Текст книги "The Corfu Affair"

Автор книги: John T. Phillifent

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CHAPTER ONE

Trooper Davis stared at the high-wire fence and yawned, glanced at the luminous dial of his wristwatch, yawned again and smothered a groan. Only twelve-thirty and already he felt as if he bad been awake for half the night. It was a nice night, and warm, but all the same he would rather have been in the sack. He marched a pace or two, felt the butt of his slung rifle beating gently against his rump, heard the crunch of gravel under his own feet, and smiled at himself. This tour of duty was a snap. He grumbled purely as reflex. There were worse places to be. Vietnam, for instance.

All the same, who wants to be awake and alert when everyone else is snoring? And for what? He glanced enviously at the guard shack, then let his gaze travel back to the dark blockhouses back there. A Research Center. He mouthed it with faint scorn. Had it been missiles, now, or nuclear energy stuff, something like that—but who in his right mind was going to break into a place like this? To steal radio spares? From what little he knew of radio hams, they were the least likely people to be militant. He had half-turned away with a shrug when just the flicker of a fugitive light caught the corner of his eye.

He froze, then slowly turned to stare fixedly, not daring to look away in case he missed the flash again. Imagination? No, damn it, there it went again, a flitting spot from a tight beam. And it was where no light ought to be, on the inside of one of those dark windows. All his scorn gone in a breath, Davis shrugged his rifle from his shoulder into his ready hands and ran to the guard shack. The sergeant of the guard came awake with a grunt. Two snorts later he was on his feet.

"What?"

"Intruders in Block B. I saw a light."

"Get back out there and stay with it!" The sergeant hit the light switch and raised his voice harshly. "Guard detail up! On your feet! Come on, snap it up!" Without waiting for responses he plunged out of the shack and ran to join the sentry. "Where? Show me!"

There was no need for words. As Davis pointed the light twinkled again, moving, at the window this time.

"They're on the way out," the sergeant growled, then raised his voice again. "Halt! Stand fast or we fire!"

As fast as an echo came the spit and crack of a shot. Davis heard his sergeant go down with a gasping grunt. He dropped to a knee, aimed and fired at the dancing light—one—two—three times, and the crash of his fusillade put wings to the feet of the hastening guard detail. Light flared, to reveal two dark-clad figures sprinting crazily for the far corner of the fence, where they went headlong through a hole already prepared, and disappeared. The sentry ran heavily, cursing as he heard a car engine start up, fired twice more in despair, and then halted at the fence as he heard an engine revving into speed and then dwindling away fast.

Seconds later he heard the guard jeep stutter into life and go snarling past in pursuit, with three men on the jump to get aboard.

Voices broke out in bitter questions. Davis turned away and ran, then halted as he heard yet another engine break into a roar and go away. That one sounded like a motor cycle. He shrugged and ran on to where the wounded man was struggling to sit up, cursing savagely. Brass-bound authority infiltrated the scene. Questions and more questions. Medical aid for the sergeant, hit badly but with a good chance of survival. There was the open window to be checked, then the interior. Within half an hour civilian experts had been rousted from their beds and were on the spot examining the outrage. Fifteen minutes later saw the return of the guard-jeep with a grim story. They had given the runaway a hard chase. Knowing that the sergeant was hit they had not hesitated to use whatever weapons they had to incite the fugitives to halt. In the end they had forced the fleeing car off the road, over a high cutbank, and it was now lying at the foot of a rocky gorge some ten miles away, blazing furiously.

The driver-corporal reported: "I posted one man to stand by so that we could get back here fast, report, and get help. Not a prayer of getting the bodies out of that car. It's a total write-off, but anyway, we stopped 'em!"

The sentry now reported the second noise he had heard—of the motorcycle—and the civilian experts looked savage.

"Window forced clean, alarms cut, fence cut. They knew what they were after and they got them. A whole gross of units, and one man could stuff them in a pocket easily. That's the second time in a year! God only knows what they want those units for, but they've got them!"

And so the matter moved into the spheres of higher authority.

Alexander Waverly was peevish. It was not unusual for Number One, Section One, of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, to show irritation on occasion, or even a dash of mild wrath, but this was different. He was being openly irritable in the presence of guests. Both Napoleon Solo and Illya Nikovetch Kuryakin knew the old man's habits well enough to be able to discern this novelty immediately. They found seats and stood by while Waverly made introductions, wondering just what was biting the old man.

"General Hagen is head of the army's technical research committee. Sergeant Alison Rowland is his aide. And this is Dr. Luther de Wet, the Director of Research at Fort Westaway. Now—it really is astonishing that in an organization such as ours, dedicated to efficiency in all directions, it is apparently impossible to obtain a respectable cup of coffee. Please accept my apologies." Waverly made a gesture to his guests. "One can only presume that the qualifications for exercising control over crime do not coincide with an ability to cook. The canteen service is deplorable!"

"I'm sure, sir," Solo murmured, "you haven't brought these distinguished people here just to discuss food!"

"That's all right!" General Hagen patted the air with a pacifying hand. "We've had a lot worse lunches than that, Waverly. You should have to live on army grub sometime. I take it you want me to put these men in the picture?"

"And myself," Waverly said. "I've only the outline sketch so far."

"All right. I can give you facts, things that have happened. I can't give you reasons, because I don't have them. This whole business is cockeyed. Show them the sample, Alison."

Miss Rowland unzipped a neat leather case and produced a small clear plastic bag which she handed first to Waverly.

"We call that a module-pair," Hagen went on. "Tell 'em what it's for, Alison."

Miss Rowland sat again, composed herself, and said:

"The two objects you see are a perfect match for each other. They are solid-state modules which are, in themselves, complete radio-circuits. Attached to suitable amplifying equipment, they serve as two-way radio-communication units of very small size. The only remarkable thing about them in practice, apart from the small size, is that they are extremely critical on frequency. The pair will resonate in harmony with each other, but not to any other wavelength except the precise one they are tuned to. In use, one module is mounted in a multiple control unit, the other in a trooper's equipment. He usually has it taped to his jaw, or behind the ear, leaving his hands free. The result is that one field commander in the field can talk to any one of a squad of up to twenty men and hear replies. Or the commander can talk to all and hear all, of course, although that is not usually done."

Solo looked at the tiny objects before passing the bag to Kuryakin, who peered closely and saw two small silvery objects, each half an inch long and the size of a pencil-lead in thickness.

"A technical advance," the Russian agent said, "but hardly a matter for high-ranking military concern, surely?"

'I warned you it was cockeyed," Hagen said. "Luther, you tell 'em how much those things are worth, will you?"

Dr. de Wet cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses and smiled, but with bewilderment rather than mirth. "The modules are extremely difficult to make. They require vacuum diffusion and zone-melting techniques and a critical standard of performance. We discard about fifty per cent as below standard. So, in that sense, they are valuable. Were it not a military project, the enterprise would not be worth while. But in themselves the modules are useless for anything but the intended purpose. It has been suggested that they might be sold to ham-radio people, but that is not a workable notion. One module is useless without the other or with some circuit precisely tuned to it. It would be like trying to sell a gross of keys, each of which will fit only one lock!"

"They aren't tunable?" Kuryakin asked, and the expert shook his head.

"Not at all. They are difficult to make, hard to replace, but of virtually no value. Why would anyone steal them?"

"That's where I take over." Hagen sat back and crossed one knee over the other. "About a year ago Westaway was broken into. Get the picture right, gentlemen. Fort Westaway is not exactly top security. Radio Research isn't like that. The raiders did more damage than anything else. They stole a few items, among which was a package containing a score, ten pairs, of those modules. As I say, they aren't secret, or precious, just of nuisance value to replace. Maybe a few soldiers will get killed who need not have done, and who cares about that?" Hagen's voice was bitter. "Of course, since the break-in we have posted a guard. For a year! And then, three days ago, repeat. Only this time the intruders knew exactly what to go for, and to get. And we think they got away. They took two packages this time. Nothing else, just two-score units, twenty matched pairs. The thieves were chased. They shot and almost killed the guard sergeant, so the troopers in pursuit weren't exactly tender. They ran a car off the road and the occupants were killed. The fire left practically nothing we could identify, except that we can say there were two people in the car—and a third who got clean away on a motorcycle. We might as well assume while we're at it that the third man got away with the modules. And there you have the crop. You have my word that nobody will break into Westaway again, but that's the well known stable door routine. What we want to know is who, and why. Military Security is working on it, of course, but to be frank with you, it doesn't make sense. If this is the work of a foreign power or an enemy, we can't see it. I think it sounds like something in your line."

Half an hour later, after some questions had been asked and answered, the distinguished guests were conducted safely away, leaving Solo and Kuryakin to sit thoughtfully opposite Waverly.

"It's after the style of Thrush," Kuryakin said thoughtfully. "But I can't see what use those modules would be to anyone. I mean, they would make beautiful walkie-talkie outfits, but why break into a military establishment to steal them when you can make a fair substitute from any radio supplier? Unless there's something we have not been told?"

Waverly sighed. As a rule his appearance was that of an untidy and impractical scholar, a pedagogue setting his students some abstruse problem in delicate reasoning. Now he looked his age, a grim old man.

"We can set in motion the routine enquiries," he said, almost as if talking to himself. "We can increase the surveillance of Thrush laboratories and places of research in the hope that we will get some clue as to what they may intend to do with those modules."

"You're assuming it is Thrush, sir?"

"I am, Mr. Solo, and I will tell you why. But this is a matter to concern only the three of us, for the moment." That simple statement put a chill into the atmosphere of the room. A matter to be kept private to Waverly and his two top agents alone was something quite new in Solo's experience. He exchanged a glance with his colleague and saw the same tense expression of wonder reflected there.

"Allow me what may seem a digression, gentlemen." Waverly touched a switch and spun his chair so that he faced a screen. A picture came crisply into focus, a picture that made the two agents stare in amazement. In glorious color, it was a scene of rugged mountains raising their grey tips out of a mantle of olive green, with here and there scattered patches of a paler green, obviously walnut groves. Coastal cliffs edged the picture and a vivid blue sea sparkled in the foreground. But their eyes were drawn irresistibly to the fantastic stone pile that snuggled against those green slopes. The picture zoomed in suddenly, aiming at the building, and they saw that it was a palace, a towered and spired structure, colonnaded and battlemented, all in white stone and pink woodwork trim. It might have come direct from a Disney production.

A carefully impersonal voice began to recite: "This is the Argyr Palace," it said. "It stands on the island of Corfu some seven miles south of Corfu City. For many years untenanted and in decay, it was purchased some ten years ago by Countess Anne-Marie Louise de St. Denis and renovated. It is now her home for some eight months in every year."

The fairy-tale palace dissolved into a close-up of a face, still in color. "The Countess de St. Denis is thirty-four, of French-Italian descent, has been married four times, is now a widow, is owner and director-controller of the St. Denis Laboratories in Paris."

Solo stared and marveled. Belatedly he remembered that Corfu was Greek, and this was a face to make anyone remember. In some subtle way it failed to match the Palace image. This woman was part Eve, part Aphrodite, with glossy black hair, vivid coloring on a flawless skin, eyes so blue as to be almost black, and a personal magnetism that radiated even from this, a mere picture. Yet, somehow, there was a touch of the Medusa about her too.

Waverly turned to look at his agents. "That woman," he said, "is the most dangerous person alive. That may sound like exaggeration, and I have never before said as much aloud for that very reason. But now I have evidence in proof of my statement. She is a brilliant brain, by any standards. From four marriages she has made money, gained skills, and is deeply involved with the higher council authorities of Thrush Central. This much I know. In addition, she is a skilful cosmetic surgeon in her own right and has a degree of earned fame in that field. But there's nothing she won't turn her hand to. The police and secret services of half a dozen nations would dearly love to be able to pin something on Countess Louise, and make it stick, but she is too clever for that. Take a good look, gentlemen, because we are going to move against her, and it's as well that you know just what you are taking on."

"Do we know anything factual about her, sir?" Kuryakin asked, and Solo echoed that in some wonder.

"I thought I was pretty well acquainted with the big villains of the world," he said. "And in particular the big guns in the Thrush hierarchy, but this lady is news to me."

"As I said." Waverly nodded, "she is extremely clever. She is the power behind the throne always, never out in the open. Think of Corfu for a moment. It's a small island, not too easy to get at. Under Greek rule, a very uneasy government. Corfu City is the only settlement of any size, and it is little more than a town, only about thirty-five thousand people all told. For the rest—villages! Adequate surveillance is impossible in such a setup. Furthermore, the Palace is accessible from the sea, so visitors can come and go virtually at will. Nevertheless I was able to learn that, about a year ago, the Countess was entertaining guests, rather special guests. By twos and threes the top people in Thrush, the Hierarchy, were visiting her, very quietly and discreetly. There was a regular pattern, much too regular to be just coincidence."

"Any idea what's in the wind?"

"No idea at all, Mr. Solo. I wanted to know, of course; but remember what I said, Corfu is not easy to cover. That is almost certainly why the Countess chose it. In a place like that, one behaves like a tourist, or one sticks out like a sore thumb. I did not hope for quick and easy answers. But I did send a very good man to investigate."

"Anybody we know?"

"I think so, Mr. Kuryakin. You'd know him. Frank Stanton."

"They don't come any better," Solo said. "Frank gave me most of my basic training."

"And me," Kuryakin declared. "But surely he's a bit long in the tooth by now, sir. Due to come off the active list?"

Waverly sighed. "I sent Mr. Stanton to Corfu seven months ago, gentlemen. I heard from him just once, to let me know he had arrived safely. Since then—nothing!"

The room went silent as the two agents digested this fact. Then Solo stirred restlessly. "Frank could have made a slip," he suggested. "It's possible. A man has his off days. I don't see that we have enough evidence, just on that, to move the Countess up into the genius class. I'm sorry about Frank, but we all know the score when we go into a job…"

"It not that simple, Mr. Solo." Waverly moved the switch a hut off the Medusa face. "I had written off Mr. Stanton, with deep regret and the determination not to expose any other men to such a dangerous spot. I decided it was better to wait and see what devilish kind of brew the woman was hatching before trying again. But... well, look at these." He moved the switch again and now the screen held a picture showing a gun, a bullet, and several clear finger-and-palm prints.

"When General Hagen came to me for help he offered his fullest cooperation. This is part of it. His security people are very thorough. They lifted prints from the scene of the break-in. When the soldiers chased that getaway car they fired at it. They hit one man, causing him to drop a pistol. That man was subsequently burned beyond recognition in the car. The prints on the gun match those at the scene of the crime. The bullet which hit the sergeant was fired from that gun. Hagen admitted that he has not the facilities to trace either prints or gun. Nor has any agency he can call in. He gave them to us, to be of assistance. And they are. I've had them processed, because I thought I recognized the gun in any case. And I was right. That gun, and those prints, beyond any doubt, belong to Mr. Frank Stanton!"

Both men had seen this coming, but it was still a shock. Then Kuryakin spoke.

"Does the army know this?"

"No!" Waverly spoke quietly, but in his own way was more angry than either man had ever seen him before. "No one knows, except the three of us and the file-clerk who processed the prints, and even she doesn't know the background. I may be wrong, but I am of the opinion that the information would not help the army at all. What is left of Mr. Stanton is in that burned-out car, and that's the end of it, so far as they are concerned. For us it is a different matter. That is why I wish to confine it to us three, at the moment. If I'm to wash dirty linen, I prefer as small an audience as possible."

"You think Frank Stanton turned renegade?"

"It's a possibility we have to bear in mind. If he did, then he took a lot of very valuable information with him. If, on the other hand, that woman managed to bend him in some way, then we have to know how, and deal with it. Either way, this is an extremely delicate business."

"That's one assignment I want to volunteer for, sir. Frank taught me a lot." Solo said this very quietly. Kuryakin was just as quiet, and equally emphatic.

"Tell us what you have in mind," he said. "She won't bend us!"

"I expected nothing less," Waverly said. "But this is one case in which valor must give way to prudence. Never lose sight of this one fact. That woman is dangerous!"

CHAPTER TWO

Now that the bitter truth was out in the open Waverly seemed more like his usual pedantic self. Sitting back in h chair he surveyed his two men.

"Let me spell out the situation in detail," he said. "As I've already explained, Corfu is difficult. It is small, so that strangers tend to be conspicuous. We cannot possibly undertake an action in force unless and until we are absolutely sure of our ground. And we can hope for nothing from the local authorities. What's needed at the moment is information, a lot more information, before we can take any decisive action of any kind."

"The time of year is right," Solo offered. "What could be more natural than a tourist wanting to look over a palace?"

"I imagine that is precisely what Stanton thought," Waverly pointed out. "We can't go at it as easily as that. Above all I must have your assurance that you will not initiate any action until you have obtained sufficient hard data."

Solo looked pained. "I'm not about to let her take my scalp, sir. It's not the thing for me to say, but I am not exactly strange to the ways of good looking women."

"This woman is more than just a pretty face, Mr. Solo. She has buried four husbands already." Waverly swung his chair to face the impassive Russian agent.

"You, Mr. Kuryakin, will approach the other aspect of the business. As you heard, Countess Louise is owner and director of a laboratory in Paris. The laboratory specializes in biochemicals, with special emphasis on cosmetic surgery. You will investigate that end. You will, if possible, get into the business."

"Any idea how, sir?"

"Yes. You'll have to look it up, but there is this. Surgery, and particularly orthopedic surgery, is increasingly involving itself with electronic aids. Heart pacemakers, artificial limb control, radar for the blind and so on. Familiarize yourself with the latest matters in that field. You will assume a suitable identity. You will go by a roundabout route into the U.S.S.R. We will have cooperation laid on. From there, after an adequate period to establish a background, you will enter Paris. You will be an undesirable Russian bioelectronics specialist seeking to do a shady deal with the St. Denis laboratories. And so on. We can elaborate that as we go along. For the beginning you need to get into the technicalities of the part. Understood?"

"If you say so, sir." Kuryakin shrugged and kept his reservations to himself. Studying up on electronic aids to surgery and similar fields would be no more than a chore, and he didn't mind that part. But entering the Soviet Union was something he didn't care for at all. His homeland had memories that he would just as soon have left forgotten.

Waverly dismissed the two men with a gesture, hardly bothering to watch them go. None knew better than he just what hazards he was sending them into, but he had that faculty indispensable to any commander, of being able to dismiss a problem entirely once it had been dealt with. Almost before they had left the room he was leaning back and reviewing the next stage in his strategy. First there would have to be a stringent check on all U.N.C.L.E. security, to minimize any valuable hints Stanton might have given away. That would have to be done without letting too many people suspect that one of U.N.C.L.E.'s best men had gone sour. Then there was the need to get those sample modules to research, to try and find out what Thrush, and in particular, Countess Louise, could want them for.

Also, as his insulted digestion complained to him, there was the matter of the canteen to be looked into. Others called it "cafeteria", but he called it "canteen", and either way it left a lot to be desired!

Outside Waverly's door the two agents paused for a brief word before going their separate ways. Kuryakin was more serious than usual.

"Take no chances with the black widow, Napoleon," he advised. "She has forgotten more about the battle of the sexes than you'll ever know."

"I've never been afraid of a woman in my life, Illya, and I'm too old to start now," the other retorted.

"Corfu is quite a place too. Your titular ancestor fought a battle or two there, and lost. It's a bad place. In Homer's time it was called Phaeacia. Remember, Ulysses was washed ashore there, and got into a lot of trouble with a woman."

"You should change your name to Cassandra, old man. What can she do, carve me up?"

"Why not? She's a surgeon, too."

"All right, save me out a couple of artificial legs, huh? Say, Illya, what do you suppose she wants those modules for?"

"I've no idea, but I'll wager it's for nothing healthy!"

As the airport bus trundled him into Corfu City, Solo settled himself diligently into his guise of a typical tourist. His fellow travelers were few and unremarkable and he anticipated no difficulty in slipping away from them. In himself he had made no spectacular changes, apart from wearing a rather louder suit than he really cared for. His real disguise lay in his expression and attitude, in the naive wide-eyed gape and stare. Not that this required any great effort, as the place warranted it.

There was that peculiar clearness in the air, the purity of color and tint, the freshness of everything, that is to be found nowhere else in the world. Artists have been known to come with the intention of painting such scenery, only to give up in despair because it already looks like a fresh picture. Out there in the bay, beyond the long narrow causeway, were a couple of mysterious islands, where the gaunt ruins of some old buildings lifted the tops of their bones above thick green cypress. And over there, across the sea that was the Ionian Strait, he saw mighty snow-capped mountains, the Epirus mountains. That was Albania, and the stretch of water between had seen its quota of bloody conflict over the centuries. Sea battles of Christian against Turk, Knight versus Infidel... History. The whole place reeked of it.

The hotel was a pleasant surprise. Not up to Hilton standards, maybe, but the Corfu Palace was reasonably clean, efficient, and the people spoke a kind of English good enough for him to understand. After inspecting and approving his room, and working the tourist image a bit more, he decided to quit wasting time. For all his apparent innocence, he was alert for any sign that anyone was taking more notice of him than was justified. He was not likely to forget what had happened to Frank Stanton, but he thought that if Countess Louise did have some kind of alarm system set for her, he might as well get out into the open and see how it worked. And it would help to do some reconnaissance of the land.

Accordingly, he slung a camera round his neck—only it wasn't a camera but an extremely powerful and compact telescope—and ventured out to explore the town. As he wandered through the narrow winding streets and pretended to be impressed by the Italian-style architecture, the gaudy shops, the unlovely apartment blocks, he kept alert for any one appearing to be unduly curious in his doings, and at the same time tried to understand Stanton's method of work. The older man had been a quiet and effacing but very thorough worker, the type to take time to blend thoroughly with the scenery as a long-standing local resident. Judging purely by results, the approach had failed. Solo decided it might be just as well to throw away that pattern and try a different one. He would be the brash and obvious type, the man who has never been anywhere or seen anything before.

He saw no apparent hostility among the dark-tanned Corfiotes as he dutifully strolled the esplanade and admired the many bandstands, the view across the sparkling blue bay, the wealth of statues in the park, monuments to dead and gone British governors rather than those of the classical Greek kind, and the looming bulk of the old castle, standing up above the east end of the town. Because it was in character, he took time out to cast admiring glances on the many comely young women passing by. Here, as he saw, ancient and modern walked side by side. There were those who favored the traditional, and looked as if they might have just this minute stepped off the musical-comedy stage, with their gold-embroidered jackets in velvet over crisp white linen full-sleeved blouses: while others were as modern as any he might have seen back home, complete with miniskirts and op-art prints.

It was warm. The constant tight-wound tension of trying to do several things at once while seeming to be doing nothing at all made him even warmer. In a while he selected an open-fronted cafe at random and waited for an attractive dark-eyed waitress to attend to him.

"Just something long and cool to drink," he told her, as soon as he discovered she could manage rudimentary English.

"Not food? You want to eat something too?"

"Not really, not unless it's just a light snack. You understand what I mean by 'nack'?"

"Oh yes!" she nodded violently. "One little bit to fill the mouth, to keep the stomach quiet until later. I know. I will bring souvlakia."

"Not until you tell me what it is, you won't!"

"It is very good!" she assured him. "It is the lumps of lamb-meat on a stick and roasted in the fire."

"Shiskebab without the flames." He shook his head. "Not for me."

"No? Perhaps you like dolmadakia better?"

"What's that, before I get it?"

"It is lamb-meat again, but this time it is minced up very small and with rice, plenty of spices, very good, and wrapped up in grape-leaves. Very delicious!"

"I'd hate to sit down to a real meal, in your terms. No, darling, not that. Look, perhaps just a mouthful or two of soup?"

"Ah! Soupa avgolemonov! I bring!" And before he could halt her she went away, to return rapidly with a generous helping of liquid that his palate deduced was chicken soup flavored with lemon. He consumed it to be sociable, and she made up for this by bringing him a tall glass of orange juice that really was delicious. With the ice thus thoroughly broken, he was able to lead her into casual conversation and prod her, very carefully, into talking about the Argyr Palace and its odd tenant. If there was any reluctance, he failed to spot it. As far as her language would stand the strain he was able to learn that the Countess was locally admired and respected but little known. All anyone ever saw of her was the big black car in which she drove to and from the airport, going or coming back. For the rest she kept to herself, as befitted a lady of title and a widow.