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Authors: Robert Hart Davis

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BOOK: The World's End Affair
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"Since when does a Chinese nightingale turn into a THRUSH?" Illya asked.

 

The officer shrugged. "Actually, it's a most convenient arrangement. I have access to information from all the Chinese radar installations in the district. You see, we have been expecting visitors from U.N.C.L.E. ever since our experimental flight on Air Pan-Asia apparently met with failure due to your meddling.

 

"You were observed in Hong Kong taking Mr. Chee aboard the flight for the United States. So we have been preparing. As senior officer in charge of the district beyond the pass, I receive immediate reports of all unidentified aircraft in our airspace. Thus I was reasonably certain you had arrived by parachute two nights ago.

 

"Of course I was forced to carry out the charade of searching the terrain with the truck convoy. A pretty predicament! I knew you were hiding behind those rocks beside the road. I saw the marks in the earth. But one of my soldiers also saw them, so I was unable to overlook them. Fortunately the wild yak happened along to explain away the marks and give me a legitimate excuse to call a halt to the search."

 

The scarred officer stepped two paces forward, to allow room for the other THRUSH soldiers who were appearing from the door in the tree. There were six of them, a squad, all in black boots, trousers, blouses. They carried rapid-fire machine pistols with large, round infra-red snooper sights mounted on top.

 

They were a mixed lot, typical of THRUSH forces: two appeared to be European, one English or American, and three Oriental. All of them had the flat, featureless expression of the professional assassin.

 

"Are there any more questions before it is my turn to be inquisitive?" the officer said.

 

"Yes," Solo said. "You didn't take us prisoner yesterday because you wanted to save us for THRUSH. Isn't that a pretty risky business?"

 

The officer looked amused. "In certain quarters it might be. Here it is not. This region of Tibet is sparsely populated. It is even more sparsely garrisoned by the Chinese army. Since I am in command of the area, my orders are executed without question."

 

Illya gestured at the valley, the peaceful, sun-dappled rice fields. "How do you convince your Chinese friends to leave this place alone? After all, observation planes from the Chinese air force must have spotted it."

 

"Naturally," the officer said. His tone indicated the question was naive. "Again, by deft maneuvering, all Chinese military units within a certain radius have been convinced that this valley is actually a highly secret research installation - which is true - operated by the

Peking regime - which is not true. We manage to maintain the fiction."

 

Solo shook his head. "From Mao to THRUSH. That's quite a transformation."

 

The officer's lips curled. "We find the Chinese contemptible milksops."

 

The officer jerked his gun muzzle down the hill. "I believe we have wasted enough time. Shall we go?"

 

"Preferably to hell," Solo said, diving his hand under his robe for his pistol.

 

The odds were hopeless. As Solo dropped into a fighting crouch and leveled his gun, the THRUSH squad swarmed forward. Machine pistol butts thudded against his skull, into his midriff, onto the back of his neck. Solo swung a punch and hit nothing but air. A THRUSH soldier kicked him in the belly.

Solo went down on his knees. A rabbit-chop drove him flat. Other soldiers rushed out of the tree door to seize Illya, Ah Lan and Mei.

 

A little line of blood ran out of the left side of Solo's mouth as he sprawled on his back in the warm, fragrant orchard. The officer loomed above him, S-scar shining white. The officer placed the hobnailed sole of his boot on Solo's Adam's apple and pressed down.

 

"That was a damned fool trick," said the officer. He smiled thinly. "I can see by the expression on your face, Mr. Solo, that you are surprised I speak your language."

 

"Yes," Solo grunted.

 

"It's quite simple. I was educated. in your country. At U.C.L.A."

 

Solo said, "I should have guessed."

 

For his sarcasm he got another forty pounds of pressure applied to his throat, hard.

 

 

Act III: So Sorry, Mark Twain

 

 

The four prisoners were taken to one of the black buildings. An elevator shaft carried them an unknown distance underground. They were led down a corridor to a huge chamber equipped with computers, control consoles, and a dozen television monitors with fifty-inch screens.

 

Generators hummed. Technicians in THRUSH smocks busied everywhere. As their captors prodded them forward, Solo noticed that several of the monitors which cast a pale, eerie light over the vaulted rooms showed scenes in the valley. But three of the screens contained views of buildings and a harbor which Solo could identify.

 

"They're interested in Hong Kong for some reason," he whispered to Illya.

 

"No talking!"

 

The officer with the S-scar hit Solo in the lower backbone with a swagger stick. Solo ground his teeth together. That particular nasty was going to be dealt with before this affair was finished.

 

His attention was diverted to their destination, a large, open area in the center of the humming chamber. The focal point of the area was a spacious work table. Two objects sat on it. One was a dully shining vinyl-covered belt, of the sort the renegade pilot had worn. The other was the belt's companion equipment, a black generator box.

 

A disconcerting difference hit Solo then. This black box was three times the size of the one discovered in Alfred C. Chee's luggage.

 

Hovering over the apparatus were two men. One was bony, horse-jawed, with thin gray hair over an elongated skull. He had Occidental skin coloring but slanted eyes. His hands fluttered restlessly at his waist. He peered through thick spectacles as the officer marched the prisoners up to the table.

 

"Ah, Major Otako! Well done, well done," said the man with spectacles.

 

"Thank you, Dr. Dargon. We had no difficulty. I trust, sir, that you and the general will turn them over to me as soon as you are finished with them. I would consider it an honor to be allowed to dispose of two lickspittle servants of U.N.C.L.E. and their treacherous guides. I assure you the liquidation will be conducted in proper style."

 

"Yes, yes; you're expert at such things," said Dr. Dargon. He giggled.

 

His companion walked, or rather appeared to ooze, forward. He was Chinese, with a bald, shining pate. He weighed close to four hundred pounds. The white planter's suit which he wore resembled a tent. His four yellow chins all but hid his necktie.

 

The jolly fat man's look was deceptive. Solo knew it the moment his gaze met the Oriental's blubber- socketed eyes boring into his.

 

"It will not be long before your services are required, Major," the huge man said. He spoke in an asthmatic wheeze, resting the palms of his hands on his immense paunch. "You are Solo and you are Kuryakin, eh? Well, I have heard of you both. Perhaps you have heard of me also. General Weng, at your service. Forgive me for appearing in mufti.

 

"I am about to depart from Hong Kong to conduct a major test of this apparatus you see before you. I will be taking off from the airstrip within the hour. But I did not want you to arrive without being properly greeted."

 

General Weng moved round the table. His right hand closed over Solo's forearm. Through the wool of the holy robe, the fingers cut viciously into Solo's flesh. He had to fight to keep his face from cracking with pain. General Weng increased the pressure.

 

"After all, Mr. Solo, it was you and your associate who disrupted our first full-scale test of the storm machine."

 

"Well, I'm sorry about that," Solo said. The pain from the pressure of the fat fingers brought dizziness. With a gasp Solo added, "It's just that I've always had this silly thing about thunder and lightning -"

 

Illya recognized Solo's plight. He raised a diversion: "How does it happen, General Weng, that an officer so highly placed in the Red Chinese regime becomes a tool of THRUSH?"

 

The general released Solo, who rocked back on the balls of his feet, pale. The general held his paunch once more.

 

"Long ago, Kuryakin, I realized that the so-called plans of the Chinese leaders for world conquest were ill conceived. Mao is an addlepated poet surrounded by weaklings and sycophants. They will destroy themselves. They are not to be taken seriously. THRUSH, on the other hand, will achieve its goal of total domination."

 

"If you don't think the Chinese are serious," Solo said, "I'd hate to hear what you're cooking up."

 

Dr. Dargon sucked noisily on one of his pointed front teeth. "By all means tell him, General."

 

The general laid his hand on top of the generator box. He stroked it with an almost sensual pleasure. "I am sure the significance of our current plan will be lost on these two peasants who have been duped into aiding you, Mr. Solo. But perhaps you and Kuryakin can appreciate it. Two important nations in the Asian bloc have recently found their relations menaced by rising tensions. A number of border incidents have resulted. Skirmish fire between their troops. A few deaths on each side. The tensions have increased to the point where war threatens. Such a war could plunge Asia, and the entire globe, by escalation, into a holocaust."

 

Illya's expression was unpleasant. "Horror makes you THRUSH people so cheerful."

 

General Weng chuckled and held his paunch. "Naturally. THRUSH is holding the high

cards."

 

Solo noticed that Mei had regained her composure. With her father's arm around her waist, she digested Weng's remarks. Solo was in the dark about everything except the need to escape. He got busy checking the layout of the large chamber.

 

A railed concrete ramp led upward from the floor along the one wall. Two THRUSH guards with full battle dress manned this exit, over which a red bulb flashed intermittently. The prisoners had been brought down a similar ramp on the room's opposite side. As far as Solo could tell, the command center had no other exits.

 

Weng peeled back his white suit cuff. He consulted a highly capitalistic platinum wristwatch. "Time is short. You will understand," he said, "that I cannot participate in the amenities this occasion demands, much as I would wish." Weng's small eyes shone with amusement. "Major Otako is competent to handle them, however."

 

"And I will assist," Dr. Dargon added with a somewhat maniacal cackle. "My work is complete. Oh, yes, finished. My precious -" A pat of the black generator box "- is now in the hands of my co-officer in THRUSH. We have a delightfully effective test planned for this unit. The unit, incidentally, is of triple capacity, considering the one aboard the jet plane as our basis for rating. How fortunate, don't you agree, that we have an opportunity to conduct a large-scale experiment and reap practical rewards at the same time?"

 

"What are you talking about?" Solo asked.

 

General Weng feigned bewilderment. "Why, Mr. Solo, don't you know? As students of - not to say meddlers in - world affairs, are you not aware that the two nations I alluded to a moment ago are even now convening secretly in Hong Kong to try to settle their differences around the conference table before Asia is plunged into war? The conferees arrived yesterday in the Crown Colony via ordinary commercial aircraft. They will be meeting in the Hotel Hong Kong International, ostensibly as delegates to the Seminar on Asian Cultural Resources. That is merely a blind, to allow them to hold the conference on neutral territory. We have ways of knowing these things."

 

General Weng turned to study one of the huge television monitors on the wall. Its camera sent back a sharp picture of the black building above ground, which the U.N.C.L.E. agents had guessed to be a hangar. The hangar door was shut tight. But the screen showed a uniformed figure operating some sort of switch box alongside the great door.

 

A technician from the monitor board strode up and saluted. "General, your aircraft will be on the ready line in five minutes."

 

Weng nodded. He snapped his fingers. Two THRUSH men rushed to the table. One was wheeling a steamer trunk equipped with casters. The other carried a bulging suitcase.

 

The technicians loaded the generator into the trunk. Then they packed the switch belt in among the several folded suits of tent-like size. These disappeared as the technician shut and latched the grip. Weng beamed at his luggage, which was colorfully decorated with travel decals.

 

"Just a happy-go-lucky tourist on a holiday." Weng wheezed with delight and massaged his paunch. "I shall set up our perfected storm generator and produce the most violent weather Hong Kong has ever experienced. Total devastation. The hotel and those at the conference will be destroyed. Then I shall remove certain secret, key parts from the equipment and let the shells be found. They will bear unmistakable markings. When found, the equipment will be immediately identified as the property of the secret service of one of the nations attending the conference. Immediately –" Weng gestured flamboyantly "- total war."

 

"And THRUSH will be left to pick up the pieces?" Solo grated.

 

"Yes, isn't that splendid?" Dr. Dargon made unpleasant juicy noises as he sucked his front tooth. His eyes moved like darting fish behind his lenses. "The test will place THRUSH in the position of being able to successfully submit its demands to every government on the globe. Those demands will call for total surrender. And when nations face devastation by hurricanes, floods, blizzards, parching droughts - surrender will be both total and prompt."

BOOK: The World's End Affair
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