The Pillars of Salt Affair

One

They found Diego Santiago Y Vasquez in the El Pomo Cantina. He had, it appeared, been there since he left them when they checked into the hotel that morning. He had, it appeared, been drinking more than just a little of a potent Mexican cognac called aguardiente. He was most liberally drunk. He sat at a table against the rear wall of the cantina, with his chair tilted back precariously, arms folded across his chest. He was snoring loudly.

Solo shook him gently. Diego Santiago opened one bleary eye, closed it again, and then re-pried it open. He gave them a crooked smile.

“Ah, senor Solo,” he said. “Como esta?”

“Not particularly well,” Solo said. “You seem to be doing rather nicely though.”

“We must have a drink,” Diego Santiago said, reaching for the nearly empty bottle resting on the table top.

Napoleon Solo moved the bottle out of reach. “No more of that,” he said. “We’re going for a little ride.”

“A ride, senor?”

“To the lake.”

“The lake?” Diego Santiago said blankly.

“In the foothill,” Solo said. “The lake, you know?”

“Oh, sí, sí,” Diego Santiago said. “But the road, she is—”

“We know that,” Illya said. “We’re going as far as the slide.”

“You wish me to drive you there?” Diego Santiago said, squinting at them.

“That was the general idea,” Illya said.

“Senor,” Diego Santiago said indignantly, drawing himself erect, “I do not drive when I am drinking. I am the safest driver—”

Looking at him, Solo decided that he was right. In Diego Santiago’s condition, driving a car on a mountain road would be akin to suicide. “All right,” he said. “If you’ll give us the loan of your car and directions how to get there, well—”

“My car?” Diego Santiago said. “Oh, no, I could not possibly, senor. My car, she is my living, my little child. I do not even allow my wife to drive my car.”

Illya Kuryakin stepped forward. He took several bills from his pocket, holding them where Diego Santiago could see the denominations and began to leaf through them slowly. Diego Santiago wet his lips. He tugged at the corner of his mustache. He leaned forward His eyes grew bright.

When Illya Kuryakin had counted off a sufficient number of bills to suit their guide, Diego Santiago cleared his- throat. “Perhaps,” he said, “if you were very careful, and were to promise to return by nightfall...”

“We’ll be careful, all right,” Illya said.

“Then,” Diego Santiago said happily, “I consent.” He snatched the bills from Illya’s hand and tucked them safely away in his shirt pocket. He gave them his crooked smile.

Solo said, “We’ll need directions.” Diego Santiago explained how they could reach the lake from Teclaxican. Solo asked him if there were another road leading there other than the one that was asked if there were a trail of some sort that they could take on foot. Diego Santiago said there was, and told them where it was located. Satisfied, Napoleon Solo asked for the keys.

Diego Santiago produced them from his trousers. “Remember, senors,” he said, “Be very careful. My car is my living, my little child...”

“Don’t worry,” Illya said. “We get along famously with children.” Behind them, Diego Santiago called out to the bartender for another bottle of aguardiente. He was going to put his new-found wealth to good use.

Two

They turned off the main road on to the one leading up to the mountain lake ten miles to the east of Teclaxican. The main road had led them in straight, perpendicular line to the base of the foothills, and then had veered sharply to the right to parallel them. The secondary road, on which they were now traveling, was little more than a narrow trail, allowing passage of but a single car.

Illya Kuryakin, driving, had been having more than a little difficulty with the sedan. The clutch slipped badly, and the steering was as tight as a diesel truck’s. His arms ached from gripping the wheel. He observed dryly to Solo that Diego Santiago y Vasquez’s little child had a typical female disposition.

Two miles into the secondary road they began to climb. The road began to wind, gradually at first, and then became a series of sharp turns as they moved upward. On their right were walls of shale and banks of light jungle; on their left a scant few yards off the road was a long, rocky slope that fell away into a valley below.

Illya held the sedan in low gear, hands white on the wheel, and they climbed at a bare crawl. “Nice road,” Solo said, looking out at the shale bluff to his right.

Illya glanced cautiously into the open space of the drop and shuddered. “I keep thinking,” he said, “how lucky we are Diego Santiago decided to get drunk.”

Napoleon Solo grinned. “The slide should be up ahead about a mile,” he said. “Do you think they’ll have guards posted there?”

“Lookouts, probably,” Solo said. “Hidden from sight.”

“We’ll have to go up to the lake through the jungle,” Illya said. “Where did our friend Diego say that path was?”

“Just after the first turn before the slide.” Solo said.

“They’ll know we’re coming.”

“Can’t be helped,” Solo told him. “There’s no other access to the lake. And we’ve got to have a look up there.”

“I have the strangest feeling we’re walking into something,” Illya said.

Solo said nothing. He felt faintly on edge, as well, a vague uneasiness.

They heard the jeep before they saw it. The sound came from behind them, the whine of an engine being geared down. Solo sat up on the seat, ears straining. “What’s that?”

“Sounds like a jeep,” Illya said, listening. “Behind us.” Solo turned, looking out the rear window.

“I don’t see anything.” Illya hunched over the wheel, increasing his speed slightly. The road straightened as they came around a turn, dropping into a long dip and then rising steeply on the other side. They were climbing again when the jeep came into view around the turn.

“Jeep, all right,” Solo said, still turned on the seat. “Three men. They’re coming at a nice clip.”

“Could be THRUSH agents, you know.”

“Yes.”

Illya, fighting the slipping clutch, pressed down on the gas. The sedan shot upward, cresting the rise in the road. Behind them, Solo saw the jeep, raising a cloud of dust, cross the dip and start up after them. The driver apparently knew the road well; his speed indicated that.

On the other side of the rise, the road turned sharply to the right. Illya braked heavily, twisting the wheel. The nose of the sedan pointed briefly towards the shale bank to the right, and then straightened.

The jeep came over the rise, slid into the turn, slowed momentarily, and then came on after them again. It was only a hundred yards behind, and gaining. Solo saw one of the men, the one net to the driver, stand up and rest something across the top of the open windshield, leaning forward. He knew instantly what it was.

“Machine gun!” he yelled. “Keep low!”

The quiet of the mountain road was split open with the roar of the machine gun. The rear window of the sedan shattered, and a bullet tore upward into the headliner, showering them with dust. Another bullet slammed into the seat back and buried itself there.

Illya, hunched over the wheel, threw the sedan into another turn, skidding, fighting for control. The sedan fishtailed, sliding sideways. Illya spun the wheel frantically. The nose, pointed out to the open drop to their left, reversed. The left rear wheel touched nothing but air, but the right caught the road bed, held, and the sedan straightened again.

Illya’s heart was thumping wildly in his chest.

“We can’t outrun them!” he yelled. “And there’s no place to stop! We’re trapped!”

“The slide!” Solo yelled back. “If we can get to it we’ve got a chance!”

The jeep negotiated the turn with no trouble. They were only fifty yards to the rear now, and still gaining. The chattering roar of the machine gun came again, and they heard bullets thunk heavily into the metal of the sedan. A deflected slug screamed past Illya’s head, veering to the right, and spider-webbed the right hand side of the windshield.

Illya took the sedan into another curve, and when they came out of it, the road leveled into a long straight stretch. The drop to their left was not as steep now as it had been, but was grown with underbrush and dotted with rocks

A heavy wall of jungle grew down to the road on their right.

Illya peering ahead though the windshield, yelled, “The slide! Up ahead!”

The road was blocked at the far end of the stretch by a thick bank of mud and rocky earth that had been gouged from the jungle slope on the right. Kuryakin began to brake. Gear teeth snapped as he fought the gearshift into low. The sedan’s engine protested wildly, but it began to slow.

“Right up to it!” Solo shouted. “Our only chance is to get into the jungle!”

The sedan was slowing rapidly, now. The man in the jeep cut loose with another burst from the ma chine gun. Another fifty yards...

The right rear tire on the sedan exploded.

The jarring impact of the burst tire, hit by one of the machine gun bullets, wrenched the wheel from Illya’s grip. The sedan fishtailed again, violently, the back end slur ring to the right and the front end pointed directly at the open drop to the valley floor below.

Desperately, Illya clutched at the wheel, his foot crashing down on the brake, but even as he did so he knew that it was too late.

Solo had just enough time to yell, “look out!”

And then the sedan went off the road, front end lifting, and then crashing down heavily, and they began to slide downward, side ways, with Illya still hanging onto the wheel in a death grip, picking up speed as they crashed across rocks and through the underbrush.

A large cluster of rocks lay in the path of their downward flight, and when the front bumper of the sedan crashed into the rocks, the rear end lifted, sending them airborne, catapulting the sedan end over end in a spinning, floating arc, like a toy tossed into the air by a child.

Further down, it hit the slope on its top, crushing it, and the sedan began to roll sideways, mutilated into a twisted pile of gray metal, and when it came to rest against a huge boulder a hundred yards from the valley floor below the gas tank exploded, sending huge tongues of flame and billows of black smoke high into the warm Mexican afternoon.

And then it was quiet again.

Three

Solo had been thrown clear. When the careening sedan had hit the first cluster of rocks, catapulting it into the air, the door on the passenger side of the vehicle had been jarred open and the impact had pushed him out.

He had landed in a clump of scrub brush, rolling, his head narrowly missing a large rock there. Dazed, he lay hidden from the road above in the brush and rocks, unable to move. The sound of the explosion below shocked his mind into instant awareness again.

He swiveled his head, looking down the slope. He saw the flames and the billowing smoke, and a numbness came over him. Illya, he thought. Illya’s down there.

He started to rise. A sharp pain stabbed at his right leg. Looking at it, he saw that his trousers were torn. A huge gash had been ripped — in his leg from the fall. He lay still again, thinking, He’s dead. Illya’s dead.

A blind, white-hot rage came over him then. His head pounded. THRUSH was going to pay for this. He lay hidden, waiting. If the men in the jeep had seen him thrown clear, and came down to search... He felt for the U.N.C.L.E. special at his belt, but it was gone, lost in his rolling fall from the sedan.

He moved forward slowly on his stomach to where he could see around one of the rocks. He looked up at the road. He saw the jeep parked up there. The three men were standing at the edge of the slope, peering down. One of the men pointed. Solo saw another man grin, nodding his head. They were apparently satisfied. The three men turned and got back into the jeep.

Solo did not know any of the three, but he knew he would never forget their faces, even from this distance. The jeep moved up the road to the slide. The driver jockeyed, turning it around, and then stated back along the road, the way they had come. It disappeared around the turn.

Solo felt instantly in his pocket for his U.N.C.L.E. communicator. He had to contact Mr. Waverly, tell him what had happened. Waverly would send a team of U.N.C.L.E. agents out immediately. Solo knew there was nothing he could do by himself.

He located the communicator and brought it out. Damaged. The antenna had been snapped in the fall he had taken; there was no way he could fix it. He threw it down in disgust.

Now what? He had to get back to Teclaxican. But he did not know if THRUSH had anyone posted near the slide, though he decided they probably did have. He could not attempt to leave the area now for fear of being seen. If they knew he was still alive, and unarmed, he did not have a chance. There was only the one thing he could do.

He lay waiting for nightfall. Below him, the flames engulfing the sedan dwindled as the fire burned itself out. A thin waft of smoke curled into the sky, and then disappeared altogether. The charred, blackened lump of metal lay like a dark, ugly insect under the sun.

Solo looked away. He made his mind a blank. He did not want to think about Illya Kuryakin.

The sun began to fall into the west, maddeningly slow. Afternoon began to fade away to night. The shadows in the valley below deepened, and the air began to take on a slight chill. Another hour, Solo thought as he lay behind the rocks. It would be dark in another hour.

He was acutely aware of the pain in his right leg. He had inspected it gingerly for broken bones. There were none. The gash was deep, and blood had flowed freely from it, but he did not think it would prevent him from walking. He had tied his handkerchief above the wound, tightly, to act as a tourniquet. It had stopped bleeding finally.

The sun was gone completely now, and the sky had turned from blue to muted black. A faint orange glow of twilight emanated from the west, fading, and then there was no light at all. The hour had passed.

He waited until the darkness was complete before moving.

He stood slowly, then, testing his leg. It seemed to be able to support his weight well enough. He started up the slope, keeping into the cover of the rocks there. The footing was treacherous in the dark, and he stumbled several times, almost falling.

He moved laterally instead of straight up, not wanting to get on to the road until he was out of sight of the slide and any lookouts that might be there. When he had worked his way around the turn at the western end of the straight stretch, he moved up to the road itself. He saw the path through the jungle to his left, the one Diego Santiago had told him led to the lake.

He debated going there for a look, decided against it since he was unarmed and since he did not know the area. When he got back to Teclaxican he would contact Mr. Waverly for the team of agents, and tomorrow they would come up here in force. Chances were that THRUSH thinking he too was dead, would not vacate the area before then.

He moved along the road, walking slowly, favoring his injured leg. He was careful to stay close to the slope on his right. If anyone came up the road, it seemed likely that they would be members of THRUSH, and he wanted to be able to get out of sight quickly. No one else would have reason to come up this road at night.

It took him over an hour to reach the main road. He had not seen any cars on the secondary road, nor did he see any now on the main one. It was ten miles back to Teclaxican, and he knew it was very possible that he would have to walk the entire distance. There was little chance of a car being out here on the plain at night.

The prospect was a grim one. His leg was aching badly now. He wondered if it would hold up for ten miles. But he had no alternative; he began to walk. He had gone approximately three miles, walking along the side of the road, when he saw the headlights.

They were coming toward him, from Teclaxican. He stopped. He did not know what to do. If he flagged the car down, and it turned out to be THRUSH-manned, he was a dead pigeon. He looked around him. Flat plain on both sides of the road, with no place to hide from the sweeping glare of the headlights. They were coming closer. He had no choice now. It was too late to run, and he knew he would not get far on his injured leg. Bending, he picked up a large, heavy rock and cupped it in his palm. It was little defense against a gun, he knew, but it was all he had. He stood waiting for the car.

It had been moving at a fast speed for the condition of the road, and it slowed suddenly, quickly. Solo knew that the driver had seen him, and had applied the brakes. He took a tighter grip on the rock, holding it at his side and slightly behind him in his right hand.

The car came to a stop almost next to him. A white face peered through the driver’s window at him.

Solo stared. “Estrellita!” he said. Estrellita Valdone, black eyes wide, stared back.

“Mr. Solo! What... what are you doing here?”

“No time to explain now,” Solo said quickly. “I’ve got to get back to Teclaxican. Will you take me?”

“Yes, certainly,” she said. Solo went around to the passenger side of the car, a new Ford, and slid inside. He leaned back against the seat, stretching his injured leg straight out in front of him under the dash.

Estrellita was looking at him, eyes still wide. “You’re hurt. What happened to you? I was worried when you did not keep our dinner engagement. No one seemed to know where you were.”

“We had an accident,” Solo said shortly.

“Where is Mr. Kuryakin?”

“He’s dead,” Solo said through clenched teeth.

“Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“Does Teclaxican have any policia?” Solo asked her.

“A subjefe,” Estrellita said. “His name is Hernandez.”

“Take me to him.”

“But you should see a doctor. Your leg...”

“Later,” Solo said. “The only person I want to see is the subjefe.”

“All right.” Estrellita swung the Ford into a U-turn, heading back toward Teclaxican. Solo sat staring out the windshield, not speaking. His face was grim, tightly set.

After a time he turned, looking at the girl beside him. “What were you doing out here this time of night?” he said.

“I could not sleep,” Estrellita said. “I often go for a drive when I cannot sleep. I find that it relaxes me.”

“It’s a lucky thing you decided to come out here,” Solo said. “I don’t think I could have walked much further on this leg.”

When they reached Teclaxican, Estrellita drove through it, turning to the right along a short street on the western edge. At the far end of the street, a low, balconied house lay behind a white-washed fence. A pair of twin banana palms grew in the yard.

Estrellita brought the Ford to a stop in front of the house. “The subjefe lives here,” she said. Napoleon Solo nodded.

They got out and went through the gate in the fence. There was no time to lose, Solo thought. He would have to see the subjefe and then call Mr. Waverly in New York immediately on the spare communicator at the hotel. It would take time for him to get a team of agents here, and Solo knew that the longer they delayed the more likely the possibilities were that THRUSH would complete its testing in the area and pull out. He wanted to get back up to that lake as quickly as possible.

They walked up to the front porch. Solo rapped loudly on the door. There was only silence from inside. He rapped again. Still no answer. Solo turned to Estrellita Valdone.

She had been carrying a small, straw handbag, and it was open on her arm. She had taken something from inside.

Solo said, “What...”

She held a thin, silver vial in her hand, raising it up toward his face. Solo knew instantly what it was. He threw his right hand across his face, reaching out for her with his left. But he was too late. She released a button the side of the vial and a thin stream of odorless, almost invisible gas escaped from the end, enveloping Solo’s head in a vaporous mist.

Nerve gas!

He had encountered it before. It had been developed, and perfected, by THRUSH, a favorite and deadly weapon they used mercilessly on whoever stood in their way. It attacked the nervous system, rendering the victim helpless within a matter of seconds. Any number of after-effects were known to have occurred after contact with it... brain damage, palsy, respiratory malfunction.

Now, Solo stumbled backward as the gas poured into his lungs. He felt his mind beginning to cloud, a strange, disembodied feeling, and thoughts whirled together in a disjoined jumble. Estrellita, a THRUSH agent, should have known, should have been more careful, too friendly, asked too many questions, should have known, she must have been going to the lake tonight, story too pat, her house here no reality, too late, — can’t contact, too late, too

Napoleon Solo collapsed, unconscious, to the wooden porch.