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

Автор книги: Robert Hart Davis

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A black craft, long, tubular and with stubby black wings, hurtled down the runway, a long tail of vapor jetting out behind.

At this instant, the agents were seen.

"Get them!"

From all sides the black-garbed guards converged toward Illya and Solo—from all sides but one.

No guards came at them across the runway where the nuclear-powered aircraft was hurtling forward.

"Quick!" Illya cried.

The small Russian led Napoleon Solo across the runway directly into the path of the onrushing nuclear craft. They crossed in front and fell to the ground.

The plane hurled past them.

The force of its passage picked them up and threw them across the runway like tumbleweed blown on a high desert wind. They held their heads in their arms, taking the bruising buffeting until they at last lay still.

Solo was up first, a deep gash on his face where a rock had cut.

"Let's move!" Solo cried.

Illya Kuryakin staggered up. The small Russian's ear was torn, his face bruised, but there was no time to assess damage. Black-suited guards were running across the runway through the cloud of dense vapor left by the nuclear craft that was now airborne.

"I'm right with you," Illya shouted.

The passage of the nuclear craft, and the dense cloud of vapor, had given them a head start and a clear field ahead. They ran.

When they reached the edge of the high camouflage, they ran on out into the sunlight and up the arroyo they had crept down earlier that morning. They did not move carefully now to avoid the electronic sensors.

Behind them more alarm bells began to ring as they kicked the sensors.

"The car is on the other side!" Solo shouted. "If we can reach it."

"If they've left it!" Illya shouted back. "I suggest we try to lose our friends first!"

The blazing earth burned their bare feet cruelly. Behind them the guards were still coming, threading their way up the arroyo.

Solo and Illya reached the crest and looked down. Solo's rented car was gone. The two agents crouched low and looked back. The guards were scrambling up behind them.

Solo went to work removing four more buttons from his suit coat. He tied them together with the last explosive threads from his trousers. The four buttons were the last tiny bombs.

He handed one small bomb to Illya.

They waited.

The black-suited guards came closer. They were bunched up, the guards, like amateurs. Far down at the foot of the arroyo, the fat figure of Dr. Guerre still shouted orders. The guards reached no more than forty feet from Illya and Solo.

"Now," Solo said once more.

The two agents stood, lobbed the tiny bombs stiff-armed, like hurling grenades. The two tiny pellets arched through the hot sunlight and fell into the bunched crowd of pursuing guards.

The explosions shook the arroyo.

Rocks hurled, and arms and legs fell mangled across the hot land. There was a silence. Then the groans began.

They lay all across the arid and sun-baked dirt. They groaned and screamed in their agony. None had been left untouched in the first bunched group, and farther down the arroyo the rest of the guards huddled out of range and stared up at the crest.

Behind them Dr. Guerre was swearing, urging them on. But the guards were wary now. Two men they had thought unarmed had proved to have sharp teeth after all.

It was then that the helicopter appeared.

Over the desert from the west, flying low and rising up over the crest of the hill. A hand waved down at Solo and Illya, then the helicopter roared on over and down the hill toward the packed guards.

A sub-machine gun began to chatter from the helicopter.

The guards stared. Two of them fell. The rest broke and ran. They ran down the hill, all the fight gone out of them by the unexpected danger they had found in two defenseless enemies.

At the foot of the arroyo Dr. Guerre rallied his men. Some of them began to take cover and fire at the helicopter. The helicopter came down on the fiat top on the crest of the hill. A man leaned out.

"Hurry!" the man called. "They'll get their guts back soon."

Illya and Solo needed no urging. They sprinted for the helicopter. Already Guerre had rallied his men down at the bottom of the arroyo. In a moment, they would be starting up again.

The two agents scrambled into the helicopter. At the bottom of the arroyo Dr. Guerre stood and watched it lift off. Inside, Solo armed himself and handed an U.N.C.L.E. special to Illya.

"How did you find us?" Solo said to the pilot.

"Waverly," the pilot said. "He had your radio transmissions monitored. When you didn't report in all day, he alerted us and sent us here."

"It's good to have a smart chief," Solo said.

"Where to? Santa Fe?" the pilot said.

"No, not Santa Fe," Illya said. "Back to the Thrush project after dark. As soon as it's dark, we have to go back. There's a girl there we have to help."

"Back?" the pilot said.

"Back," Solo said.

"Back," the pilot said. "After dark. Where now?"

"Just set it down near my car," Illya said.

They waited the few hours before the sun would set again over the baked land of the Navaho Reservation. Just before the sun was at the crest of the hills on its way down, as Illya and Solo checked their weapons, the roaring began.

An endless roaring sound like a thousand engines warming up.

Illya and Solo looked at each other.

The roaring seemed to shake the land. It came from behind the line of low hills, down where the camouflaged valley was.

"I think," Illya said, "we will be saved the trouble of going back."

The first black nuclear craft suddenly appeared in the sky, roared over, glowing red from the heat of its incredible speed, and was gone.

Six in all screamed over and vanished into the darkening sky.

The pilot looked toward the hills through his binoculars.

"Look!" he cried.

All across the hills tiny figures were fanning out. Through the binoculars they were seen to be unarmed and wearing, now, ordinary clothes. They moved quickly down the hills and out across the desert, going in all directions.

"I have a hunch," Illya said. "Let's get away from here."

The pilot started his motors and the helicopter took off into the purple and orange sunset sky. It turned toward Santa Fe.

Behind the helicopter the sky suddenly turned a glaring white, and the line of low hills exploded with one gigantic roar. The helicopter was buffeted by the force of the wind from the explosion.

"They blew it up," Solo said.

"Yes," Illya said. "And Penny with it."

"Unless they took her in one of the aircraft," Solo said.

"Let's hope they took her," Illya said.

Behind them as they flew on toward Santa Fe, the sky glowed a dull red as the hidden valley burned in the now dark night.

THREE

ALEXANDER WAVERLY filled his pipe and looked for a match. His bony fingers searched in the pockets of his tweed suit. Patched up and with a day of sleep behind them, Illya and Solo sat at the revolving table. Waverly found his matches.

"Ah, there," Waverly said. "Well, the Army reports your camouflaged valley is totally destroyed. No bodies were found, and the radiation count was high. I think it is clear that our friends have shifted operations."

"They knew we would bring help," Illya said.

"Quite," Waverly said. "They realized their game was up in New Mexico, and shifted."

"Which leaves us on a limb," Solo said. "They could have gone anywhere."

"Er, not quite, Mr. Solo," Waverly said.

"You have a lead," Illya said quickly.

Solo leaned. "If Penny is still alive we owe her—"

"Indeed we do," Waverly interrupted. "But let us start with Dr. Ernesto Guerre. We know a great deal of him, although little about his early life. He was born in Costa Rica, we know, but little else until he appeared in Nazi Germany during the war."

Waverly pressed a buzzer on his desk. The wall behind the desk opened, revealing a screen. A picture appeared on the screen. Dr. Ernesto Guerre smiled out at them from a group of men. All the men wore the field grey of the German Army. The cherubic little fat man seemed ridiculous in the military uniform.

"Colonel Ernest Guerre," the voice of May Heatherly intoned. Solo pictured the beautiful redheaded chief of Communications-Research, Section-IV, and sighed. May was so efficient.

"Guerre headed a secret project on nuclear development, but the Germans were too far behind at the time," the pretty girl's voice went on.

Waverly broke in. "Guerre was considered unstable even by the Nazis—a monomaniac, given to daring mental leaps but with a tendency to sloppy groundwork. The Soviet government found the same problems."

The next picture flashed on. It showed the tiny little fat man wearing a typical ill-fitting Russian suit and standing before a rocket on a launching pad.

"Dr. Guerre appeared in the Soviet Union after the war. He again headed up a secret project on nuclear propulsion. This time he supposedly got some results, but two engines exploded and killed many technicians and some high-ranking officials. The project was shelved and Guerre vanished," May Heatherly went on.

"But not quite," Waverly said.

Now a series of pictures flashed on and off the screen. They showed a man, in various disguises and places, who could have been the cherubic little Doctor. None of them was very clear.

"These were all taken in various South American cities over the past few years. None of them prove that Guerre is there, but taken with the rumors, I would say our man had been working somewhere in South America recently," Waverly said.

"Those guards!" Solo said. "They were talking about South American women."

Waverly tapped his pipe and nodded. "Precisely. That is another clue. But we can do better than that." '

Another picture flashed onto the screen. It was hazy and dark, but it showed what both Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo knew was one of the black nuclear– powered aircraft.

"This was just radioed to us from Venezuela," Waverly said. "It was taken last night near the coast. As you can see, the craft is moving more slowly than you reported, and its wheels are down, hence a landing. It was radioed directly to us by our Section-II Chief in Caracas. It is top secret."

Solo was studying the picture. "Most of the background detail is indistinct."

"Yes, the exact location cannot be guessed," Waverly agreed.

"But surely the man who took the picture can tell us where he took it," Illya said.

"I'm sure he can," Waverly said. "But that we will have to learn in Venezuela. Or, rather, you two will have to learn it. You see, General Hoyos, the defense minister, insists that he will give the exact location to no one but our agents. He fears internal troubles if the news leaked out. He has instructed us not to tell even Washington."

Illya narrowed his eyes beneath his lowered brow. "Isn't that a bit unusual?"

"It is, but General Hoyos was adamant. As a matter of fact, he does not wish the Venezuelan government to officially appear in this at all. You will deal with his assistant. Major General Valera."

"I can understand that," Solo said. "It could hurt him at home if it got out that his office had allowed a foreign power to build nuclear-powered aircraft on Venezuelan soil."

"Precisely, Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "At least, that appears to be the general's thinking on the matter. I'm not sure I agree, but he is insistent that we try to handle this as quietly as possible."

"What more does the general know?" Illya asked.

Waverly puffed on his pipe. "Should he know more?"

"I do not think that Project Condor, as Guerre called it, consists only of the nuclear-powered aircraft. That would not be like Thrush. When they develop a weapon, it is for a definite purpose. Nuclear-propulsion alone would not give Thrush world power, as Guerre implied Project Condor would," Illya said.

"Yes, I tend to agree with you," Waverly said. "But General Hoyos has told us nothing more if there is more to tell. If there is more, it seems that you and Mr. Solo will have to find it."

Solo nodded. "Anything else?"

"Yes, you are aware that the Thrush chief for the area is Council Member L. We know that much, although we have never managed to penetrate his cover. He is a clever man, as we have had reason to learn. Our organization in the country has never been strong, largely due to his efforts and constant harassment."

"Do we know anything about him?" Illya asked.

"Only that he is a very ambitious man with strong insistence on running his own show," Waverly said. "We have long suspected that he has hopes of moving to the top in Thrush, and this affair could be his stepping stone."

"And that's it?" Solo said.

"Except that his hobby is growing roses," Waverly said.

"I doubt that he will invite us to his gardens," Illya said.

"You never can tell," Waverly said. "I suggest that you be very careful, gentlemen."

* * *

AT A WINDOW high above the city of Caracas, a tall, gaunt man stood looking out over the city. Behind him men in army uniforms hurried about the room. This man, too, was thinking about the care of Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin. A small smile played across his emaciated face.

Even as he smiled, his office door opened and a powerful, swarthy man entered. This newcomer wore the uniform of a full general of the Venezuelan army. The gaunt man turned smartly from the window and bowed deferentially to the general.

"You have news, General Hoyos?" the gaunt man asked.

"I do. They are on their way, two of them. They assure me that no one else knows about our problem," General Hoyos said. The defense minister showed more worry on his face than his voice would have indicated.

"I wonder if we are being wise," General Hoyos went on. "To keep it so secret. This U.N.C.L.E. organization, can they handle it all alone?"

"With our help, sir, they can." The tall man smiled. "After all, Rudolfo, they will not be alone. I will personally lead the Sixteenth Regiment to help them."

"A good regiment, the Sixteenth," the defense minister agreed.

"You trained them yourself, Rudolfo," the gaunt man said.

"With your aid, Miguel," General Hoyos said.

"We make a good team, General," the gaunt man said.

Hoyos looked at him shrewdly. "I wonder why you have been content to remain behind me all these years, Miguel?"

"Because I am a soldier to serve," the gaunt man said with a smile.

General Hoyos nodded. Then he turned and strode to the first telephone. He barked an order. "Colonel Montoya? This is General Hoyos, yes. You will prepare the Sixteenth Regiment for immediate duty, yes. Immediate. You will report at once to General Valera in his office."

The defense minister hung up. "The rest is up to you, Miguel. I know you will not fail."

And the defense minister was gone. The tall man walked slowly out into the full light. He wore the uniform of a major general. He smiled his thin smile.

"Yes, the rest is up to me, Rudolfo Hoyos," he said in a soft voice. "And the time has come. I will not be behind you much longer, dear Rudolfo. I will certainly not fail."

And Major General Miguel Valera began to laugh a soundless laugh as he turned and walked into a private office. He locked the door behind him and picked up a telephone.

"Bring Dr. Guerre to the telephone," he barked.

FOUR

THE RAVEN-HAIRED young girl looked up from her desk at the Defense Ministry. She saw a small, slender, blond young man smiling down at her. She touched her hand to her black hair, and her full red lips were moist. She wondered if this young man was married. His clothes looked American—a fine suit and white shirt, and the thick horn-rimmed glasses suited his lean face.

"Yes, Senor?" she said.

His clothes were indeed American, and the girl liked Americans. They were rich and very important, at least under the present regime. She believed in the present regime, whatever regime it happened to be at any moment.

"Max Derwent to see General Valera," the young man said in perfect Spanish.

The young girl frowned for an instant. Then she brightened again. He spoke fine Spanish, true, but there was an accent. He was not of her country, and that pleased her. She had plans to see the world, become rich. Yet she was puzzled. The young man wore American clothes, was clearly of the North with his fine blond hair, and yet his accent in his perfect Spanish was not quite American. Perhaps an Englishman? That was not so good, but not too bad.

"Of course, Senor Derwent," she said. "And your business?"

"Uniforms, I sell uniforms," the young man said.

The girl nodded, smiled, and moistened her lips again. Illya looked at her fine full lips, red and soft. He looked at her raven-dark hair, and at the figure. What he could see made him glad that Napoleon was not here. He did not have Napoleon's way with women. Still, after this was over, perhaps he could try with this girl.

"General Valera will see you," the girl said.

Illya frowned at himself. The mind on the job, that was his code. He had not left his own country, joined U.N.C.L.E., to meet pretty young girls. A man had his work, his studies, the millions of facts about his world he did not know

but wanted to know. Self-discipline and control, that was what Zen had taught him, and that was how he lived. Still, a pretty girl—

"Thank you," Illya said.

The supposed Max Derwent entered the office of Major General Miguel Valera, assistant to the defense minister. He carried his small suitcase that, supposedly, contained samples of military uniform cloth, and approached the smiling Valera. The general stood up to greet him. Illya saw a tall, gaunt man.

"Ah, Mr. Derwent," Valera said. "Or perhaps I should say Mr. Kuryakin."

"You can say that if the walls don't have ears," Illya said.

Valera laughed. "I assure you, Mr. Kuryakin, my office is not, how do you say, bugged. Not that such is not done here, but the penalty is rather severe, and, anyway, I check carefully each day."

"It must be a difficult way to live," Illya said dryly.

"Alas, ambition and the desire to serve have their penalties in my poor country," Valera said. "We do not have your, shall we say, orderly minds. But then, I forget you are a Russian. Still, the Russians, too, have orderly minds." Illya watched the gaunt general. Valera seemed to be talking a great deal, but that could be just the Latin temperament, as Valera was implying. Valera smiled and waved Illya to a seat.

"General Hoyos has, as you say, filled me in on all this. A terrible affair," Valera said. "I imagine you are anxious to start, as I am myself. We have the Sixteenth Regiment standing by in the area, but out of sight, eh? But first, please, your credentials."

Illya Kuryakin handed over his identification. His quizzical eyes were lowered beneath his brow. He watched Valera. The general read the credentials. Illya smiled.

"You're too modest," Illya said innocently. "I understand this was entirely your idea, not General Hoyos's."

"We work as a team," Valera said crisply. He handed back the credentials. "Now, I am ready if you are. Mr. Solo is waiting, I hope; we have little time to lose."

"Not with those nuclear planes running loose, I agree. You have accounted for all of them?" Illya said quickly.

Valera nodded. "Yes, all six. They were seen to land."

"Excellent," Illya said. "It is important that we get them all."

He talked to cover the slip. But inside he was alert. It was always the same thing that tripped up a liar—too much knowledge. Valera had slipped—not because he knew too little, but because he knew too much. All six, the general had said, but there had been only one in the picture, and Hoyos had not mentioned six to Waverly.

Illya smiled, but his eyes darted around, alert. He was sure that if six had been seen, Hoyos would have mentioned that important fact. No, Valera had said six planes because Valera knew there were six. Only two groups of people knew that there had been six nuclear planes in New Mexico—U.N.C.L.E. and Thrush!!

Valera smiled. "We really better have Mr. Solo join us now, don't you think?"

"Of course," Illya said. "I'll call the hotel. He'll be ready by now, I'm sure."

"Time is of the essence, Mr. Kuryakin," Valera said.

"Of course," Illya said. He picked up the telephone on Valera's desk.

"Hotel Splendide? Mr. Solo, please. Room four-sixteen."

Illya waited, smiling at Valera. The general smiled back, and then busied himself over papers on his desk.

"Napoleon?" Illya said as Solo came on the line. "Yes, Illya here. I am with General Valera. Yes, all is correct, naturally. The general is anxious to get started. Will you meet us—"

Illya stopped and looked at Valera. The general stood behind his desk.

"At my car out in front. A grey Bentley touring car. He can't mistake it. My general's license plate is on it. Please urge speed; this is an urgent affair."

Illya spoke into the telephone. "Out in front of the Defense Ministry. Valera's car is a grey Bentley touring car with his license on it. And, Napoleon, hurry please." As Illya put down the instrument he pretended to let it slip to the desk. He picked it up again and replaced it in its cradle. But he had heard the faint but tell-tale click on the line—someone had been listening to his call. He grinned at General Valera.

"We won't have to wait long, General," Illya said. "But, you know, I wonder if I shouldn't meet General Hoyos after all?"

"Hoyos?" Valera said. "But we agreed that it was imperative to keep the government officially out of this? I can pass all but unseen, but General Hoyos could not."

Illya still smiled. "Of course, you're right. How are your roses growing?"

Valera stood immobile behind his desk. "Roses?"

"You do grow them?" Illya said.

Valera smiled. "Ah, yes. That would be in my dossier at U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, wouldn't it?"

Illya watched the general quizzically. "You admit it?"

Valera shrugged. "That I am Council Member 'L'? Why not? You must know, but—"

The U.N.C.L.E. special appeared in Illya's hand as if by magic. It was aimed at Valera. The general did not move.

"I think we will talk to General Hoyos," Illya said.

Valera laughed. "No, I think not."

"This is no joke, Valera," Illya said. "I have you—"

Illya said no more. Hands grabbed him from behind. His gun was knocked to the floor by a paralyzing blow. Before he could utter a sound, he was held as firmly as a trussed goose by three men who had crept up behind him silently. Valera bent and picked up the pistol. The general was smiling.

"It was the six nuclear-craft, wasn't it?" Valera said. "Yes, I realized that was a slip the instant I said it. I was not sure you had caught it, but I do not underestimate an opponent. That is why I am where I am, and why I will go farther."

Illya nodded, understandingly. "You alerted your men with some phrase in the message you gave me for Napoleon."

"You see, you are intelligent. Yes, the phrase 'an urgent affair' is my warning signal," Valera said, and the general motioned to his men. "Take him into the next office. We must wait until they bring Solo to me. It was very good of you to tell me just where to find Solo, Mr. Kuryakin. We will not have to wait long."

Valera laughed again. But this time, for once, the general was wrong.

FIVE

IN THE ROOM in the Hotel Splendide, Napoleon Solo put down the telephone receiver and rubbed his chin. So it was a trap, as they had suspected it might be. The utter secrecy, the dealing with Valera instead of General Hoyos, had had a false ring to it. Nothing the two agents could put their finger on, but a little odd. Everything had been too carefully arranged to send them straight to this country and General Valera.

Now Illya had confirmed their suspicions. The phrase "All is correct, naturally" was the signal that all was far from correct. If it had been correct, Illya would have said, "All is right," and not added the word, naturally. The call, then, was Valera's way of locating him. They would be knocking on the door in minutes.

Solo moved rapidly. He needed time now. It would not be enough to simply escape, to not be here when they came. If he did only that, they would immediately alert Valera, and Solo needed time. It was possible that Illya would escape, but he had to assume that Illya would not escape the trap.

He went to work. There was no telling how many of them there would be, and he would have to get them all and fast. He took the miniature tape recorder from his briefcase and set it in the bedroom of the suite. Across the door into bedroom, low near the floor, he set a trip wire attached to small gas bombs on either side.

This done, he took his briefcase and his U.N.C.L.E. special and went out into the corridor. He crossed the corridor to the room across the hall, an empty room rented by Illya for just such a purpose. Inside this room he stood just behind the door, with the door open a crack, and the door of his suite across the hall clearly visible.

In his pocket his left hand rested on the remote control of the tape recorder.

He was just fast enough.

The four men came down the1 corridor from the elevator—four soldiers with the insignia of the Defense Ministry staff. They were armed and they moved swiftly and with expert silence. They stopped in front of the door to 416. Solo clicked on the tape recorder with his remote control.

The four men cautiously opened the door to 416. Napoleon Solo smiled as his own voice came to him from the bedroom, his own voice talking to Waverly in New York. The four soldiers nodded to each other and entered the suite. Solo waited.

There was a short silence.

Then he heard a door kicked in, two sharp explosions low and muffled, and sudden screams.

Men were choking.

Solo stepped out into the corridor.

One man came running from the door of room 416. Solo shot him with a single sleep-dart. The man collapsed in the corridor. Solo grasped the heels of the man and dragged him into the suite. Inside he saw the other three men sprawled in the doorway to the bedroom. He dragged them all into the bedroom, closed and locked the bedroom door, and again left the suite.

He hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the corridor door, and walked away, grinning.

The whole incident had taken less than two minutes. The four soldiers would sleep for at least five hours. Solo went down the stairs and out into the street in front of the hotel. He saw the military car. The driver was reading a newspaper. Solo stepped into the rear seat and closed the door. His U.N.C.L.E. special rested with the muzzle against the driver's neck.

"The Defense Ministry, and very fast."

The driver said nothing, but put the car into gear and drove off. Five minutes later they pulled up a block from the Defense Ministry. Solo reached out and gently squeezed the driver's neck. The driver collapsed where he sat. Solo pulled the man into the back seat, bound and gagged him, and locked the car.

Moments later he stood in front of the Ministry of Defense. The only men in sight were two bored guards on the entrance. Solo saw General Valera's grey Bentley.

Casually, Solo walked past the grey touring car. As he reached the rear bumper he appeared to drop his briefcase. He bent to pick it up and then walked on and away around the nearest corner.

The soldiers on guard had seen nothing, but in the instant of bending Solo had placed a tiny vial beneath the rear bumper of the grey Bentley.

Then he returned to the military car, got in, and sat waiting where he could see the grey Bentley.

* * *

UPSTAIRS, in the office of General Valera, the general himself paced and looked at his watch. A half an hour had passed and there was no Solo and no report from his men. Valera pressed a button. Three armed guards brought Illya in from the next office.

"So," Valera said, "you warned him. I should have guessed. However, it will do you no good. He will be found, and you will not be found. Prepare him!"

Two guards held Illya's arms. The third stood in front of him with a hypodermic needle filled with a pale blue fluid. The third guard bared Illya's arm and injected the fluid. Valera smiled.

"A small precaution," Valera said,

Illya tried to answer, but nothing happened. He tried again. He could not speak.

"You have seen the effects of metabala-G, I believe?" Valera said. "That is one of the wonders of science. Dr. Guerre made the drug to counteract the effects of excessive speed on a human. It proved to have an interesting side– effect that may be of even greater use, eh? Now, even if you escape or your friend finds you, you will be able to tell him nothing!"

And Valera laughed aloud, as if mocking Illya with the sound of his voice. Then he went to the telephone and ordered Solo located and captured if possible, killed if necessary.

"Come," the gaunt general said. "We have wasted enough time. Your friend will be found, and if he isn't he will not escape the city anyway. You wanted to find Project Condor, and now you will!"

Valera led the way from his office down a secret stairway where no one could see him, or his men, or his prisoner. In the street he strode straight to his grey Bentley. Moments later the car drove away.

Some five minutes after that the stolen military car, with Solo at the wheel, drove after the Bentley. Solo wore a pair of strange goggles. On the road he saw, through the goggles, the trail of small red dots that dropped from the vial he had planted. The vial would drip for twenty-four hours, could not be erased in any way, and could be seen only through the special goggles.

Sixteen hours later, just as dawn was breaking over the coast and the thick jungle-like swamps, Solo followed the tell-tale trail of the Bentley to the edge of a narrow stretch of open water. He saw where a ferry-boat had picked up the car and carried it across into what looked a like an island in the coastal swamps.

He left his car, took his briefcase and weapons, and eased into the water. He swam softly in the still dark morning. He crawled cautiously out on the other side. The trail of his vial led off along a narrow dirt road. He followed it silently.

The sun was up when he reached the end of the trail. The grey Bentley stood in front of a strange-looking windowless concrete building.

Solo could guess what the building was—an immense atomic reactor pile.