A heavy hand descended on Solo's shoulder, shifted its grip to the scruff of his neck. He saw Illya's head come to meet his own, and again there was that flashing light. And darkness. He was vaguely aware of being half-carried, half-dragged into a small room ablaze with light. There was a smell compounded of stale beer, frying, hot metal, and tea. He dropped to his knees as Rambo released him. He struggled to stay conscious, squinted painfully up at a tall, lean man in dark trousers and a gaudy sports jacket, a man who grinned evilly down at him and went right on slapping his palm with a flexible leather thing that sounded solid.
"You're a tough nut, cobber. If it comes to a next time I'll have to give you the full treatment."
"Ain't going to be no next time, Hoppy, not for these fellers. We got some old potato sacks? Gotta wrap the lot of them up and deliver them for burial." Hopwell came back, after a moment, frowning.
"Two. That's all there is."
"Don't matter. We can put two of 'em in one sack easy enough. Give me a hand, will you?" Solo's wits were unscrambling a little now, enough to show him that Louise lay in a corner on the tiled floor, like a discarded doll. She was very still. Beeman, evidently, had an economical mind. He had recovered the glamorous ball gown. Solo shivered as he watched the indifferent pair grab Illya and stuff him into a filthy sack, to whip a noose about the top and extend the lashings all the way down, firmly. Then it was his turn. Rambo stooped, caught up Louise's sprawling body and dumped it on the floor roughly. A shove of his huge hand sent Solo flat beside it.
"You're lucky, man! I should hope to have that kind of company when it comes to my turn to die!" Rambo laughed hugely as he clamped Solo firmly against the inert girl so that Hopwell could apply more rope. Then he was hoisted bodily and slid into the sack. It was ancient, dusty, and the smell was unbelievable, so powerful that he passed out again. The next thing he knew was the agonizing shock of being dropped onto a hard and unyielding surface with Louise's weight on top of him.
The floor of the truck was hard and equipped with painful bumps that took their toll as the truck heeled around a corner before striking the road. Solo knew he had only the scantiest chance of ever seeing daylight and fresh air again. Hopwell had put plenty of muscle into the roping, and Louise was no help. He squirmed desperately, begging her pardon silently for being rough but intent on getting his hands close enough together so that he might reach the knife that was stuck to his right forearm. The only way was to hug her tight, and she was a buxom girl. The truck took another bend violently, and he rolled, cracking his head on the hard floor, but the jar had helped. He gripped his own fingers, heaved savagely, got his fingertips to the haft of the knife and breathed all the way out so that he could gain an extra inch. Then he had it. Seconds more and the nearest rope was in pieces. Hauling back, he slit the sack enough to get his nostrils to the gap and suck in a much needed breath. He didn't know whether he was being observed or not, and this was no time to worry. He enjoyed the breath, then used the knife fast, got himself out of the sack, and was able to look around.
The truck was empty of everything but a spare fuel can and the bodies. The back wall was blank. The twin doors had tiny windows. He peered out just in time to see the main road intersection slip backward into the night. He knew where he was now, for what good that was. Turning to the other sack, he got busy with the knife and had Illya free. The Russian agent was barely conscious, his eyes glazed.
Solo went back to his vantage point by the small windows, sparing only a moment to grab a sack and spread it, not very effectively, over Louise's nude body. "Got to get you to a doctor," he mumbled, "among other things. Got a lot to do and nothing to do it with."
Kuryakin sat up weakly. The truck swung into another sharp curve, and he rolled over again, grunting painfully. Through the windows Solo saw a high wire fence and then the scattered debris of construction, the tall gray ghosts of buildings. The truck halted, began to back up and around, and he saw double gates standing open. Just beyond were the low roofed sheds of temporary offices and haphazard piles of girder strip and wooden boxes. On beyond those again stood the gaunt white bulk of multistory block, and beside it the fragile looking skeleton frame of a monotower crane. The truck shuddered to a stop. Solo tensed as he heard doors slam at the front of the truck and then Rambo's giant voice.
"You be dragging one out, Hoppy, while I talk to this feller, see what he wants us to do."
Kuryakin sat up, groaning, and Solo hissed him to silence urgently, listening to the approaching footsteps. He gathered himself by the door, and as it clicked and swung open for Hopwell to lean in, he struck, hard and savage, with both hands and all his might. Hat, head and shoulders went down with a crack against the steel stripped floor; then Solo leaped catlike right over him and turned to do what battle he could. But there was no need. One touch of the sagging body told him that.
"What now, Napoleon?"
"What else? It's crazy, but I'll have to play it by ear. Give me a hand to get his jacket off and then we'll stuff him in the sack."
Within minutes Hopwell's body was roped, and Solo, with the hat jammed on his head and the garish jacket in place, stooped and took hold. "I'll deliver this. You follow up, stay out of sight until we get an idea going. Right?"
He got a good grip, hoisted, grunted with the strain, and went plodding away with Hopwell's limpness sagging over his shoulders and his head well tucked down to avoid recognition. He heard, now, a high pitched squealing voice that had to be Wendig. He sounded Welsh and bad tempered.
"Only two of you? What does that fat fool think I am, a magician? Who's going to take the crane?"
"I can handle that bit," answered Rambo. "Done it before."
"All right, get going! Is that it?"
Solo staggered close, spun round to peer, saw Rambo striding away to the foot of the crane, met the bright little eyes of the foreman staring.
"This is one of them, yes." He stooped and let the sacked body fall to the ground, and stretched up gratefully. "Now what?"
"Hmm! I can't do six different things at once, can I? You know how to feed a mixer?"
"Sorry, no idea."
"That's a great help you are, then. Hell!" Wendig swung around, his face screwing up into a scowl. "I'll have to do that bit myself. Hey!" He put his head back and squealed up into the darkness. "You let the hooks down here, right away!" He spun around again. "You stay there a minute." Seconds later two spotlights flared into life, aimed up at the building and the crane. Wendig came back, striking a switch that set the mixer grinding loudly.
"You'll have to go up with the hooks," he said, "and that!"
"I what?" Solo stared at him, "You must be joking!"
"Damn and blast it, man!" Wendig squealed furiously. "I haven't got the time for playing about. I haven't got six arms, see? I have to make the mix, all ready. Your mate is on the crane. Somebody has to ride up there with that and disconnect it so that the hooks can come back down for the next one. I can go and get that, easily enough, as soon as I've got a mix going. But somebody has got to go with the hooks. You!"