Текст книги "The Thinking Machine Affair"

Автор книги: Joel Bernard

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"You have a swimming pool?"

"Oh yes, sir, it's very popular."

Napoleon pressed a generous tip into the bellboy's willing hand and said: "Reserve a table for me near the pool. I'll be down soon."

He turned the key in the lock after he'd closed the door behind the boy and studied the room. It was the usual modern hotel job, clean, square, with the customary furniture. The two windows looked out on Poric Street, with its dense stream of pedestrians and traffic, and the frosted glass window in the adjoining bathroom overlooked a small yard. His eyes searched everywhere for concealed bugging devices, until he discovered one behind the bathroom mirror, one at the back of the bed headboard, and another inside the telephone on the bedside table. He identified them as highly sensitive electronic microphones which could transmit every sound from inside the room to a receiver some distance away. But he knew how to render them useless when he did not want to be overheard.

As he left the room and locked the door from the outside, a missile whistled past his head, almost touching his hair. He had not heard the report of a shot but realized that someone had fired at him. Although he saw no one, he ran towards the other end of the deserted corridor, for this was where the missile must have been fired. His gun was ready for action. Before he reached the part where the elevator was set back into the wall of the passage, he heard the sliding metal doors bang shut and the elevator descending. He looked for a staircase to run down and catch his attacker, but being unfamiliar with the hotel layout, by the time he found the stairs pursuit was useless.

For some inexplicable reason, he connected the attack with the man he had seen on his arrival at the airport reception area; he was certain it was THRUSH, out to silence him.

He returned to the elevator and descended to the restaurant for his meal. He strolled slowly across the hotel lounge, watching for anyone who might be a fresh danger to him, but the few people around him seemed to be ordinary men and women.

"Mr. Solo?" the headwaiter asked as Napoleon entered the restaurant. "Your table is ready." He called out "Piccolo!" and when a boy waiter hastened along, he told him: "Take Mr. Solo to table fourteen."

The restaurant was full and Napoleon did not bother to try and pick out any other possible suspects, knowing this was a near impossible task. He followed the boy waiter to the table reserved for him near the swimming pool below and was pleased that he could watch the swimmers—particularly the female ones—while eating his food. It gave him such an appetite.

The headwaiter brought the menu and said:

"The Chateau Briand is exceptionally good today, and I can also highly recommend the Mixed Grill which is primaprimissimo. But perhaps you'd prefer a typical Czech dish? I can recommend our roast pork with dumplings and Sauerkraut—sweet and sour cabbage. It's delicious. We are famous for it."

"I think I'll have the Chateau Briand."

"Would you like it well done?"

"No, medium."

"May I recommend potato croquettes, French peas, mushrooms and onions perhaps?" The head waiter busied himself in the typical Central European manner. "I can assure you, it's superbly prepared."

"O.K.," Napoleon said, watching a slim blonde who was sitting on the edge of the swimming pool and putting a gay rubber cap on her head.

"May I suggest smoked trout for hors-d'oeuvre?" the headwaiter continued.

"Yes, that sounds fine," Napoleon said absently, watching the blonde stand up and dive into the water.

"We'll leave the question of the dessert till later, shall we, Mr. Solo?" the headwaiter suggested, and, without waiting for a reply, went on: "I'll send the wine waiter along."

Napoleon was fully occupied watching the blonde swimming gracefully and thinking that he wouldn't mind swimming along with her, when the headwaiter returned and interrupted his thoughts. "What is it now?" he demanded, a little annoyed.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Solo, but a sort of crisis has occurred…"

"If the Chateau Briand is off, make it the Mixed Grill," Napoleon said, and turned back towards the swimming pool.

"It's not that, Mr. Solo. The Chateau Briand is being cooked for you and the smoked trout will be served presently. It's... well... we have no table available and a young lady would like to have dinner at our restaurant. I came to ask you if you would agree to share your table with her." And, in an attempt to prevent Napoleon refusing his request, he added:

"She is piquant, Mr. Solo, a picture of a woman. I am sure you would enjoy her company."

"I shall be delighted to help you," Napoleon said, and smiled.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Solo. I am sure you won't regret it."

A few moments later Napoleon saw a waiter lead a young woman towards his table. She was tall, with a shapely figure, her elegant fawn dress making a startling contrast to her dark-brown hair and her pale face with its striking, almost beautiful, features. Napoleon stood up and bowed as his table companion sat down on the chair opposite him. He wanted to say something but decided it was too early to do so.

"It was very kind of you to agree sharing your table with me," the woman said, smiling her acknowledgment.

"It's a great pleasure, Madam," he smiled back.

"You are American?" Her intonation sounded as though she was surprised.

"I am," he said. "I hope my nationality doesn't turn me into a monster."

"I like Americans," she smiled, and looked into his eyes. "I think you are wonderful people."

The headwaiter's unwelcome appearance prevented Napoleon from paying a return compliment, and he had no choice other than to let the long-winded man, who turned the choice of food into an elaborate affair, go on with his business.

While his table companion talked with the head waiter and expertly selected her meal, Napoleon watched the vivid expressions as they played on her face. He admitted that he had rarely come across a female with such exquisite charm and was happy at the chance that had brought them together.

The evening was a success. They talked, drank and danced.

"It's getting late," she said, as they finished the last dance and the musicians started to pack away their instruments.

"The night is young," Napoleon insisted.

"But we haven't any nightclubs in Prague such as you have in the States," she said. "Everything is closing now."

"We could round off the evening with a drink or two in my room," he suggested.

"Let's go," she said softly; "even without drinks. I think you're intoxicating enough without alcoholic stimulants."

Napoleon settled the bill and tipped the headwaiter handsomely.

As they walked through the hotel lounge towards the elevator, Napoleon sensed that someone was watching them, but even though he turned round sharply, he saw no suspect. "Must be imagining things," he thought, and walked on.

When they entered his room and he had shut the door, she put her arms around his neck impulsively and kissed him.

"Now that's what I call a really friendly gesture," he said, "and one good turn deserves another." So he kissed her back.

As they embraced she felt the gun secured in the holster fastened under his left arm. "You carry a gun?" she exclaimed.

"It's an old American custom," he explained casually.

She held him tight with her left arm around his neck. Then, deftly and gently, she slid the automatic from the holster and hit him on the head with the butt of the gun. "I'm sorry I had to do this," she said as she landed him another blow to make certain he was out.

She patted her ruffled hair, removed the compact from her handbag, opened it and said softly:

"Assignment completed. He's in his room ready for collection."

She looked at the unconscious Napoleon, his gun now beside his head on the pillow, and said: "I bet you didn't guess that my compact conceals an ultra-shortwave radio transmitter, my U.N.C.L.E. lover. It was nice knowing you."

She turned the key in the lock from the outside as she left the room and placed it on top of the door frame. She then left the hotel.

Her message was received by the Monitoring Officer at THRUSH European Center E, and was immediately passed to the Chief of the Special Tasks Department.

"I want you to collect Solo from his room and bring him here in one piece," he instructed two of his senior officers. "I repeat, no other action under any circumstances—he is to be made use of. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," the two men acknowledged.

"To avoid creating any attention I suggest you lower him down into the yard from the bathroom window. That's safe and easy."

"Yes, sir."

As Napoleon Solo slowly recovered, he felt a sharp pain at the back of his head and he automatically raised his hand to touch the sore spot.

He lay on the bed trying to figure out what had happened. The fragrant scent of the girl's perfume tickled his nostrils. Suddenly memories flowed back and he sat up abruptly, searching the room to discover whether his beautiful companion had also been coshed. When he found he was alone, the penny dropped and he murmured angrily: "Cunning slut! I should have known better!" Her "accidental" appearance in the restaurant had been a plant. Napoleon was furious with himself for falling for the trick.

He stood up and stretched his arms and found he had not suffered any damage other than the bump at the back of his head.

As he went to the bathroom to pour cold water over his aching head, he figured out that the treacherous female could only be the prelude to something else. And, on discovering that the key of the door to his room had gone and that he was locked in, he was certain he was right.

He re-fixed the gun under his arm and slipped on his jacket, prepared for action as and when it arose. He sat on the bed, wondering whether he should notify Major Klima at Czech State Security Headquarters about his predicament and enlist his help, but dismissed this thought.

"If knocking me unconscious was only a beginning," he thought "some thugs will come soon to drag me to THRUSH Headquarters. When they do, they're bound to rush to the bed, because they must have been told where to find me and they'll expect me to be still flat on my back, not reckoning on my thick head helping me recover so quickly."

Hurriedly he took some cushions from the armchairs and pushed them under the bedspread to form the outline of a body. Then he shaped a towel to resemble a head. Under the bedspread his creation looked as if someone was lying there covered up. When he switched off the bedside lamp and studied the bed again, he was pleased with his efforts. The street lamp below only let a tiny speck of light into the room and anyone entering it and rushing to the bed was certain to be deceived.

As he stood there like a Frankenstein admiring his monster, his sharp ears heard a key being quietly inserted into the door lock. He stepped behind the door to be concealed when it was opened.

Two sturdy thugs entered the room and crossed to the bed. When Napoleon was certain no others were with them, he leaped forward like a wildcat and slugged one of the intruders with a short sharp blow on the neck. He then dealt with his surprised companion almost as swiftly. They had not even had the chance to discover they had been about to snatch a dummy under the bedspread.

He locked the room from the inside to safeguard himself against other possible intruders, tied his prisoners by their hands and feet, then lifted the telephone receiver and connected with Major Klima.

"Expect me within ten minutes," the Major said when Napoleon reported the intruders.

Major Klima and several uniformed State Security officers arrived before the thugs regained consciousness. Solo had hit them good and hard because they did not recover even when cold water was poured over their heads, and eventually had to be carried away like a couple of sacks of potatoes.

"Where is the woman who was with you?" Major Klima asked when he was alone with Solo.

"Why do you think there was a woman here?" Napoleon said, trying to evade the question.

"Your room smells like a perfume shop and there's lipstick on your pillow," the Czech said. "There are also lipstick traces on your shirt collar, Mr. Solo, and they look to me very much the same color as the ones on your pillow." He spotted the look on Napoleon's face, and added: "We all make mistakes."

"It's not that, Major; it's that I behaved like a stupid clown chasing a pretty skirt." He felt very small.

"These things happen. Tell me the whole story. It might help us both."

Like a schoolboy caught by his headmaster, Napoleon told Major Klima of the encounter with the woman in the restaurant.

"I wouldn't let it worry you, Mr. Solo. And with such a valuable description of the lady, I think I know her identity; but I'll send our fingerprint people along to confirm or discount my suspicion."

"I am glad my encounter has had some purpose other than teaching me a lesson," Napoleon said.

A quarter-of-an-hour later Napoleon watched the two fingerprint men working their way systematically around the room.

"I suggest you contact me in the morning," Major Klima said at last. "By then I hope to tell you whether or not we have established the identity of the lady and then we can discuss the next steps to take."

Napoleon felt suddenly tired. He'd had enough for t one night. He was even too tired to undress. He flopped onto the bed and was out to the world, to U.N.C.L.E., and to anyone else, within seconds.

CHAPTER SIX

CALLING ALL COFFINS

AFTER Illya Kuryakin had transmitted his radio report to Alexander Waverly, he returned to the building in which the City Funeral Directors conducted their business to check on any further development. The offices were closed, but, tuning in to the direction finder in the "dead" man's tooth, he had no difficulty in locating the right coffin in the dark funeral parlor. He had been able to get inside through an open window in the back.

Illya knew that the ingeniously concealed direction finder had only a limited detection radius and, anticipating that Vienna was not the ultimate destination but that the body was likely to be transported further, he wanted to be sure of all the arrangements. He took a miniature bug from his pocket and secured it safely under the hollow handle of the coffin. Satisfied that he would now be able to listen from a considerable distance to any word spoken near the coffin, he left the funeral parlor through the window.

As he reached the street through the backyard, he observed a car drawing up at the entrance of the premises of City Funeral Directors. He stepped back to avoid being seen. The man who had claimed the body earlier stepped out of the car with two companions. As they entered the building, Illya returned to the backyard to pick up with his receiver the conversation in the funeral parlor. As he stepped into the backyard, the lights in the building came on.

"You left the window open," he heard a man say, and was almost certain it belonged to the one who had pretended to be the dead man's relative.

"We always do, especially if we have bodies here," another voice explained.

"I see," the first voice said. "Now, I think we'd better get all those forms signed so that the formalities are done with and the body can be flown out tomorrow morning on the eight o'clock plane without last minute snags."

"We've already obtained the necessary papers and as soon as these forms are signed and duly witnessed everything is clear," the other voice said. Illya heard the rustling of papers in his earphone and then a voice said: "If you sign here, and I add my signature below yours, my colleague can witness the signatures."

When the formalities were completed, Illya heard the first voice announce: "That's it, then. You'll see to it that the body is at the airport in good time tomorrow morning?"

"Everything is arranged. The coffin will be at the check-in desk before seven o'clock in the proper regulation package. You can rely on our efficiency."

"Thank you very much," the first voice said, and added: "Should you need me between now and the morning, you'll find me at home—apartment one-four-eight, one-o-o-two Fourth Avenue, telephone number..."

"I have all that," the second voice cut in; "but I won't need to worry you anymore—everything is in order."

Illya heard the man leave and the sounds of the two others preparing the coffin for transportation. He switched off his receiver and removed the earphone.

It was long after midnight when he turned into Fourth Avenue to have a look at the THRUSH agent's address. The building was deserted and he found it easy to slip in unnoticed and to take the service elevator to the first floor to apartment 148.

The corridor was empty and Illya was able to take a good look round. Apartment 148 was the one but last, and he stood outside the entrance door for a moment to attach a highly sensitive limpet microphone which enabled him to hear every sound inside. The only thing he could hear in the apartment was the fairly loud ticking of a clock and a man breathing heavily, as if asleep.

He waited a while, considering whether he should let himself in through the door or head for the fire escape, balance along the parapet, and climb in through the window. He wanted to fix another bug to the man's clothing to ensure his being able to overhear every word the THRUSH agent spoke.

On impulse he extracted the necessary tool from his pocket, opened the door silently and entered the small entrance hail, without making the slightest sound. He paused a moment, to accustom his eyes to the darkness. The only sounds were of the deep breathing of the man in the room on the right and the loud ticking of the clock.

The door to the room was open. Illya entered noiselessly. He looked at the man who was sleeping soundly and discovered that the loud ticking came from an alarm clock on the bedside table, set for 5.30 a.m.

Illya discovered to his great delight that the man wore a heavy leather belt, ideally suited for safely securing the miniature bugging device. He knelt down next to the chair on which the belted trousers lay and expertly fixed the tiny electronic ear in the loop that held the buckle.

This operation completed, Illya moved to the window in the adjoining room and climbed on to the parapet. On reaching the fire escape he stopped to check the bugging device in the man's belt. It worked superbly and he could still hear the ticking of the alarm clock and the deep breathing.

He left the building.

He arrived in good time at the airport and found a spot from where he could observe the coffin being cleared by the officials and taken to the runway to be loaded in the hold of the giant jet airliner with other luggage and freight. When departure time came, he joined the stream of travelers boarding the aircraft. He noted that the THRUSH agent was now accompanied by another man.

Without anyone taking any undue notice of him, Illya went up the steps to the plane and made himself comfortable by a window seat at the tail end. Unobtrusively he placed the little plug in his ear to listen to what the two THRUSH agents in the front part of the airliner were saying. At first they said nothing but, after the plane was airborne and out over the Atlantic, they ordered some whisky and subsequently said they would utilize the flight for getting some sleep.

This suited Illya admirably. He, too, was tired and could do with some rest, especially as he expected to get little chance of any after the aircraft landed at its destination.

By the time the jet touched down at Vienna, Illya felt refreshed and ready to cope with anything. Passport and customs clearance were a mere formality. He ascertained that the coffin had been taken to the airport warehouse and, immediately afterwards, saw the man in charge of the THRUSH operation disappear into the washroom.

Illya was almost certain that this meant the THRUSH agent was going to communicate with his center, so, pretending to make a telephone call, he fastened the listening device in his ear and was in time he hear the man transmit:

"We are at Vienna Airport and awaiting further instructions."

"I'll have a helicopter ready for you in two hours' time for taking you both with your cargo to Vysehrad," Illya heard another voice say. "Proceed immediately to the landing strip near St. Pölten and be prepared for immediate takeoff. On arrival beneath Vysehrad on the bank of the Moldau, board the boat with the yellow light above its starboard navigation light. From Vysehrad you'll be brought here."

"Message received and understood, sir," the other voice said, and Illya heard the soft click of the ultra-shortwave radio transmitter-receiver being switched off.

The man reappeared in the airport lounge, and with his accomplice, went to the warehouse. A few moments later, the coffin was loaded into a van. The two men boarded the driver's cabin and the vehicle drove off at high speed.

Illya found a quiet corner in the airport building to send a message to Waverley, informing him that he was taking a plane to Prague to be on the scene ready for action.

"Contact Mr. Solo on arrival," Waverly instructed.

"He's pursuing a lead and your hitherto separate assignments are merging."

"Yes, sir," said Illya and closed Channel D.

While the charter aircraft, with Illya as its sole passenger, took off for Prague, the Chief Organizing Officer at THRUSH European Center E was taking off in another way—he was losing his temper; for Professor Novak was stubbornly refusing to cooperate. What made matters worse was that no THRUSH scientists or technicians could figure out how the simple-looking apparatus worked and how it could be used for THRUSH'S own purposes.

"I am unable to tolerate your stubbornness any longer, Professor," the Chief Organizing Officer bellowed at the tired scientist who faced him with defiance. "I have allowed you to meet your daughter to ascertain that she is well and happy, and I have made it clear to you that high reward and esteem will be yours if you cooperate with us; but you don't seem to appreciate this, otherwise you wouldn't behave like an obstinate mule."

He paused and looked at the Professor, trying to detect whether his words had made any impact on the elderly man. When he saw that the scientist remained unperturbed he yelled:

"I warn you, Professor Novak! If you force me to use different persuasion, I will!"

"You can do what you wish," the Professor said, unmoved. "I have lived my life and I don't care..."

The THRUSH Officer interrupted: "You don't care what happens to your daughter, Professor Novak?"

At this, the scientist's face showed his hatred, but the THRUSH chief knew it was, above all, motivated by fear for his daughter's safety.

"You don't seem to appreciate that your daughter wants you to work with us," he continued. "Indeed she is eager to join you in your research. She told you so herself."

"Because you brainwashed or hypnotized her. I know Vlasta." He sat back in the chair, then suddenly said: "Can I speak with my daughter once more—in private?"

"Certainly," the other agreed, and summoned a guard from outside the office. "Take the Professor to his daughter," he ordered, "and make sure they can talk in complete privacy and undisturbed."

"Very well, sir," the guard acknowledged as he led the scientist away.

The Chief Organizing Officer activated the closed circuit television receiver to watch Vlasta's room and to listen to what father and daughter said to each other.

"Did you agree to work for them, father?" the girl said after the Professor had entered the room and the door had been closed.

"I wanted to talk with you first once more."

"There is no purpose in refusing, father," she insisted.

"I am shocked to hear you speak like that, Vlasta."

"Why?"

"Because we're talking with each other in private now. There's no longer any need to continue your acting, which was very convincing when we talked to each other in the presence of that man."

"I mean what I say, father. There is no purpose in refusing to work for them. They are determined to get their way and if you don't follow their orders they'll kill both of us."

"You really believe they would kill you?"

"I do. And I also believe that the only way to stay alive and to be set free again is by our cooperating with them and providing them with the improved apparatus."

"Don't you realize that we would betray our country if we worked for them?"

"I don't want to be tortured to death, father, and I don't want it to happen to you either."

"So you want me to capitulate, Vlasta?" the Professor said, at last broken in spirit.

"Yes, I do. I know it's hard for you to throw overboard your convictions and your loyalty to our Government, but it's the only solution. It will give us the opportunity to be with one another continuously and work together in perfecting the apparatus."

"All right, Vlasta," he sighed. "I know I'll be committing a terrible crime against our nation by agreeing to work for these people, but I'll nevertheless do it—for you, my child."

Vlasta felt miserable as her father left to report his decision. She had been tempted to signal her father that she was playing a part because she was certain their conversation was being overheard, but she feared that even a warning signal from her would be dangerous. Since her father and the apparatus had arrived at the Center she had evolved in her mind how their captors could be outwitted by using the thought-transference apparatus against them. But, to be able to turn her counterattack idea into reality, she and her father needed to worm their way into the enemy's nerve center and gain their confidence. When they were eventually in control of the apparatus, they could hit back. But how could she tell this to her father, with no secure possibility of discussing it with him in genuine privacy?

Unaware of Vlasta's intentions, the Chief Organizing Officer was pleased with her behavior and switched off the closed circuit television in his office as soon as the Professor left her room. When the scientist entered the office moments later, he said: "Well?"

"I have talked over matters with my daughter and have decided to accept your invitation to work with you," Professor Novak announced wearily. "Together with my daughter, I will carry out the research on my apparatus to the best of my ability and endeavor to make as rapid headway as possible. But now I am worn out and need rest."

"I am pleased with your wise decision and am convinced a beneficial association has just commenced between us," the THRUSH executive assured him. "I shall make it my personal business to see that your stay with us doesn't lack any comfort."

"Thank you," Professor Novak said, and followed a guard to a luxuriously furnished bed-sitting room. He was happy when he discovered that his daughter was allocated an adjoining and almost identical room.

But this evening he did not feel like visiting and talking with her, as had been his habit at the villa. All he wanted to do was to sleep...

And, as he slept, the jet bringing Illya Kuryakin to Prague landed at Kbely Airport.

The plane had been expected, and with minimum delay U.N.C.L.E.'S Enforcement Agent was able to step into a waiting car and drive to a point on the bank of the river Moldau, opposite Vysehrad. Illya studied the deserted area through his night field glasses.

The helicopter, with the coffin and the two THRUSH agents, was not due in Prague for another half-an-hour.

The distant sound of a boat engine somewhere on the river broke the silence. The heavy rain clouds hanging low in the sky shut out all moonlight and in the almost total darkness the approaching boat could not be seen until it was almost on top of him. The craft's skipper suddenly switched on the navigation lights before turning around in mid-river and anchoring on the opposite bank. As the boat passed, Illya could see a dim yellow light above the starboard navigation light.

Soon afterwards, the noise of an approaching helicopter disturbed the night. Through the field glasses he watched the helicopter land and a few minutes later the coffin was lifted out and taken to the waiting boat, which then moved off towards the city of Prague. The helicopter took off and headed back in the direction from which it had come.

Illya returned to his car and drove along the road by the riverbank towards Prague. The sound of the direction finder concealed in the man's tooth in the coffin was clearly picked up by his receiver, but when the road took a sharp turn to the left and ran a quarter of a mile or so inland, he lost contact. Huge blocks of buildings stood between the river and the road and before Illya had managed to make his way back to the Moldau, the boat had gone and the direction finder was beyond range.

Annoyed, he returned to the car and drove into the city. He doubted whether the boat could have proceeded too deep into the built-up area because the THRUSH European Center E was unlikely to be located anywhere where there was the slightest chance of detection. He made up his mind to return to the area outside Prague, where he had lost contact with the direction finder, as soon as he'd met Solo. They would have to cover the whole zone on both banks of the river before they could again find the radio transmitting coffin.

CHAPTER SEVEN

MURDER IS SUCH A MESSY BUSINESS

MAJOR KLIMA looked up gloomily as Napoleon Solo entered his office at Czech State Security Head quarters the morning after the incident at the Axa Hotel. But despite his discontent with the way things were going, he stood up and greeted the U.N.C.L.E. Chief Enforcement Agent cordially enough.

"Any development?" Napoleon asked casually.

"My suspicions regarding your amorous lady were confirmed by the fingerprint experts," Major Klima said. "I'll do my best to have her located as speedily as possible. For some inexplicable reason, this lady succeeded in living somewhere in town without being registered with the police. But don't worry, Mr. Solo, we'll find her."