The Assassination Affair, page 5
He pushed through the door and entered a little waiting room. There were a few straight chairs around the walls and one long counter that stretched the full width of the back wall. On it were displayed false teeth in various stages of development. Some appeared ready to bite.
Illya went to the left end of the counter, away from the clerk who was waiting on the one other customer in the store. Illya looked at them. The clerk was lanky and nondescript. The customer was an older man, gray haired, with glasses and a habit of biting his lip. They were talking quietly, and Illya shifted from foot to foot, too impatient to pretend he enjoyed waiting.
The clerk soon was in front of him. "Yes, sir? Can I help you?"
"I hope so," Illya said. "I have a rather odd request. I'd like to buy some gold shavings – any scraps you might have left from inlays or crowns."
The clerk smiled. "That's not really so odd. Not today. You're my second non-dentist customer for gold. When it rains -"
"Yes, I know," Illya said. "The point is, do you have such scraps and do you ever sell them?"
"As I was just telling the gentleman here" - he indicated the older man - "we're not in that business. Most of our dentists mold their own crowns and the scraps are turned over to the Ladies' Dental Auxiliary. Charity, you know."
Illya gazed at the older man again, a new interest in his eyes. "You're looking for gold?" Illya asked him,
"To fulfill a hobby," the old man said,
"Jewelry making?"
"No. I collect rare books. I like to restore the gold on the bindings, myself."
"Oh, too bad. I thought I might have found a fellow jewelry buff." At that moment, a phone set up a loud ringing in the back of the shop. The clerk puttered between the sound and his customers for long seconds, then excused himself and went out through a door in the back wall. Illya watched the old man, taking in everything about him from the well-bitten lip to the strange gleam in his squinting eyes.
The old man didn't like the inspection, and said, "Neither of us is going to find anything here." He pushed off from the counter and headed away. "I wish you luck somewhere else."
"But you give up too easily," Illya called after him. "I intend to wheedle some more."
"Good day, then. I warn you - that clerk won't be wheedled." The old man marched outside and directly to an old-model blue Chevy parked at the curb. He got into the back seat where Robard was waiting.
"No luck, Professor Adams?"
"Much luck," Adams said. "I didn't get any gold, but I ran into Solo's heir apparent. Illya Kuryakin. U.N.C.L.E. is close on our trail, I'm afraid, and with their methods, they may find us."
"So?" This word came from the front seat, uttered in a deep, hollow voice that resounded from the massive chest of a giant man who sat behind the wheel. He was even tall sitting down, with a bulbous head, a lantern jaw, and ears that stood out from his head as though they were pasted on. His hands dwarfed the wheel. Their power could have twisted it off the steering column.
"So, Julius," Professor Adams addressed the giant, "I want Kuryakin stopped in his tracks. Before he reports in."
"He's in the lab now?" Robard asked. "Then I saw him go in. That's his car right ahead of us."
Adams looked at the car. "I should have guessed. It's fancy enough for a paid killer."
Robard's hand fumbled inside his coat and came out with a pistol. Adams pushed Robard's hand down. "No guns! That's much too crude. We must think of some thing else, and above all, keep him from seeing us. He stared straight at me inside, but he can't really know anything:" Adams rubbed his nose hard. "Yes," he sighed. "Yes." He leaned forward to speak to the giant Julius, his words coming out slowly, one by one, as though Julius couldn't understand or assimilate them any other way. "Now, Julius, listen carefully and remember every thing I say. You'll have to do this alone. Robard and I are leaving the car. Wait until we get around the corner, and then..."
---
Inside the lab, Illya was glad to see the clerk reappear. He had no time to waste in waiting. He snapped right back into his demand for gold. "You don't happen to know of any place where I can get a bit of gold? Please think. It's very important."
"Sorry. Most people don't go around buying gold."
"Some do," Illya said. "You've never sold any scraps?"
"Not a one. It's against our policy. I'd suggest you get it from wherever you've gotten it before."
"But that's -" Illya was interrupted by the crash of metal from the street. When he checked, there was his car locked in bumper-to-bumper combat with the car behind it. He broke from the counter and ran outside.
He stood on the curb, estimating the damage. The U.N.C.L.E. car was jammed from the rear, edged side ways against the curbstone. The old Chevy behind it looked like some shovey monster which had just attacked. In that same moment, the Chevy gave a roar, a grinding of gears, and lurched back a meager foot, disengaging itself. A great bulbous head stuck out of the driver's window and a deep voice bellowed:
"Is that your car? Sorry, mister. I thought I was in reverse all the time."
"Hold on a minute," Illya called. "I'll see if there was much damage."
Illya squeezed between the bumpers and checked the rear of the U.N.C.L.E. car first. "Mine seems all right. Just a scratch. I'll check yours."
He turned around to inspect the grill of the Chevy when another roar from the motor straightened him with a quick prickle of hair on the nape of his neck that squealed DANGER! The old car roared and leapt forward.
In one motion, Illya lurched up from in front of it, his left hand hitting the hood to propel him sideways, and landed on the trunk of the U.N.C.L.E. car as the Chevy smashed into it again. He crouched there, taking stock. He was whole except for a scrape on his left ankle and the loss of his left shoe. That was wedged between the metal somewhere.
"For -! What are you trying to do?" Illya shouted at the great head in the front seat of the Chevy. "Break both my legs?"
Again came the booming, hollow, "Sorry, mister, I thought I was in reverse again. I guess I got nervous."
"Calm down. For my sake." Illya jumped easily from the trunk of his car and onto the sidewalk. "Let me direct you out of here before you kill somebody."
He had a clearer view of the giant now and was taken aback. This was no ordinary flustered citizen. This was some form of throwback to the bleary history of mankind. But he shrugged the notion aside. If you stayed on a city's streets long enough you met every kind and every shape eventually. He walked close to the driver, talking calmly. "Now put it in reverse and back up carefully so I can get my shoe. It could have been my foot caught down there!" He directed the man in the short backing maneuver. The man obeyed willingly enough. "Stop now," Illya told him, "and don't touch a thing!"
Illya darted to the front, made a stabbing motion and came up with his shoe. Hopping about, he got it on his foot. "I'll drive out first so you'll have plenty of room, all right? If you dare touch that gas pedal before I'm out of here -" The giant man turned his head to look him full in the face, and he stopped the threat in mid-voice. There was something about those little eyes set in the craggy face, and those huge, gnarled hands on the wheel. Standing up, this man would measure at least six-feet-eight. And the stare he was giving Illya - it wasn't embarrassed, it wasn't apologetic anymore - it was just plain menacing. "Don't move the car, that's all," Illya said in a smaller voice. "I'd hate to die for a parking space."
He sprinted to his car, jumped in, and thanked the tuned U.N.C.L.E. motor for pulsing to life so fast. He barreled out of the space and down the street, watching the rearview mirror to pick up the license number of the Chevy. He also caught the queer drama being played out in the front seat. The giant was still sitting there, but his hands came up to his face and fell back onto the wheel. It was a gesture of frustrated defeat. He had failed in something. Illya wondered what.
---
Illya returned the car to the loving hands of the mechanics in the U.N.C.L.E. garage, and drove into the heart of the great building to play out a hunch. He had no real basis for wanting a check run through the computers, but something gnawed at the back of his mind and he was too old a hand at this type of thing not to cater to his gnawings. First he reported the license number of the Chevy, but told the girl on duty and swamped with priority work not to hurry with it. He explained it as a routine check. She promised to get to it as soon as she had an extra minute.
Next he went down a level and dug up an artist who drew a composite likeness of the giant who had been driving. As the face formed under his pencil, the artist shivered, and Illya patted him on the back. "I didn't say he was pretty. Just run it through for me, will you? You have a tremendous likeness there. Maybe the computer can give a name for it."
"Did Mr. Waverly tell you we got some results on those two composites Solo had me draw?" The man was proud of his work, of his ability to draw a face from a description and actually have a name put to it. "Louie Salter and Robard Farell. The Police Department identified them. We didn't have them in our banks because they're petty gangsters."
Illya nodded. "Unemployed gunmen. Yes - Waverly told me. But it only adds to the confusion, doesn't it?"
He left the man to his work and continued down on the elevator. He should have discovered the giant's name for himself at the time of the incident. But he'd had no real reason to be curious. It was just an accident, after all. He still had no reason, but curious he was. The more he let his mind dwell on it, the more clearly he could hear the crunch and snap that might have been his leg bones if the giant had been able to rev the car forward faster. Deliberate? Maybe he'd know tomorrow when the reports came in.
He walked until he came to Files and Documents. He wanted to see Napoleon and bask in Solo's disgust at his new job. File clerk. Illya had yet to see him in the actual throes of work, and as he stepped into the file room he looked devilishly forward to it.
The door whooshed open and he found Napoleon, his arms laden with filing folders, and a young woman whom he presumed to be Mada Adams. Napoleon turned quickly at the sound of the door, his face taut. He relaxed as he recognized Illya. He plunked down his stack of folders and warned him, "Careful, Illya, you're stepping into foreign territory. Mada doesn't like Enforcement Agents."
Illya pretended to be disappointed. "How unfortunate. And I like file clerks so well. Some of my best friends are file clerks."
Napoleon caught the message and grimaced, but Mada Adams only smiled. "After two days of working with Mr. Solo," she said, "I confess I'm starting to change my mind."
"Finesse, charm, and savoir faire will do it every time," Solo said, pleased with himself. But when he looked at Illya again, he was sober. "You've come with . some news, I hope. Any leads? On the gold? The men?"
"Not yet," Illya said bluntly.
Solo gestured to Mada. "Hand me Mr. Kuryakin's file, Mada. I want to put it under Inactive Agents!"
"Napoleon!" Illya protested. "This isn't an easy thing. There -" He stopped. He couldn't go too far or Solo s quick mind would jump ahead of him and come up with knowledge he wasn't allowed to have. To preclude the chance, Illya turned the sentence to a joke. "Remember, I don't have your splendid brain to guide me."
Solo wasn't having any jokes and he wasn't laughing. "Waverly refuses to allow me even a glimpse of my own case file. I'm surprised he hasn't asked me to turn in my gun for the duration!"
"Give us time," Illya said. "We'll solve it." He didn't like the tension in Solo, the too-quick reflexes, the anger huddled beneath the surface of everything he said.
"I don't have much more time, Illya! If I want some action, maybe I'll have to break out of here and join Thrush!"
"I see. You're spoiling for a fight. Why don't you go to the gym and practice your Karate?"
"Not you, too!" Solo exploded.
Illya looked to Mada for an explanation of the reaction, and she laughed. "He's been working out twice a day, Mr. Kuryakin. I don't think the instructor will let him in anymore. He's worried about the frustration-aggression cycle and his own Japanese bones."
As Mada gestured to make her point, the charm brace let she was wearing clattered and jingled. Solo shook his head and said gruffly, "Must women always have sound effects with their jewelry?"
"I'm sorry." Math clutched the bracelet to silence it. "I think," Illya interrupted, "that tinkling and rattling women are charming. Your bracelet is, too. May I see it?" He didn't really want to look at it. He had seen enough charms when he saw the one that resided in Napoleon's case file. But he wanted to turn the conversation before the girl was somehow hurt by Solo's newly-sharpened tongue.
Mada thrust her hand forward so he could inspect the bracelet. "It's silly, really," she said. "Sentimental. You see, each charm represents some event in my life."
Illya held her hand gently as he pretended interest. His biggest interest was expressed in the one word he uttered. "Silver."
"This dollar sign," she explained, "is my job here at U.N.C.L.E. The diploma is obvious. The ship is the trip I took to Paris - a graduation present from my Uncle Abel."
"Everyone should have an Uncle Abel," Illya said, feeling strange keeping up this chatter. Napoleon was the one who made small talk with pretty women. "They're lovely trinkets, Mada. Almost unique, I would say."
"Unique to my life. But you can buy them anywhere."
"You should see mine!" Solo cut in. "It comes in two shapes - coffin and coffin."
Mada flushed. "I'll take the bracelet off if it bothers you. I never thought -"
"Don't even consider it." Solo patted her arm in apology. "If you can put up with me in this state, I can put up with that."
Illya stepped away. "I'm sorry you're at such loose ends, Napoleon. But I think you have a good opponent here. You quarrel with her, do your work, and I'll get back to mine."
Solo suddenly slapped his hand down on a stack of folders. "It's not only your work anymore, Illya. I've had it. A full week and nothing stirring. I see the alphabet in my dreams! From now on, I'm working on my own case."
"But Mr. Waverly -"
"This is one time he'll find out what it's like to be up against his own Enforcement Section. I won't let him refuse me. It's my life and my coffin and I'm going to fight for it, myself."
Solo was so determined, his eyes glinting, that Illya shrugged off his own compunctions. "Come On, then. I'll back you up. I can't see you as a file clerk, either."
---
Solo and Illya sat in Waverly's office. Solo had entered red-faced and seething, but Mr. Waverly had listened, letting his agent spill out all of his venom, while he, himself, sat calmly tamping away at the tobacco in his unlit pipe. Now Solo was in control of his emotions. Illya Kuryakin had waited silently, but just his presence had backed Solo's demands.
Solo finished up. "So it's clear to me that I have to make the next move myself, sir. You don't go fishing by hiding and expecting the fish to jump ashore. You dangle bait."
Kuryakin finally spoke. "I agree with Napoleon, sir. Our tries at finding the source of gold could run on for weeks. There's no guarantee that the gold was even purchased. It might have been melted down from old jewelry."
Waverly glanced up, confronting his young agent with the blunt question, "And you want to become the bait, Mr. Solo?"
"Good, juicy bait," Solo said.
"Then here is a surprise for you both." Waverly laid down his pipe. "I agree. This situation is intolerable, so you may as well put an end to it - one way or another."
Solo swallowed hard, acknowledging the threat Waverly had implied.
"Besides, gentlemen, something else has come up. I received a communication - unbelievable really, but disturbing." He opened the folder that rested before him,
drew out a piece of paper, and sent it around to them. Solo picked it up. It was ordinary, dime-store stationery, and on it was printed in big, misshapen letters, Dear Alexander Waverly: By the time you read this the great grain bowls of the world will be harboring maggots. Operation Breadbasket will be underway. Happy hunger. Thrush.
"That's a ridiculous piece of writing," Solo said.
"I agree again," Waverly answered. "Perfectly ridiculous. I gather I am supposed to believe that Thrush would actually send such a warning of their plans."
"You don't, of course," Illya said.
"No. But aside from that, I have an idea that this note is the work of the maniac who is after Mr. Solo. The grandiose play, the melodramatics, are the product of the same mind. However, on the chance that it is genuine and Thrush is up to something called Operation Breadbasket, I'm going to need you, Mr. Solo - need you active and in the field. I can't have you working as a fill-in for sick file clerks any longer. That's why I'm going along with your demands to get out and confront your assassins. I'm reluctant to admit it, but it's even beginning to paralyze me."
"How do you mean, sir?" Solo asked.
"I hesitate to send any agent out of this building, for any reason, when I know that anyone he passes in the street may be an assassin. I even worry about you, Mr. Kuryakin, when you go home at night."
Illya answered firmly, "But he made it very clear that Napoleon is his first target."
"Yes," Mr. Waverly said. "That's the only thing that makes my position tenable at all. This thing must be stopped."
Illya brought up all of their worst doubts. "And if it's a new Thrush method? Official Thrush policy?"
"For the sake of U.N.C.L.E., we must hope it isn't."
Solo said, "That's why I want to take this in my own hands, sir, and find out what's behind it."
"I've already given my consent to that."
Solo sighed, gratified.
"But I do insist that you have a bodyguard with you at all times. When I need you, I want you alive."
"A bodyguard of my choice?" Solo asked.
