The Final Affair

Napoleon looked at Illya, then back at the stage where a deadly drama was developing. 'Call HQ and have them call the police riot squad, code three. Call anonymously. I can't stand here and watch this – just don't tell Mr. Waverly!'

He vaulted over the rail and leaped to the stage, grabbing at a piece of wrought iron decoration as he landed. He stumbled and a two-foot section with a twist in the middle broke off in his hand. Three bikers turned to face him. 'Keep out of this, you verbing adjective noun one of them warned.

'You don't have more than a couple minutes before the riot cops get here, punk,' snapped Solo. 'Do you want to leave walking, riding, or being carried?'

The unkempt biker laughed, a snort of derision. Then with a crash battle joined on the main floor. There were other knives in evidence, but the very press of numbers around Hewett prevented more than half a dozen coming within attack range of him. His stance was still solid, with a leg from the now-broken chair in each fist, and from his coiled crouch a hand or foot could dart and strike between thought and deed.

A long rip in one shoulder of his light jacket had laid bare the skin and a trickle of blood welled forth, but his breathing didn't seem hurried and his hair was undisturbed. He balanced like a dancer, holding off the first rush with the help of his companion, who stood straight and silver as a sword blade; a steel sliver stood from her dainty fist and its point flickered like a flame in a breeze – a respectful circle drew back from its bite, but a charge of animal rage was moments away. Not all the clientele were huddling towards the exits – several otherwise unconcerned citizens had stayed to join the brawl. Most of them seemed unexpectedly able to take care of themselves against the undisciplined biker gang – experienced looking men, several with scars of more than age, and cold professional eyes – but one or two were unlikely allies. A plump little man with grey at his temples wielded a neatly furled umbrella like a rapier, jabbing at faces and stomachs with the grace of a trained fencer; at his back a taller man who looked like an out-of-condition executive distinguished by the white forelock on his otherwise black head swung a chair.

'Hiram,' he gasped over his shoulder, 'are you sure we should stick around?'

'You wanted to come here, Clarence,' said the other, before lunging forward to half-impale a sweaty sternum.

The detachment expected to surround the embattled pair had been delayed by Napoleon more than ten seconds before the U.N.C.L.E. agent finished his repartee with the biker stud, who laughed and said, 'No fuzz coming here, man. Sparky pulled the phone wires. We got five or ten minutes. You wanna, go-round?'

'How many of you does it take to pull down a man?'

'As many as it takes, man – there's lots of us.' He lunged suddenly for Solo and a heavy waterglass hurtled out of nowhere to burst against the back of his head. His footing vanished and Napoleon sidestepped as he flew past with an inarticulate cry and shot full length off the stage.

During the moment his two cohorts took to react, Napoleon cracked one across the shins with his iron rod and just managed to ram the second in the pit of the stomach as he leaped forward. Now five more were coming towards him.

The first in the pack was floored by a heavy pitcher which entered the scene stage right along a parallel trajectory to that of the preceding glass. Napoleon glanced beyond him to see Illya in mid-air between their table and the back of another biker who was borne to the floor and did not rise again.

Then Illya was on the stage with his partner and their battle was fully joined. They had the stage cleared in the matter of a minute, and held the position for most of another minute until a wail of sirens pierced through the din and brakes squealed in the alley outside. Four masked and helmeted patrolmen ran in, batons at ready, cans of assorted incapacitants at their belts. Two were on the floor amid rubble before they had taken three steps; one was holding his own against five but more were leaping to join them. The fourth backed hastily out to call for reinforcements. 'Napoleon,' Illya yelled over the general noise, 'I think this is getting out of hand. Unless you want to be arrested along with everybody else, we should begin to disengage. Besides, I'm allergic to tear-gas.'

The half-circle around Hewett and his striking friend had dissipated, tempt(away by the prospect of policemen to loot, and the center of the brawl had shifted to the fallen guardians of public order. Suddenly the two men from U.N.C.L.E. found themselves with nobody to fight. The erstwhile target of the bikers' wrath stared after them for a moment, then the girl looked down at her silver velvet suit and swore a longshoreman's oath. 'They spilled the Chateau d'Yquem all over my panne!'

Hewett turned to the team behind him on the stage and nodded. 'Thanks,' he said. 'Care to go another- round?' He indicated the embattled officers with a toss of his head. Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to his companion. 'You can sit this one out, Kish,' he admonished her, then picked up a fresh chair and darted forward like a cat. Napoleon started to follow, and Illya grabbed him by the shoulder.

We're not supposed to be noticed!' he hissed. 'Harry's not going to walk into the middle of this. If anybody spots us and Baldwin hears and this project is blown, Mr. Waverly isn't going to care if I did my honest best to stop you and failed – he'll have us both cataloging fingerprints in Kansas City for the next five years! A full riot squad will be here in a matter of minutes – I saw the fourth officer get outside to call for help. Now will you put down that crowbar and come the hell with me?'

'Not for a minute,' said Napoleon, pointing at the front door with his crude jag-ended weapon. 'Look. Here comes Harry.'

There in the doorway, staring uncertainly around him, was the man they were supposed to meet – inconspicuously.

'Let's go get him,' said Illya. 'Everything is waiting for the key word locked up in that scrambled head.'

'Just walk right out there and get him? I thought you didn't want to be noticed?'

'We'll stay close to the wall. In the middle of World War Three, who's going to notice?' The Russian started towards the low railing along the forestage, but even before he could vault that barrier, Harry's presence registered on the fringes of the main riot, and their mission became one of rescue.

The night club was a shambles. Only one table was still upright and unbroken, and it had been swept clear when the tablecloth had been ripped off to serve as a makeshift sling for hurling ashtrays at the overhead lights.

Hewett had sprung into the fray armed as before, and nearly a dozen floored figures lay as testimony to his speed and dexterity; fists and chains and bottles, furniture and bodies flew about him but he dodged among them unscathed as though possessed of some extra-sensory radar. He didn't seem to notice Napoleon and Illya making their ways around the edges of the fray.

It took most of a minute to traverse the margins of the dance floor, and Harry had scarcely been standing in the doorway ten seconds before the struggling mass threw out a pseudopod and dragged him in. The two men from U.N.C.L.E. were still forty feet away when the entrance improbably opened again and a pair of familiar faces stared in: one was that of the Falstaffian individual with bushy red hair who had followed Harry to the Blue Angel and had noticed neither Solo nor Kuryakin; the other belonged to Bruno, Ward Baldwin's chauffeur. Napoleon joined his partner on the floor behind a table.

'They didn't see us – I think the fight may hold their attention.'

Illya nodded. 'They're looking for Harry.'

'So are we. But -'

Harry, his shirt torn and his nose bleeding, staggered out of the mob and fell over a chair to land across the upper edge of the toppled table which concealed them; he hit hard and slid to the floor. Still conscious but obviously dazed he opened his eyes and stared directly into the face of Napoleon Solo a foot from his own.

Slowly his expression changed and he started to shake his head. 'No,' he said under his breath. 'Solo. No. I'm…' He shook his head harder and managed to get his palms against the floor and brace himself. 'No!' he said vehemently. 'No! No! No!'

Napoleon grabbed for him a moment too late. Harry was on his feet, unsteadily, and heading for the kitchen exit with the beginnings of hysteria in the incoherent cry which trailed raggedly behind him.

Illya's eyes were elsewhere, peeking around the other corner of the table towards the center of action. At. the. moment the two Thrush seemed to care little for anything but their own immediate survival; Bruno had been foolish enough to pull a gun and had had it taken away from him unceremoniously by a shirtless and tattooed weapons collector who then proceeded to teach him a few things.

The red-headed Falstaff was equally involved, but doing better. Neither seemed to be concentrating on the