Текст книги "The Rainbow Affair"

Автор книги: David McDaniel

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 8 страниц)

On the fifth hand, if he had been traveling in a truck for all – or even most – of those eight or ten hours, he could still be several hundred miles away. Or at least a few hundred, considering the size of Britain. On the sixth hand…

Napoleon was running out of hands, and the thought reminded him to look at his watch again. It was now either ten past one, or five minutes past two. He decided that, in view of the subjective time that had passed since he'd last looked at his watch, it was probably five minutes after two.

The truck bounced violently, and a wall he hadn't expected swung out of the darkness and dealt severely with a tender patch on the back of his head. Specks of light danced before his eyes for a moment, and he raised a shaking hand to steady himself again.

Judging from the vibration, they were going at a pretty good clip. It would be pointless to use one of the little 'skeleton keys' – the tiny lumps of thermite with a manually ignited fuse which would make slag of the sturdiest lock in seconds – to blow open the door of the van; probably be better to wait until they arrived wherever they were going, and the doors were opened. For one thing, he believed in letting the opposition do as much of the work as possible, and for another, he had several questions he wanted to ask somebody.

He settled back to rest and wait.

He was awakened again a short time later as the truck lurched violently to the left and began to bounce about as though it had just left the road. It went slower and slower, making many turns, and eventually lumbered to a stop. Napoleon rose stiffly to a crouch just inside the back doors.

Several seconds later there were clanking noises around the area of the latch, and he tensed his aching muscles for the leap. He remembered to squint his eyes just at the instant the doors swung open and a flood of daylight rushed in upon him.

There were two men, both with automatics, standing a few feet below him, on the ground. While their light-accustomed eyes peered into the darkness of the truck, Napoleon was gauging their distances and angles from him. Before they had more than realized their prisoner was crouched just within the door instead of flopped against a wall, he had leaped out upon them, flailing arms and yelling.

But his bruised leg betrayed him as he landed, and buckled as he tried to sprint for cover. Before he could regain his balance the guns were leveled at him, and a patient voice was saying, "Back on your feet, now, and try not to fall over again."

Napoleon slowly worked himself upright, and looked around at his captors. "What exactly is going on here?" he finally asked.

"You've been wanting to find out about Johnnie Rainbow," said the patient one, "so Johnnie has decided to find out more about you. The difference is he knew where to find you."

"Couldn't he have found out without bringing me in for a personal interview?"

"Possibly he thought you could tell him more. I don't make policy for the gang, I just do what I'm told. You should try it… you'll find it makes life ever so much simpler. You can start by walking over there."

"Over there" was the edge of a cliff, and somewhere far beyond the grassy knoll that led up to it Napoleon could hear and smell the sea. As he crossed the twenty-odd yards and climbed to the brink, he saw a wooden railing and a small platform which turned out to be the top of a flight of steps zigzagging down the face of the cliff to a narrow strip of pebbly beach some seventy-five or a hundred feet below him. A small motor launch bobbed on the water of the little cove, and figures were visible moving about the after deck.

Napoleon looked down at it and murmured, "A floating headquarters? Ingenious, but restrictive."

"That's not headquarters, you nit," said the second man. "That's a boat. Come on – down the stairs. They're perfectly safe."

"After you," Napoleon said, stepping back politely.

"But we insist," said the first. "After all, you're the guest of honor. Remember, if we'd wanted to kill you we've had plenty of chances. If you'll cooperate it'll make things easier all around – I don't especially want to have to carry you down these steps, and you likely don't want another clout on the head."

Solo felt the back of his skull carefully, and agreed. He brought his hand down unexpectedly in a crisp chop across the wrist of the nearer man, and one gun flipped into the undergrowth. At the same time his opposite leg flashed up and caught the other man's gun hand in a demonstration of coordination that would win applause on any vaudeville stage. This audience seemed singularly displeased with it, however, and let out simultaneous howls of complaint. One was silenced an instant later as Napoleon's other hand, slightly bent and rigid, chopped through a short arc which ended on the side of the nearest neck.

Agony shot through his wrist as he connected, but the pain was compensated by the sight of half his opposition collapsed on the tough marsh grass.

The other half had jumped back, clutching at his own injured wrist, and Napoleon felt a moment of sympathy for him. But he was unarmed, and there was no telling how distant help was. He decided not to press the engagement.

Resolutely ignoring the twinges that shot up his legs and through his back, Solo broke and ran for cover. The truck stood empty and unguarded, but the first gunman, who no longer looked as patient as he had, stood between him and the open door of the cab. A motorized escape was out. Dodging and ducking, Solo was out of sight among the trees within five seconds.

There were shouts behind him, as the driver of the truck summoned help, probably from the boat. Napoleon hoped so; it would take them some time to climb those steps and to get their breath back afterwards. He glanced over his shoulder to establish the direction of the cliff, and hurried in the opposite direction.

They had turned off the main road – or at least a paved road – somewhere back this way. It couldn't be more than half a mile, he thought, judging from how long it had taken and how slowly they had been going. Half his muscles were stiffening up already, but with a combination of will power and fear of capture driving him, he was able to keep going.

He heard the pursuers long before he saw them, crashing through the brush and swearing. They were audible enough to give him both location and direction; as soon as both had been established he swung at right angles to their course, moved quietly some twenty feet, and stopped, listening.

They shouldn't be making that much noise; they weren't fools, by any means. More than likely, a few men were trying to beat him into the arms of the main group which was moving quietly in the opposite direction. He didn't think they were clever enough to create a second-order deception, the main body making the most noise so he would think it was a trap. He took the situation at face value and doubled back, heading roughly towards the major source of racket.

As he approached, he became more cautious. They sounded only about fifty feet away now. He crouched low behind a bush and, parting the branches cautiously, peered out from his covert.

There they came – only two men, talking together as they came and brushing branches aside all about them, making quite a satisfactory racket. Napoleon pulled down into a tight little ball behind the bush, and tried to breathe as little as possible as they went by, less than fifteen feet away from him. After they passed, he began counting quietly to himself.

He counted off two hundred and fifty, and then looked around very slowly. There was no one else in sight. Very quietly and carefully he rose from his position of concealment and looked around again. Still no one. He took a cautious step, and then another. Eventually he was striding on through the woods, all pursuit left far behind him.

He became aware of the road shortly before he could see it, as the sound of a well-muffled engine and the unmistakable hiss of tires on pavement came to him. He hurried forward, his feet silent on the tufted grass, up a slight rise and past another line of bushes, in time to see the rear end of a big old battleship-gray Bentley disappearing around the next curve. Too bad he'd missed it – he needed a ride to the next town. No way of telling how far it was, or in which direction.

His main problem would be staying out of sight of the men hunting him while still remaining clearly visible to anyone coming along the road who might offer him a lift. He decided to compromise by remaining in hiding under a convenient clump of something green until he heard another car coming.

It was several minutes before he did, and then it didn't sound quite like a car. It was loud, like a racing car, but had a peculiar deep-throated sound it took him a moment to identify. A motorcycle – and a big one, too.

There were still no signs of pursuit as he stepped onto the road. The cycle was approaching from his left, and he hurried across the pavement to meet it. The sound of the engine dropped a few notes as the bike slowed for the curve, then came booming into sight. Napoleon stepped out in front of it and waved his arms.

The bike slowed as it approached, and stopped with its engine muttering beside him. It was a big Royal Enfield – a quarter-ton of perfectly disciplined power. But the rider, resting lightly in the saddle like a sparrow on the back of a percheron, was a slender slip of a girl in white leathers. Her chestnut hair escaped from under her white helmet, and her eyes were hiding behind heavy goggles, but her smile was quick and bright.

"Need a ride?" she said.

"Just as far as the next town," said Napoleon. "Or the nearest telephone."

"That's where I'm going. Hop on."

He did, although with some caution. His thigh muscles objected to being swung over the rear half of the seat, and it took him a second or so to convince them of the necessity of cooperation. As he wriggled into a comfortable position, the girl spoke again.

"I don't know how familiar you are with motorcycles, so let me ask that you stay relaxed and let me do the steering. Don't try to lean into a curve when I do; just hold on to me and relax. Got that?"

"Right. I'll just be part of the bike."

"Fine. Set?"

"Set."

The engine roared up and the gearshift clicked into place, and the bike suddenly tried to leap out from under them. But Napoleon's arms were locked around the girl's waist, and her grip on the handlebars was firm, and in a moment they were flying down the road. The thunder of the exhaust climbed the scale and then dropped as they shifted gears, then climbed and dropped again, and once more. Now, though the engine was muttering easily under them, they were whipping along the road with the trees flashing by on either side like fence-pickets. The afternoon sun slickered between the trees to their right, and the big machine purred along the narrow road like a racing cheetah, canting easily around corners and whirling up hills and down grades while Napoleon felt the tails of his coat trying to tear them selves loose in the windstream. He kept his head ducked behind the girl's as much as possible, letting her break the wind for him, but it was hard to hide all of himself behind her slender body.

The slipstream tore at his hair and his trousers slapped at his legs until they stung. The wind poured like jets of ice water into his dissolving eyes. They seemed to be outracing time itself as they flashed along the tree-bordered road, and the whole world was lost around them. Nothing existed outside the vibration of the machine gripped between his thighs, and the slim body his arms surrounded. His vision swam with tears, and his ears were filled with the roar of the wind, and there was nothing but himself and the girl, the cycle, and speed.

Chapter 7

How Napoleon Lay Low, and a Little Old Lady Made Discreet inquiries.

CONVERSATION WAS practically impossible for the next few minutes, but eventually there were houses around them and the cycle slowed to a careful twenty miles per hour. Napoleon blinked his eyes several times to clear them, and looked around at the small village they were in the midst of.

"Where are we?" he asked the girl.

"Baycombe," she said.

"I mean generally. What county?"

She half turned her head in surprise. "You were lost! Devonshire."

"Not lost, exactly. I'll explain after I get to a phone." She didn't answer this time, but instead made a left and a right, and braked gently to a stop in front of a small cottage set a short way back from the side-street on which they found themselves. She braced the bike with both legs while Napoleon climbed off, then dismounted herself and set the stand.

Now that she was standing beside him, Napoleon was even more impressed with her handling of the big cycle. She scarcely came up to his chin, and she couldn't weigh over a hundred pounds. He looked her up and down with some respect. There must be considerable strength concealed in that delicate body, to judge from the way she had flipped her cycle up onto its stand.

The object of his inspection, either unaware or ignoring it, loosened her chin strap and slipped off the helmet, shaking her coppery hair free as she did so. Then she lifted the goggles off, and rubbed the back of a gloved hand across her eyes.

"Let's go inside," she said. "Aunt Jane should have tea set out, and you can tell us what happened to you."

They did, she did, and he did.

Aunt Jane was a tiny, spry little old lady who seemed to have been suspended in time somewhere near the turn of the century and brought forward as a living image of the Victorian – or perhaps Edwardian – lady. She seemed more like a picture-book grandmother than an aunt. The inside of the cottage was comfortably if sparsely furnished in a modern style which seemed quite out of place around her.

In the course of that cautious mutual interrogation which strangers share along with food, Napoleon found that the cottage belonged to the girl, whose name was Josephine, though she preferred to be called Joey. Aunt Jane was visiting from London for two weeks since the mid-May weather was much better in Devon than in the City.

Aunt Jane spoke approvingly of the morning's sermon, and paused to explain to Mr. Solo that although she was herself, of course, strictly C. of E., a personal friend had been saying Mass at the tiny Catholic church the village supported.

Napoleon smiled politely and nodded, half-listening as his mind chased over the possibilities of pursuit and the pressing necessity for re-establishing communications with the U.N.C.L.E. office in London, and, incidentally, with Illya. The tea was strong and sweet, and lent new strength to his aching muscles. Somewhere during the second cup, he suddenly realized what he must look like after rolling on the floor of a truck for several hours, running through the woods, and then riding on the back of a motorcycle for another indefinite period. He caught a glimpse of himself in the shiny side of the silver teapot and reacted with shock.

He set his empty cup down and cleared his throat. "Ah – please allow me to apologize for intruding upon you looking like this. I only just realized my appearance, and…"

"That's quite all right, Mr. Solo," said Aunt Jane. "You looked as if a good cup of tea would do you more good than soap and water. If you wish to refresh yourself, you will find the necessities at the back of the house, to the left of the kitchen."

He thanked her and rose, heading in the indicated direction. Some fifteen minutes later he returned, lacking only a shave and a fresh shirt to feel perfectly presentable again. He had discovered a tear in his coat, and careful investigation had convinced him that his wrist had not been broken, or even cracked, though a nasty inflammation indicated a severe sprain that could impair his use of the hand for several days.

When he re-entered the front room, a stranger rose from the wicker chair to extend a hand. He was a short, roly-poly man with a round face, beaming with child like innocence above his clerical collar. Aunt Jane spoke from her chair.

"Father, this is Napoleon Solo, our guest this afternoon. Mister Solo, may I present Father John."

They shook hands and Napoleon said, "I'm sorry for imposing on you like this, but could I use your telephone for a call to London? I could pay you for it, of course."

"I'm sorry as well, Mr. Solo," said Joey. "But we're not on the telephone here. This is sort of my hideaway by the sea. There's a public box down at the Rose and Crown, but that's not open today."

The little priest suddenly and unaccountably smiled at Aunt Jane, leaned forward, and spoke, in an almost childish treble. "I beg your pardon, Mister Solo, if I seem to be intruding. But if you are in any sort of difficulty, we would be only too pleased to be of any small service to you."

Napoleon looked at the earnest, plump little priest and smiled. "Thank you, Father, but I'm afraid my problems are all entirely of a secular nature."

"All the better. As one divorced from secular matters, perhaps I may be able to show them in another light."

Aunt Jane said, "Perhaps Mr. Solo would rather not discuss personal matters before strangers, Father."

"Well, it's not at all a personal matter," said Napoleon. "It's... actually, it's more or less a matter of business." The temporization established, he hesitated, his mind racing.

The Rainbow Gang was based somewhere in this area. He couldn't get in touch with Illya until tomorrow at the earliest. But the people who had kidnapped him knew he couldn't have gotten too far, and they would probably be looking around the area for him, so he would have to lie low while he was here. But it seemed a shame to be so close to Johnnie Rainbow's headquarters and not be out looking for it. Here was a chance to enlist some friendly natives – if he could trust them. Joey was unlikely to be a plant; he'd more or less found her at random on the road, unless Rainbow had planted her down the road a way to pick him up in case he got away and signaled her by radio... but then why hadn't she simply taken him back to them? Applying Occam's Razor, which translates into Modern English roughly as "Keep It Simple," she was probably just what she seemed to be, which was nice all the way around. And if she was all right, then Aunt Jane and Father John were also trustworthy, and might be able to help him.

This chain of thought occupied the time it took Napoleon's right hand to rise from his lap to the inner pocket of his coat, with a barely perceptible hesitation as he glanced thoughtfully at Joey. He brought out his wallet, and spoke again.

"Have you ever heard of the U.N.C.L.E.?" He spelled out the initials.

Joey looked blank. "The Uncle?" she said.

Aunt Jane's eyebrows rose. "No, Josephine. It's the United Network Command for Law Enforcement."

"For Law and Enforcement," corrected the mild voice of the plump priest. "I have heard something of this organization. Distantly related to Interpol, I believe." His wide gray eyes blinked repeatedly.

"Oh, no," said Aunt Jane. "Interpol is really only an information exchange. The United Network Command takes an active part in crime prevention on an international scale." She turned to Joey. "You see, dear, since crime in the modern world is unhampered by international boundaries, a sort of police force was needed which could also function supra-nationally. Where Interpol enables national police forces to pursue ordinary criminals who cross or whose influences extend over international boundaries, U.N.C.L.E. is capable of attacking crimes which involve whole nations. Isn't that more or less correct, Mr. Solo?"

Napoleon was caught somewhat off balance by this unexpected display of knowledge, and it took him a moment to recover. "Ah – as a matter of fact, that's just about it. We're similar to Interpol in that we aren't specifically connected to any one country or group of countries; we're supported by just about everyone except Red China and Albania. In fact, my partner is a Russian national." Then he remembered, and flipped open his wallet, showing the gold card which identified him.

The little priest leaned forward to study the card, and nodded. "Baycombe seems an unlikely spot to attract an investigator of international crime."

Aunt Jane said, "There are certain features in the area which could interest the criminals, however. It is quite peaceful and privacy is easily maintained. In addition, the sea offers a ready avenue for covert access."

Joey looked at Napoleon, and her eyebrows rose. "You're a detective?"

"More or less. Technically I handle the Enforcement part of the U.N.C.L.E. Right now I'm on the trail of a gentleman called Johnnie Rainbow."

Both Aunt Jane and Father John registered surprise. She spoke first. "The Rainbow Gang? In this area? How marvelous!"

"What do you know about the Rainbow Gang?" Napoleon asked.

"Actually very little," said the priest. "They're supposed to have been behind the Royal Mail robbery in '63, and have been blamed for half the large jobs since."

Napoleon cleared his throat, and put away his wallet. "You are aware that this is hardly supposed to be general knowledge," he said.

"Of course, Mr. Solo," said Aunt Jane sweetly. "Would you care for some more tea? You see, Father John and I share the hobby of criminology. There must be several hundred like us around England. We seldom get to participate in an actual investigation these days, but we keep up with current developments in the field. In the case of Johnnie Rainbow, since his existence is officially denied, we take a special interest. Perhaps we would be able to help you in your work."

Napoleon looked at her doubtfully. "Well, I really don't..."

"What exactly has happened to you so far?" the priest asked. "How did you come to be picked up by the road? Had you escaped from kidnappers?"

"Ah, as a matter of fact I had," Napoleon said.

And over the next half hour he told his three unlikely allies the entire story from the time of their arrival in London four days earlier. When he finished, Father Brown nodded.

"That explains something I noticed earlier this afternoon. I don't believe I mentioned this before, but the local constable was approached by three men about two hours ago. They said an attempt had been made to rob them out on the Ilfracombe Road, and they described their assailant most carefully. When the constable mentioned it to me, I did not inquire of the description, but I should not be at all surprised if it were yours."

"But Scotland Yard will vouch for me."

"Indeed. But before you can establish your bona fides, you will have been detained long enough for the Rainbow Gang to find you again and do what they will."

"Perhaps," suggested Aunt Jane, "we could act as your agents while you remained in hiding here. Josephine, you have a spare bedroom, I believe."

Joey looked at her aunt strangely. "Of course I do. You're in it."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to displace anyone," Napoleon began, but Aunt Jane overrode him.

"Not at all. Josephine wouldn't dream of failing her duty as a hostess."

"I'm certain she wouldn't," said Napoleon. "But perhaps it might be more circumspect if I were to sleep on the sofa. I assure you I would be quite comfortable – as well as being in a better position to defend against any attempt at an invasion by the Rainbow Gang."

He had called her character correctly. The little old lady considered the suggestion a moment, then nodded. "Under the circumstances, Mr. Solo, I believe you are correct. The sofa would be best." She turned to her friends. "Now, Father, what do you think of Mr. Solo's story?"

"If they were indeed taking him to their headquarters, which seems quite possible, I would say it was on an island rather nearby."

"Not across the Bristol Channel?" asked Napoleon.

"Not if the boat was as small as described," said Aunt Jane. "Josephine, could you indicate on a map approximately where along the road you picked Mr. Solo up?"

"Of course. It was just about half a mile south of the Wuxton junction."

"Fine. Would you find the large-scale map of the area, and a chart of the Channel? Thank you."

The afternoon was spent in study of maps of land and sea. There were a number of islands ranging in size from moderate to infinitesimal, and mostly with some traces of habitation. They picked a radius of twenty miles and made a list of all the islands. Then they made a list of things Johnnie Rainbow's headquarters could be identified by.

First, multiple communications with the land, probably showing radio antennae. Next, privacy for covert comings and goings. Among these would be not only boats but very likely a helicopter landing pad and possibly a space for a small seaplane, though not necessarily. Lastly, all changes would be fairly recent.

It was agreed that the next day Aunt Jane would begin checking on the ownership or occupancy of as many of the islands as possible, and Father John would place the call to London from the Rose and Crown. Napoleon instructed him carefully.

"The number is HOLborn 2600. When the call is connected you will hear a busy signal. Wait for thirty seconds, and then pronounce my name clearly twice. Then someone will come on the line. Tell them where I am and what happened. Tell them my communicator was taken, and I need transportation back. They'll give you a message for me. Oh, and you might ask them to get in touch with the local arm of the law and clear me so I can walk the streets again."

Father John nodded, and departed.

"Now," said Aunt Jane, looking at Napoleon severely, "I see your coat has been a bit ripped at one side. If you will be so good as to take it off, I will mend it for you. Josephine, my sewing basket, please."

"We've found several islands that might interest you, Mr. Solo," Aunt Jane said the next afternoon. "I have a list here of those whose neighbors tend to make comments. My personal favorite is Donzerly, some twelve miles from here, eight from where you were found. There is an unused lighthouse perched on a spur of bare rock, but it has a floating pier and a paved area quite adequate for a small helicopter. The owner is a retired Naval officer, who purchased the light at an auction of Crown property some five years ago. He has maintained the foghorn, and it always sounds on bad nights. But the local fishermen seem to distrust him. He's added radar to the light's array of aerials, and has parties at the oddest times."

"Parties?" said Napoleon uncertainly.

"As far as anyone around here knows. He's antisocial enough to his neighbors, they say, but his friends fly in from the City at all hours."

"How do they know they're from London?"

"By the clothes. Oh yes, he also has two sturdy powerboats which come to our pier for supplies occasionally. Other than that, no one seems to know what goes on out there. Oh yes, there's been some notice of the amount of goods he seemed to be stowing away out there – all sorts of bundles and crates used to arrive on the island."

"The local fisherfolk seem to be immensely observant."

Aunt Jane smiled brightly. "All those who live close to nature are observant. And those who live close to the sea usually have telescopes near at hand."

There was a discreet tap at the front door, and Father John entered. "Your London office wishes me to in form you that Mister Kuryakin is also missing, as of quite early this morning, but, I believe they said, 'Win one, lose one,' or something like that. They will be sending a light plane for you tomorrow morning at ten."

Chapter 8

How Illya Kuryakin Met and Spoke With a Remarkable Individual, and Was Allowed to Escape With His Life.

MONTAGUE STREET WAS nearly deserted in the dimming light following sunset. Illya had spent a pleasant after noon at the British Museum pursuing interests which had no bearing on his current assignment, and had paused for a light meal at a Wimpy shop before walking the half-mile back to the U.N.C.L.E. office. As he stepped out into the dusk, the gaunt silhouettes of the new office buildings along Charing Cross caught his eye, black against the evening sky.

Perhaps he was comparatively lucky to see London two or three times a year – the old City was changing so rapidly now that people who had been away five years felt lost and out of place. The old pubs were being torn down or rebuilt into discotheques; the dark little shops which had carried on the traditions of generations were being replaced by shiny chrome steel and glass marketplaces full of bright trinkets made in Japan; and everywhere great glittering columns rose above the smoke-stained rooftops to catch the sunlight and to house London's millions.

Half lost in thought, he crossed Russell Square and started up Woburn Place. Never so introspective as to lose track of his surroundings, he was fully aware when a taxi came out of Bernard Street and cruised slowly past him. It turned directly in front of him as he reached the entrance to Woburn Mews, and two men stepped out.

Without hesitation, they moved to either side of Illya. The Russian felt a familiar hard pressure against his side, and refrained from objecting – it could be a pipestem but it wasn't worth the risk to find out.

A low voice on the same side said, "Just step right in, please."

It seemed an innocent enough request – hardly worth arguing about. Illya stepped inside, and a moment later was sitting between the two men. A third was driving; he backed neatly out and turned south. As he did so, the man to Illya's right squirmed around in the seat, reaching for an inner pocket, and produced a black silk kerchief. In thirty seconds Illya was quite effectively blindfolded.

The ride lasted about half an hour, with frequent turns, until even Illya's excellent sense of direction was completely confused. At one point, the taxi seemed to be backing up for an indefinite distance, then made a pair of canceling turns. This was followed by a long straight stretch where their speed increased considerably.