Текст книги "The Cross of Gold Affair"

Автор книги: Fredric Davies

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“These are the results of our computer’s analysis of the recent price fluctuations.” Waverly waited for Napoleon to open the file.

“You will note the strong correlation between the numbers we dredged up out of Alain and the price of Breelen’s common. It is almost certain that Breelen’s is the victim in this little play. The S.E.C. has agreed to allow trading in Breelen’s to continue unchecked for two more days. You will have to find the Thrush organization in that time and take whatever steps you find necessary to defeat them in this venture.”

Waverly sat back. Looking directly at his two top agents, he idly filled a second pipe with tobacco. “Tomorrow, Mr. Solo, you will make the rounds of the New York brokerage offices. You will openly question them about gold trading with emphasis on Breelen’s stocks.”

Solo groaned, and looked at his chief in dismay, wondering if he had understood the assignment clearly. But Waverly promptly turned his attention to Illya. “Mr. Kuryakin, you will report to Communications, where you will pick up two of our experimental continuous signal tracers.” Illya allowed just the hint of a smile to move his lips, knowing that Solo would writhe under the beat-pounding assignment in hot envy if Waverly gave him an action spot.

As Mr. Solo visits the brokerages, you will act as a parallel guard,” continued Waverly. “You will ride with him as passenger and observer.” Napoleon leaned back, enjoying this vastly.

“It is optimistic of us, perhaps, but we hope Mr. Solo will encounter Thrush activity in some form during his investigation, and your presence may be required to turn events in our favor.” He smiled again with his eyes, and the two agents knew that top-level U.N.C.L.E. deliberations had condemned them to slog through this crisis on the pavements of New York City.

Napoleon led the way as they left Waverly’s sanctum in favor of some sleep. As they descended in the express elevator, Illya asked Napoleon, “Have you ever known Mr. Waverly to make a deliberately false statement?”

“Not to friends.”

“He told me he had worked this puzzle. But look, it’s still blank.” Illya shook his head in wonderment.

Solo smiled sympathetically. “You and your little world of crossword puzzles just took a killing blow, Illya. I am of the opinion that Mr. Waverly works your favorite puzzle in his head.”

The wiry assistant radio operator stepped timidly into his master’s Coney Island hideaway.

“Mr. Porpoise, sir …”

The fat man woke instantly, frowning at the noise. His eyes, buried deeply in fat and scar tissue, burned into the little Thrush. “What is it, Arnold? Why did you wake me?” Behind his quiet voice, unspoken annoyance lay heavy.

“Thrush Central is calling, sir; Top Priority message. One of the board wishes to speak to you personally.”

“Very well, switch it onto my monitor.”

Arnold pressed a hidden control in the paneled wall and a section of the room’s overhead rotated to become an opaque screen. With a soundless flicker, an image came into being on the huge video monitor, revealing a well-dressed, distinguished-looking old gentleman seated at a polished oaken desk that might have been used for football half-time exercises. This was Mr. Benedict, Thrush Centrals counterpart to U.N.C.L.E/s Alexander Waverly.

“Avery, I have some disturbing news,” Mr. Benedict began without preamble when his screen showed the connection had been made. “U.N.C.L.E. has taken out one of your minor operatives, my boy; that actor fellow you were using in your communications link in London. I’m afraid that by now they may have everything he knows about your little project.”

Surprise and a smattering of panic crossed Porpoise’s face, and he elbowed, his huge bulk into a more attentive position, sputtering and reddening.

“Alain knew nothing of importance,” he said. He waved his hands about and looked at the screen apprehensively before he had to sit back in the water from the strain. “Don’t worry, sir, it was only necessary to give him simple messages,” he wheezed, as his normal sepulchral color returned. “In fact, he insisted on knowing nothing more, so he would run no risks himself.”

“I’m happy to hear that, my boy,” replied Mr. Benedict, “because that reflects sound Thrush policy. However, aren’t you going to be somewhat embarrassed in finishing your financial juggling?”

“The project is nearly completed,” said the fat water-baby, leaning back in his violet floating chair and smiling up at the ceiling. “U.N.C.L.E. can’t stop us now, and even if they could, we still show a considerable profit on the venture. You will recall that one of my premises in requesting so much working capital was that there would at almost all times be a profit available, guaranteed against all hazards.”

“Yes, but one should never underestimate U.N.C.L.E. If they tie this actor to you, you may be forced to abandon that very pleasant retreat by the sea.”

“I’m not underestimating them, sir. You see, we now have approximately 34.7 percent of Breelen’s, and tomorrow we will sell short. My calculations show that Breelen’s own agents will attempt to pick up as much of our shorts as their funds allow, hoping to scuttle our venture. However, with their present capital, they can purchase at most 12.3 to 12.4 percent of the total.” Porpoise’s little red kiwi eyes took fire from the progress of his mind through his accumulated knowledge of finance.

“Well surprise them by delivering that, and then dump the rest in three batches. The market will drop, once, twice, thrice! Calculations show that Breelen’s will try to sell a small block at the first plummet, and buy again at the second. Already they are desperate to retain control of their own shares, and then they’ll have to sell an even larger block at the third stage, which we of course will buy after the London Exchange closes. When they try to buy back, they’ll find no stock for sale, and we will be sitting prettily on more than a controlling interest.”

“I’m pleased the effort is so well along, my boy, but what if U.N.C.L.E. interrupts you before the finale?”

Waves of laughter traveled over the island of avoirdupois floating in the violet chair. “Even if they managed to halt trading on Breelen’s Gold,” he said amid deep chuckles, “and we fail to acquire complete control, we must make between seven and eight hundred percent profit. On the other hand, owning Breelen’s and a handsome profit to boot, we are guaranteed the control of South Africa’s newest nation’s major industry. I am the first to admit, sir,” he said, wiping his eyes with a wet wrist, “that this is not a direct path to world domination, but…”

“But, it will still stand up as a most commendable effort, Avery, and it is a pleasure to have entrusted you with carrying out your idea. Thrush Central is very pleased with your intermediate reports, and the rest of the council will be happy to hear that the loss of one operative means no danger.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m very glad to have your approval”

“Oh, indeed, Avery. And now, I’ve kept you from your rest quite long enough. Good night, my boy, and do keep me advised when anything major breaks there.” Mr. Benedicts face splashed across the spectrum as he closed the circuit, and Arnold fingered another control to restore the room’s ceiling to normal.

“Good night, Arnold,” breathed Porpoise in contentment. “Send a message to London about Alain, so that his work can be done in some other way for a few days. Even if it’s not as efficient, we are nearly through. And try not to disturb me again.”

“Yes, sir-er, that is, no, sir,” mumbled the small man, backing quietly from the room. Unheard in the insulated pool room, clocks outside struck three.

Chapter 3

“Which blip is me?”

Napoleon Solo entered Del Floria’s looking brisk and efficient, but feeling exactly like a man who has just made do with three and a half hours’ sleep. He returned the tailor’s cheery greeting with a grimace and stepped into a fitting booth. Del Floria depressed the steam mangle twice while Napoleon turned a clothes hook. The booth’s wall gave way to reveal one of U.N.C.L.E.‘s nicer fringe benefits.

“Illya is waiting for you in Communications, Napoleon,” breathed the brunette receptionist. She might have come up to his chin, standing. Napoleon allowed her to pin on his triangle badge, which gave him access to the U.N.C.L.E. complex.

“Illya is waiting for me?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes, Napoleon.” She was amused. “He arrived almost an hour ago. He said you would probably sleep a bit late.” Her smile was as delicious as the rest of her.

Napoleon congratulated himself on working for an outfit that picked its employees for physical fitness as well as intelligence. He followed a tall blonde part way to the high-speed elevator. Two floors up, he passed another tall blonde and a tidy redhead. At Communications he was met by another brunette, who guided him through the maze of U.N.C.L.E. electronics to a small lab. Napoleon was feeling much more alive and awake by the time he finally got to Illya. The brunette left him at the door of the lab.

“Good morning, early bird. Don’t you ever sleep?”

Illya replied with an elequent silence as he buried himself more deeply in a wiring diagram. Two lab technicians entered, ignored Napoleon completely, and handed Illya three more sets of drawings. These were quickly spread out on the only open space in the room, the floor. Napoleon found himself being crowded into a comer. No one seemed to care that he was there at all.

“I could be asleep in bed right now,” he said to no one in particular. No one in particular answered. He was getting a bit bored with the whole thing when he noticed the computer console. Colored lights on its face blinked in strange patterns.

Tentatively, he depressed a button. Nothing went “Wheep-wheep,” or “Bwoinng,” so he depressed another. Overhead what appeared to be a large television screen came to life. A crisscross pattern in pale green was the only picture.

The others were still oblivious of his presence. He pushed more buttons, and the. screen overhead flicked. The grid pattern changed both in size and color. Napoleon was just beginning to enjoy himself when Illya said, “I see you’re ready for the tests, Napoleon. Where did you learn to operate a 315?”’

“A good agent keeps up on everything, Illya,” Napoleon smiled, “or so you keep telling me.”

Illya held up a tiny glass-enclosed mechanism. “This is your tracer.” He handed over a device slightly larger than a paper match, with a straight pin running parallel to its length.

“A little large, isn’t it?” Napoleon asked. “The pinhead tracer we usually use couldn’t be a tenth this size.”

“The pinhead tracer’s signal is only good for about five miles at best. This can be picked up by the receiver here from virtually anywhere in this hemisphere.”

Napoleon looked at the tracer again with a bit more respect. “What’s more,” Illya continued, “it can send forever. It gets its power by crossing the earth’s magnetic lines. As long as you keep moving, or even breathing, it will keep on sending.” Illya pinned a second tracer to the neck of his sweater. Napoleon followed suit and decorated the underside of his right lapel.

Illya sat down at the computer console. His fingers flew over the buttons faster than Napoleons eyes could follow. The grid pattern on the overhead screen was suddenly overlaid by a passable map of the city, in red.

The two technicians flipped toggles on the receiver, and a tiny blip of pure gold appeared on the map.

“That’s us,” Illya informed Napoleon as his fingers moved over the buttons again. The map expanded on the screen, flowing off the edges in all directions. The tiny golden blip stayed centered.

Illya stopped the expansion when the map showed several square blocks complete with streets and buildings. “It’s programmed for New York and many other areas from aerial photographs. Of course, parts of the world are still all white on the map. Let’s hope, though, that we don’t have to go to Borneo.”

He set the map to expanding. Napoleon watched the city blocks grow off the edges of the screen until only one remained. Across the room, one of a set of large spinning drums made a clucking sound. The bluish-green grid was suddenly overlaid with an orange floor plan. Napoleon recognized the third floor of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

“This building and a few others are also in the map logic,” Illya informed him. “The receiver can detect altitude as well as direction and distance, and so triggered the third floor’s plan. If you went upstairs or down, it would change the plan accordingly.”

Again Illya expanded the map, bringing the bright gold blip subjectively closer. The blip split in two. Napoleon found himself looking at a miniature representation of U.N.C.L.E. Communications.

“Which blip is me?” he asked his partner.

“Watch.” Illya rose and walked across the room. One of the yellow blips slid across the screen. Illya returned, the blip returned. Illya left the room, the blip slid all the way off the screen. The second blip, Napoleon’s blip, remained centered, unmoving. The first blip returned, and a moment later Illya re-entered the room.

“We have tuned to you as the primary, and to me as the secondary. The only problem is that both signals trigger the same color on the display. But unless we both get taken it shouldn’t be hard to tell which is which.”

“Unless we both get taken?” Napoleon asked.

“Yes. You are the stalking goat to bait the Thrush tiger, and I am the Great White Hunter.” They solemnly shook hands.

“If I’m the bait, and you’re the hunter, how did we get stuck with legwork for the next two days?”

“If we’re lucky, Thrush will find you long before then.” The two agents left the lab, arguing the merits of the plan.

One of the technicians sat down at the console. He depressed a series of buttons and the display grew slightly. The two golden blips merged into one, entered the high-speed elevator and plummeted through flickering floorplans to the U.N.C.L.E. parking area in the basement of the old brownstone.

“Let’s talk to some of the good guys first,” Napoleon parked the special U.N.C.L.E. wing-door sedan in a no parking zone. Across the street was one of the oldest and most reputable brokerage houses in New York City. “I don’t know how the bad guys are going to react, so first I find out how the good guys are going to react. Right?”

Illya looked up from the crossword puzzle on his lap. “What’s a four-letter word for stool pigeon?”

“What?”

“Stool pigeon. I need a four-letter word for . .

“No, I heard you. Illya, a stool pigeon is a coppers’ nark.** Napoleon stepped from the car into the traffic.

“What kind of a snark?” was lost behind as he picked a path across the street.

The next twenty minutes established the pattern for the rest of Napoleons day. He entered the brokerage office and was received by a severe looking young woman seated behind a glass enclosure. “Whom did you wish to see, sir?” she asked with a minimum of lip motion.

Napoleon scanned the company’s letterhead. “Mr. Machines, please,” he said, choosing at random from the list. A bit of business with whispering into an intercom followed. The girl looked up momentarily.

“Who might I say is calling, sir?”

“Napoleon Solo,” he answered. There followed more whispering.

“And what, precisely, might I say is your business?” She looked at him very sternly.

“You might say that it’s private,” he answered with a boyish smile.

The receptionist put the instrument down and asked Napoleon to wait. He waited.

Finally an even severer looking older woman appeared and told him his name. Without further preamble she lead him through a series of glass-enclosed passages. They passed a dozen cubicles, each cubicle containing an identical looking chair, an identical looking desk, an identical looking young man and three ringing telephones. The noise level was unbelievably low considering the activity.

“Mr. Solo, please go right in” His guide opened a door of polished walnut, and Napoleon entered an office twice the size of Waverly’s. In one glance he took in a deep-pile white rug, the walnut paneled walls, fireplace, and built-in bar. On the far side of the room a large slab of walnut was masquerading as a desk. Behind it a tiny wisp of a man looked up in unfeigned annoyance.

“What is your business, sir?” The question was a staccato of words.

“I am with the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement,” Napoleon answered. “My credentials.” He handed the little man a gold embossed U.N.C.L.E. identification card.

The little man read every word on the card with great care. He peered up at Napoleon, who Wed to look as much like the picture as possible. “Very pretty.” The card was dismissed. “Now tell me, what is your business?”

“I want to ask you some questions about gold stocks,” Napoleon began.

“We have a number of young men here, Mr. Solo. All of them capable brokers. Choose any one of them. He will be able to handle your business.” MacInnes was closing the interview.

“Mr. MacInnes,” Napoleon began again, more firmly. “I want to ask you some questions about gold stocks. In particular I want to know the names of the people who have been buying and selling Breelen’s common in the past few months.”

MacInnes froze for seconds, then let a smile break across his wintry face. “You don’t let yourself be pushed around much, do you?” he asked in a much more relaxed tone. “You want a list of our clients dealing in Breelen’s common? Don’t you realize that there are certain professional ethics involved? What does U.N.C.L.E. want with the information anyhow?”

Napoleon was unsure which question he should field first. Before he could make the decision, MacInnes was talking into an intercom.

“Mrs. Stark, get me the billing records on Breelen’s common, for the last six months.” He smiled at Napoleon again, and asked, “Is there any other stock you’re interested in?”

“Ah … no, no thank you. Just Breelen’s.”

MacInnes started chatting to fill the time. His conversation was a series of questions. Napoleon gave up trying to follow them, much less answer. Minutes later, the huge door swung open, and two young men entered, carrying a portable file between them.

“That is it, Mr. Solo. The list you asked for.” With satisfaction, MacInnes watched Napoleon’s eyes begin to glaze over. “Breelen’s common has been one of the most active stocks on the Exchange in the past few months. There have been thousands of short term speculations. We have made a tidy sum in brokerage fees. One of our most popular stocks.”

Napoleon brought out his U.N.C.L.E. communicator. “Illya, are you there?”

“Yes, Napoleon, what is it?”

“Get a team up here for some data collection. Have them ask for Mr. MacInnes. In fact, you’d better have Mr. Waverly get a couple of teams on this. There’s probably quite a bit more coming at our next stop.”

“Right! By the way, what’s a four-letter word for South African money?”

MacInnes looked up. “Rand, Mr. Solo. Tell him R-A-N-D.”

“R-A-N-D.” Napoleon repeated obediently. “What’s a rand?”

“You’re investigating Breelen’s and you don’t even know what a rand is? Weren’t you informed that Breelen’s is worth hundreds of millions of rands? Weren’t you told that the stock is actually backed by the rand?” The series of questions continued.

Napoleon excused himself, and left MacInnes still barking questions.

“Hundreds of millions of rands?” he asked. Mrs. Stark gave him her severest look. A vision of an African in a loin cloth, pushing a wheel barrow full of colorful paper money through the automatic doors of a modem supermarket, flitted irreverently through his mind.

“Mrs. Stark, how much is a rand? How many hundred to the dollar?”

The secretary paused. “Rands are about two to the pound sterling, sir. That’s about a dollar forty.”

Napoleon’s eyes glazed over again. It took two close misses in crossing the street to jar him back to reality. He consulted the list of seventeen brokers suggested by U.N.C.L.E. Research. At somewhere between half an hour minimum and an hour maximum per visit they would easily fill the two days. Picking the furthest away from U.N.C.L.E. headquarters to start, he put the car into motion and turned into the one way traffic on the avenue.

“Who was Peer Gynt’s mother?

“Mrs. Gynt, of course,” Napoleon answered, without hesitation. “Why don’t you take up chess problems, or knitting?” Illya retreated into silence.

The second through fifth brokerages, much smaller than MacInnes’, gave Napoleon nothing more in the way of leads. The sand under his eyelids felt as though it planned to take up permanent residence. Lunch gave him a chance to rest his aching feet, then it was back to bearding brokers.

By the ninth stop Napoleon was well on the way to hating the world of high finance. To make things worse, Illya had run into a snag in the crossword puzzle.

“Look, why don’t you just call headquarters? It’s almost five; surely Mr. Waverly solved the puzzle hours ago. He can fill in all your blanks and I can have some peace.”

Illya’s return look was filled with soul-pain. Obviously Napoleon didn’t understand crossword puzzles. “You’re the type who would cheat at solitaire.”

“At least I finish the game.” He backed the sedan into an open alley. “One more and we call it a day.”

Napoleon, limping slightly, dodged hot dog venders and taxis as he crossed to Gambol and Associates. He was received by a young blonde who escorted him in to see Mr. Gambol without ado.

“Yes, sir.” Gambol was the youngest and most earnest looking broker Napoleon had yet met. “How can I be of service, Mr. er, ah … ?”

“Solo-Napoleon Solo.” Napoleon went into the little spiel he was perfecting. “I’m with the U.N.C.L.E., and I am investigating the possibility of a large scale stock manipulation.” The little speech continued by itself as Napoleon glanced around the dingy room. Gambol and Associates wasn’t doing too well.

“But, Mr. Solo, surely you must understand that the trust my clients place in me cannot be, er, ah.” The sentence petered out, but Napoleon felt he knew what Gambol meant. He had met variations on this same theme since leaving MacInnes.

“U.N.C.L.E. isn’t asking you to betray a trust. We have good reason to believe that most of the buyers of Breelen’s common stock are working in a conspiracy. You owe it to the rest of your customers to help us.”

“I’m afraid I can’t just take your word for it. I’ll have to call your office to check your bona fides.” Gambol picked up the telephone at his elbow and clicked the receiver rest several times. “Miss Burke, get me the U.N.C.L.E., please.” He smiled apologetically to Napoleon. “I’m sorry, Mr. Solo, but I really must check. You might be who you say, but you might just as easily be a spy of some sort.”

Wondering just what Gambol thought a spy would be doing in his office, Napoleon smiled reassuringly.

“Oh, hello. This is Jason Gambol of Gambol and Associates.” Gambol was more brisk now. After a pause he continued. “Yes, that’s right, the broker.”

“I have a gentleman here by the name of Solo, Napoleon Solo. He claims to be an agent of the U.N.C.L.E. He has asked me questions about gold stocks and my clients.” He paused again.

“I just wanted to check. How much can I tell him?” Gambol smiled earnestly at Napoleon.

“Thank you, I shall. Yes, goodbye.”

He turned back to Napoleon. “Well, Mr. Solo, I had no idea you were as important as all that. Ask me anything, anything at all.” Gambol was fairly bursting with enthusiasm.

Napoleon wondered what the girl in U.N.C.L.E. Reception had told Gambol, as he repeated his spiel. Gambol shouted for his Miss Burke. “The billing files on Breelen’s, Miss Burke.” The blonde scampered from the room, followed by Gambol himself, shouting further instructions.

Napoleon sat back, wearily. His eyes burned, his head hurt, his feet hurt, and he needed about twelve hours’ sleep. The communicator in his pocket beeped.

“Go ahead, Illya,” he said quietly.

“What’s a petty annoyance in fifteen letters?”

“Crossword puzzle! The answer is crossword puzzle.” He slapped the communicator silent and closed his eyes again.

“Sit quite still, Mr. Solo.” The voice was Gambol’s, but the inflection was deadly. Napoleon opened his eyes and counted three pistols pointed his way. Gambol wasn’t alone.

Wishing he hadn’t cut the Great White Hunter off quite so quickly, Napoleon smiled up at Gambol. “Do you treat all of your clients this way? Or is this a special, today only?” One of Gambol’s burly assistants stepped forward. The pistol in his hand slammed down. Napoleon managed to roll with the blow. Faking unconsciousness, he slumped forward. The second blow knocked him into darkness. He didn’t even feel the third.

“One of you get his communicator and gun, and help me get him into the car. Porpoise wants to ask him a few questions.” Gambol tied Napoleon’s wrists with some shipping twine. Another of his assistants picked Solo up and carried him like a sleeping baby.

“You two check out front-Solo doesn’t travel alone. Kuryakin is probably out there waiting for him. Get him-dead will do; Porpoise doesn’t need to question them both.”

Napoleon’s inert form was bundled into a service elevator. He was half dragged into the alley behind Gambol’s and dumped into the rear of the car. Gambol tossed a trench coat over the body and prepared to drive away.

“Help Karl and Frank with Kuryakin, then the three of you report in to Arnold.” He put the car into drive and headed toward the Battery Tunnel and Coney Island.

Illya looked up from the puzzle in time to see the two heavies come out of the brokerage towards the alley. He rolled into the driver’s seat, thumbing his communicator alive.

“Open Channel D, please. This is Kuryakin, and nothing pleasant is coming across the street.”

The two thugs ran at him, and one swung the hot dog stand around, blocking the exit. Illya gunned the engine and slammed into reverse. The car screamed as Illya, foot to the floor, backed down the one-way alley. He sent a row of trash cans careening and slewed dangerously close to a solid brick wall. Three stars blossomed on the windshield as shots echoed down the alley.

Still backing, Illya spun the wheel and backed into the cross traffic in the next street. Cars screeched to a halt and climbed the sidewalks to get out of his way. The communicator at his side spoke.

“Channel D is open. Come in, please.”

Illya swung the car into the curb facing into the oncoming cars. Traffic doubtfully started to pass him. The two Thrushes

running blindly, erupted from the-alley mouth. Illya put the car into low and floored it again, scattering the thugs before him.

He snapped the wheel over, skipped the curb and roared down the sidewalk. Spotting an opening, he cut across the oncoming lanes, bouncing high off the curb, and joined the traffic flow in his own direction.

“Channel D is open; come in, please!”

“Kuryakin reporting. I’ve just had a brush with Thrush. I suspect that Napoleon has been taken. Hopefully the tracer is still active. What now?”

“Mr. Kuryakin,” the dry voice of his section chief answered. “Communications reports that the two tracers are separating rapidly. There is no doubt that Thrush has Mr. Solo. But just on the off chance that he and his tracer have been separated I suggest that you visit Mr. Gambol and his Associates yourself. After that, if you haven’t found Mr. Solo, you can follow up the tracer.”

Illya turned off the communicator and settled down to drive. What with one-way streets, stalled vegetable trucks, and pedestrians who never noticed automobiles, he’d be lucky to get back to Gambols before Napoleon died of old age.

Chapter 4

“Somebody up there likes spies.”

Napoleon woke in darkness. I’ve got a thirst that’s intense, he thought, and the general sense that I haven t been sleeping in clover. Engine noise and the smell of rubber and burning oil told him he was in a car. A sudden acceleration rocked him back. He tried to raise up from the floor, but the trenchcoat, bunched at his shoulder, held him down.

The vagaries of traffic and Gambol’s nervous driving bounced him against the driver’s seat and back onto the driveshaft. His hands, bound behind him, were numb, and his shoulders ached. He finally managed to wrench himself around, throwing the stifling coat from his face.

Lights from outside flashed across him. His head hurt, and he still could have used a full night’s sleep. The motion of the car forced him back down, and raised a tide of nausea in his middle.

I wonder how the Great White Hunter is doing, now that Big Tyge has caught the stalking goat. He worked his legs free of the coat, leaving it over them, and kept his eyes shut .while he forced air deep into his lungs. Slowly his head cleared and the world stopped tasting bad; he began to feel a bit more human.

The car slowed to a stop, the wheels sounding as if they were eating into sand. Napoleon opened his eyes, noting that the most serious discomfort he felt was the itching of dried blood on his cheek. The front door of the car slammed and the back door at his feet yawned open. Gambol stooped to pull his prisoner from the car, and Napoleon went into action.

He twisted, whipping his knees up to his chest and then straight out again, springing from his shoulderblades up into where he knew Gambol would be. One foot caught the little Thrush in the glasses, the other in his sternum, and he sprawled back on the beach. Lungs empty of air and face bloodied, he sat down hard and then collapsed completely.

Napoleon let the kick flow into a gymnast’s roll that flung him out of the car and across the moaning broker. He came up awkwardly, spitting sand and trying to balance himself with both hands behind him. Three men in Thrush uniforms were racing up the beach from an amusement pier, the lights from the car silhouetting him neatly for them.

He darted into the shadows under the boardwalk, and took a cement stairwell in a bound. His feet drummed loudly on asphalt as he tried desperately for speed, but the three Thrushes gained. Gasping and weaving, he looked for any haven.