A silver fountain pen was clipped to his shirt and a six inch antenna was extended from it.

He removed the pen. Holding it close to his mouth, he spoke into the super-miniaturized microphone inside the famed U.N.C.L.E. worldwide reception pen communicator.

“Were you able to pick up both sides of our conversation, Mr. Waverly?” he asked.

“Yes, Mr. Solo,” Alexander Waverly’s voice came in, low but distinct, from New York. “I fed your conversation directly into the probability computer.”

“Yes sir,” Solo asked, “and what was the result?”

“After weighing all the facts we have gathered so far, the computer lists an international THRUSH threat as the number one probability. The probability points to some type of mind control device. Also, our contacts within THRUSH itself report highly secret conferences in the upper levels and evidence of great excitement.”

“It sounds ominous, sir,” Napoleon said soberly.

“Yes, Mr. Solo,” Waverly replied. “We can no longer consider this affair as just something to investigate because of its strangeness. It has now become a matter of the utmost urgency.”

“We will give it top priority, sir,” Napoleon replied.

“Do that, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said to his chief enforcement officer. “This situation worries me more than any situation we have ever faced.”

“We are going out now to Mallon’s house,” Solo said. “I was not able to talk to him by telephone.”

“That seems to be the best course. Obviously he wants our help or he would not have sent that oddly worded note,” Waverly said. “I am certain he did it only to throw THRUSH off the scent.”

“That is why I think he will see us in person even though he refused to come to the telephone,” Napoleon said.

“Excellent, Mr. Solo,” Alexander Waverly said. “And in the morning, after you talk with Mallon, I think it wise for Mr. Kuryakin to go to Paris and interview this foreign film distributor.”

Mallon’s home was in Beverly Hills. A tremendous mansion of the old fashioned type, it sat behind a high ivyed wall in a landscaped private park. As they approached in a rented car, Solo thought that it looked like a museum piece. It belonged to the era of the silent film. Solo almost expected to see Douglas Fairbanks vault over the wall and Mary Pickford to swish her golden curls under the flowered arbor.

The huge wrought iron gates were open. The men from U.N.C.L.E. drove up the curving road. Suddenly the car lights picked up the running figure of a girl. She flashed across the driveway in front of them. Napoleon slammed on the brakes. The front fender missed her by inches.

She did not look back – indeed, she seemed unconscious of how narrowly she had missed death.

Kuryakin whistled softly.

“Did you see how she filled that bikini!” he said appreciatively.

“No!” Napoleon said shortly. “I was too busy trying to avoid seeing how well she would fill a coffin! Did you get a look at her face?”

“No,” Illya said regretfully. “But if it looked as good as the rest of her -”

“Probably a fugitive from some Hollywood party,” Solo said. He started the car. Kuryakin looked back, hoping to get another view of the bikini-clad fugitive.

Napoleon stopped the car in front of the mansion. The front door was open. Interior light streamed out into the night.

“The girl probably left it open when she fled,” Solo observed. “She must have gotten quite a shock to leave that fast.”

“Well, you know what they say about these Hollywood parties!” Illya said.

“What I’m wondering is whether she knew what she was doing,” Napoleon said. ‘She seemed not to see the car at all. Could she be caught in this same compulsive force that gripped Mallon’s daughter and those hippies?”

“Possibly,” Illya said. “If so -”

“I’m thinking the same thing,” Solo said grimly. “Come on!”

They went to the door. Illya looked inside as Solo punched the door bell. There was no answer. Napoleon waited impatiently and then rang again.

“You mean there isn’t even a servant in this monstrous pile?” he said irritably.

“Well, we can either go back to the hotel or invade the gentleman’s privacy,” Illya said with a sour grin. “I know you would never be so ungentlemanly as to enter a house without an invitation.”

He stepped inside, adding, “So it is fortunate you have me along. I have no such inhibitions.”

Solo grinned crookedly and followed his partner into the house. They stopped inside, looking around warily. The foyer opened into an old fashioned sunken drawing room. At the back, a movie-set staircase swept in a grand curve to a balcony on the second floor.

A table was overturned near the mirrored right wall. A vase and a dozen long-stemmed roses were spilled on the thick pile rug. The wall mirror directly behind it was cracked. Pieces of its glass were scattered on the rug below.

Just beyond the overturned table was a wet red spot. Solo knelt down and looked at it carefully.

“Blood!” he said tersely, looking up at his companion. “And very fresh.”

“It picks up over here,” Illya Kuryakin said. “It looks like whoever was bleeding crawled through that door yonder. Come on!”

This last he added back over his shoulder as he strode after the trail of blood.

They passed through the door into a small library of the old fashioned book-walled type. A man’s body was sprawled on the floor beside a littered library table.

The body lay on its face. The arms were outstretched. The right hand gripped a large one-sheet movie poster. Across the paper a myriad hideous faces leered out of the murky shadows at a frightened bikini-clad beauty. Across the top of the poster splashing red letters proclaimed: Fred B. Mallon presents The Million Monsters with Doris Taylor.

Smaller letters immodestly claimed this to be the most frightening film ever made.

Solo stooped and felt of the man’s wrist.

“Dead?” Illya asked.

Napoleon nodded, his face grim. “Do you know Mallon by sight?”

“No,” Illya said, “but I’ll bet my last cookie that this is he.”

“I think so too,” Solo said. “Then there was something to that cryptic note he sent Waverly. THRUSH is behind this thing.”

He pulled the pen communicator from his pocket and made an immediate contact with New York.

“Mr. Waverly,” he said when the transcontinental connection was complete. “We have found Fred Mallon dead – murdered!”

“I see,” Waverly said slowly. “Anything that might indicate a tie-in between his death and the action of his daughter?”

“Perhaps,” Solo, turning to stare at the corpse. “The indications are that he dragged himself from the drawing room to the library. He pulled a proof sheet of a poster for his latest film off the table and died with it clutched in his hand.”

“Was this the Million Monsters film?” Waverly asked.

“Yes, sir,” Solo replied.

“Then it appears that Mallon was trying to leave a message behind, perhaps a clue to the secret behind this terrible affair.”

“That is what we believe, sir,” Napoleon said.

“Very well, I will have analysts view this film at regular theater screenings,” Waverly said. “We will see if there are any clues hidden in the film itself. In the meantime, you and Mr. Kuryakin carry on. And Mr. Solo -”

“Yes, sir?”

“Be careful! My secret information is that THRUSH has pulled in every member of its liquidation squad in Europe for a top priority job.”

“And what is that?” Napoleon asked.

“We do not know, but I suspect that the target is two U.N.C.L.E. operatives. You and Mr. Kuryakin! Watch out!”

TWO

“WE HAD better notify the Beverly Hills police,” Illya Kuryakin said as Napoleon Solo collapsed the pen communicator antenna.

“I suppose so,” Solo said. “Why don’t you nose around the drawing room and see what you can find out before the police arrive.”

“What are you going to do?” Kuryakin asked suspiciously. “If you have any ideas about chasing a wild bikini, forget it. She is surely gone by now. Besides, I am better fitted by temperament, training and definitely inclination to pursue that kind of suspect.”

“I don’t doubt the inclination, but I am not so sure about the training,” Solo retorted. “Just take things easy here. That leg of yours might stand up to plowing around the man-made jungle that surrounds this place, but there’s no point in straining it. We may need to run, if Waverly is right.”

Kuryakin looked soberly at his companion. “They may be lying in wait for you,” he said. “That girl could be the killer – or she could be bait for a trap. She may have run in front of our car to be sure we spotted her.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Solo said. “It could be a trap. There is one sure way of finding out.”

Illya stared questioningly.

“Yeah,” Napoleon said. “I can stick my neck out. If something bangs down on it, then it was a trap!”

Illya started to reply, but the slight lift of Solo’s eyebrows tipped him off to keep quiet.

“See you later,” Solo said. “I’m walking down the driveway to where we saw that girl run past.”

Solo had walked to the door before turning and throwing this last statement back at his partner. Illya nodded uneasily. Obviously Solo had done this to give himself an excuse for raising his voice. He had wanted someone to hear him.

Thoughtfully Kuryakin looked down at the corpse and then let his eye pass carelessly past the window as he scanned the room. He was certain that Solo had seen something at the window that caused him to act as he had.

Playing out his part to keep the person – if there was one – outside from becoming suspicious, Illya got down on his knees beside the dead man. He turned so he could watch the window from the corner of his eye. He bent over as if scanning the Million Monsters poster, but he brought his right hand up where it could slip rapidly inside his jacket. There the hard weight of an U.N.C.L.E. special rested in its uniquely designed holster.

Time ticked away slowly. He wondered if he had been mistaken.

Then suddenly the sharp crack of a revolver shattered the silence. Illya jerked out the Special. He jumped back and up, hitting the wall switch.

As the room plunged in darkness he moved swiftly to the window. The glass shattered under the impact of another shot. Illya jumped back, throwing up his arm to protect his face from flying glass.

“Don’t shoot, Illya!”

It was Solo’s voice calling frantically from outside.

Kuryakin ran to the window again. Through the broken glass he saw the dim figure of a woman racing across the lawn. He saw Napoleon fire at her.

The U.N.C.L.E. Special made no sound except a loud hiss which told Kuryakin that Solo had switched from bullets to needle thin knockout pellet projectiles. These could stun, but not kill.

But the light was too poor and the girl too fast. The darkness swallowed her before Solo could fire again.

Kuryakin pulled open the window to avoid cutting himself on the broken glass. He threw his good leg over the window sill and laboriously dropped into a flower bed.

Solo was running after the girl. Kuryakin knew he could not keep up. His wounded leg handicapped him, but he followed to keep any accomplice of the girl’s from coming in on Solo from the rear.

Suddenly there was a roar behind them. Flames shot out the shattered window of the library.

“They’re trying to destroy evidence of the murder!” Napoleon shouted. “Forget the girl! This is more important.”

Kuryakin hobbled toward the window, hoping he could get in and drag the body out before the flames reached it. But just before Solo caught up with him, there was another explosion inside the death room.

The walls shook. They bulged out and started to fall.

“Look out!” Solo yelled.

Kuryakin saw the danger and was running as hard as his wounded leg would permit. The entire side of the six story mansion was toppling over on top of them!

He knew he couldn’t make it. It was too far to run, even if he had not been injured.

“The tree!” Solo shouted. “Get behind the tree, Illya!”

Kuryakin staggered. The first pieces of blazing debris were starting to batter down on them. A brick hit just in front of Solo, bounced on the thick grass and struck Napoleon’s knee. He fell, caught himself and rolled to his feet like a tumbler.

Illya’s wounded leg cramped. The stiffened muscles threw him off stride. He sprawled flat. Solo turned to help him.

“Keep going! Keep going!” Illya gasped. “I’ll make it!”

He rolled over, catching a glimpse of a huge concrete beam teetering on the edge of the collapsing roof.

It came crashing down. Illya scrambled frantically to get out of the way. He followed Solo’s lead. The two trapped men leaped behind a huge spreading oak. They pressed hard against the trunk on the opposite side from the fire.

Illya looked up. The flaming building made a hellish backdrop for the falling pillar.

“It’s going to hit us!” he gasped.

“Don’t run!” Solo shouted.

He had seen the murderous shower of bricks and burning debris on each side of them. It was suicide to leave the doubtful protection of the great tree. The strong limbs and heavy foliage were their only hope.

The beam crashed into the tree. The smashing, splintering of tortured wood was louder than the roar of the flames. The tree trunk shivered. The huge limb that had protected them from falling brick cracked under the impact of the concrete beam.

“Look out, Napoleon!” Illya yelled.

It was too late. Solo tried to duck. A piece of the limb struck him. He plunged to the ground, unconscious.

Kuryakin sprang back as the splintered end jabbed murderously at his chest. He fell. Two bricks bounced off his shoulder. A burning door struck the shuddering tree trunk and shattered into a hundred blazing fragments.

Illya looked up fearfully. The concrete pillar was teetering precariously on the stump of the shattered tree. Kuryakin took a deep breath and shuddered. The unconscious Solo was directly in its line of fall.

Illya tried to get to his feet, but his leg wound was bleeding again. His right shoulder was bruised so badly by the bricks that he could scarcely move it.

Unable to walk, he started to crawl toward his unconscious companion. The second story floor of the mansion collapsed. A piece of burning timber hurtled toward them. It struck the ground short, but bounced and fell across Solo’s legs.

Illya snaked his body around and kicked it off with his toe. Then, flopping around again, he grabbed Solo’s arms. He tried to get to his feet, but couldn’t.

His breath was rasping in his throat. His entire body was a mass of protesting aches. He took a deep, shuddering breath and jerked a handkerchief from his pocket. He quickly knotted it around his unconscious friend’s wrists.

He looked up as a violent crack sounded from the shattered tree. The poorly balanced beam slipped an inch.

Sweat dripped from Kuryakin’s face. He slipped his head through Napoleon’s arms, letting the bound wrists fall against the back of his neck. Then he tried to crawl and drag Solo out of the line of the beam’s fall.

He lacked the strength to drag the unconscious man from U.N.C.L.E. He collapsed on top of Solo. He twisted his head, shooting another fearful look upward. The beam was slipping. It was teetering too far now to hold. This was the end. It was coming down straight on them

In a last desperate attempt to save themselves, he pressed his body tightly against the unconscious man. He threw his arms about Solo’s body and tightened his knees about his friend’s hips.

Then he twisted frantically, trying to roll both of them over.

Above him, the last bit of stump holding the beam gave way!

Kuryakin got over on his back; then shoving with all his dwindling strength, he made another roll.

With a final chilling crack! that momentarily blotted out the roar of the flames, the last restraining branch gave way. The huge pillar, as large around as a man’s body, crashed down.

It smashed into the ground exactly where they had been. Illya, shaking and gasping for breath from his superhuman effort to get himself and Solo out of the way, collapsed. They were so close to the fallen column that they touched it. The edge of his open jacket was under the beam. They had missed death by a space equal to the thickness of a piece of paper!

He lay for a moment, trying to get his strength before making another move. The heat of the fire was terrific. It was scorching. He shakily pulled Solo’s coat up to protect his friend’s face.

Then not knowing if the other man were alive or dead, he gingerly reached over and touched Solo’s neck, seeking the vein to feel for a pulse.

In the distance he could see the flash of car lights in the driveway. Above the roar of the fire he heard the scream of fire sirens.

He pushed himself up shakily, tugging to get his coat from under the concrete mass. Fire was burning all around them. The tree branches and thick leaves had prevented them from being covered when the wall caved in.

But this now seemed only a momentary respite. They were almost encircled by flaming debris. The firemen, intent on getting water on the blaze to contain the fire, had not seen them.

He tried to yell, but his voice was swallowed in the cracking roar of collapsing walls in the blazing house.

He felt for the U.N.C.L.E. Special, hoping a shot would attract attention. But in the fall and scramble it had been lost.

Illya looked around frantically. He could still save himself. He was battered and weakened, but had strength to get out himself.

Provided he would abandon his companion. That, he knew, would mean Napoleon’s death. The fire around them, while hot and scorching, would not reach them. If he abandoned his companion to run for help, there was no danger of the unconscious man burning.

But – fire itself was not the danger. As the streams from the fire hose hit the fire, great masses of smoke were erupting up from the blaze.

Already Kuryakin was coughing badly. Within a couple of minutes it would be suffocating. He knew that if he left Solo long enough to get help, he would return to a dead man!

THREE

FOR A breathless moment Kuryakin stood there beside the prone figure of his companion in so many past adventures. Suddenly an idea penetrated his fogged mind. He grabbed the pen-communicator from his pocket. Jerking the antenna up, he called hoarsely: “Mr, Waverly! Can you -”

He broke off in a fit of strangling coughing as a cloud of smoke engulfed him. He dropped to the ground where the air was more clear.

“Mr. Kuryakin?” Waverly’s anxious voice came over the super-miniaturized transmitter. “What is the matter? Answer, please!”

“We are -”

Kuryakin went into another fit of coughing before he could control himself sufficiently to choke out the words: “Solo is unconscious and I’m too weak to carry him out. We’re surrounded by fire at Mallon’s estate.”

He paused, coughing again.

“Mr. Kuryakin! Quickly! What can we do for you?” Waverly called his voice thick with anxiety. “I can radio Los Angeles to get the fire department out.”

“The fire department is here!” Illya said thickly. “But they can’t see us. Can you alert them that we are here? I can get out, but I can’t get Napoleon out.”

“Hold the connection!” Waverly said crisply.

Illya heard him speaking rapidly into another connection: “Get me a direct beam to Los Angeles! Quickly! Every second counts!”

Two ticks of a clock later, Illya heard him say: “Los Angeles operator? This is an emergency. The fire department, please!”

The connection was completed in record time. Illya heard Waverly sketch their plight in a few crisp words. The fire department dispatcher said hurriedly, “We will radio the battalion chief at the blaze.”

Illya heard a click and then the voice of the dispatcher relayed from Los Angeles to New York and back to him in Los Angeles via the U.N.C.L.E. pen communicator.

“New York reports that there are two men trapped under the splintered oak on the west side of the building,” the dispatcher said into his radio.

“New York?” The amazed voice of the assistant fire chief in charge of the engines called back over his walkie-talkie, “What does New York know about what is going on out here? Somebody is pulling your leg.”

“No, sir. The call is authentic. It is no hoax.”

“How do you know?” the assistant chief asked in a rasping voice. “I got work to do. I can’t -”

“The call came in on a preemption code that cut off every telephone interference across the country,” the dispatcher said. “It takes somebody mighty important to do that. The emergency code he used is just under a presidential preemption.”

Illya heard the chief whistle. “That is somebody important. Hey, Gerrity! Smith! Snap on a smoke mask and see if there are any persons under that splintered oak. Get a move on. It’s important.”

Then Illya Kuryakin heard him say plaintively, “But I’d like to know how anybody in New York knew what’s going on here?”

“ESP, maybe?” the dispatcher suggested.

Then two men came charging through the smoke and fire. Within seconds smoke masks were slipped over Illya’s and Solo’s faces. They were quickly carried to safety.

The department first aid man brought Napoleon Solo back to consciousness. Napoleon sat up, gingerly touching the bloody knot on the side of his head.

“What happened?” he asked thickly.

Then before Illya could reply, he added, “When did you get to be twins?”

Kuryakin knelt down beside him. He extracted a paper thin pill from an inner compartment of his wallet. He stripped off the cellophane covering and handed it to Solo.

Napoleon downed it and lay back with his eyes closed for a full minute. Then he sat up. “Those energy pills really work,” he said in a clear voice. “I feel like getting up and running the hundred yard dash.”

“Take it easy,” Illya said, downing one of the pills himself to ease the ache in his legs. “You know I they don’t put anything into you. They just make you forget there isn’t any juice left in the battery.”

“I know,” Napoleon said. “What happened?”

Illya shrugged. “After you laid down on me, there wasn’t anybody to tell me what to do. So I sat down beside you and waited until you decided to get back in the act.”

Solo got shakily to his feet anal gave Illya a hard look from under raised eyebrows.

“That sounds like you,” he said sarcastically. “What about the girl? Did you get a look at her face?”

Illya shook his head.

“But don’t worry,” he said with a grin. “I’d recognize that bikini anywhere. What do we do now? Mallon’s body is lost – if it was Mallon.”

“I think it was,” Solo said slowly. “And I think that babe in the next-to-bare bikini is the same one who tried to do us in.”

“But that was Mallon’s daughter! She wouldn’t -” Solo paused and then added thoughtfully, “Or would she?”

“I’m not so sure it was she who did the killing,” Illya said. “There was someone else in the house. She could not have got back in time to set off the explosion.”

“Well, let’s worry about it in the morning,” Solo said. “As soon as these super-aspirins lose their punch, we’re going to be dead. Let’s get some sleep.”

They started back to their hotel in a car provided by the Beverly Hills police. As they drove, Solo dictated a quick report which he transmitted over the pen communicator to U.N.C.L.E. quarters in New York and recorded on a subminiature tape recorder hidden by U.N.C.L.E. laboratory ingenuity in his cigarette lighter. This tape he passed to the policeman accompanying them to aid the Beverly Hills homicide and arson squads in their investigation of the murder and the fire.

Shortly after they started the driver picked up a newscast on the car radio. Solo leaned back in the seat and listened intently.

“A two-million dollar fire swept the Beverly Hills mansion of motion picture producer Fred B. Mallon tonight. Firemen are still fighting the four-alarm blaze,” the newscaster reported.

“Unconfirmed reports claim that the fire is arson, started to cover up the murder of the noted producer. The mysterious events follow the arrest yesterday of Mallon’s daughter, who apparently ran amok at Los Angeles International Airport. Miss Mallon disappeared following her release by Los Angeles police.”

After a commercial break the announcer added, “Here is a later bulletin on the Mallon murder. Police report that they are seeking the producer’s daughter for questioning in connection with her father’s death. Beverly Hills homicide investigators report that her peculiar actions during the last few days make her a prime suspect in the murder.”

“They are taking the wrong tack,” Illya said with a positive shake of his head. “She is surely involved, but she is a victim.”

Solo grinned across at him. “Would you be so ready to leap to her defense if she were homely instead of a raving beauty?” he asked.

“I most certainly -” Illya began.

“What’s that?” Solo broke in sharply.

Illya, sparked by the strange note in his companion’s voice, turned quickly. The car was on Sunset Boulevard moving through the unincorporated section known as Sunset Strip.

The first thing that caught Kuryakin’s eye was a theater marquee flashed the words, “Fred Mallon’s Triumph of Terror, The Million Monsters!”

“It seems to hit us everywhere we go,” Solo said.

“The show must just be turning out,” Illya said, motioning toward the crowd pouring from the theater and overflowing into the street.

The driver had to slow up because of the jam. The crowd was moving in a rapid flow as if hurrying to catch a train.

Then suddenly an electric change went through the tightly packed mob. A woman screamed and her frantic cry was drowned in the sudden roaring fury of the tightly packed teenagers.

They started milling and yelling. Traffic came to a dead halt.

“It’s another of those miserable teenage riots!” their driver said. “Roll up the windows fast. These kids are crazy when they go on a bust.”

A police whistle shrilled in the distance and a police patrol siren whined.

“The sheriff has his hands full,” their Beverly Hills police driver said. “I don’t envy him. This little fracas looks like it is going to be a whizzer!”

“Anyway we can help?” Illya asked, uneasily watching the growing fury of the milling crowd.

“Just keep out of it,” the driver said. “This is unincorporated territory. It does not belong to either Beverly Hills or Los Angeles. It is strictly the sheriff’s jurisdiction. The city police have no authority here.”

“We can make what is known as a citizen’s arrest,” Solo said.

“Stay out of it,” the policeman cautioned. “You can’t win. Let them alone. They’ll scream a little and maybe break a few glass fronts, but that’ll be all. They’re just blowing off a little steam.”

Solo looked out at the giant marquee with its Million Monsters sign.

“I wonder -” he said softly.

“I’m thinking the same thing,” Illya replied. “And if it is true and this bunch are caught in the same frenzy that gripped Marsha Mallon and those hippies who jumped us at the terminal -”

He left the rest unsaid. Solo said nothing, but Illya could see his companion’s jaw tighten.

“Then we had better get out of here – fast!” he said.

Illya Kuryakin nodded. The car was stalled between the movie goers packed in the street ahead and the heavy traffic stopped behind them. He pushed the latch on the car door. Solo leaned forward to follow him.

As they started to move, the ugly rumblings in the crowd suddenly exploded. The mob surged forward. A red-faced man rammed the half opened car door with his body and slammed it on Kuryakin. Solo caught a glimpse of the car ahead as a crazy-faced youth grabbed a street trash can and hurled it through the window in a crushing blow at the driver.

Their own car rocked. A jam of screaming youths grabbed the front bumper and raised it off the ground. Solo tried to open the door, but the wild pack were pressed too tightly.

Then the group in front dropped their hold on the bumper. The car fell three feet with a bounce that threw Solo against the windshield. Illya hit against the driver.

It was impossible to get out of the car now. The frenzied mob was too thick. Napoleon Solo grabbed his U.N.C.L.E. Special, flipping the cartridge switch from steel slugs to the needle-thin knockout pellets. But before he could use it, crazed hands converged on the side of the car. Under their savage push the car slowly teetered over on two wheels.

“Roll down the window!” Solo yelled.

As Illya spun the crank, Napoleon fired six of the plastic needle pellets with their stunning anesthetic into the mob pushing against the car.

But it was like dipping up the ocean with a cup. As fast as one dropped unconscious, there were three to take his place. The three men in the car were completely trapped.