Текст книги "[Magazine 1966-­08] - The Cat and Mouse Affair"

Автор книги: Robert Hart Davis

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 6 страниц)

With a grin, Illya watched them run to the rear, turned, and ran on to the exit. He reached the exit and went out into a moonlit night before he heard the shouts behind him that told him his trick had been discovered.

Outside, he turned once to look back, his eyes narrowed to remember where he was. The cave entrance was camouflaged cleverly, impossible to see from the air or the ground unless you knew it was there.

Directly above the hidden entrance was the tall peak of a mountain. A peak with a little white scar. Illya lined the scar up with a black boulder lower down on the mountain—and he had his line for the cave entrance. Men now came pouring from the camouflaged entrance.

Illya Kuryakin turned and ran off into the jungle.

* * *

Solo watched the small detector attached to his dashboard with one eye as he drove on into the mountains of Zambala. His other eye alternately watched the road and the truck still behind him. He could lose the truck, but he was more interested in knowing who was in it.

He was almost sure that whoever was driving the truck, and the masked woman, and the men who had attacked him on the hill behind the prison, all belonged to the same group.

But what group?

He wanted to find out, but the first order of business was to locate Illya and free him from whatever was holding him.

Suddenly Solo jammed on his brakes. The detector showed that the trail made a sharp left turn. Solo peered out his window. To the left, perhaps five miles off, he saw a tall mountain with a long white scar just below the summit. A narrow track led off toward the mountain.

Quickly checking the truck behind him—it was closer now—Solo turned his car and plunged into the narrow track. The going was hard; the car bounced from ruts and deep holes in the narrow track. But there were tire marks in his headlights; some vehicle had come this way. Where another vehicle could go, Solo could go!

Behind him he heard a squeal of brakes and the grinding of gears as the truck tried to follow him. He did not think the truck could move as fast on this narrow road, but he hoped that they kept coming. He turned his attention back to negotiating the murderous road. Then he jammed on his brakes again.

He listened to the moonlit night.

Far ahead there were shouts and the distant sound of men running through the jungle.

Solo jumped out of his car and began to run along the track, his U.N.C.L.E. Special set for automatic and fitted, as he ran, with its stock and hand grip. He listened to the sounds ahead and behind. The truck was battling the road but coming closer slowly. The men ahead were rapidly closing in.

A twig broke in the jungle to Solo's right.

He heard the click of a stone.

Crouching low, Solo circled through the jungle toward the sounds. Ahead, in the gloom of the moonlit night in the jungle, he saw a sudden movement. Solo hit the dirt and crawled ahead toward where he had seen the movement. In front of him a bush moved. He crawled closer. A face emerged from the bush directly in front of him, not more than inches away.

"Well, Napoleon," Illya said, "you took your time getting here."

Solo sighed. "You'll never learn to wait, will you? If you don't stop rescuing yourself, I may give up my rescues."

"I can't depend on you, Napoleon. You're so slow."

"But steady," Solo said. "I mean, I'm here."

"Yes," Illya said, "and why are we lying on our faces?"

"I heard you," Solo said.

"And I heard you," Illya said.

"Perhaps we could stand up now," Solo said.

"I had the same thought," Illya said.

The two agents stood up. Solo passed Illya his small spare automatic. Toward the mountains the sound of pursuit was closer. Toward the road the sound of the truck echoed in the night. Illya looked at Solo.

"You brought some company," Illya said.

"That I did," Solo said. "I presume they will now join your friends."

"It is a distinct possibility," Illya said. "I'd prefer not to be sandwiched in the middle."

"Wait!" Solo said.

The two agents listened in the moonlit night. The sound of the truck had changed. There was a sharp grinding of gears and the truck sounds began to move away. The two agents listened until they were certain. The truck was going away.

"Your friends do not seem to be friends with my friends," Illya said.

"It would appear that way," Solo said.

"Then I suggest we give that some thought while we make our escape," Illya said.

"Good thinking," Solo said. "Now?"

Illya listened to the sounds of pursuit coming much closer.

"Now," Illya said.

The two agents ran through the jungle and emerged on the rutted narrow track beside Solo's car. It was the work of seconds to turn the car and drive as fast as the narrow track allowed toward the main road.

There were distant shots in the night as they reached the main road and roared away, leaving the black-uniformed pursuers shooting at shadows.

THREE

Before they reached San Pablo again, Illya had told his story, Solo had reported what had happened to him.

"I think Mr. Smith was the beggar I followed," Illya said.

"The man with the thin beard has to be Max Steng himself," Solo said.

"Then my captors were the Stengali," Illya said, "and they appeared to be mystified by the events at The Morgan House."

"Which could be a smoke screen," Solo said. "Or Tavvi could have been working on his own. Or Tavvi could have been working with someone else without Max Steng's knowledge."

"Check," Illya said. "But who are your friends? Who is the woman who probably killed Tembo? They dress almost exactly like the Stengali, but they did not seem anxious to meet the Stengali."

"Suppose we find some food and some beds. Tomorrow I see what I can do about that woman," Solo said.

"While I have a session with O'Hara," Illya said. "He may know something about the woman and her companions."

In San Pablo the two agents went straight to the hotel room O'Hara had arranged for them. For once they slept undisturbed.

By nine o'clock the next morning Solo and Illya were in the hidden calm of the miniature U.N.C.L.E. headquarters behind the bookcase in the mansion on the hill that overlooked San Pablo.

O'Hara listened to their reports. The local Section II man agreed that Illya had been captured by the Stengali. He could not guess who the pursuers of Solo were.

"Unless it is some men imported by Zamyatta," O'Hara said, "which is a possibility. There have been reports of bands of unidentified men in the hills. All across the island, in fact. There have been other killings. Mura Khan and the attempt on Premier Roy were only the latest. Premier Roy has made some documents available to the Tribunal that seem to implicate Zamyatta with the Stengali.

"But Chairman Ramirez wants to move carefully. Zamyatta has many followers. We must be sure or the country could explode, and you know what that would mean down here. The Dominican Republic affair is bad enough, but here—"

"What about this woman, Jezzi Mahal?" Solo said. "And what is The Silver Dunes?"

O'Hara frowned. "You're sure of that name?"

"I'm quite sure," Solo said. "Why?"

O'Hara sighed. "Jezzi Mahal is a wealthy and very high and mighty young lady. Jet-set, social, and her father was my father's only rival as the richest businessman in Zambala. She has been seen often with certain important army officers."

"And The Silver Dunes?"

"Her beach cabana. She spends the summer there. She would be there now. It is a few miles out of San Pablo, on the south coast. What we Zambalans call our Riviera."

"Which army officers?" Illya asked.

"Primarily Colonel Julio Brown, who just happens to command the second motorized regiment," O'Hara said. "Our only fully-trained and crack regiment. The first regiment is largely made up of ceremonial units based in San Pablo. The third, fourth, and fifth are all garrisoned at various parts of the island, and are rarely in full training. The second motorized regiment is stationed ten miles from San Pablo, is always in full training."

There was a silence in the sound-proof, hidden room in the heart of O'Hara's mansion. Illya broke the silence.

"In short, if anyone wanted to take over Zambala, it would be good to have Colonel Julio Brown on his side," Illya said.

"I'm afraid that is it," O'Hara said.

Solo nodded thoughtfully. "Well then, I think I had better have a talk with Miss Jezzi Mahal."

"And I will do a little reading on the background of Colonel Julio Brown, Max Steng and Jemi Zamyatta," Illya said.

"Have fun," Solo said.

The handsome, boyish agent raised an eyebrow and walked from the room. In the corridor, he took time to look into the other rooms in search of the fine female voice he had talked to over his radio. He found her at her communications desk.

Her stare was withering as he smiled at her.

Solo departed.

The Silver Dunes was a cabana in name only. A vast, low, ranch house on a small cliff at the edge of the dazzlingly blue sea, it spread far and wide and must have contained at least twenty rooms. There was movement in the two rooms that faced the wide open terrace and the sea.

On the beach below the small cliff people lay on the sand in the afternoon sun, and swam in bursts of white in the blue sea.

Solo parked his car on the edge of the highway above the house and out of sight from the house. There was a wide gravel drive down and around from the coast highway to the house below on its low cliff. Solo decided on the short route down the sandy hills. He slid and skidded swiftly but silently down, and approached the house itself from a deep gully in the sandy earth.

At the corner of the house Solo paused. His keen eyes were puzzled. There was no sound from inside the house. He could see directly into one of the two rooms that faced the terrace. The room was empty. Solo moved closer. But again, he paused before he reached the house.

Something else was odd, wrong.

Then he knew what it was. There was no sound at all.

There were no voices from the beach below. This close he should have heard something down there, where the people plunged in the surf. He turned quickly and walked to the edge of the cliff in front of the house.

The beach below was empty.

Solo turned and looked back at the silent house. There had been someone in the house when he looked down from the road. He had watched the house the whole way down and no one had left. But there was no movement in the house now and no one on the beach. Had he been seen?

It looked very much that way, but the U.N.C.L.E. agent had to investigate more closely. He recrossed the terrace to the house itself. Using a small picklock, he unlocked the French doors and went in. He stood for a time in the large living room and listened. Then he moved on into the house and came to a small study. A picture of a man in a colonel's uniform stood on the desk.

Solo began to search the room. In a bottom drawer of the desk he found a secret compartment. In the compartment there was an envelope. In the envelope there was a series of dates and the signature: Z. Napoleon Solo stared at the list and the scrawled Z. One of the dates was the day the Security Chief Mura Khan had been killed, and the premier had shot the Stengali!

The light step came from the living room.

Solo quickly replaced the list in the compartment and closed the drawer. He glided into the corner of the room behind the door. The woman stepped into the study.

She was a beautiful woman, dark and exotic. She wore a deep red dress that left none of her curves hidden. Her hair was long and she wore earrings to her shoulders. But she could have been the masked woman in black who had killed Tembo.

She turned and stared straight at Solo. The agent grinned.

"Miss Mahal, I presume?" Solo said.

The woman showed no expression. "Who are you? What do you want here?"

"Who I am isn't important," Solo said. "What I want here is to return your matches."

He held out the matchbook. The beautiful woman looked at the matchbook. She stepped to Solo, took the matchbook, and dropped it onto the desk. Her green eyes stared at Solo.

"I don't recall giving you any matches."

"No," Solo said. "You forgot them. I hate to see a lady without her matches."

"Forgot them?"

"When you called on Inspector Tembo."

Solo watched for any sign of surprise, or any other sign. Jezzi Mahal showed nothing. The beautiful woman was either very innocent or very controlled.

"Inspector Tembo? I'm afraid I don't know the inspector very well. I certainly haven't seen him in months. And now, will you leave, or must I call for help?"

"You wouldn't really?" Solo said. "After all, I returned your matches. They could have been awkward."

"Awkward?" the woman said. "Because Tembo was murdered? Really, whoever you are, do you know how many of those matchbooks I have? How many people take them from my house?"

"How did you know Tembo was dead?"

Jezzi Mahal laughed. "I have many friends. The inspector's murder happened last night. Zambala is a small country. Now, must I become obnoxious?"

"I'll bet you could," Solo said.

"I could and will."

"I'll bet you'd even get me in trouble with Zamyatta," Solo said.

For the first time the woman showed a reaction. Almost imperceptibly her eyes glanced toward her desk, toward the drawer with the hidden compartment. She recovered so quickly Solo could almost have believed he had not startled her into the glance. But he had seen the faint motion.

"Mr. Zamyatta and I are not exactly friends," Jezzi Mahal said.

Solo raised a surprised eyebrow. 'No? How stupid of me. I meant Colonel Brown. The man in the picture there."

"The colonel is not a man to have for an enemy, whoever you may be," Jezzi Mahal said. "If you wish him for an enemy, it can be arranged."

"I'll bet it could," Solo said. "I better leave, hadn't I?"

"I strongly suspect it."

Solo grinned again and left the woman in the study. He walked easily across the living room, opened the doors—and closed them again. He jumped back into the cover of a large chair and crouched low. Unseen, he saw the woman come to the study door, look, and immediately go back. He heard her lift the receiver of the telephone.

Solo moved quickly to the doors again, opened them silently this time, and went out. He ran across the terrace and into the gully in the sand hills. He climbed up the hills to his car as fast as he could.

At the edge of the highway he looked carefully in all directions. People were on the beach again—men who carried weapons. Other men moved at a run through the sand hills below.

Solo grinned and ran for his car. He jumped in and started the engine. A long, black car appeared up the highway from the direction of San Pablo. It was coming fast. Solo threw his car into gear and drove off away from San Pablo.

The black car did not stop at The Silver Dunes. It came on at a fast pace.

Ahead there was a curve. Solo went around the curve and swerved off the road into a side road the instant the black car was hidden behind him. Moments later a jeep came around the bend from the opposite direction. The jeep and the black car raced together, passed, and both screeched to a halt. The two cars backed toward each other.

The man in uniform in the jeep looked up at the hills and at the side road. Two men jumped from the black car. The three men all looked at the side road.

Solo got out of his car, where he had parked it out of sight from the highway, but from where he could watch the road. He checked his U.N.C.L.E. Special and plunged silently into the bushes. He worked his way down the hillside.

On the highway the three men drew guns and started up the side road. They moved swiftly but warily. Hidden, Solo let them pass, and then worked the rest of the way down to the highway.

The man left in the black car neither saw nor heard Solo creep up on him. Not until the agent was almost on top of him. Then the man heard, turned, raised an ugly-looking Luger. Solo shot him in the neck with a sleep dart from his Special. The man collapsed.

Up on the side road there were loud voices. They had found his empty car. Solo leaped into the jeep. The keys were still in it. The three men were still running down the side road when he drove away in the jeep.

Solo raced back along the highway toward San Pablo. As he approached the gravel drive down to the beach house of Jezzi Mahal, he saw the men all across the road. Armed men. Solo bent low and pretended to slow the jeep. The men opened a path. Solo jammed down on the gas and the jeep leaped forward, through, and past the men.

He drove on, crouched low, but no shots came. He raised up and looked back. The black car was coming. Napoleon Solo grinned; they would not catch him now.

But someone was worried about what he might have found at The Silver Dunes.

FOUR

The International Tribunal held the special session in the San Pablo presidential palace, the former palace of the governor general. All members were there. Martin O'Hara held the floor.

"I am sorry to have to tell you, gentlemen, but I have definite indications that Opposition Leader Zamyatta, the Stengali, and Colonel Julio Brown of the second regiment appear to be involved in some form of plot!"

There was a hubbub in the ornate room that had once held the glitter of colonial pomp. The two Western members, and the Zambalan labor leader, Mark Boya, nodded their agreement with O'Hara. The Pole and the Indian demanded to know what kind of indications O'Hara had, demanded that he produce his evidence.

Carlos Ramirez listened for a time, and then banged for order. The room fell silent.

"If this is true, we must act. If it is true. I will call in the Organization of American States. But I agree that we must know what proof we have."

The tall old man glared like a lion around the table in the elegant room. His thick shock of white hair seemed to dominate them all. His strong, alert eyes flashed from face to face in the silent room. He pounded his cane harshly against the floor.

"I repeat, gentlemen, we must have proof!" Ramirez said in a voice that had lost none of its power. "I have perhaps more than anyone to lose in this island if Zamyatta should come to power in a coup, but I will not let my personal business blind me to justice and the will of the people."

The old poet and patriot glared around him. Then he faced O'Hara.

"What exactly is your information, O'Hara?"

O'Hara hesitated. All the proof he had was the possible murder of Tembo by the Mahal woman, the list in her desk that he could not produce, and the experiences of Illya and Solo.

"Very well," and O'Hara told them what he had learned, but without telling them of U.N.C.L.E. He made it sound as if some chance information had come to friends of his.

There was another silence. Ramirez frowned, his craggy old grandee's face set in lines of thought. The Pole and the Indian member sneered.

"None of that can be called proof," the Pole said.

"We have had many rumors since we came here," the Indian pointed out mildly.

"I say it's enough," Mark Boya, the labor leader said.

"We do have a national crisis to consider," one of the two Western members said.

Ramirez listened, and then the old man spoke. "No, we do not have enough proof to charge Zamyatta and Colonel Brown. What O'Hara tells us is enough to convince me, perhaps, but we must be sure. The future of Zambala is at stake. I suggest that we alert the premier and the deputy premier, and that they quietly prepare all the military units they know to be loyal.

"I suggest we be ready, that we make quiet preparations to protect San Pablo. The deputy premier will know what to do. But we must make no move, no public announcement until we have more proof to show the world."

The members of the tribunal looked at each other. There was a general nodding of heads, all but the Polish member, who frowned. Ramirez smiled.

"Good," Ramirez said. "By tomorrow, I hope we will know more. The future of much more than Zambala is at stake."

In a small room at the other end of the presidential palace, Illya and Solo sat at a table and leaned over a small radio receiver. O'Hara had his set open, and the two agents had listened to the entire discussion. Now Illya looked up.

"He is a hard man to convince, Napoleon."

"He is that," Solo said.

"Still, he may be right. We don't really know yet what they plan to do," Illya said.

"Then I suggest we find out," Solo said.

"My thought exactly," Illya said.

"The second regiment?" Solo asked.

"That seems the most likely place. It is very hard to hide the movements of a regiment," Illya agreed.

"Shall we go?"

The two agents left the small room and went down the wide corridors of the palace. They left the building by a secret entrance known only to O'Hara—a special precaution of the U.N.C.L.E. team in San Pablo.

They emerged through the thick bushes around the palace on its wide, park-like grounds. On another hill above the city, the two agents could see the night lights of San Pablo below.

They moved quickly to Solo's stolen jeep, drove down the wide ceremonial Mall that led from the palace to the highway into San Pablo.

They reached a point where the highway into the city curved high and close to the sea. The sea itself was far below, the lights of the city directly ahead. A low wall separated the road from the rocks high above the sea, and on the far side of the jagged rocks there was a sheer drop.

It was at this spot that the shots rang out.

Solo felt the jeep go. It bucked and slewed across the highway, both front tires shot out. Solo fought to hold control. The jeep hurtled down the road, careening from side to side of the road. Twice they bounced off the low wall without going over.

At last Solo brought the jeep to a stop against the wall above the sea. The two agents did not pause to feel lucky or to catch their breath. They were out of the jeep, over the parapet, and crouching behind the parapet on the rocks above the sheer drop before the jeep had stopped vibrating from the impact.

Across the highway, from among the trees on the vast grounds of the presidential palace, men moved down to the highway. A dozen men in uniform. It was a uniform the two agents had not seen until now, a regular army uniform. British-made khaki shorts, high socks and heavy black boots, khaki shirts and light brown berets.

The men coming after the two agents were regular soldiers!

"What do you think?" Illya said.

Solo looked over the wall. "I'd have a guess that that patch on their shoulders belongs to the second motorized regiment."

"My thought exactly," Illya said. "The Mahal girl?"

"It has that feeling," Solo said.

"Or someone on the tribunal," Illya said.

"Don't even say it," Solo said.

"I'll say something more to the point."

"And that would be?"

"How do we get out of here?" Illya said.

Solo looked at the soldiers, who had reached the highway now, then down at the sea breaking angry on the rocks far below. Then he looked to the right, where the wall and the cliff joined a few yards away and left nothing but open space for birds all the way down. Then he looked left—to the left there was enough room to walk, and ledges of rocks leading down. It was a way for goats, but it was the only way.

"Left," Solo said, "and fast."

Crouched below the wall, the two agents moved as fast as they could to the left. They peered over the wall in the night to see where the soldiers were. The soldiers had reached the jeep and found it empty. Now the soldiers came running down the road. Illya opened fire. The soldiers went to ground and began to fire back. The fire was high over the agents' heads.

Solo led the way along the narrow cliff, then down to the first ledge. But the going was too slow.

"I'll have to hold them," Illya cried. "You go on!"

Illya leaped back up to the wall. Resting his Special on the parapet, he opened fire. Solo continued on down, ledge to ledge, as fast as he could, but it was very slowly. Above, Illya continued his covering fire until the soldiers, well-trained and skilled, worked around and had him covered from two sides.

Halfway down the cliff Solo looked up and saw Illya stand with his hands up. The soldiers swarmed around Illya. But they did not give up with the capture of one man. Leaning over the parapet they opened fire on Solo, called on him to surrender. Their shots were still too high, but Solo was pinned against the cliff ledge. He looked down.

Below, the water seemed deep. He could see no rocks. At the next fusillade Solo cried out, clutched his chest, and let himself fall over the edge of the ledge down into the sea.

Above, the soldiers turned away with their prisoner.

The night became silent.

Below in the water nothing moved.