"It's solid all the way around. Maybe I could break into it, maybe not. There's one fat cable to the thing, though, and… Lemme see… – No it won't unplug."
"Don't cut it! Can you get into the mechanism?"
"Through the water jacket?"
"No, like where the plug goes in. That should be right up at the front, and it might not be solid."
"I'll see."
"Be gentle."
Five irregularly spaced blows in as many seconds bludgeoned the building, and there was a heavy roar like a wall caving in upstairs. Simultaneously a thunderous wave of smoke and shrapnel filled the hallway as the outside door was blasted by a high explosive charge.
"I'll work on it. It sounds as if the mortars are coming up. Aren't you glad you're in a nice safe bomb shelter instead of out here where it's dangerous? Okay I'm going into the firing mechanism now…"
The Big House was built like a fortress, and would have to be stormed like one. Outer defenses fallen, the stone mansion stood, deadly fire spitting unabated from shuttered casements and sheltered crannies. A hold gaped in one third-floor wall where a missile had found the narrow opening of a window, and porch pillars around three sides were bullet-pocked and splintered.
Beyond the Barn and to both sides, the U.N.C.L.E. forces now surrounded the house, unable to make a decisive attack. Sustained mortar fire had hardly diminished the defensive capacity of the Big House, but now scattered attack groups were gathering themselves for one concerted rush. Dark-windowed, bulking against flame-lashed cloud's of smoke behind which hidden armies clashed, it stood like a besieged tower of dark sorceries in some legendary war. Then another mortar shell blasted its flank, and white stone fragments flew.
"Yeah, they lead to a lock like an ignition switch on a car."
"Any numbers on it?"
"None. Hey how's your room holding up? It sounds like you're taking a beating back there."
"I can't tell. It's still dark. But I think part of the ceiling came down a few minutes ago."
"Is Joan okay?"
"She's just fine. Right here holding the phone for me. There should be two more wires coming out of that lock, one off the right side and one off the bottom."
"I can't get at the back of the lock – it's set into a welded box. Two other wires come out together twisted around each other. One's yellow and green, one's purple and white."
"Where do they go?"
"Down inside. I can't see where. Into the casing I think."
There was a long silence, broken by a shuddering blast somewhere above them and the hysterical chatter of machine gun fire. Another blast punched down the hall outside and shook the door in its frame.
"Illya? There's these two wires…"
Illya took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "Okay, Napoleon. Cut one of them."
"Check."
Raduysya Mariye, blagodati poliaya, Gospod s't'voyu; blagoslovyenna ti mezhdu zhenami i blagoslovyen' plod' chryeva tvoyevo Iisus'. Svyataya Mariye, matyer' Bozhi, ya moli o nas' gruishnikh' ninui i v' chas' smyerti nashyey. Amin'. Illya's lips barely moved as he subvocalised the old, old words. Ages passed in the seconds before Napoleon said, "Okay – one cut."
"Don't touch the other one. Just check and see if the red light is out, and you might bend the cut ends away from each other and the other wire."
"I just did. Hang on."
"Joan?"
She stirred beside him. "Is he there?"
"I'm going to want that morphine, I think. Can you open it in the dark?" Illya's voice was tense, and unsteady.
"Yes – just a second."
"Illya? The blue light is still on but the red one is out. Oh-oh!
The orange light just flashed. Now it's out. Now it's on again – what's happening?"
"If the red light's out, the bomb's disarmed. I'd bet the orange means the radio signal is being received. Don't worry about it – just get back here. The war is coming this way and you won't want to miss it. I'm afraid I will have to." He dropped the phone, and Joan took it.
"Napoleon?" she asked it tentatively, but no answer came. She pushed the field phone under the bed and stood up stiffly in the dark.
"I'll take that morphine now," Illya said, and his voice was suddenly very tired.
"Where's your…"
"I can find myself better in the dark – give it to me."
"Shut up and relax. I've done this before. You'll wake up in a nice hospital room and I'll bring you a jar of caviar."
"Ouch! Was that the blunt end?"
"Good night, Illya. It'll come on in a few seconds."
He gasped, "Can you find the water? I can feel it starting. My arm is starting to go away…"
She groped around and found the plastic pitcher on its side on the floor with a few ounces of water still unspilled. She held it to Illya's lips. He gulped quickly from it, then rinsed his mouth before sinking back to the thin mattress. His breathing was deeper and slower now, and his voice slurred as he said, "Wake me up when the war is over…"
A shifting light outside the door and a quick tapping heralded Napoleon's return. Joan jumped up and ran to. him with-a little cry, to wrap her arms around him and clung close against him for a moment.
"Polie!" she said. "It's been dark so long!"
A series of blasts overhead showered plaster on them, clouds of white in the hissing glare of. the gasoline lantern as they embraced, drawing renewed strength from each other.
"How's Illya?"
"Out. He wouldn't take the morphine until you were through in there, but he's good for twelve hours now."
"He'll be safe enough here," said Napoleon. "Our exit is now blocked solidly, by the way. Come on – I'll show you. Grab that lantern."
The harsh white glare showed a sloping wall of rubble filling the entire end of their hall. Timbers jutted like broken ribs where the ceiling had caved in.
"We'll have to go out upstairs," said Napoleon. "So I thought we might as well leave Illya, who is as secure here as he can be, and wander along to join the party."
"And harass the foe from the rear," Joan said. "I'll requisition Illya's ammunition -it was with the rest of his things in the closet. -I' seem to recall a back stairs we might try…"
She cast about through a couple of corridors, then nodded. "Up here," she said. "We shouldn't take the light past here. There's a door right at the top of the stairs, second flight. Let me go first."
She led the way up narrow wooden steps and around a corner. The lantern was lost behind them, but gunfire from ahead echoed between the close plaster walls as they crept upward.
The door swung quietly open into chaos. Fumes reeked through the hall and guns barked on either side. "Here we go," said Napoleon. "Stick close behind me. We'll use silencers, snipe from cover and keep shifting around. They may not even tumble we're here."
"A beautiful thought."
"And remember, Joan – I love you."
"I love you, Napoleon."
"Now – let's go!"
They ducked out the door and down the hall. A bulky desk athwart the corridor accorded them momentary shelter, and Napoleon took the opportunity to assemble his U.N.C.L.E. Special. He swiftly unscrewed the flash-shield and replaced it with the long barrel extension, drew the Bushnell Phantom 1.3X15 scope from its velvet-lined sleeve, slipped it into its shoe and tightened the locking screw, snapped the collapsing telescoping stock into its slot in the butt, pulled it out to full length and twisted it to lock it open, then folded out the shoulder-plate to latch at right angles. Finally he slipped out the eight-round magazine – still with five shots left – and replaced it with the sixteen-round clip. He snuggled the lean, gracefully ugly weapon to his shoulder and peered through its scope into the smoky darkness beyond.