The Beauty and Beast Affair

  THE BEAUTY AND BEAST AFFAIR

  by ROBERT HART DAVIS

  Trapped, at gunpoint, they heard THRUSH's deadly ultimatum crackle over the airways across the world: "Give us this machine which can destroy nations—or Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin die!"

  ACT I—INCIDENT OF THE SLAIN AGENT

  NAPOLEON SOLO and Alexander Waverly locked stunned gazes across the forgotten device they'd been inspecting in the command room at United Network headquarters.

  Illya Kuryakin slain.

  The incredible words erupted, sharply white, on the televised instant-bulletin screen.

  Solo felt ill. Illya dead? After the first harsh moment of shocked disbelief, he sagged, immobilized by a sense of loss, deep grief. The slender young U.N.C.L.E agent brought his hand up, dragging it across his mouth. His elbow bumped the concealed shoulder holster and U.N.C.L.E. Special. Weaponry there to inflict death or to outwit it one more time. Thirty-seven ounces, including silencer—the man who carried this weapon accepted all obligations, risks. Risk of death remained constant.

  But Solo's handsome young face, wry-pulled mouth, could not conceal his reaction to the impact of this tragic news.

  He'd seen death strike, the violent dying of other agents, some working with him, all under his immediate command, but at this moment he felt as if the very rock of Manhattan Island might sink under him.

  "It can't be!" Alexander Waverly spoke in unconcealed outrage.

  Solo saw grief in the old soldier's face. Now one of the five men— each from a different mother nation—heading United Network Command, Waverly was a veteran of two world wars. He wore every medal and honor, many bestowed post-war by former enemy nations, for gallantry, bravery beyond the call of duty. Waverly had been embroiled most of his life in hand- to-hand combat with violent death.

  Waverly's hand still gripped the activating switch of the atom-separator he'd been demonstrating.

  They stared at the screen as the first bulletin was replaced by an amplifying message:

  "Kuryakin and woman evangelist Ann Nelson Wheat have been executed as spies in Middle-East Zabir by order of Sheik Ali Zud—"

  "No!" The word burst across Waverly's mouth. "Sheik Zud himself invited Illya into Zabir as an advisor. This is vilest treachery!"

  For one more moment Waverly glared at the atom-separator as if it were somehow guilty. Built like a portable television set, with narrowing barrel instead of screen, the machine gleamed metallically in a room of metal machines, senders, receivers, monitors. The command room was the heart muscle of this huge, never-sleeping organization— United Network Command for Law and Enforcement—spread across the face of the globe, and via electronics into far reaches of space.

  The Network Command building, unobtrusive in the Forties near the United Nations complex, was linked with the remotest areas by means of elaborate sending and receiving antennae concealed on its roof, and by secret channels underground, leading to the East River.

  Solo tried to remember that urgent business came first. He said, "You were saying that his atom separator came from a THRUSH agent who defected to U.N.C.L.E."

  "Yes." Grimly, Waverly too made the effort. "Only the scientist—his name was Polar Fuch—didn't quite make it. THRUSH had him—uh—removed. I he invented the machine, he told me, for peaceful aims, but it has a lethal application, and when he found this was the use THRUSH meant to make of it—"

  Waverly gestured downward sharply. "No. It's no good. We'll discuss this thing later."

  He swung around to his desk, slapped at the intercom buttons. He spoke in a cold, flat tone that dared his subordinates even to question his command: "I want the ambassador from Zabir in the conference suite. Within the hour. Do you understand? Within the hour."

  TWO

  ZABIR'S AMBASSADOR Zouida Berikeen looked across the long conference table at the chilled faces of Napoleon Solo and Alexander Waverly.

  His heavily accented voice broke, pleadingly: "But I have counted you as my closest friends. Both of you. I shall remain indebted beyond death to you, Solo, for saving my life. Need I remind you? And Alexander––friend since the evil days of the Dardanelles, before my poor little nation even was born!"

  "We are not here to talk over old times." Waverly's voice remained implacable. His expression did not alter. His relentless gaze bore into Zouida's face. He nodded toward Solo. "Can you think of any good you could say of this man?"

  Solo shrugged, his face also chilled. "Well, he got here in less than an hour."

  "So we give him one mark—or one lash—for punctuality," Waverly said icily. "He has fortitude I never suspected, to face us at all after such treachery."

  Zouida Berikeen scrubbed his hands over his face. He wore the uniform of the diplomat: morning coat, creased black trousers, stiff shirt. But his hair was uncombed, and sleep showed in the corners of his black eyes. He was a small man, swarthy, and deeply tortured.

  "My old friends," he pleaded. "Can't you believe I know no more of this—very little more—than you do? Just what came via bulletin from my poor nation. That's all."

  "You said you knew a little more," Solo said grimly. "How little?"

  Zouida licked at his mouth. "A direct communiqué with my ruler, the King of Lions, Sheik Zud, asked only that Napoleon Solo come to Zabir to collect the mortal remains, effects and belongings of the lamented Illya Kuryakin. And this bit more—that Sheik Zud is himself bereaved."

  "He ordered the execution!" Waverly lashed out.

  "True." Zouida paced the carpeting across the table from the agents. "But reluctantly, and with great heartsickness. We all loved Illya Kuryakin. Whatever his crime—and I swear to Allah, and to your own gods—I don't know what it was. Spying. It must have been heinous to force Sheik Zud to take such dreadful action."

  Waverly waved his hand. "And this woman, this evangelist, Ann Nelson Wheat? What of her? Was she spying too?"

  Zouida nodded, his face showing inner torments. "Yes. She is from your Los Angeles. She has a great following, much like your Billy Graham. The young college students in our country—rebellious as they seem to be all over the world today—want to know more about your religion. Sheik Zud invited this woman, Ann Nelson Wheat, into Zabir. He would let her explain Christianity to the people of Zabir, so they would know what it was—though of course, Zabir and Sheik Zud know only the true God, Mohammed his prophet—"

  "And what was the Wheat woman's crime?" Solo prompted.

  "Spying. She must have forgotten she was our guest as a religious woman. She was caught photographing secret installations—"

  "And what kind of trial did she get?" Waverly said, leaning for ward at the high-glossed table.

  Zouida shrugged. "The sheik is a headstrong man, of some violence when aroused." He paused, added almost defiantly, "But he is a good man, better even than he believes."

  "Yes," Solo said in irony. "He has a great record."

  Tears brimmed the little ambassador's eyes. "Sheik Zud's problems are complex, difficult to comprehend unless you face them. Please do not judge this good, but hard-pressed man, until you know him better. His goodness lights the desert. I ask only that you suspend judgment until Napoleon Solo returns with his report."

  When they were alone in the long conference room, both Solo and Waverly sat some moments without moving.

  At last Waverly got up and paced the floor, face rutted with thought. "So Sheik Zud—whose goodness lights the desert and whose treachery turns my stomach—wants me to send you to fetch the effects and remains of Illya Kuryakin."

  "I'll be pleased to go, Alexander."

  "Oh, I'm sure you would. This is one little trip I'd like to take with you." Looking at Waverly, Sol
o was reminded of a bulldog with the ruff standing at its shoulders. ''But we've got to be dispassionate about this. If we act in haste, or in rage, we may be walking into just the mistakes Sheik Zud might be hoping we'll make."

  "I would be most alert," Solo said with some savagery.

  "I'm positive of this, too. But I've made my decision. Where is Wanda Mae Kim?"

  Solo's mouth sagged open. "On assignment. Why?"

  The faintest smile tugged at Waverly's mouth. "Oh, I understand your consternation. No, I'm not senile. No more than usual, any how. I realize as well as you, Solo, that Wanda worked in our outer offices, and is the newest of your recruits—"

  "On the least urgent of all assignments," Solo reminded him.

  Waverly straightened. "I've made my decision, Solo. Zabir and Sheik Zud will anticipate my sending you to collect Illya's belongings. Since, as you say, Wanda handles only the most petty assignments, surely she won't be missed on whatever occupies her. Bring her in to me at once."

  Solo gazed at Waverly incredulously, then he straightened and nodded. He had his orders.

  * * *

  THE UNITED Command helicopter hovered for a moment above the west-side tenement building. On the seat beside the pilot, Solo gazed down at the grime-crusted buildings, the crowded early-afternoon streets.

  He said, "Can you put her down on this roof?"

  The pilot nodded. He was a dark-haired man in his twenties, with a devil-may-care smile for any peril. "I can put her down anywhere. That's why you hired me. Remember?"

  "Knew there must have been some reason," Solo said. He spoke over his shoulder to the three agents in the dome cabin. "Hang on. Sunday Driver is going to chop his way in through the clotheslines."

  Sunday Driver grinned, settled the chopper easily to the black roofing. Pigeons fluttered up in panic and a cloud of dust and debris smoked upward.

  Solo opened the plastic door and swung down. He checked his vest- pocket sender for channel and efficiency.

  "Sit tight," he told his agents. "I won't be a minute."

  "If there's any glory in it, or a chance for a raise, call me, will you?" one of the agents called after Napoleon Solo, grinning.

  "Don't forget we're double- parked," the pilot called.

  Solo didn't glance back. He went through the stairway door, down to the fifteenth floor without hesitation, aware that doors were cracked open, his progress followed.

  On the fifteenth floor, he strode directly to a door at the end of the shabby corridor.

  He removed a small, conelike device from his pocket, placed it against the door facing. Sounds came through subdued, but as clearly as if he were on the inner side of the wall.

  Moving smoothly, but without undue haste, he took a cylinder much like a hair-spray refill tube from his jacket. Placing it at the edge of the door, he sprayed around it in a continuous movement from floor upward and across the top, down the other side.

  The fluid ate away the wood like concentrated acid on metal. The door quivered. Solo touched it with the tip of his finger, and it fell away into the room.

  Solo's first view, of that interior was less than reassuring.

  His gaze was drawn to Wanda Mae Kim.

  Wanda Mae was outlandishly decorative under any conditions, and she managed to be eye-catching even in the trying circumstances in which she had managed to become involved.

  She was not only involved, she was entangled. Her trim ankles were secured by leather leashes to almost opposite poles of the room. Her China-gold arms were stretched by other leashes high above her head.

  She lay like the black-haired, ruby-mouthed adornment of the center of a particularly unappetizing bargain-basement carpeting. Her eyes, like dark opals, were wide with terror.

  Her form-clinging skirt had been ripped up the side; her dragon- embroidered blouse was torn, smudged with dirt. A streak of dirt was like a scar across the glaze of her ceramic-smooth cheeks.

  Even so, she was bewitching.

  This could not be said for the other occupants of the room.

  They were grouped about her, each with his own sadistic weapon of torture. There were four of them, one wearing the blue uniform of the New York City police force.

  He was as intent upon torture as his three comrades. He knelt beside Wanda, holding the bright tip of a cigarette within inches of her eyes. Her beauty left him unmoved. His florid face sweated with concentration.

  This was true of all of them. They had little in common except the evil in their faces, the tools of torment in their fists—and the common bond of their vile racket.

  A slender, sunken-chested man brandished a thin, narrow whip, cracking it within inches of Wanda's bared golden legs. A stout, balding man in plaid jacket and ankle-length slacks held a dripping hypodermic and needle. The youngest, swarthy, greasy-haired, black bangs eye-length, waited with a switch-blade knife for his turn.

  So intent upon their prisoner were the four thugs that the door tell, air whipping across them, before they reacted.

  They lunged around, and the cop leaped to his feet, going for the gun at his holster.

  Wanda saw Solo first. Her straight, shoulder-length black hair waved as she rolled her head back and forth in anguish, crying out, "I didn't tell them anything! I didn't!"

  Solo spared her only a brief glance that warned he'd deal with her later for her fearful breach of direct orders.

  Since the cop had reacted first, Napoleon Solo gave him his immediate attention.

  He did not draw the U.N.C.L.E. Special from its shoulder holster.

  Instead he drew from his inner jacket pocket what appeared to be a wallet. But when he pressed its safety catch; a barrel the length of the wallet plunged outward. He fired it by pressing the same catch, so his movement was fluid, and no time was wasted.

  There was a sharp sound like "thid!"

  A pellet erupted from the barrel and struck the cop squarely in the neck.

  It was as if the big man had been stung by a wasp in flight. He threw his right hand up, slapping at the place he'd been struck. His hand closed on his neck—and he found himself unable to withdraw it. In those brief seconds the pellet's fluid had stunned him, and he stood immobile, his hand grasping at his neck. He tried to move and he could not.

  The long-haired boy was next, because his reactions were fastest. The boy wheeled around, stared for a moment at Solo. In that instant, his reactions named Solo enemy, and he lowered his hand to his side to hurl the knife in a fierce underhanded pitch directly at Solo's buckle. It would have seemed impossible for him to miss at this close range.

  Perhaps it would have been, except that the second pellet from Solo's nerve-gun caught the boy in the center of his bangs. It struck at the moment he'd started his upswing and the knife floated harmlessly past Solo's head.

  The boy tried to straighten, but he remained as if frozen in that unbalanced pose, arm extended.

  The other two men apparently were on junk, Solo decided. Their reactions were slow, less than deliberate, though obviously each thought he was moving with the speed of light.

  The stout man came around in an almost languid movement, slashing at Solo with the whip, brandishing it.

  Solo let him take two steps away from where Wanda was secured to the floor. He pressed the safety, watched the pellet strike the stout man in the belly. He gasped, as if unable to breathe, and then stood rigid, whip high in upreaching arm.

  The thin man flicked the lighted cigarette directly into Solo's face.

  Solo side-stepped deftly. The tall man leaped toward a straight chair, reaching out for it.

  Solo pressed the button. The pellet splatted just behind the tall man's outsized ear. He bent forward another three inches and then ceased all movement, arms outstretched, eyes distended.

  On the floor, Wanda sobbed in relief.

  Solo still did not glance toward her. He surveyed the room, finding the evidence that United Network Command had been after. He collected it carefully.

&nb
sp; Wanda's tear-wet eyes widened as he watched him.

  When he had everything he wanted, Napoleon Solo checked the unmoving men.

  Pleased, he removed the vest-pocket sender, spoke into it. "Sunday Driver. Sunday Driver. Caesar here. Four passengers. One way. Come and pick them up. Over and out."

  He recoiled the barrel of the pellet gun, folded what now looked like a wallet again and replaced it in his inner pocket.

  Wanda said hesitantly, from the floor, "What have you done to them?"

  "Neuroquixonal," Solo answered without looking at her. "Just stunned them. We'll let the police have them after the boys at Command have worked them over."

  "They—tortured me," Wanda said in that hesitant tone.

  He shrugged. "You asked for it." At this moment, the three standby agents entered the room. One of them laughed. "What have you done, Solo? Robbed Madame Taussaud's wax-works?"

  "Yeah," said another. "And get a gander at that China doll somebody forgot and left on the floor."

  "Very funny!" Wanda cried savagely from the floor, fighting at her bonds.

  Solo loosened the leashes, quickly, as the agents carried out the prisoners.

  "Head 'em out," he said.

  Wanda sat up, her lovely lip quivering. She massaged at her reddened wrists. "They tortured me, boss," she said. "But I didn't tell them anything. Honest."

  Solo was giving the room one last quick check.

  "I only wanted to make you proud of me!" Wanda wept.

  Solo looked at her now. She seemed to shrink under the heat of his gaze. He shrugged, kept his voice low. He held out his hand, lifting her to her feet.

  "All right," he said. "Let's go."

  THREE

  "SO THIS IS what kept you!" Waverly prowled the Command room, glaring from time to time at Wanda, who was huddled in his chair. She looked small, dejected. "Why didn't you let those junkies finish her off?"

  "I was strongly tempted," Solo said mildly.

  "I thought I was doing the right thing, sir," Wanda whispered timidly.

  Waverly turned and stared down at her across his desk. "The right thing? Deliberately, willfully disobeying direct orders? Is this your notion of doing the right thing, young woman? If it is, we've been sadly remiss in your instructions."