The Final Affair

'Cut scalp – no damage. I tucked a piece of my shirt that tore off – under my cap to keep the blood out of my eyes.' He shivered again. 'Just shock. Besides, I think some of this was the Guard.'

'What about Illya?' Napoleon insisted.

'The Guard's first shot hit him – I couldn't tell how bad. He was thirty feet away from me, and I could just see his legs sticking out from behind a desk. I was pinned down behind a generator, covering Sanders, who was out in front with most of the explosives. By then there were two or three Guards, because I got: one who came- after Kuryakin, but another came in from the protected side and dragged him off. And just about that time Sanders yelled something and took off for the control room door. The first Guard that shot at us came running in from the other side, and another one was shooting over my head, so I didn't see much, but I saw Sanders get into the control room and slam the door behind him, and I saw the Guard smashing in the door just before it all blew up. That was about the last thing I saw. But Kuryakin was dragged off the other way.'

Solo turned to Joan. 'Where would they take him?'

'Not the Infirmary, under the circumstances… Probably one of the Interview Rooms in the basement of the Big House.'

Something they couldn't see lit up the sky beyond the Big House like a flash of lightning, and the concussion of heavy artillery shook the glass doors.

'They're going to be concentrating more out towards the ends of the island,' Solo said. 'Think you could get me there from here?'

'I can do it underground,' said Joan. 'No, wait – they'll have full internal security on now. We'll have to go outside. But yes, anyway.'

'All right. Short, Mills – Goldin, are you functioning?'

He nodded and stood up with a deep breath. 'Can you spare me some ammunition?'

'Take mine,' said Joan. 'I'll be with Mr. Solo.'

'Right. You three are now detached. You've still got fifteen pounds of plastique and most of a pack of fuses. Do your best with them and link up with our side whenever you can.'

'But sir -' said Short.

'I can't lead a parade in there,' said Solo. 'And remember: don't damage anything we can use if you can help it. Now, go get 'em!'

All five flitted like deadly shadows into the twilight of the falling flares. Again the moon was the brightest illumination, and Joan and Napoleon raced across the wide grassy lawn bathed in its tender light.

She led him directly into a clump of decorative shrubbery close against the sturdy stone foundation of the Big House, and together they crouched in darkness, breathing quickly, scarcely touching. Intense and nearly continuous gunfire rattled not far away, and flashes danced beyond the Long Buildings. The tang of smokeless powder perfumed the soft tropical breeze that stirred the leaves of their hiding place.

Joan touched his shoulder and beckoned him to follow as she ducked into the narrow sheltered space between the stumps of the bushes and the wall.

On hands and knees they hurried towards the rear of the house. From time to time small unseen things smacked the stone above them and pattered down through the dense leaves. Around the corner ahead a blue-white flash and a sound like a thunderclap made them stop and cower back.

'Are they shelling?' asked Napoleon.

'I can't tell. But I'll let you know in a minute – the door we're going in by is just around the corner. See where the Barn comes closest to the Big House? The door there is where Illya's group went in, and probably where they took him out – then straight in the rear basement door and into the first room available because by then the balloon was going up outside. Where would you go if you were a horse?'

'Right after you, sugar-lump,' said Napoleon.

'Come on, clown,' she said, and reached back to touch his hand momentarily before edging forward.

He joined her peering around the corner close to the ground. Three tall masts, like flagpoles, stood centered-on three sides of the yard. About the top of each shimmered a blue nimbus like St. Elmo's Fire. Electric tension filled the air with the heady pungency of ozone. As they watched, the halos grew in intensity until giant jagged sparks staggered in firey script to a point in the center where a field of some unguessable force seemed to gather them for seconds before hurtling a bolt of ferocious energy towards the moon-spangled sea.

'What's that?' said Joan.

'It's a fiendish thingie, Mark IV,' said Napoleon. 'Come on, while it's recharging. They're probably shooting at the Command Sub.'

'I hope that door's open!'

It was closed and locked, but not for long. A thermite 'skeleton key' blew the handle off and probably triggered an alarm, but nobody was likely to notice under the circumstances. Napoleon braced a heavy standing ashtray and a chair against the inside to hold it closed, muffling the sounds of battle without, while Joan checked the first few of a series of rooms on either side of the corridor.

She beckoned Napoleon silently with a quick wave of her U.N.C.L.E. Special, and he noticed as he joined her the twisted wire of a field telephone running under the third door on the left. Quietly he eased the door open, to hear a voice. 'How many men in the attacking force? How many men?'

Solo kicked open the door with his automatic extended and barked, 'Freeze!' A man in shirtsleeves looked up from the metal cot in the pale glare of a Coleman lantern and slowly raised his hands. 'Are you alone?'

The man glanced down at the scarred leather case of the field phone in the shadow beneath his chair and said, 'Yes.'

Napoleon kicked away the rifle which leaned against the chair and Joan caught it as an unsteady voice said from the cot, 'Hello, Napoleon. You shouldn't be here.'

'Neither should you. How fast can you run?'

'I don't know. Even if I wasn't shackled to this bunk.'

'The bunk's bolted to the wall,' the Thrush interviewer volunteered.

'And before you get rough, I don't have any keys but my locker key, and that won't help. Only the Chief Therapist can open them. You, whatever-your-name-is- the Guard that locked you in there didn't even use a key, did he?'

'He's right, Napoleon. And, honestly, I don't feel like moving very fast.'

Solo inspected his partner's shoulder, neatly wrapped in a field dressing which obscured the extent of the damage. 'How is it?' he asked professionally.

'.It could be worse. It missed major arteries and I think the shoulder joint is all right, but the left hand hasn't been working and I'm pretty sure something is broken but I don't know where. Besides, I think I lost about a quart of blood. Is there some water?'

'On the table,' said the interviewer.

'You drink some first,' said Solo.

'Glad to.' Rising slowly, the interviewer poured a glass of water and drank it, then refilled the glass and held it for Illya while he drank, awkwardly.

Something slammed the building like a fist, and dust settled from the cool green walls. The table jumped, rattling the pitcher.

'Now they're shelling,' said Solo. 'Who's on the other end of that phone?'

The interviewer paled. 'My boss,' he hedged.

'The Boss? Acting Central?'

'Uh… yes…'

'Okay. You ring up and tell them that they are under arrest in the name of the United Network Command For Law And Enforcement.'

The interviewer started to stall, and the fitful bell of the hand-crank set clattered discordantly. Napoleon picked up the handset, pushing the talk-switch. 'Yeah?' he said impatiently.

'Myron, this is Jay. Forget the prisoner. We're pulling out all personnel with tech priority. You've got six minutes to report to Bay Four. They're arming Little Brother. See you there, fella.'

Napoleon looked at the silent handset for a moment, then turned to the interviewer. 'Tell me, Myron,' he said thoughtfully. 'Who is 'Little Brother'?'

The Thrush interviewer looked around unhappily, and helped himself to another glass of water while Joan and