Текст книги "[Whitman] - The Affair of the Gunrunners' Gold"

Автор книги: Brandon Keith

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5. Thunderbolts

THE OLD MAN lit his pipe.

Solo and Kuryakin remained quietly in the background.

"Where would you like me to begin?" asked Howard Ogden.

"I'd like a general idea of what you were doing in South America."

"Well, first I assumed the name Harry Owens. Then I traveled about making contact with the revolutionary forces. Once contact was established, I assisted the Communist partisans, the saboteurs, the raiders, the bandits in the hills."

The Old Man leaned forward. "What are your politics?"

"Mr. Waverly, I have no politics. I'm on the side that pays me."

"Were you well paid, Mr. Ogden?" The Old Man tapped his pipe.

"Not at all. I earned my keep, enough to keep me in food and clothes. The first big job that came my way was this one that brought me back to the States."

"Let's hold that a moment, Mr. Ogden."

"Yes, Mr. Waverly."

The Old Man put down his pipe. Elbows on the desk, he peered across at Ogden, his intent gaze riveting the man's attention. The next question would put Ogden to the proof. Either he would go along in full cooperation, or he would back down.

"Mr. Ogden, for the past two years enormous shipments of arms and armaments have been filtering down to the Communist rebels in the Latin American countries. You were right there in that hotbed, and you're not some little innocent pawn. You know what goes on around you. Now, this question, Mr. Ogden: Who has been making these shipments?"

There was silence for a moment, both men rigid, their eyes locked.

Then Ogden replied. "The firm of Raymond and Langston."

For once the sophisticated Alexander Waverly was completely thunderstruck. In amazement his mouth opened, his jaws hung slack. Then his mouth snapped shut and he took up his pipe but did not smoke it. He held it, moving it in his hands, doing something to cover his utter astonishment.

Raymond and Langston! This was a reputable, reliable armaments company, its offices and show rooms in New York, its factory in New Jersey. Raymond and Langston, a part of an Australian corporation, had been here in the United States for three years, and Waverly himself was acquainted with Mr. Felix Raymond and Mr. Otis Langston.

"Raymond and Langston," said the Old Man, carefully controlling his voice. "And by what method did they accomplish these shipments?"

"Quite simple, Mr. Waverly." Ogden was enjoying his new role. Once he had made his decision, once committed, he was resolved to relate the entire truth to the one man who could persuade the authorities to treat him with mercy. "Raymond and Langston have been diverting arms from normal business and shipping these arms, crated as innocent scrap metal, to supposedly innocent receivers in various ports in South America."

"Shipping

"By freighter."

"Whose freighters? Who owns these ships?"

"Chartered freighters, Mr. Waverly, but they are no part of the operation. They are legitimate freighters. Their captains really believe they are carrying scrap metal. And that is the reason that payment to Raymond and Langston is made in gold and by courier."

The Old Man frowned. "Please explain that, Mr. Ogden."

"Well, if payment were made in cash, the captains of the freighters would become suspicious, since the payment far exceeds the value of the cargo if it were scrap metal."

"Just how is the payment made?" Waverly demanded.

"For each separate shipment there is a separate payment. In gold. Gold in molds of sample machinery parts, then camouflaged with steel or iron plating. And each time a payment is made, it is made by a different courier."

"And how are these couriers chosen?"

"A trusted man is selected by a Communist leader, and this man, always a different man, brings up the two suitcases loaded with the camouflaged gold."

"And for this trip you were selected?"

"That is correct, Mr. Waverly. My first real big job."

"What is your fee? How are you paid for this illegal action?"

"Ten percent of the booty. Ten percent of the stuff I'm carrying. Ten thousand dollars, paid by either Raymond or Langston when I deliver, plus a two-week vacation here in the States, living as a guest in the home of Raymond and Langston."

"Do you know where this home is?"

"No. I know where their offices are."

"Same place," Waverly informed him.

The firm of Raymond and Langston was a three-story house on lower Park Avenue. The main floor was the showroom, the second floor contained the offices, and the top floor was comprised of the apartment of Mr. Raymond and Mr. Langston—and on that floor were also the guest rooms.

"Mr. Ogden, how well do you know either one of the gentlemen—Mr. Raymond or Mr. Langston?"

And now Howard Ogden, alias Harry Owens, fired off his second thunderbolt.

"I don't know them at all. I have never seen either one of them, and neither of them has ever seen me."

The Old Man squinted. "I—I don't understand."

"A part of the cover for the operation. Never the same courier. Always the courier is a total stranger."

"Then how do they know they can trust you?"

"They trust their people in South America who select the couriers."

"But what would stop one like you—a bold adventurer like yourself—from running off with a hundred thousand dollars in gold?"

"Where would we run? Where could we hide? Where in the world could we ever be safe from– T.H.R.U.S.H.?"

6. More Thunderbolts

T.H.R.U.S.H.!

A thrill of anticipation shivered through Alexander Waverly, but he continued his slow, methodical examination.

Yes, Howard Ogden went on, Mr. Raymond and Mr. Langston are a part of T.H.R.U.S.H., sent to the United States by their Australian section. Yes, each time it is a different courier, different papers, different passport. No, Raymond and Langston have no knowledge as to who the courier will be. They depend upon their South American people; they do not risk unnecessary communication.

"But then how would they know, for instance, that you are the courier?"

"I bring the best identillcation in the world—a hundred thousand dollars in gold."

The Old Man lit his pipe and became partially hidden behind wreaths of smoke. But Howard Ogden was not finished. He was fighting prison bars, fighting for years of freedom, fighting for a reduction of the penalties of his crimes.

In South America Ogden had been closely connected to important Communist leaders. He had had their confidence. And now, unasked and greatly to his credit in the lessening of his penalty, he proceeded to offer information that had Alexander Waverly sitting tense and upright in his chair.

"In the basement of their building in New York," Ogden explained, "Raymond and Langston have a smelting plant where they melt down the gold and form it into ingots—gold bullion in the shape of bars. They keep this gold bullion in a vast vault down there in the basement. It is a fireproof steel vault like a bank vault. It is protected by a burglar– alarm system that does three things: First, it sets off a clang in the basement that would immediately frighten off a burglar; second, it sets off a buzz alarm in the apartment of Raymond and Langston; third, it registers on a device in that apartment; that is, if the vault dial is even turned a bit, Raymond and Langston know that someone has been down there tampering with their vault."

"How long has this been going on, Mr. Ogden?"

"Two years, and now it is over—mine is the last trip. In those two years, six million dollars have been delivered from the bandits in South America. They figure that's about what the traffic will bear. Now it's their job to transfer the gold bullion to permanent vaults in Geneva, Switzerland, before closing up shop here in the United States."

The Old Man cocked his head. "I don't quite understand, Mr. Ogden."

"What, Mr. Waverly?"

"If the gold finally is to be transported to Geneva, why wasn't it delivered by the couriers directly to Geneva?"

Howard Ogden crossed his long legs. "Well, sir, first, this is a Raymond and Langston operation and they're based here in the States. Second, the stuff is coming in as machine parts and Geneva is not quite the place to sell machinery, while the United States is. Next, the trip to the United States is shorter, more direct, and those babies don't take any chances on an operation that's running smooth. The deal is to get it all accumulated and melted down to bars here in the States, and then to ship it over to Geneva in one single foolproof stroke."

Waverly's eyes were almost hidden within a mass of inquiring wrinkles. "Six million dollars in gold? What can they plan for a single foolproof stroke? Do you know, Mr. Ogden?"

Ogden smiled. "I'm a good listener and I had my ears cocked down there. I don't know it all but I do know a little."

"Please tell us what you know."

"Within the next few days, the gold is to be taken over to the Parley Circus. There's your foolproof stroke, Mr. Waverly. The Parley Circus is going over to Geneva. Who would look for gold in the vast activity and excitement of an entire circus shipping over to Europe?"

The Parley Circus! Waverly knew about the Parley Circus and had good reason to know. The Parley Circus was a famous Australian circus now in its last week at the Westbury Fairgrounds on Long Island, New York. For the past month the Parley Circus had been entertaining Americans on Long Island; in three days it was to fold its tents and ship out to Geneva, Switzerland.

Now Waverly's rapid questions stabbed at Ogden—who? what? when? where? But the long-legged man had been pumped dry of information.

"Just this one last thing," he said. "I heard a name, but I don't know what his connection is with the deal."

"What name?"

"Kenneth Craig."

The Old Man winced as though he had been struck. He gasped, then turned deathly pale. Solo and Kuryakin exchanged glances. They had heard about Kenneth Craig. Who hadn't? An Australian, a world-famous lion tamer, he was the star of the Parley Circus. But why should the mention of that name cause such an effect on the Old Man?

"Kenneth Craig," Waverly said gently. "What does Kenneth Craig have to do with this gunrunning caper?"

Ogden sighed. "I don't know, Mr. Waverly. I've told you everything I do know."

"And I thank you for that, Mr. Ogden, and I shall not forget it." His smile was wan. "You will be our guest for the next few days. After that I shall turn you over to the federal people, but I shall tell them of your important cooperation with us here, and I shall make my personal recommendations to them."

"Thank you, sir."

Waverly looked beyond Ogden to Solo and Kuryakin. "You gentlemen will remain here with me." Then he clicked a lever on the console board. "Send up a couple of guards," he ordered. "Mr. Ogden is ready to return to Detention."

7. Agent or Double Agent?

SOLO A KURYAKIN waited at the desk watching the Old Man, his face still pale as parchment. With trembling fingers Waverly filled his pipe, lit it, puffed in silence, and leaned back. The young men knew what had so profoundly moved their chief– the name Kenneth Craig. But why?

Finally the Old Man roused himself and addressed them.

"Gentlemen, we're confronted with a double problem. Two problems." He wet his lips and smiled faintly. "First and foremost is the one regarding Kenneth Craig."

"Who the devil is Kenneth Craig?" exploded Illya Kuryakin.

"An Australian," replied the Old Man, "famous throughout the world as a lion tamer, traveling with the circus from country to country. But Kenneth Craig is also, gentlemen, a secret agent for United Network Command for Law Enforcement—one of us, if you please—one of U.N.C.L.E.'s valued and valuable international agents."

"Oh! My!" breathed Napoleon Solo.

"Perhaps now you understand my reaction." His lips formed a small, wrinkled smile. "My—consternation."

"But do we ever understand!" exclaimed Illya. "Kenneth Craig—a name mentioned among traitors and reported to us by a confessed traitor."

"First and foremost, then," said Solo, "Kenneth Craig. In other words, is the guy our agent or a double agent? Is he working for us or against us? Is he with U.N.C.L.E. or is he really with T.H.R.U.S.H.?"

"Let us, gentlemen, examine that," muttered the Old Man through pipe smoke. "Howard Ogden gives us this name as involved in a massive gunrunning scheme initiated by T.H.R.U.S.H. This question, then: Why have we not had a single word from Kenneth Craig?" Waverly's eyes narrowed to thoughtful slits. "Two reasons."

"The first is entirely innocent," said Illya. "The man simply has no knowledge of the operation and therefore has nothing to report."

"The second is terribly guilty," said Solo. "The man has full knowledge of the operation, is himself a member of T.H.RU.S.H., and is therefore a dangerous thorn in the side of U.N.C.L.E."

"Innocent or guilty?" Illya's face was alight with excitement.

"That shall be your job to find out, Mr. Kuryakin." The Old Man had recovered, his voice alert and resonant. "Gentlemen, our work is now twofold: to thwart T.H.R.U.S.H. in its six-million-dollar caper, and, far more important, to discover whether or not U.N.C.L.E. has a deadly serpent in its midst. Is U.N.C.L.E. harboring a Judas?"

"I'm glad that's his job," said Solo.

"Your job, Mr. Solo, will be to investigate Raymond and Langston. You will go—with the suit cases, as Harry Owens—to the armaments firm."

"Harry Owens." Solo winked at Illya. "That's me."

The Old Man opened a drawer of his desk, took out a leather-bound loose-leaf book, turned the pages slowly, finally stopped at a page, studied it, and murmured, "Evan Fairchild."

"Pardon?" said Illya.

"That's you. Evan Fairchild."

"Me, Tarzan," laughed Solo. "You, Evan, fair child."

A grim upward glance from the Old Man put down the ever-irrepressible spirits of the young men. Jocularity instantly ended.

"Evan Fairchild," said the Old Man, " a photo journalist from Scope, the picture magazine. Tomorrow morning, Mr. Kuryakin, you will go out to Westbury as Evan Fairchild. Your supposed job as Fairchild is to spend three days with the Parley Circus for a picture story. Your real job will be Kenneth Craig—is he one of us, or one of them? Do you understand, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Yessir."

The Old Man closed the leather-bound book. "By morning you will have the necessary credentials, and the magazine will validate you in case of any inquiry." He looked toward Solo. "As for you, Mr. Harry Owens, your job, which will start at once, is to outflank and checkmate T.H.R.U.S.H.'s six-million-dollar maneuver." The Old Man sighed deeply. "Actually, gentlemen, you will be working together, hand in glove, the two jobs interweaving as one. And for that purpose, gentlemen, kindly go down to the lab now for the proper equipment."

"What do we tell the lab boys?" asked Solo.

"I'll do the telling." The Old Man grinned. "Me Tarzan. You go."

Chuckling, the young men left the office, and at once Waverly flicked a key on the console board and informed the laboratory technicians of the circumstances and the requirements of the two U.N.C.L.E. agents who, from the moment they left the room, were already embarked on their perilous mission.

8. Tools of the Trade

"WELL, GREETINGS, Mr. Owens, Mr. Fairchild."

There was laughter and banter in the laboratory all through the serious work of providing Solo and Illya with new tools for their ever-changing assignments, but first their old tools were checked—their Communicators. Each, of course, carried his Communicator, the innocent-looking pen which was both sender and receiver.

Hank Jenkins, the electronics expert, was the man in charge. He refurbished the Communicators, cleaned them, adjusted them, put in new transistors, and returned each to its owner.

"Now, then," said Hank Jenkins, "we've got to set you guys up with a communications system of your own, a foolproof independent system between you—and what we've got for you is just what the doctor ordered."

And so Solo and Illya were introduced to the latest electronics marvel perfected by the U.N.C.L.E. scientists.

A lab dentist fitted each of them with a palate-plate similar to the bite-plate given to youngsters when they are undergoing dental orthodontia, except that these plastic bite-plates contained no pressure points to straighten teeth. Instead each was an ultrahigh-frequency transmitter, worn as a palate-plate in the mouth, and each palate-plate had a tiny spring which was to be clicked for the transmitter to go into action. Solo and Illya were given an opportunity to practice with their palate-plates, and then a lab doctor came to the fore.

With delicate surgical instruments the doctor inserted tiny, unseen earpieces into the right ear canal of each man.

"You guys can now be in independent communication within a thousand-mile radius," Jenkins informed them. "But kindly remember—the palate-plates and earpieces are not to be removed; they remain a permanent part of you until you're off this assignment."

For his particular job Solo was furnished with additional equipment. New shoelaces were put into his shoes, each shoelace an electric-current detector, and he was given an object which looked like a dial on a safe. He was fully instructed as to the use and purpose of these devices. Then he was given Harry Owens' passport, his own photo having been substituted for Owens', and he was given the two suitcases into which had been packed every item they had originally contained.

"Okay?" said Jenkins.

"What about the rest of Owens' papers?"

"Not only his papers," laughed Jenkins, "but every other item belonging to Owens including his clothes, which we've altered to your size. Get undressed."

While Solo changed, Illya capered about, making jokes.

"His time for fun but not for long," said Jenkins. "He's next—cameras and stuff—but for Evan Fairchild we've got until tomorrow morning. For you, my boy, it's now." And when Solo was dressed and ready, Jenkins said, "Up you go now, Mr. Owens, to the Old Man for your final briefing."

9. Solo Delivers the Goods

HARRY OWENS, carrying two heavy bags, passed from the bright sunshine of the street into the cool quiet of the Raymond and Langston showroom. A smiling salesman immediately approached him.

"May I help you, sir?"

"I should like to see Mr. Raymond. Or Mr. Langston."

"Oh, would you?" The smile disappeared.

"I would," said Solo.

"If you have something to sell, sir, the purchasing department—"

"I have nothing to sell."

The salesman sniffed. "Well, unless you have an appointment, I'm sorry, but—"

"My name is Owens. Harry Owens."

"Mr. Owens? Oh, yes, of course." There was a quick shift in the salesman's attitude, and he was smiling again. "Yes, Mr. Owens. They're expecting you. Would you come this way, please?"

Solo following, the salesman walked quickly to an elevator at the rear, then stood aside and let Solo enter before him. The salesman touched the button for the second floor and they ascended in silence. In the large waiting room the salesman said to the only occupant, a red-haired secretary, "Mr. Owens. To see Mr. Raymond. Or Mr. Langston. Or both. He's expected."

The secretary glared. "I know he's expected. Thank you."

The salesman sidled back to the elevator and disappeared.

The secretary stood up and said, "Please come with me, Mr. Owens."

She led him along a broad, carpeted corridor to a burnished, carved mahogany door. She knocked.

"Come in," said a deep voice.

She opened the door but did not go in.

"Mr. Owens," she announced.

"Yes, delighted," said the deep voice.

She permitted Solo to enter, closed the door behind him, and he was alone with two men.

"Ah, Mr. Owens," said the deep voice. "I'm Raymond, Felix Raymond." About fifty years of age, he was short, stout, with black crew-cut hair and black horn-rimmed glasses. He advanced upon Solo, hand outstretched. Solo put down the bags and shook hands with Felix Raymond. "Permit me," said Felix Raymond and waved toward the seated man now behind him. "My partner, Otis Langston."

It was an immense room, well furnished, with twin mahogany desks. Otis Langston stood up from one of the desks. About the same age as his partner, he was long, lean, lank, and bald, and he had a thin, piping voice.

"How do you do, Mr. Owens?"

Solo nodded. "Mr. Langston."

Langston looked at his watch. "We were getting worried about you."

"Why?" Solo said gruffly.

"We called the airport. Your flight arrived quite some time ago."

"A man has to eat," said Solo, pretending sullen ill-humor. "These planes from South America, they feed you ladylike. I am not a lady. I'm a man with a man's appetite. I was hungry. I stopped off to eat. Anything wrong with stopping off to eat? A real meal? A man's meal?"

Raymond's laughter boomed. "Well, I'll be switched! Oh, these wonderful people they send us from South America. Here's a man carrying a hundred thousand dollars in gold and he stops off to eat. A real meal. A man's meal. Well, good for you, Mr. Owens. Good for you." And he took up the suitcases, carried them to his desk, and opened them.

Solo watched with interest.

The dark, crew-cut Raymond was obviously the metals expert. He went to a huge safe in a corner of the room, opened it, took out instruments, cut through the veneer of the iron-plated articles in the suitcases, used a magnifying glass, used his instruments, inspected carefully, and was finally thoroughly satisfied.

"Very good, very good," he murmured. The bald Langston helped Raymond return the machinery parts to the suitcases. Raymond carried the suitcases to the safe, shoved them in, extracted a packet of money from the safe, and locked it.

"Ten thousand dollars," he said. "Your fee, Mr. Owens."

"Thank you." Solo pocketed the packet.

"Aren't you going to count it?" piped Langston.

Solo made a grin for Felix Raymond. "Your partner's the suspicious type, isn't he?"

"Yes, that he is," boomed Raymond.

Solo looked toward Langston. "Mister, if you trusted me with a hundred thousand in gold, doesn't it figure that I'd trust you with ten percent of that in cash?"

"Ah, wonderful people, wonderful people they send us from South America," cried Raymond. "Please, Mr. Owens. This way, please."

They led him out to the elevator and up to the next floor. There they showed him their sumptuous apartment.

"Beautiful," said Solo. "You've got a beautiful place here."

"It's where you're going to spend your next couple of weeks," squeaked Langston. "The two-week vacation you've been promised."

"Here?" said Solo, making his eyes round.

"The next-door apartment," boomed Raymond. "The one next to ours, and quite as lovely."

Impatiently Langston said, "We don't have the time now to explain everything, Mr. Owens. You and your large appetite for a man's meal—you've sort of delayed us."

"A quick outline before we go." Raymond smiled. "This place—our place of business—closes down at five o'clock. We've got to hurry now, Mr. Langston and myself, and you'll virtually be shut in." He laughed. "Give you a chance to rest and relax. We'll be back at about seven, and then we'll have a chance to be proper hosts for you. Take you out for a late dinner and an evening on the town. But we really are in a hurry now, Mr. Owens. Come, let me show you your apartment."

It was next door. It was quite posh—three rooms: parlor, bedroom, and kitchen.

"We must be off now," said Raymond. "You'll be locked in at five, but we'll let you out again at seven, and at that time we'll explain all the details to you. In the meantime, anything you wish you'll find right here. See you later, Mr. Owens."

Alone, Solo prowled his new domain. Cabinets and refrigerator were well stocked, but at the moment he was not interested in food. In the bedroom there was a walk-in closet, and as he inspected it he heard a murmur of voices. He pressed his ear against the far wall. It was thin and Solo knew it abutted upon the living room of the other apartment because, ear pressed, he could hear, quite clearly, Raymond and Langston conversing.

"We're already late for Westbury..."

That was Raymond's hearty boom.

"He delayed us." That was Langston's thin wail.

"Otis, my dear man, what do you expect? These aren't people of our own social status. They have their quirks. They're bold, baffling—common adventurers. But he delivered, and that's all we can ask of him, isn't it?"

"All right! Enough of Harry Owens. He delivered and we delivered to him. He's been paid. We've much more important matters to attend. Final arrangements. Now, Felix, move!"

"I'm ready. Who'll drive? Whose car?"

"Mine," declared Langston.

"So be it," said Raymond.

Then there were shuffling sounds and a door slammed. Then silence.

Solo retreated from the closet. Until five o'clock his activities were restricted. There wasn't a thing in the world he could do in furtherance of his duty. So he made himself a peanut-butter sandwich, washed it down with a glass of milk, took off his jacket, took off his shoes, opened his tie, and sprawled out on the bed in the bedroom, his mind teeming but his body resting.