The Final Affair

weapon wielded by Thrush. It was probably the same unit he'd seen in the film; its fat, ribbed barrel blossomed like a flower into a two-foot translucent wire-laced dish with a slender Bright pistil tapering six inches to its focus at a needle point. Flux- in the dish could spin the plasma as it emerged from the nozzle until the mass of super-heated ionised gas was released in a whirling fireball. His Nikon fired ba-ba-ha-ba-bap as he stuck his head around the corner to aim and look for himself; as the hiss and crackle began again he ducked back, But held the camera out with, one gloved hand until the magnetometer needle slammed against its stop pin.

He jerked back almost simultaneously with, another flare, this time from the opposite side of his partition, which suddenly grew uncomfortably warm about waist level as a large patch of paint Bubbled and stank. Boots clattered towards him over the sound of the KBG preparing another thunderbolt, until a shouted order stopped them and a two-foot circle in the middle of his sheltering wall smoked briefly as the blistered paint charred and evaporated, then turned cherry red and began to slag.

By that time Mr. Simpson was racing down the corridor, heavy smock flapping behind him, rubber-tired cart slewing slightly on the waxed floor. The Nikon lay atop the bank of batteries, lens cracked and fused, paint burned from its face except for a clean patch where an asbestos glove had protected it.

There were vague shouts behind him and another fireball burst ten yards short, throwing his blue silhouette before him on the wall beside the opening elevator. Enamel softened and bubbled on the exposed corners of the lab cart, and the rear tires stuck stringily to the floor a moment until he lifted it like a wheelbarrow and flung it ahead of him towards the padded rear wall of the waiting car, diving after it as the doors began to close and the last guard, who had stayed to hold the car for him, fired two shots between the shuttering sheets of steel as the KBG warmed up for another blast. The doors met a second before it came. They shuddered and smelt, but the elevator had already started up, and its occupants sighed with shared relief.

'Get everything?' asked the guard.

'Very nearly,' said Mr. Simpson.

'How was it?'

His eyes gleamed with delight as he rose from a cursory check of his gear.

'Fascinating. Absolutely fascinating.'

CHAPTER TWELVE

'It's A Nice Little Plan'

'Tomorrow afternoon,' said Mr. Waverly, 'at 3:00 o'clock Pacific Daylight Time,

Thrush, as a coherent international entity, will effectively cease to exist. In an operation of devilish subtlety, requiring a minimum of force and a maximum of surprise, as well as split-second co-ordination, not one, nor two, but all three Thrush Centrals…should fall into our hands. The attack plans you will be using should be infallible; it was entirely prepared by the Untimate Computer.'

'Are you sure you can trust it?' Napoleon asked.

'Implicitly. I'm afraid you and Mr. Kuryakin may find your part of the job frustratingly simple – there will be no frontal attack, just a few minutes' skulking in a public park on a Saturday afternoon.'

'It seems too simple,' said Illya.

'We have no reason to doubt Thrush's own top secret security files on the matter. Mr. Simpson has modified or manufactured – I myself am uncertain how – an Alpha variant of the Paralane knockout gas you have been using for the last year.'

'What does it do-besides put them to sleep in two seconds?'

'Like the dog in the night-time, of primary importance is what it does not do: in this case it does not stimulate the ventilation monitor used in the Balboa Park enclave. The intake ducts will be your target.'

He tapped his pipe on the side of an ashtray as Napoleon said, 'You mean we just put them to sleep and walk in?'

'Exactly. Mr. Gold will go with you, and will check the proper reception of a full emergency dump from the other side of the world. Because simultaneously with your secural of the stand-by unit in San Diego, at 4:30 Sunday morning in Darjeeling, the second largest special assault force in the history of the United Network Command will move in quietly and surround the Bengali Opium Processing Plant, vacant for the last five years under the new regime, but an ideal location for Thrush Central.'

'The local government has been informed at the very highest levels and without being told just what will be going on they have been persuaded to withhold official reaction for up to half an hour, but with agent Castora in command nothing should be allowed to disturb the natives. A few shots exchanged, nothing more. Thrush expects to be able to lose one Central unit without serious inconvenience – hence this fantastic electromagnetic will-o'- the-wisp they have created. But you, Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin, will have captured their backup system and effectively defeated them a moment before they became vulnerable.

'The final unit is broken down for transportation in six DC-3's in Central Africa. It was bound for Lisbon, but our field agent Philip Lebow single-handedly sabotaged the aircraft, thus immobilising the third and last operational unit.'

'That sounds like a checkmate,' said Illya.

'Indeed. But there is increasing evidence that our opponent has one major piece yet unexposed. A hard base of some magnitude, isolated and concealed somewhere in the world – where they probably have an equivalent master computer unit, if not direct communication with or control of the rest of the Hierarchy. Inasmuch as we have found no less than four references in appropriate contexts to Thrush Island on the comm tapes we have monitored so far, we recognise the fact that it may or may not be an island; Thrush is perfectly capable of assigning that designation to a post in the Gobi Desert or the Matto Grosso.'

'But the UlComp doesn't know – or won't tell – where it is?'

'We aren't sure yet. It may be a slang term of some unguessable content. When we have Central's own banks to work through, we expect to find the answers to these and many other questions.'

'Ah, excuse me,' said Napoleon doubtfully, 'but did I understand you to say that we would stage our sneaky raid on Central at three o'clock in the afternoon?'

'Yes. The situation in Darjeeling is much more sensitive than in San Diego, and the hour of four-thirty in the morning is ideal for the kind of operation Mr. Castora feels is appropriate. At the same time, the middle of a hot Saturday afternoon will find Balboa Park filled with innocent by-standers, among whom our operative should be comparatively inconspicuous. Some female workers from the Los Angeles office will be assigned to accompany you as assistants and general cover.'

'It looks so simple,' said Illya, tracing the plans with a forefinger. 'I jumper these wires, while Napoleon plants the gas cannisters here, we wait two minutes, and walk in.'

'It's a fine plan,' said Mr. Waverly. 'The Ultimate Computer worked it out for us at the request of Mr. Gold, who set it up as a test of the strategic planning program.'

'I thought you couldn't get at their top security programs,' said Napoleon. 'I thought that was why we were doing all this.'

'We can't get at them. But we can use them. Remember, the program is the master form or blueprint of everything that is to be done with the given data and from which the decision is reached. We can put data into one side of the black box and get results out the other, but we want to know what goes on inside the box. And it can't be examined through a terminal. Only Central staff is allowed to get inside. Therefore…'

'Therefore we have to take over Central, Did UlComp also set up the Darjeeling Operation?'

'Not in detail. While there is no objection to testing the security of a standby site, oddly enough, the Acting Central at any given moment is not an acceptable subject for defense analysis. A touch of paranoia, if not enough to protect them. Still, we know just how much effort will be needed; the order of priority is headed by transfer of control, followed by flight, defense or surrender. We want them to dump, then surrender.'

'And this will destroy Thrush?'

'This will destroy its central nervous system. The 14,872 individual Satrapys will be abandoned to their fates