He snatched the keys and ran out through the oval door. In moments, he had entered the control booth from an empty corridor. He located and activated the winch. Mei was soon on the floor, covered with several yards of chain. More was coming down on top of her every second as Illya sprinted back in and unlocked her. His eyes were grim.
"We must assume Napoleon is dead, Mei. Therefore this foul lump -" He prodded the just-awakening Dargon with the pistol. "- is going to be our tour escort. He is going to show us how to get out of here, and guide us to Hong Kong."
On hands and knees the stupefied, terrified Dargon stared up into the muzzle of Illya's gun.
Illya dragged Dargon to his feet. "Show us the scenic exit route. And quickly!"
Four
Napoleon Solo wakened with a buzzing skull and a mouth which tasted like a mixture of camphor oil and woolen athletic socks.
Above him soared a pastel ceiling. He turned his head. A rich wine-colored sea of nylon carpeting stretched away to a pair of white doors with gold hardware. Dotted here and there like islands upon the carpet sea were assorted pieces of furniture in the style Solo characterized as Assembly Line Modern. White, and upholstered in plastic.
Cautiously Solo stood up. In a couple of minutes the Oriental gong players inside his temples suspended their music.
The floor tilted into place and held steady.
Solo was in a luxurious hotel room. Tall French doors stood open on a small marble terrace. Past the balustrade he glimpsed high peaks with bright buildings crowding their shoulders. He saw water - a harbor.
A ferryboat chugged toward the distant, misty mainland. Junks and sampans clogged the water in the nearer distance. From out of sight below the balcony, a city's sing-song cacophony rose.
"Welcome to Hong Kong, Mr. Solo," boomed a familiar voice.
Spinning round, Solo gaped. Beside an open door which he had not noticed stood a Eurasian girl with shoulder-length black hair. Her eyes were pansy-colored. She did not have the typical, slender build of the Oriental woman. She was a few inches taller than Solo himself.
The girl wore a white, shimmering blouse, voluptuously tight black riding trousers and highly polished black boots. Her figure was gorgeous. Her eyes and her pistol weren't.
"Is someone using you for a dummy?" Solo said. "I heard General Weng."
The general's polished head poked around the edge of the open doorway where the girl with the slanted eyes had taken up her stance. "My little charade," Weng said in his asthmatic wheeze. "I am here, in the flesh, so to speak." He appeared, hands pressed to paunch and a jaunty white woven tropical hat freshly jammed onto his skull. "Are you surprised to find yourself alive in my suite in Hong Kong?"
"That's a considerable understatement." Solo had been outfitted in slacks, a fresh white shirt, shoes, socks and other linen, all of his size. In his shirt's breast pocket he felt an oblong thing, like an old friend. He reached up to pull it out.
"Do not raise your hand," said the girl with a charming smile, "or I will shoot you."
"You don't have to enjoy your work so much. I only wanted a cigarette."
"It will be permissible for him to smoke," Weng nodded. "Our agents searched him thoroughly when the plane landed. He has no weapons. A brilliant idea my pilot had, eh, Solo? Doping us both in order to capture you? And captured you are. May I present Miss Rachel Fong of our Hong Kong apparatus? Miss Fong is only twenty-two, but she has held the regional THRUSH medal for superior marksmanship for the past three years. I trust that will be sufficient warning."
The girl's ripe smile widened. At first, her pansy-colored eyes had seemed to hold a smoky, romantic warmth. Now Solo decided with a shiver that he had confused sensuality for good clean sadism.
Carefully he reached into his shirt pocket. He drew out the cigarette case and flicked the top open. After he had lit up, he replaced the case.
He did not yet know how he would capitalize on the error of the THRUSH searchers who had overlooked his pocket communicator. Probably there had been no time for an electronic scan of his person. The communicator did hold several cigarettes.
Unfortunately, the unwavering presence of Miss Rachel Fong's mammoth snout-nosed pistol gave him no immediate opportunity to use the communicator. So he left it in his shirt as his ace. He needed one if he was to play this game out, not only for Mr. Waverly, but for the sake of Illya, and Ah Lan and Mei. He wondered how they had died.
General Weng gestured to the open French doors. "Lovely morning, isn't it?"
"I suppose you'll do your best to change it," Solo said.
Weng's paunch heaved once or twice by way of appreciation. "You really are most entertaining, Mr. Solo. As a matter of fact I am on my way to do just that. The storm generating apparatus is stowed in my limousine." Weng examined his platinum watch. "The car is at the curb now, I believe. This hotel should be relatively safe. A pity we can't say the same for the Hong Kong International. Good day, Mr. Solo. Enjoy your balcony seat overlooking the display of Mother Nature at her most capricious. About an hour and we should be positioned for a bit of typhoon. Watch the sky."
General Weng waddled toward the door. Solo said, "Why can't you work from here?"
"We follow the recommendations of Dr. Dargon and our other scientists as to optimum location."
"Where is your optimum location, General?"
"Ah, Mr. Solo, even though I am positive that you can do THRUSH no harm while Miss
Fong attends you, it would be unwise, and a breach of policy, for me to reveal the information. Even Miss Fong does not know. As soon as my task is finished I shall return here and we shall fly back to Tibet together. There you will be most permanently decommissioned -"
Weng chuckled at his little euphemism "- as an agent of U.N.C.L.E. I have already decided to have motion pictures shot of the entire proceedings. They will be forwarded anonymously to your superiors, for whatever amusement they may provide."
With a jaunty wave General Weng marched out. Miss Fong latched the door behind him. Solo waited.
The Eurasian girl leaned against the gold-flecked panel and scraped her shoulder blades on the wood in a slow, feline way. Solo cocked a mental eyebrow. Maybe Miss Rachel Fong was not so loyal as General Weng imagined.
Solo unloosed his most potent smile. "Miss Fong, you're the sexiest THRUSH agent I've ever seen. And I've seen scads of them."
The smile on the lips of Miss Rachel Fong widened appreciably, as if in invitation.
With this encouragement Solo advanced a couple of steps. Miss Fong did not fire a bullet into his stomach. That was even more encouraging.
Solo was now barely; a step away from the girl's warm, moist mouth. Her pansy-colored eyes were lidded.
Miss Fong closed her eyes and pouted her lips. Solo murmured, "You are young. Miss Fong. And pretty. Indeed you are pretty pretty -" Solo timed his last word to come out just at the moment he was pressing his lips to Miss Fong's and preparing to rabbit punch her.
Miss Fong hit him in the stomach with her knee.
Two more karate chops and one judo toss later, Solo lay on his back. Miss Fong drew her leg back gracefully and kicked him in the side of the head.
"I didn't realize that in addition to being good with a gun you were the leading actress in the THRUSH theatre guild," Solo groaned.
"That was your error," Miss Fong replied with a smile that was no longer dewy, but venomously delighted. "You U.N.C.L.E. agents are such naive fools. You think a mere flex of a bicep will strip us of our dedication to the most glorious organization in the history of the world." As if to emphasize the incorrectness of Solo's reasoning, Miss Fong hauled off and let him have another kick in the temple.