ACT IV: NO ESCAPE

The address Estrellita Valdone had given Illya Kuryakin was a rundown warehouse along the East River.

At nine o'clock, he stood on the deserted street in front of the warehouse. An ice-like, numbing wind blew in across the river, touching his face with chill fingers. It was very dark...there were no street lights...and the silence was deep except for the mournful howl of the wind.

An alleyway ran alongside of the warehouse to the left, a pit of blackness. The rear entrance, Estrellita had told him. Down the alleyway, up on to the pier.

She had sounded frightened on the phone. She had information about Napoleon Solo, and had come to New York to find Illya. But there had been two men on the plane, and they had followed her. A cousin of hers owned the warehouse, she said, and she was staying in a small room he had there. She had eluded the two men, but she was afraid to leave the warehouse for fear they would find her. He must come alone, she had said; he must trust no one. And he must make sure he was not followed.

A nice story, Illya Kuryakin thought as he stood on the dark street. He had passed over it at first, elated over the news that he might soon find out what had happened to Solo and where his friend was. But in the taxi ride over, he had begun to dwell on Estrellita's story, and had found holes in it you could drive the proverbial truck through.

Why had she come to New York at all? Why hadn't she simply gone to authorities in Mexico? And if there were some other reason then why hadn't she gone to the authorities here?-Why call him? He was supposed to be a mere photographer. What could she expect him to do that the police could not?

He had a strong feeling of uneasiness. There were things that disturbed him about Estrellita Valdone. She hadn't put in an appearance in Teclaxican the morning after their accident. She and Solo had had a dinner engagement; yet, when Solo had not shown up for it, she had not asked any questions of the hotel clerk as to his whereabouts. Illya had questioned the clerk and knew this for a fact.

Of course, it was possible that she had seen something that afternoon, after the accident, that had sent her into hiding. It could have been then she learned whatever it was she had to tell Illya. But he had thought of arguments against this; if she knew of Solo's whereabouts, then she must have seen him being taken somewhere. And if she had learned this the afternoon of the accident, then that would logically mean that Solo were still somewhere in Mexico. That being the case, Illya was right back to his original query. Why had she come to New York?

He was beginning, as they say, to smell a rat. Or, more correctly, a—THRUSH.

He debated his next move. He could go back to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, report his suspicions, and lead a raiding party back to the warehouse. But if he did that, there was the possibility that Estrellita would be gone when he returned. And that would leave them where they had started. In a blind alley.

Too, there was the chance that they had seen him arrive. They might be watching him now, hidden in the shadows. If he tried to leave they could stop him without any trouble. A well-placed bullet in the darkness, and you could scratch one U.N.C.L.E. operative.

He knew he had to go through with the meeting. He had to take the risk. U.N.C.L.E. was powerless now; they knew nothing of THRUSH's cabal. Inside that warehouse, one way or another, lay the answers to a lot of questions.

Illya Kuryakin entered the mouth of the alley. The blackness was absolute. He walked carefully, feeling his way along the side of the warehouse. He had gone no more than a few steps when he heard something. He stopped, listening. Quiet, and the howl of the wind. He took another step, his hand on the U.N.C.L.E. special at his side.

There was a scurrying sound directly in front of him, and a shapeless black form darted past him, brushing his leg. He eased the pressure of his hand on the gun. Cat, he thought. But his body did not relax.

He reached the end of the alley and stepped up onto a catwalk at the edge of the pier. Below, the black waters of the river churned at the pilings. The sting of the wind was more pronounced here, tugging at his clothing, chilling him. He walked carefully. One good, strong gust of that wind could send him plunging into the icy river. He would not last five minutes in the subzero waters.

He stepped up on to the pier itself, and went along it to where he found the door Estrellita had said would be there. He lifted his U.N.C.L.E. special from its holster, flicked off the safety, and thrust his right hand and the gun into the pocket of his overcoat. He rapped loudly on the door.

It was opened almost immediately. The white face of Estrellita Valdone peered around the jamb.

"Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Yes."

"Are you alone?"

"I'm alone."

She swung the door wider. He stepped past her, inside. A light glowed dimly at the far end of the warehouse. Estrellita shut the door, motioning for him to follow her, and they threaded their way through heaping rows of empty pallets, packing crates, and misshapen, canvas covered mounds, toward the light.

As Illya Kuryakin approached, he saw that the light came from an office. A glass partition allowed him to see that it was empty, containing only a single, cluttered desk and a row of metal filing cabinets.

Estrellita entered the office, and then turned, facing him. Illya stood in the doorway. "All right," he said. "Now tell me where Napoleon is."

He did not hear the man come up behind him. He did not even know the man was there until he felt the hard thrust of metal in the small of his back, and the rough hand that jerked his arm from the pocket of his overcoat and tore the U.N.C.L.E. special from his fingers.

He stood motionless, feeling the pressure in his back, pressure that could only come from a gun muzzle, and cursed himself for not being more careful. He should have checked the warehouse. He should have

Estrellita Valdone, clad in a khaki shirt and men's trousers, was smiling coldly at him. "I am going to do better than tell you where your friend is," she said. "I am going to take you there. I think, perhaps, we can arrange for the two of you to share the same cell. An U.N.C.L.E. reunion, as it were. How does that strike you, Mr. Kuryakin?" Illya said nothing. He was staring at the Army-issue, .45 automatic that was clenched, black and deadly, in one of Estrellita Valdone's small, white hands.

TWO

I've GOT to get out of here, Napoleon Solo thought.

I've got to get out of here and warn U.N.C.L.E. what THRUSH and this madman are planning to do. They've go to be stopped, no matter what the cost.

It was a fantastic plot. But it would work, Solo knew. If THRUSH succeeded, the world would indeed be at their mercy. They could wreak havoc, destruction. Panic would result, and nations would crumble into chaotic ruin. If THRUSH gained control... He had to get out of there. But how? Solo looked at Dr. Sagine. I could grab him, he thought. Use him as a hostage.

No, that was no good. Dr. Sagine, even though he probably did not know it, was now expendable. He had perfected his chemical. THRUSH no longer needed him, no matter what they had promised. Once the crystallization had taken place world-wide, they would undoubtedly reward him with a bullet in the back of the head. Dr. Sagine might think he was the only one who knew the chemical antidote, but THRUSH scientists, working in close proximity with him, would have undoubtedly learned the secret by now. No, using Dr. Sagine as a hostage wouldn't work at all.

Solo had to think of another way. And it couldn't be here, not in this office or in the laboratory outside. It had to be...