[Magazine 1967-­12] - The Pillars of Salt Affair - Пронзини Билл (электронные книги без регистрации TXT) 📗

He was acutely aware of the pain in his right leg. He had inspected it gingerly for broken bones. There were none. The gash was deep, and blood had flowed freely from it, but he did not think it would prevent him from walking. He had tied his handkerchief above the wound, tightly, to act as a tourniquet. It had stopped bleeding finally.

The sun was gone completely now, and the sky had turned from blue to muted black. A faint orange glow of twilight emanated from the west, fading, and then there was no light at all. The hour had passed.

He waited until the darkness was complete before moving.

He stood slowly, then, testing his leg. It seemed to be able to support his weight well enough. He started up the slope, keeping into the cover of the rocks there. The footing was treacherous in the dark, and he stumbled several times, almost falling.

He moved laterally instead of straight up, not wanting to get on to the road until he was out of sight of the slide and any lookouts that might be there. When he had worked his way around the turn at the western end of the straight stretch, he moved up to the road itself. He saw the path through the jungle to his left, the one Diego Santiago had told him led to the lake.

He debated going there for a look, decided against it since he was unarmed and since he did not know the area. When he got back to Teclaxican he would contact Mr. Waverly for the team of agents, and tomorrow they would come up here in force. Chances were that THRUSH thinking he too was dead, would not vacate the area before then.

He moved along the road, walking slowly, favoring his injured leg. He was careful to stay close to the slope on his right. If anyone came up the road, it seemed likely that they would be members of THRUSH, and he wanted to be able to get out of sight quickly. No one else would have reason to come up this road at night.

It took him over an hour to reach the main road. He had not seen any cars on the secondary road, nor did he see any now on the main one. It was ten miles back to Teclaxican, and he knew it was very possible that he would have to walk the entire distance. There was little chance of a car being out here on the plain at night.

The prospect was a grim one. His leg was aching badly now. He wondered if it would hold up for ten miles. But he had no alternative; he began to walk. He had gone approximately three miles, walking along the side of the road, when he saw the headlights.

They were coming toward him, from Teclaxican. He stopped. He did not know what to do. If he flagged the car down, and it turned out to be THRUSH-manned, he was a dead pigeon. He looked around him. Flat plain on both sides of the road, with no place to hide from the sweeping glare of the headlights. They were coming closer. He had no choice now. It was too late to run, and he knew he would not get far on his injured leg. Bending, he picked up a large, heavy rock and cupped it in his palm. It was little defense against a gun, he knew, but it was all he had. He stood waiting for the car.

It had been moving at a fast speed for the condition of the road, and it slowed suddenly, quickly. Solo knew that the driver had seen him, and had applied the brakes. He took a tighter grip on the rock, holding it at his side and slightly behind him in his right hand.

The car came to a stop almost next to him. A white face peered through the driver's window at him.

Solo stared. "Estrellita!" he said. Estrellita Valdone, black eyes wide, stared back.

"Mr. Solo! What...what are you doing here?"

"No time to explain now," Solo said quickly. "I've got to get back to Teclaxican. Will you take me?"

"Yes, certainly," she said. Solo went around to the passenger side of the car, a new Ford, and slid inside. He leaned back against the seat, stretching his injured leg straight out in front of him under the dash.

Estrellita was looking at him, eyes still wide. "You're hurt. What happened to you? I was worried when you did not keep our dinner engagement. No one seemed to know where you were."

"We had an accident," Solo said shortly.

"Where is Mr. Kuryakin?"

"He's dead," Solo said through clenched teeth.

"Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry!"

"Does Teclaxican have any policia?" Solo asked her.

"A subjefe," Estrellita said. "His name is Hernandez."

"Take me to him."

"But you should see a doctor. Your leg..."

"Later," Solo said. "The only person I want to see is the subjefe."

"All right." Estrellita swung the Ford into a U-turn, heading back toward Teclaxican. Solo sat staring out the windshield, not speaking. His face was grim, tightly set.

After a time he turned, looking at the girl beside him. "What were you doing out here this time of night?" he said.

"I could not sleep," Estrellita said. "I often go for a drive when I cannot sleep. I find that it relaxes me."

"It's a lucky thing you decided to come out here," Solo said. "I don't think I could have walked much further on this leg."

When they reached Teclaxican, Estrellita drove through it, turning to the right along a short street on the western edge. At the far end of the street, a low, balconied house lay behind a white-washed fence. A pair of twin banana palms grew in the yard.

Estrellita brought the Ford to a stop in front of the house. "The subjefe lives here," she said. Napoleon Solo nodded.

They got out and went through the gate in the fence. There was no time to lose, Solo thought. He would have to see the subjefe and then call Mr. Waverly in New York immediately on the spare communicator at the hotel. It would take time for him to get a team of agents here, and Solo knew that the longer they delayed the more likely the possibilities were that THRUSH would complete its testing in the area and pull out. He wanted to get back up to that lake as quickly as possible.

They walked up to the front porch. Solo rapped loudly on the door. There was only silence from inside. He rapped again. Still no answer. Solo turned to Estrellita Valdone.

She had been carrying a small, straw handbag, and it was open on her arm. She had taken something from inside.

Solo said, "What..."

She held a thin, silver vial in her hand, raising it up toward his face. Solo knew instantly what it was. He threw his right hand across his face, reaching out for her with his left. But he was too late. She released a button the side of the vial and a thin stream of odorless, almost invisible gas escaped from the end, enveloping Solo's head in a vaporous mist.

Nerve gas!

He had encountered it before. It had been developed, and perfected, by THRUSH, a favorite and deadly weapon they used mercilessly on whoever stood in their way. It attacked the nervous system, rendering the victim helpless within a matter of seconds. Any number of after-effects were known to have occurred after contact with it...brain damage, palsy, respiratory malfunction.

Now, Solo stumbled backward as the gas poured into his lungs. He felt his mind beginning to cloud, a strange, disembodied feeling, and thoughts whirled together in a disjoined jumble. Estrellita, a THRUSH agent, should have known, should have been more careful, too friendly, asked too many questions, should have known, she must have been going to the lake tonight, story too pat, her house here no reality, too late,—can't contact, too late, too

Napoleon Solo collapsed, unconscious, to the wooden porch.

ACT III: THE RIM OF HELL

Illya Kuryakin thought he was dead. He lay in a sea of blackness, deep, impenetrable, and his first conscious thought was, So this is what it's like. It wasn't so bad, he decided. Just blackness. Nothing but a sea of blackness.