'Don't touch the other one. Just check and see if the red light is out, and you might bend the cut ends away from each other and the other wire.'
'Joan?'
She stirred beside him. 'Is he there?'
'I'm going to want that morphine, I think. Can you open it in the dark?' Illya's voice was tense, and unsteady.
'Yes – just a second.'
'If the red light's out, the bomb's disarmed. I'd bet the orange means the radio signal is being received. Don't worry about it – just get back here. The war is coming this way and you won't want to miss it. I'm afraid I will have to.' He dropped the phone, and Joan took it.
'Napoleon?' she asked it tentatively, but no answer came. She pushed the field phone under the bed and stood up stiffly in the dark.
'I'll take that morphine now,' Illya said, and his voice was suddenly very tired.
'Where's your…'
'I can find myself better in the dark – give it to me.'
'Shut up and relax. I've done this before. You'll wake up in a nice hospital room and I'll bring you a jar of caviar.'
'Ouch! Was that the blunt end?'
'Good night, Illya. It'll come on in a few seconds.'
He gasped, 'Can you find the water? I can feel it starting. My arm is starting to go away…'
She groped around and found the plastic pitcher on its side on the floor with a few ounces of water still unspilled. She held it to Illya's lips. He gulped quickly from it, then rinsed his mouth before sinking back to the thin mattress. His breathing was deeper and slower now, and his voice slurred as he said, 'Wake me up when the war is over…'
A shifting light outside the door and a quick tapping heralded Napoleon's return. Joan jumped up and ran to. him with-a little cry, to wrap her arms around him and clung close against him for a moment.
'Polie!' she said. 'It's been dark so long!'
A series of blasts overhead showered plaster on them, clouds of white in the hissing glare of. the gasoline lantern as they embraced, drawing renewed strength from each other.
'How's Illya?'
'Out. He wouldn't take the morphine until you were through in there, but he's good for twelve hours now.'
'He'll be safe enough here,' said Napoleon. 'Our exit is now blocked solidly, by the way. Come on – I'll show you. Grab that lantern.'
The harsh white glare showed a sloping wall of rubble filling the entire end of their hall. Timbers jutted like broken ribs where the ceiling had caved in.
'We'll have to go out upstairs,' said Napoleon. 'So I thought we might as well leave Illya, who is as secure here as he can be, and wander along to join the party.'
'And harass the foe from the rear,' Joan said. 'I'll requisition Illya's ammunition -it was with the rest of his things in the closet. -I' seem to recall a back stairs we might try…'
She cast about through a couple of corridors, then nodded. 'Up here,' she said. 'We shouldn't take the light past here. There's a door right at the top of the stairs, second flight. Let me go first.'
She led the way up narrow wooden steps and around a corner. The lantern was lost behind them, but gunfire from ahead echoed between the close plaster walls as they crept upward.
The door swung quietly open into chaos. Fumes reeked through the hall and guns barked on either side. 'Here we go,' said Napoleon. 'Stick close behind me. We'll use silencers, snipe from cover and keep shifting around. They may not even tumble we're here.'
'A beautiful thought.'
'And remember, Joan – I love you.'
'I love you, Napoleon.'
'Now – let's go!'
They ducked out the door and down the hall. A bulky desk athwart the corridor accorded them momentary shelter, and Napoleon took the opportunity to assemble his U.N.C.L.E. Special. He swiftly unscrewed the flash-shield and replaced it with the long barrel extension, drew the Bushnell Phantom 1.3X15 scope from its velvet-lined sleeve, slipped it into its shoe and tightened the locking screw, snapped the collapsing telescoping stock into its slot in the butt, pulled it out to full length and twisted it to lock it open, then folded out the shoulder-plate to latch at right angles. Finally he slipped out the eight-round magazine – still with five shots left – and replaced it with the sixteen- round clip. He snuggled the lean, gracefully ugly weapon to his shoulder and peered through its scope into the smoky darkness beyond.
Concussion shattered through a wall seventy feet behind them, and they ducked against flying rocks. A dozen Thrush Guards came running out of the smoke, and were cut down by steady fire from Napoleon and Joan. An automatic rifle snarled briefly from the other side and they dropped to the floor, swinging their muzzles in that direction. A moment later a spray of slugs blasted splinters out of their desk, and Napoleon broke into a sprint across the hall to an alcove already occupied by a bronze statue on a four-foot pedestal; shrinking behind it into the curve he directed one-handed shots into a pillared doorway down the hall.
Joan leaped to her feet and dashed along the wall to the next open door, where she paused and snapped a slug towards the end of the hall. Instantly Napoleon moved again, directly toward her target, as chips of cement splattered beside him and battered slugs whined away into the flame-tinted darkness. As he approached her line of fire, she too broke from cover and followed him in a zig-zag dash into the vaulted room which opened before them.
Ruddy light danced on the domed ceiling of a generous rotunda through a half circle of windows looking out over the lagoon. Booths lined the wide walls, and large comfortable furniture and extinguished lamps dotted the floor. Men crouched behind shattered windows, firing and ducking back as bullets dug into the walls or splintered the edge of glass-sharded panes.
'This is the Library,' said Joan as they crouched together again behind a horsehair sofa. 'We're at the front of the house, facing east, close to the south corner. There's a big flight of steps to the porch just outside here.'
'Sounds like most of the fighting is around on the side of the house. Let's reduce the local opposition.'
Five Guards fell among the defenders within a minute before the survivors began to react. Napoleon and Joan ducked as they saw silhouettes turn infrared sniperscopes in their directions.
'Stay low,' Napoleon whispered. 'Their rifles are sighted for a hundred yards. They'll shoot high.'
'Check.'
A voice to their left yelled something and a slug burst through the sofa from that side. They vanished like rabbits and fired futilely in the direction of the shout. Joan replaced her first clip and claimed another Guard with her next shot; they then had to move again, towards the sheltered rear corner of the room…
Napoleon dodged across an open space and around an armchair, and something like a truck bumper hit him in the side of the head. It knocked him sprawling across the polished floor, helpless before the impact, until he skidded half under a divan. He twisted, dragging his right arm around from under him. Half dazed, he saw a foot descending towards his face, saw his own hands grab for the foot and twist. He heard the Thrush yelp as he was flipped over backwards, his head hitting the padded arm of a chair.
Napoleon steadied himself against the divan as he tried to stand. His attacker rolled smoothly to all fours and flowed to his feet, pulling a long murderous Bowie knife from what must have been a specially designed sheath under his jacket. Seeing the gleam of steel in the uncertain light, Napoleon recognised the lean scarred face
