Текст книги "The Utopia Affair"

Автор книги: David McDaniel

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THE UTOPIA AFFAIR

COLD WHITE LIGHT gleamed off polished metal and porcelain. Distorted reflections of fluorescent overheads were tiny rectangular highlights in the shadow less illumination which filled the room. Trays of delicate instruments lay in precise ranks behind glass. The tense silence was underscored by a faint electronic humming, the regular hiss of a controlled flow of gas, and the soft breathing of the white-robed figures who stood intently watching a glowing display.

A steel box squatted on a wheeled stand next to a sheet-draped table, black-sheathed cables connecting them. A green trace danced unsteadily on the face of a cathode-ray screen, surrounded by smaller dials where readings changed from moment to moment. A heavy cable ran from the steel box to a large Cannon socket in the nearest wall.

One of the watchers spoke. "Take number three down a couple points." Another turned slightly to adjust a knob on a compact control console built into the side of the table. Gradually the oscilloscope trace changed, the spikes growing taller and closer together. "Good. Let's hear the cardio." A moment later the amplified sound of a heartbeat, like a muffled drum beating a primitive dirge, trembled the still air of the room.

The figure lying beneath the sheet on the table stirred slightly, and the neat green trace shattered. Heads swiveled towards the figure, and one man moved to check the mask which covered its nose and mouth. "Just lie quite still another minute, and we'll be through."

Keen eyes glared up at the speaker over the rim of the black rubber mask—eyes which lay deep in wrinkled fleshy pouches like the jet bead eyes of a tortoise. Alexander Waverly was becoming annoyed.

Forty hours earlier, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin had been chatting over a leisurely lunch in the commissary at U.N.C.L.E. HQ. As usual, Illya was doing most of the listening, while his partner spoke expansively of the home improvements he'd had installed in his Manhattan apartment while the two of them were out of town on a recent assignment.

"All the windows have capacitance-actuated alarms on them," he said, "and the entry hall is full of ultrasonics. The only trouble I've had so far is the window by the fire escape—a large cat set off the alarm there a few nights ago. I had to adjust the sensitivity."

Illya's glance shifted over Solo's right shoulder and his eyebrows arched slightly. "Not to change the subject," he said, "but we seem to have company."

Napoleon idly lifted a knife from his tray and used the polished blade as a reflector to look behind him. "Well! Socializing with the hired help." He swung around and raised an arm in casual greeting and invitation. Alexander Waverly, Continental Head of U.N.C.L.E. North America, nodded to him and bore a lightly laden tray to their table. As he approached, Solo hooked a foot around the leg of a chair, pulling it out for his chief.

"Thank you, Mr. Solo," Waverly said as he accepted the seat and placed his tray on the Formica table top, "and good afternoon, Mr. Kuryakin."

"Good afternoon, sir," returned the Russian agent gravely. "Who's minding the store?"

"It can take care of itself for a few minutes," Waverly said. "Things have been quiet."

"That's seldom a good sign," Napoleon commented. "They're probably up to something."

"They always are. But we cannot act until they make the first move." Waverly poured a dollop of cream into his tea. "One of our most frustrating limitations." He raised the cup to his lips and took an experimental sip. The cup rattled briefly against the saucer as he replaced it. Napoleon flicked a glance at Illya and saw he had noticed it too.

"Ah—I was just telling Illya about some new gadgets I had installed in my apartment last month. Besides the security devices, I've got a new shower. Fully adjustable spray from a fog through a tropical rainstorm to a water fall. And there's a pull-knob at the side which can be activated either manually or by a pre-set timer—when it goes off, all the hot water is cut and you get a five second blast of ice water. It's great for waking up."

Illya shuddered visibly. "I should think the shock would be enough to send you back to bed."

"Far from it; I leap from the shower feeling thoroughly refreshed and ready to face the day."

"Secure in the knowledge that whatever happens couldn't be worse than what you've already gone through."

Waverly had taken another sip of his tea, and as he set the cup down again he choked. The cup half-missed the saucer and its contents cascaded across the tray, dislodging his toasted muffin in passing, and surged over the edge of the table to where Napoleon's lap had been an instant before. Illya had two paper napkins at the edge a moment later, saving the floor from further embarrassment.

Waverly, meanwhile, was pushed back from the table, both hands gripping the edge, as a fit of coughing doubled him over. He fought for breath as spasms shook his body. At last he began to regain control, and raised his head. His face was a mottled gray and tears poured from his eyes as he gasped in air. His hand groped out blindly; Napoleon found a dry napkin and gave it to him. His breathing gradually eased as he mopped his face for several seconds, then blew his nose resoundingly. His voice was an unsteady gravelly whisper when he spoke. "I'm afraid the tea is a little strong today."

Napoleon and Illya looked at each other as an attendant hurried up to repair the damages and remove the wreckage. Solo spoke casually, as though continuing the earlier conversation. "Actually, the cold shower is supposed to be quite healthful. Closes the pores, stimulates circulation, improves muscle tone and so on."

Illya picked up the cue. "I find my health stays quite satisfactory without resorting to such violence upon my system. The results of my annual checkup came a few days ago and apart from a somewhat below average blood pressure, I'm in fine condition. Oh, by the way, Mr. Waverly, the good doctor in Section Six mentioned that you were slightly overdue for your annual checkup. I believe eighteen months overdue was the figure he quoted."

Waverly scowled at his Russian agent. "When I was a lad, doctors kept their patients' affairs confidential. Things have been quite hectic of late."

"Then we shouldn't be sitting here talking," said Napoleon, starting briskly to his feet. "Back to work to save the world!"

Waverly snorted. "Sit down, Mr. Solo. The urgency is not that pressing. I should have gone for my overhaul some time ago—and now that you two know of my laxity I suppose you will give me no rest until I have done so. So be it. I shall request Section Six for an appointment this afternoon. Now will you let me finish my lunch in peace?"

"Why, certainly, sir," said Napoleon innocently.

"And no more pointed remarks about health, either. Talk about your boat, or something else."

"Well, the Pursang has been in dry dock for six months, sir, but I'm planning on having her refitted for spring..."

The memo from Section Six hit Waverly's desk a little less than two hours after his examination was completed. Ninety seconds later, he had the head of Section Six on the intercom.

"I'm sorry, sir," the worthy physician was saying, "but it is quite necessary. You haven't been taking proper care of yourself, and your old lung injury is hardly being helped by the New York atmosphere. In addition, your upper digestive tract—"

"You may spare me the post-mortem, doctor," said Waverly. "You are the authority on my condition. What I question is your choice of treatment."

"No choice in the matter, sir. It's not as if you presented only a single symptom or even a single problem—the entire complex syndrome has only one practical treatment. Pills, injections, any forms of chemotherapy–all specifics would only serve as temporary stopgaps with your condition, which is, frankly, deteriorating. It's not as if there were a crisis situation in Section One, after all, and you yourself have said many times that no man is absolutely indispensable. Besides which, sir, if I may say so, we would like you to be able to continue working as our chief for many more years."

Waverly did not speak for several seconds. Many times in his career he had made equally difficult decisions in moments, but this time, though the decision had effectively been taken from his hands, he had to stop and question himself deeply. At length he spoke.

"Very well. I must accept your treatment." He snapped over a key on the intercom and spoke again. "Miss Williamson—send in Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin."

He shut off the set as she acknowledged, and leaned back in his chair, feeling suddenly old and very tired, and vaguely doomed. Alexander Waverly was going to have to take a vacation.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Section I : "There Is A Happy Land...

Chapter 1 : "For The Duration Of My Absence."

Chapter 2 : "Let's Wait And See How You Work Out."

Chapter 3 : "Don't Make Waves."

Chapter 4 : "Happy Halloween, Napoleon."

Section II: "A Principality In Utopia."

Chapter 5 : "We Could Use A Man Like That."

Chapter 6 : "Q: ASSASSINATION."

Chapter 7 : "Always The Easiest."

Chapter 8 : "Are You Sure This Thing Is Safe?"

Section III : "Death In Utopia."

Chapter 9 : "After All, Ills War."

Chapter 10 : "Our Old Fox Is Wily."

Chapter 11 : "This Looks Like One Of Those Days."

Chapter 12 : "You Really Blew It, Didn't You?"

Section IV : "The Pride Of Utopia."

Chapter 13 : "You Knew The Job Was Dangerous When You Took It."

Chapter 14 : "Stop Them."

Chapter 15 : "Pommery '74."

Chapter 16 : "I Trust You Learned From The Experience."

Section I : "There Is A Happy Land...

Chapter 1

"For The Duration Of My Absence."

THE DOOR SLID smoothly open before Napoleon and Illya, and they stepped into Waverly's office, the central command post of the vast international network that was U.N.C.L.E. Their chief didn't look up as they approached the round conference table in the middle of the room; he appeared to be deeply involved in some reports he was studying. But on the table, facing the door, lay a pink copy of a memorandum.

Both agents bent to look at it. A moment later Waverly spoke. "Section Six has advised that my health demands a vacation. I have been unable to convince them otherwise."

Illya looked up. "The wording on this memo is hardly so circumspect. They've picked your health resort, made your reservation, and only left you room to sign."

Napoleon's eye caught on one item and he read it aloud. "Reservations have been made for you in the name of Leon Dodgson at Utopia, South Australia, for six weeks beginning 29 October. They didn't give you much time to look forward to it, did they? And incidentally, where is 'Utopia, South Australia?'"

"Somewhere in the south of Australia I should imagine," said Illya.

"About the northernmost point in the coastline of the Bight," said Waverly, sliding a map before them and indicating the area with a knobbly forefinger. "It seems to be some sort of open-air hospital where valuable people are sent for vacations they don't want. The cost is apparently immense; I will not be allowed to find out precisely how immense until the item appears on the next budget summary, but the impression is that these six weeks will entail an expenditure roughly sufficient to operate one of our smaller offices for six months. The cost is commensurate with the social level of the clientele—Section Six tells me the present patients include the Assistant Chairman of the Board of General Motors, the Director of Krupp, a Prince Regent and three Prime Ministers of solvent European states. I am flattered, but not impressed. As for what goes on inside, I couldn't say, but it seems effective in restoring the efficiency of the inmates."

Napoleon and Illya took seats at the round table as he continued, "I will of course be unable to continue directing operations while on my... vacation. This will require a few temporary revisions in the situation here. Mr. Kuryakin, effective on my departure you will be acting Chief Enforcement Agent, replacing Mr. Solo."

The two agents exchanged raised eyebrows, and Napoleon developed a slightly apprehensive look. Before he could quite voice it, Waverly went on. "You, Mr. Solo, are listed as Section One, Number Two. My second in command. For the duration of my absence you will take command in my place. Your training has long been directed to prepare you to inherit my position– now you will have a chance to apply all the experience you've had in field operations." He paused, reaching for his pipe, then remembered the imperative statements of the memo from Section Six and did not complete the action, shifting instead to rub his jaw. "You will not be left alone to sink or swim—my personal secretary, Miss Williamson, will be able to coach you through the routines and advise you in emergencies.

"You will report tomorrow at 10 A.M. for a day of observation of regular operations and assume command twenty-four hours later, on Sunday the 29th. You will have complete responsibility until my return."

Napoleon was speechless. Finally he looked at Illya, who looked back and said, "Congratulations."

"Thank you," said Solo automatically and turned back to Waverly. "But why don't you have one of the other Continental Chiefs take over your job, as you did last time?"

"The last time was for three days. None of the Continental offices could spare their own commander for as long as six weeks. Besides, you ought to have the practical experience."

"Then I'll be moving into your office?"

"Of course. This is where communications is centered. You couldn't hope to coordinate operations from your own office."

Napoleon looked around the room consideringly. "I presume tomorrow will include checking me out on all the controls?"

"All that and more," said Waverly. "Much more."

Saturday was a busy day for Napoleon. He came in half an hour early and was not at all surprised to find Waverly already deep in his work. For the rest of the day he stood behind his commander, observing the never-ending flow of information through the complex control console and studying the practiced ease with which Waverly juggled the factors of more than a score of active assignments, suggesting new approaches or continuing action, keeping all the salient facts of each in his head, responding to call after call, checking on various operations apparently at random but maintaining constant control over all the activities of the various levels of the U.N.C.L.E. A ten-minute conference with Mr. Simpson of Section Eight covered field problems with the modified communicator design, the current state of development on a practical personal invisibility shield, developed from the researches of a captured Thrush project; and a report on preliminary investigation into a limited-range mental activity detector. Shorter conferences with other Section Heads covered swiftly and with equal detail their respective operations, problems and goals. Waverly had a single file drawer, arranged in some system of his own, with slim manila folders, each with the skeleton globe insignia of U.N. C.L.E. large on the front. Into this he would dip from time to time for a concise summary of something to refresh his memory. He paused once to tell Solo, "This is my reference file. Notes on all current operations are here in order."

"Alphabetical or by reference number?"

"Hem! Neither. The system was most efficient for me, but will probably be rather difficult to learn. They are placed in order of priority. This order changes from time to time. I rearrange them almost every time I consult them." He flicked out a red-tabbed folder two inches from the front and opened it. "This man is on bodyguard duty to the Akhoond of Swat during a period of ritual unrest. The unrest has eased slightly in the last two days, so he is shifted"—the knobbly thin fingers dived into a slot a little farther back—"towards the rear."

Solo bent to look. There was a neatly typed reference number on the red tab which indicated Field Operations. It would be slow for a while, but he could have a constantly updated list of reference numbers by name taped over the cabinet, which would be rearranged logically. He made a mental note to that effect.

Miss Williamson, a leggy redhead much younger than one would expect in such a position of responsibility, flickered in and out of the office with dizzying irregularity. She typed the most confidential material, fielded low-priority calls, prepared his outlines, and made tea. She also acted as an extra memory and a mobile pair of hands; in short, a perfect secretary. Good looking, too, Napoleon thought, watching her pass him as though he were invisible, and wondered momentarily at the perquisites of his temporary position.

He was called back to his duties a moment later when a team of agents, a sleek dark-haired girl and a young Englishman, was called in for a quick briefing and a fatherly, cautionary word of encouragement before setting out on an assignment. As the automatic door slid closed behind them, Waverly allowed his face to seam into an expression of concern. "By the way, Mr. Solo– another sensitive problem you will have to keep in mind is the use of female enforcement agents. The Board of Directors has never fully approved our employment of young women in front-line operations, despite the fine account they have given of themselves."

He pushed his chair back from the desk and rose, Napoleon following. "In my personal safe, there is a sealed package containing information concerning our operations which you will need to know only if I am gone for more than three months. You need not concern yourself with it now, nor, hopefully, for quite some time. My personal safe is behind the large picture to the left of the door. It is keyed to my voice-print, and now also to yours. It will not function with more than one person in the room. I shall step outside for a moment while you test it." Waverly moved to the door, pausing short of the opening sensors. "Just say your name. Stand about three feet straight out from the rubber plant and address the middle of the picture. If it doesn't trip directly, try varying your inflection a trifle. It's rather sensitive." The door slid open and closed behind him.

Napoleon thought the picture which filled the wall was rather large to conceal a safe, but stood in the specified position, faced southwest towards the picture, and said clearly, "Napoleon Solo." Nothing happened. He lowered his voice a bit and repeated, "Napoleon Solo." Still nothing. He cleared his throat and said conversationally, "Napoleon Solo." There was a muffled clunk and the side near the door swung back.

He stepped forward and saw the heavy gray door of the safe. And beside it, to his left, a tall rectangle flickered and glowed with cool light. A paneled closet, its floor level with the back of the couch, which could only be an elevator. An emergency exit and entrance, its existence utterly unexpected. Well, Waverly would explain anything that needed explaining. Now, how to close up that picture again?

Settling on a direct course of action, Napoleon swung the picture back by hand, and was rewarded by the sound of a latch dropping solidly into place. A few seconds later the outside door opened and Waverly reentered. A raised hand held Napoleon's questions while he resumed his seat, and then he answered them unspoken.

"The elevator will take you directly to the westbound tunnel of the Fifty-Third Street subway, opening to place you there directly after the passage of a train. A worn pair of coveralls are stowed in the elevator. You turn right as you come into the tunnel and the Third Avenue station is only a block away. No one will notice a solitary figure in coveralls coming out of the tunnel and going into a Men's room to divest himself of the rags that cover his street clothes. This, incidentally, will be my route of departure for Australia tomorrow morning. Communications will be suspended for twenty minutes following my departure and then all channels will receive a videotaped transmission wherein I will explain the situation and name you my temporary replacement. This will give me time to pass Thrush's watchers before they become aware of my absence."

Waverly leaned back in the leather chair. "You may treat the entire office as your own," he said. "You will find a small refrigerator under the sink in the corner, behind the curtain"—he gestured—"and a two-burner hot plate. Miss Williamson—ah–prepares things occasionally."

His hand fell back to the desk and his eye lighted on the solid old humidor. "I will probably be forbidden my pipe there," he said, "and stale smoke is unpleasant. If you run out, order the same mixture from my tobacconists. The blend is written inside the lid. And of course you will use your own pipes."

He stood again. "Thus, having disposed of all my property, I shall let you go now. Tomorrow morning at nine you will be here ready to pick up the reins."

The door slid open as Napoleon stepped out, and Miss Williamson was ready with his hat and coat. She met his eyes directly as he glanced at her, with a look he was unable to read.

At one minute after ten Napoleon stepped back into the office where he had left Waverly ninety seconds before. Now it was empty. He hesitated a moment, then walked directly across the room towards the large leather chair at the desk. He was halfway there when a call signal chimed. He hurried forward and connected. "Solo here."

"All net communications have been cut, sir. Tape ready to roll in eighteen minutes."

"Check. Thank you."

That meant he'd have almost twenty minutes of peace in which to…

The intercom called, and he answered. "Solo here."

"Head of Section Six, sir. Urgent."

"Send him in."

The gray-haired physician hurried in. "While the curtain is still up around us, I would like to make a request," he said as he came to perch on the edge of the desk. "Surely we could spare one field agent, the best one available, to follow Mr. Waverly and act as his bodyguard."

"But Utopia's security system must be adequate."

"Their security is fantastically tight, Mr. Solo, but Waverly is fantastically valuable. It will not be an easy job. The managerial staff of Utopia has refused us permission to send our own man in legally; their policy includes complete separation of the guest from his old environment. Whoever we send will have to remain undercover from the staff as well as from Mr. Waverly."

"We have no competent agents he wouldn't know on sight."

"Then you'll have to assign the most competent and hope he's good enough. I especially don't want Waverly to spot him; he's supposed to keep his mind off business. Besides, he'd be insulted at the idea that he couldn't take care of himself." He smiled wryly.

Napoleon's mind clicked automatically to the most competent agent available, discarded it, retrieved it, weighed four reasons for sending him against three for keeping him, one of which was recognizably selfish, and by the time he had finished drawing a breath he was ready to say, "It'll have to be Illya Kuryakin. As you said, Mr. Waverly would recognize any agent he spotted. Kuryakin is also capable of functioning as a one-man assault force. How soon do you think you can get his cover arranged?"

The older man dipped into a manila envelope and spread its contents on the table. "Here is a full set of identification showing him with close-cropped hair and a short beard to disguise the jaw line. His references are excellent—he recently left the Cunard Lines, where he was a cabin steward—and he has been hired by Utopia to begin work for them on the first of November, next Wednesday. This will give him time to fly to Melbourne, become this man, and take the private flight into Utopia the following day. Mr. Waverly will be unguarded only thirty-six hours, and I am more than willing to concede him the ability to take care of himself for that long."

Napoleon looked over the material presented, then glanced up. "You and Mr. Kuryakin have worked together on this. Why didn't you give me a little warning?"

"You were not in charge, and only the acting commander could act to approve our plans."

Napoleon shrugged. "Illya's outside, I suppose," he said towards the intercom. "Send him in too."

The Russian agent, one large suitcase in his hand, came in as Solo said, "There's a communications blanket over everything for the next ten minutes. Are you ready to leave in thirty seconds?"

"I'm ready as I stand."

Solo rose and motioned the head of Section Six towards the door. As it zipped shut behind him, Napoleon addressed his friend. "The radio silence has Thrush on the boil by this time. They'll be ready around every exit, watching like hawks."

Illya nodded and Napoleon continued. "You know that business about being sworn to absolute secrecy?"

"Yes."

"Consider it all said and agreed to. Step outside for a count of twenty and then come back in. Don't say a word to anyone outside."

Illya's eyebrows canted slightly, but he went without a word. Napoleon slipped the electronic lock so he could get back in with the security circuit activated, then stood and spoke as before, in a relaxed conversational tone, the magic words, "Napoleon Solo." The picture opened.

A moment later Illya stepped back into the room, allowing the latch to drop as the door closed. He made no comment, but studied the newly-revealed view intently.

Napoleon spoke briskly. "The elevator will deposit you at the end of a tunnel. Follow it and you'll come out in a subway. Turn right and you'll have a short walk to the station at Fifty-Third and Third. Put on the coveralls you'll find in the elevator, though I doubt you'll meet anyone at ten o'clock on a Sunday morning. Take a taxi up Third to the Pan-Am heliport and you'll be on your way."

"Fine." Illya stepped carefully up onto the couch and squeezed himself and his suitcase into the tiny elevator. "I may even get there ahead of Mr. Waverly. Oh, and Napoleon—good luck."

Solo grinned. "Have fun on your vacation. I'll bet you gain ten pounds."

Illya grimaced. "That's what I'm afraid of. I'll bet you lose ten."

Solo raised his hand in farewell as the picture swung closed, and saw Illya's free hand lift in answer.

For several seconds he studied the line where the picture met the wall, then glanced up at the master clock. Well, at least he could have five minutes and thirty seconds in which to collect his thoughts and prepare to deal with the next six weeks. He crossed the oddly silent room and sat gingerly in the large leather chair, then bounced experimentally a couple of times before reaching for the humidor.

Chapter 2

"Let's Wait And See How You Work Out."

SUNDAY WAS comparatively easy. After handling the flush of calls which followed Waverly's pre-recorded announcement that while he was on vacation everything would be handled by Napoleon Solo, Acting Chief of U.N.C.L.E. North America, there were only a few matters which demanded his attention. During his free minutes Miss Williamson instructed him in several subjects Waverly had passed over. Routine handling of daily reports from dozens of sources would occupy a fair percentage of his time; there were fifty or sixty such, averaging about fifteen hundred words each. Napoleon began to appreciate the benefits of the speed-reading training he had been put through a few years ago; no one who read less than a thousand words a minute could hope to keep up with the constant flow of data through this office.

She showed him Waverly's personal shorthand coding on the priority file and drew up a sheet of notes for him to learn. She taught him the pink copy goes into this slot, the blue copy belongs here, and the rest of them come to me. She completed his check-out on the controls—teletyped printouts, audio translations, tracking data, records access, video pickups and intercom– and made two pots of strong sweet tea during the day. From time to time she came up with something else to startle him.

"Monthly report from Section A, Philadelphia, sir. Did he tell you about Section A?"

"I don't believe so..."

"It's a pet project of his. We've been recruiting out of high schools for some time; Section A is a loose-knit string of inactive agents in the mid-teen range. Sleepers, essentially, doing nothing but watching until we have further training, or an immediate need. Local Section Heads file routine reports on observations and recruitment once a month. This one is from Tern Harris, in Philadelphia."

"A kid?" said Napoleon blankly.

"No younger than many Thrush has used in the field, as you may recall. Besides, Mr. Waverly believes in spotting talent early and developing it. Why, we had our eye on you before you went into the Army, even if you weren't approached until you left college." She smiled. "Or didn't you know that?"

Napoleon studied her appraisingly. "Just how long have you been here, anyway?"

"Only four years, but I learned everything the girl before me knew." She gave him a meaningful look with a little smile under it. "Everything."

The communicator panel chimed and he swung to answer it. A field agent in Haiti reported completion of his assignment while Napoleon's brain raced to remember what it had been. There'd been a newspaper publisher, suspected of either fascist or Communist leanings but necessary to the communications of the island.

He glanced at the big backlighted map display; no trouble in the area. The agent could fly home directly.

Having prepared an answer, Napoleon was surprised to be told, "The people are satisfied to leave him alone now, but they won't let me leave. I'm holed up in a hotel room and there are about fifty guys out in the lobby." "Mr. Rothschild, how did you get them after your

"Uh—can I try to explain later, sir? It's sort of complicated.'

"I see. We can't send an army to get you out," Napoleon said as he considered the situation. "Have you seen the bellhop?"

"Huh? Sure. He brought my lunch."