Текст книги "The Rainbow Affair"

Автор книги: David McDaniel

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It made an audible landing just to the west of the circle, and four men detached themselves from the shadows and ran across the grass towards it.

In seconds they had surrounded the case, which was perhaps three feet on a side. Apparently secure in the belief of solitude, they were caught quite unprepared when a sharp voice out of the darkness said, "All right – hold very still and raise your hands. All of you." At the same moment a powerful battery-operated floodlight pinned them to the spot. The four men stood frozen in their various positions, harshly lit against the blackness of the night.

Then, as though directed by a single control, all four of them leaped away into the darkness in different directions. Napoleon's first shot snapped through the space where one of them had been standing, and an instant later muzzle flashes flickered from the shadows. Illya swept the light across the plain, but no heads were to be seen above the grass. As two slugs whipped past him, he killed the light and dived for cover behind the nearest stone himself.

He wriggled over to Napoleon for a fast conference. In terse whispers, punctuated by occasional gunshots, they worked out a plan of action.

A few seconds later the floodlight appeared again, weaving and bobbing, picking out the hiding men. As the light rose higher and higher from the ground it swung about, bathing the short scrub grass in light. The Rainbow men stayed concealed, as Napoleon's sights traversed the area.

At the same time, Illya, having thrown the cord of the floodlight over the top of a lintle-stone so it dangled in the air, and hauled it up to perhaps twelve feet from the ground, was running silently in the opposite direction. Just beyond the Heel Stone to the east was a road, and just across the road their little two-seater was concealed. While Napoleon kept the opposing team under control, he could zip around among them, pick up the box and remove it.

He whipped the camouflage blanket away, vaulted into the seat and hit the starter. The engine raced, and rear wheels threw clouds of dirt as they tore at the ground for traction. In seconds he was around the end of the fence and bounding over the tussocky grass, his headlights stabbing at the sky and sweeping the ground. The dangling floodlight picked out the crate he was after, and he gunned the engine in second gear, hoping the defenders would be able to keep out of his way.

The car jerked to a halt between the light and the box. Illya leaped out the near side and hoisted the case. Three shots whipped by him, and a short burst from somewhere below the light clipped the tops of the grass blades.

The case was large enough to be clumsy, but weighed no more than fifty pounds. Illya crouched, gripped fingers under the edge, and lifted. For a moment he was silhouetted against the harsh floodlight, and the car lurched slightly as he dropped the case into the passenger seat. He took off again, swinging right, as a fusillade went off behind him and to his left. As he made a long U-turn, headlights out, the communicator in his pocket twittered. Steering one-handed, he fished it out and flipped it open. Napoleon's voice whispered in his ear.

"Illya – I've been pinned down by the four of them while you were loading up. I can hole up where I am, but you can't get in to me. Get that box somewhere safe, and I'll call for help."

The Russian clicked an acknowledgment. Solo could take care of himself, as had been noted, and under the circumstances the box of Thrush's latest developments was worth as much as a chance on his life.

A few slugs sang by like mosquitoes as Illya dropped into top gear, fighting the steering wheel and forcing the bucking car back towards the road.

Napoleon, at the same time, crouched behind a stone and stuffed cartridges into his long magazine. There seemed to be more than four men out there now – perhaps there had been another crew with a truck some where nearby. He had seen Illya go bounding away over the plain with the box in the left-hand seat, and there had been no concerted effort to chase him.

He glanced at his watch. The glowing hands read shortly past three. It would be dawn in another hour and a half, and darkness would no longer hide him. His last act before escaping from his former hiding place had been to disconnect the lamp and deactivate the battery; that was one weapon they wouldn't be using against him. He finished reloading his twenty-shot magazine and settled down to wait.

Some ninety minutes later Napoleon crouched once again behind a stone – the Heel Stone, the same that Illya had sprinted past on his way to the car. During the last hour and more, he had been harried and chivvied from place to place, dodging from one stone to another in an effort to avoid encirclement, retreating slightly. And now he was at the easternmost stone in the whole monument – a great rough boulder perhaps ten feet wide and twenty high, jutting up from the Wiltshire grass. A wide stretch of open space lay between him and the edge of the monument.

The stones were beginning to show lighter against the western sky, now, and the last of the stars were swallowed in a light mist which formed in the air. The Rainbow men – those who were left – could not rush him across the open ground, but he could not escape from the sanctuary of the standing stone. If he could only hold them off for a while longer...

Then he felt a warmth on the back of his neck, and turned his head, shading his eyes with the palm of a chilly hand. The sun had just cleared the horizon, and the mist was burning away. The golden rays were suddenly dazzling against the last wisps of night, and he looked down.

He holstered his automatic again as the last of the mist faded, and began to run. He ran low, half-bent among the tufts of grass, directly toward the rising sun. He heard a few shots from behind him, and dodged slightly. The rising sun, almost directly behind the Heel Stone, blinded his pursuers and guided him to escape by its shadows.

Ten minutes later Napoleon rose from a crouch in the grass to check his backtrail visually. There was no sign of pursuit. Gradually he stood upright and looked all about him in the cold, wet morning air. He was alone. There was only a farmhouse, perhaps half a mile away, where no light showed to indicate a wakeful inhabitant.

He started towards it, slogging through the dew-heavy grass. And thirty seconds later something cracked through the air beside his head like the tail of a whip. He broke into a run, leaping and dodging, heading towards the distant farmhouse, as the sound of the shot reached him, flat and far away across the moors.

Into the farmyard he staggered, winded from the run. He may have lost them, or they may have been hurrying along behind. He glanced at the shuttered windows of the sleeping farmhouse, and decided against involving the citizenry. Around the far side of the house he found a bicycle leaning against a wall. He fumbled in his pockets for a pen and paper, and scribbled a note. Am borrowing your bicycle; it will be returned. Here's something for your trouble. He fastened it to a five-pound note and tacked it to the wall.

Then he straightened the bike silently, straddled it, and spun away, wobbling slightly, down the dirt road that led from the farmer's gate. Unless his pursuit had been able to bring a vehicle along with them in that long chase over the plain, he could now outdistance them with ease. The road was reasonably level, and merged with a paved thoroughfare after a mile or so, heading south.

At the junction, wet and cold, Napoleon surveyed the road and tried to orient himself. He was now, uh, southeast of Stonehenge. The nearest large town was Shaftesbury, which would be... ah... to his right. Probably.

He regretted having left the map of the area in the car. He turned to the right, consciously remembering to stay in the left lane, and pedaled away into the lonely morning.

The sun warmed his back as he pumped along down the road, and the instinctive equilibrium a cyclist develops came back to him. One car passed him from behind as he pedaled down the seven or so miles into Shaftesbury, and it came upon him so suddenly he almost veered off the road and into the ditch. It zoomed past, and the stench of its exhaust faded quickly.

At last the outskirts of the town were about him, and he left the bike on the steps of the local police station and wandered on afoot. He found a small park and settled down on a dew-spangled bench, dredged out his communicator, and called for Illya.

With no answer on the local channel, he called for the London relay, and signaled again. After several seconds the Russian's voice answered.

"I'm in Shaftesbury," Napoleon announced casually, "and I'm safe. How soon can you pick me up?"

There was a thoughtful silence from the other end, and then Illya said, "There was a little trouble with the car, Napoleon. A hole in the fuel tank left me dry near Dorchester. Fortunately we have a retired agent there. I left the case with him, and borrowed his transportation."

"Fine. How soon can you pick me up?"

"In Shaftesbury?"

"That's where I am, across the street from the Noughts and Crosses public house. How soon?"

"Twenty minutes."

"Fine. And hurry – I'm freezing."

The connection was ended, and Napoleon leaned back on the bench to watch the street.

About fifteen minutes later a muffled roar grew far away on the other side of town, and approached. Soon it was visible, coming up the street towards him – a fine, low-slung, broad-beamed motorcycle, purring gently up the street at fifty miles an hour. It slewed on the wet pavement, and Napoleon winced. Then he looked at it and winced again, more slowly.

Did the posture of the driver, the broad serious face, seem too familiar? The cycle rumbled heavily to a stop, and stood there muttering as the rider beckoned towards him and raised his protective mask to shout, "Come on, Napoleon. Hop aboard!" It was Illya.

"What's that?" Solo asked doubtfully.

"It's a motorcycle. Specifically, a Bruff-Sup, or formally, a Brough-Superior vintage 1935. Fifty-two horse power at top. Come on – hop aboard. I borrowed this from our friend at Clouds Hill, near Dorchester. He'll want it back."

Napoleon gathered his coat around him and climbed carefully up to the tiny padded square pillion seat behind his partner. With a moment's search, his feet found the footpegs and his hands found the grip behind the front seat. Illya blipped the motor a few times, then gunned it and slipped the clutch, and instantly they were whipping along the shop-lined street, almost without a feeling of acceleration.

Solo's knees, lifted by the footbraces, stuck out diagonally to either side of the hurtling machine. The wind, unbroken over Illya's bent back, blasted into his face like powdered snow. His hair pulled at his scalp and his tie almost tore from under his vest.

They veered left, then left again, and were on a major through road which bore traffic even at this hour. A sign pointed to LONDON, 97 MILES. Their speed increased, and a voice floated back to him as Illya straightened and shouted something. Solo leaned forward and yelled, "What?"

Illya half-turned his head and shouted, "We'll be in London in about an hour. Hang on!"

Napoleon did a fast calculation, and his jaw dropped. Speed-driven cold air forced into his mouth and out his nose before he snapped it shut again. Then he ducked down too, bending along the curve of the driver's back, trying to keep the wind out of his eyes.

Engines roared faintly over the scream and thunder of the wind in his ears, and they began to overtake trucks. Great combinations, speeding towards London with goods and materials for the morning markets. Illya wound smoothly from lane to lane, passing them like a racer, keeping his speed up to an area Napoleon didn't want to know about.

He clung to the handgrip and locked his fingers around it, and kept his eyes squeezed shut most of the time. He opened them once to see the trailers of two trucks side by side, filling the entire roadway ahead of them, and heard Illya shout, "Knees in, Napoleon!" as they shot between the trucks.

For a measurable part of a second there were two walls of swaying gray steel inches away from them on either side, and a noise that clogged the ears with sound. Wheels hissed on pavement, powerful engines thundered and wind screamed. And then they were out in the low golden sunlight, and the snouts of the trucks shrank away behind them. The road unwound ahead, and London lay waking at the end of it.

Chapter 11

How Napoleon and Illya Heard a Violin, and the Old Old Gentleman Spoke of Bees, Drugs, Death and Other Mysteries.

DUSK WAS SPREADING over the gentle Sussex hills as Napoleon and Illya walked again along the winding lane that led back to Mr. Escott's bee farm. They talked quietly during the mile or two out from town.

"I never knew you felt that way about motorcycles, Napoleon."

"Well, I've never been that fond of them, and I do think your driving could have been more cautious."

"I wasn't used to the machine. Those old ones are tricky."

"All the same, I think the next time I'll wait for a helicopter from the local office."

They came around the curve of the dirt track and paused, as before, at the sight of the little cottage with the field of small hives behind it. And as they stood there, the faint wailing strains of a violin floated up to them. Both listened as they approached until the sounds were loud enough to form a recognizable melody. Illya nodded and said, "Chopin's Fantasie Impromptu."

Napoleon recognized the tune by another name, and made a face. "A whole island of punsters," he said wryly.

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind. I forgot your knowledge of American popular music starts with Charlie Parker and continues unidirectionally."

"Perhaps. I always preferred specialization."

"Umm," said Napoleon as the piece drew to an end and they stood on the doorstep of the cottage and knocked.

Several seconds later, the door opened and they were invited in. "And how did you find Stonehenge?" Mr. Escott asked as they sat down.

"Quite pleasant," said Napoleon. "Everything went very much as predicted, and we collected the delivery. There was a little problem..."

"Our equipment proved somewhat inadequate," Illya explained. "But we, ah, won through."

"Tell me everything. Spare no detail, no matter how minor. I am no longer able to gather my own data in the field, but the hunter's nose is still there."

Once again they reported all they could about the operation, and again, when they were talked dry, Escott shifted the conversation. "I hope you won't mind an hour's idle conversation. Although solitary by nature, I occasionally find my remote location a trial, and human society is a rare delight. I observed you had some transportation trouble the moment you walked in, but resolved to let your story unfold. You, Mr. Kuryakin, had obviously had less trouble but rather farther to go." The keen eyes narrowed slightly, and the old head nodded. "A long motorcycle ride always leaves its marks." He smiled and leaned back, and added, "Though fewer than an ordinary bicycle."

Napoleon and Illya looked at each other, wondering which would have to ask the inevitable question.

Napoleon lost. His suit had been cleaned and pressed again after his long walk through the foggy dew and that hurricane ride to London, and neither grass stain nor flaccid creases could have betrayed the morning's activities. He finally opened his mouth and got as far as, "How could you have told it was a bicycle, though?"

Escott sighed politely, and pointed to Napoleon's trouser-cuffs. "The fraying of the right cuff on the inside is characteristic of cycling. The fact that you returned to London is again apparent in the appearance of your creases. By the way, would you unhook that slipper beside the fire and hand it over here? Thank you."

Illya performed the requested service, and they watched as Escott packed an aged meerschaum with a pungent mixture from the toe of the slipper. He handed it back, and then carefully set fire to his well-tamped pipe. Between puffs, he said, "But would you be willing to talk of your organization, and your opponent's? I have heard rumors many places of something called Thrush, and I would be most interested to see if it bears any resemblance to a network I had some hand in cracking many years ago."

For the next few hours, Napoleon and Illya described the nature of Thrush as well as they could. The satraps, the Supreme Council and the Ultimate Computer, the semi-independent operations that went on within this great hierarchy; the range of activities they participated in, always with an eye to their ends, which were, simply enough, the conquest of the entire world and its inhabitants.

Escott finished a pipe and began on another while they talked, and then told of his struggles against a prototype of Thrush. As it grew later in the evening, he brought out, refreshments and the conversation continued. They covered everything they had found out about the Rainbow Gang and its leader, and wandered afield into tastes in music and odd facts of life.

But in the relaxed atmosphere, Napoleon and Illya found themselves remembering little details. The type of caps worn by the men who drove his truck, or the odd smell about Johnnie Rainbow's borrowed country estate. And gradually pieces of a picture began to build up, with Escott's voice weaving the individual bits of evidence into a tapestry of circumstance that wound around men whose names were unknown, but whose presence made themselves felt everywhere. They saw the perfect simplicity of the lighthouse as a head quarters, safe, solitary, and well-defended. They saw glimpses of his network of representatives, strung out about the country, working independently but always available for an assignment; a network which fluctuated from moment to moment, evading a similar growing set being established by Thrush. Thrush had always had some difficulty establishing native agents in England, and to encounter this ready-made operation must have seemed a gift.

But in the course of their organizing drive, they occasionally ran into stumbling blocks. One such was Johnnie Rainbow, who wanted to keep England safe for the common burglar, and avoid foreign entanglements except those necessary to get loot out of the country. Escott made a comment that stuck in Napoleon's memory, to the effect that thieves were more deserving of prison terms than murderers. "A thief," he said, "is very hard to reform. By yielding to temptation once he has weakened his will to resist the next time. But a murderer, nine times out of ten, kills once, under a combination of circumstances that could never occur again, and then is punished so he may never repeat something he would be incapable of anyway." He paused, and sucked reflectively at his pipe. "But on the other hand there are those who would make murder a hobby – or a habit. These are the demons I most love to run to earth."

A small log in the fireplace snapped in the silence, and a golden shower of sparks spat onto the hearth stone.

"What are the things that drive men to murder, Mr. Solo? In my experience desperation of some kind is always evident. It may build slowly, like a banked fire, or it may blaze suddenly forth and destroy two lives – the victim and the killer." The old man's eyes shone in the light dancing from the fireplace. "These demons were my life's work, Mr. Solo. I had them catalogued, and could recognize a specimen by a single characteristic."

"Did you work alone, or were you part of a force?"

"Mostly alone. I was completely independent, except for a good and helpful friend. I made it my livelihood for many years, and prided myself that I had gained some measure of fame for my efforts. But now my talents are less in demand, and perhaps my grasp is slipping. It is not gone by any means – but could you please tell me, Mr. Solo, were you married at one time?"

Napoleon scarcely moved, but his eyes shifted first to Illya and then to the old man. "No," he said suddenly, with a quick grin. "Just a carefree bachelor." His glance turned to Illya, and grew very serious for a moment. "We ought to get back to the main problem, though. It's getting late, and there should be work to get done tomorrow."

He shifted position on the couch and addressed Escott again. "Do you have any ideas that might help us?"

The cue was not missed. Illya added, "It seems obvious to me that our course of action should be an invitation – ah, investigation, that is – of the lighthouse on Donzerly."

The old man nodded. "It must be the location. From Rainbow's speech it is obvious that Solo was being taken directly to where he was at the time, and his reference to the convenience of his headquarters indicates he would have been there. Unless he lives in a cave inside the cliffs, miraculously invisible to all the boats that pass, he must be on Donzerly. The only question that remains is will you take a small task force for a full-scale attack, or attempt an infiltration. The former would be safer and more effective, but the latter could net you invaluable data on his entire operation. How will you go about it, whichever you decide?"

"Stealth is our primary consideration," Illya said. "Don't you agree, Napoleon?"

Solo nodded. "The two of us should be able to sneak aboard that hunk of rock and pick out something valuable. It's a very helpful ability of ours."

"But Rainbow has all sorts of detection apparatus," Illya said. "We'd have to allow for anything he could try to find us with – infrared, radar, sonar, light-amplification devices, or something Thrush has given him recently. How can we hope to foul all of them? I don't relish the idea of swimming from the mainland in this weather, even with a wet-suit."

"Well, we can't fly. He'd see us in parachutes, and I'm not an accurate enough jumper to be sure of hitting such a small target."

"That leaves a boat, and they're easily seen," Illya said.

"Unless there's a fog," Napoleon said. "That would also kill the light-amplification."

"Infrared would work, but only with a short range," Illya nodded.

"A good heavy rain would blind it."

"But radar goes right through rain."

Napoleon shrugged. "A low-profiled boat in a high sea is completely lost in ground clutter on radar."

Illya sighed. "Sonar?"

"Wind, and turbulence on the surface. But they wouldn't cover the sound of a motorboat."

"In other words you want us to go across several miles of open sea in a full storm in a small, low-profile sail boat." Illya's voice did not change during this sentence, but there was a hint of raggedness.

"Essentially," Napoleon admitted.

"Now, I know you're an expert small-boat handler, Napoleon. You can do very nice turns around Long Island Sound in a skiff. But to take a small boat out in a storm..."

"Illya, it'll be perfectly safe. Probably. Depending on how severe the storm is."

"How can we tell when we start out how bad the storm will get? We would be swamped, capsized and sunk unless we had a very strong-hulled boat with sealed flotation chambers."

Escott leaned back in his old wing-chair and watched smiling as the two younger men thrashed out the solution to their own problem. This method had become more and more natural to him in later years, and he liked it. When his mind occasionally clouded, he could still guide others to the logical conclusions in their ways.

"All our gear could be packed in watertight compartments, and the sailors said there was a floating dock there left out in all weathers. We could even come in there."

Illya nodded, and Napoleon rose, saying, "Think it over for a minute while I get a drink of water."

As he left Escott leaned forward, a look of intense curiosity on his face. "Mr. Kuryakin, if it would not be betraying a confidence, could you tell me – did Mr. Solo lie about his marriage?"

Illya glanced at the closed kitchen door, thou quickly, and decided the truth was deserved. "Yes, did. It's not a confidence, but he doesn't like to be reminded of it. Married at nineteen, wife was killed in an automobile accident a year later. Sometimes I think he's never gotten over it. He probably denied it a moment ago through shock reaction."

Escott nodded. "I quite understand," he said. "Sorry to have intruded."

"I won't mention it."

Napoleon popped through the kitchen door again, asking, "Are you willing?" and Illya, caught slightly by surprise, said "Of course," before he had fully grasped the question.

"Fine," said Solo. "Tomorrow we will return to Baycombe and see about reserving an appropriate vessel for the next good storm."

"That should be in a few days. A low-pressure area was reported moving down from the Norwegian Sea, and within three days you will have all the storm you could desire," Escott said with a smile. "Today is Friday… that gives you the whole weekend to make your preparations. You may spend the night here if you wish, and take a main-line train tomorrow morning towards Baycombe."

"Well, it's a fair walk back to town…" Napoleon admitted.

"There will be my own honey with breakfast – the finest honey produced in this whole Kingdom," said Escott.

"Quite a temptation," Illya said, glancing at Napoleon, who nodded agreement. "Thank you. We accept both invitations."

Chapter 12

How Illya Discovered the Pleasures of Seafaring, and Napoleon Solo Sought a Rainbow in the Midst of a Storm.

SATURDAY THEY returned to Baycombe, and with help from their friends there, found a satisfactory boat. Sunday was beautiful again, with a light breeze from the north hinting of the storm to come. Napoleon and Illya attended Father John's mass in the morning, and went with Joey and Aunt Jane for a picnic in the afternoon. They sat in the grass atop a low cliff overlooking the sea and talked of inconsequentials.

Joey showed them what looked like a military Pill box – the remains of a Coastal Defense Station better than fifty years old. "It looks as if someone tried to convert it into a cottage," Joey said. "I can't think why."

"I can," said Napoleon. "This would be a nice place to get utterly away from the world. Just the wind and the sea, and a safe solid place to hide from the weather. If it's still around when I retire, maybe I'll see about buying it. That's probably what the previous inhabitant did."

"Oh no," Aunt Jane said. "This was the residence of a young man – about six feet tall and quite athletic. He had an older man with him, and was quite well off."

Illya sighed. "You were taught that trick by Mr. Escott, weren't you. Go ahead. How can you tell?"

"There are holes in the wall above the sink where a mirror was mounted. Its height indicated the height of its user. The older man had the second room back; he was in the position of a servant, because the younger man had the larger bedroom with the window."

Napoleon and Illya examined the areas she indicated, and Illya looked up first. "He must have either been well off or subject to fluctuations in fortune," he said. "There was no difference at all in the color or texture of the paper where nailholes indicate something was hanging, like a picture."

"Therefore," continued Napoleon without a pause, "he spent all sorts of money making the place livable and then moved out very shortly."

Aunt Jane nodded proudly. "That was quite good. I hadn't noticed that myself – my statement was based on other evidence. You see how your association with him has sharpened your eyes."

Napoleon and Illya looked at each other. Perhaps it was so – they hoped it was.

Monday blew up cloudy and cold. It started to rain around noon, while Napoleon and Illya were down at the dock making sure all their gear was safely stowed. They sealed the last box and hurried back up the street to Joey's house. There they had a hearty lunch and lay down for a few more hours' sleep before the long night ahead.

It was dark when they awoke, and Joey had supper ready for them. The storm was higher, and wind muttering around the house like an animal. They ate again, light, rich food which would keep them going through the cold without overloading their stomachs.

They spent nearly half an hour getting dressed for the excursion, from warm undergarments out through several layers to the waterproofs they slipped on over the entire ensemble. A last steaming cup of tea, and they were ready to go.

Two electric torches lighted their way down to the sheltered harbor, where the waves, even with force abated, tossed their craft from side to side, bouncing against the pilings and tugging at her moorings.

Illya looked at his partner and shook his head. "The storm is getting worse," he said. "Only an idiot would go out in an open boat on a night like this."

"I know," said Napoleon. "You ready?"

"Of course."

The waterfront was deserted in the storm, and alone the U.N.C.L.E. agents rigged the boat and cast off. Napoleon pushed the dock away with a small spar at the crest of one wave, and hauled up the single jib sail they would use. Illya hung on the rudder as he had been instructed, and the wind caught them up and hurled them from the shore.

It took some work to keep them from the end of the breakwater, but shouted instruction and bruised hands brought them clearly past the rain-dimmed lighthouse into the sweep of the open sea.

The wind was steady, here, and in a matter of minutes Napoleon had them so rigged that it bore them along, heading crabwise towards a particular compass setting. Rain slashed at the deck and tore at their foul-weather gear, which was earning its name. The tiller had been lashed, and Illya had nothing to do but hold on, and adjust the lines from time to time. Holding on still took most of his attention.

Napoleon was up at the prow where the jib was belayed, one hand on a cleat and the other on the rope, keeping the sail trimmed as the slamming waves against her hull tried to force her to fall away from her true course. He was really at home on a somewhat smaller boat, but he adjusted his touch and had the craft under good control for all her bucking. Boiling waves swept up around him and tore at his legs as they raced across the deck. The salt spray stung his eyes and chilled his exposed face, and the sharp tang of it tasted in the back of his mouth. He leaned back on a fixed line and looked for Illya.