The You Don’t Have a Partner Affair, Chapter 13
Waverly pressed a button on his console and spoke into the microphone. “Has the information from our counterpart agencies been fed into the computer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What about the hysterical ramblings of that desk clerk?”
He fixed a pointed gaze on Slate and Dancer, who developed an immediate fascination with the light fixtures.
After a second’s pause, Heather McNabb responded, “The last of it was just typed in.”
“Inform me the moment you get a result.” Waverly jabbed the button and closed the line.
“I gather your tele-conference was productive,” Mark said.
“Indeed, it was.” Waverly spun the table, sending a report around to his agents. “In the last few months, at least one operative from every major intelligence organization has gone missing. Each experienced an altered reality, one that compromised their effectiveness upon their return.”
April looked up from her copy of the report. “Matt Helm said I what?” she exclaimed. “I haven’t seen Matt since New Year’s.”
“I recall that party. Didn’t he try to convince you to be his next Miss April?” Mark asked.
“Miss September, darling. Not even Matt would be that hokey.”
Waverly coughed, drawing their wayward attention. “The supposed involvement of a counterpart agency was another factor in each incident. Even the perception of time was altered. The victims insisted they had been gone for weeks, when it was really only a matter of days.”
Mark frowned. “And who knows what information they revealed during that time?”
“The full extent of the damage remains unknown. The culprit, however, has become obvious.”
“Thrush,” Mark said grimly.
“Yes, Mr. Slate. They’ve sought to undermine the personnel, security, and reputations of the organizations that stand opposed to their villainy. But you and Miss Dancer are going to stop them.”
April twisted the star sapphire ring that hung from a chain around her neck. “Not unless we know where to look.”
The console buzzed. “Mr. Waverly, the computer has finished analyzing the data,” Heather reported. “There’s a high likelihood that the Thrush facility is on Long Island.”
“How high?”
“Eighty-three percent.”
Waverly grunted. “It will have to do.”
“We’re creating a profile of the location now.”
“Very good. Mr. Slate and Miss Dancer will retrieve it shortly.” He nodded to his agents. “Find whatever mind-altering apparatus they’ve concocted, and destroy it. And bring back Solo and Kuryakin.”
Dr. Dabree marched Napoleon back into the maze of passages. Ahead of them, a white-coated lab technician scurried across the corridor.
“You there,” Dabree barked. “Come back here. I need your assistance with Mr. Solo.”
Napoleon caught a glint of metal extending from the side passage and instinctively threw himself forward. Mark Slate ducked out from around the corner and fired. Pellets exploded from the second barrel, hitting the wall and ceiling, as Dabree staggered back. The shotgun clattered to the floor. She crumpled beside it.
Mark pulled Napoleon to his feet. “Are you hit?”
“No,” Napoleon answered, patting his purloined clothes to confirm his assertion. “But Illya wasn’t so lucky. Come on.”
Napoleon raced back to the reception room with Mark at his heels. Illya and Angelique lay on the floor, bloodied and still. April knelt between them, her communicator in hand.
“We’ve alerted the nearest hospital, Miss Dancer. There’s an ambulance on route.”
“Quick work, partner,” Mark said approvingly as April closed her communicator.
“You too, darling.”
Napoleon grimaced down at his own mangled partner. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Is it safe to move him?” April asked.
“Them,” Napoleon corrected. “I don’t know. But Illya rigged the place to blow, and there’s probably not much time.”
Mark holstered his Special. “I’ll take the lady.”
“No, you help with Illya,” April said, pushing up her sleeves. “I’ll take her.” She grabbed Angelique’s ankles and dragged her toward the door. An ominous trail of smeared blood marked their passing.
Quickly but carefully, Mark and Napoleon lifted Illya between them and followed April outside. A siren wailed in the distance.
Napoleon jerked his chin to where the curving drive disappeared into the trees. “That way. We’ll flag down the ambulance before it gets too close.”
They staggered across the lawn toward the tree line. When they had put several yards of red-stained grass behind them, a blast shook the building. “Was that it?” Mark asked.
Napoleon turned his head to see black smoke seeping from the roof. “Knowing my partner, that’s just the opening act.”
The agents finished their crossing to the sound of shattering glass. Flames leapt from the windows. They had just settled their wounded in the shelter of the trees when the ultimate explosion came. The ground rocked beneath their feet. Bits of falling debris rustled in the leaves above them.
Mark let out a long whistle. “What a beauty.”
“Illya missed it,” Napoleon said and twisted his lips.
April squeezed his hand. “We’ll tell him all about it when he wakes up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What about the hysterical ramblings of that desk clerk?”
He fixed a pointed gaze on Slate and Dancer, who developed an immediate fascination with the light fixtures.
After a second’s pause, Heather McNabb responded, “The last of it was just typed in.”
“Inform me the moment you get a result.” Waverly jabbed the button and closed the line.
“I gather your tele-conference was productive,” Mark said.
“Indeed, it was.” Waverly spun the table, sending a report around to his agents. “In the last few months, at least one operative from every major intelligence organization has gone missing. Each experienced an altered reality, one that compromised their effectiveness upon their return.”
April looked up from her copy of the report. “Matt Helm said I what?” she exclaimed. “I haven’t seen Matt since New Year’s.”
“I recall that party. Didn’t he try to convince you to be his next Miss April?” Mark asked.
“Miss September, darling. Not even Matt would be that hokey.”
Waverly coughed, drawing their wayward attention. “The supposed involvement of a counterpart agency was another factor in each incident. Even the perception of time was altered. The victims insisted they had been gone for weeks, when it was really only a matter of days.”
Mark frowned. “And who knows what information they revealed during that time?”
“The full extent of the damage remains unknown. The culprit, however, has become obvious.”
“Thrush,” Mark said grimly.
“Yes, Mr. Slate. They’ve sought to undermine the personnel, security, and reputations of the organizations that stand opposed to their villainy. But you and Miss Dancer are going to stop them.”
April twisted the star sapphire ring that hung from a chain around her neck. “Not unless we know where to look.”
The console buzzed. “Mr. Waverly, the computer has finished analyzing the data,” Heather reported. “There’s a high likelihood that the Thrush facility is on Long Island.”
“How high?”
“Eighty-three percent.”
Waverly grunted. “It will have to do.”
“We’re creating a profile of the location now.”
“Very good. Mr. Slate and Miss Dancer will retrieve it shortly.” He nodded to his agents. “Find whatever mind-altering apparatus they’ve concocted, and destroy it. And bring back Solo and Kuryakin.”
Dr. Dabree marched Napoleon back into the maze of passages. Ahead of them, a white-coated lab technician scurried across the corridor.
“You there,” Dabree barked. “Come back here. I need your assistance with Mr. Solo.”
Napoleon caught a glint of metal extending from the side passage and instinctively threw himself forward. Mark Slate ducked out from around the corner and fired. Pellets exploded from the second barrel, hitting the wall and ceiling, as Dabree staggered back. The shotgun clattered to the floor. She crumpled beside it.
Mark pulled Napoleon to his feet. “Are you hit?”
“No,” Napoleon answered, patting his purloined clothes to confirm his assertion. “But Illya wasn’t so lucky. Come on.”
Napoleon raced back to the reception room with Mark at his heels. Illya and Angelique lay on the floor, bloodied and still. April knelt between them, her communicator in hand.
“We’ve alerted the nearest hospital, Miss Dancer. There’s an ambulance on route.”
“Quick work, partner,” Mark said approvingly as April closed her communicator.
“You too, darling.”
Napoleon grimaced down at his own mangled partner. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Is it safe to move him?” April asked.
“Them,” Napoleon corrected. “I don’t know. But Illya rigged the place to blow, and there’s probably not much time.”
Mark holstered his Special. “I’ll take the lady.”
“No, you help with Illya,” April said, pushing up her sleeves. “I’ll take her.” She grabbed Angelique’s ankles and dragged her toward the door. An ominous trail of smeared blood marked their passing.
Quickly but carefully, Mark and Napoleon lifted Illya between them and followed April outside. A siren wailed in the distance.
Napoleon jerked his chin to where the curving drive disappeared into the trees. “That way. We’ll flag down the ambulance before it gets too close.”
They staggered across the lawn toward the tree line. When they had put several yards of red-stained grass behind them, a blast shook the building. “Was that it?” Mark asked.
Napoleon turned his head to see black smoke seeping from the roof. “Knowing my partner, that’s just the opening act.”
The agents finished their crossing to the sound of shattering glass. Flames leapt from the windows. They had just settled their wounded in the shelter of the trees when the ultimate explosion came. The ground rocked beneath their feet. Bits of falling debris rustled in the leaves above them.
Mark let out a long whistle. “What a beauty.”
“Illya missed it,” Napoleon said and twisted his lips.
April squeezed his hand. “We’ll tell him all about it when he wakes up.”