Текст книги "The Power Cube Affair"

Автор книги: John T. Phillifent

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

He heard the motors howl, saw the chains snap taut—and sing! And then grate against an impossible strain. Up there the motors screeched up into overload and then beyond into destruction before the safety cutouts could save them. Solo stared up in fascination as the long jib bowed down, its cables quivering and lashing, the cluster of counterweights at the other end dancing lazily upward. And then down again. Time seemed to congeal into a crawl. Rambo shouted in fury. The cables lashed and spoke like huge harpstrings. The spindly monotower whipped, sighed, groaned and then gave off a crack like a cannon. And buckled. And fell, snapping like a carrot at its weakest point, just below the cabin.

Solo shrank, wrapped his arms about his head and fell flat on his face, half-stunned by the gargantuan scream and cry of destruction, cringing from the infernal barrage of shearing, bursting nuts and bolts. Under him the concrete shook as the jib, canting sideways, slammed into the top of the building.

Daring to peer up, Solo saw the twisted framework of the tower immediately above him. There came the squeal and spang of some strip of metal driven to destruction, and a bulleting rivet head smashed into the concrete in front of his face, struck a trail of sparks, and wailed away into the night. Then the silence rushed in, thick and cold.

TWELVE

IT WAS QUIET. Too quiet. Beyond the ringing in his head, Solo could hear the stillness. He scrambled up, heaving away the metal bar across his back. What a hell of a mess! He drew a deep breath, spat out some stone dust, set off to wander drunkenly to the edge of the surface, tripping and stumbling over chunks of wood, treacherous loops and hooks of wire, odd split levels in the concrete, and he came to a fragile looking barrier of scaffold tubing. He clung and craned over, stared down.

Still it was quiet. Away down there among the toy-sized objects he saw three spreading triangles, the yellow of sand, red of gravel and white of cement, and the tiny red mixer at their common focus. But it was still and silent. Perhaps Wendig had gone away! Solo pondered that a moment, his brain lurching loosely around in his skull. Turning, his eye caught a glint of light. Up there. A window swinging in the breeze. The crane cabin! What about Rambo? Solo aimed himself at the spot where the great box column of the crane leaned against the roof and started towards it.

Just here the scaffolding had been warped and smashed aside. He picked his way around it, leaned out and laid his hand on the main angle steel.

"Climb up," he told himself. "Got to check up. Make sure. Finish it off properly." He nodded at this sound piece of reasoning and had to take hold of his head to stop the nodding from going on indefinitely. He wiped his hands on his trousers, took hold, and started to climb. After the first strain, it was simple enough. All he had to do was to lean on the girder, stretch out, hold, bring up his feet, stretch out again. Engrossed in this, he suddenly realized that something was moving besides himself on the flat concrete, and he held still to watch, frowning gently.

It was Wendig. The thick chested bare headed foreman seemed to come from nowhere, out of a dark shadow. He glared around savagely, twisted back for a look up at the wreckage, ran heavily out into an open area and swore. After a string of profanity that made Solo shake his head, he stooped and caught up an eight foot length of aluminum pole.

"Where the hell are you?" he demanded. "Where?"

Before Solo could decide whether to reply, another shadow came out into the light on Wendig's heels. This one had a shock of fair hair that was almost white in the floodlights, had dirt and sweat on its face, white dust down the side of its sweater and pants, and it stood still now, panting and watching Wendig. Solo stared, then grinned delightedly.

"Why, there's Illya!" he murmured, went to lift a hand to wave and the movement almost dislodged him from his perch. He clutched again, tight.

"You calling me?" Kuryakin said, and Wendig spun around. "Who the hell are you?"

"One of the people you were going to bury in concrete."

The burly foreman froze for just one breath, then launched himself in murderous attack, moving fast, swinging the metal tube. Kuryakin ducked and fell aside, lashed out with a foot, and Wendig plunged on, full tilt, into a concrete edge. Squealing, he turned and came back. Kuryakin ran heavily across the open flat and stooped to grab a length of some thing to use as a weapon. Wendig tore after him, hoisted his tube and hammered down with it. Kuryakin met it, fended it, and the short length of timber he had found shattered and broke, and he went down and back from a numbing blow on his shoulder. Wendig squealed again, charged in, hammered down, and the metal tube clanged on the concrete as his target rolled frantically out of the way.

The foreman was thickset and enraged but nimble on his feet. He came around again, crouched a moment, then charged, but now he was learning caution. This time he wielded the scaffold tube at waist level like a stout spear. Kuryakin backed away cautiously, then deliberately came forward and grabbed the thrusting end and hung on. Wendig heaved back, snorting. Kuryakin set his feet, but he was outclassed for weight. Wendig dragged him, shaking the tube furiously. All at once Kuryakin reversed his tactics, shoved forward violently, and Wendig went tottering back, completely off-balance, falling and unable to regain stability because Kuryakin was shoving. A frantic look over his shoulder told him the end was near, the edge of the building very close. With a squeal he threw away the pole, scrabbling to check his fall. Kuryakin tried to brake too, but too late. The pole clanged aside. Solo saw the pair of them clump together in a tangle of clutching arms and go to the brink in a crazy waltz.

They struck a scaffold pole fence, and it creaked, yielded, and then Wendig was going—up in the air and over– screaming as he fell out of sight. Kuryakin went over too, until his legs, desperately crooked, caught at the pole and he hung there, swinging. Just for a moment; then he grabbed upward with one hand, then the other, heaved and writhed and managed to get himself upright. Then, with a convulsive leap, he flung himself back on to the safety of the concrete, staggered forward, and went down on his hands and knees.

Solo nodded to himself happily, then remembered his own errand. He looked up. Got to fix Rambo. Not far, now. He began to climb again. The girder gave way to locking plates, then another girder, and then the base of the cabin. A door, but it was shut, and it would have meant forsaking the girder and launching out into the emptiness in the middle of the square. So Solo decided against that, decided instead to go on up the outside and look into the swinging window. He applied his abraded fingers with care, heaved until his head came up level with the dark opening, and peered in. Breathing. A grunt. Then a huge hand on the end of an arm like a beam came out of the dark and took him by the throat.

"Waited for you," a deep chested voice growled. "Heard you coming up the steel. Got you now, mister!"

Solo tried to shake his neck free and the pressure went on until he felt his face going blue. Blood pounded in his head, and his lungs ached.

"You done me, mister. I'm all smashed up inside. But you're going with me. We is going to sing Hallelujah together, you and me!"

That grip was evidence that Rambo meant every word. Solo had no free hands to tackle it. He was suspended on the underside of an angle. To let go meant to fall. His wits churned. If he didn't let go and do something he was dead anyway. His lungs were bursting. Far away, over the thunder, he heard a voice.

"Napoleon, what are you doing up there?"

There was nothing else to do. He let go both hands, clamped them on the massive arm that was choking the life out of him and let his whole weight fall on Rambo's arm. Something had to go. Something did. He felt himself go sluggishly backward and then down, caught a glimpse of a dark face, gleaming teeth and staring eyes as Rambo was dragged bodily out of the window. And then he fell. The white concrete came up to meet him, and he had one brief flash of Illya's amazed stare, directly below. Then the smash of impact and merciful darkness.

This time I'm ready dead, he thought. It's happened at last! and there was a certain sadness about it. But not for long. Aches began to report themselves, from his hands, his knees, the small of his back and his throat, and he sighed and decided there was nothing else to do but to wake up and start all over again. He stirred, tried to raise himself, and there was an arm across his neck. Rambo's arm, but Rambo would never need it again. He struggled free, sat up, worked his head and neck gingerly and saw Illya near by, curled up and sleeping soundly.

"Hoy!" He reached over and shook, firmly. "Can't sleep here!"

"Not sleeping. Dying. Look." Kuryakin opened one eye accusingly. "Next time you hurl yourself off somewhere, shout a warning, eh?"

"Should know better, man like you. Never stand right under. Always back off a little. Anyway, can't die here, up in the air. Got to go down."

"How?"

"You came up," Solo reasoned. "So must be possible to go down again. Come on, show me."

Kuryakin stirred, sat up stiffly, managed to get to his feet on the third try and stood looking down. "Come on, then!"

"Oh!" Solo realized he was still sitting, put out a hand, shoved the inert bulk of Rambo's shoulder carefully aside and made it to his feet. He waved Illya to lead on, and all at once his mind became pinpoint clear, completely detached from his battered body. Hopwell, gone. Wendig, gone. Rambo, gone. Who was left? He thought carefully while his automatic arms and legs descended a stairwell into gloom, down, and around, and down, and around, moving in blackness, into the glare from windows and into blackness again. Who now? Well, there was still Green. And Beeman. Somebody else. Groping, he came up with the name Louise, remembered who she was and that started something else to mind. The small truck. Sacks. He watched his shambling form come out on to the level, into the reflected glare from the lights, and urged himself to get with it again.

"Illya," he said, catching up with his guide. "The little truck. That way." He pointed with an arm that seemed curiously bent, but Illya understood and nodded. They plodded on, up to the open gates and the truck. They peered inside.

"Got to get her out," Solo decided, and between them they managed to drag out the unconscious girl and struggle with her around to the front, where they piled her into the driving seat.

"She can't drive, Napoleon."

"Certainly not. We have to do that. Got the keys?"

They were still in the ignition. Somehow they managed to scramble in, Solo at the wheel and Kuryakin supporting Louise's limp figure. They got moving along the road. After what seemed an age they approached a familiar sign post. Solo peered up at it and nodded. The plan was crystal clear in his mind. They ran on across the highway and into the long, curving lesser road.

"Keep a lookout, Illya. Beeman's place. Down there some where. Got a little—little gift for him. Sort of a surprise."

"All right. There it is now, down there."

Solo dragged at the wheel, grunted as the front wheels dropped into the ditch and up, then killed the engine. "Plan," he said, enunciating very carefully. "Like we did be fore, remember? Down the hill, and boom?"

"I remember." Illya nodded, and chuckled. "Boom! Good!" They fell out on either side, struggled to drag Louise clear, and Solo staggered around to the back, where the doors were flapping open. It seemed urgent that he first cheek whether there was anything inside. As he put out a hand to grope, he noticed the sleeve on his own arm. Hopwell's jacket. He didn't need that any longer. He fell down as he tried to drag it off. Getting up again he saw Kuryakin watching him curiously. He grinned, tugged at a sleeve again, and there was a rattle from one pocket. Matches.

"Spare can of gas in there. You follow me, Illya?"

"Absolutely. Get it out."

It was a task, getting the cap off, but they managed it. Solo held, while Kuryakin poured, then tossed the can into the back.

"Matches now. You go start the engine."

Solo giggled, shambled around, climbed in, twisted the key and the engine caught. He craned out to peer back.

Kuryakin struck a match, waved it near the jacket, and it caught with a whoosh that singed him. He threw it hastily, slammed the doors.

"Go away!" he shouted, and Solo let the clutch in. The truck bucked up over the edge of the grass. Solo fell out, rolled, clutched grass, sat up and watched as Kuryakin slid to a stop beside him. The truck plunged on and down, bumping and lurching, gathering speed, struck a steeper part, surged, hit a shelf and leaped out into the dark. At that moment the back doors burst open to gush out leaping yellow flames. Down and down, and it landed solid and square, right in the middle of a glassed in sun dome on that house down there. The spout of flames and the hideous crash that reverberated back were extremely satisfying.

"Bull's-eye!" declared Solo. "With the compliments of Mary Chantry, Louise Thompson, Illya Kuryakin and yours sincerely, Napoleon Solo!"

"Good speech! Can we go home now, Napoleon?"

"That's a very good idea, Illya. Go home. Got a little car here somewhere. Lovely little car. Goes like a bomb!" That struck him as exceedingly witty, and he was still chuckling over it as they fought their way up the hillside, collected Louise's lifeless body, and sought out their own car from its hiding place among the bushes. They stretched her out in the back seat and scrambled into the front. Solo found the keys, pressed the starter, and the engine came to life. He straightened, fumbled with pedals and gear lever, pawed the panel until the lights came on, then aimed for the road, and they were off.

"Got to get Louise to a doctor," he declared. "She's sick. Everybody's sick. Need help." There was no response. Kuryakin leaned back and lolled with his eyes closed, wearing a smile of bliss. Solo snorted, put his attention on the road again. The headlights seemed bent, and the road twisted crazily from one side to the other as he tried to follow it.

"All crooked," he sighed. "All of it. That's the trouble with everything. All twisted up." Again he had a flash of that knife edge clarity, his mind retreating from the crazy world of corkscrew roads, and sinuous headlight beams. Going home. But, he argued, where home? Which way? Need help. But who? Mustn't tell U.N.C.L.E. He was certain of that. So who? A name knocked at the door of his mind. He let it in. Nan. Nan Perrell. Lovely girl. He fastened onto that thought, worked at it until it was clear, then peered, through the rainbow windshield again. Somehow he had left the road and was on a switchback. But there was a familiar corner. And there, just ahead, was a call box shining in the dark. Sanity struck through the delirium. He leaned his head against the cold glass of the screen, and the chill was wonderful. He sat up, eased over to the side of the road and stopped, stared at the call box. Call for help. He scrambled out, fumbled at the door, stumbled inside. Six– pence. He groped, got one out and ready. Then he dug down through the muddled layers of memory until he found the number she had told him. He lifted the receiver and dialed. There came a double-buzz, and again, then a click and a rapid chittering. He aimed the sixpence for the slot as he heard a male voice state:

"Miss Perrell's residence. Who is calling, please?"

"Solo here," he mumbled, as the chittering stopped. "Speak to Miss Perrell, please."

"One moment," the voice requested, and then came a shrill, acid edged voice.

"Mr. Solo! Do you know it's four-fifteen! In the morning!"

"Ah, Nan! Bit of trouble. Need help."

"And you are stoned, by the sound of it. How dare you, getting me out of bed at this hour! I suppose you think it's funny–"

"Not funny, no. Apologize for bothering you. Need help—"

"My God!" Her tone switched abruptly. "You're hurt. Where are you? Stay put and I'll come and get you."

"No need. Not far away. Just 'round the corner. Be there—five minutes. Sorry–couldn't think of anybody else."

He hung up, noting amazedly that the call box had now righted itself. He walked back to the car holding his head well back. The road had changed its tactics now, had be come fluid, squirming and twisting as if to dodge out from under his wheels, but he held on to it grimly until he saw a familiar gate post, and swerved to graze past it. Without quite believing it, he cut the engine and rolled to a stop close by her Princess. He leaned on the door, got it open and reeled out just as a flood of light came from the entrance, and there she was all in blue satin and running to catch him. He fended her off feebly.

"In the back," he mumbled. "Girl. Louise Thompson. Overdose of pentothal, to make her talk. Needs a doctor."

"All right, take it as read. Curtis, take that car, just as it is, to the hospital. I'll ring and warn them you're coming, they'll know what to do. Come on, you. And you," as Kuryakin came walking out of the dark with his eyes only half– open. "Lean on me."

It seemed to Solo that he drifted, his feet barely touched the ground. They reached the glaring light of the hallway, and she caught her breath.

"God in heaven, where have you two been? Strikes me you're the ones who need to go to the hospital."

"No need to make a fuss," Kuryakin mumbled. "Just a little scrap."

"With what, a bulldozer? Come on, the first thing you both need is a hot bath." She swept them forward and up the stairs.

"Smell nice," Solo murmured.

"I hope you mean me, because I'm damned if you do." She dragged them into the bathroom, set water gushing, lowered the two men to the floor. "Be getting undressed while I phone." She was back before Solo had struggled out of his sweater. She took hold of Kuryakin, who had gone peacefully to sleep on the tiled floor. "Anyone would think you two had crawled through every gutter for ten miles around. Maybe you have." She undressed the passive Russian expertly, diagnosing as she went. "Bang on the head. Lump like an egg and split scalp. Shoulder bruises, look like iron bar marks. Rope burns. Teeth marks! You have had a time, haven't you?" She hoisted efficiently and dropped Kuryakin into the water. He came to life with a yell and clutched the side. She turned on Solo.

"You next!"

"I can manage on my own!"

"You can? By trying to get your head out through an armhole? Don't be so blasted pigheaded. You called for help, didn't you? All right, then, let me help!" She came at him, took charge, pulled and heaved and finally got him into the bath along with his companion. "You've been tied up, too, and bashed and chewed by wild beasts. What did you do, tangle with a circus or something?"

She went away and came back with an armful of big white towels, tossed them to the floor, twirled out of her blue satin and caught up one towel to wrap round her waist like an apron. She found bottles and laced the water with their contents, creating an odor of pine and disinfectant. She got a cake of pink soap, a wash cloth, a portable shower head which she attached to the taps, and she started to scrub and drench them until they were clean.

By the time she was finished scrubbing, dousing them with antiseptics, investigating their wounds, and the hot water was running out, and she could hose them down with cold, the two men were almost normal again.

"Right." She shut off the spray. "Dry yourselves, put those towel robes on, and come into the bedroom when you're ready. I'll have brandy and coffee for you."

Curtis was just going out as they entered. "Glad to see you're not much the worse," he said, and Solo grinned wearily.

"We'll live, I think. How is Louise?"

"They said it was all right, sir, they were in time."

"That's good. She did us a very big favor. I'd hate to think anything would happen to her on our account."

"You had quite a night, by the look of it." Curtis looked almost envious. "How many men did you have to kill to get that lot?"

Kuryakin frowned in thought. Nan Perrell, coming up by his shoulder, stared at the two men wide eyed. "Let's see, there was Louise's three first. Napoleon, right?"

"Right. And then Hopwell, Wendig, and Rambo. Say six, at least, and maybe one or two more, we don't know yet."

"My God, you're not joking, either. Six! This I want to hear. All right, Curtis, you can turn in now."

"Yes, miss. I'll take the clothing from the bathroom. Six!"

He went away humming gently to himself. She led them into the bedroom, made them climb in under the sheets while she busied herself with coffee cups, then sat herself on a low stool between the two beds while they sipped at hot coffee generously laced with brandy.

"All right," she declared, "now talk. I want to know it all. Who, for one thing, was that girl? I've seen her before, haven't I?"

"Louise Thompson," Solo explained. "The leak in Barnett's office. Your friend Charles had her moved, and her boss didn't care for that. So he laid a trap for us." He went on to tell, without frills, just what had happened in the villa, and she sat quite still, stern faced, until be was done.

"You see," Kuryakin took up the tale, "once we knew she was going to be at the Danby affair, we knew we had a chance to spot him. The big chief himself. Louise helped us."

"You let her. But you wouldn't let me. You went expecting to meet the big man and never said a word to me about it."

"You weren't exactly in the mood, were you?" Solo retorted. "I don't know exactly what you were thinking about when we left here so fast, but it wasn't anything to do with crooks."

She turned rosy pink but met his eyes bravely.

"You might not have believed us," Kuryakin added. "And we had was Louise's word and the memory of the voice we heard on the tape."

"I would have believed you!"

"Would you? An old friend of the family? Henry Beeman?"

The pink ebbed from her face. "Uncle Henry? Are you absolutely sure?"

"See what we mean?" Solo demanded. "Of course we're sure, now!" And he went on to tell her why. Again without frills or heroics, just the facts. "After we bombed him out with that truck we didn't stay to investigate more. I'm afraid we made a mess of the whole thing."

"Made a mess of them, you mean!" Her voice was savage. "Don't you worry, this will be reported and dealt with. You can relax. Here, you're to take one of these, each." She passed them tablets and watched while they swallowed, finished their coffee.

"And now"—she stood, moved to the bed end gap between them—"about me. You've made something of a mess of me, too, and it's high time I admitted it. No, let me finish this, just to clear my conscience." She put hands to her robe, stripped it off, stood defiantly before them, "With this I have broken men, made fools of them. Then you two came and showed me what a fool I am. I made a sort of vow, you know, that if and when I ever met a man who could beat me, he could have me. And it never occurred to me for one minute that he wouldn't want me. As I say, I'm a fool."

"No, hold it." Kuryakin struggled to sit up. "You've got that all wrong, Nan. You haven't lost anything. If you had beaten me or Napoleon, you wouldn't have won anything. That doesn't prove a thing. Take Rambo, for instance. He could have broken me and Napoleon in half, by himself!"

"Damn near did, too!" Solo grinned ruefully. "Thing is, if you have a job to do, you do it the best way you can. And when you need help, you call for it, if there is any. Like I did, when I called you. You're on our side."

She frowned at him as if seeking some hidden meaning.

"We're all equal," Kuryakin said, "only some get the chance to be more equal than others. That's Orwell, but Dumas put it different. All for one and one for all. Remember?"

"Man to man?" she whispered, and Solo grinned.

"While you're standing there like that it's hard to believe, but that is exactly what we do mean. Good companions!"

All at once the medicinal drug seemed to hit him. Through a warm haze he saw her smile—and surely those were tears in her eyes?—then come near to bend over him, to brush his cheek with her lips.

"I'm honored," she whispered. "Go to sleep now."

THIRTEEN

SOLO FELT gloriously, immensely comfortable, just like being in a soft, warm bed. He was in bed. Someone had left the light on. He stirred, and all his comfort disappeared in the creaking remembrance of stiff joints and sinews. He opened an eye, levered his arm into place, looked at the time. One-forty-five. He did a double take. One-forty-five? And the sun was shining? He sat up, winced, then looked across at Illya, who was still far away. He crawled out, found the pants and sweater of the previous night had been meticulously brushed and arranged by his bed. He shook Illya.

"Come on!" he reproached. "It's afternoon!"

They made it stiffly to the bathroom and then downstairs. Curtis came to attend them gravely.

"Why didn't somebody call us?"

"You needed the rest, sir. Miss Perrell gave instructions you were to be left sleeping. She went off early this morning, saying she would very likely be home for lunch. That could be whenever you're ready. And the hospital rang. Miss Thompson is conscious, quite well, but rather weak. They have questions to ask."

"I'll bet they have. This is where the awkward bit will start. We had better eat, Illya, and try thinking up a good story for the doctors."

"There was this for you, sir, also." Curtis produced a slim envelope. On it, in black angular script, were the words Solo and Kuryakin. "It was delivered by hand, just a few minutes ago.

Solo thumbed the flap open, drew out the once-folded sheet of heavy glazed paper. That same angular script stared at him, beginning without any preamble or greeting.

I have Miss Perrell. I would rather have you two. I am prepared to consider an exchange, on my terms, means, and conditions. I will look for your (discreet) advertisement in The Times to that effect on Friday next. Failing its appearance I will send you by mail, the fingers of her right hand to stimulate your decision.

It was signed H.B.

"Read that, Illya, and forget about lunch. When did Miss Perrell go out, Curtis?"

"There was a telephone call at seven-thirty. She left almost immediately afterwards. Is anything wrong, sir?"

"Plenty. The boy we tangled with last night has got her now. Where is the nearest phone?"

It was in the hall. He grabbed it, dialed the number she bad given him—it seemed a lifetime ago. The phone purred; then he heard the familiar voice. "Charles. What is it?"

"Solo here. They've got Nan Perrell."

"Who's they? And how?"

"Speaking from her home. She went out around seven-thirty this A.M. and a message was just delivered, by hand, addressed to me and Illya. I'll read it to you." Kuryakin came to put it in his hand. He read the stark words carefully. There was a moment's pause.

"Who the devil is H.B.?"

"She should have reported that. Greasy voice, on the tape. Henry Beeman. Family friend and lives not too far away."

"But he won't be there. Nor will she!"

"That's a safe bet."

"Advertisement in The Times by Friday. Doesn't give us long."

"Leave that to you. Too long for us." Solo bit the words off, felt a touch on his arm and Kuryakin coming close to whisper.

"No point in charging off at random, Solo," cautioned Charles.

"Not going to. I know where she is." Kuryakin had whispered it. "So far as he knows, we do not know he owns that yacht, so that is it. That's where she is. Agree?"

"I think that's valid."

"Right. Then we'll go and get him."

"Which is precisely what he wants you to do."

"Maybe, but not right away. He won't be expecting anything, not for some time. We can catch him bending."

"I think that's valid too. Good. You need Barnett. Get over to him as quick as you can. Whatever you want, just ask. He'll deliver, I'll see to that. Get her back, Solo. I don't give a damn how!"

"Well try!" Solo hung up and saw Kuryakin swipe a couple of apples from a bowl. "Grab a few for me and come on. Keep your fingers crossed, Curtis."

The little Mini got the chance to show its powers as they fled through Norwood and clown the steep slopes into Sydenham and Lewisham. Their map studying paid off in that they were able to strike the most direct route for their purpose.

"Peckham," Kuryakin said, "then Stockwell, Battersea Bridge, and we should have the traffic flow on our side. Do you think we'll get her, Napoleon?"

"No more than you do, Illya. Can you see Beeman honoring any kind of deal? But we have to try."

There had been a change in the internal decor of Admiralty House. Replacing the gorgeousness of Louise there was a leather faced sergeant of Marines who marched them in to Barnett without wasting words. Captain Barnett looked different too.

"Stirred something up this time," he greeted, rising from his desk. "What can I do for you?"

"First off," Solo declared, "we have to locate that yacht."

"Already done." Barnett caught up a signal form, took it across to a wall map, read from it and put out a finger. "Fifty-one-oh-eight north, one-eighteen west. Just below Folkestone, out of Dungeness. That's where she was at thirteen hundred hours. Making up the coast about nine knots."

"Nice work. Now"—he and Kuryakin had worked this out on the way—"what we need is something that can catch her, and something else. One to hold her up while the other sneaks around behind, so we can hop aboard and take a look.

"Hmm!" Barnett scratched his jaw dubiously. "There's a duty destroyer standing by at Harwich will do for the hold up. That's routine. We've had a bit of trouble with illegal entry lately, as you may have heard. But for the other—just a minute!" He strode back to his desk, rummaged among the paper and snatched at one form. "This might be it. Squadron of M.L.s—motor launches—out on exercise at the moment, due in at Parkestone Quay in about an hour and a half."