The Pillars of Salt Affair

One

“Come in and sit down,” Estrellita Valdone said. “There will be a short wait before we depart.”

“I’ll stand, thank you,” Illya said. He was still looking at the gun clenched in her hand.

The man standing behind Illya Kuryakin jammed the gun muzzle into his back and shoved him inside the warehouse office. “The lady said sit down, friend,” the man said. “You do like she tells you.”

There was a single, straight-backed chair next to the desk. Illya sat down. The man came inside the office and stood near the door. He was tall and angular, with a bloodless slash for a mouth, and dressed in khakis similar to Estrellita’s.

Illya leaned back in the chair, resting one hand on the corner of the desk in a position of apparent relaxation. But inside, his muscles were taut, wound like a steel spring, ready to explode if the slightest opportunity for escape were to present itself.

“Well,” Illya said. “Nice little THRUSH trap you’ve baited here. Too bad you’re going to be caught up in it yourself.”

Estrellita Valdone smiled her cold smile. “Really?”

“There are ten U.N.C.L.E. agents waiting outside,” Illya told her. “I should think they’ll be battering down the doors any second now.”

The angular man gave a short, barking laugh. “Won’t work, friend. We were watching when you came up. You were alone, all right.”

“When I came, yes,” Illya said smiling. “But were you watching the front when I knocked on the rear door?”

The man frowned, looking at Estrellita. She said, “You don’t really expect us to believe that, do you?”

Illya Kuryakin shrugged.

The angular man seemed uncertain. “What if he’s telling the truth?”

“He’s not telling the truth, Benson,” Estrellita said. “It’s an old trick. He wants to make us believe there are U.N.C.L.E. agents outside so I will have you go out to look. Then he’ll be alone here with me. It would be much easier for him to overpower one person, and a woman at that. Isn’t that correct, Mr. Kuryakin?”

Illya shrugged again, his face impassive. Estrellita Valdone had guessed that he was lying, and had guessed his purpose behind the lie.

Now he had to contend with both Estrellita and the man named Benson. And they were well trained, standing apart from one another, watching him carefully. When he made his move, as he knew he must, it had to be quick and sure, with no margin for error. Perhaps if he could get them talking, distract them somehow-

He said, “What are we waiting for, if you don’t mind telling me?”

“A telephone call,” Estrellita said. “When we receive it, five minutes from now, we shall take you to where Mr. Solo is.”

“And just where the devil might that be?”

The cold smile flashed again. “You will learn that, Mr. Kuryakin, when you arrive there.”

At the end of that five-minute period, — as Estrellita had said, the telephone rang. She took a single step to where the phone was perched on the opposite side of the desk from where Illya sat. She caught up the receiver.

Illya’s eyes followed her. It was then that he became aware of the paperweight.

It was a large, oblong piece of black onyx, highly-polished, and it sat on top of a sheaf of bills of lading on the half of the desk nearest Illya. His hand, resting on the desk where he had placed it when he sat down in the chair, was only inches away from the paperweight.

Illya looked at it, took his eyes away, and stared straight ahead. That piece of polished onyx represented a possible opening. He tensed the muscles in his legs, planting the toes of his shoes solidly on the floor.

Estrellita seemed to be listening intently to whatever was being said on the other end of the wire. Then she said, “Yes,” just that single word and nothing else, and hung up the receiver. She started to move away from the phone.

Eyes still staring straight ahead, Illya said a silent prayer that he would remember the exact position of the piece of onyx. Then his arm lifted, darting sideways, and he felt his fingers close over the glossy surface. His eyes flicked right.

Well, he thought, this is no time to be a gentleman. And he threw the paperweight at Estrellita Valdone.

In the same motion, he came up off the chair, toes digging for leverage against the floor, and hurtled his crouched body at Benson. He heard Estrellita’s sharp cry of pain, and the thud of the automatic as it flew from her hand and bounced on the floor, and he knew his hurried aim had been accurate. Then his shoulder slammed with jarring force into a surprised, off-guard Benson’s midsection.

The force of Illya’s charge pushed Benson backwards, and the crack of his head against the door jamb resounded dully, music to Illya’s ears. Benson squeezed the trigger of his own gun as he hit the jamb, a reflex action, but his arm had been pushed to one side by the contact and the bullet thudded harmlessly into the wall.

The angular man slid unconscious to the floor, Illya on top of him. Illya Kuryakin tore at the gun in Benson’s fingers, pulled it free, and then rolled over the prone form, coming up on one knee with the gun up and ready in his hand.

Estrellita was sitting on the floor in front of the desk, holding her right arm. Her eyes were squeezed shut in silent pain.

Illya Kuryakin leaned back against the desk, passing his left hand through his blonde hair. “Now, Miss Valdone, suppose we play twenty questions.”

Estrellita’s black eyes were open now, filled with pain and hatred. “I won’t tell you anything,” she said defiantly. “Not a thing.”

“We’ll see about that.” Illya took his U.N.C.L.E. communicator from the pocket of his suit and thumbed out the antenna. “Open Channel D, please,” he said.

Two

Illya Kuryakin, Mr. Waverly and two other U.N.C.L.E. agents, specialists in the art of interrogation, spent two hours questioning Estrellita Valdone at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

They questioned her individually and collectively, using every known verbal trick of extracting information. They flung questions with rapid-fire quickness, trying to confuse her. They made seemingly irrelevant queries, carefully phrased, hoping she would let slip the slightest bit of useful knowledge.

But Estrellita Valdone, whatever else she might be, was also extremely loyal. She remained adamantly silent. The man named Benson refused to tell them anything either.

Illya and Mr. Waverly, having left the specialists to continue the interrogation, were now seated in Waverly’s office. Illya had become increasingly mired in futility. They had the answers right there, not two doors away from them, yet they couldn’t pry them loose from the two THRUSH agents. And time was running short.

The two men sat in strained silence. Waverly was pouring over a recent batch of reports from U.N.C.L.E. offices throughout the world, reports which told him nothing he did not already know. Illya watched his superior shake his head sadly. The tension inside him was about to reach a boiling point.

There was a knock on Waverly’s door. He pressed one of the buttons on his desk and the door opened, admitting an agent named Bradshaw, who Illya knew slightly, from Intelligence Section IV.

Waverly looked up as Bradshaw approached his desk. “Yes?”

“I have the reports on Benson and the Valdone woman you asked for, sir,” Bradshaw said. “Took us some time to run them down.”

Waverly took the papers Bradshaw handed him. “What were you able to ascertain?”

“Not much, I’m afraid,” Bradshaw said. “We have no files on Estrellita Valdone; she’s either a new recruit or an agent that THRUSH had kept well-hidden. Apparently she really is a model in Mexico City, lives alone in an apartment there, but beyond that we draw a blank.”

“And Benson?”

“No known THRUSH activities,” Bradshaw said. “At least, no definite connection with them. But he’s got a criminal record-strong-arm stuff, mostly-that dates back several years.”

Waverly was reading one of the papers Bradshaw had given him. He frowned slightly, tugging at his ear lobe. “Interesting item here,” he said. “I expect if we were to confront our Mr. Benson with this bit of information, he might become more amenable to answering our questions. What do you think, Mr. Kuryakin?”

Illya sat up straighter on his chair, taking the paper from Waverly. He read it over. “Perhaps he might, at that,” Illya said, determination replacing some of the tenseness inside him “Shall we find out?”

“Indeed,” Waverly said, rising.

Three

Benson sat on a straight-back chair in one of the U.N.C.L.E. interrogation rooms down the hall from Waverly’s office. He sat stiffly, apparently somewhat bothered by the constant questioning, but remaining obstinately quiet.

Waverly spoke softly to the two interrogators, and they left the room, leaving Benson alone with he and Illya.

Illya said, “Have you decided to talk yet?”

Benson said nothing, glaring up at him.

Illya smiled faintly. “How many times have you been in prison, Benson?”

“What?” Benson said, startled at the sudden turn in questions.

“Three, isn’t it?” Illya asked him. “Once for assault with a deadly weapon. Two years. Twice for armed robbery. Four years and, eight years. Three different terms, Benson.”

“So what?” The angular man said, not quite understanding.

“Just this,” Illya told him. “In your language, that makes you a three-time loser. Surely you know what it means if you’re convicted of another crime.”

Comprehension touched Benson’s eyes. The color drained from his face.

“That’s right,” Illya said. “Life imprisonment. Without possibility of parole. The rest of your life behind bars, Benson.”

“Wait a minute,” Benson said. “Listen, I haven’t committed any crime. You can’t prove anything against me.”

“Can’t we? You held a gun on me in that warehouse. You threatened me with it. That constitutes assault. And if you want more, there’s the fact that you’re a convicted felon in possession of firearms. I shouldn’t think we’d have any problem proving guilt.”

Benson’s eyes were wild. Illya Kuryakin knew he had struck home, just as he had hoped Many men of Benson’s breed possessed an innate fear of being caged, and he was no exception.

The angular man wet his lips. “Are you offering me a deal?” He said. “I tell you what you want to know, and you forget about what happened in the warehouse, is that it?”

“We are not in a position to offer a ‘deal’, as you put it,” Waverly said. “However, if you were to volunteer assistance of your own accord, I expect a court would be inclined to lenient action. We would be willing to testify in your behalf, naturally.”

“What about THRUSH?” Benson said. “They would kill me if they knew I gave out information.”

“We can offer you every possible protection,” Waverly told him. “THRUSH need never know what you tell us here tonight.”

Again, Benson wet his lips. He seemed to be weighing in his mind the possibilities. His fear of imprisonment, even greater than his fear of THRUSH, won out finally. He said, “All right. I’ll tell you what I know.”

Illya had been holding his breath. He let it out slowly. “Where were you taking me tonight?”

“I don’t know,” Benson said.

“I thought you agreed to cooperate,” Illya Kuryakin said, anger necking his voice.

“I don’t know where they were taking you,” Benson said. “That’s the truth. I swear it. The woman, Estrellita, was the only one who knew.”

“All right,” Illya said. “Tell us about the salt chemical.”

“It’s being developed at a secret hideaway,” Benson said. “I don’t know where.”

“What’s the name of the man behind the project?”

“I don’t know that either,” Benson said.

“Just what do you know?”

“Yesterday, I received a coded message,” Benson said. He passed a hand nervously across his face. “I’d gotten them before. I was part of the team that conducted tests on the salt chemical. We never knew where the tests were taking place until we received the message.”

Illya Kuryakin nodded, looking at Waverly. Now they were getting somewhere.

“This message you received yesterday,” he said. “What did it say?”

“It gave a time and a date. Seven o’clock, the twenty-third.”

“That’s today!”

Benson nodded. “And it gave the name of a town. Pardee.”

“You were supposed to go there?”

“Yes. Go there and wait for instructions.”

“Pardee,” Waverly said, trying to place the name. “Pardee.”

Benson took a long, sighing breath. “It’s on the Colorado River,” he said.

“Of course!” Waverly said. “The Colorado — River! Come long, Mr. Kuryakin. We have work to do.”

They left Benson in the care of the two interrogators waiting outside and returned to Waverly’s office

Waverly said, “Seven o’clock; Mountain time, most likely. Even so, that would have been, ah, three hours ago.”

“Three hours,” Illya said, nodding. “That salt chemical has already been introduced into the Colorado.”

“Yes,” Waverly said. “And from the town of Pardee, I should think. Pardee. Where is that town?”

He went to the huge full-scale world map located on one wall of his office, switched on the light above it, and peered at the section depicting the midwestern United States. “Here it is,” he said, his finger touching a tiny dot in Eastern Utah. “The Wasatch Mountain.”

“What good does our knowing exactly where the chemical was put into the Colorado River do us?” Illya asked. “We can’t stop the crystallization process without the antidote.”

“Perhaps not,” Waverly said. “But if the original process is as slow as we suspect it to be from our discoveries at THRUSH test sites, there is the possibility we can prevent the entire Colorado River from crystallizing, thereby saving the fertile crop lands in Arizona and Southern California.”

Illya realized then what Waverly meant. “Hoover Dam!”

“Precisely,” Waverly said. “I’m going to put through a call immediately to the Secretary of the Interior at Washington and have his office instruct the personnel at Hoover Dam to close the locks. If that chemical hasn’t reached the dam as yet, we can stop it before millions of dollars in damage can be wreaked.”

“Do you want me to go to Pardee?” Illya asked. “THRUSH might still be in the area.”

“I think not,” Waverly said. “We’ll let our people in Salt Lake City handle that. You’ll fly directly to Hoover Dam.”

Illya Kuryakin, with long pent-up emotions, was more than anxious to start. He was already on his way out the door.

Four

As he stood with his back braced against the wooden wall of the snow shed, looking down through the hole in the trestle floor at the hovering helicopter and the upraised machine gun, Napoleon Solo was struck with an intense, panic-tinged desire for self-preservation.

He knew he could not simply stand there like an immobile target in a shooting gallery. If nothing else, he had to male an effort, make a run for it, no matter how vain it may be. Solo moved just as the grinning THRUSH agent below him squeezed the trigger on the machine gun.

He leapt forward, across the crumbling ties, to the shed wall on the opposite side. He heard the chatter of the Thompson gun and saw a criss-cross of holes appear in the wall where he had been standing, showering splinters. Solo looked down through the hole. The front half of the propeller blades showed there; he was partially hidden from their view for the moment.

He looked through the length of the trestle. Not enough time there. There was only one way for him to go, and that was back the way he had come, back up the open trackbed. He tensed his body, staring down through the hole again. They were coming directly beneath him now. He could feel the wind from the spinning rotors. The noise of the helicopter filled the trestle, pounding against his ears.

Wait, he told himself. Wait until they’re—

He saw it then. He saw it fully, for the first time, and his heart skipped a single beat. Hope all but dead inside him until then, surged, began to grow, replacing the resignation inside him, as an idea formed in his mind.

What Solo had seen was the long, steel section of rail that hung loosely on the side he was now standing on. The ties beneath it had been the ones that had given way, forming the hole in the bed, and the rail tilted downward slightly, touching empty space. It was still welded to the length of rail nearest him, but the welding was rusted and cracked nearly through.

He dropped to one knee, feeling the rotting ties beneath his feet give with a sharp creak. He reached out his right hand, grasping the rail lightly a few inches above the weld, and pressed downward, using the entire weight of his arm.

He heard the rusted metal rend, the sound loud, louder in his ears than the whirring helicopter below. The heavy rail dipped forward sharply. For a wild instant, Solo thought that it had snapped free completely. Not yet! his mind screamed. He threw himself prone, grabbing onto the rail with both hands, cupping them underneath.

The rail wobbled in his hands, still attached to the other by the thin piece of weld. Solo felt the pressure that the weight of the solid piece of steel exerted on his forearms, the tautness of the tendons and muscles there, and he knew he could not hold it for long. When that last connecting piece of weld snapped

Sweat rolled from his forehead into his eyes. His vision blurred. He leaned his head against one straining shoulder and rubbed the wetness away on the rough cloth of his shirt.

The helicopter was still maneuvring beneath him. He could see half of it now, the whirling, singing blades, part of the glass dome covering the cockpit, the huge, brown cargo body beneath it.

The helicopter sat motionless, half-in and half-out of Solo’s view. His hands were white around the rail, and the pressure on his arms was unbearable. I can’t hold it, he thought. I can’t...

The chopper began to move. It dipped forward, banking under the trestle, under the hole in the track bed, and Solo saw the pilot then and in the next instant the man with the machine gun. The blades of the copter were tilted forward, directly beneath him now, and the body was raised out and to the side of the trestle wall.

The man with the machine gun saw him then. He saw Solo’s head and arms extending out over the hole, and the grin contorted his face as it had before, and he raised the Thompson gun, leaning out of the helicopter doorway.

Solo let go of the rail. He felt the release of pressure from his arms and heard the sharp crack as the last piece of steel snapped free.

The end of the rail nearest him jolted upward, narrowly missing Solo’s chin, and then it plunged down through the hole.

There was just enough time for Solo to see the face of the man with the machine gun, to see the grin change into an expression of pure terror, and then the steel rail crashed with tremendous force into the rotating blades of the helicopter.

There was the grinding, tortured scream of twisted metal, the shattering sound of the glass dome breaking, and Solo saw one of the chopper blades, ripped in half, skim through the air and splinter against the granite canyon wall across from him.

The helicopter began to plunge. It dropped straight down at first, rotors crippled, and then it began to spin, a lazy, revolving spin, almost as if it were falling in slow motion. It grew smaller, smaller, trailing black smoke, a mere speck, and then it disappeared on the canyon floor below. It was quiet again.

Solo lay panting inside the trestle, head cradled in his arms at the edge of the hole. A fever-weakness seemed to have seized him. His chest heaved, and his arms felt slightly numb. He wanted to lay there, rest, just rest. Fatigue had seeped into every corner of his body.

But he got to his knees, and then, his fingers clawing at the rough shed wall, to his feet. He swallowed into a sore, parched throat. The helicopter would have radioed his position, Solo knew. THRUSH agents would be coming along the tracks after him at any moment. He still wasn’t out of danger yet.

Solo stood hanging on to the shed wall. The only way past the hole, as he had seen before, was across that single steel rail. Legs rubbery, he stepped to the opposite side again. The ties beneath his feet did not seem any too sturdy. He knelt quickly there, testing the solidarity of the rail with his hand. It seemed firm enough to hold him.

Sweat drenched his entire body. He took a long breath, held it, and exhaled slowly. Then he stepped up onto the rail. It creaked, rocking faintly under him. Facing the shed wall, he leaned his body forward, both hands flat against the wood for balance, and to take his full weight from the rail.

He began to move his feet sideways, slowly, inching his way across the slippery piece of steel. He stared straight ahead, eyes on his hands as he slid them along the wall.

Splinters gouged into his skin, but he paid no attention to the stinging pain.

After what seemed like an eternity, he reached the other side of the hole. He paused there momentarily, breathing deeply, rubbing sheets of sweat from his face and eyes.

He walked through the trestle cautiously, watching the trackbed below him, bypassing ties and rails that looked to be rotted through or about to give way, stopping to test with his hands and feet areas that he was-not sure of. Finally, he reached the end of the trestle and stepped onto the solid ground of the tracks on the other canyon wall.

He wanted to pause there, rest his aching body. But the feel of the ground, its stability, seemed to instill new purpose in him, and he moved onward along the tracks without stopping.

He moved downward, in close to the granite, and when he reached the point where the tracks curved around the canyon wall, he turned, looking across to the wall facing him over the gorge. He saw no one. His breathing became easier. He went around the curve of the tracks and out of sight from the THRUSH pursuers he knew would be following him.

He walked for hours. Afternoon began to give way to night. It grew colder, and he saw clouds forming in the sky above him. It would snow soon, and when it did he would have to reach shelter. He knew the consequences if he didn’t. He was already chilled to the marrow. He reached the timberline just as it began to get dark.

Solo saw, as he rounded a bend, that the tracks fell into a long, steep incline, and at the bottom and growing sparsely up the side of the mountain there, was a thick forest of Colorado Blue Spruce. The mountains above him through which he had been making his way, gave way to pitted — gullies and long, flat stretches of woodland.

He had made it out of the Rockies. He began to run. He ran, lurching, stumbling over rocks, down the incline, running almost blindly in the twilight. His breath choked from his lungs in wheezing gasps. But still he ran.

Solo reached the bottom of the incline, smelling the odor of pine and moss, and the chill, building snow in the air. He ran along the trackbed, through the trees, and he stopped running, slowing into a staggering walk, only when his tortured lungs screamed for relief and threatened to burst through his chest.

It had begun to snow when he saw the road. The snow was light at first, thin, misty flakes. It mixed with the gathering darkness to make front and peripheral vision difficult, and when he saw the road he thought his mind was playing tricks on him.

Solo stopped, peering ahead of him. The road bisected the tracks, disappearing into the forest on both sides. But there was a road!

He began to run again and halted where the road crossed the tracks. It was rutted, passable only by jeep, little more than a fire trail. But it had been used often, and recently judging from the freshness of the tire treads he saw there. That had to mean it led to a ranger station; yes, he was sure of it. A ranger station, a fire-prevention outpost, some place where he could get help.

He tried to remember how the terrain had looked from his earlier elevation. To the left, a thick forestland of blue spruce, unbroken wilderness. To the right, higher ground. Ranger stations were always built on higher ground to protect them from the possible danger of fire.

Napoleon Solo turned to the right. He tried to run, but his right leg had grown numb. The gash he had received in Mexico, plus the chilling cold and the countless falls, had begun to take their toll. He could move only in a half-shuffling, half-walking step.

The snow began to flurry, building into a storm. He could see only a few feet in front of him. He had become almost oblivious to the cold, and he knew that was one of the first signs a man experienced before freezing. He knew it, but he could not seem to fight off the torpor that took hold of him, the lethargic feeling of drowsiness.

The road seemed to widen. He saw that, even through the swirling snow, and at first it had no significance for him.

And then he saw the light. It glowed ahead of him, a dim yellow, an unblinking yellow eye in the darkness and the falling snow He stared. A light! He had an in sane urge to laugh.

He tried to run, fell to his knees and then sprawled forward. He couldn’t get to his feet again; his arms were leaden, frozen from the cold. He began to drag his body toward the light. He tried to call out, but his throat would not work and no words came out. He realized the uselessness of trying to make himself heard over the howling wind.

As he crawled forward, he could make out the dim outlines of a building, sitting dark and shadowy at the far edge of a clearing. The light shone from a single window beside the door.

He reached the porch of the building and dragged himself up the three wooden steps there. With the last ounce of strength he had left, he threw himself forward against the door, hammering feebly with his frozen hands at its wooden base.

Footsteps sounded inside. The door was pulled open. “My God!” a man’s voice said. “Pete! Come here! Quick!”

Hands touched his shoulders, lifting Napoleon Solo inside. He felt warmth, real warmth. He raised his eyes, looking into the face of an alarmed Colorado Forest Ranger, that title displayed across the front of his green uniform shirt.

Solo’s throat worked and he forced hoarse words past his lips. “Telephone,” he said. “Have you got a telephone?”

“Yes,” the ranger said. “What happened?”

Solo didn’t hear the rest of it. He felt another pair of hands on his legs, and then he was being lifted. He relaxed his body. He knew, somehow, that it was going to be all right, now.