“The recovery of Fromes’ body is all we can do at this point, sir.”
“No ideas at all what killed him?”
“The laboratory will have to answer that. The acquisition of his body is our first and only step.”
The distinguished visitor shook his head. “I wish I could share your enthusiasm, Waverly. Were the corpse that important, they wouldn’t have been so cooperative about returning it, don’t you think?”
“Hard to say. Blocking our efforts to do so might have proved more dangerous.”
“I’m sure you know what you’re talking about. I tend to high pessimism these days.” The man straightened. “Who is claiming Fromes’ body?”
Waverly’s gloomy face brightened a trifle.
“Solo. My best man.”
“Odd name. Well, Waverly, I’d best be going. You’ll keep me up-to-the-minute on this, I trust? I have my own VIP’s to keep alerted.”
“Of course, sir.”
Both men shook hands warmly. “Waverly.”
“Yes?”
“It is a comfort that U.N.C.L.E. exists. A far greater comfort than I can ever publicly laud or acknowledge. Do you understand?”
“I think so, sir. Thank you.”
Waverly was still fingering his pipe in happy memory of what the man had said long after the secret elevator had whisked its important passenger down to the underground garage where the Secret Service agents waited. Fromes’ body was the key to the whole Thrush matter. And Napoleon Solo was the man to turn that key.
SHADOWS OVER OBERTEISENDORF
LE BOURGET WAS a red glare against the inky backdrop of the Paris sky. Blinding, powerful arc lights traversed the airdrome. A long line of fire trucks and police cars filled the perimeter of the terminal. It was quite like the night Lindbergh had landed on his historic one-man solo flight from New York to Paris. Hordes of onlookers thronged the outskirts of the field, their jostling and shouting drowning out all sanity and order.
Napoleon Solo dismissed the cab driver and alighted. The front doors of the terminal were yet a good quarter of a mile away. Though it was fairly obvious that normal civilian entry was now impossible, Solo walked slowly in that direction. He only paused when he found one of those glass-walled telephone booths. Amidst the hubbub and uproar, he was but another meaningless figure added to the bedlam. The night was alive with sound and fury. It was impossible to estimate exactly what had occurred. An explosion, the cab driver had said. Accident or sabotage?
Solo dodged a trio of hurrying, overalled, grease-stained men, and stepped into the booth. He dropped a coin into the slot and waited. When an operator answered, he asked for a number in the Overseas Press Club. Soon he was connected with a man named Partridge.
“Partridge here,” a British accented voice said.
“What is good for hives, Mr. Partridge?’
“Bees.”
“What flies forever and rests never?”
“The wind.”
“When is a door not a door?”
“When it is ajar.”
Solo breathed easy. The simple code, though no great shakes, was unfailing.
“Billy, Le Bourget is in flames.”
Partridge’s chuckle was grimly unhumorous. “Indubitably, old sport. Somebody set off a few big ones on the runways at seven this evening. Anything to do with you?”
“It’s a possibility. I am supposed to fly out of here.”
“What’s your destination?”
“Hitler’s backyard. Any ideas? Time is, as they say, of the essence.”
He could almost hear Partridge thinking before the answer came. The ex-Major Partridge of British Army Intelligence was U.N.C.L.E.’s liaison man in Paris, a safety guarantee factor for just such exigencies as this one.
“Got a car?”
“I’m walking so far.”
“I see. How far into the backyard are you going?”
“The Redoubt. I’m picking up Fromes.”
“Listen carefully.” Partridge spoke quickly now. “There’s an air strip at the northeastern tip of Rouen. Nothing much. But a Frenchman named Landry will rent you a plane for a price. Good man. No political convictions save money. Try him.”
“That’s fine. How do you suggest I get to Rouen?”
“Hmmm.” There was another pause. “Where are you now?”
Solo peered through the glass walls of his booth. There was a painted sign and a number staring down at him from the stucco side of a shed of some kind.
“Le Bourget. Tool shed seven-oh-three-three-nine. About five hundred yards from the eastern approach to the main terminal.”
“Stay put. A Jeep will be there directly. You may leave it with Monsieur Landry.”
“Partridge, I love you.”
“Don’t mention it. And I am sorry about Fromes. He was a decent chap.”
Napoleon Solo hung up soberly, staring for a moment at the silent phone box. A decent chap. A glorious testimonial to a man who had given his life for his country. Fromes would understand though. There were no medals, no financial bonuses, no awards to win with U.N.C.L.E. Only the memory of men like Partridge.
Outside the booth, the thick aroma of smoke mixed with gasoline and oil assaulted his nostrils. He winced, turning up his collar. The night air was biting, despite the proximity of the smoldering blaze igniting the area as far as the eye could see.
Sighing philosophically, he fished out a pack of French cigarettes and lit one from his jet-flame lighter. He reversed his Tourister on the shorter end and sat down to wait.
All about him, Le Bourget was a madhouse.
To American GI’s of World War Two, Rouen had been easily, almost charitably, dubbed The Road to Ruin. For it was here that the long march into Germany to end the combat in the European Theater of Operations usually began. Once troopships landed at devastated Le Havre, Rouen was the first step on the leg of the journey for all ETO Task Forces. Solo had served in Korea, being but a stripling in the days of Pearl Harbor, but many a retread on Heartbreak Ridge had regaled him with yams about Rouen. Armored Division men had long memories, and their GI French was interwoven with the history of the little border city just outside the harbor. Patton had filled his gas tanks there; every Army of the U.S. that swept through fortress Europe had known Rouen for at least a day.
Now, as he wheeled the jeep swiftly over the unpaved roads, with forests of trees engulfing him on either side, Solo thought about Waverly’s cryptic note. Memories. of Rouen had recalled William Daprato, the combat M.P. to whom Waverly had referred in his cable. Daprato had been in Rouen. His outfit had landed there after a stint in North Africa. It was here that his poignant warning had been given birth.
A squad of his men had entered a bistro on a mop-up campaign following the German evacuation of the town. When one unwary M.P. had picked up a bottle of Pommard wine and foolishly tugged up the cork, there had been little left of the soldier save a bloody mass of flesh. “Booby traps for booby troops,” Corporal Daprato had cursed bitterly. The remark had become legendary—filtering down through the ranks, the divisions, the platoons and squads until one night it had reached the ears of First Lieutenant Napoleon Solo, First Cavalry Regiment. He had burned the remark into his consciousness of war. When the time came for his fitness report as a member of U.N.C.L.E., it had been included as code information on his file. Hence the simple use of the name William Daprato meant a volume of words—a code no enemy could ever break because it only meant something to Napoleon Solo.
But what did its usage mean in the assignment of recovering Stewart Fromes’ corpse? Did Waverly actually mean to suggest that he thought Fromes’ body was mined in some way? That was ridiculous—or was it? Still, it was something to think about, wasn’t it?