Текст книги "The Dagger Affair"

Автор книги: David McDaniel

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

Keldur leaped from the table and was gone as the Webley thundered again and the slug tore a hole in the cabinet behind which he had vanished. Napoleon fumbled for his automatic, but his fingers still wouldn't obey. The guards were dropping to the floor, their automatic rifles coming to bear on the U.N.C.L.E. commander. The Webley roared again, and one guard fell aside, dead before he hit the ground. Then there was a sound like a fire-extinguisher, and a billow of white smoke covered the remaining five guards.

It squirted from the end of Baldwin's cane as a liquid, and was directed like a stream from a hose upon the prone figures, but it turned to a heavy gas in mid-air, a safe distance away from the user. Two rifles fired wildly, and the guards thrashed a moment upon the floor, then were still. The gas dissipated rapidly as Baldwin said, "Thornite. Now you see why I still keep it in stock. Much more efficient than the Webley."

"At least at short-range," said Napoleon. He finally had his automatic out, and was looking anxiously about for anyone of the opposition forces. The workers had all disappeared from around the machine, and they seemed to be alone as Waverly hurried toward them.

"I get the impression I arrived at just the right time," he said.

"You could have come in a minute earlier, and I wouldn't have minded at all," said Napoleon. "You see what I meant, Illya? We've got to destroy that thing."

"Afraid not, Napoleon," said Waverly. "Our technical crews want to take it apart carefully."

Illya, looking around the huge hangar, suddenly flipped his gun up and snapped off a shot at a shadowy figure near the far end.

"Let's get out of here," he suggested. "We can come back in the morning with an army to dismantle the machine."

"And let Keldur get away to build another one? I'm afraid I missed him as he ducked behind the cabinet," said Waverly, "and you know my feelings about leaving a job unfinished. We don't leave until Kim Keldur has been fastened down securely, one way or another. Illya, step outside, and bring Garnet in."

When this was accomplished, Garnet was given the bull-horn. "Kim?" she said, her hesitant voice booming back from the corrugated walls of the hangar. "Kim? It's me. Please come out and give yourself up. You can't get away now. They don't want to hurt you. I'll take care of you – I promise...." Her voice caught, and a grotesquely amplified sob echoed around before she released the switch.

She managed to bring herself under control, and her voice was almost steady when she spoke again. "Kim – you can hear me. Please answer me, Kim. They can't give you much longer. Come out and give..." Her amplified voice faded and suddenly it was just her ordinary voice

She looked at the horn. "That's funny," she said. "It just..." She looked up, with a vaguely puzzled expression. "I...I feel funny...."

Napoleon looked at his watch. It had stopped.

He felt a little vague himself, but he wasn't blacking out. He saw a bank of tally lights on a panel wink amber, and then fade and go out. The Energy Damper had been switched on, uncompleted though it was, and its field filled at least the area they were in. But the Theta was not full – they were still alive.

He snapped to Illya, "He must be on the other side. Let's get him."

They took off on slightly wobbly legs and went opposite directions around the big machine. A flying body dropped on Napoleon as he came around the corner, and he went down.

The man must have been waiting on the catwalk, Napoleon realized as he was falling and twisting to one side. He landed on his shoulder, rolled up quickly, and scrambled to his feet. He flipped out his gun and snapped, "Hold it right there!" The DAGGER started to his feet, and Napoleon pulled the trigger, aiming over the man's shoulder. Nothing happened. Instinctively he worked the ejection slide, and pulled the trigger again. The firing pin clicked on another dead cartridge. He worked the slide and the trigger the third time as the man's fist came at him.

He swayed slightly to one side and let it glance harmlessly off his shoulder, and then he hit him over the head with the otherwise useless gun. The DAGGER went down and stayed down.

Napoleon looked around for Illya. The wiry Russian was engaged in hand-to-hand combat with two coveralled technicians, one of whom was attempting to wield a wrench. Napoleon sent his automatic on ahead, and caught the man's wrist with it. The wrench fell, and a moment later the man joined it on the floor as Napoleon hit him with a full body-block.

In a few seconds Illya had taken care of the other one, and stood there breathing heavily. "Let's turn the thing off! It must have been started from somewhere over here."

"With all these switches? It would take an hour just to work each of them. And we don't dare monkey with the controls – it might still go wide open. Do you know what to do with it?"

Illya looked up at the machine. "All right, we leave it alone. But where are the others?"

The sounds of a scuffle were plainly heard now from the area near the door. They sprinted around the end of the machine again and saw Waverly going down under a swarm of technicians. Baldwin was still on his feet, backed up to the wall, laying about him with his cane like a demon. Garnet had picked up a chair, and broke it over one of the backs in the mob around Waverly.

And then Napoleon and Illya were in the thick of the fight. Napoleon couldn't tell exactly who he was fighting, because there were so many of them, but he was able to keep clear of Baldwin, who was shouting something fierce and guttural and swinging his cane like a battle-axe. Garnet had run out of chairs and was poking at the tangle with a table leg. Illya and Waverly swam across his line of sight for a moment every now and then, but most of his attention was taken up with hitting and being hit by an apparently inexhaustible supply of total strangers, most of whom wore dirty overalls.

The field of the Energy Damper prevented use of firearms or any other specialized weapon which used energy transformation to power it. Apparently the field was not large after all – with a small corner of his mind Napoleon realized the overhead lights were still on. But they were near the coil.... Of course, he remembered as he picked up another individual and threw him at two more, Keldur said the last stage wasn't connected yet. A good thing, too. This was enough work in the light. The only things unaffected were straight transfers of energy – a fist would still move a jaw a certain distance when impacting properly.

And there were one or two knives glinting under the harsh lights – they worked just as well, too. Napoleon and Illya were well-trained in the roughest schools of hand-to-hand fighting, but the weight of numbers just about evened the odds.

Even in the biggest part of the fight, a corner of Napoleon's mind continued to talk idly to itself. He remembered the cabinet Keldur had ducked behind just a minute or so before the machine had gone on, and he considered how far it was from the far side of the Energy Damper, where he must have turned it on, because they hadn't seen him on this side. But suppose the simple on-off control was not built on to the machine at all? He might be able to find it. He flattened one more opponent, and looked around. Illya and Waverly were still doing all right, and Baldwin had moved away from the wall toward the center of things, balancing on his good leg and shouting "A'mhorfhaich!" every time he connected.

Napoleon broke away and ran for the cabinet. He could recognize it by the gouge Waverly's slug had left in the side. It was about two feet from the wall, and a bit snug for anyone less skeletal than Keldur, but Napoleon made it. He felt his way along, and then ahead he saw a small box stuck on the back of an equipment rack. It had a red insignia on it – the picture of a dagger. He lifted the lid.

Inside there was a closed knife switch. Mentally crossing his fingers, he jerked it open.

Suddenly there was a fusillade of explosions, and shouts of surprise from the other side of the rack. He forced himself past another rack to a corner, and found a little ladder leading up to the roof of the office area. He ran up it like a cat and leaped lightly from the roof to land beside Illya.

"Hi. I found the off switch."

"Good. Here's Keldur," Illya said, holding up a limp figure. "He wouldn't come quietly. Chernik had a knife – he got it returned to him, and did not survive it. Holt may live; I think he has a concussion. I think we taught them a lesson."

"So I see. What were those things that sounded like shots?"

"I was about to ask you. Did you..."

Waverly's voice cut across their conversation. "Clear the building and drag our prisoners out with you. Whatever went off has started a fire."

Napoleon snapped his fingers. Of course. The rounds he had fired after the machine had been switched on had finally detonated when the field had collapsed.

For the next few minutes he was busy dragging prisoners out through the one available door. The flames were climbing, licking around the framework of the flimsy building and catching the scaffolding around the machine.

Once outside, Waverly used his transceiver to make a rush call for the local fire department, but they might not arrive in time to save the machine. The flames were visible through the door, and were spreading.

Nobody was watching the prisoners, and before they were aware of it Kim Keldur had recovered from the blow that had felled him. Suddenly he sprang from behind them and dashed for the door.

Garnet screamed, and Waverly snapped, "Stop him!" But it was too late. He was through the door, into the flames. There was a long moment of silence. Illya started to say something.

And then the flames dwindled and died.

"He's got it started again!"

"I know where the switch is," said Napoleon grimly. "I'll have to go in there and stop it." And he headed for the door. About ten feet away his feet seemed suddenly gripped by mud, and his breathing grew strained. The light from his flash vanished, and his head was stuffed with cotton. He fell forward, hearing a faint distant voice calling his name.

* * *

"Napoleon!" Illya jumped forward as he saw Solo fall. "He's not only got it going, he's got the Theta up. Give me a rope, quick!"

Garnet dashed to the car and found one in the tool kit. Illya took it and swiftly fashioned a rough loop in one end. Swinging this, he advanced until he began to feel the effect of the fringes of the field. Then he whirled the loop a few times around his head, and threw it. And missed.

Feeling dizzier, he hauled it in and moved back a step. He threw the rope again, and almost caught Napoleon's leg with it. As he leaned forward he almost fell over. The field was expanding! Each time he missed he would have to move back farther, or be caught in the field himself. Fixing every bit of concentration in his mind on the bent leg of his partner, he swung and tossed the rope again – and it caught. He pulled gently to see if it would hold. It did.

Then he put his weight on it, and began to drag Napoleon out of the field. It was expanding faster now; he was over twenty feet from the door and feeling slightly affected by it when he got Napoleon to him.

Napoleon had to be almost carried back to the car, still semiconscious from the effects of the Energy Damper. They stood by the car, wondering if the field would stop, and how soon, and where.

There was nothing left they could do. Cut off the power? The machine itself did that. Once it had started, it was a law unto itself. There was no way to turn it off from the outside, and nothing could function inside that field. A long, jointed level with a system of mirrors and lenses could be reached inside and around corners to the switch – but by the time such a device could be made it would be far too late to do any good.

And the field was still expanding.

Suddenly Baldwin turned to face them, and there was a gun in his hand. "All right," he said. "There's nothing more to be done here. Get into the car and drive as I tell you. You aren't going to like this, but there is no time now for half-measures. With luck and quick work we may have a chance. Illya, drive."

Working with one hand and holding his gun with the other, Baldwin turned on the radio. He fumbled out the microphone and called. A moment later there was an acknowledgment. Illya started the car as Baldwin began to speak into the microphone. He recited a short list of letters and numbers, and concluded tersely with, "Execute – Priority Absolute Prime."

He waited for another acknowledgment, then replaced the mike. He gestured with his gun. "Let us depart. Illya, I want to be half a mile away from here within two minutes."

They were. The Rolls paused near the edge of a golf course at Baldwin's direction, and they looked back. A moment later he pointed to the sky. "There," he said, as a pair of bright lights appeared. "Watch that, gentlemen, and pray. It is our last hope."

It was a large twin-engine cargo plane, landing lights bright, coming in low as though making a landing approach. But it swerved uncertainly as it came down. And it was coming down too steeply for the runway. It was coming down short....

It hit the wall of the hanger just above the ground. There was a great grinding crash which reached them clearly across half a mile of field, and a great flash of light. Two seconds later a giant fist of the shockwave slammed them on the chests as they watched the hanger walls bulge outward horribly for a fraction of a second, and then a shattering roar came as the whole building vanished in a billowing cloud of smoke and flame.

No one moved or spoke for a full minute.

Then Baldwin broke the silence.

"Kinetic energy, directly applied, was the only thing that could affect the machine inside the field. I was not intending to use this, but I knew it could become necessary. I simply arranged for the largest convenient mass with the greatest amount of kinetic energy available – in this case a robot-controlled plane, directed by my wife through a television camera in the nose – to be dropped on the machine. The success of this unfortunately final but ultimately necessary action is now terribly obvious. Mr. Waverly, my apologies for destroying your prize, but I think you see my reasoning."

They drove back toward the site, and arrived almost simultaneously with the fire engines. Many excited questions were asked, but none were directed toward them. The efforts of the firemen were almost totally oriented toward the protection of nearby buildings – those that had been set afire by the blast. The hanger was already more than a total loss. Not more than a few smoldering sticks and a fused mass of metal would remain.

They got out of the car to look at the spot, and said nothing. Napoleon stood with an arm around Garnet's shoulders. He felt them shaking slightly with her suppressed tears, and said gently, "Garnet, he must have died as soon as he threw the switch. The explosion destroyed only the machine."

She turned to face him, and the roaring flames lit her face with red and orange and shone in the drying tear-trails down her cheeks.

"Napoleon, my brother died almost two years ago. Now perhaps he has found his peace at last."

"I'm sure he has," Napoleon said, knowing that somehow that was an inadequate thing to say, and saying it anyway. "I'm sure he has."

Chapter 16: "'The Object Of Power Is Power.'"

There was nothing more to be done. The rounding up of the various members of DAGGER was purely routine, and would be handled by Jerry Davis' men at the San Francisco office of U.N.C.L.E.

The individuals who had contributed money to Keldur would probably never know what happened – eventually they would decide they had been conned, and would be a little more cautious the next time a thin young man with brilliant eyes came asking for contributions to save the world from itself.

Napoleon and Garnet, Illya and Waverly had spent the promised day seeing San Francisco with Baldwin, Irene and Robin, and now it was evening again, and time for them to go.

They had been driven back to the airport in the official Thrush Rolls Royce in plenty of time for Garnet to catch her flight to Los Angeles, and with an hour to spare before the U.N.C.L.E. flight to New York.

"Well," said Baldwin as they stood up from the table in the airport lounge, "our common goals had been achieved, and our alliance is ending."

"Yes, it is," said Waverly. "Tomorrow we will be enemies again. I am afraid if we meet again, it will be with bars between us. Still, I must admit it has been most interesting working with you."

"Thank you; may I say the same? You are a fine man, a good fighter, and a worthy opponent. And Mr. Solo, you showed admirable courage in your attempt to re-enter the hanger."

"Well, I left my automatic in there, and I didn't want to lose it again...."

Baldwin smiled. "Nevertheless, there is no courage where there is no fear. Someday we may be able to find you a place in our organization. Mr. Waverly, you have a staff worthy of you." He shook his head sadly. "It's tragic that you're on the wrong side."

Waverly, too, shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't see it that way. Our ultimate goals are too much opposed. We want the world to belong to its citizens – you want it to belong to yourselves. There is no middle ground, and we must fight to the death." He paused, frowning. "What do you plan to do with the world if you should take over? Other than restoring the cable cars, tearing down the Embarcadero Freeway and resuming the ferry service, and a few other improvements I must admit I tend to agree with, that is. What exactly will be the purpose of your power?"

By this time they were out on the main concourse, walking in a tight group. Baldwin paused in his stride, and reached into his inner coat pocket. "Here," he said. "This might explain a part of it." He withdrew a paperbound book and extended it, face down. "Page 217. The passage is marked."

As Waverly took the book, the loudspeaker called, "Flight 93 for New York is boarding at Gate 12." And another voice announced, "Mr. Ward Baldwin, take a courtesy phone. There is a call for you."

* * *

Baldwin shook hands all around quickly, and hurried away. Irene said, "It's really been great fun having you here. I wish we could invite you back sometime. Perhaps you will be our guests in a few more years."

Robin said nothing, but let her eyes shine up at Napoleon and Illya as she pressed their hands in turn. When she came to Waverly, though, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him. Then she and Irene were gone in the crowd.

Waverly stood looking after them for a full minute, a bemused expression on his face, the book Baldwin had given him resting in his hand, a finger inserted to mark the page. Eventually he collected himself and cleared his throat impressively. "Well! Gentlemen, we have a plane to catch."

He slipped open the book and glanced at the marked passage on page 217, and did not walk toward the ramp. Napoleon and Illya each looked over a shoulder, and read:

"We seek power entirely for its own sake. We are not interested in the good of others; we are interested solely in power. Not wealth or luxury or long life or happiness; only power, pure power.... No one ever seizes power with the intention of relinquishing it. Power is not a means; it is an end. The object of persecution is persecution. The object of torture is torture. The object of power is power. Now do you begin to understand me?"

* * *

Napoleon read it through once, and again. He looked at Illya, and said, "That is a statement of Thrush policy." It was not a question.

"Yes," said Illya. "It is."

"What's the book?"

Illya looked at him with slightly raised eyebrows, and then looked down significantly. Napoleon followed his gaze.

Mr. Waverly had closed the book, and was looking at the cover. The title was big and black beneath the author's name – 1984.

He turned idly to the front pages, and stopped at the flyleaf. It was inscribed in dark green ink, in strong, jagged handwriting. Alexander Waverly, from Ward Baldwin. For reasons too complex to transcribe. November 1965."

After a few seconds of contemplation and a snort which might have become a chuckle had it been allowed all the way out, Waverly closed the book. As an afterthought he rifled the pages carefully and felt the spine. Then, satisfied it was not a fiendish device of some kind, he tucked it carefully in his inside pocket.

"Now," he said again, "We have a plane to catch."

They started up the corridor toward the loading ramp that had been called. It was approaching flight time, but there seemed to be no other passengers around. Then Napoleon stopped. There were four men coming towards them, up the hall. With a slight shock he recognized one of them – the Thrush who had led the party that had rescued them in Oakland three days before. He didn't look as friendly now.

Napoleon glanced over his shoulder and saw four more coming toward them from behind. He sighed deeply.

"Excuse me, sir," he said to Waverly, who seemed lost in thought. "Exactly when was the alliance with Thrush supposed to end?"

"End? Supposedly, when we arrive safely in New York the hostages will be released. But the way Baldwin shook hands..." He saw the men approaching, and his eyebrows arched. "They don't look like a farewell party, do they?"

"I'm afraid not," said Napoleon.

Illya had his gun out, and was walking with it concealed under his overcoat, which was draped across his arm. Waverly said quietly, "An incident at this point would be most unsatisfactory. Is there an exit?"

Napoleon nodded. "Over there. It says EMERGENCY ONLY."

"I think this qualifies," said Illya. "Napoleon, you'll pass closest. When we are even with the door, hit it hard and go through quickly. We'll be right behind you."

Without breaking their pace, they continued down the corridor until they were even with the gray door, and then Napoleon kicked suddenly at the panic bar and jumped through.

And then he was falling, bashing himself painfully in several spots on angled things, losing his gun entirely, and scraping some skin off his palms as he came to rest in a tangled heap on the floor, some ten feet below where he had begun. Above him he saw Waverly standing at the top of the stairs looking down at him with moderate disapproval, and Illya latching the door securely behind them. He groaned and shifted himself. At least nothing was broken. He sat up slowly.

Illya came down the steps behind Waverly and looked at him doubtfully. "What are you doing?" he asked.

Napoleon glowered at him as he got to his feet. "Now here's another nice mess you've gotten me into. Where's my gun?"

"Over there. Did you notice the stairs?"

"Not at first. Let's say I became aware of them one at a time. Did you see any reaction from the enemy to our disappearing act?"

"Some. You made quite a racket when you hit the stairs, and I think some of them were laughing."

Napoleon picked up his Special and checked it over carefully. And he had been doing so well, too. He thought his bad luck had ran out. Apparently there was still a little bit left in the bucket. He looked around the little cubicle and saw another door, and a couple of small windows which showed the surface of the taxiway outside.

He stepped aside and nodded to Illya. "This time, you get the door." Illya turned the knob with his left hand, automatic ready in his right, and stuck his head out. He looked around, then pulled it in again and nodded. "All clear. Shall we try for that plane from the ground, or do they take people in only through the gates?"

"We'll see," said Waverly. "Come on, they won't wait forever."

Illya and Napoleon preceded him out onto the apron, guns drawn. The only sounds were engines warming up and the occasional whine of an electric baggage cart. One came humming across the field toward them, a train of little loaded trucks trailing behind it. It swerved to pass them at a distance of about twenty feet.

Illya suddenly shouted something, and leaped for cover behind a large wheeled stairway. Waverly moved with remarkable agility for a man of his years as two figures stood up from the other side of the high-piled baggage on the trucks and two sub-machine guns began blasting a hail of lead at them. Napoleon fell flat, too far from cover to make the leap. His U.N.C.L.E. Special was out and spitting flame, and one of the attackers dropped his weapon and fell from the truck. The other one fell victim to Illya's accuracy, but by the time they reached the spot the baggage cart had gone around a corner and disappeared.

Then lead smacked the blacktop beside them. The lights of the building dazzled them, and Illya and Waverly ducked for cover again. Napoleon dashed in a frantic zig-zag toward the source of the shot. Slugs spattered all around him as he sprinted for the cover of the building wall. Then there were two shots from behind him – Illya, with the telescopic sight on his U.N.C.L.E. Special cutting out the glare from the floodlights. No more shots came from above.

Under the temporary protection of the wall, Napoleon drew his little transceiver and pulled up the antenna. "Mayday – mayday – mayday. Agents Solo and Kuryakin and Director Waverly at San Francisco International Airport. Acknowledge, please."

A pleasantly cool female voice said, "You're on the distress line now. Go ahead."

"We're under heavy attack by Thrush. Call New York and tell them to hold those hostages, and get some reinforcements out here at once. Solo out."

"They're on their way," she said.

Only as he was replacing the transceiver did Napoleon stop to wonder if he'd really gotten through to the U.N.C.L.E. office, or whether Thrush had intercepted the call. He put the thought out of his mind. Even if it had been intercepted, U.N.C.L.E. would have received the transmission. And if they hadn't, the game was up. That was all there was to it.

Napoleon rejoined Illya and Waverly. "I called home," he said. "They'll be sending someone for us."

"All we have to do is wait for them," said Waverly. Napoleon couldn't tell whether there was a slight hint of sarcasm in his voice or not.

Illya was scanning the area with the telescope on his automatic. He stopped and spoke without taking it away from his eyes. "There are about half a dozen of them behind that tractor."

"Keep them pinned down," said Waverly, "but conserve your ammunition. Napoleon, keep looking in other directions. They may have intended to be seen to distract us from the real attack."

Illya snapped a shot which pinged off the foot of the tractor and howled away into the darkness. "Oh well," he said, keeping his eye to the scope, "at least it's nice to know who our enemies are again." He sent another shot after the first.

"Tally-ho," said Napoleon conversationally, and let off four quick shots to the other side. "Here come our bandits at a dead run."

The Thrushes scattered before his fire, diving for cover in various directions. One of them found time to lob a small grenade which burst with a puff just upwind of them. A cloud of smoke rolled over them.

"Squeeze your eyes tight shut," snapped Waverly. "I think I know what this is. They did this for several seconds until at last Waverly said, "Look out – here they come!"

They opened their eyes and saw the Thrushes bearing down on them from both sides. They hugged their cover and fired back. Napoleon felt a slug pluck at the shoulder of his coat, and his hat disappeared a moment later, but he was unhurt. His luck was back in operation.

Then there was a growing thunder in the sky, and a directionless wind whirled dust up all around them. Something chattered like a stick along a picket fence, and the attacking forces broke and scattered. Napoleon looked up.

There was the rescue force, in the traditional nick of time. The big helicopter with the skeleton-globe insignia roared above them, hovering unsteadily. Leaning out the door, a Thompson in his hands, was Jerry Davis himself, impeccable as ever, his hair only slightly disarranged by the airblast from the blades above him. He waved to them, and they waved back as the helicopter descended.

It touched the ground, and a door in the side opened to release a dozen or more field agents, who spread out across the blacktop, each with a small floodlight in one hand and a gun in the other, jacklighting Thrushes. Davis vaulted out of the door and, ducking his head under the blades with the ease of long practice, trotted over to them.

The motor roared, coughed, and died, and in the sudden silence they realized he was shouting. "I THOUGHT THE OLD..." He stopped, looked over his shoulder at the 'copter, and repeated in a normal tone, "I thought the old so-and-so would try a last minute doublecross. Didn't dare have the reinforcements any closer, though, or he might have got wind of them. He's got a nose like a fox, too."

Waverly harrumphed, and frowned. "I didn't expect him to break the alliance before the hostages were released. They were three key men in the Thrush American operation."

This time Davis looked worried. "But...we just received word from New York that they had been released, according to your order received an hour ago. Your office said you'd called from Kennedy International with the word you'd arrived safely and to let them all go. And they did.

"Then they thought to let me know the alliance was officially over, and to go back on a state of alert."

Waverly didn't say anything. There was nothing he could say, since he never swore.

He let a decent length of time pass for the number of epithets he had considered, and then said, "Baldwin must have had this entire operation set up to go into effect the moment he received word the hostages had been released. He very nearly succeeded."

He thought about it for a while, watching the lights moving here and there about the landing field, and hearing an occasional shot. "That's what I get for ignoring my own advice. I said when this whole business started that we had to work with them, but should watch them constantly. I was lulled off my guard by them." He shook his head sadly.