Текст книги "The Rainbow Affair"

Автор книги: David McDaniel

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"That may be," said the girl, "but I'm not sure I'd care to find out how much." She gave Napoleon a longer, appraising look.

"Stop tempting Mr. Solo, you little minx," said the small man, chidingly. "He's here on business, and you must be off on yours." He made little shooing motions with his hands, and the couple turned with a cheerful "Good afternoon" floating behind them.

The small man led the way to the front room, where a small fireplace held ashes reminiscent of the previous evening's chill. Their host indicated two chairs and took a third himself, speaking as he sat.

"I must apologize for all the secrecy," he said. "But this Rainbow business has gotten completely out of hand, and we're officially bound up in red tape. Legally, I can't do a thing to help you, because legally I don't know a bit about what's going on."

"That puts you on a level with us," said Illya. "I must admit to being more than a little confused by all these goings on. The only people who don't act like criminals are Scotland Yard, and they deny everything. Is there anything you can tell us, and if not, what are we doing here?"

Their host laughed delightedly, leaning back in his chair. "Of course, of course," he said. "I imagine this all seems like a game of blind man's bluff by now – well, in a way it is. But I've been wanting to get in touch with you since I heard you were coming over after the Rainbow gang. Something has to be done, and quickly. Scotland Yard won't, and I can't. My people aren't equipped or empowered to work inside the country, except for a few – the couple you just met, for example. Well, not both of them, actually. The man is one of our top professionals; the woman is a talented amateur."

"Amateur what?" asked Napoleon suspiciously.

"Practically everything," said the small man with a chuckle. "She's tried everything else, succeeding superbly at all of it, and now she's taking a shot at the wider reaches of counter-intelligence. But that's not what you're supposed to be interested in. Did you come here to chase girls or Rainbows?"

"Well," said Napoleon uncertainly, but his partner interrupted him.

"We've heard that particular pun three times in the last two days, and it's already getting stale. I don't want to seem impolite, but to be perfectly honest, I'm not at all happy with the way things have been going. If you can help us, we would appreciate it. If you can't, we have better things to do than make conversation."

The smile faded from their host's face during this speech and he nodded. "Sorry. More or less trying to set you at ease before getting into business. All right – we'll omit the social niceties. According to my sources in the Yard, there's a jewel robbery expected in New Bond Street tomorrow night. The site will be staked out, and a full bag of game is confidently expected. I think you might enjoy participating in the haul."

"Knocking over a jewelry store isn't the sort of operation the Rainbow gang usually pulls – they seem to specialize in goods in transit."

"The Rainbow gang is not directly responsible for Britain's entire crime wave – Johnnie seems to be selling advice to anyone who is interested in pulling a large job of any kind. This is one. I have other sources than Scotland Yard."

"What useful purpose would be served by our attending the party?"

"Possibly none," their host admitted. "It is quite possible that warning has leaked back to the gang somehow and there may be nothing happening after all. But you would have an opportunity to talk to the prisoners before the purblind police give them any ideas of what they can hide and get away with. I've talked with some of the old lags after just a few hours of routine interrogation, and they've never heard of a Rainbow by that time. If you were able to confront them with a changed attitude towards him, they might be persuaded to come across with something valuable."

Illya considered this with full suspicion for some time, and then reluctantly admitted the idea's validity. "I presume your contacts in the Yard are sufficiently highly placed that they could fit us into the party without a great deal of fuss and complaint?"

"Certainly. A Chief Inspector vouching for you will serve as a pass to all sorts of social functions."

"I, ah, have a few more questions," Napoleon said hesitantly. "If you don't mind...?"

"Of course not. I never mind being asked questions, if you don't mind them not being answered. Go ahead."

"You are with MI-5, aren't you?"

"Yes – I thought you knew that."

"We'd been told; it's not always the same thing. Are you working under assignment on this, or independently out of pure personal interest?"

"Mostly the latter, I'm afraid. That's why I can't be along with you tomorrow evening. As for your part in it, I may as well tell you I was asked to give you a hand by Alexander Waverly. We worked together during the last war, and earlier. Before Department Zed got him and they set out to invent U.N.C.L.E. Didn't he tell you?"

Illya sighed. "Nobody seems to be telling us anything."

"Oh, now, that's less than polite. Admittedly I have hardly been making a clean breast of my darkest secrets, but I do think some of what I've said may be of some help to you."

"I'm afraid it hasn't really," Napoleon said. "We're not very used to working in total darkness, and we haven't had much else this trip. We don't know who anybody is or which side they're on…"

"There are quite a few more than the usual two sides, which may be confusing matters a little," their host said. "There's Johnnie Rainbow, of course; and there's Thrush, which wants him to join them; and you, who want to stop Thrush but aren't that interested in Rainbow; Scotland Yard, who has little interest in Thrush, and who doesn't believe in Johnnie but wants to stop him anyway; and several individuals who are either being pulled in by Thrush or drawn in by interest in picking off some of the loot the Rainbow gang has in various secure stashes about the country, and of course various arms of the law are following them. In fact, if you traced out everyone who was somehow concerned with this operation of yours, you would end by involving practically every criminal and everyone actively connected with law enforcement from John O'Groats to Lands End. Everyone I can think of off-hand either is personally involved or has a friend or enemy who is, one way or another.

"I would predict that until this business is resolved one way or another, you will continue to encounter people whose concern seems serious if peripheral. Many of them you will find useful; some you will find dangerous. I presume you can utilize the former and avoid the latter."

There was a long pause, broken at last by Illya, who nodded slowly. "I begin to see. Everyone has some portion of the action, but no one besides ourselves is pointed directly at the center – which is to say Johnnie Rainbow. This is why all the fuss and interest around us."

"Precisely. You two are probably – hopefully – the key to the entire complex situation, tugging away at the key stone of the arch which in turn supports the entire pile of masonry."

"It sounds like a dangerous position."

"It is. But if you couldn't take care of yourselves you wouldn't be here." He glanced at the mantle clock and stood suddenly. "Now you must pardon me. You will be picked up tomorrow evening about eleven. Have fun; I wish I could join you."

They were accompanied down the stairs to the ground floor, and even out the door. It was late afternoon, and shadows were lengthening across the park. Their host looked up and down the street. "You didn't drive over? I should have rung for a cab. Ah – never mind. Here comes one now. I always seem to be lucky with taxis; always can find one when I need one. Good afternoon, gentlemen. Been most pleasant talking with you – hope we may get together again."

He popped them into the taxi, gave the driver the address of their hotel, and disappeared behind them in a grinding of gears and a cloud of exhaust.

Napoleon and Illya looked at each other. Finally the American spoke. "Well, I don't know about you, but although it seemed to me at the time he was explaining everything clearly, I'm still just as confused as I was when we went up there."

Illya nodded agreement. "Nevertheless I fully expect to be picked up at precisely eleven o'clock tomorrow night by a car full of detectives. I developed the distinct impression that the fellow we just spent half an hour listening to knows very well what he is doing and saying – and more important, not saying. Somehow, though still quite in the dark, I feel better about it."

Solo settled back in the comfortable seat and wondered as he reached for a cigarette whether all the threads in the complicated skein would ever be fully unraveled for him. Or, for that matter, if any of them would. He drew the smoke deep into his lungs and let it trickle out. Only time would tell.

Section II : "Look Upon The Rainbow"

Chapter 5

How Illya Kuryakin Heard a Discourse on Weaponry, and A Good Time Was Had By All.

THE NIGHT WAS clear and even moderately warm, for London, which is to say the overcoats were barely necessary. The small squad of uniformed policemen had arrived quietly from various routes to station themselves in hiding at a dozen or more locations within a block radius of the suspected target. Napoleon and Illya sat inside a parked van with two other men on a cross-street facing the jewelry shop, and watched it alternately through the concealed slits in the side paneling.

The distant chime of Big Ben echoed over the sleeping city, tolling one o'clock, and eventually two. Cars passed occasionally, and one or two lonely pedestrians hurried along the street as the men sat patiently waiting. There was little conversation among them; like soldiers before a battle they kept the company of their own thoughts.

From time to time a small transceiver would hiss to life as one or another of the concealed cordon of watchers reported someone entering the controlled area; pedestrians and vehicles were under almost constant surveillance from one point or another as long as they remained in the four-block area under study.

It was about two-fifteen when an unmarked motor truck purred into their view and stopped next to the target shop. A moment later the front door of the shop opened and three men carrying large flat cases and a couple of sacks hurried out. The head of the stake-out party swore under his breath.

"Death and destruction! They must have been in there all along, working happily on the alarm system and cracking the box while we sat out here waiting for them to show up."

He gripped the talk-switch on the transmitter micro phone and spoke quietly into it. "Border posts – establish blocks. Let no one in or out. Observation posts – converge on the shop. Remember, these men may be armed. They've never used firearms on a job before, but there can always be a first time. Maintain security; don't let them know we're coming."

He ceased transmission, and Napoleon reported from the observation slit, "The three men are going back for another load. How much evidence do you need?"

"A single handful will be quite sufficient. Let's move in."

"Shouldn't you address them through a loud-hailer and offer them a chance to surrender peacefully?" asked Illya.

"Perhaps. But we would greatly prefer not to disturb the sleep of honest residents of the area with bullhorns and shouted threats. They should realize they are severely outnumbered as soon as the officers begin to show themselves from all the streets."

He half rose from his crouch and opened the back double doors of the van. Moments later all four of them stood in the shadows, watching the three robbers emerge once again from the shop with armloads of loot. The Scotland Yard man said, in an even voice pitched just loud enough to carry clearly across the silent street, "I think that will be enough, gentlemen."

The effect was all that could be desired. Two of the three men dropped their bundles and jumped for the truck; the third, apparently confused, stepped back, seeking the safety of the shop entrance.

Walking steadily towards them, flanked by Napoleon, Illya, and his aide, the Yarder continued to address the robbers. "I hereby place you all under arrest in the name of the Queen, and advise you that anything you say may he taken down and used in evidence against you. I further advise you that this entire area is surrounded by policemen, and you haven't a chance of escape. So you'd best come along quietly."

Constables in uniform were beginning to emerge from various hiding places, converging on the truck. More than fifteen officers were now around the truck, including the two U.N.C.L.E. agents. Its back doors were tightly closed, and the motor was ticking over slowly, but no attempt had been made to start it moving.

The nearest policeman threw an order towards the cab: "Stop your engine and dismount with your hands up.

Suddenly all hell seemed to break loose. The back doors of the truck burst open, and at least forty men came leaping out, armed with truncheons and various similar forms of life-preservers. They took on the representatives of the law in groups of three, and in a matter of seconds a fierce and desperate melee had begun.

Napoleon and Illya were far enough from the truck to react to the sudden attack. Solo whipped out his gun and shouted, "Stand clear or I'll shoot!" Even he himself, looking back on it later, admitted that it sounded rather foolish, but with only the standard eight-round clip against some two score men, all he could do was attempt a threat.

It proved to be no more than that, as an accurately thrown tire iron cracked him viciously across the wrist and his U.N.C.L.E. Special Hew from his hand. Before he could even draw breath, four toughs were swarming over him. With his right wrist severely bruised and possibly broken, he was in less than perfect defensive shape. He called Illya's name once as he went down, but the Russian had his attention fully occupied.

Four more unshaven mugs were moving in on him, exhibiting iron bars and self-confidence. Illya fell back a couple of steps, his glance flicking from one face to another. He heard his partner's call without turning his head, and just at that moment all four charged him.

He leaped forward with a lightning-swift double kick that left one man writhing on the ground and another clutching at his shin and hopping about swearing profanely. The other two swung their iron bars at a sturdy figure that seemed to pass between them like a ghost, and struck only the uncomplaining air.

In the same fraction of time, Napoleon was struggling in the grip of eight strong arms. He had been unable to inflict any damage on his assailants, who had not given him the moment which Illya had taken to assess the situation, but had simply laid into him without pausing for formalities.

He managed to wrench his left arm loose, and delivered an adrenalin-charged chop to the first available neck. The grip on his left leg loosened, and he kicked, feeling something soft collapse before his toe. This entire operation took something under two-thirds of a second, and before the thin hand of a hypothetical stopwatch could have finished marking off another full division his left hand had done something indescribable to the closest ear of the brute who was treating his damaged right wrist with much less than the respect it deserved.

A ham-like fist rebounded off the side of his head and his back slammed against the ground as flecks of light sparkled momentarily in his vision. Then, bracing his elbows against the pavement, he flipped sideways and I locked his legs around the neck of the fourth man. At the same time, his good hand was flailing about trying to connect with the man whose ear he had just mistreated.

While a scissors-hold is a convenient way of immobilizing an opponent, it also renders oneself relatively immobile. It was with a surge of relief that Napoleon saw his second attacker suddenly fold over himself and spread his unlovely features on the inoffensive cement. Illya was standing behind him, someone's crowbar in his hand, looking down disapprovingly.

"Shall I clip the other one for you, or are you having fun?"

"You seem to wear out your playmates fast; you can have him if you like," said Solo from the ground.

Admittedly there wasn't much left for Illya to do; he took careful aim and tapped the last of the four on the side of the head with the rounded end of the bar. Napoleon unwound his legs and got unsteadily to his feet.

He was almost there when something came sailing through space at Illya. Solo's free arm – his right – swung around to catch his partner behind the knees, and Illya dropped like an acrobat as another iron rod whipped through the space his head had occupied. Napoleon could hardly control a groan as pain lanced through his wrist again.

Illya was on his feet in an instant, taking off from a sprinter's crouch in the direction of the main fight. The small force of police appeared outnumbered and several uniformed figures were stretched senseless on the pavement. In the distance, whistles and the distinctive two tone sirens could be heard heralding reinforcements, still a vital minute or two away.

Napoleon was hardly in a condition to rejoin the fight, but a momentary investigation of his right wrist revealed that it was in fact not quite broken after all. It also revealed that he could hold nothing heavy in his right hand. He picked up one of the opposition's crowbars in his left and waded back into the melee.

Illya, plunging into the thick of the struggle, found more targets than he expected. Oddly enough, he seemed to attract more attention than the uniformed officers, and within thirty seconds he found himself forced into strategic retreat in the face of overwhelming force. He fell back until the rough brick of a building front pressed against his spine, and then, as the semicircle of men appeared to close about him, he feinted right, then left, then ducked suddenly and decisively to his right, leaving another of the apparently inexhaustible army of bad guys gasping on the pavement.

Napoleon, regretfully, did not get nearly as far. Accepting the limitation of his injured arm, he would have felt satisfied to remain on the fringes of the battle, denting any skulls that came within his range. And, in fact, he left perhaps half a dozen heads so dented. There was the beginning of a respectable pile of victims growing around his feet when he became the focus of interest for several of the gang who seemed to have nothing better to do, having filled their individual quotas of incapacitated policemen.

They circled warily in front of him as he retired slowly, a step at a time, to make sure the solid side of the van was behind him. With a wall at his back and almost three feet of steel in his fist, he could stand them off for the seconds that remained before the fresh force of police would arrive and restore order. He heard the approaching sounds and took heart; not quite the U.S. Cavalry, but certainly the next best thing to relieve a beleaguered and outnumbered force.

The sound of sirens covered the soft shuffle of booted feet on the pavement behind him. As a result, it came as something of a surprise when the back of his head exploded with pain and a flash of colorless light, and he fell forward into blackness.

At the same time, Illya, untouched but harried along, found a narrow alleyway opening behind him. He rejected the obvious trap, and continued following the shop fronts. The moment he had a few feet to spare, he broke to the freedom of the street and began a dash backwards the center of the fighting.

Even as he did so, the engine of the large van could be heard to rev up, and a quick tattoo of the horn apparently summoned the small army of toughs to return to their transport.

Just as the horn sounded, a flung crowbar caught Illya across the heels as he ran, and he sprawled face down towards the pavement. He rolled as he hit, feet together, ready to catch the first attacker as the four of them charged him.

Then one of them stumbled and fell, scrabbling helplessly. Another turned and yelled wordlessly to his companions as he saw a figure in the shadows of the alley. A second later his cry died in a gurgle as he staggered backward, clutching frantically at the slender hilt of a knife which had appeared suddenly springing from his chest.

Illya was on his feet again before the second man hit the ground. As he blocked the kick of one of the survivors, the figure detached itself from the shadows and drifted lazily forward towards the other one.

In five seconds of block and swing, block, kick and chop, Illya's opponent was out for the count. Breathing heavily, he turned around.

His rescuer was leaning over two of the bodies, extracting a matched pair of beautifully delicate throwing knives, one from a chest, one from a back. Carefully he wiped each blade clean on the clothing of its victim, and with a flick of each wrist the knives seemed to vanish – probably into forearm sheaths, Illya decided.

He was tall and elegantly slim, as well as impeccably dressed. It almost seemed as if he must have passed by on pure chance, on his way home from the theater. The third thug resting on the pavement bore witness to his ability at hand-to-hand combat, but not a strand of his perfectly parted hair appeared to have been disturbed. As he straightened, he glanced at Illya with an almost foolishly innocent smile.

Then a suddenly rising roar of engines and screech of brakes announced the arrival of the rest of the police force. As Illya looked in doubt at his impeccable rescuer, the latter spoke, and his voice was a regretful drawl. "So much for the evening's entertainment. And it was just promising to become interesting, too." He flashed a dazzling smile at Illya. "I hope you don't mind my cutting into your fight, but I was beginning to feel rather left out of things, and I hate the thought of being a wallflower."

He glanced down the street, to where half a dozen police cars were disgorging the reinforcements. "I see the groundskeepers have arrived. They will doubtless want to tidy up now, so there won't be much left for us to do. Of course you will accept a ride back to your hotel. My car is just around the corner."

Before he knew quite what was happening Illya found himself following a friendly pressure on his elbow away from the approaching police and down the alley. He cast a final look around the street, and observed that somehow the truck had disappeared with those of the gang who were still able to navigate. He took a quiet pleasure in the knowledge that several of the remainder were awaiting the cleanup squad through his own personal courtesies. As for Solo, he could always take care of himself, and this gentleman had several questions to answer.

The questions were still unformed when Illya found himself sitting in the lefthand seat of a long sleek Hirondel, of a design that had practically disappeared from the highways of Europe more than twenty years ago. The engine purred to life at the touch of its master, and the great car moved silently off through the streets of London.

Illya glanced sideways at the keen profile of the driver. A cigarette was canted carelessly between his lips, and the regular flash of streetlights cast his face into sharp outline. The Russian cleared his throat and started to ask the identity of his chauffeur.

Before he spoke, he was anticipated. "Actually," the other said, "I can't tell you very much. You're after Johnnie Rainbow, of course. By this time, practically everyone knows that much. So am I. He must have an awful lot of loot stowed away from his unholy labors, and as an ardent Socialist I feel it should be redistributed. The most beautiful bundle of boodle in the civilized world is waiting to be put to charitable purposes, and I am heeding its call," he added simply.

"For such a kind-hearted and thoughtful man, you wield a wicked knife," Illya commented dryly.

"My only protection in a wicked world. And it's knives, not knife. I can impale a flying champagne cork at twenty paces. It's one of my celebrated party tricks. Actually it stems from a dislike of guns. Nasty, noisy, barbarous inventions of the devil."

Illya never took his eyes off the man's face. It was, a lean, smiling face, a face that should have belonged to a buccaneer, or Robin Hood. It definitely did not belong in the Twentieth Century; its owner seemed equally out of place. Gentlemen in evening dress did not ordinarily step out of dark alleys and impale jewel thieves with ivory-handled knives. There was definitely he decided, more to this than was readily apparent to the eye.

"But really, I hate to monopolize the conversation. What have you heard recently about the Rainbow gang?"

"Very little," said Illya honestly. "They were supposed to have been responsible for the Rothschild gold robbery two weeks ago; they had a jewel robbery planned for tonight which seems to have gone astray somewhere. And they seem to have a most remarkable assortment of people looking for them for one reason or another."

"You have no leads on his location, of course."

"None. I don't suppose…"

"Afraid not. But the more people searching, the more likely success. I take it you are interested in Johnnie only for his own charming self, and not for his fine collection of rare British cash?"

Illya nodded. "You are suggesting a pooling of information?"

"The idea had occurred to me."

"It might be worked out. Unfortunately, at the moment, I fear neither of us has anything useful to the other."

"Regrettably. However, I shall keep in touch. If I uncover anything you detective types might call a 'clue,' I'll certainly ring you up and invite you over for a look at it."

"And if we come up with anything?"

"I'll know about it." He glanced at Illya, and the flare of a passing streetlight struck a blue glint from his eyes. "There are times when I think half the population of this little island has a personal interest in finding Johnnie Rainbow. And it's very hard to keep secrets in such a close-knit family. Now here's your hotel – good night."

And Illya was standing on the curb, looking off up the street after the sleek gray car until the burble of its exhaust had died away in the distance.

Chapter 6

How Napoleon Solo Declined an Honor, and Met an Exciting Young Lady.

GRADUALLY NAPOLEON became aware that he ached in several places. His wrist hurt – he remembered having it nearly broken just a few minutes ago, or so it seemed. His head hurt – that he couldn't quite justify. It ached as if it had been hit very hard recently. And in addition to these complaints, he felt as if he had been thrown around rather roughly for several hours. His shoulders, back, hips and legs hurt too. He considered the combination of sensations for a while, and decided be didn't like it.

In fact, he decided, he was still being thrown around. He wasn't moving around himself, but large flat surfaces kept swinging around and hitting him, mostly in places where he was already bruised. He stuck out a hand and found something which was either a wall or a floor and groped around for a projection of any kind to hold on to.

He found nothing, but the feel of the cold slick metal helped bring his senses into focus. There was a loud roaring and rumbling which he was able to identify as the motor of a truck – a fairly large one, probably. He braced himself as well as he could on the slippery floor, and wrapped his arms protectively around his sore head.

The swaying of the truck still swung him from side to side, and wherever they were the pavement was not of the best – the floor still had an annoying tendency to drop away from under him and then leap up again just as he started to fall to meet it.

It was still dark, and he was attempting to read the luminous dial of his watch when he realized his eyes were still closed. He tried to open them, but it stayed dark. He concentrated until he was quite sure the eyelids were in a raised condition, and then looked around, trying to focus.

There was a little light after all – a vertical line of gray off at right angles to the directions he kept swaying. Since the swaying was an indication of turns, he reasoned that must be either the front or back of the truck – and since there was presumably a cab of some kind covering the front, it was probably the back. In fact, he decided as he finally pulled into full orientation, that is the space between the two doors at the back. Also, he added to himself, it is daylight outside, which means I've been out for at least four hours. He looked down at his watch again, and was relieved to find it glowing faintly in its accustomed place near the end of his arm. It looked like either two o'clock or ten minutes after twelve; his eyes still weren't focusing perfectly.

A quick check of his pocket showed his communicator missing – to be expected. Too many people knew what that little silver fountain pen was capable of – Section Five should start work on something new to hide the tiny long-distance radio in. A shoe-heel, for instance, or maybe a hollow tooth, depending on how miniaturization was progressing. His automatic was gone, of course – probably still lying there on the pavement of New Bond Street. He hoped somebody had picked it up; it would be a devil to clean if the dew got into it and rust pitting developed in the barrel. But his shoulder-rig was also missing. He hoped they were to together.

He checked his other concealed surprises – they were all in place. The little goodies that made each U.N.C.L.E. agent's suit into a walking arsenal were all present. As he contemplated the mental roll, his confidence returned. He could still blast his way out and make it back to London.

On the other hand, he might be almost anywhere. He had apparently been out of touch with reality for from eight to ten hours – that would be enough time for him to be halfway around the world. On the third hand, if he was halfway around the world and it was twelve-ten – or two – in England, it should be dark outside, so he was probably at least in Europe. But on the fourth hand, they could have reset his watch while he was unconscious, so it would be reading in local time. But that seemed uncommonly considerate for a bunch of kidnappers.