Half an hour later, Solo reined in the horse between two monolithic rocks on the crest of the range of hills he had seen. From the shadow he watched through his binoculars as the caravan wound its way around the far end of the spur on which he stood. The camel with the striped blanket still walked just behind the posse of cavalry at the head of the column. It would be twenty minutes or a half hour before the last riders had passed the foot of the slope immediately below him.
He decided to rest the horse and call Illya on the radio. He had not contacted him at all, and Kuryakin must be wondering what had happened—besides which, he himself wanted to know how the Russian had fared on his journey in from the other direction.
Sheltered by the rocks from the fierce heat, he sat down, took out the transmitter and, turning the pointer to RECEIVE, pressed the button actuating the automatic call sign on their wavelength.
At the end of the half hour—the last outriders of the caravan had passed below him some time before—he was still pressing it.
There was no reply from Kuryakin.
Chapter 10
The City Which Was Off the Map
THE RECEIVER in Illya Kuryakin’s breast pocket began to bleep after he had been arguing for nearly two hours with the officer in charge of the detachment of soldiers who had prevented him from resuming the road after his night in the Landrover.
Colonel Ononu was short and bulky, with fierce, bright eyes in a very dark face. He was a volatile man, speaking in a declamatory fashion and constantly throwing out his arms and then smoothing down the creases in his rumpled bush shirt and shorts. Every now and then he would snatch the French paratroop beret he wore from his head, as if to emphasize a point, and then cram it back again on top of his close-cropped hair. The issue between them was simple: Illya wanted to go on; the colonel wanted him to go back. Either that or submit to arrest—for he was not entirely satisfied with the Russian’s credentials, he said.
“What do you want to go for, man? What for?” Ononu said. “This is dangerous country. We got a civil war on our hands, man—you could say the whole place is under martial law. Okay, technically the province is still ruled by the Arabs. Technically, I say. But possession is nine-tenths of the law, even martial law, and we’re here…and we’re in possession of you, man.”
“Granted, granted, granted, Colonel,” Illya said patiently. “For the tenth time, I have pictures to take, and in my opinion the only place I am likely to get them is further on here—”
“Where further on? How far you goin’? There’s nothing to take around here—unless you want shots of villagers murdered by the Arabs.”
“As I said, I’m taking this road as far as the fork for Halakaz, and—according to my map—the Halakaz road crosses a range of volcanic mountains and then skirts an enormous forest before it reaches the town a hundred miles further on. There are no roads through the forest—indeed, I understand it is hardly explored at all, and certainly not by Europeans. And it is here that I hope to be able to get the animal photos I want.”
The colonel Hung out his arms in a theatrical gesture. “Pictures, animals, photographs!” he cried. “I tell you there’s a race war going on here, man! You’d do better to photograph some of the atrocities—”
At this moment the call sign on Illya’s transceiver began sounding insistently.
“What’s that?” Ononu demanded suspiciously.
“A transistor radio,” Kuryakin said innocently. “I must have left it on…”
“Give it to me.”
“But it’s my personal property!”
“There’s no personal property in a war, man,” the colonel exclaimed, dragging off his beret and slapping his thigh with it. “When will you Europeans realize that this is Africa? Give it to me, I say.”
As one of the ring of soldiers surrounding them moved a step forwards, jerking up the barrel of his automatic rifle, the agent drew the radio reluctantly from his pocket and handed it over. Ononu dropped the red beret back on his head and examined the compact device, turning it over and over in his hands. As the bleeping continued, a hot, dry wind stirred eddies in the dust at their feet and agitated the stiletto-like spikes of the thorn trees.
“But this is not a music radio,” the colonel said at last. “This is a talking radio. Somebody is talking to you, calling you. Who?”
“My partner.”
“Partner? What is his name? Where is he?”
“His name is Waverly,” Illya said easily. “He is supposed to be somewhere up in the forest area already. He is probably calling me to say that he has found a suitable place for photographs.”
“Answer him, then.”
The Russian took back the radio and turned the pointer to TRANSMIT. “Hello, Waverly,” he said, his mouth close to the microphone grille; “this is Kuryakin. Hello, Waverly—come in please…Hello, Waverly…”
He turned the pointer back to RECEIVE. But only the bleeping continued. No voice answered from the tiny speaker—which was not surprising, for he had kept his thumb firmly on a small button at the side of the casing. Unless the button was released, the radio would not transmit.
“Try again,” Ononu ordered.
Illya repeated the charade. And again the high-pitched pips provided his only reply. After a time they ceased.
“Something must be wrong with it,” Kuryakin said; shaking the set vaguely.
“I will take charge of it,” the colonel said, holding out his hand.
“But it will be of no use to you. It cannot be tuned to different wavelengths: you can only use it in conjunction with similar sets which have been synchronized with it. It is useless by itself.”
“Radios are always useful in guerrilla warfare.”
“But I tell you it is useless to you. Besides, it is broken.”
“Then you will not be inconvenienced by the lack of it.”
Ononu took the transceiver and put it in his own pocket. He said, “I have decided to permit you to proceed and seek your friend—but only because of what you told me earlier: that you had received General Mazzari’s personal accord. This will be checked—and I must warn you that if it should prove to be untrue you will regret it.”
“It is true.”
“Good. Then, apart from one small formality, I need not detain you further. As underground forces, you understand, we must not remain too long in the same place. More normally, we keep to the mountains—however, the day is at hand. The Nya Nyerere will soon be marching openly, the acknowledged force for law and order in the land.”
“And the formality?”
“We must search your effects, lest there might be something dangerous to us—or of use to us.”
Illya shrugged angrily and gestured towards the Landrover. He stood fuming in the searing sunlight, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, as the soldiers expertly unrolled his baggage and handed up the contents to be examined by Ononu. The mercurial colonel “requisitioned”—as Kuryakin had feared—the collapsible U.N.C.L.E. gun and its ammunition. He also took a parcel of miniature grenades, a bundle of phosphorus lockdestroyers, a rifle with a telescopic sight, and a pair of homing devices in a case, similar to those used by Solo.
“You appear, Mr. Kuryakin, to anticipate some hostile reaction from your subjects,” he said dryly.
“The area is far from any human habitation and practically unexplored, as I said. One has to prepare for anything.”