Текст книги "The Utopia Affair"

Автор книги: David McDaniel

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"Priority Blue, CAC Waterloo."

"Your local satraps will give you the rest of your orders in official form. Start thinking now of ways to apply pressure. Anything else? Greaves out."

"Ta, then," said Roger. "I'll see you both in Bogotá tomorrow."

Helena and Dr. Pike bid each other farewell and signed off, Dr. Pike to shuffle his papers together and Helena to return to her apartment.

As she rode up alone in the elevator, chic silk lounging robe wrapped about her, she wondered briefly about Greaves. Was he the voice of the Ultimate Computer itself, or a human secretary, or one of the Upper Twelve? She might know someday if she kept advancing. This assignment was a chance for another boost up the ladder, if it worked out well, and it would be fun anyway. She slipped the lock on her door, yawned daintily, drew heavy drapes over the sun-bright slats of the venetian blinds, slid out of her robe, and burrowed down into the bed in search of her interrupted sleep.

In Bogotá they met in a hotel suite, with three separate bedrooms and baths, and total privacy. The satellite computer was brought in two suitcases, connected, set up and tested in about twenty minutes. Dr. Pike had a plan in outline form when he arrived, and neither of his partners had one to offer nearly as comprehensive. He offered it to the computer and explained it to Roger and Helena while the distant circuitry chewed it over.

"We have enough different projects under way that merely a slight shifting in schedules and a replaced emphasis can create more work for Solo. I'm sure we can hit him with a major crisis of some sort every day for at least three weeks as things stand now. By the time we begin to run out, we can have more ready. I believe the frustrations of his enforced physical inaction and noninvolvement will begin to wear on him. His nerves will begin to fray, since his desire for action will have no outlet. Then we will see about the second part of my plan."

The screen of the satellite computer flashed blue, then faded to a black surface on which appeared glowing letters in perfect block printing:

3010671846 Z DE: UCR TO: WATERLOO RE-

SCHEDULING PLAN ACCEPTED AND ACTED

UPON... CALCULATIONS COMPLETED... RE-

SULTS TRANSFERRED...

SCHEDULE CHANGE ORDERS TRANSMITTED

TO ALL AFFECTED OPERATIONS. FIRST OVERT

ACTION 1800 HOURS LOCAL TUESDAY 31 OCTO-

BER. SCHEDULE FOLLOWS ON PRINTER READ OUT.

By the time the last phrase appeared, the first lines had faded. The printer began to chatter, and an eight-inch-wide strip of paper started unreeling from some where within it. Roger caught it as it came out, read some of it, and whistled softly. "We really will be keeping him busy. Memphis, Detroit, Cape Kennedy, Denver, Seattle... Here we go! San Salvador, Anchorage, Las Vegas, Teguei—Tegucigaipa? Martinique..."

"And it starts tomorrow," said Helena with a feline smile. "Happy Halloween, Napoleon. May it last until Christmas."

Napoleon Solo answered Channel D about 6:28. An emergency report had just been processed in the Denver office concerning an explosion at a top secret missile base, and positive evidence of sabotage. Two high-rank officers were deeply involved, and the entire affair was very touchy and terribly important. They needed at least two men immediately.

Miss Williamson had clipped a memo to it, stating that Section Two Number Five, Jock Tuber, was available for assignment. Noting this, he thought of Miss Ewert, of Communications, as a second agent for the job, and sent the call signal.

It was dark outside his windows when he had collected the necessary data, received files, passed them on to his two agents and offered a few basic suggestions. Their tickets to Denver were for ten o'clock the next morning.

Four routine notes had piled up during his conference; he looked them over and filed them, with part of his mind still wondering about the exact nature of the explosion until the priority call chimed again and he reached for the slim silver mike to answer.

The two agents monitoring a tense post-revolutionary situation in Tierra Caliente were suddenly in the midst of a new outburst of fighting in the least defended part of the city. They needed help, and the Managua office was out of contact.

Quickly punching a code number on his control panel, Solo watched the main screen as a status map of the Central America Subcommand flashed into view. San Salvador was tied up at the moment, San Jose was still inoperational... He made a cross-connection to Mexico City.

"Can you spare about ten men for penetration in Tierra Caliente? There's some kind of agitation going on and we want to put a stop to it."

He left the Field Agent talking to Mexico City to work out details, and cleared the channel. He signaled Miss Williamson on the intercom and said, "Could you see about having a tray sent up from the commissary? Something simple but nourishing centered around a large rare steak and followed with something to maintain the blood sugar level, and several cups of hot coffee timed to arrive about every fifteen minutes for the next couple of hours?"

"Certainly, sir. And by the way, I would like to bring in my opposite number to introduce you."

"Opposite number?"

"She works the night shift in my place."

"Don't bring her in until I've eaten or I'll be rude."

"All right. Dinner will be—"

Channel D flickered and chimed, and Napoleon switched his attention to the call. The third one in as many hours; he hoped this wasn't an average.

This one was from the agent on bodyguard duty to the Akhoond of Swat. It was seven in the morning there, and the Akhoond's prize greyhound had been found with its throat cut at the foot of the Imperial bed. The inhabitant of the bed was in a roaring royal rage, and the servants were absolutely in the clear.

Napoleon was half-tempted to say, "Don't touch a thing—I'll be on the next jet." But he bit his tongue and asked, "Any indication of a struggle?"

"None, but there wasn't much blood either. I think the dog was killed somewhere else. Which is funny, because he usually sleeps right there where he was found."

"How sure is the Akhoond that this is his greyhound? Could someone have kidnapped the prize pooch and left a ringer?"

"It's a possibility. There'll be a Royal tattoo inside the ear if it's the real one, and His Imperial Hotstuff wouldn't have bothered checking for it. If it's there I'll call you hack."

"If it's there, Mr. Harbeson, you can take action on your own. You're a field agent and a good one, but you'll never catch anyone if you stop to call me first. If we can't take the initiative, we've got to keep our reactions as fast as possible; I can have a three-man team in to back you up in two and a half hours if you need them." He didn't think that was quite what Waverly would have said, but it'd have to do.

The distant bodyguard verbally clicked his heels, saluted and rang off. Solo reached for the intercom, licking his dry lips.

"About my dinner..."

"It's on its way up now, sir."

"Good. By the way, it isn't eleven o'clock already, is it?"

"I'm afraid it is, sir."

"No wonder I'm hungry."

Channel D remained mercifully silent during dinner, though one or two calls came through on lower priority lines; neither demanded immediate action, but both added to his burden of worries. There were now definite signs of concealed manipulation of the Paris Bourse; U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters in Geneva was quite capable of handling the situation, but it was a factor that might affect his operations and he had to know about it.

Channel D signaled just as his dinner was cleared and he began to stuff a pipe with Waverly's private mixture. He answered the call between puffs. The voice was strange to him, and he tapped the code for a lighted map display of the sender's location. He found the light as the caller finished his identification. "Buck DeWeese, Flin Flon, Manitoba."

Napoleon sought through his mind for data on the Flin Flon office and found nothing. He decided to play it straight for the moment, coming to this decision as he said, "Yes?"

"I think we have something here worth a look at, sir. It started a few weeks ago with a couple old trappers who came in from the woods claiming they'd seen the Williwaw. That's the local imaginary monster. Since then I've heard stories from some of the lonelier farms, and seen one very blurred photograph. Tonight the entire population of Cranberry Portage saw the thing, just about four hours ago."

"What does it look like, and what does it do?"

"Well, it hasn't done anything yet except move around a little. I haven't seen it myself, but the photograph tallies closely with the descriptions I've heard. It doesn't have any particular shape, but it's pretty big. The picture was taken just about dusk—the earliest the thing's been seen. It's shaped like a fat fir tree, almost conical, but rounded. It doesn't have any particular color either, I'm told; the black-and-white snapshot here shows it as medium dark, indeterminate texture. I can see trees silhouetted against its base, though, and knowing the heights of those trees it has to be about a thousand or fifteen hundred feet tall."

"Fifteen hundred feet?"

"Uh-huh."

Napoleon considered that for a few seconds, and asked, "Any features visible at all? Anything that remains constant?"

"The man from Cranberry Portage who drove up here to tell me about it says all they could see was something big beginning to block out the stars in one whole part of the sky. It kind of reared up over them, he said, and the only thing they could see were two dim red stars up about where its eyes might have been. They have no idea how far away the thing was. It stood over the town for about ten minutes, then gradually went away, back the way it had come, and was gone entirely in about two minutes. And one other thing before you ask. The wind has been from the Northeast at a steady twelve knots since shortly before sunset. A nice stiff breeze."

"How much of this is known around town already?"

"All of it. The guy who drove up here phoned it to a paper in Winnipeg for twenty-five dollars. Tomorrow the whole province will know. I'm already planning to look into it, sir; I just wanted to be sure you knew what was going on in case something happened. I'm pretty much on my own up here."

"Thank you," said Napoleon. "But bear this in mind, Mr. DeWeese: raw courage alone does not win battles. If this becomes more than you can manage single handed, don't hesitate to call for backup forces.

"I plan to live to a ripe old age, sir, but I want to find out a little more before 1 cost the organization money. I'll give you a call back if I touch on anything I can't put in my pocket."

"Very good. Best of luck."

"Thank you, sir."

The connection was terminated, and Napoleon turned his chair to a large microfilm file reader. He punched a combination of buttons and found DeWeese. A former guide, six foot three, two hundred and thirty pounds, IQ 175, responsible for maintaining U.N.C.L.E.'s watch over half a million square miles of desolation where, as the poet has said, the Northern Lights have seen strange sights.

One of the strangest, he thought, must be a thing as big as a mountain, with glowing red eyes, that stood still and reversed direction in a stiff and steady breeze, and had silently menaced the town of Cranberry Portage. Solo had to suppress an automatic smile at the image of the rural name, and suddenly remembered that tonight was All Hallows Eve. What a way to celebrate, he thought wryly.

He glanced at the master clock. The evening reports from Honolulu would be coming in shortly; the West Coast had been processed... and there was that repeated attempt at a coup in Tierra Caliente. Something would have to be done about the men behind it; tomorrow morning would be soon enough. Even if the revolution was backed by Thrush, the soldiers would demand their rest at night. He wished he could do the same.

He sighed. It looked as if this could become a full-time job. He tapped the intercom for the night girl– what was her name, now... Cindy? She answered and he said, "Can you dodge all my calls for about half an hour after Hawaii checks in? I think I'd better take off to close my apartment and pick up a few items. Don't bother with a driver; I can catch a taxi up First."

"I'll put a lock on your line, sir. Signal me as soon as you come back in."

"Right."

Napoleon dug his knuckles into his eyes and sorted quickly through the things he would have to do to move in here for a few weeks. His apartment could be secured in a moment; his toilet kit was always packed and ready to go, and he'd probably need a fresh shirt. It looked as if it was going to be a long six weeks.

Section II "A Principality In Utopia."

Chapter 5

"We Could Use A Man Like That."

BY THE END of his first week there, Alexander Waverly was becoming adjusted to life in Utopia. He wasn't quite used to it yet, and he was determined he would never be able to like it, but he was able to find his way around without a map and knew four of the staff on a first-name basis. He'd had six quiet days to observe the activities that were going on about him, and as a guest he had certain privileges of movement which enabled him to study the operations of "The Park" more carefully.

His data added up to a picture similar to that he had imagined, but quite a bit larger. There was a fair-sized atomic power pile under the hill which was the Park's eastern wall, supplying electric power and fresh water, steam heat and an endless supply of low-grade but marketable radioactive by-products. The brochure had mentioned a radio blanket over the entire area, but he had observed Park personnel using something which looked very much like a radio for communication. He wondered how they did it, and made that his next point of interest.

Meanwhile there was the day-to-day life of the resort to be coped with. Every effort was being made to find something to occupy his time for the next month, and no expenses were spared in Utopia to keep the guests happy. Waverly hardly felt he was unique among the clientele in being taken forcibly from a job he enjoyed; he was even reasonably certain that Utopia would be prepared to deal with a certain amount of recalcitrance among the inmates. After all, the staff members were there essentially to determine that anyone paying the appropriate fee would enjoy himself whether he wanted to or not. He gave himself credit for no more stubbornness than any top executive; if they could be won over, so could he. But the staff would have a job trying.

Meanwhile, he had to pick some kind of directed activity to occupy the next four weeks. It wasn't required, but he dreaded the idea of having nothing at all to do. Much as his inner being rebelled at the thought of joining the other overgrown children in their play therapy, it was preferable to wandering through the woods and dabbling in the artificially maintained brooks. Of all the choices he had been offered, the least distasteful was a sort of war game; he had seen a brochure on it shortly after his arrival. Apparently two total strangers acted as Generals in a series of maneuvers, rather strictly regulated, using live troops in a simulated battle situation.

He would sign up for this game and hope for the luck of the draw to bring him an interesting and challenging opponent. He had enough faith in the abilities of the omnipresent staff to pair him with a near equal so that he was not seriously concerned with the danger of boredom in the next month.

He proved correct. As Mr. Dodgson he entered his name, and in due process he received a note informing him that he had drawn a Mr. Silverthorne. Silverthorne was listed in the guest directory with the terse identification Executive. His residence was #12, diagonally across the residential area, a little over a mile away.

An exchange of polite notes by the pneumatic postal service, and they arranged a meeting at the Lodge. It was mid-afternoon when Alexander Waverly entered the cool dimness of the log-walled building and saw the man against whom he would soon be waging war. As he approached the table, a long dark man unfolded himself from a chair and extended a hand.

"Mr. Dodgson? My name is Silverthorne."

Waverly studied the man's face for a moment as he answered. His opponent was perhaps fifty-five or sixty, and well maintained. His black hair was touched up slightly, though it took a perceptive eye to catch it. Only his eyes seemed out of place, bright and alert, darting here and there in an otherwise impassive face. He stood almost three inches taller than Waverly.

"How do you do, Mr. Silverthorne. I'm told we are to go to war over something or other."

Silverthorne smiled. "Participation seemed preferable to inaction. This pretend-war appeared to be the most potentially challenging diversion the Park offered."

"My situation precisely. Is this your first participation in their games?"

"The war game has been added since my last visit. My company insisted I needed a vacation."

Waverly admitted the similarities in their positions, and by the time dinner was laid in the main dining hall they were fairly well acquainted. The subject of their respective backgrounds had not come up—one of the first things Waverly had observed was that they generally didn't. It was considered bad form to inquire into another guest's outside life. Some were there who could not hide—celebrities from entertainment, politics, science and industry, whose faces were known around the world. But the Prime Minister of India was listed in the directory as Politician, the star of the most popular British comedy series was listed as Artist, and the top Russian nuclear researcher was a Technician. A guest could mention his own background if he wanted to, but it wouldn't impress anyone, and the occasion to do so rarely came up.

Silverthorne spoke English with no particular accent and displayed little curiosity about his opponent, who returned the favor. The conflict began the following day.

Monday was a slow day. They put their token troops through simple maneuvers and learned the limitations of their positions and the rules of the game. They were also introduced to the gamesmaster, a genially rotund man with a very serious face and an apologetic air. His job was to interpret rules, verify the decisions of the Battle Results Computer, and hold final responsibility for the proper functioning of all the aspects of the war.

Each man was given a staff of five to act as his chiefs of Supply, Operations, Intelligence, Planning and Computer Ops. They were carefully trained as to the extent of the advice they could give while maintaining communication between the commander and the forces, five hundred strong, who executed his orders.

Utopia had outdone itself in this operation. The soldiers in this mock war were not paid by the resort, but were all trainees for several of the better-known mercenary forces. Their pay was met by their prospective leaders while the Park covered their lodging and food expenses in return for their services as part of the entertainment.

Weapons were dulled, punches were pulled, cartridges were blank, but judges circulated in the battle area noting hypothetical casualties and occasionally directing the action. Their reports were processed by a small computer which calculated the exact results of the en counter in terms of casualties, material expended and ground gained or lost.

Understandably, Waverly and Silverthorne saw little of each other for some days after their brief meeting in the Lodge. The war was fought several hours a day, and studying the results of each move in the complex game took care and precision. The game had been so designed that neither side had the least advantage, and the slightest mistake in an order could cost valuable credits in hypothetical men and supplies.

Waverly made other acquaintances, and found himself sharing a few dimly remembered anecdotes from the First World War. He was not the only veteran of the Great War, he found—an aged Prussian had fought against the English in France. The Baron Ludwig von Schtroumpf was in excellent health, he insisted, and saw no reason why his board should have ordered him sent to this place. Yes, he remembered the Somme; he had been wounded slightly there...

Silverthorne maintained his interest in Waverly, though the pseudonymous Mr. Dodgson seemed unaware of the fact. The gentleman had kept up a careful study of his opponent through a week of intense, if imaginary, warfare, and had been impressed by what he saw. His organization was always interested in ability; even though Dodgson must be about seventy, he was almost preternaturally wily and clever. He had an aura of confidence and capability about him that spoke of years of leadership, and could instill a firm loyalty in any man under his command. This was a rare and valuable talent, and was certainly worth a try to land for his own people.

Nothing could be done about offering him a new job while they were here; an executive recruiter would have to find him when he came out and contact him to see if he was at all interested in changing jobs. Top men with true ability are worth all the effort it takes to get them.

He had a reservation on the outside telephone for a weekly quarter-hour call to his Sydney office. He would utilize some of this time to give them the data on Dodgson with a recommendation that they find out where this man was presently employed and prepare a recruitment presentation for him as soon as he left Utopia. Like most of the best executives, Silverthorne had a portion of his mind permanently focused on his occupation and no medical orders could turn it off.

Illya had taken his first opportunity to plant his third bug in Silverthorne's residence as soon as he found that he would be Waverly's opponent in the war game. He expected his fourth would be placed in Baron von Schtroumpf's bungalow; though the Baron was only a casual acquaintance, he was as close to a friend as Waverly had made during his first two weeks at the resort.

His own schedule varied—one day he would be alternately clearing away the dishes from six sittings and laying out tableware; another day he would be assigned to Room Service, which job might include keys to some of the residence bungalows. Apparently harmless items in his luggage fitted together to make a small, inefficient but precise locksmith's kit, and he had been able to derive the warding of the master-key system from study of the samples he held.

This particular day he had been wheeling coffee and sandwiches around the Security Area, supplying break time refreshment for the office and maintenance staffs. Vehicle Maintenance was in a flap because a fungus growth had gotten into the lubricating oil and was I thriving on the fungicides they applied. Illya had been fascinated by the biochemical problems involved and, as Klaus Rademeyer, returned voluntarily to the area when his shift was over. He worked with four other men on a jury-rigged filtration system, and almost displayed more knowledge than his cover could justify when the discussion turned to irradiation to kill the fungus spores.

It was approaching ten o'clock in the evening when the group declared itself conditionally satisfied and went together to the commissary for coffee and conversation. Illya found himself seated next to Curley Burke, the crew chief. Curley, of course, was bald, and his features seemed to huddle together around his mouth as though lost in the vast pink expanse of his head, with only two low-set and lonely ears far away to either side. His chin was small, his nose was small, and his eyes were sparkling blue beads; only his mouth was large and mobile. It could allow an insult and a pint of beer to pass in opposite directions simultaneously, and still have room in one corner for a hand-rolled cigarette which smoldered constantly.

His hands were large and lumpy, with traces of ancient grease deep in the texture. Somehow he seemed to have twice as many knuckles as he should and his fingernails were cracked and ridged, but his large hands could move inside an engine with the skill and grace of a surgeon. He was as interested in Klaus as Klaus was in the petrophagic fungus.

"Klaus," he said, "how'd a waiter learn so much about engines?"

Illya's cover had not included this information; he took a fraction of a second to sort through it and improvised. "My first job at sea was as a stoker. I thought of working my way up to Chief Engineer, but I moved over to the White Gang after I learned what life was like a little more."

"Well, you've come to the right place. I've been fixin' trucks for the Park six years now–since they opened—and I wouldn't want to work anywhere else. I've got the best quarters, the best food and pretty good pay; and it's easy to save with no place to spend it."

Illya took a swallow of coffee and looked doubtful. "It's a long way from the rest of the world, all right. I was beginning to wonder if I could last until my vacation."

"What's to miss? The girls here are cute and there's no regulation against interdepartmental fraternization—we'd probably all go stir crazy if there was." He laughed roundly and upended a brown bottle over his foam-flecked glass. "There's plenty of society, all the television shows a week late, and no news from the outside to worry you."

He gestured around, indicating the unseen guests up in the Lodge or retiring to their cottages. "These rich guys have to pay through the nose for this place; I live here and they pay me! And they're always in such a hurry to leave. Never figure 'em out. Got the best of everything here." He shook his head.

Privately, Illya could understand both points of view. Publicly, Klaus had to establish in advance a valid reason for leaving Utopia after having been at the Park only a month and a half; his cover identity was too valuable to be broken easily. This nonexistent waiter had gotten some of their best agents into some of the best hotels in the world at times when security was getting very tight indeed.

It lacked twenty-five minutes of midnight when Illya returned to his room, tired and a little slowed down by a few sociable mugs of beer, but he had his other job to attend to. He plugged a complex unit about the size of a quart bottle into the wall socket above his writing table and keyed a set of frequencies. The small pilot light on top of the unit flickered yellow as the signal was sent, then shone red for two seconds as the high-speed squirt transmission was received, then green. Illya slipped the featherweight earphones behind his head, allowing the rubber tips to slide into his ears, and touched another button which allowed him to scan rapidly through the tape. Two seconds was short, even for the transmission speed the device used; Waverly didn't talk to himself and no guests had come to #35. Occasionally a clearing throat would activate the recording mechanism for a few seconds, or a door closing in the next room, but there was nothing worth listening to on the tape. Illya pushed a button for recycle, and then triggered the bug in Silverthorne's residence.

This transmission took ten seconds, and the tape took twenty minutes to scan for voices. Nearly to the end, but unspecified as to time, he heard one end of a conversation which brought him back to wakefulness.

It started with the telephone chime and Silverthorne's voice saying, "Yes, thank you... Hello, Sydney. I've got fifteen minutes. Using scrambler pattern three." There followed a few seconds of silence and sounds of plastic things clicking together, then, "Hello test, hello test... hello test, hello test... Ah. There you are. Now, what's the situation in Upolu?"

For a few minutes the tape contained only questions and commentary, most of it impossible to follow, with the long pauses clipped out by the voice-activating switch. Then Silverthorne went directly from a final comment into another subject.

"By the way, I hope you have a tape on this because I'm nearly out of time and won't be able to repeat. There's another guest here named Dodgson. Leon Dodgson." He spelled it. "I don't know what his line is, but he's got a tremendous capability for leadership, is quite widely educated and experienced in a number of fields. I think we could use a man like that, and I want a team of recruiters to meet him when he comes out. Here's his description..."

Illya's eyebrows rose slightly as he reached for the control that would allow him to replay that portion of the recording. He did so, and a wry smile crept across his face. Not likely that any other firm could woo Alexander Waverly from U.N.C.L.E., whatever they were willing to offer. But it would be interesting to see what happened when he was contacted, supposing that they could even find him.

There was no real evidence as to what Silverthorne's firm did—apparently they were large and wide-spread, occupied with import and export, sensitive to political situations all over the South Pacific area, and involved to some extent with scientific research of some kind touching on oceanography. It might be rewarding to look up Silverthorne when he got back to New York and see just what he did. Whatever it might be, the thought of Waverly being approached by representatives of a top executive search outfit was more than moderately amusing.

He filed that tape cartridge and plugged in another one, tapping his third bug in the Security Office. Nothing of interest there—he dozed off twice while routine matters flowed by, and as he disconnected the bug at last and fell into bed, he debated sleepily about removing the trick light bulb from Security. It might come in handy eventually, but there was conversation of some kind going on there every minute, and the time it took to audit the tape was worth more in sleep than anything he had learned from it. As he slipped down into slumber, his last thought was of Silverthorne.