The Assassination Affair, page 10
Solo edged away, but Illya held him fast. "You're not going to retreat any further, my friend, unless you knock me down first. And I wouldn't say you're in condition for that."
Waverly whispered, "Easy, Mr. Kuryakin." But he understood Illya's maneuvering and was himself waiting for some starch to come back into Solo.
Solo stopped trying to pull away, his expression verging on anger. "Having a good time, Illya?" he asked.
"Not really," Illya admitted. "But now that you've found your voice, tell me, what kind of place is this?"
Solo stared about the room dully and shivered, his eyes livening. "A do-it-yourself murder scene," he muttered. "Don't ever try it." He pulled out of Illya's grasp and steadied himself against a chair, well away from the knives. There was more life in him. "I have a report to make, Mr. Waverly. Bits of information."
Waverly was scowling less as the words came from his agent. "I expect you do - but later." He took command. "Let's get out now and have our wounds licked. Two of you men stay behind and remove these knives, please. I wouldn't like any stray children wandering here in the dark."
The room came to life. Men escorted Mada out, and Illya and Waverly flanked a limping Solo. They walked slowly, giving the man time. But Solo didn't make it to the door. He lurched forward, unconscious on his feet, and Illya and Waverly caught him barely in time to save him from impaling his throat on a knife that jutted from the piano.
---
The sky outside Waverly's office was bright with sunshine when they met around the table. Solo had eased himself into his chair, dictated his report on Adams and Dundee, and now was simply waiting for the chance to take his aching body home.
It was amazing to him how the process of reentering U.N.C.L.E., having his wounds dressed, swallowing an anti-depressant the staff psychiatrist gave him, and being clucked over by the nurses had driven away the lethargy. He was himself again, and for a while he had wondered if he ever would be.
For the moment, he understood he had a thank you to offer to Lainy Michaels, who sat beside him at the table, her face bright and her entire soul caught up in playing nursemaid.
Mr. Waverly was finishing up the short briefing. "So Miss Michaels was the turning point for you, Mr. Solo. Mr. Kuryakin's alertness provided the key, but she turned it."
"With melodrama and infuriation," Illya said. His arm was again in the sling where it belonged, and from his slightly glazed eyes, Solo guessed the anesthetic was wearing off. But Solo had no words of thanks for the Russian. That was all understood.
Instead, he looked gently at Lainy. "You actually attacked Mada? For me?"
"I was boiling mad." Lainy flushed a pleasing pink. "I - well, you were always perfectly decent to me, and –"
Solo concluded for her, "And I have plans for being more decent. Now that the bleeding has stopped, I think I could use a steak, to rebuild the blood."
"For breakfast?"
"Let's call it dinner. How about it? Will you come and eat with me?"
Illya shook his head in serious-faced amazement. "Napoleon's safe, anyway, Lainy. If he gets fresh, just squeeze any of his arms or legs and he'll back off."
She melted into a blue-eyed pool of sympathy, reaching over to pat Solo's hand. "I'll come with you gladly, but on one condition. That the steak is cooked and eaten at my apartment and that we share it with my cat. She must feel deserted."
"Call her and tell her we'll be there in a half hour." Solo put his arm around Lainy and pulled her up. He shot one last look at Mr. Waverly. "It is all right if I leave now?"
"By all means. And" - Waverly cleared his throat – "all the alarm systems in your apartment have been reactivated. I think you understand my point."
Solo grinned. "Yes, sir."
"Report back the day after tomorrow, please. We'll have finished with Adams' interrogation by then and there may be something doing. Also - I have you scheduled to undergo a few tests."
Solo walked out with Lainy. Not even Waverly's mention of tests, which he knew would be psychiatric, could keep him from being warmed by the fact that U.N.C.L.E.'s list of agents was still a secret because of him. Lainy fell into step with his limping gait and he let her keep the illusion that she was supporting him. It seemed to mean so much to her.
Chapter 8
"Shotguns, You Know"
FIVE DAYS LATER, Solo and Illya sat side by side in a rented car, Illya driving, doing seventy miles an hour down a modern expressway in Michigan. Chicago and the jet flight were only hours behind.
It had broken quickly. Adams' interrogation had unearthed very little. Adams had merely been a research lackey working for Thrush now and then. He knew Dundee and that something big was up with Thrush - something to do with vegetation - but beyond that the drugs had proved he knew nothing more. His assassination scheme had been born out of Dundee's derisive joke that if he really wanted to help Thrush he should find a way to keep Solo and Kuryakin in New York for a few weeks. Adams had found the way, going Dundee one better with his idea to destroy U.N.C.L.E. single-handed.
As the days had passed and Solo's and Illya's wounds healed, Mr. Waverly kept digging - for Dundee, for anything. It broke in one meager roll of film containing two pictures of a farm in Michigan that had been taken by an agent named Taylor. Taylor sent the film to Chicago headquarters and had then been murdered. Two bullets through the head. That made two agents down in this Dundee case already.
Solo recalled the sober-faced Mr. Waverly as he had shown the pictures Taylor had taken. The first one was of a cornfield at the end of July, the corn hip high and green, waving in military rows. The second, taken only three days later, was of the same corn field. But the military rows were gone. The cornstalks were brown and wrinkled and lying on the ground as though dehydrated and stamped upon.
Along with the film, Taylor had sent a brief message:
"First indications of Dundee Project shown in film. Tests of topsoil show total destruction of life-giving elements. No more crops for minimum of ten years. Brief investigation indicates possibility of chemical to restore earth. Will contact when more information is available."
Whether or not he had ever gathered more information was unknown. Taylor was dead. And Waverly was up in arms. The implications behind such a Thrush plot were disastrous. If Thrush could treat the soil of the world and kill the vegetation, it could starve the earth into submission, promising the antidote only if the governments knuckled under. And they had an ace. By keeping certain lands clean and productive for them selves, Thrush could wait until starvation and riots set in, turning the knife for them in the stomachs of the world's hungry.
The order for the mission had been simple. Get the formula for, or a sample of, the counter-chemical. Then destroy the operation. The counter-chemical was top priority because once it was in the hands of the U.N. C.L.E. lab Thrush could sprinkle poison anywhere they wanted and it would do them no good. Finding chemicals meant finding the laboratory where they were produced, and no one believed that would be in Michigan. Michigan was simply the first lead.
Looking out of the car at the green that stretched for miles, Solo couldn't quite believe any of it. He saw the backs of farms that had been cut through for the roadway and everything was lush in the late July sun, soaking up light and water.
"That sign said, RIVERVIEW, NEXT EXIT," Illya said. "We're nearly there."
"The scene of Taylor's murder," Solo muttered.
"So? We'll be careful."
"Here, now," Solo chided his friend. "Quit reading something deep, and brooding into everything I say."
Illya wouldn't be riled. "Only checking. The psychological effects of what you went through might pop up at any time. The staff psychiatrist warned me."
"Is that so?" Solo was angry, in spite of himself. "And who gave you permission to talk to the psychiatrist about me?"
"The psychiatrist, of course." Illya smiled at Solo's consternation. "Seriously, Napoleon, it had to be done. I had to be briefed on you. But I don't want to keep the fact secret from you, either."
"And the psychiatrist told you?"
"What he told you, I presume. He said Adams ganged up on you psychologically, playing hard on every human fear in the book - fear of falling, fear of total darkness, of helplessness, of abandonment, of having the body punctured - plus an overwhelming certainty that you were going to die."
"He pronounced me capable of staying active," Solo challenged.
"Yes. With the foreknowledge that odd symptom might pop up here and there, and to expect them.'
"And not freeze up over them. I know," Solo sighed. "The battery of subjective tests I took showed the possibility. But it won't happen, Illya, so don't worry."
"I believe it, I believe it!" Illya said. "Just remember, if you ever need an extra ear -"
"Illya's here. Thanks. Now, don't miss the turn-off."
Illya swung off the highway at the exit and curved up the ramp. As the car came onto a narrow highway, a sign loomed up pointing out Riverview as five miles to the right.
Solo braced against the turn and changed the subject. Illya had guessed and had brought him nicely out of what might have become one of the moods he'd been having. Gloom and doom, Solo called them. "I thought Michigan Julys were hot," he complained. "I brought lightweight suits."
"Maybe we're lucky," Illya said. "I've never cared for heat, raised as I was in -"
Illya broke off as they rounded a curve on the narrow road. Solo leaned forward, an exclamation coming through his lips. Because the greenery stopped. Just stopped. Fifty feet ahead, the fields turned to brown desolation. The breeze stirred no crops and the fields looked as though a plague had descended upon them. It was a shocking sight. The only break in the brown sameness was an occasional tree.
"Why the trees?" Solo asked aloud.
"They send their roots deeper, I guess, so they aren't damaged - yet."
Solo bobbed his head to his partner's strange bit of knowledge and continued to stare at the farms. The houses were neat and carefully kept; the buildings were painted in the traditional barn-red, the houses white, and the machinery stashed about was shiny and clean. But the grass was brown and wilted. The flower beds were tangled masses of dead stems and withered blossoms.
"It looks like the devil himself walked by here and blew fire on it," Solo said.
"Pity the people who planted the crops and watched this happen overnight. This settles it, Napoleon. We've got to help them."
Solo laughed out loud. "How grand of you to decide to go along with Mr. Waverly. When I make our first report, I'll tell him and make his day happy.
They were coming upon signs of an approaching town. The farmhouses gave way to ranch homes; the fields withdrew to the backs of the properties, leaving dead lawns around forlorn-looking houses.
They had been ordered to stay at the Flower Hotel, the only one in Riverview. Solo guessed it wouldn't be hard to find. Riverview was a town of four thousand people. As Illya swung the car onto the main street, Solo sat back, satisfied. It was just as he had pictured it. One street full of stores that ran for four blocks, crossed a bridge over a narrow river, and resumed being a highway. The Flower Hotel loomed by the bridge, old and brick, rising four stories to make it the tallest building in town. Three church steeples poked their spires up between the trees.
But modern America hadn't passed Riverview by, as it hadn't passed anyplace by. The street was garish with neon signs, and parking meters were lined up and down the curbs of the wide pavement.
Illya drove the car behind the hotel where the sign read, FREE PARKING FOR GUESTS and braked to a stop in one of the yellow-marked parking spaces of the tiny lot. There were a few cars already there. As Solo got stiffly out, unknotting his muscles from the long drive, he checked the lot out of habit. No one was sitting in the cars so there was no danger, but a good percentage of them sported stickers on their rear windows. He sauntered over to a green Ford and checked the sticker. U.S.D.A.
"The Department of Agriculture beat us to it, Illya. I guess we're just an afterthought."
Illya was hefting two suitcases out of the trunk of the car. He plunked them down. "We'll be able to use any help we can get. Here's your suitcase. What did you bring, anyway? You said your suits were lightweight."
"Shirts, my friend. Lots of clean, white shirts. Ever hear of those?" Solo smirked at Illya's ever-present black turtleneck.
"I've brought a couple of my own." Illya's blue eyes smoldered with as much humor as Solo was going to get out of him. "Also a tuxedo, a full dress monkey suit, and a top hat for courting the local beauties on Main Street."
"Ouch." Solo grunted, and bent to pick up his case.
They went into the old-leather smell of the lobby. It was complete with the red-patterned carpet of another era, black leather furniture, and potted palms. The palms were plastic, stuck into real dirt, Solo noticed as he passed one and the pungent scent of soil hit his nostrils.
There was no trouble getting their room. It had freshly-cleaned wallpaper done in a floral pattern, a small rug, and twin beds. A tiny bathroom opened off it, and the windows opposite the beds showed a view of the river and the cement-block factory that squatted there, ugly and sprawling. Solo tipped the bellboy, surprised to find one in the Flower Hotel.
Illya was already checking the room for "bugs" and Solo moved dutifully to help, although he couldn't see the necessity of it. They were unexpected, after all. The room turned up clean.
As they unpacked their clothes and tucked them away in the oak bureau that was big enough to hold a man, Illya voiced the obvious question. "What's the first order of action?"
"Who knows? We've seen the fields already. I think our best bet is to find some access to them. We can't just go out and trespass. I understand that farmers are opposed to that sort of thing. Shotguns, you know."
"And how do we get this access?"
Solo shrugged. He didn't really know. "Poke around - meet somebody who lives on a farm - get invited to a homecooked meal."
"I see." Illya sighed in resignation. "That all adds up to a girl."
Solo brightened. "It could well add up to a girl. And quit making faces. You follow your own prowling way and I'll follow mine. Right now, I have first claim on the shower." He made a quick maneuver for the bathroom, grabbing his robe, and beating Illya. He locked the door behind him on Illya's sour call of:
"Be sure to use plenty of aftershave. It will charm the milkmaids right off their milking stools."
Solo accomplished his routine of showering, shaving, and dressing in ten minutes. The cold water perked him up, brightened the sunny day, and the fresh clothes made him feel himself again. As he pulled on his shirt and trousers and watched them cover the barely healed scars of his night in that other farmhouse, his mind took a more sober bent. Even so, the best he could think to do was go out on the street and get his bearings, see what was happening in the town, where it was happening, and try to pick up a lead.
When he broached this to Illya seriously, Illya agreed. They couldn't call down to the desk and ask for Thrush Headquarters. They had to dig it out for themselves.
"I'll take the car," Illya said, "and drive around to the grain elevators and feed stores to pick up the farmer's gossip if you want to stay in town."
"I'll do better in town," Solo said. "I wouldn't know what I was hearing when it comes to feed and fertilizers."
"Right. But you're going to stick out like crazy in this town; you know that, don't you?"
"You want me to wear overalls? Your idea of American farmers is pretty strange, Illya. I'll manage."
Illya went into the bathroom and closed the door be hind him. Solo called, "It's one o'clock. I'll meet you back here at three." Illya's answering "okay" came through a sudden gush of water from the shower.
Solo checked in the mirror to be sure his pistol was safely tucked away without trace under his arm, straightened his tie for the tenth time, and left the room.
The sun was bright on the street, a presence in itself, and he discovered that July was hot in Michigan. He walked along the sidewalk easily, peering into the display windows, and no one paid him any attention. Other men clad in business suits were on the street, along with housewives dragging their children by the hand. But the sidewalk wasn't crowded. The shops had eaten up the people from the cars parked along the curb. The parallel parking made the street even wider than it needed to be and he liked the sense of space and old ness it implied.
He wandered one side of the street for fifteen minutes, going into a store here and there to pick up pieces of conversation. It got him nowhere. The talk was about buying and selling, and only occasionally about the crop disaster. Even then it was only talk of confusion and fear. When he tried twice to approach some conversing ladies, he was rudely stared at and ignored. The old charm wasn't going to make way for him here.
He strode out of the dime store and back onto the sidewalk. He was awfully alone. Not another pedestrian walked this block with him. The only other living being he saw was a woman steering her little boy into the soda parlor. Then she was gone and he stood still in the sun, rocking on the balls of his feet. A sense of over powering aloneness crept up on him and he pushed it angrily down. This was no dark room; he had both of his eyes, the sun was shining - He damned the unwanted emotion and stepped away from the storefront.
A horn sounded loudly from the street and a girl's voice yelled, "Mister! Sir - Mister!"
Solo turned to meet the half-running figure of a girl. She came onto the sidewalk smiling, dropping a coin in a parking meter where there was no car as she passed it. She was tall and blond with a figure that was astounding under the tight slacks and brightly printed shirt. She trotted along with firm steps. Wholesome was the word for her, he decided. Her body was young, ample, and gently muscled.
"Were you calling me?" he smiled.
"Yes, if you don't mind. I have this terrible problem and I wondered if you'd help me."
