This final act of defiance was her undoing. Solo grabbed her flying boot and gave it a terrific wrench.
With an enraged scream, Miss Fong spilled backwards. Solo jumped on top of her. He tried to wrestle the gun from her hand. Her long, unpainted nails tore bloody channels down his cheek.
The girl heaved from side to side to roll him off. She was incredibly strong. Solo clamped both hands on her gun wrist. Miss Fong twisted hard. The muzzle swung around, aimed at Solo's rib cage.
Instantly Solo released her and jerked himself away. The abrupt loss of tension threw Miss Fong off balance. Her gun cracked. Two panes of the folded back French doors shattered.
Solo doubled his list. "No lady kicks a gentleman where you kicked me, Miss Fong -" He connected.
Miss Fong's head snapped back and hit the rug. The pistol spurted one more time as her knuckles banged the carpet.
She lay still.
Solo staggered to his feet. It took him only two minutes to arrange the effect he wanted. In one of the bedroom closets he discovered a collection of feminine clothing. The property of one of General Weng's lady friends, perhaps?
Solo chose a black negligee. Then he dumped Miss Fong into the king-size bed, wrapped her in the negligee and drenched the room with a perfume atomizer from the dressing table.
The room reeked with Essence d'Amour. Solo glanced at the slumbering THRUSH valkyrie.
"I hope you can explain your loyal, efficient appearance to General Weng after the big blow, sweetie," he said. He kissed his fingertips at her and ran for the door.
Five
On the bustling Hong Kong street outside the plush hotel, Solo merged into the polyglot crowd. He walked briskly for five minutes, trying to organize his thoughts.
As he walked he kept glancing up past the bizarre shop signs with the Chinese characters and English legends side by side. A small cloud had rolled across the sun. Around him, clipped British accents mingled with singsong dialects in typical midday unconcern.
At an intersection Solo found a rickshaw and hopped in. "Hotel Hong Kong International, chop-chop."
The rickshaw driver set off down the cobbled way at a brisk run. He shrieked and cursed at pedestrians and small European cars which got in his way.
Solo knew he had major trouble on his hands the moment the rickshaw driver pulled into the wide, sweeping semicircular drive of the Hotel Hong Kong International.
The wind had a banshee sound. The sky was virtually black. Electric lights had come on in buildings along the streets. Further down from the hotel, a power line had fallen. A frightened man, hurrying for shelter, ran into it and died in a waterfall of bluish sparks.
Solo ran up to the knot of Crown Colony police at the hotel entrance. He looked like a ghost, but they looked little better.
"- unnatural, that's what it is," one policeman was saying, staring at the sky.
"I have to get in the hotel," Solo said, starting past them.
A revolver was thrust hard into his midsection. The policeman with the bushy red mustache blocked his way.
"No you don't, sir. We have our orders. No persons can be admitted to the International without the proper identity card from the management."
"I lost my identity card!" Solo had to shout to make himself heard above the gale. "My name is Napoleon Solo. I'm an agent of the U.N.C.L.E."
"Be that as it may, no identity card, no admittance. If anyone tries to break into this hotel without identification, we're authorized to shoot. Now sling your hook before we all get killed in this bloody storm."
Solo grabbed the man's sleeve. "You don't understand! The International is going to be destroyed. You have to get the delegates out of there -"
"What delegates?" the policeman bawled.
"The delegates to the Seminar on Asian Cultural Resources."
The policeman's shout was emphatic: "Never heard of it. Now I warn you, move along -"
"But this storm is being manufactured!" Solo yelled over the din of rain and wind.
"Balmy!" the officer exclaimed. "I knew it the minute I spied you mixing it up with Charlie Luke. This bloke's a drunk or a hophead or worse, lads. Let's give him the
heave-ho!"
"Wait, wait, dammit, you don't understand! My name is Napoleon -"
With a thud Solo landed on the cobbles at the foot of the drive.
He came up like an angry animal, his temper raw because the fools wouldn't pay attention. He took an impulsive step toward the half dozen policemen who had assisted in his departure. All at once the strain showed on their faces. They drew guns.
The ring of police pistols hemmed Solo in. A hissing lightning bolt sent weird blue fires dancing in reflection along the gun muzzles.
The mustached officer said, "Be of, now, or we'll shoot you where you stand."
For one crazy moment, Solo wanted to wade in. Then reason checked him. He whirled and raced across the street.
A few stragglers fled past him. Portions of a roof went sailing over his head. On the fifth floor of the International several windows blew out with great explosions of glass.
The very street under his feet seemed to rock as the force of the storm increased.
Soaked and shivering, Solo darted into the comparative cover of the devastated fried eel restaurant. He pulled out the pocket communicator and pressed the concealed spring stud which opened the secret control panel. With the communicator close to his face, Solo said:
"Open Channel D."
It was the last resort. In a moment, a clear, controlled voice from the box said, "This is Alexander Waverly speaking."
"Solo, sir. I'm in Hong Kong, and -"
"Solo! Great heavens, man! I thought you had been killed."
"No sir. It's Illya. He was captured while I escaped from Tibet. THRUSH has probably put him to death by now, along with our contacts there who -"
"Mr. Solo," Waverly interrupted, "what is that dreadful racket? I can barely hear you."
"Just a bit of rain we're having," Solo's face was harsh. The street ran with rivers of rainwater now, rainwater which carried debris and now and then a pitiful human
corpse.
Solo explained what had happened. He concluded, "The THRUSH storm generator is working perfectly. But I don't know where Weng has set it up. I can't get past the police to warn the delegates at the conference. Is there an U.N.C.L.E. man inside the International? I could call him with the communicator if I knew the frequency -"
Solo's last hope faded as Mr. Waverly said, "We have no agents inside the hotel. We were relying upon you and Mr. Kuryakin. Forget the hotel, Mr. Solo. The repercussions of this can be far greater than simply the destruction of the conference. You must find the storm generator and smash it."
"But it could be anywhere in Hong Kong. It could take hours. By then -"
"Find the generator, Mr. Solo!"
Rain lashed from the inky sky and dribbled down Napoleon Solo's face. He stared a moment at the small box cupped in his hand. Mr. Waverly was asking the impossible. Unfortunately only the impossible could save Hong Kong from annihilation.