The Mind-Twisters Affair (16 page)

Illya sighed resignedly. "All things considered, the more indirect the better. Is there a place where you could hide the car, say a half-mile from Whateley's house?"

"Aye, aye," she said, saluting with her free hand as she drove. Illya looked at her curiously. For the occasion, she had donned dark slacks, a sweater, a black scarf to cover her blonde hair, and a jacket with a suspicious bulge in one pocket.

"What's that?" Illya inquired, looking at the bulge. For answer, she drew out a .25 caliber Walther automatic pistol. Illya looked pained.

"That's what I was afraid it might be. Did I ever tell you that I once saw a man who had been shot seven times with one of those things?"

Rita looked horrified. "No! What happened to him?"

"He was on trial for manslaughter. After being hit seven times, he'd beaten the other fellow's head in with a shovel. If you ever have to use that, you might as well throw it at somebody. Don't bother to shoot it." He snorted. "I said this game wasn't for amateurs."

Leaving Rita looking crestfallen but determined, he swung around to Curtis. "What are you doing here?"

"I had to go right by his house," Rita explained, "and I saw his lights on, so..."

"I've been up half the night," Curtis said. "It's this survey. All the anti-U.N.C.L.E. types have taken to calling me up in the middle of the night. It's really a very interesting phenomenon, considering the fact that the basic motivation is artificially induced. But it does get monotonous. When Rita stopped, I jumped at the chance to come. I suppose you could call it a field trip. I've never had a chance to observe actual criminals in action before. These should be particularly interesting; I've never heard of anything quite like what they are attempting in Midford. It should be fascinating; I hope to get much of it recorded." Curtis reached in one of his pockets and pulled out a miniature tape recorder.

Illya stared at the machine for a moment, then turned to face forward and slumped down in the seat. After a few minutes of silence, Rita suddenly swung the car off the rough back road she had been traveling and rocked to a stop next to a wild raspberry thicket.

"We're well hidden," Illya admitted. "But where are we?"

"A half mile from the Whateley manse, as requested," Rita said. Illya noted unhappily that she seemed to have regained her spirit of adventure.

Curtis, meanwhile, was staring happily out the window at the raspberry patch. "I must remember this location," he said. "Raspberry yoghurt has always been one of my favorites, but it's difficult to find really good raspberries." He glanced at Illya who was beginning to look ill. "I must be sure to return here next summer.

"Now look here!" Illya shouted as he jumped out of the car. "I don't think either one of you realize what's going on. Your friend Whateley is a killer. Napoleon has found the lab where the drug is made, and it's in Whateley's basement - or in a secret passage next to the basement. Whateley is a Thrush, and regardless of what you think about him, he is not just a harmless crackpot!"

For the first time, Curtis and Rita both looked slightly taken aback.

Illya looked at both of them for a moment. "Now that I have your attention, there is something you can do if you really want to help." Rita and Sascha both nodded, somewhat submissively. "Good. First, get this car turned around so you can get out of here fast. Then get inside, lock the doors, and be ready to move quickly. If neither Napoleon nor myself gets back here within two hours, go back home and telephone this number in New York City." Illya hastily scribbled a number on a piece of paper and handed it to Curtis. "Ask for Mr. Waverly and say you have information about Solo and Kuryakin. Then tell Mr. Waverly everything, and follow his instructions. And if anyone - and I mean
anyone
– other than Napoleon or myself shows up, get going. The way things are in Midford at the moment, any of your friends could be either Thrush agents or brainwashed. Understand?"

"Perfectly, Mr. Kuryakin," came a deep voice from the darkness a few yards behind Illya. "You express yourself very well. If you will hold perfectly still and not twitch a muscle for the next few minutes, I'll allow you to go on expressing yourself, at least for awhile."

Illya did as instructed, putting a dejected slump into his back and reflecting that the sort of man who enjoyed the sound of his own voice as much as this one did would be more apt to make a mistake than a less flamboyant villain.

"All right, Mr. Kuryakin," the Thrush's voice came again. "Turn around now, slowly, with your hands be hind your head. And walk just a few feet away from the car."

Illya turned to face in the same direction as Rita and Curtis. Three men stood about ten feet away. The one in the center was pointing a double-barreled shotgun at Illya's midsection. The others had standard Thrush rifles. Behind them, a section of a hollow tree had opened like a door, revealing a stairway leading into the ground.

Illya decided it was a good thing he had suppressed his initial impulse toward immediate action. The time to fight was when your enemy was unprepared. After a moment, one of the Thrushes put down his rifle, walked behind Illya and very carefully removed his gun. Then, more boldly, he took the U.N.C.L.E. communicator and began removing various pieces of odd-looking equipment from unlikely parts of Illya's person. He paused a second.

"Are you sure this guy's an U.N.C.L.E. agent, boss? He's got enough burglar tools on him to outfit half of San Quentin."

"You search and let me do the thinking," admonished the man holding the shotgun. The searcher obediently resumed his rummaging through Illya's clothing, while Rita looked on admiringly.

"And people make jokes about women's handbags!" she exclaimed.

"No conversation," the chief Thrush snapped. "By the way, what's that bulge in your pocket? No, don't show me! Keep your hands where they are! Walker, are you through with Kuryakin yet? Get that thing out of her pocket."

The Walther was duly confiscated, as was Curtis' tape recorder, the latter over strenuous objections by the psychologist.

"But it's important that I record this!" he protested. "Think of the psychological insights that will go to waste here if I can't get this all down on tape where I can study it! What will I do for my next scientific paper?"

The Thrush chief turned to Illya. "Haven't you taught this guy the facts of life yet?" he asked in amazement

Illya shrugged. "I tried."

The three of them were prodded into the hollow tree by the muzzles of the Thrush weapons. With the guns within reach, Illya calculated his chances of jumping his captors, but decided they were poor. He led the way down a steep stairway to an underground passage with a dirt floor and walls made of rough stone. They walked for a long way. Once or twice Illya attempted to start a casual conversation in the hope of gaining some information, but the Thrush leader discouraged conversation. Curtis, usually ready to talk under any conditions, seemed discouraged by the loss of his tape recorder; he walked along dejectedly.

They came to an intersecting passage, and the walls and floor changed to concrete. They passed two closed doors. Illya asked about them, but the Thrush leader evidently felt that he'd used up all his good lines and had no intention of talking again until he'd prepared some more. They turned down an intersecting passage. It was totally dark, with a glare of light coming from a room at the end, but before Illya could take advantage of the situation one of the guards flipped a switch and the passage was bathed in the harsh glare of naked electric bulbs. At the end of the passage was the dungeon. As they entered, Napoleon greeted them from his cell.

"When I asked you to come over and join me, this wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

"I can't say your choice of meeting places overwhelms me, either," Illya returned as he was shoved into a cell on the opposite side of the dungeon from Napoleon. Rita and Curtis were unceremoniously shoved into cells on either side of Illya.

"You'll never get away with this!" Rita called after the Thrushes as they departed.

When the Thrushes were out of earshot, Napoleon called to the others. "The place is bugged," he informed them. "That thing in the ceiling is a microphone. Whateley may or may not be listening, but don't tell me anything you wouldn't want him to hear."

Illya and Rita nodded. Professor Curtis sat grieving for his lost tape recorder.

Sounding as casual as was possible under the circumstances, Napoleon remarked, "Since they just dumped you in the cell, I assume you've been thoroughly searched?"

Illya nodded, mentally pricking his ears. Napoleon was apparently hinting that, taped and handcuffed as he was, he hadn't been totally defanged. So if any of the others could get to him... But most of the tools would be for escape, and if any of the others reached Napoleon, it would be because they had already escaped. Still, it was a point to remember.

Before he could think of a solution, however, there was a commotion in the corridor. Lem Thompson appeared, wrestled along with a Thrush holding each arm and a third prodding him with a Thrush rifle.

Chapter 15

"Clumsiness Pays Off Again"

LEM WAS GIVING HIS captors as much trouble as he could without getting violent enough to provoke them into shooting him. After considerable profanity on both sides, he was shoved roughly into a cell. As the Thrushes departed down the corridor, he shook his fist after them.

"You'll pay for this!" he yelled.

Napoleon cocked an eyebrow at Illya. "What do you bet the next prisoner says 'You can't do this to me!'?"

"I don't think there's anyone left to be taken prisoner," Illya observed. "How did they get you, Lem? I thought you were…"

"I was!" Lem returned. "That'll teach me to mind my own business. After this, you guys run your own errands. And either you or them Thrush characters better pay for my truck, too!"

"I think our insurance covers it," Napoleon said. "But what happened?"

"What didn't!" Lem said indignantly. "I just got out on the road and this car comes roarin' along, tries to run me into the ditch. Well, two can play at that, and my pickup's bigger'n their car. So when they cut in front of me, I rammed 'em. They ended up halfway across the field, but I spun into the ditch, too, and then this other car came up and swarmed all over me." Lem lost his indignation for a moment and chuckled slightly at a recollection.

"They were runnin' around like chickens with their heads chopped off. Couple of 'em hung onto me and the rest drug their buddies outta the other car. Pretty banged up, too. Finally one of 'em dug out this little thing and jabbered into it. Musta been someone on the other end, cause it chattered right back at him. Ended up takin' me to the old Ryan place, just across from my farm, and took the banged up ones somewhere to get patched up. Guess they been usin' Ryan's place - he's away somewheres - to spy on me. Or on you two!" he concluded accusingly.

"What about the drug?" Napoleon asked.

"One of 'em said it got spilled in the wreck. They was gonna put somethin' else in its place and send it to that Waverly fella. Guess they did. Finally they got me and carted me over here."

"We seem to be damaging their transportation at least," Napoleon observed. "But I don't think that will slow down their major plans very much."

"Quite a good summation, Mr. Solo," came a distinctive voice from the corridor. Jabez Whateley strolled into the dungeon area. He appeared in fine humor as he leaned on a corner of the rack and beamed - as much as anyone with his countenance could beam - at the prisoners.

"Actually," he continued, "you and Mr. Kuryakin did the most effective damage when you destroyed the stocks of the drug at Bippus. I'm afraid that was my own fault, though.
The Purloined Letter
was always one of my favorite stories, but I shouldn't have allowed it to affect my judgment. Of course, I hadn't counted on your moving so rapidly; I'm afraid I underestimated you a trifle."

"Yes," Napoleon agreed. "It was a little careless, leaving the entire supply of the drug in plain sight that way."

Whateley shrugged. "It won't take long to brew a new batch. Tomorrow evening at the latest, and we shouldn't be disturbed before then. After all, when the drug sample Waverly receives proves to be a harmless coloring additive - well, what would you think in his place? Then the two of you will call in and report your mistakes in person. Your last reports, I fear," he concluded sadly.

"Don't get all broken up about it," Napoleon said sympathetically. "It's all part of the job, and all that."

"True," Whateley agreed. "Quite true. I do hope you won't take it personally. I do regret it; you're such a good listener."

"What about the others?" Napoleon asked. "They haven't done you any harm, and they aren't members of U.N.C.L.E., so…"

Whateley shook his head. "I suppose we could eventually convert them, but it would be very inconvenient, and there is always the chance that in a long project like that, someone would get careless. Not to mention that we shall have to remain on constant alert in case U.N.C.L.E. does send in more agents before we have completed our test here. No, I'm afraid there's nothing for it but to eliminate them."

Whateley stood looking mournful for a few moments, then consulted his watch and brightened. "Time for phase two," he said cheerfully. "I must be on hand for all stages of drug preparation. I'll keep you informed of my progress; it's the least I can do as a host." He switched off all the lights except the one in the dungeon and walked off down the dark corridor.

Curtis had recovered his interest and now looked thoughtful. "The man's mind is definitely unbalanced. Perhaps the next time he comes down here to gloat, I can apply my psychological insight. Manipulating him would be difficult, of course; one never knows precisely how an unstable mind will react."

"Be my guest," said Napoleon. "Any reaction other than killing us outright will be welcome. In the meantime, however, we need to work on more direct means of escape."