Текст книги "[Magazine 1966-­04] - The Unspeakable Affair"

Автор книги: Robert Hart Davis

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Illya raced away across the marsh, his feet sinking to the ankles, his face slashed by the tall reeds. He found a narrow ditch, half-filled with water, and jumped into it. Behind him the two Thrush men closed in. He raised his U.N.C.L.E. special and laid down a withering fire.

The two Thrush agents vanished.

Illya crouched low in the ditch and waited again. His keen eyes glanced carefully around. The ditch stretched straight in both directions and he was surrounded by the tall, dry reeds. They could not come on him by surprise through the ditch, and if they came through the reeds he would hear.

But they had no intention of moving in.

First he heard the crackling, like the snapping of many small sticks.

Then he smelled the smoke. The flames licked upward in the night. They had set the reeds afire. Instantly, with some chemical—a favorite weapon of Thrush.

Illya tested the wind. It blew not strong but directly toward him. He stood. The now high wall of flame, roaring toward him with incredible speed as the dry reeds burned, hid him from the two killers. He looked all around.

They had set the fire well, probably with bombs. There was no escape right or left.

Behind him was the deep black water of the channel from the sea.

He could swim it with ease, but he would be a perfect target when the fire burned out, and that would be within minutes. He had no time to think of any plan but one.

He bent to his small suitcase, jerked it open, and pulled out a small, flat package.

The flames rose higher in the night. The heat was intense, growing hotter.

He tore open the small package and unfolded a long thin sheetlike cloth cover. He crouched down in the water at the bottom of the ditch, and covered himself with the thin, shining cloth. The ends of the cloth dipped into the water. Under it, his head above the surface of water in the small space beneath the cloth where there was air, he waited.

The sound of the fire roared in his ears. The thin cover blew in the wind made by the intense heat. He held it down and crouched, the heat stifling, like an oven. He could see the shadows of the flames above through the thin cloth—sheets of flame that leaped across the narrow ditch, roasting, charring everything in their path.

But the special fire-proof and heat-proof cloth did not fail. Slowly, above him, the flames vanished, passed on. Wind died, the crackling stopped.

Quickly he threw off the cloth and flattened up against the wall of the small ditch. They would not be far behind their fire. Already the flames were almost gone, burned out at the edge of the black channel of water.

Footsteps coming steadily.

They reached the ditch and looked down, looked for his dead and charred body.

Illya shot them both before they could speak a single word.

They tumbled into the ditch.

In the distance he heard the sirens approaching. Someone had reported the fire. He jumped from the ditch and ran back to the road. The Mercedes stood abandoned on the road. He ran to it. The keys were still there. He jumped in and drove off toward Idlewild.

The fire engines and police cars were in sight, but he had no time to waste. Thrush was very anxious that no one reach New Mexico or Elk River.

* * *

IN FRONT of the shabby tavern on the avenue near U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, Maxine Trent studied the entrance. Her men at the side and rear reported that no one had left the tavern. And yet she knew Solo would not have waited this long. Her beautiful face was thoughtful. She reached into her handbag and took out a compact. She pressed a button on the compact.

"Trent ordering. Make your attack."

She clicked off her transmitter and slid back into the shadows of the avenue. She waited. A minute passed, two minutes. Then there were four shots. And silence. The shots had come from the alley behind the tavern. She clocked on her transmitter compact.

"Trent ordering. Report!"

She waited. There was no response. Inside the shabby tavern all was quiet, normal. She began to smile. A trap, of course. One of good old U.N.C.L.E.'s Plan 9 fronts. She turned quickly and walked away down the avenue. She glanced behind her and saw the bartender of the seedy tavern standing out in front.

She smiled again, laughed a harsh, cold laugh. Well, two men lost, but you had to break eggs to make an omelet. They had been lousy men anyway. And she had located an U.N.C.L.E. front, not that it would still be there tomorrow. But it caused U.N.C.L.E. trouble, and that was both her job and a pleasure.

Solo would not trap her so easily any more. She had many a score to settle with the handsome U.N.C.L.E. agent. It was unfortunate that he was what he was; she rather liked him, he was so very handsome and virile.

Maxine sighed. It would have been so good to have him make love to her. It was really too bad he would have to die sooner or later.

She continued to walk, smiling at the way she had guessed the trap. She had missed Solo again, but one had to lose some battles. It was the war that counted, and she would win the war. She was quite sure of that. She, and Thrush, would win because U.N.C.L.E., for all its skill and power, still worked with principles of right and wrong, and for Thrush only victory was right. Right and wrong did not exist, only winners and losers, and Maxine was going to be a winner.

She found a drugstore open and stepped into the telephone booth.

"Yes?" a deep, cold voice said.

"Number four, Row sixteen, Circle three and come in on forty-two," Maxine said crisply.

"Your report, Agent four sixteen dash three forty-two. Name?" the deep voice said from the other end of the line.

"Trent, Maxine."

"Proceed, Agent Trent," the deep voice said.

SIX

THE ROOM did not exist. The building was on Park Avenue in the upper Sixties, a modern office complex of steel and glass where giants of industry sat in their suites and conducted the business of the nation. In this suite, there were six rooms, only five visible, only five listed on the floor plan. The sixth room did not exist.

Windowless, without doors, soundproof, and ventilated only by a secret, totally impregnable, air-conditioning system, the room was the silent home of a machine. A complex of metal and wheels and flashing lights—The Ultimate

Computer, the heart of Thrush. One of the homes of the machine, it remained in no single place for long.

Now, in the room with the machine, in a silence of a tomb, three men sat waiting. Soon a fourth man appeared as if by magic through the wall. This fourth man walked to an empty seat.

"Trent reports Napoleon Solo escaped her," the man said. "Our men sent after Illya Kuryakin have also failed. Both Solo and Kuryakin were seen meeting at the BOAC booth at Idlewild."

"They are not going overseas," the man at the head of the table said. This man was a well-known businessman, and the suite of offices nestled around the hidden room was his. He was also "C" of the Council of Thrush.

"No," a tall, gaunt man said. "They are not going overseas. What does the computer say?"

The fourth man, the one who had entered last, and who was Council Member C's assistant, spoke deferentially to the tall, gaunt man.

"The computer reports, Council Member L, that on the basis of Diaz's death Alexander Waverly will connect Elk River and New Mexico. It says, further, that Waverly will not guess the exact nature of the New Mexico project until he learns more details of the explosion. "

There was a hollow laugh from a small, fat man who was the last man in this hidden room. "Do we need a machine to tell us those things? I am surprised."

"The machine makes us certain, Dr. Guerre," the tall, gaunt Council Member L said. "Go on with your report."

"The computer says that Waverly will send Solo to Elk River, and Kuryakin to New Mexico. Our field agents have already been alerted. The computer further says that Solo cannot discover what he wants at Elk River, but that Kuryakin might discover the New Mexico operation."

"Good," Council Member C said. "Then we must concentrate on the death of Kuryakin at once. Solo can wait."

"Kill them both at once," Dr. Guerre, the small, fat man said. "That is the only safe way. The devil with your computer! I must have no interference. I am in the crucial stage of the project at the island. I must get back, and I want them dead!"

"They will die, Dr. Guerre, but it is efficient to kill the more dangerous first," Council Member C said.

"The devil with your efficiency!" Guerre roared. For such a small man, his voice had the power of a giant. "Diaz almost fooled you and ruined the whole work, the most important work we have ever done! With Operation Condor we will have all the world begging to be ruled by us!"

Council Member C smiled. "Almost, Doctor, but not quite. He fooled our people at Elk River, but he did not fool the computer."

"Luck! Even your computer would have been too late if Diaz had not been unaware of the side effects of the stabilizer drug! How did he worm his way into our confidence?"

"That error has been eliminated. Dr. Guerre."

"I hope so. Those men will be out of the side effects today; we must be sure they are reliable. I must get back to the island."

Council Member C smiled. "They could not betray us and live if they wanted to."

"Then let us hope they do not want to betray us," Dr. Guerre said. "We need them. In Condor, the men are almost as important as the machines."

The gaunt Council Member L looked coldly at Dr. Guerre. "I have guaranteed that Thrush Council will give you complete security and material, I guarantee success. Do not insult me with your doubts. But I agree on one point: we must get back. I will be missed."

"Then I suggest we start work," Council Member C said.

The tall man bristled. "You suggest? You? May I remind you that this is my project, Council Member?"

"Of course. Council Member. I merely meant my part., the defeat of U.N.C.L.E. here in the American phase."

"Very well," the tall Council Member L said. "As long as it is understood that Condor is my project."

T here was a low chuckle. They all turned to look at the small, fat Dr. Guerre. His benign, almost jolly, face beamed around the silent and secret room.

"No, gentlemen, it is my project. Condor is mine, the child of my brain. Thrush may rule the world– I care nothing of that—but it will be my brain that brought it to pass!"

And the fat little man beamed like some rotund and too friendly small-town businessman.

A round little cherub smiling innocently at the stern faces around him.

ACT II

WHIZZ-BANG IN THE NIGHT

NAPOLEON SOLO presented his credentials at the reception desk of the Elk River Project. The pretty young receptionist checked his identity picture against his face. She saw a boyishly handsome young man with a small black mustache and horn-rimmed glasses.

The boyish face smiled at her. It was not an innocent smile. The pretty receptionist blushed and passed him on.

Solo grinned to himself and looked back. The girl, who had been watching him walk away, blushed again. Solo filed her face, and the name on her desk, Miss Rogers, for possible future reference. Perhaps this would not be quite as dull an assignment as Alexander Waverly had suggested.

Still thinking about the possibilities of the nubile Miss Rogers, Solo entered the office of Elk River Security Officer Max Smart. The security officer was a husky six-footer, and he was not pleased to see Solo. Smart had been expecting the U.N.C.L.E. agent, but he did not know who Solo was, or that he was Solo. Smart thought he was talking to Roger Raille, representative of the State Department.

"Damned if I know what State wants here, Raille," the husky security officer said. "But you might as well sit down."

"Thank you," Solo said.

Smart chewed on a cold cigar. "I mean, damn it, we've got a smooth operation here, strictly Space and Pentagon. I don't like other departments poking in."

"I just follow orders, Mr. Smart," Solo said.

"Meaning that I should do that, too?"

"It seems a reasonable suggestion," Solo said.

"Don't get too wise with me, Raille," Smart snapped.

Solo smiled. "The State Department never gets wise, Mr. Smart. "

"Major, Raille! Major Smart to you," the security officer said. Smart chewed on his soggy cigar. "I might as well get it over and get rid of you. You want to know about Caslow and Wozlak, right?"

"Right," Solo said.

Smart swiveled in his chair. "Okay, here it is. Captain Caslow and Lieutenant Commander Wozlak are two of our test pilots, experimental rocket craft, and that's all you get to know. Top secret. About two weeks ago they came down with this illness. They couldn't talk, make any sound, and they couldn't write. The docs were baffled, and that's it."

Major Smart looked at Solo as if he was more than pleased to be able to tell him so little. Solo sighed inside. The problems of inter-service rivalry had caused him trouble before. Sometimes it seemed that professional servicemen spent a lot more time trying to beat their rivals instead of the enemy.

"The doctors had no bright ideas?" Solo asked.

"Some," Smart said. "Some effect of cosmic radiation, possibly. Perhaps an effect of the high speed, much faster than any other craft ever flew. Glandular disturbances affecting that area of the brain. Some combination of, say, radiation that high up plus the speed. They had a hundred guesses."

"With, I gather, no results?" Solo said.

"Not so as you could notice," Smart said.

"Any ideas of your own?"

The major shook his head. "No, except that we just don't know everything that can happen at high speed up that high. Anyway, they're okay now, so no sweat."

Solo narrowed his sharp eyes. "They're well again? They can talk, write?"

"Good as new," Smart said. "They go back to work in a week."

"I think I better talk to them," Solo said.

"I've told you all there is."

"Orders, remember?" Solo said. The security officer glared at Solo. The U.N.C.L.E. agent smiled benignly. Finally, Major Smart shrugged, sighed, and pressed a button on his desk. A white-helmeted MP appeared.

"Take Mr. Raille to the infirmary. He's to talk with Caslow and Wozlak. Ten minutes, no more. See to it, Sergeant."

"Yes, sir," the MP sergeant said. And to Solo, "This way, sir."

Solo nodded to Major Smart. "It's been fun."

The Security Officer only glared at him. Solo grinned as he followed the MP sergeant. They went down bright corridors until they reached the door marked Infirmary. Solo was taken by a white-coated Army doctor into the private room of Caslow and Wozlak.

"Amazing timing," the doctor said as he ushered Solo into the private room. "Absolutely no explanation that we could find. Oh, we know it was something that affected only that particular part of the brain—the speech and language part—but we can't get a clue as to why. "

But Solo was not listening to the doctor. He was looking at the two men who sat on their separate beds, their eyes on him. They were dressed in the usual Army hospital bathrobes, but it was not their dress that made him look at them so hard. It was their eyes—they were wary, a little afraid of him.

The doctor introduced them, and Solo waited until he left the room. Then he turned to the two men.

"What can you tell me?" Solo said.

Wozlak shrugged. "Nothing. All we know is that we woke up about two weeks ago and we couldn't speak or write, not even our names. Last night it went away. You tell me."

"You must have some idea," Solo insisted. "Something that happened that was unusual."

"Not a clue," Caslow said. "Nothing happened at all."

They were lying. Solo sensed this. He could not say just why he knew it, or what the lie was, but he felt that they were lying.

"Nothing at all unusual happened?"

"No," they said in unison.

"What do you know about a man named Diaz?" Solo snapped.

It was Caslow who blinked. Solo watched him. There was no doubt, the name had meant something to Caslow. Wozlak covered for both of them.

"Diaz? Nothing, I don't know any Diaz. And that's all we can tell you, Mr. Raille."

"I see," Solo said. "You're sure about that?"

"We're sure," Wozlak said.

Solo nodded. "All right, I'll just have to report a blank to the State Department."

He was sure Wozlak smiled. "I guess you will. Anyway, it's over now. We're okay."

"Nice and safe," Solo said. Wozlak nodded as he looked straight at Napoleon Solo. Caslow licked his lips. The Army man was nervous. But Wozlak did not flinch.

"Safe as we can be," Wozlak said.

Outside in the corridor, Solo stopped to think. The MP sergeant was down at the end of the corridor, talking to a pretty nurse. Solo was about to go and remind the sergeant of his duty, when he heard the noise.

He snapped alert.

A low, hissing sound.

Without moving, or showing that he had heard it, he let his eyes search the bare corridor for the sound.

It came again, "Psssst!"

Just behind him Solo saw a door open a crack. His hand stole under his jacket for his U.N.C.L.E. special. There was a face at the small opening in the door.

"Psssst! In here!"

The voice whispered low. Solo glanced down the corridor. The MP was still in deep conversation with the pretty nurse. The rest of the corridor was empty. His hand on his pistol, Solo stepped to the door and entered.

He stood in a small storeroom. The voice that had hissed at him belonged to a woman. A girl– really, a very pretty girl. He had momentary hopes that it was him she wanted, for himself. But the girl had something else on her mind.

"You're not from the State Department," the girl said.

Solo clicked off the safety on his Special. The girl was quite young and very pretty. She wore a white smock, and her hair was dark red. Her green eyes were staring up at him.

"Why do you say that?" Solo asked.

"I know you have a gun under your coat, and you don't act like a State Department man," the girl said. "Besides, you asked questions about Diaz. I'm Penny Parsons—Penelope, but I hate the name."

"And just what do you do here, Penny?"

"In the lab, research assistant. I'm terribly bright, you know. Magna cum laude from Cal Tech."

"Good for you," Solo said. "Now what about Diaz?"

"He vanished. I don't know why, but I do know he was working on a case for someone. He asked me a lot of questions," the girl said.

"Why you?"

"I'm Mark Caslow's girl, or I was," Penny said. "It was a secret. The powers around here don't like romance among the minions."

"What did you tell Diaz?" Solo said slowly.

"That they are lying," Penny Parsons said eagerly. "Mark and that Wozlak are lying in their teeth. A lot has been happening that's not usual. On half their flights they stay away hours too long. They always report that they had some troubles with the new engines up there, but Mark got drunk one night and let it slip. They've been landing somewhere. In New Mexico, I think."

"New Mexico?"

"They can fly there in minutes," Penny said.

"How long has this been going on?"

"Off and on since they got back from vacation six months ago."

Solo released his hold on his pistol in the holster under his coat. "Vacation? They went on vacation six months ago?"

"And they were overdue on their test flights by four hours the day they turned up unspeaking!"

"Where did they take their vacations?"

The girl looked around, whispered. "In Santa Fe. At least they said it was Santa Fe, but they weren't there! I went to surprise Mark. I never told him. They checked into a motel at Santa Fe, but then they vanished."

Solo closed the door of the storeroom. He stepped closer to the girl. Her eyes were bright and eager as she began to whisper her whole story again.

TWO

ILLYA HAD almost reached Noche Triste when the car had the flat lire. He had landed at Santa Fe and hired the car at once. He told the car-rental people he was looking for uranium, and he drove out toward the Navaho Reservation, and the flat tire was actually a blowout. He fought the skid of the car to a halt.

He stood beside the car on the deserted highway. As far as he could see in the hot sun there was nothing but barren sandhills and cactus. A dry and desolate country fit only for lizards. He looked down at the blown tire. Then he went to the trunk to get his tools and the spare. The blowout would hold him up at least fifteen minutes.

He saw the cause of the blow-out. A large two-by-four studded with nails was lying on the highway.

Illya took his tools and spare tire from the trunk, setting to work on his blown tire, but his eyes beneath his lowered brow searched the countryside near the road. The two-by-four could be an accident, or it could be a trap. The board was at least six feet long, studded with nails all around. Nothing could have passed over it without a blowout, yet his car was the only stalled vehicle.

It could have been dropped, accidentally, of course, only a short time ago, and traffic was light on this highway. Not another car had passed since the blowout. But it could also have been placed in the road purposely to stop him. He was still puzzling this out, and working on his tire, when it happened.

At first it was only a low rumble, a rumble and a whine, distant and off to the north.

Illya glanced up. There was a line of low brown mountains off to the north. The sound was behind them, growing louder. Growing rapidly louder.

Incredibly louder—a roar and a screaming whine—the road began to shake. His car began to shake: he felt the ground tremble.

A fantastic noise, roaring and whining, growing louder and louder.

Illya Kuryakin fell flat to the ground.

It appeared over the crest of the low brown mountains two miles away. The noise of its roar was impossible, it was so loud.

It flashed over.

Was gone.

Illya whirled to see it vanish, climbing high into the glazing hot blue sky.

Illya stood up and stared after it. A long black cylinder, with stubby wings and glowing a dull red. Without markings or identification of any kind.

He turned and stared out across the arid land to the line of low brown hills. It had come from behind there. And then, even as he watched, it appeared again. Miles away it went past at its incredible speed, vanished behind the low hills, and there was silence.

It had landed. Somewhere out there behind those hills. Illya completed changing his tire, put away his tools, and drove the car off the road. Then he stopped, gathered up his kit and the small suitcase, and started to walk out across the dry land toward the distant hills.

* * *

NAPOLEON SOLO faced the sweating Army man. Caslow looked from Solo to the eager face of Penny Parsons. The Army man looked past them both to the locked door as if hoping for help, for a miracle.

"You might as well tell us," Solo said. "Something happened on that last flight."

"No!" Caslow cried.

The trapped captain still looked toward the door as though he expected someone or something to come through its solid steel. With the help of Penny Parsons, in whom he had confided, Solo had managed to get Caslow alone, away from Wozlak. Now the Army captain sweated.

"You've been making flights to somewhere," Solo insisted. "After your vacation you started staying out too long on your test flights, both you and Wozlak."

"We've had trouble with the ships!"

"No one else has had that trouble. I've checked the flight reports," Solo said.

"So we got two bad ships!"

"Both of you? And then you coincidentally come down with a strange disease?"

Penny Parsons burst out. "Tell him, Mark! I know you're in some trouble. It's that Wozlak, he put you into trouble—I knew he would."

"Shut up, Penny!"

The Army man was deadly pale. "You've got to tell Mr. Solo. He can—" the girl began.

Caslow turned even whiter. "Mr.—who?"

"Solo," the agent said. "My real name is Napoleon Solo, and I work for the same people Diaz did."

"Diaz?" Caslow almost whispered. "No."

"You know what happened to him, don't you, Caslow?"

But Caslow did not seem to hear. He was staring into space.

"U.N.C.L.E.! You're with U.N.C.L.E.," Caslow whispered.

"Tell me what happened to Diaz, and what you're mixed up in! We know, Caslow. We'll find out what it is," Solo said.

"No more," Caslow whispered. "Don't ask any more!"

Penny Parsons insisted. "Please, Mark, tell Mr. Solo!"

"No more! You don't understand! No more!"

Solo leaned close to the sweating officer. His handsome face was grim as he stared into Caslow's eyes. His voice was low and insistent.

"We'll have to turn you over to the CIA. You realize that? You might as well tell us. If you don't I'll have to take you back to New York. We'll use pentathol, and—"

Complete terror filled the eyes of the Army man. He seemed to be in the grip of a titanic struggle. Then he went limp.

"All right," Caslow said. "I'll tell you what you want to know."

There was a small, sharp explosion. A tiny puff of smoke appeared over Caslow's heart. The army man screamed once and fell off his chair to the floor. There was blood. Penny Parsons stared in horror and then uttered a small cry.

Solo bent over the man. Caslow was dead. Solo opened the uniform coat, looked.

"Thrush. It's their trick," Solo said. "A lethal charge inserted under the skin over the heart. It must have been programmed into his blood pressure."

Penny Parsons stammered. "Blood pressure? Programmed?"

Solo nodded. "Probably works like a lie-detector. Set to explode when a change in blood pressure indicates a man under interrogation cracks, decides to talk. The blood pressure would show that. Typical Thrush tactics. I should have guessed."

"Who is Thrush?" Penny asked.

"It's better that you don't know, Penny," Solo said. He looked down at the dead Caslow. He felt sorry for the man, it was a hard way to go. Still, there was no doubt that Caslow and Wozlak were somehow involved with Thrush. "What you don't know can't get you to end up like this."

"But I do know," Penny said, "Don't I? I mean, I know about Mark and that awful Wozlak, and I know about you, and—"

"I get the point," Solo said. "All right. It's possible we could use you anyway. Let's go, before Major Smart gets smart and starts looking for Caslow. I don't think the major would care for our explanation of how Caslow died."

"Go? Go where?" the lab girl said.

"Why, New Mexico, of course. I imagine we'll find our friend Wozlak there somewhere," Solo said.

"But I can't get time off to—"

"That will be arranged, Penny," Solo said. "New Mexico is the next piece of the puzzle. I think we will find more than our friend Wozlak —a lot more."

THREE

THE LINE of low brown hills was farther away than Illya Kuryakin had imagined. All afternoon, through the blazing sun and heat of the barren New Mexico land, he had walked toward them. Land fit only to be given to the sad remnants of a proud people.

As he walked in the heat Illya wondered again at the hypocrisy of those who were shocked by Siberia but blind to the equal horror visited upon the Indians. At least, in Siberia, the condemned sometimes got their release.

It was night when Illya at last reached the line of low hills. Moving carefully, he made his way up in the dark of the desert night. He reached the crest without seeing or hearing anything. He crawled the last few feet and looked over and out.

He saw a long, narrow valley, dark and indistinct in the night. Apparently, it was barren and empty. And yet there was something odd. Nothing moved; there was no ray of light. Yet Illya had the feeling that something, someone, was down there. He opened his small suitcase and took out a pair of infra-red binoculars.

Through the glasses the details were clearer in the night. There was nothing he could put his finger on, but he still sensed that something was odd down there. He watched for some hours, but there was neither light nor movement anywhere in the long, narrow valley below. There seemed to be no defenses of any kind.

Could he be wrong? He remembered the nail-studded two-by-four on the highway. Had they set a trap to divert him, send him on a wild goose chase? It was possible, yet he did not think so. Somewhere down there was the strange black craft that flew so fast it glowed red.

At midnight, Illya Kuryakin decided there was nothing more he could do until dawn. He needed sleep. He found a small, but deep culvert on the other side of the hills, and crawled in. He checked all approaches, set out four tiny alarm cells so that no one could approach without warning, and then lay down to sleep because it would be a long day tomorrow and he needed all his strength.

* * *

IN THE telephone booth at the Elk River airport, Maxine Trent looked out through the glass sides at a twin-engine plane taxiing down the runway. The deep voice at the other end of the telephone line was concerned.

"Solo is leaving Elk River? Why? He could not have found anything, at least not so quickly. The computer said U.N.C.L.E. could learn nothing at all from Wozlak or Caslow."

"Did the computer know about the girl?" Maxine said into the black instrument, her eyes still following the small plane on the runway.

"Girl? What girl?"

"Caslow's girl friend, a Penny Parsons," Maxine said. "Now Caslow's dead, and Solo and the girl are flying out to New Mexico."

The deep voice swore. "Caslow's dead?"

"The programmed destruct device worked. He was about to talk," Maxine reported. "It seems he neglected to tell us that he had a girlfriend, and our agents failed to detect her."

"Someone will pay!" the deep voice snarled. "And Wozlak? What about him?"

"Escaped to New Mexico. With Solo on to Caslow, Wozlak was no more use here," Maxine said.

The voice cursed again. "Follow Napoleon Solo, alert our people at Noche Triste. The computer did not know about the girl."

"That's the trouble with machines," Maxine said. "They can't think."

"Let us see that you can, Agent Trent," the deep voice said. "Solo and the girl must be eliminated!"

"A pleasure," Maxine said, as she watched the small twin-engined plane take off.

Moments later she hung up and walked quickly to a second plane that waited on the runway.

* * *

ILLYA KURYAKIN awakened at the first light of dawn over the barren desert land of the Navaho Reservation. His hand on his U.N.C.L.E. special, he peered cautiously out of the culvert. There was nothing in sight. High up a golden eagle soared looking for food. The giant bird sailed high and undisturbed. Illya left his culvert, retrieved his four tiny warning cells, and began to crawl up to where he could look down into the long valley.