The Pillars of Salt Affair

One

The address Estrellita Valdone had given Illya Kuryakin was a rundown warehouse along the East River.

At nine o’clock, he stood on the deserted street in front of the warehouse. An ice-like, numbing wind blew in across the river, touching his face with chill fingers. It was very dark... there were no street lights... and the silence was deep except for the mournful howl of the wind.

An alleyway ran alongside of the warehouse to the left, a pit of blackness. The rear entrance, Estrellita had told him. Down the alleyway, up on to the pier.

She had sounded frightened on the phone. She had information about Napoleon Solo, and had come to New York to find Illya. But there had been two men on the plane, and they had followed her. A cousin of hers owned the warehouse, she said, and she was staying in a small room he had there. She had eluded the two men, but she was afraid to leave the warehouse for fear they would find her. He must come alone, she had said; he must trust no one. And he must make sure he was not followed.

A nice story, Illya Kuryakin thought as he stood on the dark street. He had passed over it at first, elated over the news that he might soon find out what had happened to Solo and where his friend was. But in the taxi ride over, he had begun to dwell on Estrellita’s story, and had found holes in it you could drive the proverbial truck through.

Why had she come to New York at all? Why hadn’t she simply gone to authorities in Mexico? And if there were some other reason then why hadn’t she gone to the authorities here? Why call him? He was supposed to be a mere photographer. What could she expect him to do that the police could not?

He had a strong feeling of uneasiness. There were things that disturbed him about Estrellita Valdone. She hadn’t put in an appearance in Teclaxican the morning after their accident. She and Solo had had a dinner engagement; yet, when Solo had not shown up for it, she had not asked any questions of the hotel clerk as to his whereabouts. Illya had questioned the clerk and knew this for a fact.

Of course, it was possible that she had seen something that afternoon, after the accident, that had sent her into hiding. It could have been then she learned whatever it was she had to tell Illya. But he had thought of arguments against this; if she knew of Solo’s whereabouts, then she must have seen him being taken somewhere. And if she had learned this the afternoon of the accident, then that would logically mean that Solo were still somewhere in Mexico. That being the case, Illya was right back to his original query. Why had she come to New York?

He was beginning, as they say, to smell a rat. Or, more correctly, a — THRUSH.

He debated his next move. He could go back to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, report his suspicions, and lead a raiding party back to the warehouse. But if he did that, there was the possibility that Estrellita would be gone when he returned. And that would leave them where they had started. In a blind alley.

Too, there was the chance that they had seen him arrive. They might be watching him now, hidden in the shadows. If he tried to leave they could stop him without any trouble. A well-placed bullet in the darkness, and you could scratch one U.N.C.L.E. operative.

He knew he had to go through with the meeting. He had to take the risk. U.N.C.L.E. was powerless now; they knew nothing of THRUSH’s cabal. Inside that warehouse, one way or another, lay the answers to a lot of questions.

Illya Kuryakin entered the mouth of the alley. The blackness was absolute. He walked carefully, feeling his way along the side of the warehouse. He had gone no more than a few steps when he heard something. He stopped, listening. Quiet, and the howl of the wind. He took another step, his hand on the U.N.C.L.E. special at his side.

There was a scurrying sound directly in front of him, and a shapeless black form darted past him, brushing his leg. He eased the pressure of his hand on the gun. Cat, he thought. But his body did not relax.

He reached the end of the alley and stepped up onto a catwalk at the edge of the pier. Below, the black waters of the river churned at the pilings. The sting of the wind was more pronounced here, tugging at his clothing, chilling him. He walked carefully. One good, strong gust of that wind could send him plunging into the icy river. He would not last five minutes in the subzero waters.

He stepped up on to the pier itself, and went along it to where he found the door Estrellita had said would be there. He lifted his U.N.C.L.E. special from its holster, flicked off the safety, and thrust his right hand and the gun into the pocket of his overcoat. He rapped loudly on the door.

It was opened almost immediately. The white face of Estrellita Valdone peered around the jamb.

“Mr. Kuryakin?”

“Yes.”

“Are you alone?”

“I’m alone.”

She swung the door wider. He stepped past her, inside. A light glowed dimly at the far end of the warehouse. Estrellita shut the door, motioning for him to follow her, and they threaded their way through heaping rows of empty pallets, packing crates, and misshapen, canvas covered mounds, toward the light.

As Illya Kuryakin approached, he saw that the light came from an office. A glass partition allowed him to see that it was empty, containing only a single, cluttered desk and a row of metal filing cabinets.

Estrellita entered the office, and then turned, facing him. Illya stood in the doorway. “All right,” he said. “Now tell me where Napoleon is.”

He did not hear the man come up behind him. He did not even know the man was there until he felt the hard thrust of metal in the small of his back, and the rough hand that jerked his arm from the pocket of his overcoat and tore the U.N.C.L.E. special from his fingers.

He stood motionless, feeling the pressure in his back, pressure that could only come from a gun muzzle, and cursed himself for not being more careful. He should have checked the warehouse. He should have

Estrellita Valdone, clad in a khaki shirt and men’s trousers, was smiling coldly at him. “I am going to do better than tell you where your friend is,” she said. “I am going to take you there. I think, perhaps, we can arrange for the two of you to share the same cell. An U.N.C.L.E. reunion, as it were. How does that strike you, Mr. Kuryakin?” Illya said nothing. He was staring at the Army-issue, 45 automatic that was clenched, black and deadly, in one of Estrellita Valdone’s small, white hands.

Two

I’ve got to get out of here, Napoleon Solo thought.

I’ve got to get out of here and warn U.N.C.L.E. what THRUSH and this madman are planning to do. They’ve go to be stopped, no matter what the cost.

It was a fantastic plot. But it would work, Solo knew. If THRUSH succeeded, the world would indeed be at their mercy. They could wreak havoc, destruction. Panic would result, and nations would crumble into chaotic ruin. If THRUSH gained control... He had to get out of there. But how? Solo looked at Dr. Sagine. I could grab him, he thought. Use him as a hostage.

No, that was no good. Dr. Sagine, even though he probably did not know it, was now expendable. He had perfected his chemical. THRUSH no longer needed him, no matter what they had promised. Once the crystallization had taken place world-wide, they would undoubtedly reward him with a bullet in the back of the head. Dr. Sagine might think he was the only one who knew the chemical antidote, but THRUSH scientists, working in close proximity with him, would have undoubtedly learned the secret by now. No, using Dr. Sagine as a hostage wouldn’t work at all.

Solo had to think of another way. And it couldn’t be here, not in this office or in the laboratory outside. It had to be...

He had an idea. It was a slim chance, a very slim chance. If he failed, there would be no second opportunity.

He said, “You’re insane, you old buzzard.”

Dr. Sagine jumped up from his chair. “What?” He said.

“That’s what I said,” Solo told him. “A psychotic old buzzard with delusions of grandeur.”

A sound like the enraged squawk of a bird came from Dr. Sagine’s throat. He brushed past Solo, into his private laboratory, and threw open the outer door.

“Guards!” He yelled. “Take this man back to his cell! Lock him in! We’ll break him and reduce him to a quivering mass of jelly! Nobody talks to Dr. Sagine like that!”

The two guards rushed inside, grabbing Napoleon Solo. They hustled him out into the main laboratory. Solo could still hear the mad doctor screaming hysterically, even above the clamor.

Roughly, the guards prodded Solo across the laboratory to the elevator. The electronic panel slid back, and they stepped inside, one guard on either side of Solo. The panel closed again, and they began to descend.

Solo had accomplished what he had set out to do by infuriating Dr. Sagine. He needed to get out of the office and out of the laboratory as quickly as possible, to get into the elevator alone with the two guards. This was his chance. He allowed his body to relax, arms hanging loosely at his sides. One more second, now. One more...

The elevator stopped. The panel began to slide back.

Solo dropped to one knee. It was a single, fluid motion, catching the two guards completely by surprise. They reacted just as Napoleon Solo had hoped they would. They both turned toward him, leaning forward.

As soon as his right knee touched the floor of the elevator, Solo pushed upward with his left foot, hands clenched into fists, touching one another at his chest, elbows extended to the sides.

He had come up into a crouch, body still moving upward, when he drove both elbows out, simultaneously, in piston-like quickness. It had been perfectly timed. Both elbows ripped with pile-driving force into the respective stomachs of the two guards, bending them over at the waist. Twin explosions of gasping pain escaped from their throats.

Solo, standing once again as the two guards went double, lifted both hands and brought the hard edge of each hammering down karate style He felt a satisfying shock shoot up each arm as his hands connected solidly with the back of each guard’s neck. They dropped without a sound.

The elevator panel stood wide open, revealing the long, empty hallway. Solo, bending quickly now that the first part of his gamble had worked, took the automatic strapped to one of the guard’s waist and shoved it into the belt of his trousers, ignoring the machine guns because of their bulk. Then he grabbed each of the guards by the back of the shirt and dragged them out of the elevator, depositing them in the hallway. He stepped back inside.

He had noticed that there had been two small buttons, barely visible, on one of the walls of the elevator when he had been taken up to the laboratory. It was with those buttons that his chance for escape lay.

They had undoubtedly been put there so that whoever was riding inside would be able to change the elevator’s direction if needed, since its original course was electronically controlled from outside. Solo pressed the lower of the two buttons, keeping his finger on it, and listened to the pounding of his heart.

The panel closed. The elevator began to drop. Solo took the automatic from his trousers and held it ready in his right hand. He wanted to get the lowest floor of the THRUSH fortress. He did not know what he would find there; for all he realized it would be the living quarters of the THRUSH guards.

But there was one thing he did know, and that was the fact that there had to be an outside entrance somewhere on that initial floor. He remembered the road that had been carved from the mountainside. And since there was a road, THRUSH would have vehicles — jeeps, most likely — and the logical place for them to be kept would be on that first floor.

The elevator stopped. Solo took his finger off the button on the wall as the panel began to slide back, holding his breath, squeezing gentle pressure of the trigger of the automatic.

Warehouse.

Solo let his breath out slowly, eyes darting rapidly from side to side. To the left he could see several jeeps, parked in twin rows on the concrete floor. Six, altogether. On his right, he saw a large helicopter, cargo-type, of a manufacture he suspected was THRUSH’s. There were crates, skids of glass jars, and other goods stacked near him. Directly ahead was a partitioned area, behind which he could see what looked to be a large control panel. A single man stood before the panel, his back to Solo. There was no one else in sight.

Solo stepped out of the elevator, walking softly. If he could reach the man at the control board knock him out before he could raise an alarm, he would have enough time to get safely away. He knew how to operate a helicopter, and there had to be a platform somewhere at one end of the warehouse that would serve as a launching area. The control board should be able to give him the answer. He moved swiftly, silently, across the concrete.

He had gone halfway when he heard the shout from his left. He spun there, bringing up the automatic. A man in mechanic’s clothes had been working near the jeeps. He was standing now, yelling a warning across to the man at the control board, digging inside his uniform with right hand.

Solo snapped a quick shot just as the man fumbled a gun from his clothes, saw the man spin, toppling backwards to the floor. Solo whirled toward the other man, just in time to see him pull a lever high on the control panel. A wailing, ear-splitting siren began to pulsate throughout the warehouse, echoing shrilly off the walls.

The alarm Solo thought. He’s thrown the alarm!

He began to run towards the man, legs driving on the concrete. The man turned, groping at a holster strapped to his belt. He had the gun out of the holster just as Solo reached him, but he had no opportunity to use it. Solo brought his automatic down on the side of the man’s head, watching him crumble in a heap on the floor.

Solo looked wildly at the control board, the vibrating howl of the siren screaming at his ears. There was no chance to use one of the helicopters now. THRUSH guards would flood the warehouse in a matter of seconds. His only opening for escape lay in the road outside. Where was the control that operated the entranceway? His eyes swept in frenzied motion at the bank of levers on the board and then stopped on one marked: Main. He grabbed the lever, heart thudding in his chest, and jerked it downward. There was a great, rumbling sound drowning momentarily the wail of the alarm siren. The entire wall to his right began to spread open. Solo saw the same blue sky, the same snow-capped mountain peaks, he had seen from Dr. Sagine’s office. And he saw the road.

He turned again, running for the rows of jeeps. He reached the first jeep in the row, saw the keys dangling from the ignition, and started to clamber inside. Then he stopped, his brain racing.

Got to stop them from following me, he thought. There were five bullets left in the automatic, and five jeeps. One bullet for one tire on each. It would leave him defenseless, without a weapon and without time to get one, but he had no other choice.

Quickly, he ripped a shot into the tires of each of the five jeeps, the left row first and then skirting between them to the right row. He threw the empty gun down, hearing the whir of descending elevators. He jumped into the remaining jeep, twisting the ignition key. The motor roared into life.

Panels slid back in the walls. Armed men emerged from the elevators, milling onto the concrete floor.

Solo let out the clutch. Tires screamed, smoking, and the jeep shot forward. He hunched over the wheel, the crack of revolvers, sounding behind him. He heard a bullet thunk somewhere in the rear of the jeep, others buzzing overhead, and then he was out of the warehouse and onto the dirt road, careering down the winding mountainside.

He drove as fast as he dared, one hand wrapped on the wheel, the other changing gears rapidly, sliding the jeep in and out of the turns. He had made it. It would take them several minutes to change the tires on the remaining jeeps. By that time he would have several miles on them.

Solo knew just about where he was. The river lying below him was the Colorado; one of the mountain peaks in the distance, the highest, was Pike’s Peak. That meant he was in the Colorado Rockies, probably near the source of the Colorado River. Rocky Mountain National Park. There would be a ranger station down there somewhere. If he could reach that...

He had gone more than ten miles, losing altitude rapidly, the Colorado River looming larger ahead of him as he neared the canyon through which it flowed, when the jeep began to sputter, its speed diminishing.

At first, Solo could not understand the loss of speed. He geared down. The engine coughed again. Then Solo’s gaze held on the dashboard, and he knew immediately, with a sense of burning frustration, what had happened.

The bullet that he had heard lodge in the rear of the jeep must have hit the gas tank. The needle on the fuel gauge read empty.

Three

Napoleon Solo did not know what to do. If he tried to go down the road the rest of the way on foot, THRUSH would have him in a matter of minutes. There was nothing but mountain, granite bluffs, to his left, and nothing but the canyon to his right. And on top of that, he was unarmed.

The engine on the jeep died. Solo brought it to a halt, angling it across the road. That would slow them somewhat, but not nearly long enough. He clambered out and stood staring down into the canyon.

Could he hide? No, that was out. How long could he stay hidden? THRUSH would have patrols on the road and in the area. No, he couldn’t hide, he couldn’t go down the road on foot, he...

He saw the railroad tracks then. Hope surged inside him. The tracks lay on the side of the canyon wall, almost a hundred feet down. They were abandoned, partially hidden by rocks and dirt, and that was why he hadn’t seen them at first. Part of the tracks had begun to sag, crumbling away to leave nothing but thin ledges in the already narrow bed.

The tracks had to lead somewhere, Solo knew. Even abandoned, they still had to tie in to a main rail line. All he had to do was follow them, keeping hidden from the THRUSH pursuers.

The canyon wall, dropping away to the floor and the river below, was steep and irregular. It would be precarious, climbing down, but Solo knew it was the only way. He could detect eroded holes in the granite that, if he were extremely careful, would yield foot and handholds.

He started down. It was late afternoon, and although the sun was out, the wind carried the chill of snow. There would be a flurry tonight, perhaps even a storm. If he were caught unprotected at night here in the Rockies, he would freeze to death before morning.

Cold sweat stuck Solo’s clothes to his body as he worked his way down the canyon wall. Foothold, hands digging into the slippery granite, another foothold, all with tortuous slowness. Once, his foot slipped, and he almost lost his grip. His body dangled for a split instant above the tracks and the nothingness beyond. Then his clutching hands and feet caught, held, and he closed his eyes, not daring to look down.

He reached the tracks after what seemed like an eternity. He stood leaning against the wall of rock, feet planted solidly on the track bed, dragging the chill air into his lungs. Which way? he thought. Left or right?

He looked to the left. The tracks ran along the canyon wall and then curved out of sight. He could see where much of the tracks had been torn away by erosion and falling rocks.

He looked to the right. The tracks were sloped slightly downward until they, too, disappeared around the curve of the canyon. They looked passable as far as he could see. He went to the right. He walked carefully, watching his feet. The last thing he wanted was an inadvertent slip on one of the rocks there, and a possible slide.

Solo rounded the curve of the tracks along the wall, ears straining. He thought he heard the whine of jeep engines above him. He stopped, hugging the granite.

He saw the trestle.

The tracks dropped sharply some fifty feet, then veered to the left, following the line of the canyon face. The distance across the canyon itself at this point was fairly narrow, and it was here that the trestle spanned the two walls. It was supported by rusted steel that had been sunk and anchored into the granite on both sides. A sagging, wooden snow shed covered the length of the trestle.

Solo could see that the tracks began to drop steeply on the opposite wall. They led down out of the mountains, all right. Just as he had thought. He started down the tracks toward the trestle.

Solo heard the helicopter then. A cold ball of ice knotted his stomach. He stopped, looking upward. It was moving out over the trestle from the granite behind him. He saw two men inside.

It was the helicopter he had seen inside the warehouse at the THRUSH fortress. Solo had forgotten about it. He should have known they would send it up to search for him. He leaned back against the canyon wall. Maybe they wouldn’t see him.

The helicopter, hovering above the canyon, rotor blades whirring, started to rise, banking to his left, away from him. They hadn’t seen him. His relief was short-lived. The chopper halted its climb, sat motionless in the air like a giant hummingbird for an instant, and then started back.

Solo saw one of the men inside leaning out, and sunlight flashed off something metallic. Machine gun. They’d seen him, all right. And they were moving in for the kill.

Solo was trapped, and he knew it. He was the proverbial sitting duck, a naked target against the granite wall. There was no place to hide. No place... Then suddenly he thought of the trestle!

If he could reach it, get inside, they couldn’t get at him with the machine gun. But what good would it do? They could hover up there for hours, keep him trapped inside until more members of THRUSH reached him along the tracks.

Maybe I should just stay here and get it over with now, Solo thought helplessly. No, he couldn’t think that way. As long as there was a chance, no matter how slim, he had to take it. The fate of the world was at stake.

The helicopter was coming closer. He saw the man with the machine gun leaning out. The chopper was close enough so that Napoleon Solo could see the man’s face. He was one of the three men who had run him and Illya off the road in Teclaxican, one of the men responsible for his friend’s death.

Solo gritted his teeth, turned, and began to run toward the trestle, his feet skidding on the rocky surface, unmindful of the danger of falling now with an even greater danger overhead.

The man in the helicopter fired a short burst from the machine gun. Solo heard the bullets chunk into the granite where he had been standing, spraying chips of rock at his back.

Solo stumbled in his light, staggering, and then regained his balance. More bullets from the chattering Thompson gun overhead nipped at his heels, splattered into the granite. Miraculously none hit him.

He reached the trestle and ducked into the cover of the snow shed, leaning against one of the wooden walls, fighting for breath. He could hear the copter whirring over the shed.

Solo wiped sweat from his eyes and looked downward. His heart jumped into his throat. If he had taken another ten steps in his blind flight he would have fallen to his death on the canyon floor below.

Part of the wooden ties supporting the tracks had long since dropped away. One of the rails hung loosely there, about to give way. The other, on the side Solo stood, still seemed to be solid. It was the only passage, and a hazardous one, through the trestle. It would take careful footwork to get past the yawning hole.

Solo closed his eyes, his breathing returning to normal. There was nothing he could do now but steel himself for the rush he would have to make on the open tracks down the other canyon wall.

He was aware of the sound of the helicopter outside. But the noise of its rotos did not seem to be overhead; it was opposite the shed wall across from him. It seemed to be dropping. Why would they...

He saw the tip of one of the helicopter blades through the hole in the tracks, and he knew in that instant what they were doing. He felt the chill of fear move up his spine. They were going to come after him from beneath the trestle.

They must have known about the hole, known that there was no place Solo could hide from them. If he went back the way he had come, they would climb and pick him off. And there was not enough time for him to work his way across that single rail to the other side of the hole.

There was no escape.

The helicopter hove into view below him, and Solo saw the evil, grinning face of the man with the machine gun as he leaned out, raising the weapon up towards him. Solo hugged the wooden wall behind him in helpless panic, waiting for the bullets to tear into his body.