Текст книги "The Dagger Affair"

Автор книги: David McDaniel

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Baldwin looked at it lovingly. "This is the cable house," he said. "Here the miles of cable that run under the streets of the city return endlessly and go out again. They are tremendously strong, these cables. Day in and day out they bear thousands of pounds of cable cars and passengers up and down the steepest hills, and hardly ever break. They run all day and all night, at a steady nine-point-five miles per hour. The only way to stop one is to shut off the power here. If the grip of a car locks on, and the power is not cut off in time, the grip will be torn out of the car at the end of the line when the cable runs down around the pulley for the return trip. There are tales of runaway cars, but the locked grid is about the worst that ever really happens." He sighed. "There are only three cables left in the city. I only hope we can take over before the forces of progress destroy them too...." They stood in reverent silence for another minute, then got back in the car.

As they started up again, Baldwin said casually, "Have you ridden a cable yet, Mr. Horne?"

Their prisoner frowned. "No, as a matter of fact I haven't."

Baldwin shook his head. "That seems as shame. Irene..."

"Yes, dear, I heard. We're en route now."

* * *

It was just after two in the morning as they pulled to the curb at California and Van Ness. There were no other cars in sight, and there was a faint whispering rattling sound filling the dark street from somewhere.

"That is the cable, clattering along in its slot," said Baldwin, as they got out of the car. "Mr. Horne, it would be a great pity for you to leave San Francisco without ever having ridden a cable."

Napoleon was idly fiddling with the links of chain he had produced from somewhere, and Illya had a small padlock. They moved toward Horne from opposite sides as Baldwin continued to talk.

"Unfortunately, at this late hour there are no cars running on this line. But this should not be a bar to our ingenuity."

Napoleon flipped the end of the chain around Warren's handcuff chain, and Illya secured it with the padlock. The other end of the chain was a long loop, with some eight feet between it and the handcuffs. Baldwin gave a crisp nod to Napoleon, who ceremonially dropped the loop into the cable slot. He fished about with it for a moment, as Baldwin had instructed him, before it caught, and took off.

"I suggest you follow it," Baldwin said, as Horne's jaw dropped. "It's not likely to wait for you." And then Horne was dog-trotting down the street away from them at a steady nine-point-five miles per hour. They got back into the Rolls and started after him.

Within the first block they were driving slowly along beside him, and Baldwin continued, "The other end of the cable is about a mile and a half away, at Market Street. There are a number of hills between here and there – they aren't impossibly steep, but we hope you don't tire easily. Incidentally, I would take care not to stumble. Otherwise you would be dragged at a steady nine-point-five miles per hour all the way, up a hill and down.

"If, on your way to Market, you should decide to unburden yourself to us on the subject of DAGGER, the padlock could be opened in a moment. If, on the other hand, you should decide not to, you will eventually, shall we say, reach the end of the line. At California and Market, the cable runs down around a pulley for the return journey, and you would be drawn, by the handcuffs, through this inch-wide cable slot at a steady nine-point-five miles per hour. You have something like ten minutes to contemplate your choices. I hope you can think clearly while running."

Irene let her husband's comments sink in while another block passed, and the street began to rise. Then she said thoughtfully, "I don't think he'd be pulled all the way through, dear. After all, flesh and bone can only stand so much. I think his hands would just be torn off." She considered this a moment, and added, "Of course the result would be the same, since he would bleed to death in a minute or two."

Baldwin shook his head. "It depends on whether the end of his ulna is small enough to pass through the slot. If it were too large it could shatter and the hand be torn off. But if it fits through, his shoulders would be crushed and his rib cage would follow."

Napoleon felt rather queasy, and glanced at Illya. The dour Russian agent looked somewhat paler than usual, but that could have been the effect of the streetlights. Then he looked at Horne, trotting grimly along beside the car like a fighter doing road-work. It seemed to be having an effect on him too. Not surprising, all things considered....

The hill rose more steeply for a block or two, and Horne began to breathe heavily. Baldwin and Irene continued their pathological discussion as casually as a man and wife having a mild disagreement about what kind of cat food to buy. The hill crested off for a short way, and Napoleon hopped out of the moving car.

He trotted along with Horne for a while, chatting with him, occasionally running backwards facing him. "There's another hill coming up – it's steeper than that last one. But you look in good condition. You can probably make it without stumbling. After that there's only about a mile to go, and most of that's downhill. Pretty steep downhill. That'll be tricky. I'm looking forward to seeing how you can handle it."

He patted Horne on the shoulder and almost caused him to lose his balance, apologized profusely, and hopped back into the car.

Conversation lagged after a while, and at one point the Rolls had to stop and wait for a red light while Horne pounded off into the distance. Napoleon called after him, "Don't wait for us – we'll catch up after a little while."

They let him go on alone for another three blocks, past the crest of the hill and starting down the steeper east slope, before they caught up with him. And then the silent motor of the Rolls enabled them to cruise along behind him for another block before Baldwin coughed loudly and Horne's head jerked around partway. Again he almost stumbled.

There were tall buildings around them now, and the only sounds were the clattering of the cable under the street, the whisper of the Rolls' motor, and the heavy pounding of Horne's feet and his labored breathing.

Napoleon tapped Illya on the shoulder and said, "It's your turn to get out and encourage him."

Illya nodded and jumped lightly out the opposite side of the car. He stopped to let it pass him, then ran around and caught up with Horne. "Hello there," he said. "Just came out to see if you're comfortable. Oh, by the way, you've only got about half a mile to go. See that little thing in the middle of the street? Right next to that. It's fairly level from here on. Do you think you can make it all the way to the end? Do you really want to?"

Horne was apparently in no mood for conversation, so after a while Illya gave up and got back in the car. "He's in a foul temper," he said glumly.

Baldwin leaned forward. "We're almost there, dear. Would you care to make a little wager on the results?"

Irene looked doubtful. "We'll have to set more specific terms. For instance, if his arms were torn off, I think I should win, but if only his legs are left on the street, you would win. Shall we set the chest as the dividing line?"

"Difficult to judge. He may be torn apart rather badly. Let us be more specific and say the heart. Is that acceptable?"

"I think so. How much farther is it now?"

"Only a few blocks. We just crossed Sansome."

"Dear...I don't want to disappoint you, but would you mind if I stop the car a block or two away? This is going to be terribly messy, and Bruno objects to cleaning the car oftener than once a week. I mean, you know how far those arteries can spurt. Especially since his heart is pounding so hard now."

"That's quite all right. But didn't you have your heart set on seeing it through? I could certainly get along without it myself."

"Well, if you don't mind...Boys," she said to Napoleon and Illya, "we're going to pull over in another block or so. Would you object to going the last little way with him on foot?"

They crossed Front Street, and the Rolls pulled to one side and stopped. Napoleon and Illya got out quickly and hurried up the street. The three sets of footsteps echoed weirdly between the buildings as they came across Davis Street together. There were few streetlights, and the sky was overcast, so the gray stone fronts seemed to rise up and disappear into the darkness without ending, like impressionistic tombstones.

Illya sprinted on ahead, then stopped and turned. "Here is the place," he called, an odd edge to his voice. "You're almost there."

Horne, gasping and disheveled, kept coming. He looked up to see Illya with glazed eyes. He was thirty yards away, then twenty, then fifteen. Then he cracked. "No – No!" he gasped. "For God's sake – let me loose! I'll tell you – anything you want to know! Let me go! Quick! Quick!"

Napoleon was already beside him, key in hand. He worked the padlock and the chains slipped free. He caught one end of it and pulled the loop free of the cable. Illya whistled shrilly, and the Rolls pulled away from the curb and started toward them as Horne sagged to the street and lay there, gasping and shaking.

"Help him in, please," said Baldwin. "Irene, drive back to California and Van Ness. He may decide not to talk after all, and the cable does run all night."

"Of course, dear. It will be nice to know all about DAGGER, but I still wonder what would have happened..."

Meanwhile, Illya and Napoleon were firing questions at Horne, who lay sobbing with relief in a corner of the back seat. They learned the names of his associates, the systems through which he received his orders, the story of how they had robbed the warehouse with the aid of the manager, a convert of Keldur's; they learned everything except the location of the DAGGER headquarters and the Energy Damper, which Horne had not seen but had heard about. He wasn't too clear what it did, but it would make the world a better place – this much he knew.

"Well, it would certainly solve the overpopulation problem," Napoleon admitted.

Section IV: "The Hand That Held The DAGGER."

Chapter 13: "I Have A Special Tour In Mind."

"How many Energy Damper units does Kim Keldur presently employ?" Baldwin asked.

"None. There were only three, and right now all his time and attention are going into making the Big One."

"Three?"

"Yeah. The first working model was taken to New York and used on Solo's car by Garnet. That was big and heavy. Then they made a miniaturized version with more power – and non-directional – and left that at Boulder Dam. And Chernik wired up a test circuit which had all the properties of the Big One except power."

Irene leaned back slightly and asked, "Dear, do you want to look at the address he gave us, or shall we go home?"

"Oh, look at it by all means," said Baldwin. "They may have missed him by now, and Keldur should know better than to underestimate our inventiveness in securing information. I only hope we're in time."

He turned to Napoleon and Illya. "Keldur will probably not be using the Energy Damper as a weapon, offensive or defensive. But he has all the resources of the field agent's kits, plus a number of special order items. And there are, according to this gentleman, on the order of seventy-five to one hundred people in this area under the direct or indirect orders of DAGGER. Most of them know as little about the actual organization as will allow them to fulfill their duties."

"Whatever he told you," Napoleon suggested, "subtract about fifteen from it. We've had a very busy evening."

Baldwin produced a large gold watch from his vest pocket and consulted it. "At this hour it may take a while to call up support. But time is definitely of the essence. Irene..."

"Yes, dear. We are on the route to South San Francisco now."

"Thank you. Mr. Solo – Mr. Kuryakin – it is quite late, but would you care to investigate?"

"I wouldn't miss it!"

"Yes, we owe them a visit."

"How long will it take to arrange support?"

"It is being arranged for. It may be as much as half an hour, allowing for travel time," said Illya, ostentatiously replacing the transceiver no one had seen him bring out.

"Good. Irene..."

"Yes, dear. ETA about seven minutes."

"Thank you."

* * *

The location was a small electronics store on Grand, a few blocks off the freeway. Horne had been put to sleep peacefully with an injection of something Baldwin had taken out of the cocktail cabinet, and was left snoring gently in the back seat.

Irene cruised slowly past the address, and pulled into the alley behind it.

The store was dark and silent as they got out and approached the back door. Baldwin stepped forward, murmuring, "Allow me..."

He bent over the door, leaning his cane against the wall, and the shadow of his body hid his actions from them. But some fifteen seconds later the door swung open silently.

He straightened, and picked up his cane. "It was necessary to detach one of our protective devices. Mr. Keldur is foolishly attempting to use against us equipment developed by the Hierarchy, perhaps still unaware that we're now working against him. But I fear we will find little. The birds appear to have flown." He stepped aside, and gestured. "My own agility is somewhat impaired. Will you precede me?"

Napoleon's gun nestled lightly in his hand as he stuck his head around the corner of the doorframe. The room was in total darkness. A thin beam from Illya's pencil flash flitted around the room, showing workbenches, racks, shelves and cabinets, all empty. The drawers were open, the cabinet doors swung wide. The door into the front of the shop stood slightly ajar, and Baldwin examined the hinges, top, and bottom carefully before opening it.

Irene's large five-cell flash shone around.

The counter had been cleared, and the shelves were as empty of stock as the back room.

Illya broke the silence. "I think we're late." He reached for the switch near the door, and Baldwin spoke.

"Mr. Kuryakin – the light switch may be wired to a bomb. I think the flashlights are quite sufficient under the circumstances."

Illya's hand dropped, and his lips tightened a little. He scanned his light along a workbench. It was charred in little lines as though by soldering irons carelessly laid down, and little shiny flecks of metal caught the light and squinted back. A long shadow appeared in the beam, and Napoleon reached for the little shielded capacitor that cast it.

Irene started to say something, but Baldwin cleared his throat and spoke with a voice of infinite patience.

"Mr. Solo – if you're going to continue toying with things, I fear we must leave you alone, and quickly. Please try to understand that the shop has quite probably been very well booby-trapped. They would not have cleared out so completely if they had not been expecting us – and they would certainly have left something for us to find. We can do no more here; in the morning I will send a few technicians out to check the entire site over carefully. And in case you are interested, that is not a condenser, but a pressure-sensitive bomb of sufficient power to destroy your hand and necessitate amputation of most of your arm."

Napoleon drew his hand back as smoothly and casually as he had extended it. He turned politely to face his host, and said, "I bow to your superior knowledge." He bowed slightly, and started for the door.

Illya paused a moment. "Mr. Baldwin, what is the likelihood that they would have left something…shall we say, a little more personal?"

"Not unlikely at all. If we are allowed to leave here quietly, I shall be most thankful and moderately surprised. How soon will the support from your people arrive?"

Illya glanced at his watch, and canted his head doubtfully. "Perhaps another ten minutes."

Napoleon stepped outside, and something slapped into the doorframe. He stepped back inside. "You can save both the thanks and the surprise. Either I've just been shot at again, or you have .38 caliber mosquitoes coming up from the salt flats."

Baldwin frowned, and looked at his wife. "My apologies, dear. I had not expected you to become quite so involved with this field problem."

Irene smiled. "Ward, you know perfectly well I've missed the excitement of field work since our last promotion. I wouldn't have missed this for the world." She opened her purse. "See? I even brought along my derringer."

The small handgun she produced hardly qualified as a lady's weapon – its twin barrels looked large enough to accept a thumb, and both Napoleon and Illya recognized it as the largest punch per cubic inch available to the general public – a .357 magnum derringer.

Illya cleared his throat and looked doubtfully at Napoleon, who shrugged. Very few people could handle that much weapon, and none of them in his experience had been women. He looked at the slivers where the bullet had torn through the doorframe, and wished for his own U.N.C.L.E. Special, lying on a warehouse floor in Oakland, miles away across the bay. Maybe tomorrow he could retrieve it. Until then he would have to make do with the spare he had saved from the burned car. This had not been what one would call a successful day.

It had been along one, though. The time was approaching four-thirty. It's a good thing I'm superhuman, Napoleon thought, as he checked the clip in the automatic. Otherwise I'd probably be getting pretty tired of all this by now. He looked at Illya.

His partner was on hands and knees, next to the door, peering around it carefully. He brought his automatic up to eye-level, squeezed off a shot, and ducked back. Irene said, "Excuse me, but do you gentlemen have any form of gas masks? Nostril filters or similar devices? We're likely to be under attack with our own gases as well." Her voice seemed muffled, and Napoleon looked around.

She and her husband were wearing small affairs something like anti-silicosis masks. Napoleon sighed, and got out his nose filters again.

Illya announced, "They're hiding out there, keeping a very sharp watch on the door. The fact they haven't attacked would indicate all they want to do is keep us pinned down for a while."

"They probably want to relieve us of our guest," suggested Napoleon. "Would we mind?"

"Yes," said Baldwin. "There are doubtless many things he has not told us, and I should still like to send him over the Powell-Hyde cable. It has a few interesting additions.... Irene, do you have an idea?"

Mrs. Baldwin was rummaging about in her purse by the light from Illya's pencil flash. She looked up and smiled. "I think so, dear. I've found my long comb, but I'm looking for a piece of tissue paper. It's an old trick, but they often work best against these moderns."

Napoleon stared at her, and sighed deeply. "Well I suppose music hath charms to soothe the savage et cetera, but is it really ofpractical application right now?"

Irene glanced up from her search and favored him with the patient smile he had come to know and hate. "I don't indulge in musical entertainments, Mr. Solo; I simply have what Ward likes to call an unorthodox mind for weaponry. Perhaps if I told you I also needed my mirror and my eyebrow pencil you would understand?"

Napoleon wouldn't, but he knew better than to say so. If he did, she might tell him. And he wasn't sure he was quite ready to know.

Illya stood close to the door, occasionally leaning a bit toward it in an attempt to see something outside without materially increasing his chances of absorbing a bullet. He couldn't.

Meanwhile Irene was busy working on a facial tissue with the eyebrow pencil. The top was roughly darkened, then two large round circles were drawn and carefully shaded. A long oval patch was added, and she held it up to admire her workmanship. She turned to her husband.

"Will it pass, dear?"

Baldwin looked at it a few seconds, and a diabolical smile of satisfaction spread across his features. "Irene, you are a credit to the firm. Write yourself a pay voucher for brilliant improvisation under fire." He looked benignly at the U.N.C.L.E. agents. "You see, the Hierarchy is not as dependent on complex technology as you might think. Simple ingenuity is always valuable."

Irene had hung the tissue paper to the very end of her long comb, so the face hung down, pale in the darkness. She held out the mirror to Illya. The Russian looked at it with knitted brows and intense concentration. Then gradually his eyes brightened, and he smiled his wry little smile and accepted it.

He and Irene went to the door, where Illya knelt down and, holding the handle in his fingertips, extended the mirror almost to the edge of the frame. Irene stood over him, and put the end of the comb out. Then Napoleon understood.

From ten feet or more away down the alley, in the dim light of a distant streetlamp, there would be a face peering anxiously out from the edge of the door. If they didn't spot Illya's mirror, he could see from the muzzle flashes where the snipers were located. The most efficient flash-shield in the world can't protect from straight ahead – only seldom does it to the witness any good.

There was a shot, and the tissue fluttered. Illya muttered something. "Can't see. I'll have to get closer to the mirror." As he edged forward another shot shredded the edge of the tissue, and Illya snorted. "There he is. Behind a trash bin about fifty feet down to the left."

"Do you see any more?"

"No...Yes. Two just broke and sprinted across the alley about ten yards away. They're coming closer."

A third shot tore through the tissue paper, leaving a fairly neat hole. Napoleon hoped it wouldn't seem odd to the sniper that his target didn't fall.

I think there are only the three of them," Illya said. He put his left hand out with the U.N.C.L.E. Special, and rested the butt on the ground just around the corner of the door. Still holding the mirror in his right hand, he sighted carefully and fired. There was a sound like a flat Chinese gong, and an answering shot from the sniper.

Suddenly the tissue paper was gone, and Irene pulled her hand back. She looked at the stump of her comb, and said something entirely unladylike. "My best tortoise-shell rat-tail! Mr. Kuryakin, give me that mirror."

Illya handed her the mirror, and moved away.

Talking the mirror under one arm, Irene broke the action of her derringer and checked the ammunition. Then she closed it and flexed her fingers. "I suggest you hold your ears," she said coolly, and put the mirror around the corner of the door. There was a shot from their sniper, and something slapped a shower of splinters out of the frame just above the mirror. "Thank you," said Irene politely, and extended the gun. Napoleon placed his palms flat over his ears, and felt his spine go tense.

The detonation was like a thunderclap. He felt the concussion all over the side of his body toward the door, and his ears ached despite their protection.

He lowered his hands and looked around. Irene was kneading her right hand with her left. The mirror lay on the floor. The gun was nowhere in sight. "I think I got him," she said. "Illya, take a look. Mr. Solo, see if you can find my toy."

Illya looked carefully around the corner of the door. Under the streetlight, the trash bin lay on its side, some fifteen feet farther away than it had been. Looking carefully, he could see an arm and a leg sticking out from under the edge. They weren't moving.

He pulled his head back. "Yes. You did get him."

"Can you see the other two?"

"No, I'm afraid not. They may...No, there they are. On the other side of the car." Dropping to his belly, he fired along the surface of the alley at the ankles visible under the high-slung body of the Rolls. The bullet screamed off the pavement and both sets of legs pulled up out of sight. So did Illya.

"I think they're into your car. Can they start it?"

"No," said Irene. "They'll have to be satisfied with Mr. Horne." She shook her head sadly. "It seems a shame for him to leave so soon – we should have taken him out to Sutro's and Golden Gate Park before ending the tour. But it was rather late, and we did have business to transact with him. Perhaps we may persuade him to come around again...."

Something arced over the top of the car and burst with a pop just outside the door. In a moment dense dark smoke filled the alley. "You see," said Irene through her mask. "What did I tell you?"

"I think it's just a screen laid down so they can get Horne out without our getting a clear shot," said Napoleon. "I'm going outside. Here's your derringer." He tossed it to Irene and ducked out into the smoke.

Then he was blind. He could breathe, slowly, but his eyes burned and he wanted to gasp. Squinting against the stuff, he felt his way forward until his outstretched hands hit the side of the car. He groped along it until he found the front door handle, and wrenched it open.

The smoke followed him inside the car, but he could breathe more normally, and he could see out the opposite window. The figures already several yards away were carrying a limp figure between them and hurrying down the alley. They were passing under the streetlight by the overturned trash bin when Napoleon saw them, and one turned to look. He almost dropped the feet he was carrying, and turned away quickly. Napoleon wondered what he had seen.

He opened the window, cupped his hands, and called. "Okay, you two. Put him down and your hands up."

Startled, the two men dodged sideways into a narrow space between two buildings, and Napoleon sent a shot whining down the alley past it to ensure they would keep their heads in. Then he leaned out of the car into the thinning smoke on the other side. "Illya, they're cornered. Come on and we'll rout them out."

From somewhere a slug snapped past his head and he ducked back. A back-up man they'd missed! He hoped the Rolls was armored. Those DAGGERs had thought of everything.

From the direction of the shot, Napoleon guessed him to be at the other end of the alley, away from the light, but the echoes among the walls were confusing and contradictory. He rose cautiously and peered through the back window. There was no sign of the gunman.

This was getting more annoying. Now there was nothing to do but wait for the rescue group from U.N.C.L.E. to...

A fusillade of shots broke out from the far end of the alley, and a moment later a tall man came hurrying toward them, making no attempt to cover himself. "Solo – Kuryakin – you all right?"

"Next time announce yourself," Napoleon called. "You're right on time, but I wish we'd known when to expect you," he added as the U.N.C.L.E. agent came up to the car.

Baldwin stood in the doorway, an irritated look on his face, and something small and metallic in his hand. With a slight shock Napoleon recognized the capacitor-bomb from the workbench.

"Mr. Solo, you could have saved me an awkward job disarming this thing. It is now in a condition where it will have to be treated with special care. I had intended to throw it to the second-string sniper and damage him severely enough we could overpower him without assistance from your fellows."

"Well, I'm sorry," said Napoleon with a slight edge to his voice. "If I'd known they were coming, I'd have arranged for you to meet them."

He turned quickly to ask the next approaching U.N.C.L.E. agents about the condition of his attacker, ignoring whatever reply Baldwin might choose to make.

Illya and Irene came out to the Rolls and made ready to leave. As Illya got into the back seat, he patted Napoleon on the shoulder. "That's all right, Napoleon. We love you anyway."

He looked at the Russian agent without any expression at all. At last he shook his head. "I think I'll just give up the whole dirty business," he said cheerfully. "I'll turn in my gun, change my name, retire to a village on Minorca, and breed wombats. I just can't keep up with things anymore. In one day I have had to be rescued twice; I have lost one gun and one car; I have been insulted an average of twice an hour by our host. My heart is just no longer in my work."

Illya shook his head sympathetically. "Napoleon, perhaps you need a long vacation, as Mr. Waverly would say. Why not go home, sleep for six hours, and then report back for work?"

* * *

Dawn filled the eastern sky as they returned to their base on Fulton Street, and it was full day outside when they finally went to sleep behind drawn curtains. Field crews had taken over the routine jobs of identifying the bodies left in alley in Oakland and South San Francisco, disarming the electronics store and checking it for any possible clues.

Illya's first action on returning, even before seeking his bed, was to check his directional receiver. As was his habit, he had planted a tiny transmitter on Mr. Horne, so subtly that not even Napoleon had noticed. And the transmitter was still signaling the location of their late guest.

Sometime past noon, when they met for breakfast, Waverly announced, "It's a good thing someone got some sleep last night. Mr. Kuryakin, your little tracer has been rather busy in the last few hours. It apparently remained stationary until about ten o'clock, but since then he has awakened and begun quite a round of activities. His present whereabouts are being monitored by our equipment at headquarters, and his routes are being charted. I presume you will want the honor of running him down again?"

"Yes; thank you, sir."

By two-thirty, they were back in the Rolls and following, with Irene at the wheel again. Baldwin had opted to remain home and discuss the situation with Waverly, so Illya and Napoleon shared the front seat of the big black Thrush car.

The last report on the tracer had shown it crossing the Bay Bridge into Oakland. It had stopped downtown, and was still there, as near as any instrument could tell.

They were on the bridge before Illya's portable detector registered the signal. He listened carefully and nodded. "There he is. Moving north."