04-The Dagger Affair Page 3

  "We doubt if you could tell us anything we don't already know," said the voice. It sighed. "The interview is at an end. Thank you, gentlemen."

  There was a faint hissing sound from somewhere, and gradually Napoleon became aware that he was cold and damp. He was lying on something cold and damp, too. And someone was shaking him. Someone was also addressing him and not politely.

  "All right, both of you. Come on — up and out. L.A. is a friendly city, but there's lots of hotels and there's laws against sleeping on the grass."

  * * *

  Napoleon sat up, clear-headed, and looked around. The cold gray light of dawn revealed a sylvan scene of grass, trees, a small lake, and a bulky gentleman in a black uniform with a badge and a night-stick.

  "Ah, good morning, officer. I know this looks strange but..."

  ".. . but you can explain everything." He sighed. "Okay. Go ahead. Tell me one I've never heard before."

  "I don't think I can do that, sergeant. But I can show you something you might have seen before." His fingers slipped gently around his wallet, and noticed his pistol was missing from its spring-loaded holster. The officer had moved back a step, and Napoleon noticed also a second patrolman some twenty feet away with his hand resting casually on his holstered revolver. Without a pause, Napoleon slid the wallet out and slipped it open to his gold U.N.C.L.E. identification. The sergeant leaned cautiously forward to examine it, then looked carefully at Napoleon.

  Illya stirred on the grass, and the policeman moved back quickly. "U.N.C.L.E.?" he said. "Easy enough to check, and you won't mind waiting while we do." He turned his head slightly, and raised his voice. "Ben, call those characters in Culver City and see if they have two birds of these descriptions missing." He moved back a few paces, and waited.

  Illya got slowly to his feet. "Good morning, Napoleon. I tend to agree with you — the gas is more efficient than the drug."

  The policeman did not seem inclined to idle chatter, and they waited in silence until Ben trotted over from the car. "Yeah, Joe, they're okay," he said. "Sorry for the inconvenience," he said to Napoleon and Illya, "but we don't often find a pair dressed like you two, carrying concealed weapons, sleeping on the grass in MacArthur Park. Can we give you a lift anywhere?"

  "We'll see," said Napoleon. "My car may have been dropped nearby too. If not, we'll need a ride back to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. In the meantime, you can give us back our guns, if you don't mind."

  The patrolman grinned, and dug the two sleek automatics out of their jacket pockets.

  * * *

  "Well, if she wasn't connected with Thrush, how do you explain her giving the address of a whole nest here in Los Angeles?"

  "No, Napoleon, I don't believe it was coincidence. But I think I would tend to believe our master of ceremonies of last night. He would have no reason to lie about the operative in my apartment."

  "What if the girl was from DAGGER, whatever that is? Obviously Thrush knows more about DAGGER than we do — they knew its name. Maybe the girl knows more about Thrush than about us."

  "Reasonable. But we know her name, at least, and I will wager Thrush does not."

  Napoleon shrugged. "For all the good that'll do us. How do you go about finding one girl in a city the size of Los Angeles?"

  "Well," said Illya, "have you tried the telephone book?"

  Napoleon looked thoughtful for a while, then without speaking he got up and wandered into the next room.

  A few minutes later he came back with a slip of paper and a scowl. He folded the former and threw the latter at Illya. "Smart Russian...."

  Illya rose to his feet. "It could be a coincidence, even if she was the only Garnet Keldur listed. Shall we drop out to the address you have written there and see?"

  Chapter 3: "Today Just Isn't Our Day."

  The unobtrusive blue sedan had been parked on a shady side street for over three hours. During that time no one had come out of or gone into the small white house on the next corner. Napoleon and Illya were side by side in the front seat, with the car radio playing softly. Napoleon was leaning back with his hat down over his eyes, since he'd won the last game. Illya was watching the house, and thinking hard. "Did you compose The Firefly?"

  Without lifting his hat Napoleon pursed his lips for a few seconds, then said, "No, I am not Rudolf Friml."

  "Were you a poor king and a worse flutist?"

  "No, I am not Frederick the Great."

  Three hours pass slowly when someone must be watching something constantly, and the two U.N.C.L.E. agents had been playing Botticelli for all three of those hours. Illya had won the first game, Napoleon the second.

  Then Illya spoke again. "Did you collaborate with your brother on a translation from Horace called Echoes of a Sabine Farm?"

  Silence descended again. After a while Napoleon lifted his hat and stared at Illya. "I'll pass."

  "Eugene Field. You owe me a free question. Are you an American?"

  Napoleon tilted his hat and leaned back again. "Yes."

  "Are you interested in a trim brunette who just walked out of that house?"

  Napoleon sat upright and grabbed the binoculars lying on the seat beside him. He focused on the face of the girl hurrying down the walk some seventy-five feet away and braced his elbows on the dashboard. "Looks like her. Remember, I only got a glimpse from a speeding car. But that's the same general outline."

  Illya turned the key in the ignition and the motor caught quietly as the brunette slid into a car parked at her curb and took off as if something were after her. Five seconds later, something was.

  She drove fast, but not recklessly. As he watched the car ahead of them maneuvering through the heavy afternoon traffic, Napoleon was sure this must be the same girl.

  They followed her north, then onto the Hollywood freeway. She sped through the Hollywood hills, and turned off toward Van Nuys. The traffic thinned, and the neighborhood deteriorated. Illya stayed about a block behind her, fading farther back as there were fewer cars on the streets. Then she turned into an alley.

  When they reached the spot they slowed, and Napoleon looked quickly down the narrow space between the brick buildings. The car was not in sight. Illya cramped the wheel hard right, and they swung into the alley. The noise of the street faded behind them as they bounced over the rutted pavement. A few moments later their motor coughed.

  Illya pumped the gas pedal, but the engine sputtered and died. The radio faded and went silent. Illya worked the ignition key, but there was no sound from the starter. Napoleon's small automatic was nestling in his hand — this could be a bad place to be caught defenseless.

  "That's odd," said Illya. "The battery seems to be dead." His expression changed just slightly as a thought grew in his mind. "Napoleon," he said softly, "would you look at your watch?"

  Napoleon glanced at his wrist. "It's fourteen after three. Why?"

  "No — look at your watch."

  He did.

  "Is it running?"

  He kept looking at his watch, a frown spreading across his face. "No, it isn't. I must have gotten a bad battery " His voice trailed off.

  Illya held up his wrist. "My watch is operating. Coincidence?"

  Napoleon hit the door handle and started out. "Let's go out and see." Illya swung his door open and they hit the ground on opposite sides of the car. Hit the ground and stopped.

  Two feet ahead of them stood the brunette, a totally unfeminine .45 automatic nestling in her dainty fist. "You two gentlemen will raise your hands and go quietly through the door. Mr. Solo, do something else with your gun."

  Napoleon looked around vaguely, then slipped it into his coat pocket. She could certainly handle a car, and he didn't want to bet she couldn't handle the .45 equally well. He and Illya went through a dirty metal door at her direction and found themselves in what looked like the back room of an electronics laboratory.

  Fluorescent tubes overhead cast a flat bluish light over solder-scarred workbenches, racks of equipment and chipped
composition walls. A short, heavyset young man with a sour expression was standing beside one rack with two knobs, two meters and a toggle switch. The girl addressed him.

  "All right, Frank. Turn it off and help me with these gentlemen."

  Frank did things with the controls, and the red pilot light went out. Then he picked up a small drum of insulated cable and moved around behind Napoleon. When Solo's hands were secured to a convenient stanchion, Frank moved on and performed the same service for Illya. The girl's .45 vanished back into her purse as she checked the bonds. Then she spoke again.

  "Their car is the blue sedan parked in the alley. Take care of it while I go find Kim."

  The two left through opposite doors, Frank going into the alley and the brunette into another part of the building. Napoleon twisted around to look at Illya.

  "Your watch is working — how long ago did Thrush let us go?"

  "About eight and a half hours. And here we are again — though our captors this time don't seem to be Thrush."

  Napoleon sighed. "Today just isn't our day. If we escape from this, we'll probably be captured by Boy Scouts or Martians next. Or run down by a reckless pedestrian." He looked around the laboratory. "You're right about this one not being a Thrush operation. This place is too messy for them."

  "Also rather an amateurish capture. Thrush is usually more professional about such things, if often unnecessarily devious."

  Napoleon thought a minute. "You know, I don't think I'd be at all surprised to find we'd been captured by DAGGER."

  Illya considered this for a little while. "Well, I hope this is DAGGER."

  "Why?"

  "Because if it is, and this is an example of their efficiency, we have nothing to worry about," he said, pulling his right hand free of the cord that bound it, and setting to work releasing his left.

  In a moment he was free, and seconds later Napoleon was rubbing his wrists and looking about the room. Illya was shaking his head sadly. "Shamefully amateurish," he said. "They left us armed, too."

  He tried the alley door, and shook his head. "It seems there is a limit to their folly," he said. "The door is bolted. However..."

  Napoleon tested the door the girl had used. It was locked, but flimsy. He looked at Illya. "Are we in a hurry?"

  "Do we want to bring your girl friend and her pet automatic down on us?" Illya produced his U.N.C.L.E. transceiver and slipped up the antenna. "Channel D, please.... Channel D please." There was no response. Illya listened closely, then smiled wryly. "I should have expected it. We are well shielded."

  By this time Napoleon had attached one of U.N.C.L.E.'s "skeleton keys" to the lock on the inner door. After listening carefully at the panel, and hearing no sounds to indicate the next room was occupied, he stepped back and twisted the ends of the wires together, touching off the detonator.

  There was a spitting sound as the thermite ignited, and a dazzling glare lasting a few seconds. Acrid smoke filled the room, and billowed into the next as a well-placed foot opened the door.

  Gun in hand, Napoleon looked around. Another room like the one they had just left; better lit, and cleaner. There was another door in the far wall, up a couple of steps, and they started toward it. It opened.

  Standing in the doorway was a tall thin man. His hair was black and uncombed, his clothes unpressed. His face was long and his jaw narrow. His eyes were large, brilliant and intense; they lit his face like the eyes of a jack-o'-lantern. In the crook of his left elbow rested a crudely constructed circuit with a complex coil of some type pointing toward them — his right hand rested on a control knob.

  "Don't raise your guns. Get against the wall or you will be snuffed out like two candles where you stand." His voice was flat and harsh with contempt.

  Napoleon and Illya glanced at each other, and started to move apart. He was in an awkward position, some two feet above them, but if they could split his attention

  "Back up to that wall," he said, an edge of anger creeping into his voice. "I should have killed you the first time I had a chance. Now you have forced the situation. I promised Garnet I wouldn't kill you unless I absolutely had to. But you will start to interfere soon if you are allowed to run free. If you had only stayed put until you could have been permanently suppressed, we would not be in this unfortunate impasse now...."

  The two U.N.C.L.E. agents had been moving backward but for each step back they also took one to the side. The breadboarded circuit the tall man carried was swinging back and forth between them, its coil covering first one, then the other. Timing its oscillations, Napoleon waited until it had passed him and their captor's attention was on Illya. Then he sprang.

  The circuit hummed softly, and Napoleon seemed to pause in mid-air. He didn't feel as if he'd hit anything, or anything had hit him, but all the breath seemed drained out of him. Time stopped, and he felt his arms and legs go numb. The room got dimmer, and the slow scraping of Illya's feet on the cement floor seemed far away. He seemed to be wrapped in yards of the finest and softest cotton wool, cutting off every sense. He sank deeper and deeper into it, vaguely aware that he was dying, but not really caring very much. There was no light, no sound, no feeling. He was sinking slowly in deep, dark, warm water which was filling his entire body. Only somewhere far in the back of his mind was a faint voice screaming that he had to get up and move. But there was no "up," and he no longer had a body to move....

  Then his face hurt. There was rough concrete pressing into his cheek, and his shoulder felt bruised. He welcomed the pain — it meant he had a body again. His mind was trying to bury the memory of being without one, but it remained a small spot of icy terror. His hand scraped over the harsh surface of the floor, feeling the fingertips rasping against it. There was a smash nearby, and the sounds of a scuffle. His eyes focused.

  Illya had floored the tall man, and the jury-rigged circuit lay on the floor, broken. Napoleon pushed himself to his knees, breathing hard, and felt his face gingerly. There was blood on his cheek. He got to his feet.

  "Freeze!" snapped a voice above him. He did. So did Illya.

  "Let go of my brother!" The girl was back, and so was her .45.

  Napoleon sighed. "Sometimes it all seems so futile...."

  "Now back off, you two," she said angrily, gesturing with the gun. When they were a safe distance away, she knelt beside the tall man. "Kim, are you all right?"

  He snapped something at her as he fumbled about on the floor with the pieces of the device he had dropped. He examined the breadboard carefully, and started picking up the components and trying to fit them back into it, like a child with a broken doll.

  She looked down at him, an odd expression in her eyes. "Kim..." she said, "you told me that machine wouldn't affect people. Didn't it almost .. ."

  "Shut up, Garnet! The one you asked about wouldn't — but I knew I could fix that. This was the first time I've gotten one with a wide enough Theta range. That's all it takes. Of course that other one wouldn't. Animals aren't electro-mechanical. It was useless except for stopping their silly machines. Now the first one that really works has been smashed by these pigs! It'll take days to fix it!"

  "Kim!" Her gun drooped as she stared at him. He stood up, his eyes flaming with rage.

  "Well, what's wrong with you? You swat flies! You slaughter vicious beasts!" His voice rose to a pitch of hysteria. "You pull noxious weeds and destroy bacteria! How can you defend these creatures? They're animals — dangerous animals. Why should they be left to pollute the earth with their presence?"

  Garnet shrank back, her eyes shining with tears. "Oh, Kim — you've gone back to that! I thought you'd given it up. Please say you didn't mean that."

  He laughed, harshly and bitterly, with a cold, rasping sound. Garnet stood up and said, "My poor Kim, you'll have to..."

  He grabbed her by both arms and tried to throw her off balance into the next room. She struggled and hooked a heel behind his knee, causing him to stumble. He grabbed for the doorframe, and she brought up the bi
g automatic, slapping him across the side of the head with it. He went down like a tree, and folded down the concrete steps.

  With a choked sob, she knelt beside him and felt for a pulse. In a moment she stood up, waved the gun at Napoleon and Illya. "Come with me," she said. "We must get away from here before someone else comes. They'd never believe me."

  She handed her gun to Napoleon and stared up at him with tear-filled, tortured eyes. "Please trust me. I've made a dreadful mistake, and I have many things I must tell you. But we must get away from here immediately."

  Napoleon took the gun gently and handed it to Illya. Then he took Garnet's arm and helped her through the wreckage of the wooden door to the metal one. She found a key, and a moment later they were in the cool evening air of the alley.

  Chapter 4: "He Really Could Destroy The World!"

  Illya drove. Garnet was shaking too hard to start her car, and now she had dissolved into quiet hysterics in Napoleon's arms in the back seat. He watched her with acute concern mixed with embarrassment as she clung to him and sobbed for several minutes while he patted her shoulder and spoke softly and encouragingly to her.

  Finally, when she seemed to have calmed down a bit, he fumbled out his handkerchief for her and he tried to open a conversation. "Ah — my name is Napoleon Solo. Are you Garnet Keldur?"

  Her voice shook, but she managed to say, "Yes...I am. And I know who you are. And he's Illya Kuryakin. I saw you in New York." She finished wiping her eyes, and collected herself with a visible effort. "But...how did you find us so fast?"

  "Professional secret. Look, do you feel like talking?"

  "I...I don't..."

  "Can you tell us what happened just now?"

  "Well. . ." She cleared her throat. "Kim is my brother. He's got all the brains in the family, but he's...he's sort of disturbed. When we were in college, he developed emotional problems which got him involved with Nihilism. And he studied it until he was convinced it was the only solution to everything. Oh, lots of people feel this way when they discover some new philosophy, but Kim couldn't see anything else from then on.