"Perfect. Even Dundee will have to admire me for this," Saturn said. "You play your part wonderfully, Mr. - what was your name?"
"U.N.C.L.E. man," Illya said. "Remember?"
"If you really want to die anonymously, so be it. Every man has that right."
"The posts are ready," Charles called. "But I say he needs a little extra send-off. You can't just capture an U.N.C.L.E. agent and let him die in peace. You have to leave some evidence to scare the rest of them."
"Right," Barber echoed. "Let's make some physical contact. Give him some lumps to think about while he dies."
Saturn nodded. "Good thought. Without it, U.N.C.L.E. might think this elaborate death was just the aberration of an actor. Well, I'm no actor and they may as well know it now."
Illya stood between the two Thrush gorillas, felt their hands grab his arms, and prepared his body to take the pummeling it was going to get. He relaxed into the strong grip of his captors, leaning on them, so that when the blows came and his body recoiled, they would absorb some of the impact as they held him up. He consciously set his stomach muscles, positive that after a few smashes to his face the men would concentrate on his midsection. He adjusted his mind to think of the coming fists as no more than the hard throw of a medicine ball. But all the time he knew it wouldn't feel like a medicine ball at all.
The first fist darted for him, catching him on the cheek, and he rolled with it, but the second caught him full force. His mouth was hit and his teeth cut his lip, bringing salt and blood. He let his cries fall where they might. This was a good old-fashioned beating that didn't call for heroics, and he didn't care if they knew they were hurting him. Open hands and closed hands smashed into his face, and then, as he had guessed, they moved down to his stomach. The sun was unrelenting, his own sweat blinded his groggy vision, and he swayed.
Pound, pound, pound. And some vicious kicks. He couldn't accept it anymore and got off a kick of his own, well placed, that sent a gorilla rolling on the brown grass. For his effort, the kick was returned two-fold. His head wobbled on his neck and all that was holding him up were the strong hands of his restrainers.
"Enough," came the voice of Saturn. "I want a live scarecrow and you're killing him."
The beating halted, but Illya hung limply. Let them do the work, he thought. Let them lift him about. He wasn't using another ounce of his sparse energy.
Lift him they did. The cross bar wired to the fence post was run through the sleeves of his jacket and his jacket was buttoned across his chest so that he was hanging by his arms, limp, ragged, as a scarecrow should hang. His feet were tied to the main post and then Saturn was busy replacing the fallen straw. Saturn stepped back to survey his work, judging it perfect. Illya's arms dangled from the elbows at the point where the cross bar stopped supporting his jacket, his hair fell across his forehead, his neck was limp, and he spouted straw from arms and legs.
"What did I tell you?" Saturn chortled. "He's perfect." He came to Illya and said, "The forecast for today is ninety-eight degrees, and humid. How long do you really think you can last in the full sun, with no water?"
Illya stared at him but said nothing. His throat was too dry, his stomach too sore, for the effort.
Saturn continued. "I think you'll probably survive the day and the night, but tomorrow is going to be even hotter. So they say. Don't despair. We won't leave you here forever. Once you're well dead, we'll take you down and ship you back to U.N.C.L.E. Fair enough?'
Illya did find his voice this time. "Such consideration is heartwarming."
"Good." Saturn patted his knee. "Now play your part well." He admired his coup once more and strode for the station wagon. "Come along, boys. The vulgar Mr. Dundee will arrive soon, and that other U.N.C.L.E. agent may pop up again. If you'd been at the barn when I needed you, we might have had both of them at once."
The six men trooped off after Saturn. Illya watched them go, then closed his eyes against the glare that beat on them from the sun. He tested his bonds and it was clear that he bad no chance of getting free. Saturn might be playing this like a stage performance, but he was certainly good at it. One thing was certain. He was going to be a strangely tanned corpse.
Chapter 12
"Chicken Feathers!"
SOLO LET a full hour pass lolling in the shade with Galaxy. Half of his mind enjoyed her languorous company, her soft hair, her pliant body; the other half kept track of his watch. One hour. Illya should have completed his prowling by now. He broke up the tender moment by shifting so Galaxy's head couldn't rest on his shoulder.
"You look like a man about to depart," Galaxy said softly.
"I can't spend the whole day dallying, love."
"Duty calls?"
"Not duty. Common sense calls."
"But it's been so nice."
Solo stood up, brushing the dust from his suit. "A piece of advice - get back to New York and start dancing. You're depriving a world full of lonely men."
She laughed, but it was short, interrupted by the tread of hurried steps. Mr. Saturn came around the corner of the barn, his thin face red. He stopped quickly, blanched, and recovered himself. "Galaxy! Are you still showing Mr. Solo the wonders of farm life? You might have known I'd need you."
Galaxy got up, the languor gone. "For what? I won't help clean up the barn. That's not what I was hired for."
"The luncheon supplies, my dear. It's already late. Come now, Galaxy. Right away." Saturn sent a message of haste with his caricature eyebrows.
Galaxy grimaced, squeezed Solo's hand, whispered a farewell, and left obediently.
Solo grinned. "Bravo, Mr. Saturn. You've found the way to out-argue a woman! You should write a book."
"I'm in a bit of a hurry, Mr. Solo, if you don't mind. And I'd prefer to have the theater locked when I leave."
"Right." Solo bowed slightly. "I'm on my way." Saturn was nervous, almost wary of him, but he didn't want to press the point now. He started off on a course that would take him around the barn.
"Come back through the way you came, please," Saturn told him. "I have the terrible sense of you trespassing out here while I'm innocently busy."
Solo obeyed, too, as Galaxy had. He followed the tall man inside, and at the foot of the loft ladder, halted. "I can see the open door from here. You go on with your shopping trip and I'll get out of your way."
Saturn watched Solo walk across the board stage and down the hill, then he climbed the ladder. At the last of Saturn's hurried shuffle, Solo spun around and sped back into the barn, running the length of it, keeping his feet to the straw patches for silence. He came to the underground door he wanted to investigate. From the loft he could hear voices, but gathered no words. There were four voices up there, not just Galaxy and Saturn.
Cautiously, he tested the door. Locked. He examined the lock and it was as he expected - new and tamper-proof. He'd have to burn it off. It would be a dead give away to the next Thrush who walked by that U.N.C.L.E. was present on this farm, but Mr. Waverly had ordered haste, so perhaps it was time to make their presence known.
He crept back to the ladder, where he could pick up words from the loft. Saturn was urging Galaxy to hurry, and talking to another man he called Barber. One of them was pacing up and down, clomping on the floor.