The Master of the Hunt Affair
Chapter Two: Night of the Locust
"This is most distressing." Alexander Waverly frowned into the bowl of his pipe. "Security in the parking garage has previously been entirely adequate."
"Well, it isn't any more, sir." Napoleon rubbed his hand absently as he stared at the memorandum on the table in front of him. He'd already read and memorized the inadequate information that UNCLE had managed to compile on Illya's abduction.
He switched his gaze to the grid of numbers that had so fascinated his partner earlier. The jumble of letters was as indecipherable as ever. "This was no half-baked operation. This smells all over of THRUSH."
"We can hardly know that for certain until we have more information, Mr. Solo. However, I am inclined to agree with you. The efficiency of this operation does suggest the kind of organization for which THRUSH is reputed." Waverly added, "And all to one purpose: capturing an UNCLE agent."
"Capturing an UNCLE agent... or one UNCLE agent in particular?"
"It might have been their purpose to abduct any member of our staff that stepped into their trap. Could just be bad luck on Mr. Kuryakin's part."
"Or it could be that they were after Illya specifically... he has been using the garage entrance lately while working in the Lab. I find it hard to believe that they'd go to all the trouble to infiltrate UNCLE's outer security perimeter to kidnap just any agent... when it would be so much easier to snatch them off the street or from their homes! Unless..." Napoleon paused, drawing a breath to calm himself.
"Unless they were trying to prove something." Waverly set his pipe aside. "Now that does sound like THRUSH. We'll need to do a full security sweep, interview all personnel and check all electronic devices. Another breach like this cannot be permitted."
"And what are we going to do about Illya?"
"We wait, Mr. Solo. That is all we can do."
xoxox
Illya woke up in darkness. His shoulder burned where the dart had bitten him, but he could not move to ease the discomfort; his limbs were not yet his own to command. He knew he was lying on a cool surface. He tried to flex his fingers; they felt as if they were five kilometers away. His mind was full of fog, slowly clearing.
He could hear movement nearby; the scrape of a chair scooting on the floor, the creak of shifting weight. Breathing and sighs. The click and slap of worn playing cards. Muttered curses and muted laughter.
"Not again! Damn you, Plonk."
"Gin! That's four hundred fifty-five you owe me!"
"You'll die of black lung if you smoke that many cigarettes... and I hope you do. Cheater!"
"Naw! Cigarettes are good for you! They'd never sell 'em to the public if they weren't."
"You're as stupid as you are lucky. Deal."
"Uh-uh. Time to check on our sleeping nephew."
"He'll be out of hours yet. Vasily had me jab him after we boarded the plane, and again before we landed in St. Kitts."
"That was nearly twelve hours ago! Go jab him again!"
"He'll never wake up at all if we overdose him. That won't please the Master."
"Neither will letting him escape."
"Escape! How's he gonna manage that? He's hopped up and locked in a bunker! He'd need to be Houdini to get outta there!"
"To hear tell, this guy is Houdini! He's slick as a greased cat and has more lives!"
"You're drunk. He's just a man. Now deal."
Illya listened to their talk, gradually becoming more and more aware. He must have been given a great deal of some kind of drug or other; it felt a lot like opiates. Illya didn't like it; he didn't like not being in control. But he had UNCLE training and conditioning to fall back on, and he was grateful for that. The drug would not be as effective on him as it would on another man. All he needed was a few more minutes and he was sure he could stand.
Already he could move, a little. He rolled over and saw a line of light underscoring the doorway to the room where he was being kept. He could see shadows of movement occasionally, though everything was blurry and indistinct. He hoped it was just the drug that was affecting his eyes.
UNCLE agents were trained to use all their senses; even if he couldn't see well, from what he could hear and feel by way of echoes and vibrations, he guessed that there were two men, probably in a smallish room, obviously playing cards to pass the time. When they paused in their bickering, Illya thought he could hear a droning sound beyond; a deep, almost hypnotic buzz, like an engine or turbine.
As his mind grew still clearer and his eyes began to cooperate, he began to distinguish features in the room he was in. A tiny window of slightly less blackness, scored by bars, was high in the wall opposite the door. It was night, and a humid fragrance breathed through the room, and it vibrated with the noise. It was then that he realized it was not a mechanical sound at all—it was the powerful drone of cicadas.
Illya lay on the floor and listened to the night symphony, reflecting that this was not exactly what he had in mind when he had told his partner that he wanted some fresh air.
No, not at all what he'd had in mind.
xoxox
Illya had reached his feet and was beginning to feel something of himself when he heard his guards scuffle suddenly to their feet. There was nothing in the room he could use as a weapon, so he merely stood, arms at his sides and his weight forward on his toes. If there were only two of them, he might be able to subdue them both and escape.
When the door swung out, however, there were four men standing there. Illya didn't move, though his body quivered with suppressed adrenaline. It was too late to play as though he were still drugged-out. He lowered his chin and watched them as they entered the room and spread out around him.
They regarded him with mixed expressions, but no one said a word. They circled him and left the doorway open; it became apparent that they expected him to exit the room and accompany them somewhere. He wasn't inclined to be cooperative, but when two of the men produced pistols, he acquiesced and walked out of the room. Better than being dragged, he mused, and a lot more dignified.
Through a smallish room with a table strewn with cards, though another door and down a hallway to a staircase that led upward in one long, straight flight. Illya was held at the bottom while two men ascended, then he was encouraged to climb up, followed by the others. They stayed beyond arms' length, taking no chances with the deceptively passive agent.
My reputation precedes me, it seems.
They guided him through another hallway, but this one was vaulted and richly decorated with antiques and tribal art from every corner of the earth: tapestries depicting animals and horses, hounds and hares; carved statues, of wood, bone, and stone; pottery in all shape and sizes, much of it incredibly old and some in mere fragments, carefully laid in patterns.
They entered a wide foyer where a grand staircase swept upwards. Everywhere was artwork of animals and the hunt, as well as stands of gear and displays of weapons. Swords, spears, cases containing varieties of barbed arrowheads, cannon balls, shot, shells and bullets. Knives of every shape, length, design, and material were laid out in glittering fans.
As they passed these dangerous collections, his escorts watched him carefully. Once he wandered a little too close to a rack of cestuses – the leather well-oiled and the steel spikes wickedly sharp-looking – and was rewarded with a stiff poke to his back with the business end of a pistol.
The martial décor scheme continued, and as they walked onward, the weapons displays evolved to more potentially lethal varieties, and also became more contempory. Soon they entered a wide doorway that led to a large room. Over the door was displayed a hand-held missile launcher, set on a carved wooden mount like a hunting prize, garlanded with coarse hand-woven ropes. As they drew closer, Illya realized the ropes were made from braided hair. He hoped, faintly nauseated, that it was horsehair.
Stepping beneath this display, Illya found a vision of nightmares lurking beyond the threshold. He paused, half in and half out, filled with sickness at what he saw. His escort pushed him onward when he hesitated.
The ceiling was high and hung with track lights that focused their beams on tables set around the room or on sections of the walls, leaving the farthest corner in darkness. Every piece of furniture was made of bone, from every imaginable animal. Illya recognized the skulls of several small mammals and reptiles, some quite rare, piled up like miniature totem poles to form the legs of a ladderback chair made from narwhal tusks.
Ivory from elephants, whales, and rhinoceros jutted up like stalagmites. Hides and furs and hanks of hair were collected and mounted. Jars of substances that Illya felt no desire to examine more closely sat dustless on a tall wooden cabinet that rose to the ceiling, a rolling ladder built to give access. In a decent home, it would have held books.
There were animals frozen in the moment of their destruction, expertly preserved so that they appeared as lifelike as possible, caged in beams of light. Their glassy eyes seemed to follow him as he made his reluctant way forward, their bared teeth hissing a soundless warning. Birds soared perpetually overhead, hung from wires that ran upward to disappear among the rafters.
The room was very large, and in the center, seated on a chair covered with the pelts of a half-dozen endangered species, was a man. Behind him, the dark corner of the room brooded. As they approached him, he rose from his chair and stood waiting, gripping the wide belt at his waist, his hands framing an intricately wrought and oversized silver buckle.
Illya studied the man with covert interest. He was no taller or stouter than the other men, but there was something about him that made him seem more dangerous. His hands were large and scarred, and his feet were planted in a stance that telegraphed competence and physical skill.
Illya approached him, noticing that his vanguard fell back slightly as they drew near. He sensed it was more fear than respect. Illya continued until he reached the edge of the rug upon which the chair was centered. It was the hide of an African lion, head still attached and looking indignant. He loathed the idea of treading on the distasteful thing.
The man studied Illya in return. He noted where Illya had stopped and as if guessing the reason, the corner of his unpleasant mouth writhed upward in a smile or a sneer. He bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, as if silently daring Illya to step forward.
Illya remained where he had stopped. It was the eyes, he decided. The weirdness of this man's face was in his eyes; they seemed to be looking in slightly different directions. Perhaps one of them was glass... it gave him an askew, off-kilter appearance. A madman in a museum of cruelty.
"Flickinger." The man spoke; his voice was deep and commanding. A hint of an accent drew out his vowels, clipped the consonants in a way that made Illya's eyebrow twitch in recognition.
"Yes, Master Koschei." Illya recognized the voice of the man who had been losing at gin rummy.
"This man is not sedated. He is not, I would venture to say, even remotely drowsy. Were you not instructed to keep him... compliant?" Illya decided the man must be of Russian descent, though his accent was worn thin with time and the integration and use of other languages.
"Yes, sir... so he oughta be. Drooling on the floor he should ha' been... but—"
"Obviously he is not. No matter... this saves some time. I am ready to talk to him now anyway." The man turned one of his crazy eyes toward Flickinger. "But in the future, do try to adhere to my orders... or I will have you killed."
The man gulped. "Yes, M—master."
The man lifted one of his hands and two of the men quickly seized Illya, forcing him toward a table set to one side of the lion rug, on the boundary of where the lights lost their struggle with the shadows. Its surface was clear except for a single ring bolted in the center of the tabletop. A length of chain about sixty centimeters was threaded through the ring, and on the ends were metal bracelets.
Illya tried to twist out of the grip of the men before they could restrain him, but a hard hand closed upon the back of his neck, pinching nerves and bringing a stinging paralysis over Illya's limbs. His numb arms were recaptured and his wrists snugly secured before he was released. Instantly Illya recovered from the paralysis. He turned as far as the chain would permit and cast a calculating look over the man who had subdued him.
He was a blunt hulk, not so overbound with muscle to be a wrestler, but his musculature was very obvious; slabs of meat swelled on his arms and chest, endangering his safari-cut shirt. Beneath the short sleeves, corded arms were cut with whips of sinew, ending with callused, rawboned knuckles. He returned Illya's stare with a flat, disinterested expression, like a bear too hungry to bother to eat so small a mouse.
"I see you've met Garrard. He is foreman here in my little paradise, and my first lieutenant. I suggest you do not arouse his displeasure."
The 'Master' walked over to stand across the table from Illya, darkness gathered at his back. His air of superiority immediately annoyed the younger man. Illya hid his annoyance, recognizing a game of intimidation that the man was used to playing – and winning. He guessed that this table had served as a setting for other, similar interviews.
He waited for a few moments, and when he didn't get the response from his captive that he wanted, the Master spoke. "You are Illya Nikolaievitch Kuryakin."
Illya so no reason to deny it. He lifted his chin and said, "May I know who is my jailer?"
"Of course, my boy… I am Koschei." Illya looked at him sharply as he uttered the name. Koschei seemed pleased at his reaction. "Master of Buyan. That is where you find yourself now, although that information will do you little good. And I would not say I am your jailer. Say rather, your fellow gamesman. We have much in common, you see."
"At the moment, no, I do not see. You are free and I—," Illya rattled his chains to make his point.
Koschei laughed. "Yes, well… only until we've established the parameters of our little contest. I promise that the chains will be removed very soon. You will walk freely out of this room, unhindered and unfettered."
The man's accent grew a little stronger as he spoke. To Illya, it seemed as much of an affectation as the weapons and the dead animals—an intimidation that had worked well before, but now was less effective. He was trying a little harder now to impress his prisoner.
He snapped his fingers and one of his men brought him a thin, square object the size of a framed family portrait. No faces stared out from the glassy surface, however; it appeared to be inscribed with numbers and symbols, a great jumble as if someone had stacked several crossword puzzles and then erased all the lines.
It was suggestively similar to the one Illya had seen on the big screen in Waverly's office.
Koschei held the thing where Illya could see it plainly. "Interesting, isn't it? A decoding machine… very ingenious, if I do say so myself. For the discussing of delicate matters when I don't want prying ears to overhear." He held the thing as if he were displaying it on auction, extolling its virtues to drive up the bid. "Place a coded message under the glass… any code in any language… and this little beauty can decode it. A master decoder for the Master, eh?" he laughed at his own joke; his flunkies echoed his amusement with clumsy, forced gaiety. Except for Garrard, who continued to stare mutely at Illya.
"It also sends messages, using radio relay." He turned the frame toward himself and began to press the surface of the glass in a seemingly patternless manner. "I am now sending a message to your friends at UNCLE. Letting them know that you are here—if not actually where you are. Not that. Not yet.
"Of course, this will be untraceable, and therefore might be ignored as a prank unless properly signed. The signature is the most important part, you know. How do you think I should sign this, Mr. Kuryakin? So that Mr. Napoleon Solo will answer my challenge?
"We have to let Mr. Solo know. He's clever enough to know that the game has begun. The first moves have already been played."
He looked up at Illya, meeting his gaze with one eye while the other one seemed to peer back toward the darkness, saying, "Don't get the wrong idea, Mr. Kuryakin. Your part in the game is finished. You were the first pawn taken. You have been swept from the board.
"Still, the game can use you… you haven't answered my question yet. How should I sign this message so that Solo hears it? You will not answer. Well… then I'll ask my friend Garrard if he has an opinion. He has an opinion on everything," he added in a companionable stage whisper.
He looked at Garrard and gave him one of his sick smiles. "Garrard, Mr. Kuryakin does not wish to play anymore. How do you suggest we sign this message?"
Garrard answered his boss by grabbing a handful of blond hair and forcing Illya's head back, checking his thick body up against Illya so that the slim agent could not kick him or squirm out of his grip. A knife appeared in the other gnarled hand. Garrard skated the glittering edge across the stretched skin of Illya's throat.
Illya found it impossible to look away from the knife. His head held firm, he turned his eyes to watch the knife slide up, up and over his jaw and along one cheek. It was a very big knife.
The blade left no cut or scratch on the pale skin; Garrard applied only enough pressure to make Illya feel it, hear it scraping along. The blade caught and turned the lights as the tip paused near Illya's watering eyes. Then it made a slow turn toward his right ear.
The Master did not look up from his encryption machine as he said, "Don't be too messy, Garrard… you know how these things can get held up in the post."