Man From U.N.C.L.E. 03 The Copenhagen Affair

by John Oram

  Per folded. His worries were over for awhile.

  “Just the same,” Rabbit Face said thoughtfully, “he’s got something there. Perhaps—”

  The coated man broke in: “Listen!”

  Somewhere in the recesses of the house a buzzer was purring.

  Rabbit Face said, “I’ll go.” He opened the door. Solo heard him descending the stairs.

  Eiler picked up Solo’s Mauser, which had been lying on the table. The safety catch snicked as it went up. Despite his poker face Eiler was worried.

  The dark man’s hand slipped inside his duffel coat and came out holding a black snub-nosed Walther. Both men were watching the open door like a pair of cats at a mousehole.

  There were voices below and then a confused shuffle of feet as several men ascended the staircase.

  The footsteps reached the landing. The dark man raised the level of the Walther an inch. His face was taut, set-lipped.

  Rabbit Face came in, looking serious. Behind him walked Garbridge and his lovable henchman Charles.

  As far as Solo was concerned that was all that was required to round off a nice friendly evening. The jig, he felt, was definitely up.

  The major nodded briefly to Eiler and the duffel-coated man, raised his eyebrows at the display of artillery, glanced around the room with the air of an officer inspecting dirty barracks. Lying there trussed like Tutankhamen’s mummy, Solo could not be missed.

  The amber eyes narrowed. Solo managed a sickly grin.

  “A-a-ah!” said Garbridge. “You have company.”

  Eiler said impatiently, “We’ll deal with him. Are the ’copters fixed for Horsens?”

  The major said, “We should take off in an hour. Meanwhile, this man is a complication.”

  “You know him?” Eiler asked.

  The major looked surprised. “Yes, indeed. And so would you if you did your homework. Napoleon Solo is the inquisitive young man who has already disrupted several of Thrush’s projects. Now, since he has been good enough to put himself into our hands, no doubt we’ll be able to persuade him to tell us quite a few things that will be useful.”

  Eiler laughed unpleasantly. “He’ll talk, all right.” He went toward the sofa, bunching his fist. Solo braced himself to take it, though he felt in no shape for playing rough games.

  Garbridge put a hand out. “Not yet. We have things to discuss. We can deal with Solo at the other place. He’s a stubborn fool and breaking him down may be a long job.”

  “You can say that again,” Solo grinned, hoping it sounded more confident than he felt. He had an idea these boys would not draw the line at rubber truncheons. Thrush operatives had something of a reputation as torture aficionados.

  Eiler thought for a minute, then turned to Rabbit Face.

  “Get him out of here. Bjorn will give you a hand. Take him down to the cellar.”

  Neither of them looked as if they wanted the job, but Charles pushed forward eagerly. “All right. I’ll ’andle ’im.”

  His gorilla arms coiled around Solo, hoisting him as easily as a child picks up a kitten. Solo tried to butt him, but a short-arm jab dampened his enthusiasm. It rattled his teeth but it didn’t put him out. After that he quit struggling. He was not going to provide any more fun for these thugs if he could help it.

  Rabbit Face went ahead with a flashlight, and Charles was not too careful how he followed. Solo’s head hit the banisters every second step.

  At the foot Rabbit Face opened a door under the staircase. His flashlight beam showed a flight of stone steps.

  Charles shifted Solo so that he was tucked under one arm. He extended the other arm for the flashlight.

  “All right, chum,” he said. “You go on up to the meeting. I can manage by meself.”

  Rabbit Face grinned. “Don’t mess him up too much. I want a crack at him later.”

  Charles stood listening until he heard the other man reach the upstairs room and close the door. Then he carried Solo slowly down the steps and dumped him quite gently on the concrete floor.

  “All right, chum?”

  “Never felt better,” Solo said dryly.

  Charles chuckled.

  “Blimey! You ain’t ’alf mucked it,” he said cryptically. The beam of his flashlight went in front of him up the steps. Solo was left in darkness that smelled wet and cold.

  For a few minutes he just lay still and relaxed as much as the ropes around his wrists and legs would let him. Waves of pain were pulsing through his skull, and his ear, where Peter Rabbit’s heel had caught it, was throbbing horribly. The rest of it wasn’t so bad, because there was no feeling left in his hands and the ache in his arms was so continuous that he hardly noticed it.

  With his cheek resting on the chilly concrete, which seemed to help a little, he lay there and thought. If Charles had left the cellar door unlocked there was more than an even chance of making a getaway. Given a certain amount of time and no interference, getting out of a few ropes is no particular trick—provided the man who does the tying neglects to put a couple of inches of gut or silk around the thumbs. That little bit extra would immobilize Houdini himself.

  Solo gave himself a minute or two more, then squirmed around until he found the bottom of the steps. As he started to move, his knees hit some small, hard object that clattered metallically as it shifted, but Solo was too busy to wonder what it was.

  Finding the steps in the pitch blackness was not too easy. When he finally made it he had to take time out to recover again. Eventually, using the steps as a fulcrum, he succeeded in getting to his feet.

  The next move was to bend forward, working his arms down over his hips until his hands were behind his knees. It hurt plenty, and so did the concrete floor as he levered down into a sitting position.

  Solo rested again and then went to work on the hard part, which was bringing his knees up to his chin and working his feet between his arms. He did it at last, and with his hands in front of him again the rest was easy. Rabbit Face or whoever it was had used only simple knots on the wrist tie and Solo had excellent teeth.

  When the blood had pounded into his hands sufficiently to make them usable Solo got the lashings off his legs and ankles.

  His pencil flashlight was still in his pocket. He sent the thin beam over the floor, looking for the metal thing he had hit with his knees. He hoped it might be a sizeable bolt or some other blunt instrument that would help on the way out if he met with opposition.

  It wasn’t. It was a squat black automatic pistol. And, as Solo could see by the marks in the dust, it was lying within inches of where the major’s plug-ugly had dumped him.

  Solo went over and picked it up, examining it carefully. The steel gleamed dully and there was the thinnest film of oil on its surface. The butt was clean and polished. It had not been on that filthy floor long.

  There was only one answer. Charles must have left it there.

  Solo pressed the button in the heel of the butt and slipped out the magazine. It was fully loaded with 9mm shells.

  Ramming the clip home again, Solo began to wonder about Charles. There was that rap on the jaw he had administered. It had jolted Solo more than a little, but even a half-hearted tap from that hamlike fist should have put him to sleep for a week.

  Why had he been so anxious to lug Solo down to the cellar himself? And what had he meant by the cryptic crack about “mucking” it?

  On the other hand, if he were anxious enough for Solo’s welfare to leave him a gun, why hadn’t he completed the job by cutting him loose?

  Solo gave up. Brooding on problems like that, he figured, was what brought good men into the psychiatric wards. Besides, he had more urgent things to think about. Instinct was telling him forcibly to get out while the going was good, and his flashlight, in sympathy, was ranging the cellar walls for a second exit. Pigheadedness was urging him no less strongly to get upstairs and listen in to the conference on the off-chance of hearing something useful.

  The thought of getting into t
he clutches of the gang up there was not inviting. He had been battered around enough for one evening. He was paid for just that sort of thing—but there was no law that said he had to enjoy it.

  Then, for no reason at all, he thought of Norah Bland. He sighed and started up the steps.

  The cellar door swung open when he twisted the handle and he stepped cautiously into the hall. This time he got to the landing undetected, though there was a bad moment when a rickety tread creaked beneath his weight. Keeping close to the wall, he edged along to the room where the meeting was in session.

  The major’s voice came clearly through the door. He was speaking very slowly, repeating his sentences.

  “Come in, Hades…Come in, Hades…”

  Something came in, all right. There was a gigantic, shuddering blast that sent Solo staggering, and then he was in the middle of a shower of plaster and dust. Judging by the rumble that followed, the entire front of the house was caving in.

  Inside the room, the boys had lost their calm. Solo heard Eiler yell, “Put on the light, why can’t you? Switch it on!”

  Someone else snarled, “How the hell can I? The fuses have blown!”

  The door of the room was wrenched open and the glare of a flashlight blinded Solo. He didn’t know who was behind it and he didn’t wait to find out. He dropped and fired in one movement. As he squeezed the bigger Rabbit Face shouted, “Solo!”

  Then the light went out. A body slumped to the floor. Solo flattened against the wall near the door. Stabs of flame came out of the blackness. Bullets smacked the opposite wall and ricocheted with a zinging whine. Then there was silence.

  It looked like stalemate. Solo couldn’t get in and they couldn’t get out. Neither side felt like risking a light that would draw a shot.

  The lull could not have lasted more than a few seconds, but it seemed like hours. It was broken by a crash of glass and the major’s shout: “The window!”

  Guns of different calibers chattered briefly. Then, with a rush, men piled through the door. Solo emptied his gun in the direction of the stairway, never having been trained not to shoot at running birds.

  From below came three shots. Then silence again.

  Solo lay where he was, pressed against the wall. It was not heroic—but an empty gun makes for prudence.

  Footsteps sounded inside the room. The beam of a flashlight danced toward the doorway. It swung around the plaster-carpeted landing, and came to rest on Solo as he got set for a flying tackle.

  Illya Kuryakin’s voice said mildly, “Mousing?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  SOLO COULD SEE him only as a shadowy figure, but something seemed to tell him that Illya would be just as calm and well-brushed as ever. With his hair full of plaster, his face battered and his clothes ripe for the junkman, Solo felt at a social disadvantage.

  “Let’s take it up later,” he said. “Right now I’m in no shape for an argument. How did you get in here, anyway?”

  “Ladder. We’ve had the place cordoned off for the past twenty minutes. If you hadn’t started a shooting match we’d have roped in the bunch of them. Now the Lord knows what Mr. Waverly is going to say. You know how he hates untidiness.”

  Solo said bitterly, “Untidiness!”

  Illya turned his flash back into the room. “See for yourself.”

  It certainly was not a scene of domestic bliss. Rabbit Face was sprawling near the door with half his head shot away. Eiler, center stage, grinned vacantly at the shattered ceiling with a blue hole between his eyes. A huddle of duffel coat in a pool of blood represented all that was left of the saturnine Bjorn.

  The fake bookcase was swung open, revealing the transmitter on which the major had been broadcasting when the explosion had cramped his technique. The major himself, together with Charles and Per, had apparently made a getaway. For some reason Solo felt quite pleased about Per, who hadn’t been his idea of a conspirator.

  Illya began collecting the fruits of Eiler’s typing labors from the table. He said regretfully, “No, Mr. Waverly won’t be at all pleased. What on earth were you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same question. I thought you were still in New York.”

  “More of the old man’s duplicity,” Illya said. “I came in on the flight after yours to work with Karen. She got a lead on this place early this afternoon.”

  “A pity you didn’t come earlier,” Solo said. “You could have saved me a lot of grief.”

  Mr. Jorgensen came plodding up the stairs. He wore a dark gray fedora square on his head and a shabby brown raincoat. He could have been a minor bank official—only bank clerks don’t normally carry sub-machine guns. He said to Solo, “There’s another one down in the hall. I doubt if he will last until the ambulance gets here but he is still conscious. He asks for you.”

  “Did you get the others?”

  “One. A small man. A petty crime type, I think.”

  That would be Per, thought Solo. Unlucky to the last. He said, “All right. We’ll come.”

  At the foot of the stairs handlamps made a pool of light in which a couple of Danes were working on a third man. Hallway down Solo knew it was Charles.,

  His ugly face was white and glistening with sweat but he managed a grin when he saw Solo.

  “’Ullo, ’Oudini,” he wheezed. “I wouldn’…be in your shoes…w’en the Boss gets…’old of you.”

  Solo knelt down. His hand closed over Charles’ gnarled paw. He said gently, “Who are you?”

  Charles said painfully, “Sorry, guv’nor. Did me best…’E must’ve rumbled me…”

  “Garbridge?”

  “Yes.” With an effort he managed to half-raise his bead. “Don’t blame yerself. Fightin’ out o’ yer clarss.”

  His eyes closed. One of the Danes moistened a swab and passed it over the dry lips.

  Charles tried again. “You there…guv’?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Tell my mob…M.l.7…An’ ’Oudini…” The lips writhed back gamely from yellow broken teeth. “…You ’ad me all wrong…”

  “I’ll see to it,” Solo promised. But Charles no longer cared.

  After a few hours sleep and a shower Solo showed up at the Paramount Products office in the Gammel Strand. He was wearing a decent suit and fresh linen but there was nothing he could do about his face.

  The blonde was still at the switchboard. She said, “Why, Mr. Solo! Did you run into a lamp post?”

  “Sweetie pie,” he said, “there are times when your humor is scintillating. This isn’t one of them. Tell your boss I’m here.”

  She straightened as if he had slapped her face. Her big eyes got hard. She said, “Go in, please. Mr. Jorgensen is waiting.”

  There were three of them in the room: Mr. Jorgensen, Illya and Karen. Karen was wearing her student rig, the shabby black sweater and pants and a faded blue anorak.

  Mr. Jorgensen wasted no time in preliminaries. He said, “Gfort Gerning staar ikke tel at aendre. As you say, ‘it is useless to cry for the spilled milk.’ Garbridge has disappeared. Some who might have been useful are dead. Now we must see what we have and what we may do next.”

  ‘Well, at least we know where they were going,” Solo said. “Before you came along and broke up the party they were all set to take off by helicopter for a place called Harsens—if that means anything to you.”

  “Harsens,” said Mr. Jorgensen didactically, “is an industrial town of some thirty-eight thousand people on the east coast of Jutland. There is a factory which makes bicycles and another which makes TV sets, radios and tape recorders. There is also a large meat cooperative. I cannot see why Garbridge should wish to go there.”

  “I don’t know,” Solo said. “It’s the kind of place Thrush might pick for one of its satraps. The radio and electronic tie-up is interesting.”

  “But how could they make flying saucers in such a town?” Karen objected. “This would need a huge factory, and everybody would know of it—and talk.” She smiled. “D
anes cannot help talking.”

  Illya said, “The factory is not in a town. The films Norah Bland brought back make that very clear. All the activity is in wooded, hilly countryside. But here’s the strange thing. Some of the shots show workmen in overalls, and armed guards—but there’s not a building, not so much as a sizeable house, in sight.”

  Karen laughed. “Do you suggest they make the things in the open air—or burrow in the ground like rabbits?”

  A sudden bell rang in Solo’s brain.

  “By God! I believe you’ve hit it,” he said. “Just before the balloon went up Garbridge was trying to make a radio contact. He was calling, ‘Come in, Hades. Come in, Hades.’”

  Jorgensen repeated, “Hades. The underworld. Of course—an underground factory, like those the Germans used during the war. This makes sense indeed.”

  “Did they have such factories here in Denmark during the Occupation?”

  “They did, though I have not heard of any in Jutland.”

  Illya said quietly, “But Garbridge was a collaborateur, no? I think we must go to Horsens.”

  Not far from the Paramount Products building there was a bar that looked as if it had been there for a hundred years. Solo went in, slumped on a chair and ordered a Carlsberg.

  With no other customers in sight the barman was disposed to be chatty, but Solo was in no mood for badinage. He was terse and the man went back to polishing the counter with an offended air.

  Solo was halfway through his second beer when Gütte came in. She was wearing a heavy red coat with a cheap fur collar. A scarf was tied peasant-fashion over her blonde curls. She took the seat next to Solo, ordered a Tuborg and fumbled in her bag for cigarettes.

  Solo passed her his pack of Queens and put three kroner on the table for the beer.

  She threw him a coy look over the top of the glass.

  She said, “Why, Mr. Solo! This is generosity.”

  Solo grunted, “Cut out the comedy. You’re a big girl now.”

  She took a long drink, put the glass down, rummaged in her bag again for a lighter. She lit her cigarette, dragged the smoke deep into her lungs, exhaled it through her nostrils in two thin streams. All the time she stared straight ahead.