Strana vine is nasty stuff. When it wraps around your wrists, it feels no worse than twine. As long as it stays there, it is no worse than twine. But try and peel it off, and it will take your skin with it. Just your skin, if you're lucky.
Dr. Wilhelm, cool and white-suited as ever, sipped a gin and tonic as he explained this. Two of his lackeys had Napoleon Solo pinned to the teeming rainforest floor; at a gesture from Wilhelm, another man appeared from the shadows. He wore heavy gloves and carried a coil of the vine.
Before he turned to leave, Wilhelm added a last tidbit: "The only remedy is a decoction of cinchona bark. Deactivates the spines. But cinchona doesn't grow on this part of the continent."
Luckily for Napoleon, the man hadn't felt the need to bind him tightly. Between his wrists and between his ankles lay long twists of the vine. Easy to hook over the stiff, jagged leaf of some jungle plant. Easy to cut.
The only trouble was the long loose ends that remained. Easy to catch on branches strong enough to tear it away. Easy to accidentally touch.
The unassuming little bungalow in which Wilhelm conducted his deadly botanical experiments was, Napoleon recalled, about fifty paces to the north. He made his way gingerly. Once in the clearing, he sighted his goal: the open-air bar on the back verandah.
The bottle was at head height. As he raised his right hand to reach for it, the vine-end swung back against his bare forearm and immediately stuck.
He seized the bottle and looked at the label. Tonic Water. Contains Quinine. Excellent.
Illya closed the file folder and shook his head. "Dr. Wilhelm's death, however necessary, was a loss to science. He was a very knowledgeable man."
"That was his undoing," said Napoleon. "Knowledgeable men have a way of assuming the rest of the world is ignorant." He hesitated. There was no more paperwork for the day, and it was after five o'clock. "Would you—like to join me for a drink?"
"Martinis, I suppose?"
Napoleon smiled. "Vermouth has no aliases as far as I know."