Текст книги "The Invisibility Affair"

Автор книги: Thomas Stratton

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Chapter 9

"I Never Realized Hunding Was a Thrush?"

Illya and Napoleon and the two girls held a council of war at Lee's house. Lee and Kerry had been in favor of enlisting Lavell in the search, but Napoleon had vetoed the idea. "After all, we are supposed to be secret agents, and the fewer people who know about us, the better."

"But what happens if Thrush gets the OTSMID and the dirigible both operating properly before we locate them?" Kerry asked.

"We hope they don't," Illya replied. "We know the general area now. Considering the amount of space required for a dirigible hanger and the fact that trucking in anything as heavy as the OTSMID is bound to leave traces, they shouldn't be hard to locate."

"Lee, do you have a car?" Napoleon asked.

"Of course; why?"

"If we divided our forces, we can cover twice as much territory. Illya and I can keep in touch through our communicators."

Illya nodded. "It's also an advantage in case Thrush spots us first. We'll each know where the other is, and if one party disappears, the other will know where to look."

"I'll go with Illya," Kerry announced. Napoleon and Lee simultaneously looked at one another with raised eyebrows.

"I guess we go together, then," Napoleon said.

After some discussion, it was decided to use the gravel pit as a starting point. Napoleon and Lee would work toward the west and Illya and Kerry toward the east. Lee and Kerry would drive, with Napoleon and Illya observing. Lee presented Kerry with a map of the county, showing all the back roads and creeks.

"And remember," Napoleon said as they walked to their cars, "keep in constant communication, except when actually investigating a possible site. If you disappear, I want to know where."

"Don't worry," Illya assured him, "if I disappear, I want you to know where, too."

* * *

The day seemed to move at a much faster pace than did the search. With nothing but Lee's ubiquitous peanut butter sandwiches for sustenance, they slowly cruised the back roads. Frequent stops were made for closer examinations of the terrain, but as dusk approached, all had proved fruitless. The sun was low on the horizon as Lee and Napoleon drove down one more dusty back road. Suddenly Napoleon stiffened and peered sharply at a particularly impenetrable looking thicket on his side of the road.

"Go on down the road a few hundred yard and stop," he ordered. Speaking into the communicator, he asked, "Still with us, Illya?"

"You sound particularly pleased," came the reply. "Found something?"

"I think so. At least, one doesn't normally see a set of tire tracks turning off the road into the middle of a mass of bushes and trees."

"Are you sure about the tracks?"

"Not positive; I'll have to go back for a closer look. From the glimpse I got as we drove by, it seemed like someone had tried to erase them, but the sun was at just the right angle to highlight the depressions. They're the right distance apart for tire tracks, at least. I'll tell you more when I've checked them out."

A few minutes later, he reported. "Tracks, all right' deep ones. And someone has gone to the trouble of filling in the ruts with sod. His only error was that the sod didn't quite match the height of the surrounding grass. The thicket is phony, too. It looks like some of the trees have been transplanted, and others have been cut and arranged to make the growth look thicker than it really is. I'm going on in."

Another few moments of silence, and Napoleon spoke again. "There's a road here, all right. About fifty feet of it next to the county road has been filled in, but from where I'm standing I can see it going off into the woods. I'm going to work back towards Lee; you and Kerry get over here."

By the time Illya and Kerry had arrived, Napoleon had his plans worked out. He handed his communicator to Kerry and showed her how to use it.

"All right, now. Kerry's car is already driven off the road and hidden. You two girls take Lee's and drive back to Richland Center." He quelled the outburst from both girls by raising his hand. "We are not playing cops and robbers; this is serious business. If you want to help, follow instructions. All right?" There were sullen nods and Napoleon continued.

"Illya and I will investigate. If everything goes well, we'll return to Kerry's car and drive back to join you. If everything does not go well, you"—he gestured to Kerry—"will press this button on the side of my communicator, say the magic words 'Open Channel D,' and make a full report to Mr. Waverly in New York. You will then follow his instructions. In the meantime, you, Lee, will prevent anyone from entering your house. That includes mail carriers, milkmen, your next-door neighbor, and your best friend. Anyone in this county could be a Thrush agent, and several people probably are. There are also innocent people about, so try not to kill anybody out of hand. But keep them out. Understand?"

Lee nodded.

"Fine. Now, we'll try to report at least every half hour. If two hours go by without a report, assume we're out of action and report to Mr. Waverly."

After seeing the girls safely off, Napoleon and Illya began to follow the track into the woods. It obviously wasn't a well-used thoroughfare; even where no effort had been made to hide it, there were times when the agents had difficulty following it in the waning light. Eventually, however, they rounded a final thicket and found themselves facing a large steel gate, set in the middle of a wire mesh fence that stretched off into the woods on both sides.

A large sign was fastened to the middle of the gate. WARNING! PRIVATE PROPERTY. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED TO THE FULL EXTENT OF THE LAW. Beneath this, in smaller letters, was the name TOTAL HARMONY REALTY UNDERWRITERS SOCIETY OF HURICON.

Illya pointed to the name, spelling out the initial letters. "T.H.R.U.S.H. They certainly advertise their presence, don't they?"

"Probably not expecting anyone but an occasional hunter and wanted something that sounded impressive," Napoleon responded. "Well, I suppose we have our choice: do we pick the lock or simply blast through a section of fence?"

"I wouldn't recommend either," Illya said, pointing to another sign to one side of the gate: WARNING! ELECTRIC FENCE. "You'll note the lock is wired into the electrical system; I suspect that failure on the part of either fence or lock rings an alarm somewhere." He pointed to a push-button set in the gate above the lock. "If you're in a hurry, I suppose we could ring the doorbell and see who answers."

Napoleon careful examined the lock and gate, and stepped back. "All right, mastermind; from the tone of that last remark, I assume you have something in mind."

"Of course. A good secret agent is prepared for any emergency." Illya removed a small package from his jacket pocket and began looking up and down the length of fence. "First, however, we need the proper setting—down that way would be best, I think."

Illya strode off to the left of the path, Napoleon following closely. About a hundred yards from the path, he halted and stared thoughtfully up into the branches of a large oak tree.

"This should do it. They've kept the brush trimmed back from the fence, but they didn't get all the tall trees in the area." He unwrapped his package with proved to be a length of heavy monofilament line with a miniature grapnel attached to one end. Swinging this around his head, he cast into the branches of tree. On the fifth cast, the grapnel caught and a careful test of the line showed it to be hooked solidly.

Napoleon had watched the proceedings with interest. "What's next, kimosabe?" he asked, although he had developed a strong suspicion and his hands were smarting from only the thought.

"Next we go up the line," Illya confirmed, suiting action to words.

When both agents were well up among the branches, Illya unhooked the grapnel. "Now for the hard part," he murmured as he cast the line toward an equally large tree thirty feet away on the opposite side of the fence.

It took patience, and it was almost totally dark by the time he had the line hooked to his satisfaction. Carefully, he tied the end around the trunk of the tree they were in. "Now," he explained cheerfully, "we swing across, hand over hand."

Napoleon felt the thin line again and winced. "There must be an easier way, Tarzan."

"Nonsense, Napoleon, a little exercise is good for you. Tones up the body. Come on, or it'll be so dark we won't be able to find the path again."

Inside the fence, Napoleon rubbed his aching palms. "When I go back, I'm going through that gate, one way or another. Let Thrush sue me for property damage."

By the time they had located the path again, the only light was from a half moon that tended to duck behind small clouds at just the wrong times. The path continued for another quarter of a mile, winding through scrubby woods and up and down hills.

"Looks like something up ahead," Illya said, squinting into the shadows.

Hurrying forward, they came to a large and rather battered shed, with windows knocked out and a roof that sagged dangerously. Here the trail apparently ended. They stared at the shed.

"It doesn't look like my idea of a dirigible hangar," said Illya.

"Let's check it out," Napoleon suggested. "Something made those tracks."

They circled the building warily. It remained enigmatic in the moonlight. The only positive result was to prove that the road definitely ended here at the shed, although the woods didn't.

Holding his U.N.C.L.E. Special ready for action, Napoleon cautiously approached the sagging door of the shed, and kicked it open with a sudden motion.

Nothing happened.

With Illya covering him, he stepped inside. Feeling a little foolish, he lowered his pistol. The shed was empty.

A moment later, Illya entered, and they stared about the interior. There was not even a partition to block the view. The inside of the shed was a large single room, containing nothing but a little dirt on the floor. A scrap of paper on one wall proved, when examined under Illya's flashlight, to be a page from a 1927 calendar.

Napoleon shook his head. "There's something wrong about this. We know this is a Thrush installation; the sign on the fence told us that much."

"You don't suppose there could really be such a company as the Total Harmony Realty Underwriters Society of Horicon, do you?" Illya asked. "What's a Horicon, anyway?"

"A marsh somewhere in the state—a sort of rest stop for geese during migration, I think. And probably a town, too. I remember seeing it on our list of part-time agents. But I somehow doubt the existence of the Society, at least this far from Horicon. No, we're missing something here."

Illya rapped his knuckles on a convenient wall, muttering, "Horicon, Mukwonago, Baraboo, Black Earth—don't we have agents in any normal-sounding towns? Like Minsk, or Pinsk, or Vladivostok?"

"Do that again," requested Napoleon, suddenly intent.

"Do what again? List our agents' addresses?"

"No, hit the wall."

Obligingly, Illya rapped the wall again. Napoleon nodded with satisfaction. "Notice anything?"

"Well, it sounded pretty solid."

"Exactly." Napoleon gave his section of wall a resounding kick. "See that? No give to it; like kicking a brick wall. Now at all in keeping with the rickety appearance of this shed. Maybe we're at the right place after all."

Illya was now peering more closely at the walls. "Notice something else? Look carefully at the walls and roof. See any cracks?"

"You're right. Solid joints everywhere. This place is built much more strongly than its appearance indicates." Napoleon removed a ball-point pen from his shirt pocket, pressed a concealed stud which opened it, and rearranged its contents into the form of a compact drill. "Got the idea from a TV commercial," he commented as the bit bored rapidly into the wood.

After penetrating about an inch, the quiet hum of the drill changed to a shrill whine, then jammed. Napoleon withdrew the drill and looked at the battered tip.

"Very solidly built," he said. "At a guess, I'd say the walls are quarter-inch steel plate, covered on both sides with native lumber to give the appearance of a rickety shed. And since not even Thrush would go to all that expense and trouble for an isolated warehouse, this place is important. Now, if we can just find the proper key..."

Illya was eying a knothole in a board near the top of one of the windows. Suddenly he reached up, inserted his thumb in the hole, and pushed. With a quiet whir of machinery, a steel shutter slid into place across the window opening.

"That's it, then," he announced. "The knotholes are concealed pushbutton controls. I noticed there was one near each window. I think there are a few others."

They found a total of six, scattered at random points throughout the building. "Now, if we just knew what each of them controlled," Illya mused.

"Only one way to find out," said Napoleon, reaching out to press the nearest one.

There was the same quiet hum of well-oiled machinery, and a twenty-foot section of the floor began to descend into the earth.

"Jackpot!" said Napoleon, leaping onto the descending elevator with Illya close behind.

With his U.N.C.L.E. Special in his hand, Napoleon waited as the elevator slowly descended. Illya took out his communicator and brought Kerry and Lee up to date.

When the elevator finally stopped, Napoleon estimated that they had dropped at least two hundred feet. They stepped off into a well-lighted underground passage that traveled only a few yards and then opened into a huge cavern. The cavern was apparently empty of dirigibles, but several pieces of machinery stood about and a huge pile of empty packing crates were pushed against the wall a few feet from them. A small stream trickled across the cavern floor.

Illya had put away his communicator and was drawing his gun. "But how do they get the dirigible out of here?" he asked. "It wouldn't fit in that elevator."

Napoleon stooped and began examining the rocks at their feet. After a few seconds, he straightened and nodded with satisfaction. "This isn't a natural cave," he said.

Illya looked around. "It will do until one comes along."

"No, this is a ravine. Thrush has built a roof over it and apparently covered the roof with dirt and planted grass and trees on it."

"Amazing," Illya murmured; "I never realized Hunding was a Thrush."

"Richard Wagner, Die Walkuüre, and it was a tree inside his house, not on the roof." Napoleon tossed off the identification and returned to speculating on the hanger construction.

"They must have blocked up this end with real ricks and dirt, brace by a steel wall. I wonder how they managed the other end, though. They must have something pretty elaborate in order to get the dirigible in and out."

"Right you are, sonny," came a cracked voice from behind them. "Just drop those guns and I might tell you about it."

The two agents dropped their pistols and turned slowly to face the speaker.

The man was wrinkled with age, but still ramrod-straight, with fierce eyes and a grin revealing broken teeth. Held firmly in the old hands was a weapon Napoleon recognized with respect, even though he had never before seen one outside of a museum: an Ithaca 12-guage double-barreled shotgun with twelve-inch barrels and a hand grip like that of an old dueling pistol.

"They outlawed those thing forty years ago," Napoleon said. "Too convenient for bank robbers."

The old man chuckled. "Well, they were advertised for home defense, and this one works right well. Don't either of you make any sudden moves, or I'll splatter you all over this side of the hanger. Now then, what brings you here?"

"Why, we received a message from Forbes, saying all agents were wanted here," Napoleon improvised smoothly. "We're from the Dubuque Satrapy, but we've been working with the Milwaukee group. I'm afraid we're a little late; we had trouble finding the place."

Napoleon was thinking furiously. This must be the Thrush caretaker. If he was alone here, then the dirigible was either being moved or was out on a trial run. Only one man—surely he and Illya could overpower him. Have to do it carefully, though; at this range, a double-barreled shotgun loaded with buckshot was the deadliest possible weapon.

The caretaker snorted. "You'll not take in old Ezra Sanders that easily. If you belong here, what were you doing with those guns?"

"Nobody answered the gate, and we had to crawl over the fence. We thought something was wrong."

Sanders appeared to be considering the statement. "Might be. Been something wrong with that call button on the gate these past few days; I think Andy pushed it too hard."

Napoleon sighed with relief and shifted position, then stiffened as the Ithaca was jabbed in is direction. "Might be ain't is!" the caretaker snapped. "You two just stay put while I think a bit."

"While you're thinking, could you tell us how they get the dirigible in and out of here?" Illya asked. "They surely don't slide the roof aside."

"Nah, that roof's solid. What we got is a big overhead door at one end. You know, one of them sectional things that slides up on tracks. Camouflaged real nice on the outside; looks like rocks and stuff. Had a hell of a time getting one big enough. But that roof, now that's real rock, with steel below. You could graze cattle up there," he said proudly.

Illya shifted position to ease an overburdened leg, and was rewarded by having the gun swivel to cover him. "Sonny, when I tell a man to stand still, I mean for him to be still," Sanders said.

"Where is everybody?" Napoleon demanded, assuming an authoritative air. "Forbes said this was urgent; why don't you take us to him instead of wasting time talking?" He can identify us."

"Forbes ain't here, and neither is anybody else but me. They took the dirigible out just a few hours ago. They ain't gonna be back, neither, so taking care of you two is up to me. Lessee now, if you're from Dubuque you got identification. Beard's a bureaucrat at heart; all his boys are loaded down with cards and countersigns. Let's see your identity card."

"Certainly," said Napoleon, reaching for his inside coat pocket.

"No sudden moves," said the caretaker. The Ithaca swung to point directly at Napoleon's stomach, and his hand halted abruptly. "Now then," Sanders continued, "just slip that identification out nice and easy, and toss it over to me so I can look at it."

Napoleon slipped his wallet out of his pocket and gingerly tossed it toward the caretaker's feet. At it struck the ground there was a muffled pop and a cloud of gas shot up to engulf the old man. Illya and Napoleon leaped sideways as a double charge of buckshot ripped though the space where they had been standing. Charging forward, Illya grabbed Sanders from behind while Napoleon wrestled the gun away from him. As soon as Napoleon had the gun, both agents released the man and stepped back, leaving the caretaker to stand with his eyes streaming tears and his mouth streaming profanity.

"Good work, Napoleon," Illya said. "I never really thought that tear gas cartridge in the wallet would ever be useful. Powerful stuff." He wiped his own eyes and retreated a trifle further.

"Now then, Ezra, we'd like you to answer a few of our questions. Where are Forbes and McNulty and the dirigible?"

The old man wiped his eyes and glared. "You're U.N.C.L.E. agents, you are! Think I'll tell you anything? Why, back in the Great War, I..."

"You mean World War I?"

"Nah, I mean the real war—the War with Spain!"

"You fought in the Spanish-American War?"

"I lied about my age. Anyways, I was a prisoner for two years, and nothing they did could make me talk."

"The Spanish-American War only lasted four months," Illya said.

"Who's tellin' this, you or me? Anyways, if the Spaniards couldn't make me talk, you two fancy-dressed punks can't."

"Are you sure?" Napoleon asked blandly.

"Sure I'm sure. You ain't got any truth serum or you'd have had a hypodermic in me by now; you U.N.C.L.E. boys are too lily-livered to use torture, and even if you did you wouldn't find out anything because I don't know anything. Forbes and McNulty and Hunter don't tell me all their little plans. You two might as well pack up and go home."

"You know, I hate to say it," said Napoleon, "but I think he's right. We could wait here for the dirigible on the chance that he's lying, but if he's telling the truth we'd be wasting valuable time. Brattner can get some men over here to clean the place and post a guard on it in case anyone shows up."

Reluctantly, Napoleon and Illya climbed aboard the elevator. The controls were plainly marked at this end. At the top they needed Illya's powerful flashlight; the moon seemed to have gone under a cloud for good. Wearily the agents tramped back to the gate. Halfway back, Napoleon flung the Ithaca into the woods beside the trail. "If he wants to hunt for it, let him have it," he said. "I'm tired of carrying it." He gained a little satisfaction by blowing the gate off its hinges with plastic explosive. It was a long walk back to the car.

As they reached the county road, Illya spoke. "How many bugs did you plant down there?"

"One in the shed, one in the elevator itself, one in the hangar and a tracer in the caretaker's pants cuff when we jumped him."

"Not bad. I put a couple of microphones in the hangar and one in his shirt pocket. We should be able to hear his inmost thoughts, at least until he changes clothes."

"He doesn't look like the type who changes clothes often," Napoleon said. "I only hope he was lying about the rest of Thrush having left the place for good."

"We'll soon know." They climbed into the car and headed for Richland Center.