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

Автор книги: Robert Hart Davis

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When Illya reported his conversation back to Waverly, the U.N.C.L.E. chief said, “I can understand the French police’s skepticism, Mr. Kuryakin. It is fantastic. Unfortunately it happens to be true. Also, I must warn you to be doubly careful. I understand that THRUSH has given this professional assassin, LeBlanc, a contract. I do not know that this highly efficient criminal is aiming at you. But it is a distinct possibility.”

“My only lead is this woman’s voice,” Illya said. “It is a thin trail.”

“But keep after it, Mr. Kuryakin,” Waverly said. “We can afford to overlook no possibility. We are in trouble everywhere. You know how thin our Hollywood lead is. Miss Dancer is having the same trouble in London. I -

“One moment, please. A report is coming in. Perhaps -”

Illya waited impatiently for a full minute. Then Waverly’s voice came back through the pen communicator.

“Mr. Kuryakin!” Waverly said, obviously struggling to keep his voice calm. “You must return to Hollywood immediately! Mr. Solo has disappeared. His rented car was found on a hill overlooking the Mallon studios. There were definite signs of a struggle. In addition, police found another car registered to Marsha Mallon. It appears that both have been taken by THRUSH.”

“I’ll take the next plane,” Illya said.

“Do so,” Waverly said. “While you may turn up important leads in Paris, I am convinced that the heart of this terrible matter is located in Hollywood. It is here where the subliminal evil influences are placed in the movie soundtracks. We cannot afford to let up our pressure there. We are spread so thin that we have no one else to cover for Solo in Hollywood.”

Immediately after notifying Inspector Moreau of the French police that he was returning to the States, Illya took a cab to the airport. The magic U.N.C.L.E. name got him a place on a plane scheduled to leave in a half hour.

While waiting he caught sight of an extraordinarily lovely girl. Her lovely figure and chic traveling suit were the epitome of French flair and style. She was standing by the plate glass window looking out into the night.

When Kuryakin stopped to look at her, it was the natural reaction of a young man for a lovely girl. But his second look was the natural reaction of a cold-blooded man who keeps alive in a dangerous profession by carefully noting every small detail.

It seemed to him that she could see little outside in the dark, but that her position made the glass a natural mirror in which she could observe what went on behind her.

And there was no one behind her but himself. Thoughtfully Illya went on. He stopped for a second at a magazine kiosk to have an excuse for looking her way again. She had shifted so that she could still observe him in the reflected glass.

For a second Illya debated his next move. His first impulse was to go over and make some excuse for speaking to her. He was certain that he would recognized the honey-wine voice he heard on the phone if he could hear the girl speak again.

On second thought he decided this too abrupt an approach. Obviously this girl in the air terminal had a more than passing interest in him. If she were the woman he sought, it would be better to have additional information before he accosted her.

He went over to the airline service counter and found the smiling young lady who had previously checked him in.

“The lady across the lobby -” he said.

“You can do better than that, Mr. Kuryakin,” she said, and her smile left no doubt of whom she meant he could do better with.

Regretfully he put aside the idea.

“No doubt about it,” he said. “But there is the matter of a plane leaving in a few minutes. You aren’t going on it, are you?”

“No, I’m not, Mr. Kuryakin,” she said, shrugging.

“How did you know my name?” he asked.

“The lady you referred to came to the counter a few minutes ago and pointed you out. She asked who you were.”

“Oh?” Kuryakin said.

“I checked the plane’s manifest and found out for her.”

“So -” Illya Kuryakin said thoughtfully.

“Her name is Theresa LeBrun,” the counter girl said. “And she is off to Hollywood, according to her ticket. That is all I know.”

“That is enough to get me started,” Illya said. “Have you a phone I can use?”

She led him into the office. He called the American consulate and got the night charge-de-affairs to look up Theresa LeBrun’s application for an American entrance visa.

It took about five minutes and the loud speaker was directing all passengers for the trans-polar flight to Los Angeles to gather at gate number two when the attache’s voice came back on the wire.

“Mr. Kuryakin? Miss LeBrun’s application requests entry into the U.S. to work as an actress with Fred B. Mallon Productions in Hollywood.”

“Mellon!” Illya said. “Thanks!”

He turned, and after a smiling thanks to the girl, he hurried toward the gate. He noticed, however that Theresa LeBrun was not going. He halted and went over to her.

“I believe this is your plane, mademoiselle,” he said with his most engaging smile. “If I could be of assistance in -”

“I am afraid I must miss it,” she said. Her voice was distant. Her deep gray eyes looked straight into his face with an expression that seemed to Illya to be a mixture of wariness and vexation. “My companion is late.”

The voice was not the same. However, he got the impression that her deep throated tones were not natural. She was deliberately not talking in her regular voice.

The plane was loading. Illya could not wait. He decided the best thing to do was go on to the plane. Then he could call U.N.C.L.E. headquarters in New York and get them to relay a request back for the French police to investigate the background of Theresa LeBrun.

But as he started through the gate, the pretty counter girl came running after him.

“Mr. Kuryakin!” she called breathlessly. “The police called. Inspector Moreau asks that you wait a few minutes!”

“But I must catch the plane. It is urgent that I -”

“The police have ordered the plane held for you. The passengers will go ahead and load, but the pilot will wait. Inspector Moreau will be here right away.”

Inspector Moreau was even then hurrying across the lobby. The inspector drew Kuryakin back into the airline office, shutting the door in the face of the curious girl. The Frenchman unwrapped a package he was carrying. It was a smashed press camera – but with a difference. The insides were covered with wrecked wires and transistors.

“It is the same as we found at the riot site in Hollywood,” Illya said. “It is the transmitter used to stimulate the subliminal hypnosis as I told you.”

Moreau nervously rewrapped the evidence.

“Mr. Kuryakin,” he said. “I fear we must revise our theories about these murders. This was found at the site of the latest riot which broke out just after you left us.

“I remembered what you said and I went looking for some sign of direction. I saw a photographer acting just as you described the man on Sunset Strip. When I got him cornered, he ripped out the inside of his ‘camera.’”

“This is identical with the device used in Hollywood,” Illya said.

“You are sure? I wished to check with you before you got away,” Moreau said. “Is there any chance of you staying a few more days and assisting us?”

Illya replied that Solo was missing. Waverly had recalled him to complete the Hollywood segment of the investigation.

“That is a great pity,” Moreau said uneasily. “I fear we are involved in something that is too big for us.”

“It may be too big for all of us if we don’t get a lead soon,” Kuryakin said.

“Well, let me walk to the plane with you, Mr. Kuryakin,” Moreau said. “We have held you up as long as we should. I hope you will cooperate with us from the States. I’ll send you a full report on the Paris riots.”

“Good,” Illya said. “I’ll keep you informed of our own work.”

They passed through the gate and started toward the waiting airline. Suddenly the plane seemed to jump in the air. The fuselage, gleaming in the searchlights, bulged and then split with a thunderous roar of fire.

“Look out!” Illya cried.

He threw himself to the ground, dragging the inspector down with him. The door of the plane went hurtling over their heads. Then the gas tanks exploded and a hellish blast of fire burst out of the doomed plane.

ACT V – PRISONERS OF THRUSH

THE NEXT THING Napoleon Solo remembered after falling unconscious on the hill overlooking Mallon’s studio was being carried down a dark hall.

He heard a steel door creak and then slam with a metallic clang. He had difficulty focusing his eyes. All he could make out for sure was that the room they passed through was very dark. He could hear gears whirling. There was a sloshing sound as of water being agitated.

He could also hear the harsh breathing of the men carrying him. In the background a woman sobbed softly. He thought it was Marsha.

They were carried into a small office. Solo saw a desk piled high with film cans. A heavy set man with a petulant face was seated at a portable film editor beside the desk.

“Don’t bother me!” he snapped over his shoulder at the men holding Solo. “I must get these release prints ready for the big premiere. If they’re trespassers, throw them in the acid vat. Get rid of them. I’m not interested.”

“The girl is Marsha Mallon!” one of their captors said. “We saw her watching the studio from the park hill.”

“Good,” the film editor said. “Throw her in the acid. Get rid of her completely. Take no chances on her getting away again.”

“The man is Napoleon Solo! We found him following -”

“Solo!” The editor got up so quickly he overturned his chair.

He grabbed Napoleon’s hair and pulled Solo’s head up for a close inspection.

He gave a startled exclamation and let Napoleon’s head fall. A fearful oath slipped from his lips.

“How did those rats find out we are making the release prints down here? Get upstairs, Peters, and get THRUSH headquarters on the secret band. Tell them what happened.”

“Okay, Mr. Griffis,” Peters said. “What about the girl?”

“Leave her here,” Griffis said. “And contact Abbott to bring over some truth serum. Headquarters will want them interrogated before we – dispose of them.”

“If she spilled everything to U.N.C.L.E. -” Peters began fearfully.

“She didn’t!” Griffis snapped. “If she had, the police would be here in force. I have an idea she told U.N.C.L.E. nothing. I think Solo was following her and she didn’t know it.”

“If U.N.C.L.E. is moving in,” Peters said uneasily, “I want to be moving out!”

“Don’t lose your guts now!” Griffis snarled. “We’re running these monster prints night and day. The transmitter to bounce the signals off the Telstar communications satellite for worldwide reception will go into operation in three days. If we can get these films in the theaters by then, nothing can stop us! THRUSH will control the world.”

“You’ll never do it!” Napoleon Solo heard the girl cry out suddenly. “You -”

Her cry ended in the brutal sound of a hand slapping against her mouth.

“You caused all this trouble!” Griffis snarled. “If you hadn’t run out on us, everything would have been set before U.N.C.L.E. suspected anything!”

“This was mine and you stole it!” she cried. “I’m not going to let you get away with it! You’ll pay for everything you’ve done to me and my father! I’ll kill you if it’s the last thing I do!”

“I think it will be the other way around!” Griffis said with a sneer. “You will be the one who dies, my dear! And -”

He shot a contemptuous glare down at Solo’s prone body.

“And,” he went on, “I think you will have company for your journey to hell!”

“I’ll get up to the transmitter and report to THRUSH,” Peters said.

“Help me tie them up before you go,” Griffis said hastily. “I can’t afford to take any chances with these U.N.C.L.E. rats. There’s some cord in the bottom desk drawer.

Peters pulled it out.

“It’s pretty light,” he said doubtfully.

“It’s all we have, but it’s strong,” Griffis replied. “I’ve been using it to tie the boxes of film. Take care of Solo. I’ll bind the girl.”

Napoleon Solo stiffened. He knew that it was now or never for him. As he recalled there had been two men who brought him down. The other man was an unknown factor. He could not place him in the room. But still Solo could not afford to delay his break for freedom. He would have to face the problem of the third man when it came.

He half opened his eyes. He could not see Griffis, but Peters was bending down to pass the binding cord around Napoleon’s body.

Napoleon jerked his foot up in a lightning kick. It caught Peters in the belly. The THRUSH man staggered back, gasping. He collided with Griffis, who jumped up from trying to bind the girl.

Both men went over in a tangle. Griffis dragged a THRUSH gun from his shoulder holster. Solo could see his own U.N.C.L.E. gun behind Griffis. But it might as well have been a thousand miles away. Griffis was between him and the gun.

With a fast sweeping motion Solo kicked the overturned editor’s chair into Griffis. The THRUSH division chief fell. Before he could recover, Solo grabbed Peters, who was still doubled up in pain. He slammed the groaning man into Griffis.

At that moment the lights went out. Marsha Mallon had thrown the room switch. Griffis’ gun boomed in the total darkness. Napoleon Solo crouched low. He started for the door he had seen behind the desk. Then he suddenly crashed into a wall. It knocked him to his knees – and saved his life. Griffis fired straight at the noise. His steel jacketed bullets ripped into the wall above Napoleon’s head.

The man from U.N.C.L.E. prudently did not straighten up. He realized what had happened. He was in a corridor leading to the processing darkroom where the Million Monsters films were developed.

In the excitement he mistook the darkroom door for the one leading into the hall.

He could hear the grind of gears as the film ran over a multitude of rollers as it looped in and out of the developing solutions. He knew that Griffis would follow and he started fumbling his way down the length of the room. He wondered where Marsha Mallon had gone.

From what he knew of photography he realized there would be an identical light trap in the opposite end of the room. The exposed film must be developed in total darkness for its first step. Since this was color reversal stock, it must be flashed to white light and bleached and redeveloped. But the succeeding steps could be carried out in room light.

He kept feeling his way down the length of the room. He could hear the grind of the processing machines beside him, but could see nothing.

Behind him Griffis’ voice bawled: “They must have come in here. Hit the light switch there on the wall to your left, Peters!”

“It – it’ll ruin the film!” Peters gasped.

“Damn the film!” Griffis snarled. “It is only one run. We can reprint. Getting those two before they ruin us is more important than anything in the world right now!”

Solo had no idea how long the room was. He only knew that he was within seconds of being exposed to Griffis’ gunfire.

He dropped to his hands and knees, hugging the side of the long row of processors. The entrance was on the opposite side of machines. He hoped to make the other light trap before they saw him.

The light flashed on. Napoleon Solo saw with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that he didn’t have a chance to reach the exit.

In sheer desperation he threw his full weight against the water tank, where the film ran through a wash bath after coming from the developing tanks.

The tank teetered, hung for a moment on its outside legs, then crashed over. Nervously Griffis cut loose with his gun. The crash of the shots were almost lost in the din of metal and film rollers striking the concrete floor. Developing solutions sloshed against the wall.

Solo bent almost double and ran for the light trap in the back. Griffis, unable to get a clear shot, ran forward. His feet slipped on the wet floor. He sprawled flat. Peters leaped over his prone body and came after Solo.

But Napoleon had too much head start. The next room was lighted. Here the negative-developed color film came out of the first dark room and went into a powerful bleach bath. Napoleon overturned one of the tanks, splashing the highly corrosive acid on the floor between himself and Peters.

Peters realized the danger to himself. He drew back. Unopposed, Solo ran through the second dark room into the next, where the dried film was spun into reels.

He saw Marsha Mallon struggling to get a door open. He ran to her aid. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw that the overturned acid had effectively blocked pursuit in that direction.

However, he realized that he was not safely out of the trap yet. He was sure that Griffis and Peters were circling around through the hall to cut them off.

“Is it locked?” he asked breathlessly.

Marsha shook her head. Her face, a mirror of combined anxiety and stubborn determination, had a wildness that enhanced her natural beauty.

He thought at that moment that he had never seen so beautiful a woman. Something about their extreme danger heightened her natural beauty.

“No!” Marsha gasped. “It is stuck!”

Napoleon Solo pushed her back. He grabbed the knob, wrenching hard. When the door failed to open, he threw one foot against the facing for support. He jerked with all his strength.

The door shivered, but held tightly. Solo heaved again. It came open with a creak of seldom used hinges.

As he started through the door, Marsha caught his arm. The unexpectedness of her movement caught Solo off balance. She moved so swiftly that he was hurled backward in a savage judo throw. He bounced off the wall and sprawled flat.

He leaped up, but was too late. Marsha slammed the door in his face. He heard the noise of a bolt sliding into place on the opposite side.

Solo was shocked by bewilderment. “But why? We’re supposed to be on the same side!”

Solo grabbed the door knob and jerked with all his strength. After the one abortive try he gave up, knowing that he could never break the bolt. He had been wrong in thinking there was another light trap at the end of the processing room. Since operations here in the drying room were in the light, none was necessary.

He leaned against the wall. There was no way out. Marsha Mallon had condemned him to a THRUSH death!

TWO

AT THE PARIS airport Illya Kuryakin collided with Inspector Moreau as he ducked to escape being fried in the tremendous belch of flame blasting out from the exploding airliner.

The fireball mushroomed over their heads, raining fire. Illya Kuryakin threw his light top coat over his head. A ball of fire as large as his fist hit his leg. He shook it off and broke into a stumbling run. Inspector Moreau was just ahead of him – cape over his head.

Suddenly a large section of burning wing crashed out of the sky in front of them. Fire splattered wildly. The two men ducked, changed courses and ran through the gate.

“Look out, Inspector!” Illya yelled.

He grabbed at Moreau’s shoulder, catching the Frenchman just as he was about to plunge into the path of an onrushing fire truck.

As soon as the truck passed the two men staggered on to the protection of the air terminal.

Moreau sank down on a chair to get his breath. Illya braced himself against the back of the adjoining divan. Three feet from him Theresa LeBrun stood against the wall. She was looking at Kuryakin rather than at the fire which gripped everyone else’s attention.

She was, he noted, holding her purse up. It struck him that she was holding it in an excellent position to extract a gun in a hurry if such should be necessary.

He was not yet ready for a showdown with the beautiful woman. So he moved to allay any suspicion that he might suspect her of implication in the plane bombing.

“You are very fortunate your companion’s delay kept you from boarding the plane, mademoiselle,” he said, still breathing hard from his narrow escape from death.

Moreau got up. He was too agitated to notice the girl.

“I’ve got to call in a report on this,” he said to Illya. “This is no ordinary act of sabotage. That bomb was planted on the plane to destroy you, Mr. Kuryakin!”

Illya nodded. “If it had not been for your call which held me back, THRUSH would have succeeded, Monsieur Moreau.”

“Then you will stay and help us get to the bottom of this terrible monstering menace that is attacking our children?”

“I am afraid that is impossible,” Illya said regretfully. He was looking at Moreau, but he was talking directly for the benefit of the woman he suspected.

“You see, Monsieur Moreau, we have certain definite leads in Hollywood. Here there are none. We are working against time. Mr. Waverly, our operations chief, is convinced that we can make better progress getting to the root of this evil from the Hollywood angle.”

“We have absolutely nothing to go on here,” Moreau admitted.

“That is right,” Illya said, watching the girl from the corner of his eye. “There is not a person in all France whom I can honestly say I suspect of complicity in this terrible affair.”

“But someone is!” Moreau said savagely. “These riots, this strange ‘camera.’ And then this monstrous bombing -”

He stopped and said, “But I must get about my business. We will find these criminals, Monsieur Kuryakin.”

“Working from all three ends – you here, April Dancer in London, and myself in Hollywood – I am certain that we will smash this menace,” Illya replied, a confidence in his voice that he did not really feel.

Then as an extra goad to the woman, just in case his suspicions of her were true, he added: “We have some pretty good leads in Hollywood.”

Illya was not surprised when he boarded the next plane to find that Theresa LeBrun was also a passenger. She took the seat beside him, but all attempts to start a conversation met with a very cold shoulder.

The flight went from Paris to Copenhagen and then across the North Pole for a direct route to Los Angeles. When they passed the Pole Theresa went to the pilot’s compartment for a better look at the arctic view.

She had no sooner left than the stewardess – a girl Illya knew well from previous flights he had made to Paris – stopped by his seat.

“That attractive girl who sits beside you -” she whispered.

“Yes?” Illya said.

“She tries to act as if she does not want to talk to you, but it is an act.”

“So?” Illya said. “Tell the lady she is wasting her time. If I have a spare moment in Los Angeles, I’d prefer – say, something about five-five with cute little bangs that set off the prettiest eyes -”

“Please!” she interrupted sadly. “You are wasting your time. With the other plane lost we must make a turnaround and return to Paris. I’ll have no time to listen to such pretty words in Los Angeles.”

“What a pity!” Illya said sadly. “But there is always tomorrow.”

“If I can keep you away from that hussy!” she said somewhat spitefully. “Did you know she gave the other stewardess a thousand franc note to make sure she got the seat beside you. Does that sound like she has no interest in you!”

“I fear the lady’s interest is purely professional,” Illya replied slowly. “I’d like very much to know more about her. Sometimes a pretty girl can find out things the police can’t. Can you do a little sleuthing for me when you get back to Paris?”

“If it will help you and put her in jail, yes!”

Illya Kuryakin grinned. “It may do both,” he said. “I need to know everything I can find out about her past.”

The stewardess looked up as Theresa started back down the aisle.

“And I’ll bet she has a past!” the French girl said as she moved away before Theresa got back to her seat.

That mysterious young lady slipped easily into her seat. She did not look at Illya. He also paid no attention to her. He waited until she closed her eyes. Then he spoke softly to her. When she ignored him again, he extracted his pen communicator from his pocket. Extending the antenna, he softly called the U.N.C.L.E. headquarters code.

“Mr. Waverly,” he said in a low whisper. “Please do not reply. This is just a quick report. I have a definite lead at last.”

He pushed down the antenna and slipped the worldwide communicator back in his pocket. He turned his attention back to the in-flight movie well satisfied. He thought he detected just the slightest stiffening of his supposedly sleeping companion when he made his overly optimistic report to Waverly.

“Now,” he thought, “if she is with THRUSH, then I have baited the trap as much as I can. We’ll see if the rat bites on it.”

He was well aware that he was setting himself up as the bait in a very dangerous game.

But Illya Kuryakin was not foolhardy. He had his share of prudence. The call he made to Waverly was actually a secret code asking for a Los Angeles Police Department shadow crew to follow him when he arrived at Los Angeles International Airport. If what he suspected was true, Theresa LeBrun would try to lead him into a THRUSH trap.

And he intended to follow her into it. Even with the police on their tail it would be decidedly dangerous for, as he had scars to prove, anything can happen when fighting THRUSH.

“But,” he told himself, “I’ve got to make an immediate contact with THRUSH. And I haven’t a lead. If setting myself up as a decoy to drag them out will do the job, then it is worth the risk.”

Bored by the bang-bang spy thriller on the screen, he closed his eyes while the big jet cut through the arctic air, roared across Canada and homed in on Los Angeles for the end of its non-stop flight from Europe.

The big plane sat down on the runway just at dusk. Theresa LeBrun was just ahead of Kuryakin as they went through customs. He could have used his U.N.C.L.E. status to bypass the formality, but wanted to stay as near Theresa as possible.

She ignored him when he attempted to speak to her in the customs line. She finished ahead of him.

When Kuryakin came into the main terminal a couple of minutes after her, he saw her standing by the baggage chute. The bags were sliding down the ramp and circling on a large turntable for passengers to pick out their grips.

“Mr. Kuryakin,” she said.

He turned with a smile, but Theresa LeBrun gave him a cool glance.

“I am afraid there is no one to meet me,” she said. “Is it possible for me to share a ride with you?”

“It is not only possible, my dear,” Illya said quickly, “it is also delightful!”

“I believe you said you were going to Hollywood,” the girl said.

Illya did not believe he said any such thing to her, but did not debate the point. The important thing to him right then was to keep contact with her as long as possible.

“Absolutely,” he said. “I am supposed to have a car. If it stands us up too, then we’ll walk. It is only twenty miles or so.”

She regarded him with grave, unsmiling eyes. “You are what the Americans call a kidder, no?”

“No, but I’d like to be,” Illya replied. “Anyway, I think this is my car.”

He nodded toward a two-year-old Ford that pulled up at the curb opposite the baggage recovery point. He recognized the plain-clothed man who got out from behind the wheel as Sergeant Hosking of the Los Angeles police homicide squad. They had worked together before.

Hosking came across the sidewalk.

“Mr. Kuryakin?” he asked as if he had never seen Illya. “I am your driver.”

“Good,” Illya said. “First we will drive Miss LeBrun to Hollywood.”

After their luggage was stowed in the car, Illya helped Teresa into the back. He got in beside her. She stared gravely ahead, answering his attempts at conversation with the shortest possible monosyllables.

Kuryakin looked back. A car pulled out from the curb to follow them. He turned his head around, noting that Hosking was watching the car also. The homicide sergeant did not appear concerned, so Illya was sure that they were being followed by another police car.

He leaned back, silent after his abortive attempt to engage Theresa in conversation. It seemed impossible that she could lead him into a THRUSH trap, riding as they were in an unmarked police car and followed by another. Still he could not shake his feeling of uneasiness.

“Something is wrong about this whole setup,” he told himself. But he couldn’t put his finger on the exact cause of his uneasiness.

His hunch was that Teresa LeBrun was the most dangerous person he had ever tangled with. In spite of her grave quietness, Illya got the distinct impression of suppressed volcanic fire in her.

He wondered if he was making a mistake. But without other leads, she seemed the most likely one. With THRUSH set to move at any moment, there wasn’t time to check other leads out. He was staking everything on this woman being what he suspected, a THRUSH link in the Million Monsters affair.

“If I’ve made a mistake,” he thought, “it’ll be too late to try another tack.”

He was thinking of Napoleon Solo when Theresa suddenly reached over and touched his arm. The car was just rolling down the off ramp of the freeway.

“Mr. Kuryakin!” she said, an undertone of excitement coming into her voice.

“Yes?” Illya said. For some unknown reason he felt a jolt of apprehension.

Theresa did not answer, but Illya felt a sharp sting in his arm.

“What -” he began, but his tongue was suddenly thick. He tried to move, but couldn’t. Incredibly, however, his mind remained clear.

“What’s the matter?” Hosking said, turning his head back.

“Please!” Theresa said in a cold voice. “Keep your eyes on the road. Do not look back. If you do, I will kill Mr. Kuryakin!”

“Lady,” Hosking said, “you can’t get away with this. There is -”

“I know!” she snapped. “There is a police car following us. You Americans are positively juvenile. Just keep driving.”

Hosking swallowed hard and pulled up to stop for a red light. Instantly Theresa’s hand flashed out. The street lamp drew a tiny reflection from the needle that protruded from the ring on her hand. She drove the needle into Hosking’s neck. Like Kuryakin, he felt a sting like a wasp.

“What the -” he began and then fell silent, slightly hunched over the wheel.

“Straighten up!” Theresa said sharply.

Hosking drew himself erect.

“Keep driving!” she snapped.

Obediently he put the car in gear. Theresa leaned back. “And I thought these men from U.N.C.L.E. were interesting adversaries. Poof! They are like children!”