Текст книги "The Copenhagen Affair"

Автор книги: John Oram

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As they watched, Solo and Illya saw two men emerge from the open hatch. Despite the shapeless overalls and the helmet that obscured much of his head, there was no mistaking the soldierly figure of Major Garbridge. His companion, similarly clad, was a stranger. The two men descended the ladder and stood waiting.

A few seconds later a tractor laden with cylindrical objects approached from the far end of the shop and pulled up beside the monster craft. In comparison, it looked like a child’s toy.

Solo attracted the fascinated Sorensen’s attention by tugging at his sleeve. He made signs to indicate that they should get back into the tunnel.

When they were sufficiently out of range of the generator to make speech audible, he asked, “Ever seen hydrogen bombs?”

“No,” Sorensen said.

“Then go back and take another peek. What that tractor is carrying ain’t knaidlach!”

CHAPTER NINE

AFTER THE CHARNEL-HOUSE atmosphere of the tunnel the air in the cow barn tasted like wine. They blinked in the daylight. Solo looked at his watch and held it to his ear to check that it was still ticking. It seemed incredible that the time was still only early afternoon.

Viggo led the way back to the farmhouse. They all looked like scarecrows, but Else scarcely raised an eyebrow. She brought drinks, and said to Viggo in Danish, “Our guests will need a shower and dry clothes.” Womanly curiosity seemed not to be her strong point.

Sorensen said, “Well, we have seen it. The saucers exist. What to do now?”

“They not only exist; they’re operational,” Illya said. “They wouldn’t be loading that baby down there with bombs if they hadn’t ironed out the bugs. We’ve got to move fast.”

Sorensen said again, “How? What to do?”

Viggo suggested, “A few grenades through the tunnel grille?”

Illya laughed. “They’d have as much effect on that great machine as stroking it with a powder puff.”

Solo poured himself a glass of lager. He lifted it to eye level and watched the streams of bubbles rushing up through the golden liquid. “Explosives are out,” he said slowly. “The hydrogen bombs would be armed before they loaded them into the bays. If they went up—goodbye, Jutland! We don’t dare take any chances. Besides, we want that machine intact. If we wrecked it now, Mr. Waverly would never forgive us. You know how he likes new toys, Illya.”

He studied the bubbles thoughtfully. Then he went on, “I figure we have at least until sunset. They won’t take that thing out in daylight.” He looked at the others. “Incidentally, how do you suppose they get it out of the workshop?”

Viggo said, “That, I think I can explain. In your country I believe you keep the big missiles in deep silos. The sliding roof is camouflaged to look like the rest of the land. When the Germans were here, they hid and launched their rockets so. And these people are using the old workshops, much enlarged. No doubt the saucer goes out through the top of the hill.”

Solo nodded. “You’re probably right. How many men did you see in the place?”

Illya said, “Apart from Garbridge and the fellow with him, there was the tractor driver and the gang of six waiting to unload the bombs. Two others were working around the generator. That makes eleven. There may have been others inside the saucer.”

“I wonder who the man was with Garbridge,” Karen said.

“That was undoubtedly Sonder,” Viggo replied. “Both Knud and I recognized him immediately.”

Solo finished his drink and took out the black transmitter. “I think it’s time to get reinforcements,” he announced. He turned the dial and called, “Come in, Paramount.”

Gütte’s voice answered perkily: “Glaedelig Jul, Napoleon.”

“And a good New Year to you,” he grinned. “Now, if you’ve finished with the pleasantries, see if you can get Mr. Jorgensen to rustle up a few pounds of marzipan with pencils, a crate of pineapples and a jar of London fog.”

“Can do. How soon, and where?”

“In an hour, if you can. Hang on.” He turned to Viggo. “Who do you know near Silkeborg who can be trusted?”

Viggo said, “One of the old group has a farm just outside. He’s safe.”

“Good!” Solo spoke again into the transmitter. “Gütte, put the stuff into a jet and have it dropped. I’m putting somebody on to you now to give you the bearings.” He handed the little black instrument to the farmer.

There was a rapid exchange in Danish; then Viggo told Solo, “The stuff will be dropped within the hour. I’ll go now to collect it. Don’t worry about my friend. He does not talk.”

He put on his sheepskin coat, waved a hand and went out. A few seconds later they heard a car engine start up.

Karen said, “Marzipan, pencils, pineapples and London fog. The plastic explosive, fuses and grenades I can understand. But why the ‘fog’?”

Solo poured another Ceres, held up the glass and pointed to the dancing bubbles.

“When your house is infested with rats,” he said, “what’s the quickest way of getting rid of them?”

The clock in the living room was striking four when they heard the sound of the car returning. Viggo stamped in, giving the thumbs-up sign.

“No trouble?” Solo asked.

“Nothing. The drop was perfect—right on target. And the roads are clear. I met nobody.”

“Good! Then let’s get down to cases. The main problem is to put the factory out of business for keeps and, if possible, capture the saucer intact. If we can get. Sonder and Garbridge alive, so much the better. But whatever happens they mustn’t get away—particularly the gallant major. What happens to the proletariat doesn’t matter. They’re not important. Understood?”

They nodded.

“Fine! Then here’s the plan. I’ll go into the tunnel with the ‘fog’. You, Illya, will go with Viggo, Knud and Karen in the truck. Park it out of sight somewhere at a safe distance and leave Karen with it as general watchdog. Then the rest of you make your way to the mine entrance and set your charges along the fence and at the blockhouse.”

He looked at his wristwatch. “I should be able to get to the workshop end of the tunnel by six o’clock. I’ll open the shutter and start spraying at exactly six-oh-five. Set your fuses to detonate at the same time. Then go in and start the rat hunt. Clear?”

“Like crystal,” Viggo said. He chuckled. “I shall enjoy the feel of plastique in my hands again. It will be like the old days.”

Karen said, “You are a bloodthirsty old ruffian, Herr Jacobsen. It must be the beard.”

Illya and Sorensen went out to the car and returned with two heavy cases. Illya grumbled, “Gütte’s sent enough grenades for an army corps. She must think we’re going up against the Viet Cong.”

Viggo produced haversacks from a cupboard and they began to stow the supplies with infinite care. Solo took from one of the cases a long, slim metal canister fitted with a short length of rubber hose that ended in a nozzle. It looked like a streamlined fire extinguisher. He attached a body harness and strapped it on his back. When the packing had been completed and the haversacks distributed, he said, “Synchronize your watches. Our timing is going to be vital.”

Viggo could not resist a last touch of the dramatic. He brought out a bottle of akvavit, poured small glasses of the colorless, potent spirit, and handed them round.

“To the destruction of our enemies!” he intoned.

“But be very sure there are no slip-ups,” Illya said mordantly.

They went out into the darkness.

Solo stood in the doorway, watching them load into the truck and drive off. Then he closed the door and made his way toward the cow barn.

His progress along the tunnel was more difficult this time. The canister on his back was heavy and cumbersome, and he had to move with extreme caution to avoid the clink of metal on stone. But at last he reached the rock face. The whine of the generator had stopped, but that was a mixed blessing. It meant that the slightest sound might be heard in the workshop on the other side of the barrier.

Solo looked at the luminous dial of his watch. The hands showed 5:55. Very slowly and carefully he unstrapped the body harness and lowered the cylinder to the ground in front of him. Then he switched on his pencil flashlight and made sure of the position of the panel.

He looked at his watch again. 5:57.

The truck, with exhaust muffled and no lights showing, trundled down the road. Sorensen, crouched over the steering wheel, suddenly gave a grunt of satisfaction and swung off the pavement on to the grass verge. The truck jolted along over frozen hillocks and came to rest in the shelter of a clump of trees and high bushes. Knud sighed and sat back.

“So far, so good,” he said. “We should be safe here. It is about one kilometer to the gates of the mine. From here we must walk.”

He climbed down from his seat, slung two haversacks over his shoulder and tucked his scattergun into the crook of his arm. The others joined him and he said, “I think, now, that Viggo should lead the way, since this is his territory. Do you agree, Illya?”

“Fine,” Illya said. “Karen, you stay here on guard. You have your gun and your transmitter?”

“Of course.”

“Then good luck.”

They moved off in Indian file, Viggo leading and Sorensen bringing up the rear. As they walked they smeared blacking over their faces. After only a few paces Karen could no longer see or hear them. She huddled against the lee side of the truck, wishing miserably that the cutting Arctic wind would abate. She thought with longing of the bottle of akvavit on Viggo’s table. A snort or two, she felt, would have kept her warm and relieved the monotony of waiting.

The men kept to the cover of the undergrowth along the side of the road. There was no moon and they dared not risk using a flashlight, but the hard ground made the going fairly easy.

Eventually Viggo stopped and pointed to a light gleaming yellow some two hundred yards away on the far side of the road.

“The blockhouse,” he whispered.

They moved on again silently. The light grew bigger, more distinct. They could see that it came from the one high window in the building. There was no sign of movement anywhere along the road.

They went a few more paces. Then Viggo suddenly froze. “Look!”

“The guard,” Illya whispered. “I’ll take him. You two split up and plant your charges along the fence.”

He got down on his belly and began to wriggle over the frozen grass like a snake.

The guard never lived to finish his quiet smoke. A karate chop across the back of his neck felled him before he could utter a sound. Illya dragged the body a few yards away from the building and then swiftly went about the business of setting his charges.

At exactly three minutes past six Solo opened the shutter. He had put on dark glasses to protect himself against the intense glare of the lights in the workshop.

The giant saucer was still on its ramp. The hatch in the lower disc was open, but the ladder had gone. The tractor was standing by, empty. The driver was leaning against its side, chatting with four workmen clad in white overalls. Another group of men stood by the generator. The armored cables had been removed.

Neither Garbridge nor Sonder was in evidence. Solo wondered whether they were inside the saucer. That was a chance he had to take.

At six-five he clipped a respirator over his nose and mouth, slid the rubber hose through the shutter opening and pushed down the lever on the top of the cylinder.

A jet of gas under high pressure screamed into the workshop. The men below looked up, startled. Then their faces cracked in idiotic grins and they began to laugh. It was not natural laughter; the sound had a hysterical quality that after a second became terrifying. They could neither stop nor control it. Their limbs began to twitch. They ran about aimlessly, without direction, as if blind, all the time cackling and hooting with insane mirth.

Sonder and two other men ran from the interior of the saucer and stopped by the hatch, staring incredulously. Then the gas caught them.

One by one, the men sank exhausted to the floor of the workshop and lay there, arms and limbs jerking like the limbs of marionettes. After awhile they were still.

“Sleep tight, babies,” Solo said. He opened the shutter to its fullest extent, wriggled through with some difficulty, and dropped into the room.

At exactly five minutes after six Illya pressed the plunger. Sound smashed at his ears, there was a sheet of flame, and the blockhouse disintegrated like a bursting orange. Debris spattered down, a jagged fragment of concrete missing his head only by inches. Answering explosions on either side told him that Viggo and Knud had taken care of the electrified fence.

He jumped to his feet and with his gun ready made for the mine entrance.

A searchlight beam stabbed the darkness and came sweeping toward him. A machine-gun chattered as he dropped flat. Thrown-up, frozen earth hit him painfully in the face. The unseen gunner was uncomfortably accurate in his snap-shooting.

He heard Viggo’s heavy Mauser go into action. The light went out abruptly.

Illya got up and ran on. The machine-gun was still firing blindly, swinging in a wide arc. He could see from the stabbing orange tongue of flame that it was positioned just to left of the mine’s mouth. He pulled a grenade from his haversack, extracted the pin as he ran, and threw. The machine-gunner lost interest in the proceedings.

There was no more opposition.

When the three men got to the entrance of the mine they found Solo waiting. He said, smiling, “Nice work. True Danish efficiency.”

Illya asked, “What about Garbridge and Sonder?”

“Sonder’s dead. His dancing was too energetic. He fell off the rim of the saucer and broke his neck.”

“And Garbridge?”

“Not a sign of him.”

“Ah, well! You can’t win ’em all. Let’s tell Karen the glad news.”

Illya brought the transmitter from inside his tunic, adjusted the dial and called, “Come in, Angel.”

There was no reply. “Odd,” he said, frowning.

“Maybe your transmitter isn’t working,” Solo said. “Try mine.”

Illya called again, more urgently: “Angel, come in.”

Only the crackle of static answered.

Solo said, “Something’s happened. Let’s go.”

They pounded at top speed back to where they had left the truck.

It was gone.

CHAPTER TEN

DESPITE HER HEAVY sweaters and duffel coat Karen was suffering. Her face was becoming a frozen mask and no amount of stamping and pacing would restore the circulation in her feet. Finally she climbed into the driving seat of the truck, putting her Walther on the seat beside her. It would be just as easy to keep a watch on the road from there as out in the biting wind, she told herself mendaciously.

For greater comfort she wound up the side windows. That was her big mistake. The comparative warmth was too much for her. Insidiously, imperceptibly, she became drowsy. Her eyelids dropped. Even the sound of the explosions at the mine failed to rouse her completely.

Suddenly there came a blast of cold air as the door was yanked open. A flashlight shone into her eyes, blinding her, and a gun barrel jabbed painfully into her ribs.

Garbridge’s voice came viciously: “Move over and don’t try anything. Keep your hands in your lap.”

The flashlight beam swung over the seat, came to rest on the Walther. Garbridge said, “Give that to me—butt first. And don’t attempt heroics.”

There was no choice. She handed the weapon to him.

“Now move!”

He got behind the wheel, switched on and let in the clutch. The car bounced forward.

“Who the devil are you, and what do you think you’re doing?” Karen demanded.

He laughed humorlessly. His foot was hard down on the accelerator and his eyes fixed on the road ahead. He said, “You know perfectly well who I am, and I know exactly what I’m doing. If you sit quietly, like a good girl, you will have a pleasant ride. If you don’t, I won’t hesitate to kill you. Your friends have caused me enough trouble tonight.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“That,” he said, “you will find out in due course. Would you like a cigarette? No, of course, you smoke cigars.”

“You seem to know a lot about my habits.”

“It is my business to know about the opposition.”

Karen said: “I would like a cigarette.”

“You’ll find them in my side pocket nearest to you. Matches, too. But again, my dear, don’t try anything.”

She found the pack. The cigarettes were imported English. She drew the smoke into her lungs gracefully.

He said, “Feeling better? Keep the pack; I have plenty.”

Karen laughed. “You seem to be taking things pretty calmly, considering that your factory has gone sky-high.”

“A temporary setback only. I hope that you will restore the balance.”

“How?” she asked, surprised. He did not answer.

They were on Highway 10 now, and traveling rapidly toward Horsens. Karen decided that as soon as they got on to Sonderbrogade or one of the other main streets she would scream and risk the consequences. Garbridge would hardly be likely to shoot her quite so publicly.

Her hopes were disappointed. On the outskirts of the town Garbridge swung the truck down a side road toward the fjord and turned into the drive leading to a large white house. As they went through the gate, Karen saw an illuminated board reading: SOLLYS MATERNITY HOME.

She said, “No wonder we drew a blank here. Not even your best friend—if you have any—would connect you with tiny babies.’,

He dropped the truck in front of the house, and said to the uniformed man who came running down the steps, “Take this thing and lose it. Run it into the fjord.”

He leaned over and opened the door on Karen’s side. “Get out. And don’t forget I’m right behind you with the gun.”

She obeyed. Garbridge gestured with the Luger. “Up the steps, please. Quickly.”

He followed her and opened the door. She found herself in a bright, white-enameled hall with a floor of highly polished parquet. Bowls of flowers stood on tables of well-oiled teak. A tall Christmas tree twinkled beside the desk marked RECEPTIONIST.

She said, “Cozy.”

“We try to make it so,” Garbridge said. “This is a maternity home, you know. Though, of course, our doctors and ‘patients’ are all Thrush nominees.”

He waved the Luger again. “Along the hall, please, and into the first room on the right.”

The room was furnished as a study. It had wall-to-wall carpeting in a warm rust shade and spun-glass curtains in rich bronze. The center piece was an antique desk as big as a family dining table, which went with a chair that looked like a throne. On the table there were a heavy silver inkstand, a silver paperknife, and a couple of old glass paperweights that were worth several thousand kroner. Chest-high bookcases around the walls bore figurines and vases of the best Royal Copenhagen period.

Garbridge sat at the desk and put the gun in front of him. He pointed to another chair and said, “Sit down, please. Are you hungry?”

“A little,” Karen admitted.

He picked up a telephone and said, “Ask Sister Ingrid to bring some refreshments. For two, please.” After a short interval a woman came in, carrying a tray of smorrebrod and a bottle of red wine. She was wearing a nurse’s uniform, but she looked as if she had stepped right out of a Pollyanna book. She was small and round and pink-cheeked as a Kewpie doll. She had snow-white hair, pulled sedately into a bun beneath her old-fashioned cap, and her blue eyes twinkled merrily behind steel-bowed spectacles.

She put the tray on the desk in front of Garbridge and poured two glasses of wine. She gave Karen a plate and a knife and fork and put one of the glasses before her. Then she stepped back, bobbed a curtsy, and stood waiting for further orders.

Garbridge said, “Thank you, Sister. That will be all…for the moment.”

She smiled understandingly. The point of her little red tongue popped out and circled her lips. Then she curtsied again and went out of the room.

Garbridge pushed the tray toward Karen. It held open sandwiches of smoked eel, hard-boiled egg crowned with caviar, bacon and asparagus tips, beef with beetroot.

He said, “Please help yourself. I am not hungry. I’ll drink a glass of wine to keep you company.”

She looked at him, puzzled.

“You are an extraordinary man,” she said. “This is hardly the kind of treatment I expected.”

He shrugged. “We are both in the same line of business. Both professionals. The fortunes of war have put you into my hands. There is no reason why we should not be civilized about it. After all”—he smiled bitterly—“I was once a gentleman.”

He rose and walked to the door. “I shall leave you in peace to finish your meal. I must attend to a little urgent business.”

As soon as he had closed the door behind him Karen went over to the windows and examined them. They were double-glazed and there were stout steel bars between the panes.

She crossed to the door. As she had expected, it was locked. There was no hope there. She went back to the table and ate a smoked eel sandwich philosophically.

The phone bell shrilled in the Jacobsen farmhouse, cutting in on the discussion of four very worried men. Viggo went to the instrument and took up the receiver.

He gave his name, listened, then exclaimed, “What? Repeat that, please.”

He turned and looked to where Solo was sitting. He said, “It’s Garbridge. He wants to talk to you.”

Illya said incredulously, “You’re joking, of course.”

Solo took the receiver from Viggo’s hand. He snapped, “Who is this?”

There was no mistaking Garbridge’s voice. It came loud and clear over the wire. It said, “Solo, listen and don’t ask questions. If you interrupt I shall hang up. This is not a discussion. It is an ultimatum.

“Your delightful if impetuous Karen is my guest. I give you my word that she is unharmed and is being well treated.

“You have until seven o’clock tomorrow morning to withdraw your men and clear out of the district without further damage to the mine or its contents.

“If you agree, she will be released. If you do not, I give you my word that she will be dead within the day… and the manner of her death will not be pleasant. I have an expert in such matters.”

The line went dead.

Garbridge replaced his receiver with a satisfied smile and returned to the study. He looked at Karen’s empty plate and the depleted tray of sandwiches. “I am glad you ate well,” he said. “I am afraid you may yet need all your strength.”

He poured another glass of wine for her and resumed his place in the throne-like chair. For a second or two he sat silent, looking at her steadily with those feline amber eyes.

At last he said, “I have been talking to your friend Solo.”

“I don’t believe it. How could you know where he is?”

He made an impatient gesture. “Do you think U.N.C.L.E. has the only efficient intelligence service? It was not hard to figure out that he would have made the Jacobsens his base of operations.

“But that is beside the point. What concerns you is that I have made him a simple, and, I think, generous offer—your life against my machine. Unfortunately, he is a stubborn man. I have a feeling that he may not accept. In that case I trust I can rely upon you to make one final effort to persuade him.” He smiled. “I can assure you that I have no wish to kill you, my dear. I hate the senseless destruction of beauty. But sometimes, alas, there is no other course.”

Karen lit one of the cigarettes he had given her. She was glad to see that the hand holding the match was quite steady. She asked slowly, “What good would my death do you?”

“Frankly, none—except the ignoble satisfaction of revenge.”

“I am expendable,” she pointed out. “A tarveligt, run-of-the-mill agent. Can you really believe that whether you kill me or send me back Solo would cease to hunt you down?”

He shook his head. “I do not expect that, nor have I asked it. I am concerned at this moment only with getting my machine safely away. Like yourself—I am expendable.” He raised his glass and bowed to her mockingly.

She stubbed out her cigarette in a silver ashtray.

“Well, either way, there can be no argument,” she said decisively. “I haven’t the slightest intention of asking Solo to change his plans.”

Garbridge sighed. “That is a pity. But I think you may change your mind.”

He picked up the intercom. “Send Sister Ingrid please.”

“Ah! Sister,” he said, when the little plump woman appeared, “I think it is time we showed our young guest some of our facilities. We might begin with the labor ward, perhaps.”

“Ja, ja vist.” She beamed at Karen, her blue eyes dancing, and held the door wide. “Vaer saa god…”

She bustled ahead down the hall, her tiny feet in their low-heeled shoes clacking over the parquet, and pressed the button for the elevator. They descended two floors into the lower basement, a place of stark, unpainted concrete walls and floors and utter, eerie silence. Happily, the little sister unlocked and flung open a door and pushed Karen through.

“Se!” she announced. “Fodselsstuen!”

Involuntarily Karen gasped. For the first time she felt thoroughly frightened and terribly alone. She prayed that her terror did not show in her face.

Ceiling, floor and walls of the high chamber were entirely covered by panels of soundproofing material. In the center of the floor, directly under powerful operating lamps massed in batteries, was an iron couch from which dangled thick leather straps to secure chest, waist, legs and arms. There were racks of whips and canes, complicated arrangements of ropes, hooks and pulleys, and strange electrical devices whose sinister purpose the girl dreaded to imagine.

She felt horribly sick and her body was shaking with a trembling she could not control.

“This is Sister Ingrid’s domain,” Garbridge said. “Fodselstuen, ‘the labor ward,’ is her own affectionate name for it. Perhaps I should have explained to you earlier that she was once in charge of the special interrogation unit of one of the more unpleasant concentration camps. She took a genuine delight in her work, and it was with great difficulty that Thrush kept her out of Allied hands. She is, of course, quite hopelessly insane.”

Karen’s legs were giving way. She felt his arm go around her, heard him say quite gently, “You have seen enough.” Then she fainted.

When she opened her eyes she was in a room she had never seen. She was lying on a white-enameled iron cot and brandy was trickling down her chin as Garbridge tried to force it between her teeth.

She pushed the glass away and attempted to sit up, but the effort was too much for her. Her head fell back onto the pillow and her eyes closed again. She felt as if she had just come through the crisis of a severe illness. Garbridge let her rest for a few minutes; then he spoke urgently, harshly. “Karen, be sensible. You have seen the room. You can imagine what the she-devil would do to you. For the last time—speak to Solo.”

She turned her head and looked straight into his yellow, white-lashed eyes. Somehow she even managed a smile. She said very slowly and distinctly, “Go to hell.”

His expression hardened.

“Very well. You have had your chance. Now, you had better pray.”

He walked out of the room. The key turned in the lock.

Karen lay staring at the ceiling. She did not feel heroic. She was drained of emotion. She tried to put out of her mind the horror that she knew she must face in a few short hours. She had no illusion that death would come quickly. The ghastly creature with the twinkling, merry blue eyes would not be robbed of one moment of her fun.

Wearily, she turned on her side. Something hard stabbed against her ribs. She tried to ease her position.

The pain persisted.

Then she remembered…and thanked the guardian angel who had made Garbridge, in his overconfidence, forget to search her. Her hand went under her sweater and came out clutching the little black transmitter.