The Final Affair Read online

  THE FINAL AFFAIR

  David McDaniel

  Man from U.N.C.L.E #24

  eGod

  Dedicated to Sam Rolfe and Norman Felton — for a hell of a good idea.

  And to Terry Carr, without whom, etc.

  The author wishes to thank the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, without whose co-operation this series could never have been written, and to extend special thanks to agents Andante Nemo (Section 2, Number 11) and Vaughn Carazini (Section 2, Number 2) for permission to adapt from their personal files. For further information on the operations of the United Network Command, do not contact Ace Books, Inc.

  Write instead to: U.N.C.L.E. Inner Circle HQ, Section Seven

  Box 353

  Malibu, California - 90265

  CONTENTS

  Title

  Dedication

  Table of Contents

  Section I - Now Do I Prophesy A Curse ...

  Chapter 1 : I Assume It Is More Complicated Than That.

  Chapter 2 : Little Sirrocco, How Do You ...... Do?

  Chapter 3 : Hold My Hand.

  Chapter 4 : Ready To Do It —

  Section II - Now Let It Work...

  Chapter 5 : Great Balls Of Fire.

  Chapter 6 : It's Clobberin' Time

  Chapter 7 : SYNLOC / TESTOK

  Chapter 8 : Oh, We Had To Carry Harry

  Section III - Cry 'Havoc!' And Let Slip The Dogs Of War.

  Chapter 9 : Where Have You Been All My Life?

  Chapter 10 : You'd Better Humor Him.

  Chapter 11 : Absolutely Fascinating!

  Chapter 12 : It's A Nice Little Plan

  Section IV - Oh, What A Fall Was There!

  Chapter 13 : We've Just Been Destroyed.

  Chapter 14 : Who's Fluent In Dolphin?

  Chapter 15 : Then Don't Touch The Other One.

  Chapter 16 : Sometime Again, Napoleon

  Footnotes

  Darkness, and silence. The clammy smell of cold concrete.

  After some indefinite time, the scrape of metal on stone and a glow of light faintly filling the arch of a yawning doorway from a descending ramp which curved upward out of sight. The dazzling spot of a hand-torch appeared in the opening, followed by two black-clad men, moving cautiously, each with a heavy satchel swinging by his side. They entered the large room, ceiling and end walls lost in darkness, and paused, sweeping the spot of light across a dark green wall. One stuck a sheet of paper into the light, and a finger underscored a dimension line of the blueprint; the spot scanned leftward close to the floor, focusing on a covered heavy-duty electrical socket. Both men nodded. One set down his satchel -and walked forward into the illuminated area, drawing a small tape measure from his pocket.

  Three full arm-spreads he measured along the base of the wall, then four feet straight up. A stethoscope unfolded from another pocket — he fitted the tips in his ears and set the cup against the wall at this point, then thumped the cement lightly with his fist in several places, shifted the cup three inches and tried it again.

  Finally, with a felt marker, he marked the last spot he'd tested and stepped back, eying it speculatively. Meanwhile his partner set the torch on a folding tripod, adjusted its aim slightly, picked up both satchels and came forward into the light. He set both bags down close to the wall, opened one, and brought out a small electric drill.

  When the man with the stethoscope stepped back and nodded, the other reached back into his bag. He pumped a small lever on a high-energy short-life battery, releasing the activating chemicals within; he checked the cable that led to the drill; after a few seconds he tested the trigger. The motor began to respond sluggishly, then revved up to a high, muffled whine. He stood, and pressed the drill to the wall at the base of the inked mark. With a brief flurry of paint, white concrete dust began to sift down.

  As he began work, his partner unpacked the other satchel. In a series of numbered plastic boxes components nestled in cotton, dark plastic modules with gleaming contacts and locking dovetails grooved into matching sides.

  He sat down cross-legged, unfolded a sheet of paper, and began to assemble them. The drill took about two minutes to sink six inches into the wall; the steady drone shot up in pitch as the bit punched through. Smoothly the tool was withdrawn and moved to attack another spot a foot up and to the left. In fifteen minutes six half-inch holes had been lanced around a circle above the mark, and a seventh in the center. He leaned away from the wall and flexed his shoulders with a sigh and the motor whined down to silence. During this time, the other man had assembled and brought to life an irregular block about ten by twelve by fifteen inches, with tiny neon pips which glowed briefly as his fingers moved over its surface, checking the intricate circuitry one last time and activating certain control mechanisms.

  After the last hole had been sunk, he dug into the bag which held the power supply and brought out two small electric saws. He took the warm drill from the stretched arm of his partner, disconnected its cable and stowed it away. He drew a second cable from the bag and connected both to the saws. Then he picked up one and inserted its long heavy blade into the bottom hole. The motor vibrated to life and white dust spurted out as he started a cut diagonally up towards the next hole.

  His partner breathed deeply and rubbed his right shoulder, flexed his neck, cracked his knuckles, and picked up the other saw. Within a minute there was room for him to start at the base of the slot already cut and begin working in the other direction. The quiet stammer of the first motor faltered slightly and recovered as the second started, and white dust fountained down on both sides of the circle.

  In five minutes there remained only a six-inch gap uncut at the top, and both stopped. One got out a long thin rod and thrust it through the center hole, then twisted the end until it locked, spidery legs unseen clamped against the pieces of wall from inside. He gripped the rod as the other sawed through the last support.

  As the mass of concrete broke loose, he pulled, jerking it out two inches as it dropped half an inch, then working it farther out. His partner put down his saw and helped him pull it the rest of the way out, catching it as it came free and between them lowering it to the floor.

  Between outer and inner walls a heavy structural brace fitted, its top level with the bottom of the hole they had cut. Some jelly from a finger-burst pod was smeared along the upper surface of the short metal beam, and the quiescent block of dark plastic was lifted into place on it, neatly centered and settled. Then the final button was touched and a small square of wire grid extended towards them on the end of a slender rod.

  Leaving it dangling, they turned to other work.

  Into an inflated tub they poured a gallon of murky liquid from a plastic jug. Then, attacking the slab of concrete with short heavy bars, they broke it into fist-sized pieces and tossed them into the tub. There the chunks softened, mushed, and were beaten into a dark grey pulp by the umbrella-like ribs of the device that, had pulled the slab from the wall.

  While it cured, the men took pressurized tanks from the bottom of the other satchel and sprayed from them a heavy white foam which billowed into the space between the walls, hardening in seconds to surround the electronic block and its supporting member. As it bulged slightly out the opening they packed it back with their hands, leaving the stiff lumpy white surface about six inches inset from the surrounding wall. Simultaneously they worked the protruding rod slightly to assure it free play through the solidified insulating foam and positioned the small square of wire roughly even with the outer wall surface.

  Then they slipped on plastic gloves and began to knead the grey mass in their inflated tub. The malleable, still-warm cement was picked up in double handfuls and slapped into the cavity, packed careful
ly from the bottom up.

  In minutes the indentation was filled, flush at the edges and very faintly concave at the center where a barely perceptible inch-and-a-half square was barely visible. The heavy cracking bars doubled as squeegees to plane the face of the fresh cement as smooth as that surrounding. The color where they worked was a close match around the perimeter; slightly darker, but lightening perceptibly as they left it to finish drying and continued their task.

  They disconnected the saws and brought out a small vacuum cleaner with a bag attached. Then while one folded the deflated plastic tub around a congealing lump of extra cement and stowed it, the other picked up all the loose dust which had settled to the floor. He was not quite through when the hum of the powerful little fan wavered slightly and began to fall in pitch; before it died a minute later he managed to pick up all but a few stray grains. These he crushed underfoot and scattered.

  He stowed the vacuum while his partner brought out two tall cans with spray nozzles. Starting at the center with a few squirts of paint to cover the metal square, he sprayed towards one side as the second can was employed towards the other. Around the edges the dark green was an almost perfect match; in three hours it would dry to an indistinguishable shade. They sprayed lightly along the wall parallel to the floor in random diminishing patterns to blend the edges of the new paint with the old. A horizontal visual cue is less obvious than a vertical one.

  Even knowing where they had worked, both men silently agreed as they stood back and looked at their handiwork that the location had been completely concealed and camouflaged. One removed the' light from its tripod and carried it back and forth, examining the effect from various angles of incidence; neither of them could be quite sure where the sensor square lay hidden behind a single thin coat of paint.

  The other collapsed the tripod and slipped it back into his satchel, while his partner, with the Tight, scanned the floor carefully one more time. A crumb of concrete as big as a birdseed caught his eye; he stooped and powdered it between his fingers, blowing the dust into oblivion.

  Then he rose, nodded, and picked up his satchel. The light swung around towards a wide, slightly oil-stained ramp which curved upward out of sight, and preceded them along it. Black silhouettes against the bent circle of light framed in the square arch of the doorway, they retreated, crepe-soled feet silent on the hard floor.

  Total blackness returned by degrees as their light faded and was gone, leaving silence and darkness behind them, and a faint and fading smell of electricity, hot metal and wet paint.

  It was just over two years before they returned.

  SECTION I

  "Now Do I Prophesy A Curse..."

  CHAPTER ONE

  "I Assume It Is More Complicated Than That."

  Alexander Waverly motioned his two top agents to chairs at the big round black-leather conference table. "You seem in such excellent spirits — do you want to hear the worst part first?"

  "Why not?"

  "We'd like you both to go to San Francisco."

  "Not —"

  "You will not be expected to contact Ward Baldwin during your stay there. In fact, it is imperative that he remain unaware of your presence."

  Napoleon relaxed perceptibly. "In that case, it would be a positive pleasure."

  "You left rather more than your heart there, as I recall," Illya said. "If that's the worst part of it, Mr. Waverly, the job should be a creampuff. Why send us? We have good people out there — why not use Baker and Glass?"

  "They don't have your background in heavy weaponry. Besides, they're tied up in Los Angeles. You, Mr. Kuryakin, should find the subject of your assignment most interesting."

  "But before I continue there are a few top secrets you now need to know. For some time we have had a man deep inside the Thrush satrapy in San Francisco; how their security has been compromised for more than a year is rather a fine piece of work, which will be explained in detail to you by someone more qualified than I. Last month, this man reported to us the existence of a new and terrible weapon — a hand-gun of fantastic power."

  "Worse than the Particle Accelerator Rifle?"

  "More destructive, smaller, and safer. Technologically, this is vastly more sophisticated. I presume you know what a 'plasmoid' is?"

  "It's a mass of ionised gas held together by its own electrical charge or something like that," said Illya.

  "Like ball lightning?" Napoleon asked.

  "More or less. But since ball lightning was officially declared an unfounded folk tale for several decades, the naturally occurring plasmoid effect is now called Kugelblitz-."

  "Which is German for Ball Lightning. Okay. Does this gadget shoot ball lightning?"

  "The device is, in fact, called the Kugelblitzgewekr," said Mr. Waverly. "Commonly referred to as the KBG."

  "It would sound silly to call it a Ball-Lightning Gun," said Illya. "You mean it does?"

  "It has been reported to generate and launch plasmoids of varying size, range and power, depending on the report. We can tell practically nothing from what we have heard so far. You will meet a man in San Francisco named Harry Stevens. Learn from him what you want to know and tell him what you want to find out. His contact will be expecting you."

  Napoleon tapped the manila envelope which lay before him. "Data on the contact in here? What's his position?"

  "She is a dancer in a Greek restaurant on Grant Avenue. Her professional name is Little Sirrocco."

  "That's Greek?" said Napoleon.

  "No," said Illya. "It's San Francisco."

  "Miss Sirrocco's relationship is known and approved by Thrush, and every effort has been made that it appear purely — ah — social, rather than professional. He had no intimate female friends during his first eight months with this Satrapy, which their psychologists would consider less than optimum. Hence their approval of this liaison."

  "Then he's been with Thrush nearly two years," said Napoleon. "But you said.... Oh, I see! He sold out to her. I thought you said he was our plant."

  "Your first impression was correct. We originally placed him in the Satrapy. But he is unaware of his position, and thus cannot possibly compromise it. You might say his assignment is so secret even he doesn't know what he's doing." Mr. Waverly tapped a fingertip lightly on the table and looked at the clock. "Mr. Simpson should be in shortly to assist in the technical portion of your briefing on the KBG — until he arrives, I might attempt an explanation of Mr. Stevens' condition."

  He fumbled a pipe from his pocket and reached for the humidor. "Initially, bear in mind that Mr. Stevens is. sincerely loyal to Thrush — almost all the time. Remember also that he volunteered for this assignment, knowing...at least some of the risks he would be taking." He paused for several seconds, stuffing his pipe; he started to speak when he was finished, then thought better of it and took several more seconds to strike a large wooden match and ignite the packed tobacco.

  Napoleon and Illya exchanged glances, but neither spoke before the pipe was smoldering to its smoker's satisfaction.. Without looking up he addressed them again. "Mr.. Stevens voluntarily surrendered his mind, his character — his entire personality to total destruction and rearrangement. Since his programming was activated, he has been clinically insane."

  "Deep post-hypnotic?" asked Napoleon.

  "Yes. He functions perfectly in a minor clerical capacity with a Gold clearance, which gives him access to nearly everything. His memory of his life before two years ago, I am told, is spotty but adequate; he is happy with Thrush and completely loyal. But once a week he visits little Sirrocco, who keys his he will unconsciously tend to seek out these subjects, and report on them at his next opportunity."

  "I see," said Illya. "I assume it is more complicated than that."

  "Considerably. You will also meet Dr. Grayson, the hypnotech responsible for Mr. Stevens' condition, and...."

  The door zipped open and Mr. Simpson joined them, white lab coat flapping about his lean frame. Mr. Waverly returned to h
is pipe as the new arrival said "Good morning," to Napoleon and Illya, took a chair at the table and looked expectantly at Mr. Waverly. "You expect I wonder why you've called me here," he said.

  "We were just discussing our man in San Francisco," said the object of his attention, amid a cloud of blue smoke.

  "Oh, yes. The trance-suggestion case. Fascinating. I'd be interested to hear how he's getting along. But I have a beaker simmering downstairs, so about the KugelBlitzGewehr — what would you like to know?"

  "What it does and how, to start with," said Illya.

  "Ah. Well, we don't know. In fact, we hope you will be able to tell us when you get back."

  "Then how about explaining what a plasmoid is, for us language majors in the audience," said Napoleon. "How powerful is it and what kind of power?"

  "Electrical, magnetic, mechanical and thermal. Especially thermal. If you take a quantity of gas and heat it to a point where the atomic particles begin to disassociate and the substance ionises...."

  "How hot?"