Текст книги "The Corfu Affair"

Автор книги: John T. Phillifent

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 8 страниц)

"Is this all the reference you have, Dr. Harvey, on electrical stimulation of the cortex?"

"That?" She struggled to order her wits. "Oh! Yes. I can get more if you really want to go into it. But that's hardly a field for biochemistry research, which is what you're supposed to be studying."

"Yes, I know." He sounded apologetic. "This book deals mostly with the immune reaction to artificial implants in the body. I suppose that's why you have it in your library here."

"Immunology is my special field," she reminded him, perhaps a shade more tartly than she intended, and he nodded.

"I know. I'm very grateful to you for taking the time to tutor me in the general background. There's such a lot of it nowadays. If I was going into it for real I would go for medical electronics, I think."

"You'd still have to cover the basic field of biochemistry before specializing. Everyone has to do that."

He seemed to become aware that she was not in the best of moods, and stirred uneasily. "Look, Dr. Harvey, I'm sorry to be taking up such a lot of your time. It must be tedious for you."

Self-control withered in her mind. She took a deep breath. "Now look!" she declared, laying her hands flat on the bench. "Kindly stop apologizing. Stop thinking you are wasting my time. Section One asked me to take you on a quick tour of biochemistry, and I am trying to do that. Glad to do it. And you are a good pupil, too. But…"

"But what?"

"But we have been at this now for almost three days and you are still calling me Dr. Harvey, for Heaven's sake! Your name's Illya and mine's Susan. Will it hurt if we are friends?"

His eyes were still cool and impersonal as he looked at her. "You've never dealt directly with a field agent before, have you, Doc—I mean—Susan?"

"No," she said, and then repeated it: "No."

"Just for the record," he smiled faintly, "I am human. And it can be a nuisance, sometimes. Like now. At the outside I have two more days to spare, a lot to learn, and no leeway for making mistakes."

"I appreciate that, of course. I would hate to have anything put me off my work. But I'm human too. One doesn't have to be so dedicated all the time, surely. It can't hurt to take just five minutes off for the social amenities?"

"Five seconds can be fatal, at the wrong time. In this job you're either dedicated, or dead. You have just one idea in mind, and no time for anything else. That can be difficult, too. Right now I have the feeling there's an idea trying to push into my mind and upset things."

"You've made your point!" she snapped. "There's no need to labor it."

"I didn't mean you. Something to do with this." He took up the book again, still open at the page he had been studying. "Something about the autoimmune reaction in the brain area and metal tolerance…"

"The brain chemistry differs. Its whole circulation is different. That's what we call the blood-brain barrier. Just as well. The body can be poisoned and the brain remain normal in many cases, and there are only a few chemicals which effect the brain directly…"

She was interrupted by the telephone. Taking it up she listened, then offered it to him. "For you. From the radio research room."

"Thank you." Kuryakin took it. "Mike?"

"Right. I think we have something, Illya. Those modules are silver-plated. Makes for better skin contact, I suppose, and they need body heat to operate. Anyway, that silver sheath causes a resonance field that we can detect. I can fix you a little monitor that will tell you whenever you're within—say—fifty feet of one of them in action. Handy?"

"Very much so. Nice work. Let me know when you have it going." Kuryakin put down the receiver and sat quite still, so much so that Susan Harvey frowned at him.

"Now what?"

"Probably nothing." He shivered and then smiled. "Just a word. Silver wires into the brain. Silver-plating on those modules. Forget it. Now, about the breakdown products of adrenalin..."

Napoleon Solo dressed himself slowly and with care, including about his person every weapon of offense and defense he could contrive without being too spectacular. Although he would never have admitted as much to Waverly or anyone else, he had a rooted dislike for entering a trap without due care, and was under no illusion at all as to how dangerous the Argyr Palace could be. His only card, that the Countess could have no idea of his real identity, was a slender one, but he had no intention of backing out and thus discarding his whole hand. In good time he wandered down to the bar for a quick bracer, but never got that far. As he crossed the bright-lit foyer a vision in blue satin appeared, making him halt and breathe deeply in appreciation.

"For me?" he enquired, going over to her. "I'm honored that the Countess should have sent you in person. But who's cooking dinner?"

"I have it in hand," she told him tartly. "If you're quick, we can get back before it's cooked to death. She won't allow anybody but herself, or me, to touch her shiny new Mercedes."

"I wouldn't expect her to come herself, naturally. All right."

"You have about five minutes to pack."

"Pack?"

"That's right, pack. You're to stay at the Palace. Well?" Her tone had edges now. "What are you waiting for? Don't you want to come and stay?"

The negative trembled on his tongue but he swallowed it simply because he couldn't think of a plausible reason to refuse. Five minutes later, with his bag tossed in the back and himself seated beside her as she drove, he still couldn't think of anything except the obvious question.

"Why this sudden effusion of hospitality on the part of the Countess? What did I do?"

"As if you didn't know!" she retorted. "You're the Casanova type. For those who like that kind of thing, that is."

"But not you," he said, grinning. "I think you flatter me just a bit. I can't see somebody like the Countess losing any sleep over me. I'd guess it's much more likely that she expects to have a bit of sport at my expense."

"And you don't mind?"

"Not a bit. I can take a joke. You could help if you can tell me whether she has arranged anything special for my—er—entertainment?"

He kept his tone light, but there was a serious purpose under his words and he listened carefully for her reaction. It was slow to come. A side glance showed him that she was scowling ahead at the road as if in thought.

"You know," she murmured, "you could be right. Just after lunch she told me there was to be company tonight. Four distinguished guests. Of course I asked if there was any special kind of dish she had in mind, and I mentioned you by name, saying that you were American and would be no trouble. Her guests, as a rule, are foreign, you see. But when I mentioned you, she laughed. 'Mr. Summers,' she said, 'is hardly a guest. I doubt if I could sell him anything. But we must feed him, of course. So you must count five, not four.' And then, later, when I asked if she wanted me to take the car and pick you up, she added the bit about packing your bag. You can make what you like out of that."

He made quite a lot of it and liked none of it, but knew that it was much too late to turn back now. As his mind raced to compute the possible permutations of peril he asked:

"Sell? What would she be trying to sell me?"

"Oh!" Miss Winter laughed cynically. "You'll see. I've heard her a few times, She has a thing about being beautiful. Thinks it's everyone's duty to be as attractive as possible. It can get quite embarrassing at times, the way she will pick out somebody's faults and analyze them, and then go on to explain how easy it would be to correct them. Surgery, of course."

"Not there and then, in the palace, surely?"

"I don't think so. I believe she could, though. She has some very elaborate equipment on the spot. I haven't seen it, mind you. But I do know she gets things, chemicals and stuff, and gadgetry. I'm always picking up packages for her, whenever I come into town for groceries."

"She keeps you pretty busy," he said, speaking automatically while he stared at the horrid fact that he was being transported straight into a Thrush gathering. 'Four distinguished guests' could hardly be anything else; and if any one of them recognized him, his fat was in for a burning time. "Cook, housekeeper, chauffeur, and you do your own grocery shopping. Doesn't she have any other staff?"

"Oh yes." Miss Winter's tone was definitely cool now. "She has a local man in from time to time to do the grounds and so on. And there's Adam, of course."

"Who's he?"

"You'll see." There was a chill silence for a while, then she said, reverting to her former theme: "Just don't laugh when she starts on about the body beautiful. She takes that kind of thing very seriously."

Despite the desperate situation, Solo had to grin. "I can't wait to see her sale's pitch. I'll bet it's something terrific, with the assets she has. She might even sell me on a nose retread."

Miss Winter sniffed. "I'd always thought French women were—well–subtle. You know? But she is downright crude at times. She doesn't hint at all. She comes right out with it."

"I had noticed."

"You know, she once said to me, 'Marie Antoinette achieved her fame because she was a beautiful woman and was not ashamed of it. She had a bigger bust than Jayne Mansfield. And mine is bigger still!' Imagine anyone bothering to point out a thing like that. As if it mattered!"

Solo grinned again, but without much mirth. The picture he saw for himself was bleak in the extreme. She halted the car for the gate, got out and inserted her long arm through the bars to operate the button, and then they drove in and up to the courtyard of the palace, under a low-pitched arch way that faced a short flight of marble steps up to the main door. As they climbed the steps yellow light spilled out into the dusk from the open doors. Once inside, a mosaic floor repeated his footsteps loudly. The distant walls on either side were painted and pillared, the pillars set at intervals of one yard. Between each pillar was a pedestal, and each pedestal was occupied by a white stone statue. Solo tried to take it all in with one comprehensive glance, but then he had to halt and look again. He lifted his brows.

"You'll get used to it," Miss Winter told him. "They shook me at first, but after a while you have to admit they are extremely good."

She was quite right. He cast his eye again over the array of nudes, and nodded. Seen all at once, they were overpowering, but when he devoted time to studying each one, he had to admit that the sculptor had created something very close to perfection. The idealized human form in either sex and in many different attitudes, could hardly be bettered as inspiration for someone so fanatically devoted to making people beautiful. And there she was herself, standing in the far doorway, awaiting him.

Solo strode boldly forward with a smile. For the occasion, she had put on a billowing froth of white stuff that began low on her bosom and drifted to the floor in delicate folds. As she moved towards him the garment swirled like white mist. She gave him her hand, with a dazzling smile.

"You are welcome, M. Summers. How do you like my figures? Do you think they have better ones in the Achilleion?"

"I doubt," he said, "that anyone can improve on perfection. Miss Winter tells me your work is to improve the appearance, but if this is the standard you're aiming at you must be pretty frustrated. Ordinary humans can't hope to look like that."

"Perhaps not. They are ideal. I had them specially made for me. I have others, as you shall see. But now you must come and meet my guests."

She led him through the door into a room that would have made him breathless by itself, but he had very little time to waste on it. One fast glance was all he could spare for the precious carpet on the floor, the magnificent tapes tries that clothed the walls, the carved and brocaded furnishings, and the glowingly painted ceiling. In the next breath he was staring at the company and realizing his worst fears.

"Senor Salvador Morales," she said. "M. Summers." And Solo met the dark eyes of the grey-haired and leonine old conquistador, watching for a glimmer of recognition.

But none came, to his relief, for Solo knew him well enough as the controlling brain behind Thrush-Madrid. He bowed, moved on, and confronted a thick-set, almost bald man with a bristle moustache and glass-cold grey eyes. The Countess told him, although he hardly needed telling, that this was "Herr Doktor Heinrich Klasser." Solo knew his nickname as 'Killer Klasser', and that he had his own unspeakable ways with experimental surgery, on subjects who were never asked to volunteer.

Next was a hulking, black-browed, black-haired bull of a man whom she introduced as Ricco Vassi, known to Solo as covering vast areas of Italy, his job being to superintend and expedite any operations commanded by his Thrush seniors. Fourth and last was a lean and patrician elder, who rested one gracious elbow on a carved mantelpiece and wore his dignity like a cloak. When his hostess called this man Dr. Andre Cabari, of Uruguay, Solo had to think hard for a moment. Then he had it. Social scientist, crowd manipulator, revolutionary, the man who made things happen in quiet but devastating ways, merely by talking carefully to the right people at the right time.

What a bunch! Solo carefully drew a deep breath and realized he was perspiring. He used his handkerchief.

"It's a warm night," he pointed out, and the Countess shook a finger at him in criticism.

"You are out of condition. You Americans! All the time you worry about plumbing, but you never seem to realize that there are other ways of keeping the body clean. You neglect the largest organ of the body."

Before he could protest, the sound of a brazen gong shivered on the air and a pair of massive double-doors swung back. She took his arm and led him into a dining room that would have put Hollywood's most lavish movie set to shame. The marble floor gleamed. A long refectory table stood in the middle of a priceless carpet. Tapestries and shawls glowed on the walls and a fountain chattered happily to itself within a recess that might once have been a stately fireplace but was now an indoor garden. Light from four glorious chandeliers reflected the gleaming polished wood of the table and the glittering glass and silver which were arranged on it.

But what caught Solo's eye and held it for a breathless second was yet another member of the gathering. This man stood erect like a footman just inside the door and at first glance would have passed for another of the statues, except that he was flesh-colored. It cost Solo a second look and a near-stumble to be sure, then the Countess laughed gently in his ear.

"That is Adam, who will wait on us. You still think ordinary humans cannot be perfect?"

He was still trying to think of a good reply as they settled in their seats. These were huge carved chairs that had obviously come from some cathedral, and he would have wondered at them and all the other magnificent pieces that filled the room, if there had not been so much on his mind that he could only dredge up folly.

"There's nothing wrong with my liver, Countess!" he protested, and it took her a moment or two to hark back to their previous gambit. Then she laughed again.

"Your liver? Oh no, M. Summers. I meant your skin. It is a doctor's joke, you see. The skin is the largest organ of the body. You did not know that? It is true. And it is much more important than you think. How much of your skin can breathe? Only your face and hands. That is bad. Look, my garment allows all my skin to breathe. You see?" She struck a pose that made her point strikingly obvious, then gestured to the living statue she had called Adam. The six-foot-three herculean figure was now in cat-like motion, bringing dishes and a salver. Solo looked. The man wore only a loin-cloth in stark white, and his face was absolutely expressionless. "You see my Adam, also, see how perfect he is?" She spoke quite loudly but the servile giant showed not a sign of having heard. The Countess swept the rest of the company with an arrogant eye and proceeded to elaborate.

"The skin is a remarkable thing, the foundation of all true health. For example, it is the only body tissue that is alive on one side and dead on the other. Think of that!" She stretched a forefinger to prod Adam's arm as he leaned over her with a plate. Then he curled the finger round to touch her own bosom. "A dead outer shell, in both cases. The living tissue is on the other side."

Solo began to sweat again. This woman was a nut about health and beauty, just as Miss Winter had warned him. He was so engrossed in trying to keep track of everything, listening, watching the other members of the feast, that he missed the first taste of his soup altogether. The second spoonful tickled his attention and the third insisted on it. He tasted, then turned to Miss Winter, who had taken the vacant seat by his left hand.

"You certainly are a cook. This never came out of a can!"

"Glad you like it." She smiled shyly. "It's really simple, though. Just green pea, but with added sour cream and wine." He savored the soup again, noting that the others also approved. Adam brought the next dish, and Miss Winter looked a little apprehensive. Solo employed knife and fork, bit, chewed and swallowed, then sighed. "What is it? Or them?"

"You approve?"

"I most definitely do. My stomach will think I'm dead at last and in Heaven. Why?"

"I call them beef-marrow dumplings. Chopped beef marrow bulked out with bread crumbs, spiced with wild thyme and grated lemon rind, bonded with egg and boiled in a strong meat stock. I made quite a lot, if you want more."

He did. So did the others, in various accents. Then came a salad that was crisper and tastier than he would have believed possible, and a layer-cake so delicious that he felt regret at not having room enough for a third helping. By the time Adam brought the wine and the coffee Solo was sure of two things. One, that he was full and happy; two, that Kate Winter was no crook. Cook, yes. Crook, no. Nobody with a criminal mind could possibly come so close to being divine!

Then Miss Winter bade everyone goodnight and departed, and the table atmosphere modulated suddenly and subtly. Countess Louise lost her beaming charm and seemed to be engrossed in some rapid chatter with the others, each in his own tongue and in argot, which Solo could follow only with a great deal of difficulty. German, French, Italian or Spanish, those he could manage, provided the speaker spoke slowly and was prepared to be patient with him. But he had no chance at all as these five people plunged into a quick-fire torrent of interchange in slang and cant phrases. In a while he took what he thought was the offered hint and created a yawn, stifling it with a palm. The Countess had her eyes on him in a flash.

"You are bored, M. Summers?"

"Call it tired. I've had a big day. And this air. And the food."

"I see." She eyed him, and there were fires in those eyes. "Would you prefer to retire to your room now?"

"If that's all right with you, yes."

"Very well. We have some business to discuss, but it will not take all night. Come..." She rose briskly and led him to the door, summoning the silent Adam with a crook of her finger. Outside, she halted and brought on her dazzling smile. "Business is so boring. Tomorrow will be another day, yes?" Before he could anticipate it, she surged close and put her long arms round his neck, drawing his head down. He would have been less than human if he had not responded in the most natural way. By the time she released him his head was reeling and his breath was coming fast.

"There!" she whispered. "Dormez bien. Perhaps the talk will be not too long. Maybe I shall see you again, soon?"

Then she was gone and Adam had his suitcase and was padding impassively on ahead towards a staircase. Solo followed, wondering whether he was on the polished floor or walking in mid-air.

CHAPTER FIVE

IT was quite a room. In any other circumstances Solo would have been impressed by it. Now he inspected it simply as a routine precaution, touching the wall hangings, trying door, then studying his bemused face in the triple mirrors of a magnificent dressing table by the window. He was not quite conceited enough to believe that Countess Louise was pulling out all the stops on him simply because of his male charm. There had to be a catch somewhere. Something was hatching inside that beautifully decorated skull of hers. But what? He was absolutely certain he was in for trouble, but just as certain that he didn't know what kind. At last he settled on the bed edge and reached for his communicator, feeling relief in being able to call on routine.

Waverly needed to know about the Thrush gathering, if nothing else. He drew out the extension antenna, thumbed the switch and was about to ask for Overseas Relay, when the words halted on his tongue. The instrument in his hand gave off a steady crackling whine of interference. He glared at it in unbelief, switched off then on again, jarred it with the heel of his hand, but still the smothering crackle persisted. Now the flesh really began to creep on the back of his neck. Either his talker had developed a defect, which was highly unlikely, to say the least, or somebody had rigged this area—this room—with a jammer! And that logical assumption carried with it so many other inferences that he was up off the bed and on his feet before he had added up all of them.

The communicator went away with a practiced move that drew his pistol on the return. He started for the door, then halted as there came a soft tapping. Crouching a little, he called, "Who is it?"

The door swung open and the Countess stood there a moment then came in, her eyes widening at sight of his weapon.

"Why?" she whispered. "You will not need that!"

"Stop right there. I don't trust you any closer than you are right now. Back up and turn round. You and I are taking a little walk."

"So unnecessary," she pouted, then turned obediently, but not to go out of the door again. Instead she caught it, pushed it shut, then set her back to it, facing him. "You have nothing to fear," she said, and smiled. "See, I am unarmed." And she did something rapidly to the rear of her dress, spread her arms wide, and the rustling white material fell to the floor.

She was definitely unarmed, unless one could count the volcanic beauty of her unclad curves. Solo froze for a moment that was his undoing. A large hand swung down and across from his right side, numbing his wrist, to send the pistol skidding across the floor. He ducked and sprang away from the movement, and found himself face to face with Adam.

Over that muscular shoulder he saw a gaping hole where the dressing-table had swung away from the wail. He caught a glimpse of the Countess as she swooped nakedly to snatch up his gun. Then he went cat-like forward to meet the impassive servant. Adam showed no more expression than a shop-window figure, but waited silently, arms down and out, ready.

Solo feinted a left, leaped and chopped down with all his strength and weight in a right-hand neck-breaker. Adam, with perfect anticipation, leaned and tensed his muscles—and the chop bounced, shocking Solo's arm right up to his elbow. Surging in the opposite direction, the statuesque servant swung a haymaking right-hander, low down, that contacted Solo's ribs and bombed him bodily backwards, smashing all the wind out of him. If there was science in this, it was none that Solo had ever met before.

With that kind of strength, who needed science?

Fighting off the instinct to curl up, wheezing for breath, he shambled forward again. It was no time for delicacy. He poised himself, then leaned and launched a kick where it would do maximum damage. But Adam had speed out of all reason in a man of his bulk. An arm like a beam swept down and across, smashed into Solo's shin as it came up, knocked it aside so that he spun and almost fell, cringing as his weight came on that leg. It felt broken. Then Adam moved in, taking the offensive. Again that bombing right hand to the body.

Solo reeled away, slammed into the wall, staggered forward and right into a left fist that came down like a hammer on the top of his head.

The room grew a big black hole and he fell into it head first. The Countess came to stand and stare down at the ruin.

"A valiant one. Clever, too. I can use one such." She turned to her servant, who was not even out of breath, and smiled, pointing down. "Bring him!" She moved away to gather up her discarded dress and looped it carelessly over one arm, then she preceded her servant through the secret door and into the passage there. Adam crouched, picked up Solo like a sack, hung him over one shoulder, and followed her, drawing the dressing-table flush to the wall as he went.

In the tower-room at the other end of the passage, Katherine Winter put down her pen, lit a cigarette and leaned back to let her mind have its own way with the vexing problem of Mr. Nathan Summers. She was in the middle of her weekly letter to Uncle Otto, a rambling and inane epistle, mostly gossip and trivia, but which contained full descriptive details of everyone who had visited the Argyr Palace that week. It was her report, and Uncle Otto was no relative at all, but an elderly, ruddy-faced military gentleman who would skip all the banalities, but who would be very careful to list all the personalities and arrange to have them investigated. So she had been told.

The gentleman had approached her immediately after she had secured the job with the Countess. He had been very polite and laden with official documents to prove his authority. She believed he was C.I.A. but had not enquired too deeply about this. On his advice, it was better for her to know as little possible, thus making it impossible for her to give anything away, even by accident. All he wanted, and he was careful to stress this, was the name, nationality and time of arrival and departure of any guests. She was to supply these in the weekly letter. And do nothing more. At all.

From which facts Kate had gathered that she was involved in something very dangerous. She had been unwilling to help, but was at last persuaded because of the thrills involved. And the extra income.

But thrills had not come. Instead, the chore had grown dull. Guests came, usually by sea. They were odd, often. Usually they stayed overnight. Always they departed secretly, and she never saw them go. But that was all. And when Madame was in Paris, which could have been a bit more lively, the letter wasn't needed. Seemingly, Uncle Otto had other eyes for that period.

So the task had become dull, until now, with the extraordinary appearance of Mr. Summers, who wasn't a bit like the rest. Kate sighed, reached for her pen again. Mr. Summers was different and, for a while, she had hoped something might come of it. Corfu was a pleasant place, better if you could share it with the right kind of company. But Madame had flaunted her figure, flashed her eyes, turned on the charm, and that was the end of any hope Kate might have of getting to know Mr. Summers any better. Honestly, these French women! No delicacy at all! She sighed again, and began laboriously to write out the details.

Napoleon Solo struggled back to consciousness under the impression that his head was loose. He shook it to make sure, and the instant agony that came made him decide, firmly, not to do anything like that again for a long time. Levering his eyes open and focusing them against a strong glare, he saw he was looking along the top of a polished table littered with glasses and bottles. Beyond them, gradually hardening into outline and detail, he saw Countess Anne-Marie Louise de St. Denis. She watched him in calm appraisal, almost approval.

Easing back gingerly, he realized he was sitting in those stall chairs again, but this one had improvements in the shape of a pair of chrome-steel bands that folded out from the armrests to pinion his wrists. He tried to stir his feet and assured himself there were more fetters on his ankles. He was caught. Moving his head carefully, he saw that Thrush was in full attendance, four pairs of eyes being steadily fixed on him.

He forced his face into a thin smile, looked back to the Countess, and revised his opinion of her. She was still beautiful, but now he saw her beauty as the coiled deadliness of a lethal snake.

"Welcome, M. Solo," she said, with crisp assurance. The use of his name served to shock some of the fog from his mind.

"Some mistake," he muttered, after a false start or two. The inside of his mouth had been scrubbed with a coarse brush or wire wool. It took some effort to make it work. He swallowed. "Mistake. My name is Summers."

"Let us not waste time. I knew you from the first moment I saw you in my telescope. For years I have maintained a comprehensive file, with photographs and descriptions, of all the more active agents of U.N.C.L.E. You are Napoleon Solo, n'est ce pas?" She laughed, cast a flashing eye on her uneasy audience. "I am flattered that U.N.C.L.E. should this time send its best man. For me, M. Stanton was old. Easy. I dealt with him. I shall also deal with you, only better this time."

"You will kill him," Morales pronounced, with no question in his tone.

"Oh no, senor. That would be waste. I will use him."

"Good!" Klasser grunted. "That is the better way. Good specimens are not easy to get. May we observe?"

"But of course. That is my purpose, as you shall see." She turned her burning stare on Solo again. "You have been disarmed, and all your toys removed. If you try anything foolish one of my friends will kill you, and that would be unfortunate. But, if you are prepared to be sensible, I will free one of your hands, so that you may join us in a glass of this wine—and listen while we talk. Choose!"

"I could use a drink," he admitted, and she rose, moved away to a far corner where she must have operated a switch of some kind, for the cuff slid back from his left wrist. Then she came near, filled a glass and put it within his reach. Then she went back to her seat, but remained standing.