20 - The Corfu Affair Page 9

  CHAPTER NINE

  PART of the aircraft cabin had been set aside as an emergency operating room. Solo lay inert on the narrow bed as Susan Harvey checked his pulse and respiration and announced herself satisfied. Waverly and Kuryakin were standing anxiously by.

  "It's going to be all right," she said. "You planted the anaesthetic darts just right, Illya. He'll be ready in a moment or two."

  "You'll be able to locate the exact spot of the insertion?"

  "No trouble to that, Mr. Waverly. Here, you can see for yourself." She lifted the unconscious man's head and showed where a small flap of skin and hair could be lifted up easily. "Plastic plug in place. I doubt if I'd have to use instruments, other than a small pair of forceps. Still, I'll scrub up and do it thoroughly."

  "All right." Kuryakin sighed and relaxed a shade. "I'll go and get this comic opera makeup off." He ran fingers through the caked dye on his hair and made a face.

  "I rather like it dark," she said. "It suits you!"

  He glared at her, but the words which came to his tongue were hardly suitable for saying aloud, so he swallowed them and went limping away to the aircraft's tiny washroom. Waverly lingered, but his thoughts had gone far beyond the operation.

  "You anticipate no difficulty in removing this gadget from Mr. Solo's brain, but can you give any estimate as to whether it might have produced any permanent effect?"

  "That's something I won't be able to say until we've had a full-scale check-up. Not until we get back to a proper laboratory. The possibilities are immense, and I've nothing at all to go on. Most obvious, of course, is the risk of infection, but I imagine the Countess would be too good a surgeon to make that kind of mistake. There may, also, be localized brain damage. Most probable, I would say, is some kind of mental disturbance, and that is quite outside my field."

  "I see. Thank you for being candid, Miss Harvey. I'll leave you now to do what you must. Keep him under sedation until we can lay on a proper checkup."

  Waverly went away to his cabin, there to activate a radio link which disturbed a quiet, urbane-looking man who was at that moment leaning back in a seat in the very aircraft Solo had been booked to fly in. At the faint bleat of his communicator he stood up and made his way briskly to the washroom, there to pull out his instrument and answer,

  "Crawford White here."

  "Everything went as planned, Mr. White. You know what to do now. When you change planes in Rome you will be bothered by the Rome police, you will make a break, escape from them, and then go to ground. It has all been prepared. You will be Mr. Solo until you receive a further order from

  "I have all that, Mr. Waverly."

  "Good. You may now remove the lead from your module and go ahead as planned. No more communication with us by this channel. Be alert for signals from Corfu, and reply accordingly. Out!"

  Whereupon Crawford White carefully deactivated his communicator so that it would not sound again, then, with equal care, set about peeling off a protective layer of lead foil from the module that was securely fastened to his jaw bone by adhesive tape. It was no coincidence that he looked very like Napoleon Solo in appearance, nor that his voice was very similar in tone. He had been selected with those very characteristics in mind. He was about to become Solo in everything but the fact. It was highly important that Countess Louise did not discover that her tame dog had shed his leash. It was all part of a plan that Waverly had concocted, one that required Solo to put his head back into the mouth of the tigress once again, just as soon as it could be established that he was sound in mind and body.

  There were minor details to clear up. The stolen modules had been recovered and were even now being inspected by a team of experts under Cronshaw. The jamming interference was off, but could be restored at the least sign of consciousness in Solo. And Crawford White's module was an exact harmonic match for the one in Solo's head. Waverly scanned through a long list of such lesser items, ticking them off. A lot of work had gone into this operation. Harmless copies of the modules were already made and standing by for the next step. Waverly chewed on his pipe and reviewed his plans over and over, striving to find some weakness in them. It was the only thing to do, now, until Solo had been checked out. On him rested the final action.

  Chores done, his musings turned to a slightly different theme. There seemed to be a fairly firm and unbroken chain of effect from the theft of the radio-modules, then to Countess Louise, and to this devilish device for controlling a person like a puppet. But how did this concern Thrush? If there was a logical tie up, Waverly couldn't see it. The Countess was definitely involved with Thrush, of that he was certain, although he didn't know just how she functioned within that vast, faceless and sinister organization.

  But how on earth could the ability to implant a radio control unit inside a person's skull have any great attraction for the evil men whose one aim was to dominate the civilized world? It was tempting to think they had some wild idea of surgical implantation for large numbers of people, but that just was not feasible. In the first place there weren't all that many modules available. Even the nonprofit resources of military research couldn't make them in very great quantity. And in the second place there was the surgery to think of, and the complex of control equipment. The idea just would not work.

  Waverly shoved away from his temporary desk and went impatiently away to find Kuryakin and argue it out with him.

  The small, three bed ward was hushed and quiet. Waverly and Kuryakin stood near, but not too near, the bed where Solo lay unconscious. Two male agents chosen for bulk and muscle lounged unobtrusively but alert in the far corners.

  Susan Harvey stood by the bed, holding one limp wrist and nodding to herself in satisfaction.

  "Almost ready," she said, moving briskly to the trolley where instruments stood ready. She took up a hypodermic. "The sedation is almost gone. This should wake him up right away. I can't tell you exactly what to do in advance, because I don't know what's going to happen. The only advice I can offer is to stay calm, try to reassure him if he seems to need it, and don't use violence unless it is absolutely necessary. Now!" She went back to the bedside, made the injection swiftly, then withdrew a little, to stand and watch like the rest.

  The man on the bed stirred, rolled his head, sighed heavily, then opened his eyes. He stared at the roof, then his eyes came sideways, saw Susan, focused on her. He broke into a strained smile.

  "I know this bit," he said, in a voice dusty from long disuse. "I'm supposed to say, where am I?"

  "Who are you?" she asked, in counter question, and his smile dimmed.

  "You have a point. I am Napoleon Solo, late of the United Network Command—" he stopped suddenly, a curious look on his face. He shook his head, but not as a negative, more like a man who expects it to hurt and is wondering why it doesn't. Susan Harvey made a guess.

  "You're all right now," she said. "It's gone. I've taken it out." And she made a slight gesture to the top of her own head. Solo stared and the struggle to believe her was apparent in his face. Then relief, a visible sag and audible sigh of relief.

  "I don't know who you are, or how you knew, but I owe you much. To have that damned twitch, that infernal sub-audible whisper, gone! It's been a kind of refined hell to know that at all times, no matter what I did, she was listening, right there inside my own head. . You're sure?"

  "Oh yes, quite sure. Several hours ago. You are safely back inside U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters now, Mr. Solo. I am Dr. Harvey, of the resident medical staff."

  "I'm glad to meet you. I wish it could have been under happier circumstances, or sooner. Right now I have to report to Mr. Waverly. It's urgent!

  "Look around," she invited, and moved back a step. Solo hoisted up on an elbow and moved his head.

  "Mr. Waverly!" He inclined his head a fraction, then grinned as he saw Kuryakin. "You too, Illya. I'm glad to see you can stand being shot. I've been trying to forget that bit of nightmare for some time. Was I dreaming, or did you shoot me, just a while a
go?"

  "No dream. But those were anaesthetic darts, for a purpose. Yours were real bullets, Napoleon!"

  "I know." Solo compressed his jaw sadly. "I didn't have much choice. I tell you, you've no idea just what brain washing is until you've had a she-devil actually sitting inside your skull repeating her commands. It's enough to drive a man mad."

  "Did it succeed, Mr. Solo?" Waverly's voice was quiet but firm.

  "I don't think so, sir, but I'm ready to take any tests you like. In the meanwhile, there's something you need to know." He sat up in the bed now, threw back the sheet and swung his legs to the floor. The beefy agents moved closer, just in case, but he never even noticed them. "Louise is setting up one of the most deadly rackets you can imagine. You know, I take it, how the modules work?"

  "Not exactly." Waverly was curious but very much on his guard.

  "It's really very simple. Louise explained it all to me when I was in no position to argue. You see, she kept one half of the module pair to act as command. That's fitted into a power-transmitter with a microphone. There are various settings. On one certain setting she can talk into my head and I can't hear at all, not consciously. It's pitched subliminal. It's deadly!"

  "Not any more," Susan reminded him, and he gave a quick laugh.

  "It's going to take me a while to adjust to that again. Now—to get at the real devilment. With those modules Louise was experimenting with the remote control of various creatures, so I gather, but her big aim was to enslave people. She grows people." He said it flatly, waiting for the reaction. It took a while to come, and him some time to explain.

  "You mean—" Susan's voice shook as she tried to appear scientific, "that woman can actually grow complete human copies? Androids?"

  "That's exactly it. And perfect, they are. Beautiful. But brainless. No, not brainless, that's not the word. Mindless. Just waiting to be trained. As she puts it, an empty book, waiting to be written in."

  "That doesn't entirely surprise me," Kuryakin put in, quietly. "I saw those laboratories, in Paris. You will recall, Mr. Waverly, I reported that there were embryologists on the staff. You can see why, now."

  "Good Heavens!" Waverly caught his breath. Solo grinned.

  "Seems like a dream now, Illya, but that was some scrap we had. But I did shoot you, surely? I remember that bit."

  "You missed." Kuryakin moved forward, shoved his fringe aside to show the almost healed scar. "I've told you a hundred times, Napoleon, that you tend to pull off to the right with that Luger of yours in a snap shot."

  "Yeah!" Solo shook his head ruefully. "I'll have to watch that."

  "This is no time for badinage—" Waverly began, testily, but the Russian halted him with a gesture.

  "Just a minute, sir. Napoleon, did you drop that pencil-camera by accident? Really?"

  "No. I planted it. And the diagram, as best I could. It wasn't too easy to get those pictures, let me tell you, but that fiendish woman has to sleep sometime."

  "You did very well, Mr. Solo. Please go on with your account. You spoke of a master plan?"

  "That's right, sir. On the surface, it sounds nothing. Louise is selling slaves, of her own make. She guarantees to deliver the perfect slave, servant, assistant, companion, call them what you like. At a price. A quarter of a million dollars each, cash on the nail. Each one fitted with a skull unit, the matching half of which is supplied to the new owner."

  "That is certainly gruesome." Waverly shivered. "But not a very great threat to us. Is it?"

  "Not, as I said, on the surface. But there's more. So far she has made her sales pitch to the various regional heads of Thrush. And she has managed to con them into a further refinement. She operates on them, just as she did on me, and inserts a command module to match the slave module. The con is that the big Thrush now has a perfect slave, utterly obedient and absolutely reliable, that will respond to the master's every wish, be in total contact at all times, and through which the master can literally 'be' wherever the slave is. The ideal snoop."

  "Just a minute!" Kuryakin became agitated, and Solo grinned.

  "You've spotted it, Illya. You would, I guess. It's like this, sir. What Louise is not telling them, but I happen to know, is that she has her own split-frequency radio setup. She can, at will, transmit into or listen from any one of those modules, at any time. Not only does she plan to be on the inside of everything that happens within Thrush, she plans, in the long run, to take over. Thrush aims to take over the world. Louise intends to take over Thrush, from the inside!"

  "Can she do that?" Waverly demanded.

  "I'll say. When the little demon inside your head starts to shout, you obey. Believe me, you obey, or you get a jolt that feels as if the top of your head is coming off. She can do it!"

  CHAPTER TEN

  OUT of a long and tense silence, Waverly spoke with a sigh. "At any rate we have established one thing to my satisfaction, Mr. Solo. Your mind is unimpaired. That is something to be thankful for. But your news is very bad indeed. I need hardly point out to any of you that the one thing which has always been on our side is the human tendency among the Thrush Hierarchy to quarrel among themselves for supremacy. It is their one weakness. And they know it as well as we do. That is why they have labored so long to perfect their Ultimate Computer. Of course, it goes against the human ego to take orders from a Computer, which is still a point in our favor. But if this dreadful woman gets her way, we lose all that. The entire Thrush evil will come under the single-minded and brilliant control of one person. That we must stop, at all costs."

  "That means stopping Louise," Solo declared. "There's no other way. And I don't see how. Not now. If I was still on the inside, I could get close enough—but that's out, now. You can safely bet that she knows, by now, that I'm off the chain. Free of her influence."

  "That is not necessarily so, Mr. Solo." Waverly dropped the words into the discussion very gently. Solo stared.

  "But she must know. Just as soon as you took that thing out of my head, it would go dead, and she would know!"

  "At this moment," Waverly said, as if talking to him self, "Mr. Crawford White is on the plane you were supposed to catch. When he touches down at Rome there will be a carefully contrived conflict with the Rome police. He will run, will go into hiding, and stay under cover until the heat is off."

  "So?"

  "So Mr. White bears a strong physical resemblance to you, Mr. Solo. In particular his voice is very like yours. At times, for the amusement of fellow agents, he has been known to do lifelike impersonations of you. And he has a module taped to his jaw that is a perfect wavelength match for the one we removed from you."

  Solo thought hard, and it was obvious that he didn't like what he was thinking. Waverly waited a moment then resumed:

  "He will remain in hiding long enough to give us time to work out some feasible plan for removing that menace from Corfu. We have two or three days, possibly more. But, and I am sure you have already realized this, Mr. Solo, the success of any plan we may devise will depend to a great deal on you. In the circumstances I feel I cannot order you to cooperate. I cannot order you to put yourself in jeopardy again, where that woman is concerned. But I can, and I do, ask you to consider our plan."

  Solo's face was a study in tension, but before he could bring himself to pass comment, Susan Harvey stepped into the discussion.

  "Mr. Solo is still my patient," she stated firmly. "I forbid any further discussion or planning for at least twenty-four hours."

  "That's it!" Solo caught her up quickly and grinned. "Doctor's orders. You can't argue with those." He looked up at her, then up and down, and his grin bloomed into a warm smile. "Especially a doctor like this. All at once I feel weak and helpless. Leave me!"

  Kuryakin snorted. "You need a doctor like you need a hole in the head!" He aimed a cold blue stare at Susan. "Don't let that helpless-in-bed routine fool you. What you should have done, while you had the chance, was to have inserted an on-and-off switch into his skull. You may
need it." He moved to the door on the heels of Waverly and the two grinning agents. In the doorway he halted and turned.

  "Don't worry, Napoleon," he said. "I won't tell anybody."

  Solo bit it. "Won't tell anybody what?"

  "That you really do have a hole in your head, as they have always suspected!"

  He ducked out of the door as Solo reached for something to throw, and then chuckled easily. But the smile faded as he turned to look at Susan.

  "It's a point," he murmured. "Will I be affected, d'you think?"

  "Not at all," she assured him. "In a week or two there'll be hardly a trace. With all her faults, Docteur-Proffesseur Louise Santelle is still a fine surgeon. She made a neat job."

  "Who?"

  "Your Countess Louise. I looked her up in the medical records. She was a brilliant woman in her field. Too bad she had to go crooked."

  "Ah well," he sighed, and wriggled happily in the bed. "Let's not talk about her. Let's talk about you. How come, for instance, that someone as beautiful as you has been right here in Headquarters for a time and I didn't know?"

  "I can't imagine," she retorted calmly, "since my special field is dealing with the worst cases of infection and contamination."

  "Like that, are we?" he murmured. "Tell me, what will your tiny-tot sister say when she finds out you've pinched her best dress?"

  "I think," she said, "it's high time I gave you another shot of sedation. You're beginning to get worked up…"

  The trim blue-and-silver yacht heaved lazily at her anchor in the jewel-blue swell of the Ionian Sea, just half a mile south of the Kanoni Lagoon, and slightly less than that away from the eastern shoreline of the island. On the upper deck, in the glorious afternoon sunshine, Illya Kuryakin lolled in blue bathing briefs and acted the part of a careless holiday-maker. By his side sprawled Susan Harvey, taking the sun in a minimum white bikini. The pair of them had gone deliberately through the charade of showing excitement and interest in the scenery, had stared adequately but not too pointedly at the pink-and-white fairy tale palace in the near distance. Now they were just lazing, showing no great interest in anything.