The Final Affair

'Well, it's not really intended as an anti-personnel weapon. There is more film…

The second fireball was launched again, followed some seconds later by a third. Then the scene cut to an awkward angle of a number of test walls – apparently brick, wood, concrete and stucco. There wasn't much left of the wooden one, and the stucco was distinguished by shiny stubs of fused chicken wire which stuck out from its shattered edges. A piece had been knocked from the brick structure, and as they watched a ball two feet in diameter slapped into it and in a flare which fogged to the edges of the frame it vanished, taking a quarter of the wall with it.

'Could we see…'

'Certainly.' Time reversed, and a cloud of rusty fragments leaped together in a flash of fire which shot away to the right. Grain appeared on the screen for a moment, and the familiar light-and-dark alternation brought a fuzzy ball of brilliance into one corner of the frame.

'Notice it's larger and travelling more slowly. Our photographer says the; range was about one hundred yards. Nevertheless, I believe the temperature of the plasmoid is still over ten thousand degrees, though probably not by much.'

In the next frame a quarter of the wall was obscured but displacement was clearly visible in the brickwork pattern close to the edge of the burned-out part of the image. The third and fourth frames were both nearly transparent except at the corners, and the fifth was normally exposed with blurred fragments suspended in mid-air. and black slag running shiny as oil over the shattered edges of the wall. In two more frames the bits of brick were gone and froth was beginning to burst and freeze in the slag.

Normal speed was resumed, and with hazy telephoto unsteadiness they were shown four more impacts against the concrete wall; the third cracked enough loose to expose steel rods bracing the structure, and the fourth melted the exposed rods and blasted more cement loose around them. Then the film ran out and the room lights faded up.

A signal was flashing insistently at Waverly's elbow. He touched a button and said, 'Yes?'

'Sirrocco just checked in, sir,' said a clerk. 'Stevens signalled her about six minutes ago.'

'That's our call, I believe,' said Napoleon. 'By the way, where are we going this time? I hope you've picked a better location for the drop.'

'Hm. There are perils in picking a site at random from the telephone directory. Yes, we have a meeting place of the highest character. The drop will be handled as before, with two or three minor variations in the floor plan – when you go to his booth after he leaves, the access code will be written on the inside of a matchbook and tucked behind the lamp on the wall just above the table.'

'How soon do we start?'

'Shortly. It's only half a mile from here, but Mr. Stevens is programmed to make the drop at 12:36 this time. Still, if you haven't eaten and would like to catch the midnight show, Jack Packard has recommended the Casa del Gato. I'm sorry dinner cannot come under your expense account, but the cover charge and one drink each would be deductable.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Napoleon. 'I've got time to find a clean shirt downstairs. Illya, do you think I need to shave?'

'I think you're beautiful just the way you are. Come on – I just realised I haven't had anything to eat since two o'clock.'

CHAPTER SIX

'It's Clobberin' Time!'

Unlighted doorways with heavy gratings across their shuttered windows lined the narrow alley; trash bins stood against the walls with garbage cans here and there among them. A flashing neon sign near the T-cross of another alley threw a wash of red across the building fronts and picked out the rough cobbles underfoot. The crude outline of a mangy-looking cat intermittently shone over an entrance, signalling any customers who might pass, but promising nothing.

Napoleon and Illya in California formal attire, with raincoats, sauntered down the sea-damp alley to pause beneath the blinking beacon. 'Casa del Gato,' Napoleon read. 'I hope we don't need reservations.'

Pungent music welled out around the door as they entered, with the mixed scents of smoke, red wine and searing meat to fill nostrils sharpened by the chill night air. Inside a slender girl spun and stamped to the music of a gitano guitar, and a swarthy man with a gold ring in his left ear led them to a table in the shadows. Biftek Barbados and Paella con Polio were accompanied by a Basque rose and an impressive display of Flamenco talent, and most of an hour passed agreeably.

'Harry should be along in the next few minutes,' Napoleon remarked as he stirred a cafe-con- leche. The stage was dark again and an unseen guitarist wandered alone amid esoteric harmonies. 'Do you think I'll have time for a dish of flan?'

'It's only a third past midnight,' said Illya over the last of his saffron rice. 'You have fifteen minutes. And while we don't want to appear to leave before we're finished, we don't want to sit over an empty table for any (noticeable period. In other words, make up your own – '

The door burst open with a crash that startled the cafe into silence and three burly unshaven men in tattered jackets shouldered in. More were visible crowding behind them, in the moment of stillness as the echoes of their entrance faded the leader roared, 'T. Hewett, you ******!! We're here to return your call!' He slapped the levi- jacketed giant next to him on the arm and said, 'Kill, Thing!'

The gorilla-like partner leaped into the center of the room with an unearthly yell and kicked over the two nearest tables, scattering customers like pigeons. As the other two cleared the door, what appeared for one stunning moment to be a barbarian horde poured into the night club, torn leather jackets, grime-crusted levis and biker boots their uniforms.

Twenty, thirty, forty, Illya counted mentally as customers fled in all directions before the invasion. They kept coming in, the main mass in action within fifteen seconds, smashing chairs, kicking over tables and slashing the. upholstery along the walls.

Their leader, having established himself, led a small charge towards a specific table where sat the object of his opening address, a lean, keen-featured man in a casual sport coat over a white shirt over a black turtleneck. This individual spoke briefly to his companion, a beautiful brunette in a silver panne velvet pants suit, who looked coolly up at the advancing force, then opened her evening bag and flicked out a nine inch switchblade. The main focus of hostility rose smoothly to his feet with the chair between him and the approaching bikers.

He handled himself like a professional, but somehow Napoleon Solo didn't like the idea of twenty to one.

A cashier was frantically jiggling the hook on her dead telephone as Napoleon suddenly got up from his table and started forward.

'Where do you think you're going?' said Illya, catching his arm. 'If you get into this you'll be noticed. Thrush is just as likely to have Harry followed tonight as they did two nights ago. Maybe more likely. Do you want to blow this whole scene?'

'But…' Napoleon stopped, one hand on the wrought iron railing that separated their table against the wall from the main floor.

The man, presumably Hewett, stood with his back to the matching railing at the front of the low stage. His hands gripped the top of a chair, and it was obvious without a spoken threat that the first arms and legs to reach for him would be broken. His companion remained seated, and had not opened her knife, but she eyed half a dozen hairy brutes on her side of the table, and none of them wanted to be the first to move.

Halted, several detached themselves from the fringes of the pack and started around onto the stage from both sides. A score more were content with systematically smashing the front of the club, ripping fixtures from the walls and slashing drapes and pictures.