Текст книги "The Dagger Affair"

Автор книги: David McDaniel

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Napoleon crouched beside her, talking intently. It had taken a good bit of intent talking already to get this far. She didn't want visitors, and she didn't care who they were. She had never heard of U.N.C.L.E., and didn't want to. She didn't know who can Keldur was, and she never gave to charities. But at least she was now lying still again and listening. Napoleon gave silent thanks for that correspondence course in salesmanship, and kept talking.

* * *

"GX 40 B9?" The man behind the counter frowned. "I don't know anything about that. Let me get Mr. Charmolian for you. He takes care of all our special items – knows the whole stock by heart." He disappeared, and a fraction of a minute later was replaced by a man about four feet tall and four feet wide. He bounced like a rubber ball.

"What do you know about those GX 40 B9s?" he squeaked. "Are you from the police?"

"Not exactly. What would interest the police about these tubes?"

"What do you mean, 'not exactly'? Look, mister, I reported the theft to the police the day after I found out about it – and I only spent that day making sure they weren't lost. You from the insurance company?"

"No," said Illya, fishing out his identification. "I represent the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement."

"Yeah? I've heard of you. Like Interpol?"

"Somewhat. Now what about these tubes? How many were stolen, and when?"

"Four. All we had in the warehouse stock. I found they were gone about six days ago."

"How?"

"Well, we always keep a couple handy – we get a lot of business from people who need off-beat stuff right away – and a guy came in and bought both of them. Last Tuesday, it was. And the warehouse manager couldn't find the replacement stock. So the next day, I had to get over to the warehouse myself to check a big order, and I took a look for the GX 40 B9s. And they weren't there."

"You checked..."

"Mister, I check that place all over! Now, I know those tubes were there, because I brought 'em in myself, see, and if I didn't trust Pat completely I'd probably say it was him stole 'em. Pat Frieden's my warehouse manager, and he's been with me twenty-three years. But I don't know how any burglars could have gotten in there – we've got the whole place wired with the best alarms we can get. And besides, burglars would have taken more than just four tubes. I mean, they're valuable tubes, but where could they sell 'em? Nobody could have any use for 'em."

"What about the man who bought the two you had here?"

"But he got his two. What would he need any more for?"

"Did he only ask for two?"

"Yeah. I handled the sale myself – the boys leave the special items to me. I keep the whole stock inventory right here," he said proudly, tapping his forehead. "The guy said, 'You got any GX 40 B9 tubes?' and I said, 'We sure do, mister. Got a couple right back here.' And he said, 'Fine. That's just how many I need' and took 'em."

Illya nodded.

* * *

Napoleon was still talking to the girl. She lay facing the declining sun within her glass-walled deck. Her butler occasionally came out with an iced pitcher of something to keep her glass filled. Napoleon had not been invited to join her, but at least she was speaking to him now.

"Really, Mr. Solo, the world is quite a large place. I should think it would be impossible to build something that would do...this...to all of it at once."

"A hundred years ago, it would have been impossible to build something that would carry a voice to every point on the globe. But the big radio stations can do it. And this man is onto something at least a hundred years ahead of present-day science, and on a different track. Believe me, I have had this machine very effectively demonstrated."

Her head turned slightly, and a slim golden hand came up to lift the plastic eye-protectors. Her cool gray eyes looked straight at him for the first time. She smiled. "Mmmm. You are much handsomer than I would have guessed from your voice," she said. "You may sit closer to me, and continue telling me...whatever you were telling me. Do you mind if I interrupt with a question once in a while?"

"Not at all," said Napoleon politely. "It'll show you're still listening."

She laughed as though she practiced it in private, and tapped her fingernail against her glass. "Godfrey, another glass."

She stretched like a cat, her arms over her head, fingers curling, body twisting a little. When the glass was placed before Napoleon a moment later, she said, "It's beginning to get cool, Godfrey. What you turn on the infra-reds as you go in?"

Godfrey gave a little bow of acknowledgment, and did something on the doorframe as he went back inside.

"Now," said the girl, "tell me all about this nasty machine."

* * *

"In here is where the GX 40 B9s were stored, Mr. Kuryakin. See the locks? Best ones we could buy. I guess Mr. Charmolian told you about the way we're set up."

Illya knelt by the doorframe and examined the area around the lock closely. There were no visible marks of any kind.

After a few moments, his guide said hesitantly, "Uh, Mr. Kuryakin, it's getting to be my quitting time. If you'll be much longer, I can tell the night watchman you're here and to let you out when you're through."

Distracted, Illya glanced up. "Yes, thank you, Mr. Friedan. I may be some time yet. I would like to examine the area where the tubes were stolen, and check over the detectors of your alarm system."

"I guess that'll be okay. I'll tell him when I go out. Just stop by the office on your way out and tell him you're leaving so he can secure after you."

Illya nodded and went back to his work.

An hour or so later, it had become fairly clear that if the tubes had been removed by someone from outside, it could have been done only by an expert with the best Thrush equipment, and probably a small Energy Damper to stifle the alarms. And they had been inconsiderate enough to leave no footprints, monogrammed handkerchiefs, matchbooks, or other standard clues behind them. The only sign of their passage was the absence of four uncommon electronic tubes.

He suddenly realized it was dark, and looked at his watch. The only light came from shielded bulbs spaced twenty feet apart in the dim distance of the ceiling. He was sitting on a packing case under one of the pickups for the alarm system, which he had just finished examining. It was chilly, and very quiet.

And softly, far back in the distance, there was the scrape of a footstep.

Illya didn't move, but every sense was suddenly extended to its fullest awareness. Without lifting his head, he shot his eyes around the part of the warehouse he could see. The shadows of the crates sat like puddles of ink around leaking bottles. There was no movement in his range of vision, so slowly and casually he leaned back against the case behind him. After a moment he yawned elaborately, and got to his feet. As he stretched, his hand slipped to his transceiver and palmed it.

Shifting his weight and looking around the edges of the ceiling as if for a leak, he crossed his arms and brought the hand holding the transceiver to his mouth. He thumbed the transmitter button, and the little device vibrated softly. He knew Napoleon was somewhere in the area, and would feel slighted if he weren't invited to the brawl, especially since it looked as though it might be a good one.

With the microphone touching his lips, he murmured his identification and a request for Agent Solo.

* * *

"But Napoleon, it still doesn't sound possible. It sounds like some insane gimmick from a horror movie."

"Believe me, Gloria, it is real. I know. And anything you could tell us about Keldur could possibly help."

She sighed and turned to refill her glass. They were inside the living room now, as the evening had grown chill, and she had put some more clothes on. "On the other hand, you are a government agent. And you could really want to suppress the device."

"U.N.C.L.E. is not a government agency of any kind. We are supported by most of the major governments of the world, but we are not responsible to any single government. Believe me, if we can stop Keldur from using his machine to destroy the human race, our own technicians will make every possible effort to use it to save the human race."

She sat down and shook her head slowly. "I'm sorry," she said. "I just don't dare risk it. I can tell you nothing."

A quiet whistling note filtered out through Napoleon's jacket, and he pulled out his transceiver.

"Solo...Of course. Where?...How many of them are there?… Okay. I'll be there in ten minutes. Play hard-to-get."

Gloria looked at him questioningly as he rose.

"I'm sorry too," he said. "There's an emergency. My partner is in trouble, and he thought I might like to join him."

"Trouble?"

"Yes. He's under attack by about a dozen gentlemen who appear to be working in the interests of DAGGER – and Kim Keldur."

She sat there staring at the closed door for a full minute after the car motor roared and the wheels spat gravel and Napoleon Solo took off into the night.

* * *

Illya crouched behind a packing case carefully selected for difficulty of access to and ease of escape from. His assailants were no longer trying to keep quiet, and had even gone so far as to snap off a shot or two at him before he had sought cover.

He was in contact with Napoleon, and had kept him informed of the conditions as they became apparent. When he arrived, he would be fully aware of the entire situation and be able to function within it. Theoretically.

The DAGGERs had done nothing for a minute or two, and Illya was beginning to wonder whether they had given up and gone home. Napoleon should be outside about this time, and he might meet them leaving. Illya opened his transceiver again.

"Napoleon – be careful when you come in. They're so quiet I can't be sure what they..."

Phud! Something burst a few feet from Illya and a white cloud of vapor spread out around it. "Never mind. I just found out. They're using gas. Get in here quick." The sentence used up the last of Illya's breath, but before he inhaled again, he was able to fish a small plastic case out of his pocket. His chest was beginning to ache as he opened it and pulled out two little rubber devices that looked a little like ear-plugs.

It is much harder to hold breath out than to hold it in – he just had time to fit the plugs into his nostrils before taking a deep breath. He took it slowly, because the filters passed air slowly. It would be impossible to take any violent exercise with them in, but it would have been just as difficult after a few deep inhalations without them.

It seemed a shame to disappoint them, Illya thought, so he fell over anyway, pulling a crate down with him. He made quite a satisfying clatter, and added to it with a few well-chosen gasps and groans before becoming still.

And in the next few seconds, while the attention of every attacker out there in the near-darkness was focused on Illya, Napoleon Solo came silently through the back door. Looking quickly around, he spotted a steel ladder in deep shadow, leading up to a gridded catwalk around the whole room some thirty feet above the floor, from which he would be able to command the entire area of the warehouse. As he slipped up the ladder, the scene below him took on a new dimension.

Silent figures were moving among the packing cases, converging cautiously on a spot where a broken crate lay beside a still form. Napoleon could see only part of the focus of interest – a leg and part of an arm were visible. That was enough.

Illya, you've done it again, Napoleon thought, and, bracing his automatic on the railing, drew a bead on the back of one of the moving figures.

The faint rustle of cloth sliding against skin warned him a fraction of a second before the blow fell. He jerked to the side, and a heavy wrench smashed against the railing inches from his hand. A sound like a leaden gong rolled through the room, and the moving figures disappeared as Napoleon spun around, the gun ready to fire.

A foot burst out of the darkness and caught his wrist, sending the pistol spinning away into space. With his left hand he grabbed for the foot, caught it and pulled.

His attacker fell heavily, and Napoleon leaped upon him, landing painfully on the metal catwalk as the other rolled quickly aside and leaped to his feet. Napoleon swung a leg, and swept the other's feet from under him. Then they were in a clench, rolling against the concrete wall and then toward the edge.

A pair of hands fumbled for Napoleon's windpipe. He grabbed for a wrist, and wrenched it hard. The other hand caught his tie and slammed his head against the railing. Lights flickered momentarily before his eyes and he brought his knee up hard, feeling something soft give before it. There was a whoosh of breath.

His attacker didn't slow down more than a moment. A head caught Napoleon under the chin, and he tasted blood. He caught a flailing elbow in both hands, and bent it the wrong way. There was a muffled sound like a nut being cracked, and the other man gasped in agony and fell away. He made weak, pain-filled sounds as Napoleon quickly searched him. A security badge pinned to his shirt identified him as "Pat Frieden, wrhse mgr," and, by implication, fink for DAGGER. He was unarmed.

As he stood up, Napoleon became aware of the noises on the floor below. Something slapped against the wall a few feet from his head, and something like a hot spark stung his cheek for a moment. At the same instant, he heard the thunder of a heavy automatic pistol echo through the room. He hit the catwalk again, and made his way on his belly to the spot where the ladder ran down to the floor.

He peered over the edge, and saw a flash of fire from Illya's location. Apparently his fellow-agent had most of the baddies pinned down, but one of them somewhere was dedicated to keeping Napoleon out of the battle until Illya's ammunition ran out.

A desperate situation, Napoleon decided, calling for desperate measures. He got out his transceiver, and set it to a local frequency.

"Hello, Illya! If you can hear me, fire two shots at your friends down there."

A pause, and then Blap! Blap! came two silenced shots.

"Okay. I'm up on the catwalk. I'll work my way around till I'm directly over you, and then I'll lay a couple of tear-gas eggs. If you can spare a minute, get your filters on. When the eggs hatch, be ready to take off to your left – to your left – over two crates there and straight for the door. Hit anything that comes out that isn't me. If you got all this, fire two shots in the direction you're going to jump."

Blap! Blap! Two spurts of flame went off toward Napoleon's right, Illya's left.

Cautiously, Napoleon began working his way along the catwalk. It was a gridwork, rather than a solid plate, and his figure would be clearly visible from beneath. He could see only one crouching figure under the catwalk between him and his goal.

Staring into the darkness, Napoleon finally spotted a gleam of metal. There was the wrench Frieden had come after him with. He would be no help to anyone for quite a while, but his wrench could come in handy – Napoleon tucked it in his belt and started quietly along the catwalk.

He moved without a sound, but there was a light glow above the walk directly over the spot where one of the enemy crouched, casting a cross-hatched shadow down the whole height of the wall. The passage of that spot would be the hardest part.

Napoleon moved cautiously to the very edge of the cone of light, and then slipped the wrench from his belt. Looking carefully across the floor, he saw no one looking in his direction. He rose to his knees and leaned far out, holding onto the railing with one hand, and flipped the wrench.

It caught the unsuspecting lurker squarely in the back of the head. He slumped forward and lost all interest in the proceedings. The thump and clatter of the wrench were loud in the stillness, and then there was another shot from Illya and a couple of answering shots from concealed attackers. Before the echoes of the thunder died away, Napoleon was off and sprinting across the light. He passed, as nearly as he could tell, unnoticed.

The two tear-gas bombs he had ready really were about as big as eggs. They contained no explosive other than their own internal pressures, released by impact, to spread their contents over a large area.

In a moment of afterthought, Napoleon got out his nose-filters and slipped them in. He hoped Illya had had time to get his own on. He should have – the firing was sporadic now.

The eggs arced down, and a few seconds later the floor of the warehouse was a blanket of smoke. Illya burst out of the fog and headed for the door, followed blindly by a number of choking, weeping men.

Napoleon sprinted along the catwalk back to the ladder, and dropped down it, hardly touching the rungs. As his feet hit the floor he was jumping for the door by which he had come in.

Illya dashed around the corner and leaped into the car as the engine roared into life, and the little car took off with a squeal just as three figures appeared at the edge of the building and began letting off shots after them.

"They appear sorry to see us leave," said Illya.

"I can tell," said Napoleon, "they're are all broken up about it. Incidentally, remind me to go back there after the air clears and pick up my pistol. I hope it can be repaired after that fall. "

"I didn't want to bring this up, Napoleon, but there appear to be three or four cars following us. It would seem a fairly large force of DAGGERs has come out to welcome us."

"You must really have stepped on some toes. What all did you find out?"

"Nothing, really," said Illya casually as the car suddenly whipped into a 90-degree turn and shot off down a side-street. "I sort of looked around and got a few ideas. It looks as if one of them may have been correct." He popped open the glove compartment and produced another automatic as Napoleon tapped the brakes and twisted the wheel, and with hardly a bit of momentum lost they spun and headed up an alley.

It turned in the middle, and he had to brake sharply to make the corner. Half a block ahead, a car was parked crosswise, blocking the alley.

Illya spoke again. "I hate to be the first one to suggest this, but I think we're outnumbered. Would you rather die heroically or call for help?"

Napoleon had his transceiver out.

"Agents Solo and Kuryakin, requesting assistance."

A voice answered almost at once, requesting situation evaluation and location. Napoleon gave them.

"Thank you," said the voice. "We will have a flying squad there in five minutes."

"A flying squad?" said Napoleon blankly.

Then something shattered the windshield, and shards of glass burst into the front seat between him. They flung open their respective doors and dived out.

There was one single streetlamp high overhead, right where the alley turned. It cast the shadow of their car ahead of them, and picked out several moving figures, ducking behind garbage cans, rubbish bins and the one telephone pole. There appeared to be about a dozen of them.

A moment later Illya appeared beside Napoleon. "I just checked around the corner," he said. "There's another team moving up the other end of the alley."

Napoleon shrugged. "You drew yourself an assignment," he said. "You stop yours, and I'll stop mine."

"And if you don't?"

"We'll think of something." He half-rose from his concealed position and snapped off a shot at something moving. When he ducked down again, Illya was gone.

Two quick shots from behind him meant his partner was on-post, and his rear would be as well-protected as any one man could accomplish. He turned his full attention down the alley.

Something lobbed through the air, and Napoleon buried his head in his arms and clutched at the ground. There was a dull explosion, and the car was suddenly wrapped in flames. Under the rising cloud of smoke, Napoleon saw a number of pairs of legs running toward him, zig-zagging as they came.

He began shooting at them, slowly and carefully. Two men went down, and his garbage can was hit three times by others. Then a gas-masked figure loomed out of the smoke and Napoleon fired point-blank at him, feeling a mild surprise when nothing happened as his gun jammed. Without wasting a moment trying to fire, he leaped sideways as the masked man's gun roared flame. He snatched up the garbage can and slung it at waist level.

It caught the other man across the stomach and the gun hand and bowled him over. Napoleon was in the air by the time he hit the ground, and landed with both knees on the other's rib-cage. He caught the swinging gun neatly across his shoulder and felt pain lance down his arm. He swung his own gun backhanded across the other man's face, tearing off the gas-mask and laying him out unconscious.

The car was burning merrily now, and Napoleon felt glad for the sealing gas-tank that was standard equipment on all U.N.C.L.E. cars. An explosion in this confined space could be quite uncomfortable.

On the other hand, the burning car now effectively blocked the alley from the end he was guarding. He picked up the .38 Special he had been attacked with, tucked his own malfunctioning weapon back in its holster, and looked cautiously around the corner.

Illya was standing behind a telephone pole a few yards down the alley. Napoleon called to him.

"Can you use any help? I got my half."

Illya glanced over his shoulder. "Thank you, no. I'm well matched. They are very bad shots."

All the same, Napoleon experimentally drew a careful bead and ricocheted a slug off the brick wall approximately into the midst of the hiding figures. There was no reaction, so he shrugged and pulled back. Never was that good at cushion shots, he thought.

A sudden roaring sound like a low-flying jet went off behind him then, and he spun, dropping into a crouch with his gun at ready. Then he saw a white cloud of vapor swelling up through the flames of the burning car. A moment later the flames shrank and began to vanish. Through the clouds Napoleon could see several figures in black suits and gas masks. Heaving a tired sigh, he raised the gun.

"Don't shoot," came a muffled voice. "We're your rescue party."

Then he could see on every breast pocket a white patch with the black emblem of Thrush. He sat down on the pavement and leaned back against the brick wall as a fusillade of shots sounded from around the corner. Of course – the other half of the rescue party.

This just wasn't right! Not only had he and Illya blundered into a trap, they had been forced to call for help to get out of it. And to top off the complete humiliation, they had been rescued by Thrush. They must have been monitoring the frequency complex of U.N.C.L.E.'s transceivers, and had answered his call. That was why the voice had promised "a flying squad."

The shots from around the corner stopped, and the sounds of voices came, followed a few seconds later by Illya, surrounded by a troop of heavily-armed Thrushes. His head was down and his shoulders didn't quite have the usual set. Napoleon got slowly to his feet as the rest of the rescue party vaulted over the smoking remains of the car.

The leader stuck out his hand, while peeling back his mask with the other. "Mr. Solo? I'm John Whiting, your friendly neighborhood Thrush rescue party leader. Any casualties on our side?"

Napoleon shook his head slowly. Not only rescued, but automatically included on "our side." He wondered momentarily whether he had really wanted that badly to be rescued.... "No...not as far as I know. Illya?"

"No, I'm unhurt."

"Good. Who is this customer?" asked John, prodding the prone figure with his toe.

"No idea, at the moment," said Napoleon. "This is your party – do you want to take him home and see if he'll eat?"

"That's what Old Baldy asked for," said John with a grin. He whistled, and two more Thrushes hurried up. "Hustle this meat into the car," he said. "There's been too much noise. The police may come by any day now, and we don't want Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin embarrassed any more than they are already."

Chapter 12: "Let's Take Him Sightseeing."

"Of course you understand my position, Mr. Baldwin. Under the circumstances I cannot tell you anything at all about my associates."

"I understand perfectly, Mr. Horne. You are not the first representative of DAGGER we have interrogated, and we are aware of the rather remarkable precautions your leader has taken to ensure against your informing on him. But you should also appreciate our position. While it is true that we would gain nothing by your death – save a fleeting satisfaction at a job well done – it is also true that we need information, and we need it quickly.

"As far as we could tell, the more subtle forms of investigation, such as sensory deprivation, slow starvation, or the traditional water torture, would probably induce you to impart your information to us willingly – but we lack the time for such methods." Baldwin frowned, leaned back in his red leather chair, and began to disappear in a cloud of blue pipe smoke. After a while he spoke again. "If anyone has any ideas, bring them up."

Napoleon and Illya, a couple of pieces of sticking plaster in evidence, were sitting in on the problematical interrogation of the leader of the band which had attacked them. Robin was nowhere in evidence, which darkened the room a little; she had disappeared after patching up the two U.N.C.L.E. agents and reviving their uncooperative trophy. Waverly was in the wicker armchair across the drum table from Baldwin's chair. Irene sat primly in a narrow straightback, and the two successful hunters shared the horsehair sofa. No one had gotten anywhere.

Irene spoke. "Peter – what part of the country are you from?"

"Cincinnati," he said doubtfully.

"I thought I detected a touch of Ohio in your speech," she said in a friendly tone. "How long have you been in San Francisco?"

He looked at her suspiciously, considering the question. "Oh, a few weeks," he said. "Why?"

"Oh, I just wondered," she said innocently. "I suppose the rest of the group still considers you a newcomer? Now, they wouldn't have given you the job of heading up this important assassination if you didn't have an edge on the rest of them. This means..." She broke off, and abruptly changed the subject. "We've had awfully nice weather for November, don't you think? Just a little sprinkle now and then, but that keeps the air clean. How have you liked it?"

He smiled almost unwillingly. "Well, I haven't seen much of it either. We, uh...we're pretty busy, of course."

Irene nodded. "I imagine so. How do you like San Francisco? Or have you seen it?"

"Not enough to tell. We drove from the airport and right across the bridge, and except for a couple of quick business trips I haven't seen the city itself at all."

Irene sat her glass down firmly. "Ward, part of this young man's trouble is cultural deprivation! I say we've had enough of this formal routine interrogation – let's take him sightseeing."

"Now really, Irene. After all, he is our prisoner. He might try to escape, and that would be bad for our reputations as hosts."

"Oh, we can handcuff him to something."

Baldwin sighed. "All right, my dear." Then he brightened. "And we can kill four birds with one stone, if our guests will pardon the expression, by conducting our famous fifty-cent tour of the city. I shall ring for the car...No, it's after midnight, and Bruno objects to being awakened. Irene, would you like to drive?"

"Certainly. Besides, even the Rolls would be a bit crowded with all six of us in the back, and Bruno hates to have passengers in the front seat."

Waverly cleared his throat. "Mr. Baldwin, if you don't mind, it's rather late for me, and I know this city well. I should like to go to bed early for a change, and your tour may take all night."

"Of course. We would like to have you along, but if you really know San Francisco well, you can learn little. Do you know, for instance, the history of a little side-street that bears your name? Waverly Place was the site of the most terrible tong wars in..."

Irene interrupted what threatened to become a lengthy discourse, saying, "Gentlemen, your warm coats are in the hall closet. I suggest we start our tour right away."

* * *

The prisoner seemed unsure whether or not to enjoy his tour of the city. He listened suspiciously to Baldwin's narrative, as they rolled past the Jack Tar Hotel.

"On our right is the Crackerjack Tar, the greatest mistake ever built north of Los Angeles. In fact, it is rumored that the rectangular blue construction is actually the box Disneyland came in. One major reason I maintain my position as head of the San Francisco branch of the Hierarchy is so that, when we do take over, I can have the personal pleasure of razing that abomination to the ground."

Personally, Napoleon rather liked the glittering futuristic façade of the hotel, but decided it was more polite to hold his opinion to himself.

They passed through the old Barbary Coast area, where Baldwin pointed with relish to the remarkable frescoes and bas-reliefs on the building fronts, and went on past Colt Tower; then a slow drive down Stockton took them through the back-street of Chinatown. Baldwin said, "This is the face of Chinatown most tourists miss. Even at one-thirty there is life stirring. The barred door there opens into Shanghai Rosie's – to the best of my knowledge the last opium den functioning in the traditional manner in the Western Hemisphere. San Francisco generally takes pride in maintaining its links with the past."

A couple more turns brought them up in front of a large two-story building set slightly into a hill. Irene stopped the car, and they all got out. "Here is the nerve center of San Francisco's most famous moving landmark," said Baldwin, as they approached some large windows set close to the ground. Geraniums filled their window boxes.

Inside, under suspended light bulbs, great flywheels spun amid muted thunder, carrying a cat's-cradle of heavy cables around themselves over sheaves of pulleys fifteen feet in diameter and fifty feet apart. There was a smell of grease, and of power.