Текст книги "The Invisibility Affair"

Автор книги: Thomas Stratton

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Chapter 10

"Only Your U.N.C.L.E. Agent Knows for Sure"

Illya had just turned the care onto a state highway and headed north for Richland Center when Napoleon checked their direction finder and noticed that the tracer he'd planted on the caretaker had moved. He checked more closely. As near as he could tell, the caretaker was traveling behind them, heading east. He checked the instrument at short intervals and after some time decided that the man was not going to turn north but continue east.

"It would seem," he remarked, "that the bird is on the wing."

Illya nodded without taking his eyes from the road. "Whither, midst falling dew, while glow the heavens with the last steps of day, far through their rosy depths pursue thy solitary way?"

"William Cullen Bryant," said Napoleon, "and since when did Thrushes become waterfowl?"

Illya shrugged. "Very few poets have written about Thrushes. Are the mikes picking up anything?"

"Not a sound; not even a hum to show they're operating."

"That one in his shirt should at least pick up his heartbeat. He's found them; that old man is pretty sharp."

Napoleon agreed. "We're lucky he hasn't located the tracer in his cuff, and we'd better get after him if we want to stay lucky."

"What about the girls?"

"We'd better get Kerry, at least, since we're driving her car. But I don't think we should get Lee involved any further."

Illya nodded agreement. "So far, Thrush doesn't know about her, and she'll be a lot safer if they never find out. They've probably left the area, but we only have Sanders' word for that."

"And his other statements aren't proving very reliable," Napoleon said, watching the direction finder. After a second, he switched on the communicator and told Kerry to be ready to move as soon as they arrived. "And ask Lee if she can put together something for us to eat on the road."

Illya raised his voice enough to be picked up by the communicator. "Something other than peanut butter, if you have it," he said.

The sound of a bell came faintly through the communicator. "What was that?" Napoleon asked sharply.

"Just the phone," Kerry replied. "Lee's getting it." There was a minute's silence, punctuated by occasional fain background outbursts from Lee; then Kerry continued. "It was Edwin Mallard, the naturalist. He's read Lee's last book and is going to stop and see her on his way through town tomorrow, and—"

Napoleon interrupted. "Is she sure it really is Edwin Mallard, and not a Thrush agent? This strikes me as a pretty large coincidence."

"It must be him!" Lee's voice suddenly burst through the communicator. "Why should Thrush...I mean, they don't even know I exist, do they? Didn't you say...And this is the only chance I'll ever have to meet...He doesn't often..."

"Hold it a minute!" Napoleon broke in. "I think we can check this out for you. You just start packing something for us to eat. We should have an answer for you by the time we get there."" Before Lee had a chance to get started again, he signed off and contacted Waverly, who listened politely to Napoleon's request.

"Very well, Mr. Solo. I really can't see how a naturalist could be connected with our type of Thrush, but I'll have the information for you in a few minutes." They were pulling up in front of Lee's house when he called them back. "Mr. Solo? Edwin Mallard is on a speaking tour. Tonight he is at the University of Wisconsin at Madison; day after tomorrow he is to be at the University of Minnesota at Minneapolis. Is this sufficient?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you very much. Solo out." He smiled at Illya. "That's a relief. I didn't want to bring Lee along, and I wasn't too sure how we were going to keep her from coming."

Kerry let them in the door and Lee bounded from the kitchen, a half-assembled peanut butter sandwich in one hand. Illya grimaced; Lee didn't notice as she advanced directly on Napoleon.

"Is it all right?" she asked excitedly.

"It seems to be," Napoleon replied, deftly avoiding the sandwich. "Edwin Mallard is in the area. Even so, it wouldn't hurt to have your friend Lavell present when you meet him."

"Wonderful!" Lee exclaimed, then looked worried. "You won't need me, will you? I mean, I'm positively thrilled at helping out secret agents and all, and I don't want to back out if you need me, but, well, Edwin Mallard..."

"Perfectly all right," Illya reassured her. "I suggest we get started, however. Sanders isn't wasting any time, and that tracer does have a distance limitation."

When Kerry had collected a large paper bag full of sandwiches from the kitchen, the three of them walked to the car. Lee waved briefly from the door, then ducked back inside to begin preparations for greeting Edwin Mallard.

"Whither, midst falling dew..." Illya began as he switched on the ignition.

"You said that." Napoleon checked his Wisconsin map and the direction finder. "Back down the highway," he directed. "Our quarry seems to be heading back to Milwaukee."

Illya made a U-turn in front of the house and headed for the highway. "Surely they wouldn't take the dirigible back there?"

Napoleon shrugged. "Possibly he'll turn at Madison." Sometime later he nodded in satisfaction. "He did turn. Now he seems to be angling northeast." He looked back at the detector. "And we seem to be gaining on him a little."

"Only a little?" Illya stepped harder on the accelerator. "He had to slow down going through Madison, and so will we. If he drives fast enough, he could lose us while we're getting through the city."

"Wait a minute," said Napoleon. "Now that we know the direction he's going, we can bypass Madison altogether. Turn left on Wisconsin 78—it should be a mile or two ahead—then we'll swing right and come out behind him, north of the city."

A few minutes later they were driving over a narrow, curving blacktop road. They screamed around one turn on two wheels, and Illya prudently reduced speed. "You and your shortcuts," he muttered.

Nevertheless, they eventually emerged on a major highway, and Napoleon triumphantly announced that they had gained on their quarry. "He's not more than fifteen miles ahead of us now. We should be able to cut that down a bit, on the open highway."

"And what happens if we get stopped for speeding?" Illya inquired. "Better to stay well behind than to lose him altogether."

Napoleon reluctantly agreed. "If he stays on the highway, the next town of any size is Fond du Lac. There doesn't seem to be a shortcut there; if he goes through, so do we."

Sometime later, Napoleon exclaimed, "He's stopped!"

"Where?"

"In Fond du Lac, apparently. He hasn't moved for the last ten minutes; take it easy when you get to the city limits. I wonder," he mused, "where anyone could hide a dirigible in Fond du Lac."

They swung into the city, whit Napoleon hovering over his tracer. "We're close; not more than a few blocks. We...no, he's moving again!"

"Tally-ho," Illya murmured.

They crossed the business district and Illya nodded at a gas station on a corner. "He probably stopped for gas."

"Must be. He's leaving the city now, at any rate. Drop back a bit, Illya. At this distance he could spot our headlights in open country."

Illya obeyed and drove northeast out of the city. They wound along the Lake Winnebago shore for several miles, then swung up across the ridge of land, east toward Manitowoc and Lake Michigan.

Kerry yawned. "Is he going to drive all night?

"He can't go too much further unless he takes to the water," Napoleon assured her.

At Manitowoc, the tracer pointed northeast. They followed, and had just left Two Rivers when Napoleon announced, "He's stopped again."

"This might just be it," said Illya.

"If he's stopped for gas again, he's getting very poor mileage. Drive by slowly; don't alert him by stopping."

They drove north along Lake Michigan, past a sign that announced YOU ARE NOW ENTERING POINT BEACH STATE FOREST. The highway was still winding through the forest when they spotted a rutted path leading off the highway. In the edge of their headlights, Napoleon noted a sign a few feet along the path.

"Dead end," he read, smiling. "How convenient. I do believe our Thrush is up a tree; the tracer shows him down that road somewhere. Pull on ahead and look for an inconspicuous place to pull off the road. Not too far, though, in case we have to run for it."

A few moments later, Illya pulled off the road. They got out, stretched, and began walking back toward the path. Once they flattened out in the ditch as a truck rumbled by, but traffic was light and they reached the path without further trouble.

"Do you have any idea how far it is to the lake?" Napoleon asked Kerry.

"Not for sure. I was here once a long time ago; it shouldn't be more than a mile or two from her to the water."

"All right." Napoleon gave instructions in a low tone. "We go slowly, and as quietly as possible. We'll have to stick to the road; I don't want to go blundering around in a strange forest after dark. I'll go first, Kerry in the middle, Illya last. Stay back as far as you can and still keep the person ahead in sight."

To Kerry, the advance down the pitch-black path seemed endless. They soon discovered that the moonlight didn't penetrate the branches overhead and Napoleon's plans to keep separated had to be abandoned. They kept close together the rest of the way, occasionally blundering into bushes, trees, and each other; sometimes tripping over an unexpected rock or branch lying in the trail.

At last, after what seemed several lifetimes, there was a glimmer of light ahead and they emerged from the trees onto a narrow, sandy beach. A large dark object bulked ahead of them. Careful reconnoitering proved this to be an empty boat house, with a dilapidated pier extending from behind it into the chilly waters of Lake Michigan.

The area was utterly deserted.

Napoleon consulted his tracer and waved at the lake. "According to this, our quarry is out there, not more than a couple of hundred yards from shore."

"I don't see a boat," said Illya.

"Neither do I, and I don't think he's been treading water for the last hour. Either he discovered the bug and pitched it into the lake, or..."

"Or what? If Thrush's invisible dirigible was already here and he was in it, we wouldn't be receiving any signals. Remember, any electromagnetic energy generated within the field is invisible to anyone outside the field."

Napoleon nodded thoughtfully. "He certainly didn't drive all the way up here just to throw the bug into the lake."

"He could have been picked up by someone in a boat," Illya suggested.

"In which case, we need a more versatile means of transportation to follow him," Napoleon said, pulling out his communicator. "I wonder if the Milwaukee U.N.C.L.E. branch owns an airplane, or if we'll have to get one from Chicago."

Kerry suddenly clutched his arm and pointed out toward the lake. The night sky was beginning to lighten with the approach of dawn, and the waters a few hundred yards offshore had begun to roil and bubble.

"Something's going on out there," Napoleon said, "but it's too dark to see just what."

As the sky grew lighter, the observers could make out a low, sinister shape against the water.

"Submarine!" Napoleon whispered. "There's something for Mr. Waverly!"

"You don't suppose Thrush is behind the water pollution problem?" Illya asked.

Several men busied themselves on the deck of the submarine, launching a small boat. It putt-putted in toward shore and the three watchers scrambled for cover when it became evident the boat was headed directly for the pier. By the time it arrived, they were safely concealed in a thicket not far from Sanders' car.

With the boat safely moored, the man climbed onto the pier and sauntered onto shore and up to a log that lay only a few yards from Napoleon, Illya, and Kerry. He sat down, lit a cigarette, and settled down, apparently prepared to spend the rest of the morning there. A vagrant breeze tickled Kerry's nostrils. She opened her mouth to sneeze and immediately found Napoleon's hand over her mouth and Illya's fingers pinching her nose. The sneeze subsided into a muffled gurgle which the man evidently didn't hear.

Several minutes later, there was the sound of a car bumping its way along the beach road. It came into sight shortly afterward, an elderly vehicle containing two men. The driver pulled off into the trees and the two men emerged and walked down to the beach where the boatman met them.

"There are only two of you," he said sharply. "I was told there would be three."

"He was detained," one of the men replied. "Some idiot driver ran him off the road north of Chicago. He called us while we were waiting at the rendezvous point; said he was going to get the car fixed and could follow us in a few hours. I would have been conspicuous to wait much longer, so we came ahead."

The boatman cursed casually. "McNulty won't like this. U.N.C.L.E. found the hangar, and McNulty wants to get the dirigible away from the state as soon as possible."

The other shrugged. "We're just technicians. If he wants someone with experience piloting a German dirigible, he's going to have to wait."

The boatman pulled a Thrush communicator from his pocket, snapped it open, and reported. There was a reply the observers couldn't hear, and the boatman closed the communicator. "Okay," he said, turning to the new arrivals. "Come on. We'll wait offshore."

The men boarded the boat and it moved slowly back toward the submarine. As it reached the sub, the boat was hauled aboard and the men disappeared down the conning tower. After a minute, the submarine submerged and, as it disappeared, there appeared briefly a shallow, circular pit in the water, not twenty feet from where the conning tower had been.

Napoleon watched closely as the pit vanished again. "The dirigible is right there. It must be moored to the sub with the OTSMID field ending just above the water to hide the mooring line. See there"—he gestured to where the pit had now completely refilled—"now that I know where to look, I can see a couple feet of line sticking out of the water. See how it disappears in midair?"

Illya nodded, "A sudden storm might produce interesting results."

"No such luck," replied Napoleon. "The weather forecast is for clear and calm. Well, now that we've located it, what do we do with it? Dr. Morthley is probably on board, so we can't shoot it down."

"Even if we got him off, we probably couldn't do it, not with these." Illya held up his U.N.C.L.E. Special. "We'd need at least a machine gun to bring it down under the circumstances."

"It looks as if the missing German dirigible pilot may be our best bet, if we can waylay him," Napoleon said.

Illya nodded. "Ja, mein kapitan; I was afraid you'd think of something like that."

They wriggled backwards out of the thicket and crept as silently as possible back into the trees. Then they moved back down the road until they were near the highway. As they went, Napoleon reported the submarine to Mr. Waverly, who promised to have their Chicago office look into the matter. With that meager assurance, Napoleon called Brattner, who was more cooperative but couldn't guarantee to have his agents there in much less than three hours.

"Looks as if we're on our own," Illya remarked as Napoleon pocketed his communicator. "Any ideas on how to stop our missing pilot?"

Napoleon looked up and down the path, then pointed to an especially bumpy section. "We'll have as good a chance here as anywhere. He'll have to go slow. If he has a window open, one of us can get him with a sleep dart. If the windows are up, I think we can get the door open before he can react. After all, if he was a German dirigible pilot, he can be very young."

"And if the windows are closed and the doors locked?"

"Then we hope we can pry him out before he thinks of calling his friends." Napoleon opened the briefcase he had been carrying, removed what looked like a lump of wet clay and placed it in the center of the road, just beyond the rough stretch. "That should stop him, if we have to use force."

They didn't have to use force. The pilot was a fat little man who turned off the highway with excessive care, traversed the woods road in low gear, happily humming "Muss i Denn", and came to a complete halt at the rough stretch.

As he leaned forward to peer myopically through the windshield, Napoleon aimed carefully at his neck and fired the sleep dart. The man slapped at his neck, turned to stare in astonishment at the side of the road, and collapsed on the front seat. Napoleon and Illya rushed forward and lifted him out of the car.

Illya stared at the pudgy unconscious form. "I hope none of the crew knows him personally," he said. "My powers of impersonation are restricted to a bit of German air lore and an accent; amorphous, I'm not."

"How about the ability to cloud men's minds?" suggested Napoleon, removing a bottle of hair dye from the briefcase. "How are you at humming 'Muss i Denn'?"

Illya sat stoically on one bumper of the car while Napoleon applied the dye to Illya's hair, transforming it to a dark, dirty brown, going gray around the temples. The eyebrows were darkened and made to appear bushier, and the eyes underlined to appear baggy. A few lines were skillfully applied to the face, and within fifteen minutes Illya had aged twenty years to the casual observer. When it was over, he stood up and checked himself in a mirror.

"Does he or doesn't he?" he inquired of his image. "Only your U.N.C.L.E. agent knows for sure."

His handiwork on Illya completed, Napoleon searched through the unconscious man's pockets. They revealed little except that the man's name was Rudolph Salzwasser and that he was a Thrush. Illya pocketed the walled, identity card, and Thrush communicator.

"Now we wait, as long as we can," Napoleon said. "If we can hold off long enough, maybe Brattner will get here in time to help."

As if on cue, the Thrush communicator buzzed.

"Better answer it, or they'll get suspicious and maybe pull out without you," Napoleon said.

Illya snapped open the communicator. "Salzwasser here."

"Now what's wrong?" a voice asked. "You called an hour ago and said you'd be here in half an hour."

Wishing they had left Rudolph conscious long enough to get an idea of what his voice sounded like, Illya held the communicator away from his mouth and answered, "I missed the turn-off. I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Snap it up. McNulty is getting impatient. He's ready to pilot the thing himself, after the way he lucked out in getting it all the way here yesterday."

Without giving Illya a chance to sign off, the communicator went dead.

"Well, here goes," Illya muttered and climbed into the car and drove off down the road at a leisurely pace. Napoleon recovered his gob of plastic explosive from the middle of the road, tied and gagged Rudolph securely and, with some help from Kerry, dragged him under some bushes.

Ten minutes at a fast walk brought them back to their thicket. The road was much shorter in the daylight. The boat had apparently been waiting for Illya when he had driven up, for he was already well out into the lake, Rudolph's bulky suitcase clutched in his lap.

Napoleon checked his tracer and discovered that it was no longer picking up anything. Evidently Sanders was on board the dirigible. He hoped

Brattner could get there faster than he had promised. It wasn't likely that Illya could get Morthley off the ship without raising an alarm, and once Thrush was alerted, the odds against the U.N.C.L.E. agents would be formidable. A less optimistic man would have said overwhelming.

Chapter 11

"Well, If It Isn't Mr. Kuryakin Again"

A large metal hook appeared with startling suddenness in the air a few yards in front of the boat. As Illya watched, it lowered until it almost touched the water. He could see a steel cable extending upward and disappearing mysteriously about ten feet above the water.

The operator of the boat motioned toward the hook as they pulled alongside it. "Hang your bag on the hook, put your foot in it like a stirrup, and get a grip on the cable. You'll be hauled up."

Illya stared thoughtfully at the cable, which rose straight up and disappeared into thin air. "Shouldn't someone be playing a flute?" he murmured as he followed instructions. "With a snake charmer waiting in the wings?"

The cable started to rise.

A few seconds later, everything went black. Even though he had expected it, he almost tumbled of his perch. The sun was gone, the water, the shore, even the cable and his clenched hands. His invisible body was being pulled by an invisible force to an invisible destination. A wave of dizziness swept him.

Then there was again illumination as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. Above him he could make out a cluster of lights. As he was drawn nearer, he realized that some of the lights came from the control gondola, while the one directly above him must emanate from inside the dirigible itself. He could see the dirigible only as a vast bulk, fading away into the darkness away from the lights. The light above him became brighter and he could recognize what appeared to be tremendous bomb bay doors yawning above him. The clatter of a winch came to him. As he passed the doors there was a loud humming sound and he saw the doors begin to close beneath him. The cable halted as they swung shut.

"You can step off now," a voice came from a platform overhead. Illya stepped off the hook onto the closed doors and picked up his suitcase. As he looked around, he realized what the doors were: aircraft hangar doors. The United States had made at least one ship like this, which could carry, launch, and pick up three fighter planes; evidently the Germans had produced a similar design.

He considered what Thrush could do with this much invisible transportation. Fortunately, modern fighter planes were larger than those of the 1930's, so the hangar where he stood could not readily be used for its original purpose. But it could, he thought, be easily adapted for use as a bomb bay. He thought about the dirigible hovering invisibly over Washington, D.C. with a cargo of plague germs, and shuddered.

"Rudolph Salzwasser?" A large man with a gold earring in his left ear and his right arm in a sling approached. When Illya nodded, the man picked up the suitcase with his good hand and motioned Illya to follow him.

"My name is Hunter," the man said over his shoulder as he led the way up some steps. "We have some temporary quarters set up for you just back of the control gondola. According to McNulty, they used to be crew's quarters; they're not in bad shape when you consider this thing is probably forty years old."

Illya muttered noncommittal sounds to indicate he was listening, and took careful note of his surroundings. Looking back from the top of the steps, he could see over the edge of the platform, to where a large winch had begun to feed out the cable again. The winch operator had apparently just thrown a large switch which operated the hangar doors; they were beginning to open.

Hastily, he moved to overtake Hunter, who was still moving forward and idly conversing. "...probably had a bad few moments coming up," he was saying as Illya came up beside him. "You get used to it after a few times, though."

Illya muttered assent. This must be the keel, he thought. Now they were on a narrow metal catwalk. Surrounding them, in inverted triangles, were rows of metal girders. The girders, with their lacy Swiss cheese appearance, had a look of delicacy about them, as did almost everything about the dirigible except for the hangar doors and the winch platform. The design provided maximum rigidity with minimum weight, but it had a certain fairy-tale look about it. Between the girders were metal tanks of all shapes and sizes. Some probably contained spare helium under pressure, he supposed, while others could be fuel. He saw no evidence of sandbags, and wondered where the one that had nearly dropped on Lavell had come from.

Now the catwalk and girders were replaced b an almost conventional hallway with a half dozen doors opening on either side. Hunter led the way to the first door on the right. "You can have this one," he said, opening the door. "There aren't many of us on board so we can each have our own room. The air force gets the best of everything," he added sardonically. "Down in the sub they're packed in like sardines."

Illya stepped into the room behind Hunter. It was a small spartanly furnished cubicle with a pair of double bunks along the outer wall and a single chair and table in the middle of the floor. The section of wall beyond the head of the bunks was clear glass. Illya noted that the partitions dividing this room from the next didn't match the rest of the construction, as if they had been added later.

"I understand a Mr. McNulty is in charge of the operation," Illya said. "I would like to see him, please..."

Hunter's rumbling chuckle sounded. "McNulty likes to think he's in charge. Ivan Forbes, head of the Milwaukee Satrapy is in charge of the operation, but he's gone on ahead. Right McNulty is down in the sub overseeing the transfer of the sonar equipment, so you take orders from me."

Illya kept an indifferent expression on his face and nodded. Apparently Rudolph was expected to know about the sonar.

"Now then, unless you'd prefer to rest for a bit, we'll take a look at the control room."

"Ja," Illya replied. "I'm quite anxious to become familiar with the operation. I understand we do not have much time...?"

Hunter took the bait. "Very little. If we can get the sonar installed today, we'll start moving this evening. You'll be expected to give us some instructions on handling the dirigible; we've been having a few problems. That ass McNulty—" He broke off abruptly.

"Good, good," Illya said. "It sounds like an efficient operation. Shall we go forward?"

"Follow me," Hunter said as he went out into the hallway, through another small compartmented section, slid back a door that blocked the end of the hallway, and went down a short flight of steps. "The control gondola," he announced as Illya followed him down the steps and let the door slide shut behind him.

The area, about twenty feet long by ten feet wide, was bare of any decoration. The front third seemed to contain all the controls, although from Illya's position at the rear he could see only a few items, including a pair of wheels that looked as if they belonged on a small sailing ship. The entire curving front of the gondola was glass, whit the roof supported by braces that seemed to have been built from a giant's erector set.

One of the crew was inspecting something near one of the control wheels. The back two thirds of the gondola was completely bare except for a huge box-like metal affair, a good six feet square and three feet deep, with dials and controls clustered on the front of it. A wispy, white-haired man stood in front of the machine, watching the dials.

Luck, Illya realized, seemed to be running his way for a change. Dr. Morthley was already located and the only Thrush who could identify him was on the submarine. "Ach, this must be the invisibility device," he said heartily, moving forward. "Fascinating, utterly fascinating! How does it work?"

He reached Morthley's side and clapped him solidly on the back. Morthley looked up annoyed. "I'm an inventor, not a lecturer," he snapped. "Get McNulty to explain it to you; he likes to talk."

The door at the rear of the gondola opened. Illya turned, noted that the man standing in the entrance was the elderly caretaker of the dirigible hangar. He hastily turned back and peered at the OTSMID with feigned eagerness.

"McNulty says he's got to see you right away," Sanders said to Hunter.

"Now what?" muttered Hunter in annoyance. He turned to Illya. "Take your time and familiarize yourself with the invisibility device," he instructed. "I'll be back as soon as possible." He and Sanders vanished up the stairway.

Illya whispered urgently to Dr. Morthley, "Come with me, please," and led the scientist toward the rear, away from the man who was still puttering around the controls. "I'm Illya Kuryakin," he began, "and—"

Dr. Morthley's face lightened in recognition. "Ah, the U.N.C.L.E. agent, he whispered. "I thought you looked familiar, but I saw you so briefly in that hotel room..."

"Is there any way out of here besides those hangar doors?" Illya asked.

Dr. Morthley nodded to a dimly-lit spot in the shadow of the OTSMID. "There's a door, right there, but we must be a hundred yards in the air."

"We have ways," Illya said, and nodded at the man at the front of the gondola. "What's he doing?"

"I think he's the sonar man. He's either looking for a good place to install it or he's trying to look so busy that he won't be called on to help McNulty move the thing."

Illya nodded thoughtfully. So far the man had not looked up from his work since Illya had entered. After a second, Illya tiptoed up the steps to the rear door, opened it a crack and peered through. Seeing no one, he let it slide noisily shut, then strode to the front of the gondola. "They're bringing the sonar aboard," he said crisply. "McNulty wants you back in the hangar."

Sighing, the man put down a wrench and headed for the stairs. As he passed Illya, the latter chopped him neatly at the base of the neck, caught him as he doubled up, and eased him to the floor. Wasting no time, Illya ran to the door Dr. Morthley had indicated and twisted it open. From inside his shirt pocket he pulled a duplicate of the miniature wire and grapnel that he and Napoleon had used to cross the fence surrounding the dirigible hangar. He fastened the grapnel firmly to a girder, let the wire dangle outside the door, and produced two pairs of leather gloves. He handed one pair to Dr. Morthley.

"Put these on, then grab that wire, and slide," Illya told him. "You may have to drop a few feet into the water, but not far. Can you swim?"

Morthley nodded.

"Fine. Get your shoes off." Illya had kicked off his own oxfords. "When you hit the water, head for shore. Napoleon Solo and your niece will be there to give you a hand."