Текст книги "The Utopia Affair"

Автор книги: David McDaniel

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"I think we could use a man like that," Illya quoted mentally, and smiled in the darkness.

Chapter 6

"Q ASSASSINATION."

THE MESSAGE was low priority and had been filed Saturday night, so it was Monday afternoon when the Sydney operator came to it in her stack of routine communications to Central. She signaled for access to Ident and tapped out the request.

1311670233 Z DE: SYDNEY TO: ULCOMP IDEREQ LEON DODGSON RESIDENT UTOPIA SOUTH AUSTRALIA. DESCOD 702-BBG-08-33692.

Five seconds later the message faded from her screen and she was preparing to code the next when the borders of the screen flashed red.

1311670234 Z UCR Q: VERIFY DESCOD LASCOM SYDNEY.

The red flicker meant top priority, and the UCR prefix meant the question was a direct readout from the Ultimate Computer itself, which rarely responded to routine messages with more than a curt acknowledgment. She searched for the tape of Silverthorne's last conversation, checked his description, re-coded it, and verified it. The red flicker cut off and the terse request was replaced by a line of neat block letters: THANK YOU.

She'd probably never know what was special about Dodgson; she didn't care. She touched the Clear button and punched in the next report.

In Freetown, Sierra Leone, a pretty colored girl in a neat gray uniform answered a flashing red light and saw a line of green type march across her viewscreen.

1311670235 Z UCR WAVERLY UNCLE 1/1 LOCATED PROBAB 74%. INFORM COUREP. Q: ACTION ADVISORY.

The operator was there for one reason: to introduce a flexible human element into what might otherwise become a mindless juggernaut of relentlessly irrational logic, basing everything on some piece of false or inaccurate data such as would inevitably pass into the vast memory banks. Her job was to fill gaps purposefully left in the chain of communication; in the present instance the Ultimate Computer had no way of knowing if the Council Representative was asleep, in conference, or didn't care, and her job was to decide whether he should be awakened at half past one in the morning.

She was aware of the Waverly situation; she tightened her lips and reached for a red telephone handset.

1311670241 Z UCR WAVERLY UNCLE 1/1 AT UTOPIA SOUTH AUSTRALIA NAME OF LEON DODGSON PROBAB 78%. Q: ASSASSINATION.

A short elderly man in flowered pajamas sat at a desk in a bare office. The walls were stained concrete, and looked as if they sweated. Acoustical panels stood on painted lines here and there about the room, cables snaked through covered troughs in the concrete floor, and the wide steel desk bore no telephone, no pen and pencil set, no blotter. A screen rose up from its center, a typewriter keyboard extended to the old man's elbow, and a single fat loose-leaf notebook, heavily tabbed, lay open just to his right. To his left stood a beaker of coffee and a half-filled cup.

The message stood on his screen in block letters, awaiting an answer with the patience of the machine. He studied it for several seconds, then turned to the typewriter keyboard. The screen faded as he touched a switch, and as he typed other letters appeared.

DE: COUREP LIST METHODS AND PROBAB SUCCESS.

1311670243 Z UCR Q: DATA UTOPIA. SCANNING FILES.

He had hardly time to read the answer before it vanished and was replaced by five lines.

LOW-YIELD THERMONUCLEAR WEAPON: 97%

HIGH-SPEED SATURATION SHELLING: 91%

INFECTION OF AREA: 42% – 90%

POISON WATER SUPPLY: 82% – 89%

ATTACK DEPARTING AIRPLANE: 62%

The Council Representative stared at the screen and shook his head. Sometimes the Ultimate Computer seemed frighteningly ignorant of the real world. That was his job. He rejected the list and tapped at his key board for a second.

COUREP PROBAB SUCCESS COVERT METH ODS.

1311670245 Z UCR COVERT METHODS PROBAB

SUCCESS 28% – 51%. SAKUDA MATSUJIRO AND

KIAZIM REFET AVAILABLE THRUSH EASTERN.

Q: PULL FILES.

Their files were projected on command from micro film chips, complete with photographs of the gentlemen concerned. The Japanese was just past fifty years old, and the Turk was scarcely five years younger, but the two of them had a record for dealing silent death unmatched and unapproached within Thrush. Refet was better than expert with every weapon known to man; he could hurl a bola, shoot pips out of playing cards, trim moustaches with a bullwhip, juggle a broad axe, spin a quarterstaff and throw tomahawks. His favorite personal weapon was a perfect reconstruction of the original Bowie knife, designed by Rezin and made famous by Jim. He had been seen to nail a flying beetle to a ceiling with it. He was second in rating to his partner.

Matsujiro had been with Thrush only three years. He had brought with him twenty years of training in the secret practices of Shin-Jitsu, and was the only Ninja ever to have deserted the Emperor's bodyguard and sold his traditions for gain. It was said that he could hide from an army in an acre of woods without even climbing a tree; he could kill a man with a blow from a single finger, and could so gauge the blow that his victim would remain unaware of serious injury for several days before the weakened wall of the heart gave way. There was no question in anyone's mind which of the team was the deadlier.

It would be almost noon in Japan. The Council Representative flipped through the tabbed notebook and punched up the satellite code for the Thrush Eastern office in Kiru.

1311670400 Z DE: CENTRAL TO: THRUSH EASTERN PRIORITY WHITE SAKUDA MATSUJIRO AND KIAZIM REFET ASSIGNED UTOPIA SOUTH AUS TRALIA. WAVERLY UNCLE 1/1 UNDER NAME OF LEON DODGSON PROBAB 81%. VERIFY IDENT AND KILL. MAINTAIN COMPLETE SECURITY. EASTERN ARRANGE COVERS ETC. DATA UTOPIA FOLLOWS ON TELEPRINTER. END.

Saturday, five days later, two new gardeners arrived at Utopia. They had been cleared through Park Security rapidly because of a sudden growth of ragweed and a need for moderately skilled help in the wilder sections of the Park. They rushed through Personnel the same afternoon, sat through Orientation Sunday, and were at work in the woods Monday morning.

The fact that they were there and unchallenged was a tribute to their own abilities and the efficiency of their organization. The Ultimate Computer was not quite literally able to move heaven and earth, but it could influence a goodly portion of the latter and occasionally did. Aware of the scheduled Sunday briefing and not wanting the available time before Waverly's departure reduced by a third, it had utilized deep-trance hypnosis to brief the two assassins, staggering numbers of bribes to establish their work record and qualifications, and a high-flying jet with its own legitimate job to drop specific growth-stimulating hormone concentrates over the Park's woodland. Sakuda and Kiazim had arrived in Sydney just as the call went out for experienced and certified help, and went on to answer it almost without stopping for lunch.

They were aware of Silverthorne's presence as a guest at the Park, and they had been told that the Total Security ordered by the Ultimate Computer specifically included him. At the moment, their work kept them away from areas he was likely to frequent, but eventually he might spot them and ask what they were doing here. It would not be unlike Thrush to send an important executive marked for execution to a plush resort for his last few weeks of life, and Silverthorne might understandably be uneasy.

For the moment they studied the situation and waited for a chance to check Mr. Dodgson's exact description against Waverly's. They also studied methods whereby a man might be killed neatly and safely, for they were not men to put such things off until the last moment. They had seen the UCR printout which estimated their maximum probability of success, once inside the Park, at 59%, and they had a personal interest in raising that figure to 100%.

Silverthorne was deeply involved in his War. Dodgson had initially played a cautious, defensive game, sending scouts into enemy territory while guarding his own. Silverthorne had made several successful thrusts already and was picking up a fair amount of strategic territory. One of Dodgson's better tricks had been removing forces from non-strategic areas as an invitation to attack; it hadn't worked.

Then in the second week of the war Dodgson had rallied and counter-attacked, gaining ground with such clear foreknowledge of his opponent's methods of combat that Silverthorne was driven to devise a wholly new style. He held most of his cavalry back from an encounter until the battle was well joined instead of using them in the massed charge. Dodgson halted his advance, pausing to study the change in tactics, and Silverthorne changed his artillery deployment and counter-attacked.

Now the third week had begun and they were temporarily stalemated. Silverthorne had ascertained that the Gamesmaster was unbribable, the Battle Results Computer untippable, and the soldiers themselves unapproachable. So much for the covert transactions of the game. Very well; he was willing to fight on whatever levels were open.

This was the state of his mind as he wandered, late of a Tuesday afternoon, through some of the wilder reaches of the Park towards the north along a network of color-coded trails. He was pacing himself to reach the Lodge with time for a drink before dinner when he came around a small grove of trees and found a sawhorse and notice saying DETOUR—MEN WORKING in several languages, including International Road Sign. With a moment's hesitation he turned to follow the blockaded trail.

He had gone no more than fifty feet when a man in canvas work clothes stepped from a clump of bushes ahead of him and said, "Sorry, sir, this area is temporarily closed to guests because of ragweed infestation."

"I was just interested in what was going on," Silverthorne said, continuing to approach. "What are you using to clear it out?"

He was fifteen feet away when his expression began to change. "Refet?" he said uncertainly.

The workman paused and said, "Yes, sir."

"Kiazim Refet? You worked for me in Noumea about a year and a half ago?"

"That is right, sir."

Silverthorne frowned and looked about him. They were alone. "You had a partner."

"Sakuda Matsujiro. He is here. We are on assignment, sir, and under Total Security." Refet saw Silverthorne's face beginning to register a not unfamiliar combination of unease and suspicion. "Our assignment has no relation to you, sir," he added with a slight smile.

"Certainly not," said Silverthorne, almost concealing his doubt. "But if you will report to me in Bungalow Twelve this evening, we may discuss the amazing mechanics of coincidence."

"We may discuss them only in the abstract, sir. I fear our orders were specific on that point. After all, you are on vacation."

"We shall see what fruit our discussion bears. Come at ten o'clock."

"If practical, sir."

Silverthorne started to correct him, then reconsidered. If they failed to appear, they could be found again. "Very well," he said. "You may return to your work."

He coolly turned his back on the Turkish assassin and strode back up the trail to the blockaded intersection. If his spine was tense, he gave no indication.

Refet did not wait for him to disappear, but melted silently back into the woods and was gone.

"Unless there is someone on the staff important enough to demand your attention, your assignment must be one of the guests. It would be interesting to try to find which one."

"We can only ask that you do not, sir," said Matsujiro. "Our job is not an easy one, with Park Security to watch out for, and with all respect you could best assist us by forgetting our presence here."

Silverthorne scowled. "You realize that I am several levels of rank above you," he said. "I could order you to give me all the details of your assignment."

Refet's lips parted slightly in a wolfish smile. "You could sir, but we would not answer you. Our orders came directly from Central—White priority. You should be aware that Central is not lightly disobeyed."

"Or interfered with," added his partner. "You have the power to command us in many things, but our first duty is to Central. We should not have been seen by you; in this we have failed. With this already against us, surely we could not willfully continue to disobey."

Silverthorne regarded the broad innocent face of the elderly Japanese with unallayed suspicion. "I have seen few guests here who are important enough to warrant your employment. You are valuable men."

"We are but humble workers; mere arms of Thrush Central and the Ultimate Computer."

"No compliment intended," Silverthorne said. "A statement of fact. You may be mere arms, but you are without exaggeration the finest assassins in the world."

"My friend Kiazim is indeed dexterous with weapons," said Matsujiro with a nod, "but I fear my poor talents are comparatively few. I was adjudged slow and clumsy by my masters in the Imperial Guard."

Refet's eyes crinkled at the corners. "You have snatched a flying arrow from its path before my very eyes," he said. "You have shattered stones with your bare hand and scaled walls a fly could not climb."

"Children's tricks," said Matsujiro flatly. "Truly I can accomplish things few men are capable of, but I have seen the true masters of my art and I know that I am indeed less than they."

"Very well, very well," said Silverthorne. "If you will not tell me what I wish to know, you need not attempt to impress me with either your skill or your modesty. I am quite aware of both. If I have any use for you, I shall contact you." He rose, and they followed.

Matsujiro bowed. "And if we are able to help you without lessening our chances of success in our assignment," he said, "we shall be only too happy. Good night, sir.

It was four days before Silverthorne had a reservation for the outside telephone line, and when his call was placed his first question concerned the two assassins.

"They're absolutely right, sir," said the Sydney satrap. "All we've seen here was the part of their orders saying Total Security and the UCR heading on the message. But we have Central's word that you are not their target.

"Thank you for your concern," he said with a trace of sarcasm. "Now what have you done about the business in Port Moresby?"

He was willing to accept the situation as it stood—he had no choice. But he would sleep easier with his windows wired and a chair propped under the doorknob, though he didn't mention that to Sydney.

Chapter 7

"Always The Easiest."

ILLYA LEANED BACK from his little playback unit and allowed himself the luxury of a deeply regretful sigh. His six-week vacation was scarcely half over, and it looked as if he would have to get back to work already. His almost instinctively planted bug in Silverthorne's cottage had caught a bigger fish than he'd had any reason to suspect, and his job was cut out for him until Waverly was safely away from Utopia.

So Silverthorne was a top executive for Thrush. Obviously, someone somewhere had recognized his description of the putative Mr. Dodgson, and a team of assassins had been neatly delivered accordingly. He remembered scanning Refet's file a couple of years before; though the face eluded his memory, the reputation had stayed with him. Matsujiro was a stranger, but his reputation was guaranteed by the company he kept.

He would save this tape cartridge for U.N.C.L.E.'s files; voice prints on all three men could prove valuable. Tomorrow he would find a way of picking up and replanting one of his bugs—probably the one from the table in the main dining room; Waverly used it only irregularly, usually being invited to join other groups at meals. The bug in the Security Office brought him nothing but two hours a night of worthless trivia played at double speed, but he'd put a lot of effort into planting it and hated to undo it all. Besides, it still might prove useful.

Now another of his carefully forged keys would be needed. The room the two men shared would probably work from the same master that would open his own—were it not for a slight individual change he had made in the lock the night he moved in.

He definitely did not look forward to meeting either of the gentlemen in person. Illya was well aware of his considerable abilities in the arts of self-defense, but he was equally aware of his limitations. He could break a pine board, but not a brick; his hands were too valuable for other purposes. Taking on either the Turk or the Japanese alone would have been a very chancy business—attempting to confront both simultaneously would only end in a badly shattered Russian and an unprotected Waverly.

He knew he'd have to find them. But this meant they might find him first. And if Waverly were left unprotected the entire assignment would have failed. In his small neat handwriting, he penned a brief memo addressed to Waverly, outlining the situation and describing the two assassins. He sealed the memo in an opaque envelope which he directed to Leon Dodgson—#35. This he sealed within a larger opaque envelope, and printed Curley Burke on the front. The old mechanic could be trusted to hold it without explanation, and would know enough to deliver the contents to Dodgson if anything happened to Illya.

To make sure it didn't would be nearly half his job. His policy must be one of covert interference unless something otherwise unblockable made the sacrifice necessary, and in that case he could at least reveal the assassins as he did so. He'd been told emphatically in New York, "Don't Make Waves." Which prevented him from killing them at once, and made his own secrecy even more important.

Illya opened his eyes after this moment of thought and saw that twenty minutes had passed by the desk clock since he had closed them. His legs were slightly stiff and his clothes clung to him uncomfortably. He rose, yawned widely, and put his electronic devices neatly in their nests. His alarm would go off in five hours, and today had been a long day. Bed waited, and his raveled sleeve of care badly needed knitting.

The next day was Wednesday, and Illya's duties for the day included the main dining hall. Switching the light bulbs was refreshingly easy, and the bug dropped into a safe pocket in his apron. It went from there to his locker half an hour later, and he picked it up there at the end of the afternoon shift before returning to his quarters.

He spent some time patrolling the corridor near the assassins' room until he had assured himself that both were out and likely to be gone for a while. When the hall was empty, he tested his master key and found it to work perfectly. In a moment he stood inside the darkened apartment, listening intently for any sound indicating discovery.

After a slow count of twenty, he extended his left arm far out to his side and flicked on the pencil flashlight he held. It drew no attack, and he swiveled the ghostly beam around the room. The double was a mirror reversal of his own single, with almost twice as wide a main room and a sofabed where one of them would sleep. The wall bracket fixture between the door to the bed room and the door to the bathroom seemed the best; centrally located, turned on by the switch at the door, it would probably be connected most of the time the room's occupants were present and awake.

Working quickly, the flash gripped in his teeth, Illya tilted the shade back and extracted the bulb it concealed. His other hand brought up the substitute and screwed it into place with brisk movements of his wrist. The shade was carefully replaced, with an exact eye matching the angle at which it had been found. He stepped back, checking his work critically, and decided it was acceptable. He turned and took two steps towards the door.

The sound of a key in the lock froze him where he stood for an instant, then sped his movements. An attack would tell them their cover had been blown, even if he could escape unrecognized himself. There was no other door in the apartment, and no windows. The air vents would scarcely admit his head. He knew of a certainty there was no other way out than the way in. He also knew that he could hide in the shower stall in the bathroom or the closet in the bedroom; whoever was returning would be slightly more likely to go first to the former. Also the latter would muffle any sound he made rather than amplifying it, and be a less exposed position, though farther away from the door.

This data had been correlated in one professional corner of his mind during the minutes since he had entered the room; now the decision went directly to his muscles almost as a reflex. He spun silently and sprinted for the bedroom door. He pushed aside the alternate uniforms and leisure clothes as he heard the outer door open and saw by reflection the front room lights go on. Listening intently as he crouched in the dimness of the closet, a slight smile crossed Illya's face—he would probably have a chance to hear in person the same sounds his newly placed unit would be playing back to him later this evening.

Now he heard soft footsteps whispering on the thin rug, coming into the bedroom. A series of rustling sounds brought to his mind the picture of a man undressing, and he dared to part the garments slightly for a quick look. He caught a glimpse of a wiry brown chest, crisscrossed with old scars, and the top of a shaggy black beard struggling through the neck of a shirt. A coat was already draped across the bed.

Illya ducked back and hoped the man was not compulsively neat about hanging up his clothes. Seconds later a slight jingling told him of trousers tossed to join the coat, and twin thumps of discarded shoes. Silence followed, and Illya's sharply focused hearing detected no sound until the sudden roar of waterpipes beside his head told him the Turk had turned on the shower. Now if he hadn't left a robe behind, or decided to come back for a fresh towel... Illya decided to count to fifty, slowly.

He was to thirty-five when a not-unpleasant baritone came softly through the wall over the thunder of the pipes, singing in very bad French a ballad which had recently been popular in Tokyo. Illya parted the clothes again and looked out. The bedroom was empty, and the lights were on. He made a lightning mental review of his actions since entering the room, and, sure he had left no trace behind, started for the door.

The singing continued, not loudly, as he entered the main room, paused directly beneath his bug, and daringly rapped it twice, lightly, with his fingernail, before venturing past the half-open bathroom door. Steam wreathed out to vanish in the cooler air of the room and, focusing all his attention on the distance to the door knob, Illya slipped across the space in a few light steps. The knob turned silently in his grip, the door opened a crack and he ducked through into the corridor with only a quick prayer that it would be deserted. It was as he came through, but his hand was still on the knob behind him as a girl in a crisp blue uniform came around the corner.

Without a flicker of reaction Illya completed the motion smoothly, looking straight past the girl as the latch closed softly. She gave him an incurious glance and passed by without breaking step. He scarcely bothered to test the knob as he turned in the direction from which she had come and walked off at his own pace.

He didn't check the bug again until long after dinner. He keyed it and caught the beginning of the Turk's solo, following several seconds later by a loud TAP TAP. Illya nodded slightly and shifted to fast forward, scanning for conversation as the sound of the shower kept the mike functioning. Some seconds whirred by, and then a twitter of speech stopped him. He wound back and heard:

"What did you find out?"

"Beyond a doubt it is Waverly. Ninety-eight percent, certainly.

"Only ninety-eight?"

"Without fingerprints it could not be ninety-nine. It is Waverly."

"What approach do we use?"

"Always the easiest. A visit to his cottage tonight may allow us to continue our vacation here without the burden of a job undone."

"When it grows late, I think a stroll through the forest would prove a profitable end to the day. Perhaps shortly before midnight?"

"Security's rounds are well spaced after that hour."

"So let it be, then. Bezique?"

"Of course."

The dialogue beyond this point was more widely spaced and dealt almost entirely with the play of cards. Illya shut off the tape and glanced at his clock. Eleven– forty. They were probably still playing, and would leave in another ten minutes. It might take them as long as fifteen minutes to cover the mile to Waverly's cabin. That meant he had as much as twenty-five minutes, including travel time, to develop a way to thwart them, preferably without exposing himself, ideally without even letting them know they were being specifically thwarted.

At the same time he wondered what method they'd be likely to use. Not likely one readily recognizable as murder. The reign of terror that would ensue should a guest be murdered would certainly uncover both the assassins and probably Silverthorne as well. An accident would be difficult to arrange while he slept in his own bed, but some kind of poison, perhaps a gas, could leave him with no symptoms beyond the vague "heart failure." Anything they could do while keeping themselves covered would take time to prepare.

He rewound the tape and found the dialogue again. He played it through, listening carefully and projecting himself into the minds of the speakers. What approach do we use? Always the easiest. Security's rounds are well spaced...

He glanced at the clock as the card game began again in his 'phones. Eleven forty-two. He rubbed his chin reflectively, and then nodded. Always take the easiest way. He pushed the rewind button and in the privacy of his mind allowed himself an uncommonly self-satisfied smile. He wouldn't even have to put his shoes on again to block the little opening gambit.

He spent the next ten minutes making notes in long hand for his final report, then reached for the telephone. He tapped out the number for Security and blanked his vision screen. When the night watch answered, he adjusted his throat muscles and spoke with a gravelly British dialect.

"This is Dodgson, in Number Thirty-Five. There seems to be some sort of large animal bashing about near my cabin. Could you send someone out to have a look around without disturbing me?"

"Certainly, sir," said the watch. "We'll have a jeep out there in five minutes."

"Thank you."

"Our pleasure. Good night, sir."

"Good night."

He broke the connection. The slightest flaw in the plan was that Dodgson might develop a reputation as a bit of an old maid, but this, while perhaps a little degrading, would never be allowed to come to his notice and could also result in other staff members keeping a little bit closer eye on him. Otherwise it fit every requirement. Illya rarely displayed his imitation of Alexander Waverly, but it had drawn applause wherever performed.

He went back to work on his report, leaving a receiving channel open to the bug in Waverly's bungalow and another open to the assassins' room—the Thrush suite. A good three-quarters of an hour passed without a signal from either. Occasionally he turned the amplification up full on the former and was able to detect a faint irregular snore.

Shortly before one o'clock a sound on the second channel brought him back to attention. A door opened and closed, and the signal picked up slightly as the light turned on and the circuit completed.

"So their visits are irregular after all," said the Turk's voice.

"It would appear so," said a lighter tone matter-of factly. "But since we lack the equipment necessary to defeat the alarm systems, his house will be his sanctuary. Another approach will be indicated. Let us discuss it no further until we have considered the implications overnight."

"Agreed."

There were more noises, and a few words exchanged, but nothing of import. Illya learned only that the Japanese slept on the floor in the living room, apparently out of preference.

At length he rose, switched the unit back to Record, and turned to his own bed again. Working two jobs was not his idea of a vacation; he hoped Section Six would remember this in a few weeks. He glanced at the schedule taped beside his clock, and winced. Tomorrow was Thursday–in America it was Thanksgiving, and for the ten or twelve Americans currently in residence a traditional dinner was arranged for all the guests. The same thing happened with fine impartiality on Passover, Christmas, Buddha's Birthday, Id al-Fitr and May Day; each time it happened the kitchen staff worked overtime in preparation and clean-up. Tomorrow he was assigned to the former, trying to adapt individual servings to the dietary requirements of a few guests with religious or medical restrictions, and was due in the kitchens at five-thirty. Wearily he set the alarm for five and turned off the lights.

At least he could be thankful tomorrow; his job had been done tonight, and done well, he told himself as he slipped off to sleep.

Chapter 8

"Are You Sure This Thing Is Safe?"

NAPOLEON SOLO blinked bleary eyes and sat up. He had been surviving on catnaps for longer than he cared to remember, and hadn't been home to bed for a week. Channel D was signaling from across the room, and he rose from the couch to answer it. A glass of orange juice and two long red capsules rested on the console next to the microphone clip; he ingested them as he listened to the call from the field agent on Clipperton Island.

"Sir, I'm going to need authorization for a light plane tomorrow afternoon. I've got a line on the submarine sightings, but it'll be murder to nail down."

As his right hand lifted the juice to wash down the Vitamin B, his left flipped through a file for data on Clipperton. "Will you need a pilot?" he asked as soon as he finished swallowing.

"I can't handle a copter, but a twin-jet or piston job is no problem."