The Man from Yesterday Affair Read online

  THE MAN FROM YESTERDAY AFFAIR

  By ROBERT HART DAVIS

  “There were three of us,” Waverly told Solo and Illya. “Now there is only one. You must track down, find the secret of this madman and his Apes of Death---or I will be a dead man within the next thirty days!”

  PROLOGUE

  MONKEY SEE, MONKEY KILL

  The long dugout canoe rounded the river bend in the steaming late afternoon, going fast. The river, wide and swift here as it neared the ocean, curled back noisily, brown-foamed, from the canoe’s prow. A bright parrot, disturbed in one of the great fronded trees overlooking the river, croaked angrily and went flapping off through the jungle toward an orange shimmer of sunset light in the west.

  Chop-slosh went the paddles, chop-slosh. It was a fast, frantic rhythm. The urgency of it matched the tense postures of the two filthy, fatigued men who were paddling as though their lives depended on it.

  Their lives did.

  Floating down the river behind them came shrill yells. The yells reminded Napoleon Solo, United Command for Law and Enforcement, that everything did depend on the strength left in his arms and shoulders and those of his companion, Illya Kuryakin.

  Solo worked his paddle nearest the canoe prow. Illya sat in the stern. Both men were red-faced. Their skin was blistered in places by days in the intense South American sun. Beard stubble sprouted from their chins and cheeks. Illya’s hair was bleached nearly white.

  The two agents sucked in great gulps of air as they slid the paddles into the water and pulled, then repeated it as they’d been repeating it for nearly an hour on the great moiling brown river.

  They’d had nearly a half hour’s lead. Evidently the dead guard had been discovered at the perimeter of the secret THRUSH training barracks far back in the jungle. Solo and Illya had been forced to dispose of the guard when he happened upon them and all their photographic gear.

  They stuffed the guard’s body into some palm-fronded shrubs a few yards from the electrified chain-link fence through which they’d been photographing the THRUSH installation. Then they made their way to the river and the hidden canoe.

  They were just about ready to congratulate themselves on the completion of a hazardous mission when the yells began on the river behind them.

  Right now the river’s twists and turns hid the pursuers, who had been drawing steadily nearer to them minute by minute. But at that first contact almost an hour ago, Napoleon Solo had twisted around and stared, aghast and alarmed.

  Over his shoulder he could look back along one of the river’s few broad, straight stretches. Half a dozen swift outrigger canoes were putting out from shore. The U.N.C.L.E. agents spotted nearly two dozen brown men in loincloths. Spears glittered, and the naked chests of the warriors were painted. South American headhunters. The kind Mr. Alexander Waverly had mentioned to them in an offhand manner when he first made the assignment.

  And directing the headhunters at their paddles was a trio of white men with pistols. Illya recognized the bush uniform of the supra-nation, THRUSH. It seemed clear that the dead guard had been found, then.

  Now Solo’s brow ran with sweat. It kept getting in his eyes, making it difficult for him to see. They were approaching another bend. A crocodile slid out lazily from the bank. It started to swim toward them, snapped its jaws once and darted away beneath the water, out of sight.

  Solo shook his head to clear it. The paddling had become so automatic, he was hardly conscious of his motions. But his arm muscles ached with a fury that got worse every moment.

  They couldn’t hold this pace much longer. And ahead was nothing but a settling evening mist, humid, coiling, oppressive as all the surrounding jungle. Behind, the blood yells drifted suddenly louder. The pursuers sensed a kill.

  Illya Kuryakin burst out, “The station’s got to show up soon, Napoleon.”

  “Can’t be more than another half mile.” Solo had absolutely no facts to back that up, however.

  Illya managed a thin smile. Over his left shoulder hung an old canvas bag much like an airline carry-case. Inside that bag were the sealed rolls of motion picture film for the headquarters photo analysts to study, to determine if possible how many new agents THRUSH was training on its secret drill fields bulldozed out of the jungle back there. A couple of thousand dollars’ worth of cameras and lenses had been left behind. Getting the film out was what counted.

  Illya adjusted the bag strap that cut deep into the cloth of his torn shirt. “I’m glad you’re so certain we’re almost there, Napoleon.” His words were punctuated by deep gasping breaths of effort. Chop-slosh went the paddles, chop-slosh.

  In truth Solo wondered whether they’d miscalculated, misread the maps. The river was taking a big bend here. But there seemed to be a slightly fresher breeze against his sunburned cheeks. The little river station where field agent Plympton was headquartered was quite near the coast.

  Still, Solo could see nothing much ahead but a white fog hanging over the river. It crept out from between the steaming tree trunks on either shore. If they had indeed miscalculated and it was several miles more to the station, Solo knew they might not make it.

  “Just leave it to bird dog Napoleon. I’ll find the station,” Solo gasped. “My nose never fails.”

  The air dinned with yells from the out-of-sight canoes bearing down on them. How close now? A half mile? Less?

  On the floor of the canoe between Solo’s muddied jungle boot lay their last weapon. The automatic pistol had accidentally dropped into the water as they launched the canoe. It was useless. Solo paddled harder.

  Another sixty seconds or so and their canoe rounded a small overgrown promontory. Ahead in the mist Solo spied a rickety palm leaf structure supported on shoreline pilings. He let out a yell: “That’s it! Off there on the right, Illya. It’s---“ Abruptly his jubilation died as he took in the details of the scene.

  Their canoe swept in toward the little pier. The air darkened around them. Not with mist---with acrid black smoke billowing out onto the river. Only the floor platform of the shore building and a part of the wall nearest them remained standing. A gout of orange fire shot up from this wall. Half of it fell forward into the water.

  A cloud of steam boiled up. Solo was rigid in the canoe, his heart slugging, his face bleak, Illya stood up, gestured with the paddle.

  “Napoleon, the helicopter’s gone.”

  “It can’t be!” Solo snarled out the words.

  “It is. I can see the concrete pad behind the main building.”

  Solo lunged to his feet, cold terror tightening like a hand in his midsection. The current carried the canoe in toward the little jetty as Solo fought for balance, dropped his paddle, cupped his hands around his mouth, shouted: “Plympton? Plympton! Where are you?”

  From the river behind, yells rose shrill again.

  “What could have happened?” Illya cried. “If Plympton and the ‘copter are gone---“Illya didn’t need to finish. Solo knew only too well what it meant. In another five minutes, ten at most, their pursuers would be on them.

  Again, Solo shouted Plympton’s name. He thought he heard a faint cry in return but couldn’t be sure. Perhaps it was the chattering of the bright tropical birds rising from the trees as the canoe bumped the jetty.

  TWO

  Solo dragged himself up on to the swaying, rotting wood. Sweat rivered down his chest and legs under his ripped trousers and shirt. He gave Illya a hand, noticing that his friend swayed a little. Illya was even more exhausted than he was.

  Solo stumbled along the jetty and climbed the rickety ladder to the platform of the little building which had perched so neatly on the river’s edge just ten days ago, when they starte
d into the forest to search out the THRUSH training station.

  He reached the top of the ladder and stood up on the platform. On his right the remaining section of thatched wall gave way and toppled into the river below. Flames were eating at the edges of the platform now. Half of the boards were already blackened.

  Illya Kuryakin came up the ladder hand over hand. Together the U.N.C.L.E. agents stumbled away from the smoldering structure onto muddy ground. Ahead, Solo saw a sight which made him ill.

  As Illya had said, the square concrete landing pad was empty. No ‘copter waiting. And amid the oil stains Solo detected fresh bullet-marks.

  The muddy perimeter around the pad showed signs of many heavy boots. The mud had been scuffed and scraped over the concrete as though a party of men had boarded the ‘copter not long ago. Ahead, the station’s main building, a metal Quonset, curled smoke out of its windows at either end.

  The building was set at the edge of the clearing, hard against gigantic trees whose fronds cast lengthening, sinister shadows. Solo ran across the pad with Illya shambling behind. Solo tried shouting again: “Plympton?”

  This time, there was a clear cry in response.

  “He’s alive,” Illya cried. “Inside the hut---“

  Stumbling forward, Napoleon Solo reached the smoke-choked door. He flung his arm over his face, ducked his head and plunged inside. In a moment or so he was able to make out details of the interior: the radio against one wall; Plympton’s gun rack with two rifles still left in it; metal furniture; Plympton’s cot.

  The smoke boiled from the pulled-open drawers of a metal desk. Various papers and code books had been lit. Nothing else in the place was burnable. The smoke was considerable, though. And the twilight illumination outside didn’t help vision any.

  Calling Plympton’s name, Solo walked forward. Suddenly his right boot struck something. Napoleon Solo glanced down. His belly gave a violent wrench.

  “Bit me---“

  The man repeated it, staring at Solo but not really seeing him. The man’s eyes were bright. His bush clothing was black with perspiration. All over his body---the backs of his hands, his neck, his cheeks and forehead---black-purple patches shone moist in the gloom.

  Solo dropped down on his knee. “In the name of God, Plympton, what---“

  “Stay away from me!” Plympton shrieked, waving his shiny-moist hands. “Keep the monkey.” Fever-bright eyes glared. His mouth convulsed, starting another scream.

  Solo reached for Plympton’s shoulder. Suddenly Illya’s fingers bit into his arm. Solo twisted his head around. “What’s the idea? I have to help him.”

  “Don’t touch his skin, Napoleon. Once in a lab at the University in Novorograd I saw blotches something like those. The man’s diseased.”

  “Diseased! He’s hurt and he’s alive and we’ve got to help him. Help me prop him up.”

  “Don’t touch his skin!” Illya shouted. “It’s some kind of plague. Believe me.”

  “Plague---“

  Solo’s mouth twisted. But caution prevailed.

  Plympton’s skin gave off a faintly sour, unwholesome scent. This convinced Solo that it might be wise to heed Illya’s advice. He touched Plympton’s arms, clamping his fingers around the man’s shirt. Plympton began to moan and struggle. Illya sat on Plympton’s trousers until Solo got the man propped against the metal desk. Illya shut the drawers, stifling the smoldering papers.

  “There was a bottle of brandy in that packing case when we left,” Solo said.

  Quickly Illya fetched it. Solo managed to get some of the liquor down Plympton’s throat. The U.N.C.L.E. field agent coughed, doubled over. Solo leaped away as Plympton’s moistly purple cheek nearly grazed his left hand.

  Finally Plympton’s convulsions stopped. He banged his head back against the desk. His eyes flew open. This time they were bright, full of recognition.

  “So you finally made it, chaps. Expected you yesterday. Afraid the bird’s gone. Better part of an hour now.” Suddenly Plympton’s eyes filmed over, as if he were remembering some horror. “They came on me suddenly, don’t you see? Caught me in here. Twelve, fifteen of them. They were armed. They’d stolen guns from the Isle. Trekked overland when the whole bloody business blew up on them.”

  Solo shook the agent by the shoulders. “Plympton, who were these men? What’s this about the Isle de Mal?” Both Solo and Illya knew the name by heart. The Isle de Mal was a prison, located about twenty miles northeast. It was just off the coast of this South American country. The Isle de Mal was U.N.C.L.E.’s maximum security lock-up for THRUSH prisoners in the western hemisphere.

  “There---there was a break at the Isle,” Plympton gasped. “Evidently a man on the inside, one of our chaps, sold out. He took over the control tower of the landing strip there. He let a big ‘copter land. Load of Thrushmen on board. They were laughing and joking about it when they came through here---“

  Plympton covered his face with his hands. The backs of them glittered oily-black in the dusk. The hideous infected patches seemed to be shifting, growing, across the unaffected areas.

  “It was a break-out y’see. Planned for months. They came for Edmonds.”

  As if a great bell had struck, Solo shuddered. He licked his lips, fingers turning cold around the hard glass of the brandy bottle.

  “THRUSH came to break out Dantez Edmonds?”

  “I didn’t even know he was on the Isle,” Plympton breathed.

  “For about ten years now,” Illya replied softly, his shadow-rimmed eyes grim.

  Both he and Solo knew the name well too. Of all the terroristic killers serving the fanatic cause of THRUSH, none had been more feared than the crazed Edmonds. When U.N.C.L.E. finally ran him to earth and caught him, it was very nearly a cause for official celebration within the organization. Something else about Edmonds nagged Solo now. His weary mind couldn’t focus on it.

  “What happened, Plympton?” Solo asked. “Did somebody from the Isle come here?”

  Anguished, Plympton nodded. “The way I got it was---the Thrushmen were about to lift Edmonds off the Isle in their chopper. But a strong force of our guards counter-attacked. The chopper was wrecked. So the Thrushmen fought their way---“

  A coughing fit halted his speech for a moment.

  “---to the docks. The chap on our side, the one who sold out, knew about this station. Knew we kept a chopper here. He led them out. They stole a launch. Got to the mainland. Trekked the twenty miles or so here. Edmonds was leading them. I was on the radio when they came across the river on logs they’d cut in the forest on the other side. Edmonds---“

  Now Plympton strained up again, his blotched purple cheeks shining. “His monkey---his damned monkey---“ And once more Plympton screamed.

  In the silence after the shrieks bubbled away, Illya Kuryakin rose and nodded. Solo heard.

  More yells on the river, quite close.

  Solo ran to the gun racks. He hauled out both the rifles, checked their loads. There was a little ammunition left. One clip in each.

  He tossed one to Illya, then turned back to Plympton. “Edmonds and his men stole the helicopter. Is that it?”

  With a convulsive, pain-ridden nod, Plympton said “Yes.”

  “And this talk about a monkey---“ Illya began.

  “A little thing.” Plympton was almost whimpering. “Little brown feller. Like the kind that run all through the forest around here. It was riding on Edmonds’ shoulders. He had a muzzle on it. A leather muzzle. While his men got the ‘copter ready, he kept me in here, yelling at me, telling me how he was going to get back at U.N.C.L.E. because they’d locked him away five long years. Then he babbled something about haw he was going to do it, and---and he slipped the monkey’s muzzle. The thing jumped to my shoulder. It bit me. It bit me---“

  Plympton’s screaming began again, as though he were re-living the scene. He flailed the air with his purple-wet hands.

  Solo tried to speak to him, get his attention. Plympton couldn
’t hear. He was staring at his own disfigured hands, twisting them back and forth in front of his face.

  “Half an hour after the thing bit me, my hands started to turn. Like this. Like this. All black and purple, sticky. I hurt inside.” Plympton’s mouth wrenched again. He lifted his grisly, disfigured face in mute helplessness. “What’s wrong with me? Why does it hurt the way it does? The monkey bit me. I---I tried to run but I wasn’t fast enough.”

  Plympton’s eyes glazed again. He batted the air as he tried to rise. “Keep it away from me, Edmonds. Keep it away from me!”

  Plympton gained his feet, flailed the air. Then, as if he were a balloon that had suddenly been pricked, he crumpled.

  Napoleon Solo bent over him. Gingerly he rolled the man onto his back. Plympton’s cheeks crawled with the sour-smelling slime.

  “Dead,” Solo said.

  “Of a plague,” Illya stared at Solo, bleak-eyed. “A plague carried by Dantez Edmonds.”

  Then it clicked into place, a final horror that battered Napoleon Solo’s mind with brutal force. “Now I remember, Illya. Edmonds was caught by three of the top men in Policy and Operations. That Indian fellow. One of the European execs. And Mr. Waverly.”

  “And now perhaps the worst madman in all of THRUSH’s filthy history is free and looking for his tormentors. Is that what you’re thinking?”

  “Yes,” Solo said. “Yes, looking for Mr. Waverly. I never met Edmonds. I saw his pictures. Heard stories of the way he killed men---“

  Another shudder worked along Napoleon Solo’s spine, and a sense of enormous peril settled over him in that precise second. On the floor, Plympton’s cheeks still crawled with a moist, grotesque life all their own. Even though he was dead, the blotchiness was spreading across his undiseased skin.

  Napoleon Solo thought of Mr. Waverly, of the desperate necessity to warn him. Gunfire sounded from the riverfront. Yells ripped the dusk

  Solo remembered the pursuers then. He ran to the door of the Quonset, jacking loads into the rifle chamber.

  “Try the radio, Illya. They may not have knocked it out if they were in a hurry to escape. Try to call the Isle. Maybe they can send some men cross country.