"I quite understand, Mr. da Silva. The agents responsible will report to me personally. Now if..."
It wouldn't do much good around Denver and the air space was far too crowded. The smoke was radar-opaque, so the plane itself would be reasonably safe from ground fire in sensitive areas... The monster wouldn't matter much to the rebels in Tierra Caliente; though ignited from outside, they had the pains of their own world to fight and were not concerned with unexplainable threats. Thrush had certainly been behind the Clipperton Island operation, but that had been blown and was now under cover somewhere in the world—like the real Flin Flon Monster.
He only hoped that Thrush's secrecy about the unholy thing extended to their own field troops; they would only have heard about it and know vaguely that it was important. If it suddenly showed up in the middle of their operation, they'd think Central was taking a hand without telling them and confusion would result. In Hong Kong it would also serve to disconcert the rioters, most of whom probably hadn't the least idea what was really going on. Now where else could he use one?
He scanned the continents, reading the coded symbols projected on the big map, and stopped in eastern Africa. Tanzania. Almost south of Brittany, with Addis Ababa nearly between them, and with unrest brewing among the tribes in the north. A perfect spot for the third one. He started jotting notes.
Flying with the sun would lengthen the day; could he hit all three spots between one dawn and the next? But it was twelve hours to Hong Kong and only seven to France. Sunset tomorrow for take-off time... He spun an overlay on the map and projected an air route marked off in hours. They could hit Brittany at dawn, with an hour's margin; they'd have the day to fly south, stopping at Addis Ababa to refuel at... 3:00 P.M. local time; then play an evening performance in Tanzania about sundown. He could coordinate the appearance with Shomambe for locally publicity. Then a straight night run across the Indian Ocean would… Not quite. Hong Kong was a long way from anywhere. Dawn would get there before they could. Well, it would be the farewell performance of the counterfeit Flin Flon Monster—why not make it a memorable one? High noon over Victoria Harbour should be a properly prominent position. And just to confuse everything, Simpson could make it a bright Chinese red. When it dissipated at last before the sea breeze, street-cornet orators would really have something to argue about.
On a fresh sheet of paper he neatly noted the schedule and fed it into a scanner slot for transmission. He wondered idly what it would do to his day tomorrow.
… They'd hit Brittany at two o'clock in the morning, his time; Addis at seven, Tanzania about noon Friday, and they could make it to Hong Kong just before midnight the same day—New York time. They might just as well land in Hawaii... no, it would be better, for the sake of the arms he had twisted to get the plane at all, to have it report directly to Saigon for assignment. The technician who went along to handle the Monsters would then catch the next military shuttle flight home.
He made a few more notes, and was smiling grimly as he reached for his microphone to start everything rolling. He knew this one would work, but his fingers were crossed under the desk.
Chapter 15
"Pommery '74."
ILLYA'S NIGHTLY CHORES were simpler now, hut his sleep was reduced to catnaps in the kitchen between jobs. With Kiazim and Sakuda wandering somewhere about the vast half-tamed backyard that made up most of the Park, he had to keep more attention on their target. This took the form of staying near Waverly almost every possible moment short of sleeping on his door step.
With only two days left to play in the War Game, the Thrush assassins had seven days before Waverly returned to the safety of his heavily-protected New York office. They had told Silverthorne they couldn't—or wouldn't––help him in his game, but if they were to kill his opponent just before he made his winning move the game would go to the Thrush executive by default and the team would have made a powerful ally.
His bug in Waverly's cottage had picked up enough to tell him that tomorrow would bring the final attack, directed against Silverthorne's most strategic—most heavily defended—points. The attack would require careful, constant and personal supervision, very much Waverly's favorite style of combat. He could coordinate more data in his mind than three normal men, and balance factors in any conflict almost instinctively. This was the way he ran U.N.C.L.E.
Tomorrow afternoon Illya would have to arrange to be on the spot at Waverly's Field Command Post during the mock attack, ready to fend off a real one. If he could. Illya had no illusions about his abilities in hand-to-hand fighting. He knew he was good; he also knew how much better either of the two assassins was, and he did not look forward to the inevitable confrontation. Waverly's bungalow was safe enough for the evening, which meant he could get some sleep for a change. He'd need it.
Hot dry spring sunshine baked down on him as he squatted, relaxed and ready, in the midst of a clump of bushes. Knee-high grass surrounded the natural blind, leaving Illya a clear view of the modified house-trailer mounted with assorted antennae and sprouting half a dozen cables. Distantly over the ridge sounded gunfire, flat and faint, and the intermittent roar of engines. The war was going right on schedule.
And so was everything else. He didn't see the assassins come into sight, but suddenly became aware of them standing under the edge of the line of trees below the ridge where the trailer was parked. He raised the U.N.C.L.E. Special with the telescopic sight, silencer and long barrel, and focused on the two figures. No, just one. The Turk was clearly visible, but only the white shape of his partner's legs could be seen through the screening branches.
Illya bit his lip. He disliked shooting an unsuspecting man from cover, even fully aware the man wouldn't have a moment's thought about doing the same to him, and equally aware that in no other way could he fulfill his assignment. There was barely a perceptible hesitation as he let half his long-held breath out slowly, centered the crosshairs, and squeezed the trigger.
The Turk flopped backwards and rolled out of sight. No way to tell if he was out of the picture—he could have had a bulletproof vest on. And the Japanese hadn't moved... There was a sinking feeling in the pit of Illya's stomach for less than a second before an icy hand fitted itself snugly around his neck.
His gun dropped from nerveless fingers and his flexed knees flopped loosely. The hand released its numbing grip and he fell, gasping, every muscle tingling. Stiffly his neck turned to follow his eyes, and he saw the lean, wiry figure of Sakuda Matsujiro standing over him, flexing his knobbed hands slowly.
Illya's arms trembled violently as he tried to raise himself, and one collapsed. The face of the little Oriental was a mask of amber as he knelt and set his hand to Illya's knee. Needles of pain lanced through his leg, and he thought for a moment his kneecap had been broken. He managed to roll himself halfway over and clutched for his gun, but a sandaled foot came down on his wrist, and the slender knotted fingers closed around his shoulder and dug into his armpit.
His throat constricted against the scream that choked to his lips. As the incredible grip relaxed he writhed on the ground, tortured nerves aflame with the pain of returning life. Slowly his vision cleared as the grip did not return. He rolled his head, gasping for breath, his heart pounding, and saw his killer standing a few feet away. He was looking past Illya with an unreadable expression on his face.