Текст книги "The Utopia Affair"

Автор книги: David McDaniel

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"Is he anywhere near your size?"

There was a pause from Haiti. "Uh-huh. I call him, put him to sleep, and sneak out in his uniform. I'll give it a shot. If it doesn't work, there's always the laundry chute. Ta."

Napoleon broke the connection. "What do you mean, everything?"

"Just about everything. Like the business with the belly dancer from that little Greek place over on Eighth Avenue in the Twenties. That little escapade isn't even in your personal file, you'll probably be relieved to know."

Solo's eyebrows crept up towards his hairline. "You're referring to an old and slanderous rumor."

"I'm referring to a well-established fact."

Napoleon turned back to .his desk and cleared his throat. "Ah...you have misinterpreted the circumstances completely. Perhaps you would allow me to explain—over dinner some evening when you're free?"

Her face, reflected in the glass of a TV monitor he was watching, broke into a smile, quickly suppressed. She glanced at her watch, and said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Solo. Thank you for the invitation, but I'd prefer to wait and see how you work out."

And she was gone in a flicker as the priority communication signal chimed again and Napoleon reached to answer it.

At her desk, she touched a button and was answered. "Files."

"Marsha, time's up. Just about a minute ago—3:48."

"That was quick. Five and three-quarters... Miss Gruenwald had it."

"How much was in the pool?"

"Almost three dollars."

"Congratulate her for me. 'Bye."

Alexander Waverly had dozed on the plane during the endless day of his westward flight halfway around the world. At 11:00 A.M. he had taken off from a military airport near New York. Eighteen hours later it was sunset, and the coastline of New South Wales was a thin cloudbank on the ruddy horizon to starboard. Even though the sun had not set nor risen since he left New York Sunday morning, he knew it was now Monday evening. A pleasant hotel in Melbourne would be a stopping place for the night, and then the charter flight to Utopia tomorrow morning. His body, still on New York time, ached with the weariness of long confinement, but the fitful napping had left him tired enough to face the prospect of a normal night's sleep, after which he would awaken already half-adjusted to the change in circadian schedule.

His body would adjust to the new environment before his mind, he was sure. Only a small portion of his consciousness was wondering what lay ahead—most of his thoughts were still in New York, grappling automatically with the memories of problems which were supposed to lie behind him. Those submarine sightings off Clipperton Island—were they military maneuvers or not? And whose? The rash of illness that had gone through the European Continental HQ and had defied all efforts of Section Six to analyze it, let alone cure it. La Grippe was a convenient explanation, but scarcely adequate under the circumstances. He tried to remember if he had mentioned to Napoleon his suspicions in that matter.

He fumbled briefly in his coat pocket before remembering his communicator had been taken away from him at the airport. The doctor there to see him off had lifted it from its place, saying chidingly, "Now remember, you are officially on vacation."

Vacation! Waverly stared out his window at the deepening red of the sky as the coastline slipped beneath him. A murrain upon their vacations; he wasn't going to relax and enjoy it; his best medicine was his work. Besides, he still doubted the necessity for the outrageous expense Section Six was incurring in his name; two or three weeks in Vermont would have done quite as well. Upset and frustrated, he felt for his pipe, only to remember that it too had fallen to the probing fingers of his send-off delegation. He looked around the cabin for someone to complain to, saw no one, and gradually settled back. Thoroughly irritated, he stared out his little window into the purple stratosphere, where unfamiliar constellations stood with uncanny clarity, and drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair.

Utopia would take some getting used to. Waverly knew this as soon as he stepped from the little twin-jet shuttle plane that had brought him from Melbourne in a little over two hours. The last half hour had been over water as they passed well south of the vast, desolate Nullarbor Plain, and only gradually had they approached the coastline again.

Waverly had gotten a glimpse of his eventual destination as the plane was descending, but had retained only a confused impression of trees and open water—both alien to this part of the country—surrounded by steep and obviously artificial hills. The place was apparently square, he thought, but it must be at least fifteen miles on a side, the south edge opening to the sea. He lost sight of the mysterious interior as the jet slipped down into a long slot a quarter of a mile wide between the double wall of hills on the west side and touched down without a jar on a well-tended runway. By the time it finished taxiing, it was near a small hangar. A microbus was approaching.

As Waverly came out the door to the head of the exit ramp, he looked around. There were no structures but the aircraft hangar, and no marks of civilization but the narrow dirt road that wound off into the trees a short distance away. There was no sound except the mutter of the bus engine and the dying whine of the jet turbines. The air was warm and dry, and a light breeze stirred the leaves.

The driver came from the tail of the plane carrying Waverly's two suitcases. He lifted them into the bus, then stood to casual attention and opened the passenger door. Waverly settled his hat and climbed in.

A pane of glass separated the front and rear compartments, precluding conversation between driver and passenger. The ride was barely comfortable, and the road seemed designed to fit in with the genteelly primitive atmosphere. Waverly, studying the forest which was passing his window, was aware that it must not only have been transplanted, tree by tree, from somewhere far away, but would require a small lake of reasonably fresh water every week. That meant a large, probably concealed, desalinization plant. All things considered it would be atomic, and should supply all the water and power used by the resort, as well as profitable by products.

He nodded slightly. Perhaps he would be able to keep his mind occupied here after all. It would be interesting to see how much he could find out that Utopia might not want him to know.

He was pleased with his assigned bungalow, having half expected a log cabin. The driver doubled as bell man, carrying Waverly's suitcases inside, presenting him with the key and showing him around the comfortable four-room cottage. It boasted a small sitting room, a bedroom, workroom/office and kitchenette, with a bath and shower fitted into a corner. In the workroom were a telephone, a TV screen, and a few devices not instantly recognizable. One of them turned out to be the mouth of a small pneumatic tube which could deliver small articles. On the desk Waverly observed a humidor and lifted the lid out of curiosity. Then he looked up at the driver, who stood nearby.

"The staff is quite thorough," he said. "My own blend is difficult enough to obtain in New York; I would have thought it impossible here."

"Thank you," said the driver. "You will find the larder stocked to your taste, and the liquor cabinet as well."

"Hm. This must be costing someone a pretty penny."

"Value for value, sir. Now if you will allow me—" His guide touched a panel of buttons. "Your videoscreen serves many purposes. You may dial a two-way communication with any other guest, or any facility of the Park."

"How do I get an outside line?"

"You reserve one. You are allowed one hour a month; two minutes a day or fifteen minutes a week. We maintain only one link to the outside world. No radio communication can penetrate the jamming signal that covers the entire park. Most of our guests are here to get away from their work, and most of them would prefer to continue their usual load. There are five channels of music and three of entertainment available on your videoscreen; the music is accompanied by abstract color patterns. Dinner will be served in The Lodge at 7:00 P.M. You will find a guide to all our operations, schedules, and a map in the top drawer of your desk. The Lodge is half a mile away by the path that starts at your back door. You might want to get there early and look around. If there are any questions..."

"Not at the moment," said Waverly. "And I suppose the television in the den would be able to tell me anything I cared to know, eh?"

"More than likely. If there will be nothing else, then..."

"By all means. Thank you."

The driver nodded, and the door closed behind him. A moment later the roar of the little motor caught in the traction of the wheels and faded quickly among the trees. Waverly found himself alone.

It was slightly uncomfortable. His regular life had been crowded with communication—data coming in, people around him—and while his position had denied him close friends, still he was acutely aware of the profound absence of company from his present situation.

As his ear adjusted to the silence, he caught the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchenette and the rustling of leaves outside. He thought suddenly of the humidor on the desk, and wondered. He had packed a couple of pipes in the hope that his doctors might relent, and there had been something in the humidor... It was still there when he went to look. This time he noticed a white label inside the lid. It was a prescription blank, signed by a scribble he did not recognize, saying, Leon Dodgson. Six oz. private blend smoking mixture. Non– refillable.

He smiled slightly. They would let him taper off as he wished, but there would be no more for the duration. Instead, he replaced the lid and turned to the desk itself. In the top drawer, next to the Gideon Bible, he found the described literature. His cottage was designated 35 on the key, and on the map a path through the woods to the centrally located lodge was clearly indicated. He put the map down and picked up some thing else.

It was a tastefully done brochure, describing the many forms of entertainment and diversion available to the guests of Utopia. None of them sounded especially interesting, he thought as he leafed through. One caught his eye—a war game of some kind, on a large scale. It looked rather complicated and possibly challenging; perhaps he would look into it tomorrow. His first need was to learn the rules of the comfortably primitive prison he found himself confined in. He set his alarm watch for six o'clock to give himself time to unpack and dress for dinner, if that would be proper, and opened his suitcase.

A small black box and several coils of wire came out first, and ten minutes passed quickly as he connected the wires to all the windows and plugged in the black box. Since he was American, the bungalow was furnished with 117-volt 60-cycle a.c. and everything would work; a few adjustments on the box and the place was protected. Anyone approaching a window from outside would trigger the alarm. Essentially it was a portable edition of Mr. Solo's capacitance-actuated built-in, and would keep him safe from unauthorized visitation. The precaution was probably unnecessary, but a lifetime of habit dies hard. He turned back to his luggage and shook out a suit. Dinner in a couple hours. Mentally he began to relax a little, looking forward without enthusiasm to six quiet weeks.

Chapter 3

"Don't Make Waves."

HIS OWN MOTHER would have been unlikely to recognize Illya Kuryakin when he stepped from the same twin-jet two days later. His hair had been cropped to a severe eighth of an inch, lifts in his shoes added two inches to his height, a stubbly beard lengthened his jaw and an intentionally faulty left shoe gave him a very realistic, though slight limp. Illya was quite aware that Waverly was even more perceptive than his mother, but he felt reasonably confident of passing at least cursory examination. He had taken the false name and imaginary identity of one Klaus Rademeyer, with excellent references from some of the finest hotels in Europe.

"Klaus" existed only in the minds of a few cooperative clerks, properly placed, and in the files of Section Four of the U.N.C.L.E. He had an irreproachable record and credible background and identifying characteristics which could be adapted to many different agents—as they had been several times in the past. Now he had accepted employment in Utopia, bringing the subtle skills and special talents of Illya Kuryakin within his fierce-looking shell.

Like Waverly, he had come in alone and was met by the microbus. But he carried his own bag, and the driver shook hands with him. He gave the proper click with his heels as he returned the handshake and accepted the welcome.

The bus bounced away in a different direction, and shortly brought them up to the side of a hill. The driver touched a button on the dash and the hill split open, revealing an artificially illuminated area of unguessable extent. They drove in, and the doors closed behind them.

"You'll be going to Park Security first thing," the driver said as he drove slowly through a warren of tunnels. "They'll check you in and pass you along to Personnel, who'll see to your quarters, uniforms, scheduling and so on. Don't worry, it won't take long. We're all computerized here."

He gestured about them. "All the underground stuff is Security Area—means it's off limits to the guests. They aren't supposed to care how everything works." He pulled the little bus into a numbered slot and they got out. "Your luggage'll be safe here. This is Security."

A door ahead of them confirmed this, and opened into a small reception room. A secretary looked up, and the driver said, "Klaus Rademeyer. Just came in on the supply flight."

She looked in a narrow bin to her left and found a folder. "Right here. Thank you, Jimmy."

He touched his hat to her and told Illya, "She'll take over here. I'll see that your bags get up to your room as soon as it's assigned."

Illya approached the desk as Jimmy left, and the secretary looked him over for comparison with his picture. She gave him a good professional smile, bid him welcome and invited him to sit down. In the next few minutes she gave him a quick run-through on his back ground, took his fingerprints and cross-checked his employment record and political affiliations, all with the utmost grace and charm. It felt like a casual conversation, and if Illya had not been a professional himself he might not have spotted the thorough, intensive grilling that was going on. He played it on the same level and thought he acquitted himself rather well.

Then he was shown through into a comfortably furnished waiting room, where he found the latest issue of Spirou and settled down with it. He had scarcely finished when the next door opened and a pretty little blonde stepped out. "Hi. I'm here to see you through Personnel."

He rose and accepted the hand she extended with a crisp inclination of a few degrees from the waist—that vestigial bow which distinguishes the educated European. She led him through the door and into an efficiently organized maze.

His first acquisition was a large manila envelope full of brochures. During the next few hours he added to it

–mimeographed information sheets, mostly with a few personalized items like his locker assignment, room key, and employee identification. Most important was the general schedule. Some things happened hourly, some things happened once a year; but everything happened just when it was supposed to happen, and lasted precisely as long.

The first item scheduled for the new employee was a weekly orientation lecture, set for Sunday morning, two and a half days away. Until that time he would be working a short shift, learning his routines, and was expected to learn his way around the Security Area, discovering where everything was.

Illya approved wholeheartedly of this; it would give him a chance to find Waverly's place and probably leave a bug there. His first job, though, would be to study the maps and plans in his bulging manila envelope. Always make sure of the local customs and taboos. You never know who you might be offending by some thing you hadn't even thought of.

Wearing the gold tab with his Employee Number stamped in it, his pass to wander at will backstage, he consulted a wall-mounted directory and identified the area of his billet. He started for it on foot, hooked a ride on a fork-lift partway, shifted to an electric cart, dropped off at a convenient spot and walked the rest of the way.

His goal, when he reached it, was a single apartment, not spacious but quite adequate. A private bath, which he appreciated, and a Murphy bed. He pulled the latter down, sat down on it, dumped the big envelope and began sorting.

A technical sheet caught his eye, and he read the instructions for the small black-and-white television screen in the corner—a directory was available, so he could find Waverly with a minimum of trouble. Another glossy page told him that his portable radio would be inoperable here because of a blanket of RF interference across all the communication bands. This failed to disturb him because he had brought no portable radio. Section Eight had known about the jamming, and because of it he had been outfitted with four specially designed listening devices.

This brought his mind back to his job, and he rose from his bed to hoist his bulky suitcase up onto it. He unlocked the latches and did certain other things to make it safe to open. He had been fairly sure the Security people would not search his bag without formally asking permission, and he had been right. He rummaged around among the contents until he found what he was looking for and came up with a box containing four light bulbs.

They were descendants of light bulbs Illya himself had used many years before joining U.N.C.L.E., but with all the flaws designed away. The old ones would only function when the light was on, and had no storage capability. Each of these little hundred-watt beauties, fresh from the laboratory of Mr. Simpson of Section Eight, contained a carrier-current transmitter, a voice-triggered recording device with twelve hours capacity, and nickel-cadmium batteries capable of carrying on continuous operation for four hours after the light had been on for ten minutes. Best of all, it wouldn't need constant monitoring and would be impossible to detect, since it would transmit only when he signaled it, by carrier-current as well, and then it would transmit in a one-minute squirt everything it had heard since it had last been listened to. This he could record on a similar machine and play back at normal speed.

His time was his own, and he was expected to use it to discover his way around. Very well. He punched up the number he found listed for the directory service. Idly he scanned through the staff roster, noting department titles and positions, pausing once to observe with interest that far down under Kitchen Staff was listed one Rademeyer, Klaus, and his room number. That was interesting. Utopia was remarkably efficient indeed. He set part of his mind considering problems of learning all the security routines and getting around them to plant and monitor his bugs. He switched to the guest list, where each name was listed with a vague indication of occupation, and found his quarry—Dodgson, Leon: #35. Executive.

Somehow he would have to watch him every moment without being noticed himself. He remembered Section Six's final briefing, and his special adjuration on the maintenance of security. "Above all," he had been told, "you must do nothing that could attract attention to yourself, and especially avoid upsetting the resort's routines. Don't leave bodies lying around—it's unsanitary and reflects badly on our organization. Some of the most important people in the world are there, and you know how Mr. Waverly feels about discretion. Your motto at all times should be, Don't Make Waves."

Illya flicked the control knob until the soft floating sound of a recorded trumpet filled the speakers with Miles Davis' Sketches of Spain, and started looking through his collections of papers for a map. Number 35 was about half a mile from the Main Lodge... but where was that from where he was now? He found another map with an overlay showing the employee residences and office complex—a subterranean area centered on the Main Lodge but easily four times as large. Its major exits and entrances were screened from the guest's area by hills, stands of trees and other apparently natural obstacles. Illya smiled slightly. The entire operation was basically an expensive, adult Disneyland; and he was now one of the merry elves that scampered around keeping it all running. His smile turned wry and faded as he sank into his studies.

By Sunday morning he could find his way around, and had his mental compass locked on South. He had looked over the security personnel, from a respectful distance, and found them of the finest quality for dealing with guests. This meant they were generally polite and a little cautious, and therefore slightly easier to get by than rude and precipitous guards. He also observed them to use hand transceivers from time to time despite the all-frequency jamming, and resolved to look into the techniques they used, on behalf of Mr. Simpson.

He hadn't been able to get into Waverly's bungalow to plant his bug, but he knew how it could be accomplished. He hadn't decided where to put the other three devices and would wait until he knew enough, but he rather thought one should go into the office of Security. One of his first acquaintances had been a member of the office maintenance crew, and it would be a short step to volunteering casually to help him replace a few light bulbs. One would be more likely to need replacing somewhere in a large office than in a small residence—or so he thought until he found out the offices were consistently lighted by fluorescents, bugged versions of which had proven impossible to carry concealed.

And now it was time for the official orientation lecture. He and two other men met in a large office where another pretty and efficient blonde ran a film, showed and explained an organizational chart and answered questions. Illya, having chosen a direct approach to assuage his curiosity, asked her about the handi-talkies he'd seen the security personnel using. She explained that the jamming transmission operated in microsecond bursts rather than continuously. Although the effect was the same, there were spaces between the bursts and the communicators were keyed to chop up the transmissions into bits at a much lower level which would fit into these spaces. The receivers were similarly keyed to squelch the jamming noise.

Illya liked that. It was simple, practical, and efficient. It meant that it would be possible to communicate secretly with the outside world; it would only require a little more circuitry than was already packed inside his slim silver pen... which was presently resting in a drawer in his office in New York City, ten thousand miles away.

At dinner service the next day he saw Waverly. His assignment had been on the other side of the main dining hall in the lodge, but his quick eyes scanned the crowd for the familiar leathery face and found it no more than forty feet away. Illya busied himself with clearing a table and kept his back to his subject.

Waverly was sharing his table with three other men, all of whom looked like top executives of something or other—fiftyish and older, with strong well-modulated voices which failed to carry to where the Russian U.N.C.L.E. agent stood listening, focusing his attention to screen out the babble and quiet clatter of the hall and pick up any wisps of information. He wondered briefly about planting one of his light bulb bugs in a convenient position like the socket above their booth, but before he went to the trouble of installing it, he'd have to be sure Waverly always ate at the same table.

Well, there was no particular hurry; the place was perfectly protected, and his job would be of no particular use. He'd bug Waverly's bungalow, and his dining room table, and then he'd have nothing to do beyond waiting table and carrying dirty dishes. He'd had harder assignments, but this looked likely to be the most boring. Mentally he sighed, and settled back for six dull weeks.

Chapter 4

"Happy Halloween, Napoleon."

X X X X X X X 2910671557 Z DE: CENTRAL TO:

ALL SATRAPS PRIORITY BLUE EFFECTIVE 1500

HOURS GMT ALEXANDER WAVERLY UNCLE 1/1

OUT OF COMMAND. REPLACEMENT NAPOLEON

SOLO UNCLE 1/2. WHEREABOUTS 1/1 UNKNOWN.

ALL SATRAPS RELAY POTENTIALLY PERTINENT

DATA TO CENTRAL. HELENA THOMAS, ROGER

LADOGA, DR. THEODORE PIKE ARE RELIEVED

OF PRESENT ASSIGNMENT AND ORDERED TO

CONTACT CENTRAL BEFORE 1700. ALL STA-

TIONS COPY AND RELAY. END.

Helena was sound asleep in her Wilshire Boulevard apartment when the phone rang. She fumbled for it in the 8:00 A.M. sunshine that came in razor blade through the venetian blinds. "Hello?"

"Call Central. A Blue message came through pulling you off the Fairfax shop for something big. Looks like you might get a crack at Solo."

"That's worth waking up for. I'll slip into something and catch the next elevator down. Have Central on the line when I get there. Oh—and order me some breakfast. I think I'll need it."

Roger was in his club, working his way through the Sunday London Times, and was about two-thirds of the way into the business section when his pocket call signal chirruped. He beckoned the nearest waiter and requested a telephone. It arrived and was connected shortly, and he dialed an unlisted number. "Roger Ladoga here. What's the message?"

"Central has a job for you at last. Come down and call them from here."

"Any idea what sort of thing it is?"

"Involves U.N.C.L.E. NorthAm, apparently. Old Waverly's gone off for a rest cure and Solo's in his place. You've likely been picked as advisor for something to do with their headquarters—that's your field."

"You pay me well enough. I'll be down there in half an hour; have them waiting for me, there's a good chap." He rang off, rose, and beckoned for his hat and coat. It had been rather blustery out earlier—he hoped this assignment might involve a change of scene.

Dr. Pike was at his desk, working on a report. Outside his window night had already fallen, and the cold wind muttered around the doors. He was running a pencil lightly down a column of correlation figures, muttering to himself, when a chime summoned his attention. Abstractedly he felt around the litter of papers and found the telephone handset. "Yes?"

"Dr. Pike? I'm afraid your work will have to be set aside for a while. A Blue Priority order has just come through from Central requesting you to call them at once."

"Read me the message."

The caller did so, and added, "We can patch the signal from Central through this telephone, if it would be more convenient for you. You will lack the video signal, but it shouldn't be necessary. While we establish contact, I suggest you locate your dossier on Napoleon Solo. He is to be your target."

"This is Greaves, speaking for Central," said the flat voice. "You three have been taken from your duties for a sudden opportunity. We are all acquainted with Napoleon Solo's activities in the field—his admitted strengths and his definite weaknesses. Now we have this man at the key post of the entire United Network Command. If we can test him beyond his capacity, put a strain on him great enough to cause him to lose coordination, we could achieve great things during the resultant period of chaos.

"You three will devise plans for applying the pressure to the best advantage, submit these plans to the Ultimate Computer for evaluation, and then direct the operation. Solo can be broken—he must be broken.

"Allow me to introduce you to each other. Roger Ladoga worked as sub-agent in the New York office of U.N.C.L.E. for three years before coming to us six months ago. He is completely trustworthy, despite his questionable background. He will advise you on the layout and procedures which surround Solo."

"How d'you do, all," said Roger's voice lightly.

"Dr. Theodore Pike, one of our finest behavioral psychologists. Tell us how well you know Mr. Solo, Dr. Pike."

"It would be impertinent to say I could predict his every mood, but given available data I can predict his reaction to any set of circumstances with roughly eighty– five percent accuracy." The Doctor's voice was rather dry and slightly hoarse. He sounded as if he knew what he was talking about.

"And Miss Helena Thomas."

"Hi. Pardon me for not turning on the vision circuit, but it's the crack of dawn here and my hair is a sight."

"I don't have any vision equipment here," said Dr. Pike.

"No wonder my screen stayed blank," said Roger. "Greaves, what is Miss Thomas's specialty?"

"Miss Thomas has encountered Solo personally several times, both professionally and socially. We feel she may be able to supply valuable insight into your target's mental processes."

"Such as they are," said Helena under her breath.

"You three will remove to a mutually agreeable spot, where a satellite computer will be given you for direct communication with Central and the Ultimate Computer. It is suggested you choose a location with roughly the same time as New York for maximum efficiency. We have a cover available for you in Bogotá if you wish to take advantage of it. Prepare to stay from one to two months. Any questions?"

"Tickets and local covers for our absence?"

"Local satraps will be responsible for both. You will be expected to rendezvous in twenty-four hours, noon New York time, on Monday. Prepare proposals en route. Dr. Pike, you are nominal leader of this sub-group. Your priority code is Blue, your computer access code is Waterloo. Acknowledge."