MFU Whitman - The Affair of the Gunrunner's Gold

by Brandon Keith

  "Owens," said Ogden. "I mean—me—for you— for your organization—I'm a pipsqueak."

  "I quite agree with your description of yourself, Mr. Ogden. Pipsqueak."

  "Owens," corrected Ogden.

  "Let's clear up this Ogden-Owens business," the Old Man said sternly. "Your name is Howard Ogden. You are under indictment by the United States government, an indictment of five years' standing. Five years ago in California you jumped bail and disappeared. I have information that you spent those five years in South America. Do you wish to deny any of this, Mr. Ogden?"

  Silence.

  "Do you admit you are Howard Ogden?"

  Silence.

  "Would you prefer that I call in the federal authorities to make the identillcation?"

  "No, sir." There was a grim smile now on the dark face.

  "You are Howard Ogden?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "You spent the past five years in South America?"

  "Yes, sir—knocking around in South America."

  "Now, if you please, Mr. Ogden, why this sudden return to the United States under the alias Harry Owens?"

  "Harry Owens. That's the name I was using in South America."

  "But why this sudden return to the States?"

  "Well, sir, I've been trying to go straight. I got a job, a good job, as a salesman with the Castillo Manufacturing Company in Bogotá. They asked me to come up here to the States, to try to open up the U.S. market for them. Naturally I couldn't refuse."

  "Naturally you couldn't refuse," said the Old Man, and then he proceeded to knock the suave Ogden's story into a cocked hat. He sat forward in the swivel chair, fingering the passport and papers on his desk. "Mr. Ogden, your passport and credentials are forgeries—excellent forgeries, but forgeries. Furthermore, no Harry Owens ever worked for the Castillo Manufacturing Company nor has that company any interest in opening up United States markets." Quietly now the Old Man added, "Do you wish to change your story, Mr. Ogden-Owens?"

  The suave soldier of fortune remained unruffled. "I'm afraid you've trapped me, Mr. Waverly."

  "Exactly my purpose, sir. Now I want the truth!"

  "Yes, the truth," said Ogden-Owens smoothly. "Well, sir, I had assumed the name Harry Owens—but Harry Owens had grown sick and tired of the fugitive life in South America. I figured by this time—after five years—the heat was off back here in my own country. So I conceived this plan, this method, of returning to my homeland to start fresh—a new life as Harry Owens."

  "So now we have the truth, have we?"

  "Yes, sir. And I trust you won't go too hard with me because I lied to you before. If you turn me over to the authorities—please, I should like per mission first to call a lawyer. So that at least my belongings can be taken care of."

  "Belongings?"

  "My personal effects. My suitcases."

  "Suitcases," the Old Man grunted mildly. "But all they contain are small samples of machinery parts."

  "True enough, sir. But they don't belong to me. I borrowed them, promised to return them, and I would certainly like to do that." The dark man smiled. "It is all a part of my new resolve—turning over a new leaf, being honest, going straight."

  It was time. The Old Man had softened up his wily opponent. Now it was time for the haymaker.

  "My dear Mr. Ogden-Owens," said the Old Man softly, "may I inform you that the contents of your suitcases have been carefully examined? I should like further to inform you that your honest and straightforward story is nothing more than a dishonest and crooked mass of lies. Every item in each suitcase is an iron-plated object of gold! Under your alias of Harry Owens, you have illegally trans ported one hundred thousand dollars' worth of gold into the United States! Now, what have you to say to that, mister supposedly reformed ex-criminal?"

  No longer suave, no longer smooth, but pale and shaken, Howard Ogden lurched up out of his chair, stood towering, fists clenched, over the seated Alexander Waverly. Solo was beside him instantly. He took him by his neck and elbow and thrust him back into his chair. Howard Ogden sat glum, silent, crestfallen.

  Alexander Waverly hammered home his advantage.

  Sternly he said, "There are now two massive criminal counts against you—the original indictment for gunrunning, and now the additional crime of unlawfully transporting gold into the United States. Now, my dear sir, it is up to you."

  "What?" Ogden gasped. "How is it up to me?"

  The Old Man's face crinkled into a persuasive grin.

  "Mr. Ogden-Owens, I—my organization—requires your cooperation. We need your complete confession regarding each and every detail of this last criminal venture—but every single detail. You are known as a closemouthed man, but what we need"—the Old Man chuckled—"is an open mouth." He sighed. "If you grant us your cooperation, then I promise you my cooperation. I shall go to bat for you, in your defense. I shall inform the federal authorities that you gave important assistance to this organization, and I shall do all in my power to see to it that the penalties for your crimes are mitigated. One good turn deserves another—but it's in your hands now, Mr. Ogden-Owens. I shall do what I can to help you out of your difficulties, but on one condition—that I have your full, truthful cooperation—total confession."

  Wan, defeated, Howard Ogden sat slumped in his chair. He was a criminal but an intelligent criminal—he was not a fool. He realized that his game was up, that his one chance of survival was to throw himself on the mercy of the powerful man, seated across from him, who promised him mercy. But to achieve that mercy he could no longer wriggle, squirm, lie, make mockery of truth. He must cooperate with every fiber of his being, he must give what was asked of him—total confession. And so Howard Ogden came to a decision.

  "Yes," he said. "The truth. The entire truth, so help me."

  5. Thunderbolts

  THE OLD MAN lit his pipe.

  Solo and Kuryakin remained quietly in the background.

  "Where would you like me to begin?" asked Howard Ogden.

  "I'd like a general idea of what you were doing in South America."

  "Well, first I assumed the name Harry Owens. Then I traveled about making contact with the revolutionary forces. Once contact was established, I assisted the Communist partisans, the saboteurs, the raiders, the bandits in the hills."

  The Old Man leaned forward. "What are your politics?"

  "Mr. Waverly, I have no politics. I'm on the side that pays me."

  "Were you well paid, Mr. Ogden?" The Old Man tapped his pipe.

  "Not at all. I earned my keep, enough to keep me in food and clothes. The first big job that came my way was this one that brought me back to the States."

  "Let's hold that a moment, Mr. Ogden."

  "Yes, Mr. Waverly."

  The Old Man put down his pipe. Elbows on the desk, he peered across at Ogden, his intent gaze riveting the man's attention. The next question would put Ogden to the proof. Either he would go along in full cooperation, or he would back down.

  "Mr. Ogden, for the past two years enormous shipments of arms and armaments have been filtering down to the Communist rebels in the Latin American countries. You were right there in that hotbed, and you're not some little innocent pawn. You know what goes on around you. Now, this question, Mr. Ogden: Who has been making these shipments?"

  There was silence for a moment, both men rigid, their eyes locked.

  Then Ogden replied. "The firm of Raymond and Langston."

  For once the sophisticated Alexander Waverly was completely thunderstruck. In amazement his mouth opened, his jaws hung slack. Then his mouth snapped shut and he took up his pipe but did not smoke it. He held it, moving it in his hands, doing something to cover his utter astonishment.

  Raymond and Langston! This was a reputable, reliable armaments company, its offices and show rooms in New York, its factory in New Jersey. Raymond and Langston, a part of an Australian corporation, had been here in the United States for three years, and Waverly himself was acquainted with Mr.
Felix Raymond and Mr. Otis Langston.

  "Raymond and Langston," said the Old Man, carefully controlling his voice. "And by what method did they accomplish these shipments?"

  "Quite simple, Mr. Waverly." Ogden was enjoying his new role. Once he had made his decision, once committed, he was resolved to relate the entire truth to the one man who could persuade the authorities to treat him with mercy. "Raymond and Langston have been diverting arms from normal business and shipping these arms, crated as innocent scrap metal, to supposedly innocent receivers in various ports in South America."

  "Shipping

  "By freighter."

  "Whose freighters? Who owns these ships?"

  "Chartered freighters, Mr. Waverly, but they are no part of the operation. They are legitimate freighters. Their captains really believe they are carrying scrap metal. And that is the reason that payment to Raymond and Langston is made in gold and by courier."

  The Old Man frowned. "Please explain that, Mr. Ogden."

  "Well, if payment were made in cash, the captains of the freighters would become suspicious, since the payment far exceeds the value of the cargo if it were scrap metal."

  "Just how is the payment made?" Waverly demanded.

  "For each separate shipment there is a separate payment. In gold. Gold in molds of sample machinery parts, then camouflaged with steel or iron plating. And each time a payment is made, it is made by a different courier."

  "And how are these couriers chosen?"

  "A trusted man is selected by a Communist leader, and this man, always a different man, brings up the two suitcases loaded with the camouflaged gold."

  "And for this trip you were selected?"

  "That is correct, Mr. Waverly. My first real big job."

  "What is your fee? How are you paid for this illegal action?"

  "Ten percent of the booty. Ten percent of the stuff I'm carrying. Ten thousand dollars, paid by either Raymond or Langston when I deliver, plus a two-week vacation here in the States, living as a guest in the home of Raymond and Langston."

  "Do you know where this home is?"

  "No. I know where their offices are."

  "Same place," Waverly informed him.

  The firm of Raymond and Langston was a three-story house on lower Park Avenue. The main floor was the showroom, the second floor contained the offices, and the top floor was comprised of the apartment of Mr. Raymond and Mr. Langston—and on that floor were also the guest rooms.

  "Mr. Ogden, how well do you know either one of the gentlemen—Mr. Raymond or Mr. Langston?"

  And now Howard Ogden, alias Harry Owens, fired off his second thunderbolt.

  "I don't know them at all. I have never seen either one of them, and neither of them has ever seen me."

  The Old Man squinted. "I—I don't understand."

  "A part of the cover for the operation. Never the same courier. Always the courier is a total stranger."

  "Then how do they know they can trust you?"

  "They trust their people in South America who select the couriers."

  "But what would stop one like you—a bold adventurer like yourself—from running off with a hundred thousand dollars in gold?"

  "Where would we run? Where could we hide? Where in the world could we ever be safe from— T.H.R.U.S.H.?"

  6. More Thunderbolts

  T.H.R.U.S.H.!

  A thrill of anticipation shivered through Alexander Waverly, but he continued his slow, methodical examination.

  Yes, Howard Ogden went on, Mr. Raymond and Mr. Langston are a part of T.H.R.U.S.H., sent to the United States by their Australian section. Yes, each time it is a different courier, different papers, different passport. No, Raymond and Langston have no knowledge as to who the courier will be. They depend upon their South American people; they do not risk unnecessary communication.

  "But then how would they know, for instance, that you are the courier?"

  "I bring the best identillcation in the world—a hundred thousand dollars in gold."

  The Old Man lit his pipe and became partially hidden behind wreaths of smoke. But Howard Ogden was not finished. He was fighting prison bars, fighting for years of freedom, fighting for a reduction of the penalties of his crimes.

  In South America Ogden had been closely connected to important Communist leaders. He had had their confidence. And now, unasked and greatly to his credit in the lessening of his penalty, he proceeded to offer information that had Alexander Waverly sitting tense and upright in his chair.

  "In the basement of their building in New York," Ogden explained, "Raymond and Langston have a smelting plant where they melt down the gold and form it into ingots—gold bullion in the shape of bars. They keep this gold bullion in a vast vault down there in the basement. It is a fireproof steel vault like a bank vault. It is protected by a burglar- alarm system that does three things: First, it sets off a clang in the basement that would immediately frighten off a burglar; second, it sets off a buzz alarm in the apartment of Raymond and Langston; third, it registers on a device in that apartment; that is, if the vault dial is even turned a bit, Raymond and Langston know that someone has been down there tampering with their vault."

  "How long has this been going on, Mr. Ogden?"

  "Two years, and now it is over—mine is the last trip. In those two years, six million dollars have been delivered from the bandits in South America. They figure that's about what the traffic will bear. Now it's their job to transfer the gold bullion to permanent vaults in Geneva, Switzerland, before closing up shop here in the United States."

  The Old Man cocked his head. "I don't quite understand, Mr. Ogden."

  "What, Mr. Waverly?"

  "If the gold finally is to be transported to Geneva, why wasn't it delivered by the couriers directly to Geneva?"

  Howard Ogden crossed his long legs. "Well, sir, first, this is a Raymond and Langston operation and they're based here in the States. Second, the stuff is coming in as machine parts and Geneva is not quite the place to sell machinery, while the United States is. Next, the trip to the United States is shorter, more direct, and those babies don't take any chances on an operation that's running smooth. The deal is to get it all accumulated and melted down to bars here in the States, and then to ship it over to Geneva in one single foolproof stroke."

  Waverly's eyes were almost hidden within a mass of inquiring wrinkles. "Six million dollars in gold? What can they plan for a single foolproof stroke? Do you know, Mr. Ogden?"

  Ogden smiled. "I'm a good listener and I had my ears cocked down there. I don't know it all but I do know a little."

  "Please tell us what you know."

  "Within the next few days, the gold is to be taken over to the Parley Circus. There's your foolproof stroke, Mr. Waverly. The Parley Circus is going over to Geneva. Who would look for gold in the vast activity and excitement of an entire circus shipping over to Europe?"

  The Parley Circus! Waverly knew about the Parley Circus and had good reason to know. The Parley Circus was a famous Australian circus now in its last week at the Westbury Fairgrounds on Long Island, New York. For the past month the Parley Circus had been entertaining Americans on Long Island; in three days it was to fold its tents and ship out to Geneva, Switzerland.

  Now Waverly's rapid questions stabbed at Ogden—who? what? when? where? But the long-legged man had been pumped dry of information.

  "Just this one last thing," he said. "I heard a name, but I don't know what his connection is with the deal."

  "What name?"

  "Kenneth Craig."

  The Old Man winced as though he had been struck. He gasped, then turned deathly pale. Solo and Kuryakin exchanged glances. They had heard about Kenneth Craig. Who hadn't? An Australian, a world-famous lion tamer, he was the star of the Parley Circus. But why should the mention of that name cause such an effect on the Old Man?

  "Kenneth Craig," Waverly said gently. "What does Kenneth Craig have to do with this gunrunning caper?"

  Ogden sig
hed. "I don't know, Mr. Waverly. I've told you everything I do know."

  "And I thank you for that, Mr. Ogden, and I shall not forget it." His smile was wan. "You will be our guest for the next few days. After that I shall turn you over to the federal people, but I shall tell them of your important cooperation with us here, and I shall make my personal recommendations to them."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Waverly looked beyond Ogden to Solo and Kuryakin. "You gentlemen will remain here with me." Then he clicked a lever on the console board. "Send up a couple of guards," he ordered. "Mr. Ogden is ready to return to Detention."

  7. Agent or Double Agent?

  SOLO A KURYAKIN waited at the desk watching the Old Man, his face still pale as parchment. With trembling fingers Waverly filled his pipe, lit it, puffed in silence, and leaned back. The young men knew what had so profoundly moved their chief— the name Kenneth Craig. But why?

  Finally the Old Man roused himself and addressed them.

  "Gentlemen, we're confronted with a double problem. Two problems." He wet his lips and smiled faintly. "First and foremost is the one regarding Kenneth Craig."

  "Who the devil is Kenneth Craig?" exploded Illya Kuryakin.

  "An Australian," replied the Old Man, "famous throughout the world as a lion tamer, traveling with the circus from country to country. But Kenneth Craig is also, gentlemen, a secret agent for United Network Command for Law Enforcement—one of us, if you please—one of U.N.C.L.E.'s valued and valuable international agents."

  "Oh! My!" breathed Napoleon Solo.

  "Perhaps now you understand my reaction." His lips formed a small, wrinkled smile. "My—consternation."

  "But do we ever understand!" exclaimed Illya. "Kenneth Craig—a name mentioned among traitors and reported to us by a confessed traitor."

  "First and foremost, then," said Solo, "Kenneth Craig. In other words, is the guy our agent or a double agent? Is he working for us or against us? Is he with U.N.C.L.E. or is he really with T.H.R.U.S.H.?"

  "Let us, gentlemen, examine that," muttered the Old Man through pipe smoke. "Howard Ogden gives us this name as involved in a massive gunrunning scheme initiated by T.H.R.U.S.H. This question, then: Why have we not had a single word from Kenneth Craig?" Waverly's eyes narrowed to thoughtful slits. "Two reasons."