Текст книги "The Dagger Affair"

Автор книги: David McDaniel

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

There was their luggage too, and Waverly turned as he approached and looked at him coolly. "Our presence in San Francisco is supposed to be somewhat less than public knowledge. Did you consider the effect your appearance could have on our Mr. Keldur?"

"Now really, Mr. Waverly, I've seen that show, and they don't exactly call for volunteers. Bud Carey just grabs whoever comes within reach. Besides, Mr. Solo doesn't look like such a publicity hound to me."

Napoleon looked down at the girl. She was small and slender, with very long, very blonde hair under her starched white cap. Her features were delicate. Her eyes were large and brilliantly blue, and looked intently into his. He found himself speechless for a moment.

Illya stepped into the breach. "Robin, this is Napoleon Solo. Despite everything you may have heard, he's really quite decent. Napoleon, Robin has been sent, appropriately enough, as a welcoming committee from Thrush."

She said, "Welcome to San Francisco, Mr. Solo," in such a way that Napoleon found himself wanting to go out and come in a few more times – and then to stay for several months. "Our car is just outside," she added, turning to Illya, "and your luggage is already loaded."

Napoleon looked around and saw that all the bags had somehow disappeared while he was being welcomed. He nodded. "Smoothly done, Robin. I'm well on my way to becoming a full-time birdwatcher."

She laughed like a wind-chime in a light breeze, and started toward the door with Waverly, beckoning Illya and Napoleon with her eyes.

Outside the door stood a big, beautiful, brilliantly polished and quietly aristocratic Rolls-Royce, vintage about 1928. It was black with unostentatious gold trim, and a chauffeur in a gray uniform sat at attention behind the wheel. Large and clear on the doors, in place of a crest, was the black-and-white insignia of a thrush – the badge of the owners.

The footman appeared and opened the door for them. All four entered the back seat area, and the footman resumed his place beside the driver. The coach seemed to be the size of a small sitting room, with a horsehair sofa along one wall, and a plush-cushioned chair against the other. Robin sat in the middle of the sofa, and Illya took the folding jump-seat. It was difficult to tell when the car started, but soon it was out of the airport and on the freeway going north toward the city.

Robin was every bit the charming hostess, even offering drinks around from a built-in cocktail cabinet. Illya watched her intently, and only occasionally did his attention wander around the car. After a time he broke the silence. "This car – is it standard Thrush equipment?"

Robin's laugh tinkled briefly. "Oh, not at all! But we find it so much more in keeping with the tradition of our city that we take extra trouble and expense for it. Actually, we seldom use it except for formal occasions – such as meeting Very Important People at the airport. The head of the San Francisco branch thinks our public image is very important."

"Public image," said Waverly, in a bemused tone. "Somehow I have never given thought to Thrush having a public image."

"But it does," said Robin definitely. "And we try to keep it a good one. At least in this Satrap. After all, what is autonomy good for if you don't do something autonomous once in a while?"

"Reasonable," said Napoleon. "But before we get into a political discussion, could you tell us where we're going at seventy miles an hour in perfect silence?"

"Oh, you're going to meet the head of San Francisco operations – the leader of this Satrap. Of course he can't meet you at headquarters – we have to keep a few secrets, you know – but you will be guests in his home, practically in the heart of the city."

Illya nodded. "Hospitable, concerned with tradition – a veritable hotbed of the old-fashioned virtues."

"Oh, he is," said Robin. "He really is."

* * *

The house before which the Rolls stopped looked like it had been built out of the old-fashioned virtues solidified under pressure into bricks. It stood tall and respectable on a corner at the top of a hill overlooking the center of the city, and facing a small green-velvet park with little gnarled trees and shaded walks. The sunset glowed to their left as they faced the house, which rose three stories from the main floor some eight feet above street level, and descended one to a windowed ground floor. Rising above the roof, and the building next door, was a square tower set back half the length of the house. With its high-peaked roof, the tower added another floor and a half to the building's height. A perfect spot, Napoleon's practiced eye recognized, for long-range antennas to be concealed.

The ground floor could connect to any number of tunnels to anywhere – the small windows under the eaves on the third-floor could conceal machine guns...He shook himself and collected his thoughts. After all, he said to himself, we are among friends. We are among friends. Really. All right, he finally agreed, but just the same...

He looked over his shoulder, and imagined the green surface of Alamo Square peeled away, revealing a warren of Thrush operations under the hill. But that really was unlikely. And anyway, they were being invited inside.

He followed Waverly up the flight of stone steps to the front porch, and Robin rang. A moment later a buzzer sounded, and the door opened.

They were ushered into a cozy Victorian sitting room, gas-lit, lined with overstuffed and leather furniture, rubbed oak tables, and high, crowded bookshelves. A bay window at the far end looked out on the square.

A large, elderly Siamese cat wandered out to investigate them, and passed them reluctantly. As they entered, a man was doing something at a bookcase. He turned to greet them.

"At the risk of repeating something you have heard before, allow me to welcome you to San Francisco." He was tall and spare, and the gas-light from the lamp on the table left the top of his balding head in shadow and cast strange highlights on his beard. The flames seemed to glimmer in his eyes as he extended a hand to each of them in turn. "Mr. Waverly – Mr. Solo – Mr. Kuryakin. Truly pleased to meet you."

There was a soft rustle of skirts at the door, and he said, "Gentlemen, my wife. Irene, you should know our guests." He gave her name the British pronunciation, with both e's long.

"Of course I recognize them, but I could hardly claim to know them, under the circumstances." She shook hands all around, and said, "Can I get you anything to drink? Did you have dinner on the plane?"

Napoleon was reluctant to accept drinks from strangers – especially here. But Waverly, without hesitation, said, "Thank you. I'm afraid we didn't. I would like a scotch and soda." Napoleon fought his instinctive caution, and took the same. Illya requested a light liqueur, and they took seats.

"Mr. Alexander Waverly," their host began formally, with a note of almost sinister satisfaction in his voice. "I have been looking forward to meeting you for longer than you could imagine. Mr. Alexander Waverly...." He smiled, and Napoleon's eyes began to scan the paneling of the walls, certain now that they had been led into a trap.

"I know practically everything about you," their host continued, his voice low. "Parents, background, education..." The Siamese crouched by the chair a moment, and leaped into his lap. His hand moved over and began scratching the furry head.

"You were a clerk in Whitehall in 1914, and when the Great War broke out you enlisted in a regiment called the Artists' Rifles. You saw action near Brest for a while, and then in 1915 you went to serve under that imbicile Sarrail at the Macedonian Front. The next year your regiment was again transferred, this time to Allenby's command in Palestine. I don't need to remind you of this – I see you remember. You were wounded severely there the day before All Hallow's Eve, in 1916, and shipped home. By the time you recovered your health, the war was over, and you returned to Civil Service. You rose through the ranks of British Intelligence during the second act of the same Great War, and when the United Network Command was formed in 1946, you were the logical choice to head the American operation.

"My repeating your history may seem pointless to you, Mr. Waverly, but I am swiftly approaching my point. Do you remember an incident near Salonica, during the Macedonian campaign? A young lieutenant of another regiment was hit by an enemy shell which shattered his left leg. You came out of your trench under heavy fire, and dragged him to safety. Do you remember?"

Waverly looked strangely thoughtful, and spoke slowly. "Yes...yes, I do remember. The officer was taken back to a field hospital as soon as the barrage was raised. As I recall, we were hit with a surprise gas attack early the next day, and what with all the confusion we lost communication with the medical unit and I never did find out what happened to him – whether he lived, or if they saved his leg." He stopped, and thought. "The man's name was...Boston? Barton? I'm not even sure. Something like that."

Their host got up clumsily from his chair, and gripped a heavy cane. "The man's name was Baldwin. Ward Baldwin." He limped badly as he crossed to the horsehair sofa, and Waverly rose slowly to his feet. "And he has waited fifty years to thank you for saving his life."

He extended his hand to Waverly, who stood now, looking rather stunned. The two old warriors shook hands, and there was a long, long moment of silence.

Then Irene arrived with their drinks. "Supper will be a few more minutes," she announced. "Robin, can you give me a hand in the kitchen?"

The blonde nurse nodded and followed her out. Napoleon gave Baldwin a puzzled look. "Ah, excuse me. Mr. Baldwin, but...somehow this domesticity seems very much out of keeping for an important figure in Thrush."

Baldwin's eyes glittered under the yellow gaslight as he smiled with pleasure. "Why, Mr. Solo? Did you expect an underground fortress or some futuristic architectural monstrosity crouching on a hilltop? Such melodramatic locations, I am aware, are favored by some of our branches, but life underground makes my joints stiff, and a strange building on a hilltop is far too obvious a target for my peace of mind. Were you looking for some sign of criminal conspiracy in the household or in our behavior? Any physical evidence would not be noticeable to even the most acute observer, I assure you, and if our behavior were affected by conscience or fear we would long ago have left this organization. Were you to break faith with our agreement and attempt to arrest Robin, my wife or myself at this very moment, you would not be able to find a scrap of material evidence that would indicate we are anything except what we seem – an aging cripple, his wife, and his private nurse, living on assorted pensions and dividends from old investments."

His eyes held Napoleon's a fraction of a second longer, and then turned to Waverly as the latter asked, "I suppose that, like myself, you have been working in Thrush since its inception?"

"I am flattered, Mr. Waverly, but no. The Hierarchy has been around longer than either of us. I came into contact with it while recovering from the Great War...."

"The Hierarchy?" said Napoleon and Illya together, sharing the vague feeling they had been expected to give the straight line.

"Originally The Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity," said Baldwin. "Since reduced to its initials by a generation trained to speak and think in shorthand."

Napoleon's eyebrows went up in spite of himself. "The Technological Hierarchy for what?"

* * *

Baldwin patiently repeated the name, and then continued. "Shall I give you the basic orientation lecture, somewhat edited from the one-hour version? You seem to know little beyond the current state of the Hierarchy, for all your intelligence sources."

He looked them over like a schoolmaster who has found his pupils have not been following his lectures.

"In its present state the Hierarchy dates back to the year 1895, when the First Council met in London. The First Council was made up of the survivors of an unnamed organization which had been built entirely from nothing by one of the most brilliant men the world has ever known. The Professor was a genius in two slightly related fields – mathematics and crime. In 1879 he began to construct a web of power which covered all of Europe and was extending its tentacles into America by the time he was killed in 1891.

"He had made no provisions for his own sudden death. Under the constant harassment of the law and its representatives, and with its guiding mind and heart gone, his network fell apart.

"But in 1895, several men who had held high positions under the Professor met in council at the Northumberland Hotel. Out of that council was born the Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity.

"Their policy decisions then and later created something far beyond the ambitions of the Professor. His desire had been to build a purely criminal organization, to cut for himself a piece of every large illegal operation in Europe and America, and in return to improve the efficiency and scale of these operations. He was in effect a director of some and consultant for the rest of crime.

"The First Council were aware of a few things the Professor had not seen. Crime, per se, does not pay as well as it used to. And money is no longer as hard to get. The true wealth, they knew, lies in personal power. They set for themselves the goal of unification of the entire world under their control, and the rebuilding of the world into the image they foresaw, with all inefficient, non-productive or anti-productive members of society eliminated, and the efficient, productive members producing at their direction.

"Electric power was relatively new at the time, radio was barely experimental, and atomic power undreamed of. But they also foresaw that their key to power would lie in science. They became the first corporation to maintain a staff under contract for pure research, and as a result at this time we are still responsible for technical breakthroughs as much as two years or more ahead of other industries."

Baldwin stopped and looked out as his wife came to the door. She said, "When your voice gets tired, supper's on the table."

Baldwin braced his arms against the chair and levered himself into a standing position. "And thus the name. The Technological Hierarchy – for the Removal of Undesirables – and the Subjugation of Humanity."

He led the way down a picture-hung wall to a small informal dining room, where a table was laid and chairs waited. Conversation ceased then, except for such necessities as compliments to Irene and requests for salt, butter, and condiments. Napoleon began to feel more at ease with these people – until he suddenly realized it. Then he tensed up again. He shot a glance at Illya, who had ended up sitting next to Robin, and tried to read his friend's feelings. As usual, this was difficult, and Napoleon couldn't tell whether Illya was feeling uncomfortable or not.

Waverly gave the impression of complete relaxation. He and Baldwin were discussing tobacco blends and preferences in pipes, just like two old friends meeting weekly for a chess game. Solo began to feel foolish, and had to keep reminding himself that these people were all important members of Thrush – Thrush, whose workers had tried to kill him and Illya uncountable numbers of time. Thrush, whose admitted goal was the conquest of the entire world by any means that availed itself. But they seemed so nice....

Funny thing, he thought. You don't look like a Thrush.... He looked over at Robin, and she threw him a smile that could have set off the cartridges in his automatic. He smiled back. They want to kill me and my friends – they want to conquer the world – well, nobody's perfect.

He shrugged and went back to eating.

Between dinner and dessert, Baldwin began talking about his own history with Thrush – or the Hierarchy, as he invariably referred to it.

"I came to this country as soon as I could after the War ended. I was embittered against the world, and came into contact with an old superior officer of mine in New York. He recommended me for trial membership, and I donned the gray uniform first in 1921.

"Mr. Waverly, do you remember a gas called Thornite? It was a poison gas of a particularly vicious type, for the time. There was a sort of free-lance spy by the name of Kosloff who had gotten a copy of the formula and a sample of the liquid form of the gas. The Hierarchy decided to join in the rush of bidding for the information, and because of my training in chemical warfare I was assigned as an aide for the team of representatives we sent to Kosloff.

"The man was a clever spy, but a clumsy technician. The arranged demonstration was highly successful, except that the gas escaped control and Kosloff as well as most of the witnesses were killed by it. My experiences in Salonica stood me in good stead – I improvised a mask which held together long enough to enable me to secure the last few drops of the gas and escape from the island. When I brought back this story, and the sample, I was rewarded with immediate advancement. The sample was analyzed, and the gas was added to our arsenal. It has some properties which kept it in demand until fairly recently.

"The Hierarchy has never been so large there has been a lack of opportunity for advancement. As failure brings punishment, so does success bring reward. An efficient system, and one which continues to meet with pragmatic validation."

He looked around, and then said, "Gentlemen, my apologies. If I were allowed to continue, I would talk about myself and the Hierarchy all night. We do have business to discuss – business of a serious nature. I suggest we adjourn back to the sitting room for a trade of information. Irene, I think the dishes can be left for the time being. I want you to join the discussion."

When they returned to the front room, the sky outside was dark. A few stars could be seen, and the lights of the city were visible past the bulk of the park across the street. The gaslight seemed not only sufficient illumination, but quite appropriate for the setting. Baldwin filled his pipe, and handed the humidor to Waverly, who stoked his ancient briar and settled back contented.

It was Illya who spoke first. "Mr. Baldwin, I think our first serious topic of discussion should be Kim Keldur – his history, his psychology, and his probable behavior. As his former...employer, your records should contain a wealth of data on him."

"Quite correct. Robin here takes care of such things for me in addition to her medical duties. She is a true wonder as far as paperwork is concerned." He nodded to Robin, who began to quote as though from memory.

"Kim Keldur joined Thrush in the fall of 1962, worked his way up in his Satrap rapidly and attracted the attention of Thrush Central. He underwent the full battery of tests, and passed all except the psychological. In effect, they indicated he had strong aptitudes for theoretical mathematics and for destroying the world. His lack of desire for material goods or power, and his positive distaste for mankind and all its works, were the deciding factors in his stabilization at a high local level. While an excellent field and research worker, Thrush Central found him unfit to advance to a policy-making level as his personal goals were too far divorced from those of our organization.

"In January of 1965, Keldur and two fellow agents were flying from Hawaii to San Francisco when their plane disappeared. When no traces were found, they were presumed dead and their files closed. Then, some six months ago, a series of petty crimes were reported in various locations up and down the West Coast, utilizing techniques and equipment which our Intelligence unit recognized as those with which our agents were supplied. A complete security check was made at once, and no leaks were found.

"Among the gear on the lost airplane were three complete field agent's kits. There was also a good assortment of other specialized items which had been employed on the Hawaiian trip – many of which had been there by Keldur's specific request.

"When his name was given by the captured member of DAGGER, the likelihood that he was connected with these crimes passed minimum probability, and his sister was placed under surveillance. She had been unaware of his connection with Thrush, and was therefore not alert for us. We quickly found out Keldur was alive and active. We also found he had gathered a small organization of cohorts and supporters, and was in the process of developing some horrible weapon about which nothing could be discovered. Our field agents reported rumors which were generally disregarded as impossible regarding a field which could prevent ordinary weapons from functioning, or snuff fires, but no eyewitnesses could ever be found."

Baldwin spoke. "The interrogation of the DAGGER member was a signal failure. There is no record of anyone in our experience ever having been so thoroughly indoctrinated against revealing information. If we can take another DAGGER with any information worth digging for, we will probably take as much time and care as we would in disarming a live bomb."

"I would suggest –" Illya began, but was interrupted by a shattering of glass as the front window burst inward, showering Baldwin's chair with shards and splinters. A bottle, clad in flame, hit the rug near the center of the room and exploded in droplets of fire.

"Hold your breath!" Baldwin said sharply, and did something with the arm of his chair. In the same moment that the bottle burst, spreading its flaming contents across the room, gray clouds of white smoke thundered from a number of small holes in the wall and billowed across the floor.

A few seconds later the room was freezing cold, and dark. The only light came dimly through the broken window, filtered by the peasoup fog which seemed to fill the room.

Irene was on her feet. "I'll get the air-conditioner running and clean this stuff out," she said, and was gone.

Napoleon ventured a cautious inhalation, and choked. The clouds were water vapor condensing in the bitter cold, and carbon dioxide, from some dozen or so concealed fire extinguishers inside the walls.

"The molotov cocktail," said Baldwin, in the tone of a lecturer concluding a demonstration, "is unsophisticated and old-fashioned, quite out of place in a modern, technical society. But it is quite practical, inexpensive, and extremely effective when properly used.

"My apologies, gentlemen, for the foul odors. Irene had this installed some time ago, because my pipe occasionally gets out of hand and I cannot move fast enough to escape a fire. One of the penalties of living in a wood-paneled house of the late Victorian era." There was a distant rising hum, and the air began to feel colder. But the fog began to move out the shattered front window.

Baldwin re-lit the gas lamp and surveyed the burned patches and extinguisher stains. "Efficient, gentlemen, and we probably owe our lives to it. But it does seem to have ruined the rug...."

Chapter 11: "We May All Be Outnumbered!"

The shards of the bottle had been picked up and saved with the greatest of care by Illya, and the next day he accompanied Waverly to the San Francisco office of U.N.C.L.E. While Waverly was in conference with Jerry Davis, the local chief of staff, he took the black and broken pieces of glass down to the lab and found a technician to help him in his work.

Two hours later they had checked the fragments for fingerprints, ashes of fiber or hair, and subjected the charring to a mass-spectrum analyzer. The bottle itself was easily seen, from the remains of a label, to have originally contained Oak Barrel Muscatel, and this was verified by the analysis of the remaining material coating the glass.

But of fingerprints, fibers, or any other type of more specific identification of the last user, none could be found.

When Illya returned to the office level, Davis' secretary signaled him. "Mr. Solo and Mr. Waverly are here. Go right on in, please."

Inside, he found a layout similar to that in Los Angeles. Three heads turned as he entered the room, and he found himself being introduced.

"Welcome to San Francisco," said Jerry Davis, as he rose to shake hands. "I was just going over the situation with your fellow New Yorkers here, and touching on the subject of our relations with the local law enforcement people."

"Or you were about to," said Waverly.

"The point I was about to make," said Davis, resuming his seat, "is that things are somewhat different in San Francisco. Perhaps you can get away with a lot as far as New York's Finest are concerned, but the police here take a dim view of running gun battles up and down Market Street, bombs going off in public places, and bodies left on the City Hall steps at dawn." He shook his head disapprovingly. "Do you ever work in cooperation with the New York police on problems?"

Waverly frowned. "Our interests seldom overlap."

"We work with ours quite often. Perhaps the New York police are more tolerant in view of your admittedly unusual position, but the San Francisco police do not find us at all amusing."

He leaned forward. "Now, I'm not trying to tell you how your operation should be handled. But I feel you should know the situation. The police can be very helpful if you work with them, and they can also make things very awkward if you..." He shrugged. "You know."

"Do we?" Napoleon asked innocently. "You seem to be cautioning us against breaking any local ordinances. We're really not such desperate criminals as that, you know. In fact, we'll try to keep our gun battles on back streets, and we'll only shoot people who really deserve it. And more than that – we'll make every effort to inform the police of our intentions in advance."

"The problem is that our opponents may not abide by such civilized rules," Illya added. "In this battle – in all defensive battles – you must fight when and where your enemy wants to fight. It's a bad way to run a war, but it is required by convention. The sheriff must always let the bad man draw first."

Waverly leaned forward. "That's enough. Mr. Davis, let us drop the subject. Reports of our behavior in New York are somewhat exaggerated."

"Have you had any luck with the material Los Angeles sent up on DAGGER?" Napoleon asked, eager to change the subject.

"Garnet Keldur's list of contributors? We've checked out the local ones – with the help of the police – and as far as we can tell they all think they're supporting a charitable organization. About two-thirds of them think he's a harmless crackpot, just want some interesting donations to take off their income tax. The other third think he may actually have a line on some way of stopping atomic war – and most of them are harmless crackpots, but crackpots with money."

"He doesn't have a large following, then?"

"No idea. He could have a small army. We just haven't found any of them yet. All the funds contributed go through a lot of devious channels to get to wherever they are going." He tossed a few stapled sheets of paper on the table. "A few bits of identifiable money have turned up – here's the data."

Illya picked up the pages and leaned over to Napoleon so that they could both see them. Davis continued. "These are some stores where donation checks were cashed. Electronics supply stores – big ones. Never the same one twice."

Waverly asked, "And have you checked out the stores, their clientele, and the cashers of these checks? Have you sent men to talk with the donors?"

"Since the list here was only completed last night, we have scarcely had time. I was thinking your men might do some of the legwork .. ." He broke off as though he had been about to end the sentence with "...for a change," and then had thought better of it at the last instant.

All right, thought Napoleon. The glamour boys from the Head Office are being given a hard time. So we'll play along. He looked at Illya and raised his eyebrows. Illya gave a little shrug in answer and nodded. They both looked at Waverly.

Their superior also nodded, though without a great deal of enthusiasm; he turned to Davis and said, "Of course. Do them good."

* * *

"Yeah, I remember that. Ordinarily we don't cash checks, y'know, especially that big. But it was written locally, and we called the bank to see if it was okay. And the guy was real nice. Sharp, too. Knew just what he wanted, and got it. And he needed most all of that check for the stuff, too."

"Do you remember what it was he bought?" Illya asked.

The man pursed his lips, and stared at the ceiling while he blew out a long sigh, thinking hard. "Gosh, no. Not after all this time. There was a lot of heavy-duty stuff, I remember – I asked him if he was building his own power station or a 50-kilowatt transmitter. And what was it he said? Something about...Oh, yeah. He said, 'I have a big hi-fi rig.' Got a kick out of that."

"Anything besides simple components? Anything that wouldn't go into a hi-fi rig?"

"No...not that I can...Wait a minute. He wanted half a dozen GX 40 B9 tubes, and we didn't have any. That's a kind of unusual tube – it's a multi-stage internal resonator with a real high inductive reactance field. Not much call for it from our customers. I told him he might try Charmolian Electronics over in Oakland – they have a good stock of special-order items."

"And did he?"

"Gee, I wouldn't know. You would have to check with them. He probably did, though – he was pretty bugged 'cause we didn't have those tubes, and he sure wanted 'em. Here, I'll give you their address. Charmolian'd remember – something funny like that."

* * *

Meanwhile, Napoleon Solo was more pleasurably engaged. A mansion sat amid the trees in the mountains above Oakland, looking over the city to the shining sheet of water that was the Bay, and the rising mound of San Francisco far away through the haze. And out on the sun deck a girl lay basking, with plastic eye-cups protecting her vision from the beautiful view.