THE MILTON-FREEWATER AFFAIR
by ardavenport and tlneill
= = = Act 2 : "What have you been eating?"
Early the next morning, Napoleon sat behind the wheel of the car and waited for Illya to join him. Illya did so in a short while, carrying two overnight bags, which he stowed in the back of the car before taking his place next to Solo in the passenger seat.
"Ready?" Napoleon inquired. At Illya's nod, he started the car and pulled smoothly out of the parking garage and turned left toward the highway. At the speed Napoleon drove, ignoring Illya's occasional disapproving glance at the speedometer, they reached The Dalles in a mere two hours.
The Dalles boasted one semi-full-time U.N.C.L.E. agent and one part-time agent. They didn't have all that much to do, judging from the reports, but the little they did went a long way. Some time last fall, Johnston and his part-time assistant, Jeff White, had double-handedly stopped a plot to freeze the Columbia River. The damage to Oregon and Washington's economy would have been incalculable. As it was, they were the only two people in the town, and now Napoleon and Illya, knew there had ever been a threat. It was for times like that that U.N.C.L.E. bothered to employ these small town agents.
In less than three hours, including lunch, they were back on the road, this time with Illya at the wheel. Next stop: Moro in Sherman county. Illya rather liked the names of the towns they were supposed to be visiting. They were much more interesting than names like Bucharest, Vienna, and Prague. This particular town, however, was harder to find.
"Napoleon, you've done it again, haven't you?" Illya complained after they'd been blindly driving down a nameless country highway for about fifteen minutes.
"Well, it's not very well marked," the American answered making loud rustling noises with the map that filled the cramped passenger side. He tried in vain to fold it down to a manageable size.
In another five minutes Illya pulled in at a small highway truck stop and opened his door.
"Excuse me," he called to a man lounging outside the service station. "Can you tell me the way to Moro?"
"No, it's today," the man answered with a smile.
Illya stared at him blankly. Napoleon was confused for a few seconds before he got the pun. He frowned knowingly, leaned across his partner and rephrased the question. This time, they got a reasonable list of directions. All through the exchange Illya looked back and forth from one to the other. He knew he'd missed something and was irritated that he couldn't figure out what.
Illya scowled at his partner as they drove out, but decided not to lower himself by asking what had happened.
Half an hour later, they passed a green and white sign saying "Entering Moro. Population 330". Illya glanced at the fuel gauge and pulled into the gas station conveniently in the middle of town. He opened his door and climbed out of the car. "Fill it up, please," he told the attendant who stood staring at the car. "With ethyl," Illya prompted. The man started and hurried to the gas pump.
Napoleon got out, closed the passenger door and headed for the men's room.
Illya walked around the car to stretch his legs, casually watching the attendant at his tasks and nodded politely at the man's praise of the car. There were no other people about except for what appeared to be an enormous gray dog walking two young girls at the end of the block. He could see them openly staring at the U.N.C.L.E. car. He sighed, resigned to the attention. He and Napoleon-and several other agents-had been forced to turn in bad reports on the usefulness of the car. It performed beautifully, fulfilled all its design requirements at or above standards, but it was about as inconspicuous as a pink tank. It was impossible to carry out any covert operations in the cars regardless of how useful they were. Illya supposed they would be phased out or reserved for places where unusual sports cars were not out of place, like the Rivera and Southern California. Finally, the cars would be sold to some eager collector so that U.N.C.L.E. could recoup some of their enormous expense.
The Russian ran a hand along the roof. He wouldn't miss the conspicuousness or the cramped interior, but the car's built-in defenses had come in handy on more than one occasion. He climbed in as Napoleon returned from the men's room and slid into the driver's seat. Illya left his door open, waiting for the attendant to return with his change.
He sensed motion on his right. Illya's hand on reflex reached for his U.N.C.L.E. Special but stopped when he found himself nose to nose with a shaggy gray dog's face looking down at him. He pulled away instinctively. The animal advanced, sniffing carefully and putting its paws up on the seat while its companions frantically pulled on its leash and cried, "NO, Kelly. DOWN, Kelly."
"What is it?"
"I don't know," Napoleon answered carefully. "But don't make it angry."
"Oh, it's an Irish Wolfhound," a young voice told him from behind the mountain of fur. Her voice took on a slightly expressionless quality that told both agents that she'd no doubt repeated this spiel many times. "They're the largest breed of dog in the world, and the reason the wolf is extinct in Ireland." She went on to say that the breed had nearly died out, but had been brought back single-handedly in the 1920's by an English dog breeder.
Illya thought that it could have passed for some revived prehistoric dog breed that was better off left extinct. The beast was certainly large enough; it was at least as tall as the roof of the U.N.C.L.E. car and maybe even an inch or two taller.
"I'm sure it's quite fascinating . . . hey!"
The dog, with no respect for a man's dignity, was poking his wet nose in Illya's lap. The two girls pulled hard on the collar and the heavy leather leash while Illya pulled away further, almost seating himself in Napoleon's lap.
The girls finally managed to extricate the dog from the car, with profuse apologies, and Illya closed the door. They waved to the two agents as the car pulled out and Illya raised a hand to wave back. The dog panted, it's long tongue hanging in the breeze.
They spent almost no time at the Moro grade school where Mr. Ward worked. The Moro agent had nothing to report except that he had nothing to report. Napoleon again took the wheel as they headed the short distance to Wasco.
"Wasco," Napoleon commented when they'd cleared the town. "Who names these places?"
"Probably named after the people who founded the towns. And there are people with some pretty funny names," Illya said with a sidelong glance at Napoleon. The American ignored him.
The visit to Wasco hadn't taken any longer than their visit to Moro and, to Illya's relief, there were no Irish Wolfhounds in Wasco. Their visit to Pendleton was also uneventful; and it was well into evening when Illya drove the car out of town.
Illya pulled the car into a truck stop/restaurant just outside Pendleton. They'd spent nearly two hours with the two U.N.C.L.E. men there, and they were both ready for dinner.
They took a table near the back and a waitress served them with menus, water and coffee. Napoleon read the menu unenthusiastically, decided to play it safe and ordered a hamburger. Illya was more brave and asked for a chili burger.
The diner was warm, rather busy and smelled like reheated leftovers. The patrons were a mixture of ranchers and truckers except for a large family that came in while they were eating.
Illya washed down the last of his chili burger with the last of his coffee, and waited for a break in the steady stream of traffic towards the bathroom. One of the boys from the family group came out and Illya seized his opportunity.
He pushed open the door, and something skidded across the floor. Illya looked down and saw the small toy car that had come to rest under the toilet, next to a radio-controlled bomb. Illya didn't stop to think of the implications, he exited the room barely ahead of the blast.
Napoleon hit the floor as an explosion tore through the diner from the direction Illya had just gone. Before it had properly died down, he was on his feet again, skirting rubble to check on his partner. Illya was lying hard up against the diner counter, covered with dust and pieces of wood and plaster from the ex-bathroom. Napoleon reached out to feel for a pulse, but Illya stirred, more stunned than unconscious. Napoleon carefully helped him to his feet and sat him down in the nearest undamaged chair.
"What have you been eating?" he asked with half a smile. Illya didn't answer. There was a squeal of tires in the parking lot. Napoleon glanced out the window in time to see a car turn onto the highway at a very high rate of speed. He couldn't even be sure of the make. "Are you alright?"
Illya cautiously tested his arms and legs. "I think so." He looked around the room. The screaming had died down and the manager was bearing down on them. To apologize, Illya hoped. "Let's get out of here," he said, trying to stand. Napoleon anticipated the unreliable condition of the Russian's legs and had an arm ready to support him. There was a load of adrenalin in Illya's bloodstream with no place to go.
"What happened here?" the manager demanded.
"Your men's room blew up, at a rough guess," Napoleon told him. "I'd call the fire department if I were you." He steered Illya towards the door.
"What about my place?"
"Call your insurance company," Napoleon suggested.
"What happened?" he asked, unlocking the passenger side of the car. Illya climbed stiffly in and leaned his head back, eyes closed, forcing his body to calm down.
"There was a bomb, radio-controlled, behind the toilet," Illya said.
"Nice of it to be left in plain sight."
"I don't think it was. I think one of the boys from that family moved it."
"I heard a car leaving the parking lot just after the explosion."
"We're not on an important assignment, Napoleon."
"Certainly not anything to get blown up about." Napoleon pulled out his communicator. "Open channel D, please."
"Channel D is open."
"Solo and Kuryakin here. Connect us with Mr. Waverly."
"Waverly here, Mr. Solo. I have just received a call from Mr. Jorgenson. Apparently we have two Thrush unaccounted for from your last assignment."
"Ah ha," Napoleon answered, understanding. Illya opened his eyes and looked at him. "I think we might have found them." He went on to give the details of his partner's close call. "Illya's alright, sir," he concluded. "But I think I'll be doing the driving for a while."
"The names of your explosion-happy friends are Jeffrey 'Boom- Boom' Hammond, the second-in-command of the Portland Satrap, and a low-level Thrush named Marlowe Lovejoy. Mr. Hammond has a predilection for explosives, and is no doubt the one who rigged Mr. Kuryakin's bomb."
"I assure you, it wasn't my bomb," Illya muttered softly so only Napoleon heard.
"I trust you gentlemen will be careful between now and when you arrive in Boise," Mr Waverly finished.
"Yes sir," Napoleon answered. "We'll keep you informed. Solo out."
"Napoleon," Illya said as the American put his communicator away. "How did they know we were here? No one followed us."
Napoleon stared thoughtfully at him, then at the car. "A tracer?" he ventured at last.
Illya gestured to the brightly lit truck stop across the parking lot. "Let's try over there."
"It's light enough right here." Napoleon pointed out.
"Yes, but I still have to go to the bathroom."
Napoleon found the tracer under the rear bumper just as Illya returned from his rudely interrupted mission. He held it out for the Russian to inspect.
"Directional," Illya observed. "And fairly powerful too."
"They couldn't have put it there while we were on the road. It must have been planted in Portland."
"Well, now that we've found it, what do we do with it?"
"Let's see what Mr. Jorgensen has to say about it." Napoleon pulled out his communicator. A short conference with the head of U.N.C.L.E. Portland confirmed what Mr. Waverly had told them. They were also informed that there were no agents available to help and they were to take care of the Thrush problem on their own.
"Thank you, sir," Napoleon signed off unenthusiastically.
"So, we're left to handle it on our own. Again." Illya resigned himself to their fate. "Any ideas?"
"Well, they think they're following us. Why don't we let them keep thinking that, for now?"
"And be waiting for them at the next town?"
"Something like that. What's our next stop?" Napoleon asked.
"Milton-Freewater. About twenty minutes' drive."
"Let's go."
The drive to Milton-Freewater was uneventful save that they were unable to contact the town's single agent, which was not surprising since she was only part-time. Charlotte Goldstein, the town's librarian, had been a trained office agent for four years in Chicago. Having grown tired of the big city she took the small-town assignment of keeping an eye on the town's single Thrush agent. Milton-Freewater contained no large scale world conquering operations, but Thrush provided some financial backing and support for a group of survivalists safely entrenched in a few private ranches. They were eagerly and morbidly waiting for the super powers to drop the Big One and Thrush wanted to have their foot in the door, just in case.
The two agents rolled into town and found the trailer home where Miss Goldstein lived. Except for a street light, the trailer was un-illuminated inside or out. They parked the car and made for the door. Illya pulled out his lock-pick as Napoleon reached around him and opened the unlocked door. Illya glanced at his partner, mildly annoyed before slipping in while Napoleon waited outside on the steps. He didn't take long.
The trailer was a very standard sample of rural living except for some very un-standard U.N.C.L.E. communications equipment. Illya thought that it was a bit too conspicuously placed on a bookshelf. The black metal box taking up half of an upper shelf wasn't too out of the ordinary except for the masking tape labels declaring 'U.N.C.L.E.', 'Portland/Jorgenson' and 'Channel D, F, L', etc. The undisguised microphone served as a bookend on an upper shelf. Illya noted it for his report. He expected better from Goldstein. The man in Pendleton had gone above-and-beyond-duty by disguising his equipment as a case of beer in his refrigerator. The microphone/message signal had been in a box of cereal.
Illya looked into the bedroom, spare room, bathroom and kitchen and found no one home.
"Nobody home?" Napoleon asked as Illya exited the trailer.
"Empty. I left a few lights on to make it look like . . . "
"Shh," Napoleon silenced him. They paused for several seconds. Illya heard crickets. "I thought I heard something."
"There's nothing there now."
"No, I suppose not." Napoleon pointed to a clump of trees and bushes. "We can wait for our friends over there."
"What do we do if Goldstein comes while we're waiting?" Illya asked as they crunched across the gravel.
"We can introduce her to Marlowe and 'Boom-Boom'."
They stamped out a semi-comfortable spot among the bushes and brambles and settled down to wait. Illya had never cared for such stake-outs: at night and outdoors with the dew forming in his socks. After a few moments he suddenly thought of something. "Napoleon, we're waiting for our two Thrushes to follow us here."
"Yes."
"And they've probably been following us all day, so they'd have a good idea what we've been doing."
"Yes," Napoleon agreed, not liking where this was leading to.
"So what's to keep them from having gotten here ahead of us?"
Napoleon paused trying to think of a really good reason with which to plug the rather glaring hole in their plan. But if Boom-Boom had been second-in-command of Thrush Portland, he'd certainly know where U.N.C.L.E. agents were stationed in Oregon. And from the rather obvious stops they'd been making, anyone following . . .
"Brilliant deduction, gentlemen," came a voice from behind, accompanied by a flashlight beam and a cocked pistol. "No, don't turn around. Straight ahead, please. Let's take this out in the open."
Napoleon and Illya stopped near the center of the gravel clearing in front of Goldstein's trailer, and turned around on command. "Alright, Lovejoy, get their guns," the leader ordered. A very medium man-medium height, medium weight, medium brown curly hair-stepped forward and relieved them of their pistols.
The leader, 'Boom-Boom,' was tall-slightly over six feet-with thinning blond hair and spoke with a midwestern accent. There was a third man off to one side holding a standard model Thrush rifle on them. Either their pursuers had gotten reinforcements from somewhere, or the Portland office had overlooked another Thrush survivor.
"You two have caused me quite a lot of trouble," Hammond told them. "I'm going to enjoy this. How would you like to go, Solo?" he asked with an evil smile.
"How about with you in custody. You could give yourselves up. I doubt that you're in very good standing with Thrush Central anymore," Napoleon answered lightly.
"That's not on the bill, Solo. Thanks to you and Blondie there, I've got a pretty big ax to grind. One bomb between you and your partner and there won't be enough left to fill an envelope back to Waverly."
"Why not?" Napoleon agreed. "Go out with a bang, as they say. After losing the whole Satrap in Portland, you might as well enjoy what life is left you. Thrush justice is usually swift and rather painful, if I remember correctly."
Napoleon's words finally had the desired effect, and the man with the Thrush rifle started to look at his two companions nervously. He was a stocky, smallish thug with a receding hairline and just bright enough to see what was being implied.
Illya picked up the ball. "Yes, savor our deaths now. If you're lucky, Thrush might be merciful and quick when they catch up with the three of you."
The man with the rifle gulped visibly and edged away from his comrades. He had his mouth open to speak when they were interrupted by the sound of a motor. The distraction was enough for the two U.N.C.L.E. agents. They each jumped a man while the one with the rifle dithered, not sure if he should help or run.
Illya struggled with Lovejoy who dropped the U.N.C.L.E. Specials and tried to shoot his attacker with his own pistol before they both went down. Napoleon wrestled with Hammond in a classic battle with both men's hands wrapped around the same gun. Hammond's pistol slid dangerously close to Napoleon's temple. The engine in the distance roared and approached rapidly. Headlights swept across the fighters and zeroed in on the two rolling on the gravel.
Napoleon wrenched hard on Hammond's wrists and was rewarded by a cry. The gun dropped. Napoleon kicked it away and shoved his opponent to the ground. Illya and his man froze in the light of the onrushing headlights. Then, simultaneously forgetting both their fight and the guns, they rolled apart, out of the way of the speeding pick-up truck.
Lovejoy gave up the fort and ran for the safety of the trees where the man with the rifle was already heading. Hammond cursed and followed.
The truck braked and turned.
"Get in back!" the woman at the wheel yelled. Needing no encouragement, Napoleon jumped; Illya scrambled after him with their guns. The truck accelerated away from the scene of battle. Bullets whizzed past them, one of them cracking the rear window. Illya and Napoleon fired back at the two crouched in the bushes. Napoleon saw the one with the rifle take a wavering aim at them before he tripped and fell on the two in front of him. The truck suddenly swerved forcing Napoleon to grab the side for support. Illya went down entirely, rolling onto his back.
The truck sped away bouncing its passengers unmercifully on the dirt road. It finally stopped under a streetlight on a paved street closer into town. The two got out of the back while the driver stepped out of the truck. She was rather average with wavy, shoulder-length brown hair; she wore slacks and looked about twenty pounds overweight. She also didn't have much of a figure but she was very busty as the straining buttons on the front of her blouse advertised. Napoleon quickly took his eyes off her buttons when she began to speak.
"Umm, ah," she began. "You're okay, aren't you?"
"More or less," Napoleon answered. "We're in your debt. Thank you very much." Napoleon looked at Illya; Illya shrugged back.
"Well, I guess it was in the line of duty and all that." She suddenly straightened up and nervously stuck out her hand. "Hi, I'm Charlotte Goldstein."
= = = END Act 2