David McDaniel: The Final Affair

He stowed the vacuum while his partner brought out two tall cans with spray nozzles. Starting at the center with a few squirts of paint to cover the metal square, he sprayed towards one side as the second can was employed towards the other. Around the edges the dark green was an almost perfect match; in three hours it would dry to an indistinguishable shade. They sprayed lightly along the wall parallel to the floor in random diminishing patterns to blend the edges of the new paint with the old. A horizontal visual cue is less obvious than a vertical one.

Even knowing where they had worked, both men silently agreed as they stood back and looked at their handiwork that the location had been completely concealed and camouflaged. One removed the' light from its tripod and carried it back and forth, examining the effect from various angles of incidence; neither of them could be quite sure where the sensor square lay hidden behind a single thin coat of paint.

The other collapsed the tripod and slipped it back into his satchel, while his partner, with the Tight, scanned the floor carefully one more time. A crumb of concrete as big as a birdseed caught his eye; he stooped and powdered it between his fingers, blowing the dust into oblivion.

Then he rose, nodded, and picked up his satchel. The light swung around towards a wide, slightly oil-stained ramp which curved upward out of sight, and preceded them along it. Black silhouettes against the bent circle of light framed in the square arch of the doorway, they retreated, crepe-soled feet silent on the hard floor.

Total blackness returned by degrees as their light faded and was gone, leaving silence and darkness behind them, and a faint and fading smell of electricity, hot metal and wet paint.

It was just over two years before they returned.

Alexander Waverly motioned his two top agents to chairs at the big round black-leather conference table. "You seem in such excellent spirits – do you want to hear the worst part first?"

"Why not?"

"We'd like you both to go to San Francisco."

"Not -"

"You will not be expected to contact Ward Baldwin during your stay there. In fact, it is imperative that he remain unaware of your presence."

Napoleon relaxed perceptibly. "In that case, it would be a positive pleasure."

"You left rather more than your heart there, as I recall," Illya said. "If that's the worst part of it, Mr. Waverly, the job should be a creampuff. Why send us? We have good people out there – why not use Baker and Glass?"

"They don't have your background in heavy weaponry. Besides, they're tied up in Los Angeles. You, Mr. Kuryakin, should find the subject of your assignment most interesting."

"But before I continue there are a few top secrets you now need to know. For some time we have had a man deep inside the Thrush satrapy in San Francisco; how their security has been compromised for more than a year is rather a fine piece of work, which will be explained in detail to you by someone more qualified than I. Last month, this man reported to us the existence of a new and terrible weapon – a hand-gun of fantastic power."

"Worse than the Particle Accelerator Rifle?"

"More destructive, smaller, and safer. Technologically, this is vastly more sophisticated. I presume you know what a 'plasmoid' is?"

"It's a mass of ionised gas held together by its own electrical charge or something like that," said Illya.

"Like ball lightning?" Napoleon asked.

"More or less. But since ball lightning was officially declared an unfounded folk tale for several decades, the naturally occurring plasmoid effect is now called Kugelblitz- ."

"Which is German for Ball Lightning. Okay. Does this gadget shoot ball lightning?"

"The device is, in fact, called the Kugelblitzgewekr," said Mr. Waverly. "Commonly referred to as the KBG."

"It would sound silly to call it a Ball-Lightning Gun," said Illya. "You mean it does ?"

"It has been reported to generate and launch plasmoids of varying size, range and power, depending on the report. We can tell practically nothing from what we have heard so far. You will meet a man in San Francisco named Harry Stevens. Learn from him what you want to know and tell him what you want to find out. His contact will be expecting you."

Napoleon tapped the manila envelope which lay before him. "Data on the contact in here? What's his position?"

" She is a dancer in a Greek restaurant on Grant Avenue. Her professional name is Little Sirrocco."

"That's Greek?" said Napoleon.

"No," said Illya. "It's San Francisco."

"Miss Sirrocco's relationship is known and approved by Thrush, and every effort has been made that it appear purely – ah – social, rather than professional. He had no intimate female friends during his first eight months with this Satrapy, which their psychologists would consider less than optimum. Hence their approval of this liaison."

"Then he's been with Thrush nearly two years," said Napoleon. "But you said… Oh, I see! He sold out to her. I thought you said he was our plant."

"Your first impression was correct. We originally placed him in the Satrapy. But he is unaware of his position, and thus cannot possibly compromise it. You might say his assignment is so secret even he doesn't know what he's doing." Mr. Waverly tapped a fingertip lightly on the table and looked at the clock. "Mr. Simpson should be in shortly to assist in the technical portion of your briefing on the KBG – until he arrives, I might attempt an explanation of Mr. Stevens' condition."

He fumbled a pipe from his pocket and reached for the humidor. "Initially, bear in mind that Mr. Stevens is. sincerely loyal to Thrush – almost all the time. Remember also that he volunteered for this assignment, knowing…at least some of the risks he would be taking." He paused for several seconds, stuffing his pipe; he started to speak when he was finished, then thought better of it and took several more seconds to strike a large wooden match and ignite the packed tobacco.

Napoleon and Illya exchanged glances, but neither spoke before the pipe was smoldering to its smoker's satisfaction… Without looking up he addressed them again. "Mr… Stevens voluntarily surrendered his mind, his character – his entire personality to total destruction and rearrangement. Since his programming was activated, he has been clinically insane."

"Deep post-hypnotic?" asked Napoleon.

"Yes. He functions perfectly in a minor clerical capacity with a Gold clearance, which gives him access to nearly everything. His memory of his life before two years ago, I am told, is spotty but adequate; he is happy with Thrush and completely loyal. But once a week he visits little Sirrocco, who keys his he will unconsciously tend to seek out these subjects, and report on them at his next opportunity."

"I see," said Illya. "I assume it is more complicated than that."

"Considerably. You will also meet Dr. Grayson, the hypnotech responsible for Mr. Stevens' condition, and…"

The door zipped open and Mr. Simpson joined them, white lab coat flapping about his lean frame. Mr. Waverly returned to his pipe as the new arrival said "Good morning," to Napoleon and Illya, took a chair at the table and looked expectantly at Mr. Waverly. "You expect I wonder why you've called me here," he said.

"We were just discussing our man in San Francisco," said the object of his attention, amid a cloud of blue smoke.

"Oh, yes. The trance-suggestion case. Fascinating. I'd be interested to hear how he's getting along. But I have a beaker simmering downstairs, so about the KugelBlitzGewehr – what would you like to know?"