Pulp Fiction | The Hollow Crown Affair by David McDaniel (17 page)

Solo recognized the cue. While King was checking to see if Illya was playing possum, he could sneak up on him. He rose from behind the stump—and leaped sideways as the PAR swung about to bear on him again. The stump blew to flinders and left a few roots protruding from the churned soil.

Where in hell was Illya? He should be on King's back by this time. Solo lay flat in the shadow of a dense bush and peeked between its tangled stems to where his partner lay, a lump of white against the bright leaves of October. But...he was
supposed
to be playing possum...

The tree next to him burst a few feet above the ground and showered him with splinters; the main trunk hurtled itself backward two feet and toppled dramatically forward, its leafy crown pointed accusingly at the Mule.

"You haven't got a chance, Solo," King yelled. "I got your partner and I'm going to blow you to a bloody mist before I take Baldwin back and feed him to the Computer!"

Most of Solo's attention was occupied with an advanced-grade field manoeuver which involved crawling backwards rapidly without lifting his stomach from the ground; as a result he may have failed to appreciate King's threat. He rose to his elbows behind another tree sixty feet away and swore bitterly under his breath at the condition of his suit. He was lucky in one respect—that lovely telescopic sight was worse than useless against a fast-moving target at close range. He didn't let himself think about Illya, but looked cautiously around a tree.

King was shielded by another tree, but he seemed to be facing the area, watching closely.
This really has gone quite far enough
, Napoleon said to himself, and slipped his UNCLE Special from its comfortable shoulder rig. He intensely disliked shooting anyone from cover, but the circumstances would seem to dictate...

Running in a perfectly straight line, he kept the next tree precisely between himself and King. He put the edge of his face around the corner to see where his target was—and jumped back as half of the tree made a loud noise and ceased to exist between four and six feet from the ground. Then he jumped forward, another boulder as his goal. He dove ten feet away and rolled to a protected position before King could fire again, and found the automatic still in his fist. Even before he could grab a quick look around there was a deafening
CRACK!
and the rear half of the boulder toppled slowly forward.

Solo leaped to his feet, snapped the pistol into firing position and worked the trigger once before his thumb released the safety. In the instant before he fired, he was paralyzed by a head-splitting sound and an indescribable wave of tingling heat shot through him. The gun fell from his fingers and his knees trembled. Then his eyes focused on the Mule and he thought,
I'm not dead!

King was still wrapped around the gun, but his legs no longer supported him. He slumped limply over the fat coiled breech, a faint stench and thin curls of steam rising silently from his clothes. As Solo stared, he began to slide, and where his face touched the metal it left a smeared black trail. The rear of the PAR was smoking slightly and part of the tubing seemed to be fused.

Something white moved across the clearing, and Illya staggered forward to lean on the side of the Mule as Napoleon approached from the opposite side. His coat was gone and there was a smear of blood down the right side of his face, but he seemed functional. He looked up at the seared ruin of what had been Joseph King, then looked back at Solo.

"I think," he said, "he was scrooched."

Chapter 16: "You Have But Mistook Me..."

A week and a day after the conclusion of certain disastrous events in the Maine woods, in the privacy of his own office deep within UNCLE headquarters, Alexander Waverly once again faced his two top agents.

"It was definitely King this time," he said.

"If that was King standing up there blowing holes in things," said Napoleon, "that's the body we brought back."

"The prints checked," said Illya. "The ones we lifted from the corpse are identical with the latest set you developed on King's forged record sheet. It really was him this time."

Waverly nodded. "Then we have succeeded in our mission. Section Eight is presently analyzing what's left of the advance model of the Particle Accelerator Rifle; the power supplies are already surrendering their secrets. And a great intellect which was lost to us four years ago has now been lost to our enemies as well."

"Leaving Baldwin effectively unopposed for his seat on the Thrush Council," said Illya.

"Yes," said Waverly. "That is that."

"I didn't really want to bring this up," said Napoleon, "especially now—but do you think we've done the best possible thing? I mean, King certainly would have been the most dangerous individual for the position, with his intimate knowledge of UNCLE, but Baldwin has got to run him a close second."

"At least he's not a fanatic," said Illya.

"True," said Waverly. "But he also knows far more about our patterns of action than King—far more than anyone should, for our personal security, if nothing else. There is a definite risk that in the long run Baldwin could prove far more dangerous to us. Still, we shall have another opportunity to assess the resolved situation when we meet with the Baldwins over dinner this evening."

* * *

The Masque Club, on East 54th Street, was a key club long before the Great Democrat Hugh Hefner made them public property. It assures its members of privacy by handing out black domino masks to every individual at the door and quietly insisting that they be worn in the common rooms. There the waitresses, also masked, may be distinguished by their relative lack of other costume.

A small percentage of the notorious and the merely famous are seen to enter and leave among the generally anonymous clientele, and many make use of the very private dining rooms which are available to members in good standing. A few people on the New York Board of Liquor Control know the real owners of the club, and a few people on Centre Street know that the waitresses are hired for many peculiar reasons beyond a good figure, but none of them has seen fit to comment on this. No one seems to notice if an anonymous customer should seem to stay inside for several days, though many do.

The private rooms fit the masque motif—the Harlequin, the Pierrot, the Fiammina, the Pantalon—and this night the Scaramouch was prepared for a very special party of seven. Five were there, two were expected. Irene Baldwin sat between her husband and Napoleon Solo, who, with Illya, bracketed Alexander Waverly as he faced Baldwin. Aperitifs were set neatly around the table, and Chandra's impending arrival with an unspecified friend would effectively curtail business conversation.

"I suppose you will be leaving us shortly," said Waverly.

"I must return to the University before Monday next, but we have a place here in Manhattan until then."

"You'll be concluding your business there, I take it."

"Oh, no. I have an obligation to the Physical Science department and to my own research work there. I shall be in Vermont the remainder of the semester."

"I hope we can see you again before you leave," said Illya.

"Oh, we'll be coming down to New York from time to time," said Irene. "It's not San Francisco, but it
is
convenient."

Waverly sipped his Cinzano and asked, "The entire semester? I had thought the Council election was imminent."

"In point of fact, it has already been held."

Napoleon spoke in surprise. "But...weren't you elected? With King's whole plot exposed?"

"Oh yes—I turned it down. It would have meant traveling about, living abroad...Certainly you never thought I coveted that position! San Francisco is my home; I have compared the rest of the world and found it wanting."

"What about the vacant seat, then?" asked Illya.

"It went to the nearly-unanimous second choice of the Council. A minor Balkan economist. You've never heard of him—but you will."

A discreet tap at the door announced Chandra Reynolds, who sparkled into the softly lit room followed by a lean dark man whom she introduced as Lee Lang. He brought two chairs from the wall, and she seated herself on Ward's right, which put Lee next to Illya.

"Ward, you
must
tell me all about what happened in Maine! How did you ever find his weak spot? How did you even know he
had
one?"

"He was a monomaniac, my dear. Monomaniacs are incapable of taking adequate precautions."

"Really, Chandra," said Irene, "this is hardly the place to get him started on a story."

Napoleon picked up the cue. "Uh, where's Ed?"

"Oh, Ed couldn't make it. But Lee wanted to meet you—he knows
all
about you."

Illya glanced at him and could believe it. As Chandra held his partner's attention, he caught Solo's voice in a whisper and leaned back to catch it.

"It just goes to show, Mr. Kuryakin, only one thing is sure with Baldwin and his buddies—you
never
know where you stand."

The Russian nodded. "Absolutely, Mr. Solo."

"Positively, Mr. K."

THE END

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posted 7.13.2002, transcribed by Graculus