by Simon Latter
Colamina shrugged. "I did not know. That is true, April."
"But you know him?"
"Of course."
"He reminds me of someone," said April thoughtfully. "All that white hair and big white beard still doesn't stop me being reminded. He's just a harmless old recluse, I suppose? Came here to die — but has radio as a secret hobby. Would that be right?"
"I do not think he is near dying, and the radio is a big surprise to me — but perhaps it should not be."
"Why not?"
"He is the father of Chas. He has been here many years. Chas always visits him, brings him supplies. Perhaps the radio belongs to Chas?"
"That Chas!" April exclaimed. "Didn't you include his father in your section of the research report?"
"Yes, of course I did. But only that he lived alone on the island and was an old man."
April nodded slowly. "What else could you say? And we wouldn't probe it too hard. The English research reported the father as 'retired to live abroad — believed dead — no contact with known relatives'." She smiled. "Our Chas becomes more and more interesting!" She looked at Kazan. "What the hell are you dozing around here for?"
Kazan, one leg hitched over the scooter saddle, was staring hard, but unseeingly, at a parade of red ants passing by.
His head jerked up. "I am struggling with my inferiority complex."
"Couldn't you struggle as you rode? What bee is buzzing in that tiny noble head of yours?"
Kazan sighed. "I cannot become used to working under the authority of a woman. It makes me nervous. To a woman, I like always to be right. If I tell you and I am wrong, I shall lose my dignity."
"Oh, good heavens! You're worse than a woman, Kazan! Do your job, that's all. If there is something I have to know — tell me."
"Very well. It is Cheval. I have seen him before, but not very close in person, and he looks different in photographs, but I am sure it is he. It is — oh, more than two years since I heard of him."
"In France?"
"In Europe. He is from Alsace, though I think he was born in Brussels. He also is of Switzerland, and some time in Germany. But not Cheval. Andre is right, I think. Andre Charival — or Chamival. I forget which."
"Who is he?"
Kazan smiled. "Like Chas's father — a mystery man. Very shy. He is a scientist — a famous bacteriologist. I go now."
CHAPTER SIX: SEEK, FIND, DESTROY
APRIL slipped aboard Island Traveller as misty dusk purpled the harbour, and reached her cabin without seeing anyone or herself being seen. The ship was very quiet, with no passengers and only a skeleton crew on duty.
She opened her cabin door, closed it softly and moved to black out the porthole before switching on the light. As she trod cautiously to reach the switch, she heard a sound of heavy breathing from the bunk. Instead of using the bunk-side switch, she moved to the door, clicked on the light and tensed for trouble.
Mark Slate muttered, turned, yawned, opened one eye. "Put that ruddy light out!"
"Don't swear at me — and say please."
"Please put that ruddy light out."
"There's no need. I'd already covered the porthole before I knew you were here."
Groaning, he eased up, hand scrubbing at his face.
"Aw hell! The first real sleep since I signed on this stinking barge, and you have to come back early." He surveyed her through blinking eyelids. "That's not your gear! Is that blood?" He swung off the bunk. "Are you hurt, me old darling?"
She went coy. "How nice of you to care!"
"Scrub the comedy," he growled. "My back's broken in three places, my hands have more calluses than I can count, my arms are stretched six inches, my belly is in revolt against fish skilly — and I've run out of cigarettes! Just don't be coy or kittenish, or I'll belt you. Got it?"
She smiled. "Aye, aye, sir. Poor Mark! You've had the dirty end this time."
"Yeah — and for what? Nothing I couldn't have discovered as a passenger. I'm buying myself out of this man's navy. You got five hundred dollars?"
"You have to pay that to get released?"
"Yep."
"It's an awful lot."
"Oh, my Gawd! How mean can you get? I'm an awful lot of agent, sweetie — some of your Paris dresses cost that."
He held out his hand. "Come, baby, give –– else poppa take. Give me no arguments — just cash. Make it seven hundred. You bet Chas will overcharge on the clothes."
"I might have known he'd be in the swindle."
"Natch. I've been released, officially, by the captain, but it's Chas who pockets the mowlah. He's bringing clothes for me, and I have the cabin next to yours. Broadminded cuss, that Chas."
"He overestimates you and underestimates me," said April. "If you get what I mean?"
"I can't live without you either, darling — ah, thanks — cigarettes!"
She supplied lighter, then counted out money. "You'd better have a round thousand." She wrote on a card. "Just sign that."
"Bureaucracy at its highest level," Mark scoffed. "I have to make an expense report too, y'know. Ain't you got no trust at all, woman?"
"Plenty," said April. "But you might die on me. The Treasury minions never die. They'd take that thousand out of my pension, and you know it."
"Funny," said Mark, scribbling his signature. "Funny, funny world! To think treasure rhymes with pleasure."
"And Treasury rhymes with usury."
"A good point." He exhaled with a satisfied sigh. "Been having a joyous time?"
April pointed to the bunk. "Relax, and I'll tell you. Then we'll have to adjust our ideas."
Speaking quietly, clearly, she reported on the events of the day. Mark was silent for a long time after she'd finished, then said:
"I think we should extract Chas and his pop. No doubt they have their own little racket — maybe broadcasting messages to the faithful around the islands. I know he's not THRUSH. I believe he knows about them. Likewise, he knows about us. He'll take profit from both, responsibility from neither."
"He saved me from harm — maybe my life."
"Yes, he'd do that. He's a kinky sort of cuss, but I trust him. Don't ask me why. He's got a code of his own. But this Cheval — or Chaminal — whatever his name is — he's a strong link. Yet he was party to a shocking weak ploy. Up to that point we couldn't link him at all. Then, all of a sudden, he involves himself in the most obvious way with the Padracks."
"We're not sure it was the Padracks, though I admit it seems likely."
"Maleski is THRUSH, but not senior to Simon Padrack. I caught enough to convince me of that," said Mark. "And the captain is a weak sister. I think Maleski has a blackmail hold on him. Chas is the king of this castle."
"Chas sold you out — and me too."
"Then tipped you off so you'd escape? That would be a bit devious."
"Chas is a devious character."
"I said: extract him. He clouds the picture. If Cheval — we'll call him that for now — is a top scientist, he's not going grubbing around in petty thuggery — unless…"
"Unless someone convinces him that his own interests are threatened?" said April. "Said someone being the Padracks — or maybe just Lucy Padrack. She was out to kill, but kidded Cheval she aimed only to remove me from the scene. A personal attack, but she used her — hmm — trade connections. It's the way a woman would work."
"Not pausing to consider that if it failed, then she'd have involved Cheval — left him open to suspicion?"
"We're assuming she knows I'm an agent. I don't think she does. But, yes, I think her personal vengeance would override everything else in her mind. I think also that if she suspected I was an agent, she'd pass it on to Simon Padrack and Maleski, and pressure them to fit me for a halo. That would give her great satisfaction. Make her feel dominant and oh, so in the right."
"We sail on the midnight tide," said Mark thought fully. "If you keep out of sight until then, she's going to have one helluva shock when you show up. But perhaps s
he'll know by now. Those thugs would have come round in about five hours. You'll have to watch yourself between here and Taradata, me old darling."
"I don't think she'll try anything on board. Chas wouldn't stand for anything he didn't organize himself."
Mark groaned. "That Chas..." He paused at a tap on the door.
April opened it. Chas stepped into the cabin, carrying packages.
"Dead on cue," said Mark.
"Thought I'd find you here." Chas beamed. "Brought your clothes. All nice stuff. That'll be one hundred, seventy- five dollars, plus twenty-five service charge."
"Pah!" Mark snapped his fingers; "Now how could I forget the service charge?"
"And five hundred for this." Chas waved a piece of paper. "All legal and aboveboard. Been notarized, it has. You were paroled in our custody, y'see. We transfer the parole to the local magistrate and he signs your release." Chas flipped the paper across. "I got the feeling you never ought to have been in that prison, sonny." He grinned. "Nice young fella like you. But then — you will do these things."
Mark looked at the paper. "This is signed by Salisbury. Are you the magistrate too?"
"Nah, not me. That's my Daddy." He smiled at April. "Nice old duck, ain't he? Took a shine to you, he did. He's still got an eye for a nice bit of crackling."
"Yes?" said April weakly. "Thank you."
"And thank you," said Chas, plucking the cash from Mark's hand. "If you can't always be clever, you don't have to be good, y'know." He winked at April and exited.
"Daddy!" said Mark, rolling his eyes ceiling-ward. "That's my Daddy!"
"Crackling!" April snorted. "The dirty old man!"
"Now, now!" said Mark. "Leave us not think ill of the aged. I've an idea that when my whiskers turn white, I'll be thinking along the same lines."
"You should live that long," April snapped. "Men! Get out, you horrible specimen! Go on — get, get!"
Lots of clichés to describe atmosphere. Cut it with a knife. It's bad or good, disruptive or mellowing. Husbands feel it around wives. Families react to it. Mass meetings are swayed by it. Lovers revel in it. Martinets exude it. Sulkers project it. Good salesmen create it. Atmosphere.
Threaded through its unseen but undeniable presence are a thousand, a million — a thousand million — tiny thought-waves flowing out, slamming back, physically manifested in attitudes of body, tones of voice, reflections in eyes and features. These personal physical giveaways can be controlled by strong-willed characters. Clever actors can, and do, stimulate and simulate atmosphere as a part of their craft.
Experienced operatives in the profession of organizational agent train themselves to receive these unseen influences of atmosphere. A good agent could be called a natural intuitive. This isn't merely a person who plays hunches. His skill is far more exact. It is almost a science. His training also develops a swift and sharply defining observation, similar to that of a top detective. Add this to his acute and finely tuned sensitivity to atmosphere, combined with physical alertness, and you have the formula for a successful top agent. Throw in the backing of a world-powerful organization, and you have a formidable opponent at any level of action.
The Padracks and Cheval were excellent actors. They projected no atmosphere through any physical expression. But to April Dancer and Mark Slate it was there as an emanating source strong enough to confirm that Andre Cheval was not only linked to the Padracks — they had already proved this by the decoy action on the island — but also was superior to them.
This meant that THRUSH had four levels of its operatives aboard Island Traveller, with Cheval on the top echelon; certainly not inferior to the Padracks, nor to Maleski. And if he was a scientist, he would be in the executive bracket. This placed the Padracks in field administration over Maleski, who would be in THRUSH'S personnel and field coordinating slot. At the fourth and lowest level were the hand picked toughies — the slog and sluggem boys, no doubt with their assigned leaders under Maleski.
The affair had at last assumed the true pattern of a THRUSH project. These four levels aboard Island Traveller were the nucleus of organization in depth. This was how THRUSH worked. Had to work. A small project of local irritation, or disruption of order, required only a field team of local wreckers. But in a large project they created their operation cells in self-contained units, each linking more closely as the project developed until all were in the end merged.
The nucleus thus expanded, though its nature and purpose did not change. The point at which these merged would be the production end of the project. When this was geared to its maximum, the results would be handled by the distribution or actual attacking forces already set up through their own nucleus centres. Mr. Waverly had intimated that such an organization might well be in existence through the apparently innocent coracle clubs. But this might be a false trail, laid especially for the purpose of diverting attention from the true purpose of the project.
April and Mark used the radio silence period to intensify their thoughts and clarify their future plans. The Padracks were leaving the ship at Taradata. Reports had shown they sometimes stayed over until Island Traveller returned on its next outward trip — sometimes they rejoined when the ship checked in on its return trip. The latter call was in a three-day period. The next outward trip would be in three to five weeks. Would Cheval also stay over in Taradata?
Taradata was a pinhead island compared with some of the others. Even Lagelo, the next port of call, was larger and, by all accounts of the researchers, welcomed visitors, as apposed to Taradata, where they did not. Lagelo was a cultured place, owning a fine library and bookshop. Why should Padrack, the bookman, concentrate on Taradata? Perhaps because Lagelo already had been converted to the written word. Assume the book business to be a front, and you had Taradata smack in your sights as a THRUSH production centre. Because Padrack was THRUSH before he was a bookman. Just as April was U.N.C.L,E. before she was a playgirl. Simple as that.
H.Q. would naturally be collating all reports and coming up with a similar result. The next directive to agents would be an S.F.D. April and Mark already were making their own plans to seek, find, and destroy. But proof wasn't yet conclusive. And even U.N.C.L.E. agents cannot proceed to blow up or otherwise disrupt a peaceful island without cause. Final decisions as to timing and method were often theirs, but Island Traveller was not Del Floria's dry-cleaning shop in the shadow of New York's United Nations building, where U.N.C.L.E.'S eyes and ears of the world poured in their proof — or non-proof — and where Mr. Waverly would press the appropriate button according to the measurement of that proof.
So when radio contact again opened, their own atmosphere was one of anticipation and preparedness. They raised Sama Paru in the midget sub at midnight.
"We are surfaced in a cave beyond Taramao Point," said Sama Paru. "It is very beautiful. A silver moon is spiked upon the black-barbed heads of the trees of the forests of the night. The sea is a whispering mirror around us, lapping the golden sands below the blood-red rocks."
"Oh, Gawd!" Mark exclaimed. "Skip the commercial and tell us why you're there."
Randy Kovac came in with a chuckle. "It's gone to his head — a sort of tropic fever, I guess. We've come direct from Mr. Waverly's naval H.Q. and are waiting for Count Kazan and the launch to rendezvous with us here."
"For what purpose?" April asked.
"Observation of coastline, and to chart depth and currents in possible landing areas, apart from the main beaches and harbour. The far side of the island has an unbroken coral reef off-shore. No boat could cross it without being ripped apart."
Mark said: "Do you have any information of landing parties by the Navy?"
"Mr. Waverly did not specify that action," said Randy Kovac.
"Don't you start!" Mark snapped. "The word 'no' would have been quite sufficient."
April asked: "Did you meet the launch? Did Kazan deliver a passenger to Mr. Waverly?"
"I'll say he did! Wow! What a dish! Are all researchers l
ike her?" Randy Kovac fairly bubbled.
"They're usually old, fat and greasy," said Mark. "Why didn't the launch come with you?"
"The Navy doctor was treating Kazan and Carlson."
"Were they sick or injured?"
Sama Paru said: "I have never seen such colds. Poor Kazan — he was so full of cold he could not speak! Wheezing, sneezing, shivering — you would not believe such a cold could be caught in this climate. Carlson was not quite so bad. He is a big man, and he was coughing like a foghorn. Colamina Sherez was one sad lady — all red-nosed and red- eyed."
"Gosh, I'm sorry!" said April. "Tropical colds can be quite bad, but they don't usually last long."
"Get the infra-red camera quickly!" Sama Pam's voice sounded urgent.
Mark and April waited silently after Sama broke off conversation. He came back in a few minutes.
"The maps we have do not show any habitation on Taramao Point — only a forest of small trees running inland, curving down to a valley. But we have just seen lights flickering from there. Randy has taken photos. I have looked through the night glasses. The flickering is caused by the trees moving. The lights are stationary — like a door or windows opening and closing to release light."
"A signal?" said Mark. "Is Island Traveller visible to you?"
"No — we cannot see your lights. Wait, now — Randy is checking instruments. There is something else — standby."
Again they waited. Later Sama Paru said: "An engine — or more than one — we have picked up the vibrations. There is also a thudding — rhythmic, like small regular explosions."
"How far?" They heard Sama asking Randy to check instruments and telling him how to obtain readings.
"Two miles, landward," said Sama. "We are about three hundred yards off-shore. The beach shelves deeply towards us so we cannot get closer. Even the launch could not."
"Have you any frogmen's gear on board?"
"Yes, four shallow-water outfits. But we must not leave the sub until the launch arrives and you also are at Taradata. Those are orders."
"Okay," said April. "Use your time to survey all of the coastline you can. Make a note of any likely landing spots. Randy — what's all this about your special maps?"
