by Simon Latter
The cold-grey pebble eyes stared at her. She feigned embarrassment. "Well, what I'm trying to say is — I am writing a book about the islands."
Not one flicker of interest. What did the great bookman say?
He said: "Who isn't?" and walked away.
Well, she knew he was THRUSH. At least, THRUSH connected. But he didn't know she was U.N.C.L.E. But after all the groundwork... "Who isn't?" he said! And Lucy Padrack had smiled nastily before leaving the bar in search of her tomcat.
Peeved was the word. This was the most infuriating case — personal-wise — she had ever been on. She was peeved against Mark too. She even envied him his work. Basically, she wasn't a gay girl, never had been. What woman wouldn't revel in Palaga-style vacationing? Those lovely clothes, the lush line-up, Orlando and Co., the Climb Sublime — a two-tiered heaven set in an azure seascape. But, oh lordy, how idleness palls!
Now, on the Island Traveller, she was the mostest. Didn't even need a mirror to know it. Perhaps I have you-know-what and no best friend? Isolationists. The boat was full of ruddy isolationists. Or misogynists? Captain Sidano, quiet and gruffly courteous. He spoke Spanish. April tried him at that. He answered, but didn't comment on her linguistics.
Cheval also. Okay, so he'd been sick. Looked well enough now. And April was proud of her French. But: "Pardon, mam'selle," he'd said. "I prefer to speak English." Small talk — all the time small talk, and not much of that. Not enough to trap a casual word and link it with any known facts. And the sun shone, and the flying fish flew, and Mark Slate was up the mast again reporting his action. "And how is Miss Dancer?" "Oh, lush, sir, very lush and golden brown!" And bored and bitchy.
The new passengers made the bar more full. They drank with her, and smiled, and minded their own business. The island of Providencia lay smudged-olive to starboard as the Island Traveller came in wide to miss the currents. Taradata was three days ahead. But at last a link would be there to follow through.
Mark had relayed his session with Chas, who had assumed a new respect in her eyes. The first steward April had met who actually owned the boat in which he so ably served, although in a somewhat menial position. But a key position. Chas had contact with everyone.
Mark had checked out a few more H.Q. details about Chas. He was, in fact, a follower of Y-Shan-U — an obscure but powerful island religious sect — and his status was more or less the equivalent of a high priest. As such he was allowed up to six wives — his weakness being the Palaga "wife", as H.Q. had shrewdly assessed, because that was Chas's only business marriage. Under Palaga law, the names of directors of companies need not be made public. The Palaga "wife" was his co-director, her brother secretary. The money to sustain his other households came through this connection.
H.Q. felt that Chas was a red herring in this affair. He kept out of all rackets, yet collected from as many as he could. Such was the Palaga custom. He'd once been a Silver Greyhound — a British Government Foreign Office messenger — and a wartime V.C. He had even been an undercover man in the Far East and the Caribbean, and on special assignment around the Pacific ports. Then he had gone on to the island boats. Chucked everything. Clammed up. A keeper of a thousand secrets all right. But no part of THRUSH. No part of anything, except himself, and the Y Shan-U in which he fervently believed.
April managed to wangle her tour of the ship, but this too proved frustrating. Maleski, the brisk guide around the working parts, was a slick avoider of the very sections she had hoped to check. Later, having thus observed the lay out of the ship, she donned buttock-tight slacks and did a whistle-stop tour under her own steam. Amidships she found evidence of a new bulkhead. No rust, fresh paint, but a dingy shade which gave an appearance of old paint.
The whole structure had a strange feel. April purposely upset her purse so as to scrabble around on the floor of the section leading to a luggage hold. She had almost reached the conclusion that the bulkhead wasn't steel and had a clearance between it and the floor when, "Yee-ow!" she yelped, as Lucy Padrack's parasol blade penetrated her rump.
"Oh, my dear — it's you!" said Lucy Padrack, as if she didn't know. "I thought it was one of those young girls from Corn Island. The crew's quarters are strictly taboo to them. It's only a little jab — it won't bleed much." Her eyes glittered. "Dropped your purse, did you? Or are you being rather naughty? Some of the crew are so attractively uncouth, aren't they? And they come this way to their quarters."
"You should know," said April savagely.
She wasn't quite sure how it happened.
Lucy Padrack suddenly let fly with a stream of invective, in a flaring jealousy by an older woman against a young and lovely one. The words were coarse and ugly, bitter in their biological descriptions, carried on a richly vibrant voice which added to the sheer horror of them. Spoken in the hysterical strains of a screaming virago, or the fishwife intonations of a slut, they would have been evil enough — but in that staggeringly beautiful voice these obscenities were doubly foul.
This was personal — woman to woman, a gushing release from a tortured mind, yet not uncontrolled. Lucy Padrack's eyes didn't glare. She didn't froth at the mouth, nor claw with trembling hands. The filth poured out of her with deliberate slashing venom.
For a few seconds April assessed the possibility that the Padracks had linked her as an agent and that this was a way of building up to an open attack — perhaps with the parasol stiletto. Then she knew it wasn't so.
No doubt Lucy Padrack had been nursing this ever since she saw April. Many women of Lucy's age felt that way about all young, attractive females. And made a hell of their menfolks' lives with their endless suspicions, real or imagined. The man didn't really matter — he was merely a focal point at which all the pent-up viciousness could be directed. Female youth, beauty, sex appeal, freshness and charm were the enemy.
But Lucy Padrack was different. Obviously unrestricted in personal affairs, she and Simon Padrack appeared to have worked out their own pattern of living. It looked as if both kept all emotion out of their relationship and, if the research files were correct, this system allowed them to be a successful business team. Not unusual, but always harder for the woman to be as objective as the man. And if her need for sexual release is strong and requires such types as Lucy apparently favoured, then a bubbling cauldron can seethe beneath the lid of the marriage pot.
It could boil over more or less safely with the man of her choice, but Lucy could never escape the eternal female pressure caused by a younger, more attractive woman. Her husband had removed himself as a focal point, but if she lambasted him, he would swiftly dissolve the business partnership before it became too threatened. And there was no doubt in April's mind that Simon Padrack wouldn't hesitate to do that. Emotional blackmail would leave him cold.
All this background of human frailty was obvious to the trained mind of the U.N.C.L.E. agent. Such psychological and biological functions, and the patterns of behaviour which emanated from them, had been an important part of her education. She had majored in philosophy, and the U.N.C.L.E. advanced training courses on the role of women in espionage and counter-espionage gave clear knowledge of these matters based upon case files.
This intensive training also made her more aware of her own feminine intuitiveness and how it could be directed, controlled and applied at the correct times. But it was never really easy to use. A prodigious mental effort was needed constantly and objectively. Most women found it easier to go out of control deliberately. A man usually shied from emotional scenes that drained him but fed her, and so would capitulate. Block or remove this obliging and comparatively docile object of release and who the hell would listen to a woman's screaming vituperations? Another woman? Not blooming likely!
As April Dancer reached this moment of truth, she knew why Lucy Padrack had suddenly and apparently gone berserk. And in this moment realized that she too was bored, frustrated, and not a little peeved over lack of attention to her own feminine self — and with a whoop, almost of j
oy, she burst into glorious action.
"Why, you stupid bitch!" said April Dancer, when Lucy Padrack had paused for breath. "How dare you talk to me like that! How dare you stick your absurd little toy dagger into me! I'll have your guts for garters!"
She slammed a judo chop on Lucy's arm. The parasol fell. April kicked it away.
"Come on, sweetie," she said softly, weaving on her toes. "Come and get it!"
Lucy came with hands crooked, nails clawing, slashing at April's face, which suddenly was no longer in range. April jolted Lucy's head with a backhand across the ear. Lucy's hand flashed out, grabbing hair. April went with the pull, using its momentum to butt Lucy square in the face, then dug fingers into the woman's muscle-taut arm. Lucy yelped with the double pain of her face and electric-like shock in her arm which forced her hand to spring open, releasing April's hair.
Lucy reeled back, eyes watering, mouth gasping obscenities. Her pointed shoe slashed up. April arched her body and spun sideways, but the point sliced across her stomach, catching the hip bone in a pain-searing welt. She grabbed the moving instep as the foot neared the end of its travel, then clamped her other hand on the calf, pivoted, twisted and flung upward. Lucy crashed in a somersault.
She came up like a cat from a launching pad, all paws slashing. In the confined space, April could not wholly evade the hurtling body, but she gripped the arms, pinioning the clawing hands away from her eyes and face. Lucy's feet beat like the tattoo of the paws of an hysterical monkey into April's thighs on their way floorwards. April swivelled away, releasing the arms, but had to get clear to avoid injury from those leather-heeled shoes. Lucy at once slammed in punches with surprisingly hard little fists.
April decided enough was enough and went to work — coolly, scientifically, with slashing hands, palm edges, palm flat, curved knuckles, and an occasional forearm smash. In a few minutes she had Lucy cowering, sobbing, gasping — visibly frightened and aware that this lightning exhibition of unarmed combat, female style, could just as easily be killing her instead of giving her the hiding of her life.
It was a bitter defeat, made worse by the final indignity. April took one of Lucy's arms, pulled, levered and expertly heaved. Lucy's body again somersaulted to the floor. She lay there, face down, for a few minutes before slowly easing up to hands and knees. April picked up the parasol and jabbed the blade into Lucy's high-raised rump. Lucy collapsed with a howl of pain.
April snapped off the dagger, put it in her purse, then leaned against the bulkhead, calmly using comb and compact.
Lucy groped to one side for support to assist her in rising. Her hand pressed on a lever which April had missed in her inspection of the bulkhead. The whole section slid open, revealing a roller-loading channel leading to a white-painted sealed hatchway.
When she realized what had happened, Lucy quickly moved the lever back. As the section closed she climbed slowly to her feet. Her hands smoothed straggling hair back from her eyes, straightened her clothes.
"I've broken a couple of straps," she said. "Do you have a safety pin, dear?" She giggled. "Well — whatever came over us? It must be the heat."
They stared at each other for a long, cool minute before April passed her the safety pin.
"Yes," she said. "The heat."
Lucy Padrack smiled. "Sweet child! One day I shall kill you — very slowly."
April Dancer smiled back. "But of course, darling!" She closed her purse and walked away.
CHAPTER FIVE: DECOY AND LINK
APRIL didn't tell Mark about the cat-fight with Lucy Padrack, nor did she need to tell Mr. Waverly the details. She had found the bugging device in her cabin, disconnected it, extracted the guts, then replaced it. So, providing she used a low-pitched voice, she was able to contact H.Q. in comparative freedom.
April said: "Mr. Waverly, I may have boobed. I don't think I've done any harm. I certainly discovered some thing I previously had missed." She told him about the bulkhead. "But this occurred after I had acted as shown in Case File Eleven in our advanced training course, psychiatry section."
"Just a minute." Mr. Waverly's phenomenal memory needed a twitch. "Ah, yes! Well, this sort of thing is bound to happen sooner or later, Miss Dancer, especially where efforts to obtain the subject's confidence were not successful. There is a large amount of feline instinct built up which triggers off this type of outbreak. In the absence of logical links, you could not help but react instinctively. But, knowing this woman, her background and current connections, there is no doubt she will try to kill you. She is at present justifying herself before the act. So be on your guard."
April was relieved. "I thought you'd bawl me out for allowing personal feelings to override my judgment."
"It discovered the secret hatch, did it not? It has released you from the need to maintain a friendly front with the Padracks. Which, incidentally, did not produce much information, did it? So what have you lost? It also sharpens your own reflexes because when you uncover more of what is undoubtedly an affair of considerable proportions, you will know exactly what to expect from Lucy Padrack, and act accordingly."
"Thank you, sir. That makes me feel better."
"I was aware of your frustrations, Miss Dancer. You cannot always be reporting melodramatic events. We already have been through many months of wearisome research. Mr. Slate and yourself have made handsome progress."
She frowned. "I don't see how."
"Little things, Miss Dancer, little things — like little babies — grow astonishingly fast. So innocent, yet swiftly so full of exciting promise. For example: the report about innocent little boats. Did you know that many thousands of these boats have been imported into this country? That a new sport of coracle crafting is enjoying boom success in certain areas, especially along the Pacific seaboard? That there are now clubs and a central organization? All very sporty and chummy. And there are even tiny outboard motors designed to be attached to these innocent, fun-making little craft."
"Gosh—I didn't know all that, sir!"
"Nor did we until your report aroused our interest. Now we discover that certain individuals, believed to have THRUSH connections, occupy key positions in the central organization and in most of the clubs. Our little baby has grown to a very nasty-sized thug. So proceed with your assignment, Miss Dancer. Eschew emotion, if you can, but allow that a portion of it makes us all tick."
She laughed softly. "Yes, sir, I will."
"I think you will find it easier to contact me after the next twenty-four hours. I shall be aboard a certain naval vessel somewhere in your locality. Liaison between Count Kazan, Sama Paru and Mark Slate, yourself and myself will then be far better."
April tried not to show surprise. Mr. Waverly did not expect his top agents to be surprised, let alone reveal this emotion.
"I expected you might find that necessary," she answered quickly. "Is Randy Kovac promoted to field student?"
"Not exactly. He is with Sama Paru to obtain experience, but he also is there to prove to us and to himself that high-flown theories worked out on paper are not necessarily helpful to an agent in the field."
"In other words — you're going to make him convict himself out of his own mouth, or burn his own fingers, or break his own neck?"
"That will be quite enough clichés from you," said Mr. Waverly briskly. "It really is a lazy way of speaking. Do try to break the habit. Goodbye, Miss Dancer."
Count Kazan's luxury launch came, at bow-creaming, hull-slapping speed, from somewhere out of the heat-shimmering horizon to cross Island Traveller's wake and enter Providencia harbour two hours before she tied up. Lars Carlson in a dark wig and saucer-sized sun glasses could be seen swabbing the deck and carrying out chores while remaining within earshot of the radio. His master, the lordly Kazan, looking more like a millionaire than any millionaire could afford to look, strolled in arrogant splendour along the quay.
Mark observed all, and cussed all, with steaming intensity. As the rest of the labour crew, apart from the
seamen, also were sweating and cussing, no one asked him for his particular reasons. They had lost the land wind when Island Traveller moved to her berth in the harbour beneath the hills. The heat was a glaring whip flaying eyes, heads and bodies as they laboured to winch up cargo from the holds.
Mark saw April Dancer, like a cool, green, iced lollie, waiting by the gangway. He even cussed her gently, though admitting she couldn't help it if she looked good enough to eat. Or could she? That lime-green dress against the golden skin, dark hair shining, thighs and buttocks contoured by the thistle-light material. Goddam it, she didn't have to stand just there, did she? You bet she did! No woman is going to miss a chance like this. Mark swore savagely as he heard the comments from the men around him. Do women really know what is said at these moments? Or are they too full of their own mental reflection of themselves!
Mark spat. And a great narcissis to you too! April darling, dammit, go back in the shade. He snarled at a fellow crewman: "Watch it, you clumsy swine! Who is? You are. A stinking, fat, clumsy swine!" And the bosun stepped quickly between them. "Knock it off now — knock it off, you two!" he yelled. "Swing that derrick! Let's get this gear off and go bathe in a gallon of cold beer!" Yeah, yeah — tote that drum, lift that bale! Why the hell do I volunteer for this sort of drag?
He glanced up, to see Chas grinning at him. A super-sharp Chas, all pressed white ducks and curly panama, and flashing teeth.
"Git on with it," said Chas. "There's a ruddy great load to come aboard yet."
"— you too," said Mark.
"Tut-tut," said Chas. "If your muscles were as big as your words, you'd be a real man, sonny." He strolled past the heaving, sweating men and joined the group at the gang way.
April had moved back into the shade. The Padracks were some way off, talking with Maleski, who had just given orders to run out the cat-walk. Four seamen were fixing it. The group of young couples clustered together, chattering and giggling.
