“And to wait until King Mike comes out,” Solo agreed, treading on the brake and skidding the truck to a halt outside the laboratory. To Sarah he tossed the question, “Is there a back entrance to this establishment?”
“No. This is the only door. Look out, there!”
“I see him!” Even as she yelled and pointed, Solo drew his pistol and fired, half-out of the cab. The large man who had been running urgently along the footpath on the inside of the fence towards them kept right on moving for another six feet or so, but in a face-downwards attitude, and then he lay still, his shotgun skidding away to one side. “That leaves three, Illya. We’re wearing them down.”
The heavy double-doors of the laboratory remained inscrutable. Kuryakin appealed to Sarah: “What’s the layout inside, beyond that door?’
“A straight passage, with offices leading off either side, and process-rooms and things. Are you thinking of going in?”
“Better than waiting out here to be picked off. There’s a couple of rifles in the back, Napoleon. Discourage the opposition a bit while I go in there and call on Uncle Mike.”
Groping in his pocket for one of U.N.C.L.E.’s special door-openers, the Russian cast a quick glance up and down the little roadway, batted at his blond fringe, dashed across the gap and stuffed the little thermite bomb in the keyhole, triggered it and dashed back. As soon as the flare had died he flung himself at the door again, crashing it open with his shoulder and going down headfirst in a skid along the polished floor of the interior, his pistol out and swinging in an arc, his eyes flicking nervously in an attempt to watch all directions at one.
The reaction was totally negative. Seconds later the doors crashed open again to admit Sarah in a similarly headlong dive. As they swung shut after her, he saw she had thought to bring a rifle. They lay still and looked at each other for ten heartbeats, then he stirred and got up on his knee.
“The place sounds deserted. We’ll have to check, but I have a feeling we’ve missed the boat. Careful how you point that thing!”
With her help, he searched the building rapidly. It was very modem, the equipment bringing nods of approval from him, but it was quite lifeless. If O’Rourke and Trilli had been here, they had gone again without trace. Kuryakin sighed and pointed the way back to the entrance, but before they could reach it they heard the crash-blam of shotguns and the whipcrack answer of rifle fire. Orienting swiftly, Kuryakin shoved open a side door, trotted the length of a massive chemistry bench to the far window and peered cautiously out. The next building was some fifteen yards away, and as he looked he saw a jet of smoke spurt out and whip away in the slight breeze, heard the crash of the shot. As Sarah came to nudge his elbow he pointed, grabbed an earthenware jar from the bench and flung it through the glass.
“Keep your eye on our hosts out there while I talk to Mr. Waverly. Maybe he’ll have some ideas.” She nodded, settled her elbows on the bench and loosed off a warning shot at the brickwork by that corner. He squatted down on the floor by her feet and pulled out his transceiver, getting Waverly’s attention almost immediately. “We’re in the plant laboratory, sir, but I’m afraid the birds have flown—if they were ever here, that is.”
“I see. And we’ve no idea where to look next. A man like O’Rourke might have a thousand hideouts in this country alone, and time is vital.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Illya!” Sarah cried excitedly. “I’ve just thought—Uncle Mike’s yacht!”
“Eh?” He looked up at her, instantly alert. “A yacht?”
“Well, that’s what he calls it, but it’s a thirty-foot cabin cruiser, actually. The Princess, that’s her name.”
“Where does he keep it moored, as a rule?”
“It’s always in the same place. Regan’s Beach. That’s a small bit of private pierage just below Thomond Bridge.”
“That’s in Limerick?”
“That’s right!”
Kuryakin attended to his instrument again. “Did you get that, sir? About the boat. It’s the obvious answer.”
“Yes. If only we’d known earlier. Never mind; we’ve no time for recriminations. You and Mr. Solo get along to Thomond Bridge as fast as you can. I’ll meet you there.”
“Which is all very well,” Kuryakin murmured, as he pocketed his instrument again, “but there are people outside who don’t want us to leave just yet. Keep your eye on the opposition, dear. I’m going to have a word with Napoleon.”
He reached the outer doors, went down cautiously on his chest and drew one of them open to peer out. He saw Solo suddenly bob up from the back of the truck with a rifle, snap off a shot over the cab and then drop again. Hard on the heels of that shot came the crashing retort of a shotgun and the thin wail of flying lead bouncing off the truck.
“Napoleon!” he called. “There’s nobody home. They’ve gone off in a boat, and we have to get out of here.”
“I’ll vote for that,” Solo shouted back, “but how do you convince the shotgunners over there? There’s two of them, and they have a system. One reloads while the other one fires. I don’t know where the third character is, but I’m expecting him any time. Do we have any gas grenades? The breeze is in our favor right now.”
“Sorry, I’m all out, but you give me an idea. Keep ’em ducking!”
Kuryakin slid away from the door and went back to the laboratory on the run. Sarah squinted back over her shoulder as he entered, then brought her head back just in time to see a flicker of movement from the other corner of the building opposite. Swinging the rifle, she snapped off a shot and another large man plunged forward into sight, dropping his weapon and losing all further interest in the proceedings. She felt suddenly weak. She had actually shot a man! Then she rallied, twisted her head around again in curiosity.
“What are you going to do now, Illya?” she demanded, seeing him take a couple of reagent-bottles from a rack and approach the window where she crouched.
“Elementary chemistry,” he said, pulling out the two stoppers and bringing them close to each other. Where the invisible vapors met, she saw thick white fumes form instantly.
“Ammonia and hydrochloric acid!”
“Right! Now, give me room to swing.” He hefted a bottle, tapping the stopper firmly into place, swung and threw the bottle through the window and onto the footpath where it led past the next building. It struck and shattered very satisfactorily and he repeated the drill with the second, but this one hit and bounced, perversely, without breaking. Scowling, he reached for his pistol, and then ducked as a shower of buckshot stammered about the window. Up again, he took careful aim, fired, and the bottle shattered. As if by magic, a great boiling cloud of white smoke materialized just beyond the far bottle and drifted down to the corner.
“That should do it!” he said crisply. “Come on, let’s get out of here while it lasts.”
Seconds later, with Solo still on guard in the rear, the little truck roared around and away and back through the ruined gate, heading for Limerick. There was a thin sprinkling of traffic on the road by now, so they slowed at the first handy moment to let Solo climb back into the cab, to preserve the appearances, and went on as fast as was wise in the circumstances.
Kuryakin relinquished the wheel to Solo and drew out his communicator again, his expression much more serious than usual. Valuable time had been wasted, and if the mad Irishman had in fact taken to the water it might be difficult to follow him effectively. He spoke to Waverly, brought him up to date on events, then listened, and nodded a time or two, made some comments of his own. He didn’t seem happy.
“What’s the weather report, Illya?.” Solo asked, once the conference was complete.
“Princess is away. There should be something ready for us by the time we reach the docks. Mr. Waverly’s fixing that now.”