13 - The Rainbow Affair

by David McDaniel

  He looked at Napoleon as they started off toward the elevator, and said, "Well?"

  "Not very. He seemed pretty certain, didn't he?"

  The Russian nodded. "Perhaps a little too certain. He stated the official position with great clarity, however, and no little redundancy. Are you convinced?"

  "I almost was," said Napoleon as he touched the lift button and the doors sighed open. "Until he said Johnnie Rainbow was as imaginary as Robin Hood and King Arthur. Personally, I've always believed in King Arthur, and the existence of Robin Hood never seemed to be open to doubt."

  "The point is well taken," said Illya as they stepped out into the main floor corridor and started toward the daylight. "Perhaps the good Inspector was telling the absolute truth after all when he compared the three of them."

  Napoleon paused at the door and looked at his partner. "Arc you starting to believe we might actually have some purpose here after all?"

  "I will have to admit the concept has begun to cross my mind. You may remember from a year ago that the greatest advantage a real vampire would have in the modem world is that no one would believe in him. If Johnnie Rainbow exists, he is in an enviable position."

  "Especially since his existence is not only ignored, but vigorously denied..." said Napoleon thoughtfully, as they reclaimed their rented Lotus and came out of the underground parking area into the bright afternoon sun light.

  "Suppose Rainbow does exist," said Illya, leaning back in the bucket seat as Napoleon piloted the little car through the knotted streets and clotted traffic which filled central London at that hour of the afternoon. "None of the men who actually committed the robberies would admit his existence; they'd be well-paid when they'd served their time, or more likely sprung, smuggled abroad, and paid off there. And since they won't bring the subject up, and Scotland Yard won't ask them, it seems highly unlikely that Johnnie will ever be called to account for his crimes unless you and I take a hand in things."

  "My thoughts exactly," said his partner. "He may or may not exist, but personally I wouldn't feel comfortable going home until I have proven either possibility to my own satisfaction."

  "And Mr. Waverly's."

  "Yes. And Mr. Waverly's. We shall start early tomorrow morning - or possibly early tomorrow afternoon. It will be another day or so before my body has readjusted to London time. My stomach, too. What would you say to dinner at this relatively early hour?"

  "It sounds most appetizing. I presume you had some place specific in mind?"

  "I know an excellent little Italian restaurant, a similar German restaurant, as well as French, Chinese, Armenian, Spanish and Scandinavian restaurants. There's even one specializing in genuine southern-fried chicken."

  "And all of them are in the same block in Soho."

  "Same three blocks, except for the French one. Let's hit the Chinese one tonight; then we can eat another dinner at nine or ten, and be closer to the local scheduling.

  Illya nodded, and the little red car veered east.

  Chapter 3

  How Napoleon and Illya Toured Soho, and Two Other Gentlemen Debated at Length.

  "IF I'D REMEMBED the parking situation was so bad, I'd have left the car back at the hotel and taken the Underground," Napoleon said, as they wandered through the colorful back streets of the Soho district. They'd found a parking area in Ramillies Places, just off Oxford Street, and had followed directions from there to the restaurant. Now, with a pair of full meals inside them, they felt ready for a matching pair of warm beds. Thus it was with honest reluctance that Illya felt constrained lo call to his partner's attention something he had just noticed.

  "Napoleon - I truly hate to bring this up, but we are being followed."

  Solo sighed deeply and nodded. "Since we left the restaurant. I didn't want to mention it; I was hoping they'd go away. But they made the last two turns right with us, didn't they?"

  "Uh-huh. You don't imagine it's anything as simple and commonplace as a pair of muggers, do you?"

  "Afraid not."

  Neither of them had raised his voice above a murmur during this exchange, nor had they broken stride. Aware of the dangers that could be waiting in the dark doorways of the buildings they passed, they kept their attention divided between the sounds of footfalls behind them and the silent shadows that lurked ahead.

  Then an alley mouth gaped on their left, and a solitary streetlight a dozen yards away showed a single right turn. They ducked in and around the corner, where two metal plates high on the side of the building marked the juncture of Newburgh and Broadwick Streets. They froze there, listening.

  The soft crunch of shoe soles on pavement paused at the entrance to Broadwick, then began to approach cautiously. Running softly on rubber-soled feet, Napoleon and Illya made another quick left into Canton and then a right. The street they found themselves in was brilliantly lit, and lined with small, intricately decorated shops. Illya looked quickly around.

  "I know where we are now," he said softly. "Regent Street is just a block further west. Somehow I think it would be safer to take a bus back to the hotel than to attempt to retrieve the car at this point."

  Solo nodded complete agreement as Illya continued, "The next corner is Foubert's Place. We go left there, and hurry."

  As they moved briskly forward, two large men stepped out from between the shops to the right, and stood with their arms folded, blocking the way. The U.N.C.L.E. agents stopped and glanced back. Two more were approaching from behind.

  Napoleon looked at his partner. "No, I don't think they're ordinary muggers."

  "In fact," said Illya thoughtfully, "I think they're Lascars."

  At that moment all four of the men sprang into action, closing in on their quarry. Napoleon and Illya had their backs to the brick wall, and dropped into the trained fighter's defensive crouch. Their attackers paused and half-circled them warily, then moved in more slowly.

  Solo automatically left the right-hand pair to his partner, and took the other two himself. After waiting for a few seconds for the Lascars to make the first move, he suddenly sprang into action. A karate kick at the stomach of the first missed by a fraction of an inch as the stomach withdrew. Only the wall at his back saved him from a severe loss of balance, and the twist of his body let his ankle slip from the hands that grabbed for it. He recovered in a fraction of a second and swung a vicious chop at an exposed rib cage. The shock of a solid connection thrilled up his arm, and an agonized grunt rewarded him.

  In the same moment, Illya feinted for the throat of one Lascar and shifted his attack to the face of the other. In a flurry of chops and kicks one of them went down while the other stumbled blindly back, clutching at his streaming nose. Illya's shoulder ached from a near miss with a weighted cosh one of them had swung, but he turned to help his partner.

  Napoleon had knocked the wind out of one with a direct thrust to the solar plexus, and had squared with the other as Illya came up. But instead of joining battle the survivor whipped something from his pocket to his mouth as he jumped back, and blew an eerie trill on some kind of whistle. A moment later small bursts of smoke puffed around the U.N.C.L.E. agents as gas- shells splattered against the bricks. In a matter of seconds they lay crumpled on the pavement, and more silent figures materialized from the shadows to bear them away.

  Less than a mile away through the tangled maze of alleys that is Soho, two men sat facing each other in a small, dimly-lit room. The walls of the room were hung about with brocades of the finest silk, and drifting clouds of incense thickened the air. Dominating the room was a great teakwood desk, intricately carved and inlaid.

  Behind this desk sat a tall, thin Chinese, wearing robes of silk which shimmered in the candlelight. His face was unlined, but his eyes were old with ancient wisdom, and seemed oddly veiled, like those of a drowsing cat. Above an imposing brow, he wore a black skullcap with a single coral bead which indicated the rank of Mandarin. A marmoset perched on his shoulder, occasionally nuzzling his ear.

 
His visitor sat primly on the edge of a deeply cushioned straight-backed chair, a slim briefcase balanced on his knees with a tightly furled umbrella and a bowler hat laid across it. He wore an utterly undistinguished gray suit, and he was addressing the Chinese gentleman.

  "All these things my organization is prepared to offer you if you will join forces with us. The finest laboratories in the world will be at your disposal, with armies of expert technicians. Your researches may proceed in all the fields your genius encompasses without fear of interference from outside forces. In addition, your supervisory abilities would continue to be utilized…"

  Somewhere a single soft note chimed, and the man in the gray suit paused, looking around. The Mandarin leaned slightly forward and touched a button on his desk, then spoke briefly in his native tongue. Without waiting for an answer he released the button, and addressed his guest.

  "I beg pardon. An important operation has been successfully completed. Please continue; we will not be disturbed again." He spoke English without the least accent, save perhaps a slight emphasis on the sibilants.

  The man in the gray suit nodded slightly. "Your network is falling apart, to speak bluntly. Your homeland is in the hands of the Communists, your old enemies. If you were to return, you would be subjected to a most protracted and ignominious execution as a representative of the old regime which they wish to see completely eradicated. Your own people have turned against you."

  For a moment the membranous shields seemed to flicker back from the old man's eyes, which flashed an amazing green in the yellow light of the candles. "My people have been misled for centuries. Even now my agents within China are fomenting a revolution which will sweep that fat peasant Mao from his seat of power and replace him with men of wisdom and sanity."

  His visitor laughed with a hint of condescension. "Very well. Perhaps it may be so. But in the Western World you are no more than an anachronism. Crime on an international scale is no longer the province of the gifted amateur, or the inspired technician. It is big business. It has no room for the cult of the personality, for the single vulnerable leader. As in other businesses, to be truly secure and successful, no single person is irreplaceable."

  The old Chinese seemed to withdraw slightly, his eyes now hooded like a cobra's. But his voice was still soft and even. "I am many things in many lands; but I have never considered myself a criminal. Neither have I any concern for my own security. As for my vulnerability - the thin lips curled slightly - "my record speaks for itself."

  "You have, admittedly, been lucky in your dealings with the law. But have you given any thought to the day that must eventually come when your luck will fail? Only an organization the size of Thrush can protect you and preserve your brilliance for the future. With us you will be free to work on your own projects, with your own personnel. Equipment and materials are no longer as inexpensive or as easy to find as they used to he, you know."

  "You modern Englishmen are indeed thoughtful. Please tell me - are you actually attempting to sell me life insurance?"

  The man in the gray suit regarded his host closely, but did not deign to smile. "I am trying to find out whether or not you are aware of the way things are," he said steadily. "There is no place for you and your kind in the modem world. You must go the way of the corner grocery and the independent manufacturer. You must adapt to changing conditions or be overwhelmed by the growth of more modern operations." He paused, and swallowed the anger that had come perilously close to the surface. His voice was calmer when he spoke again.

  "This is not a threat - just a simple statement of circumstances. Your reputation is widely known and respected in the fields of applied psychology, biochemistry and biophysics. There is not another man living who is your equal at hypnosis. You are a valuable man in many respects, and Thrush is willing to reward you accordingly for your services. What is your answer?"

  The old Chinese brought his eyes to focus on the Thrush's face. "Your offer has points worth considering," he said at last. "But I fear I would not be able to give you a definite answer without much thought and consultation with my ancestors, There are many factors which you have not taken into account, and many of which you are quite unaware."

  "Of course the organization is willing to be patient. But you have been putting off our representatives for some time, you will admit, and…"

  "Do not speak to me of patience, Englishman. Your race is young, and has not learned the simpler virtues of the mind. My race was already decadent when your ancestors were staining themselves blue. But I will accommodate your haste. The next fourteen days will bring changes to the fortunes of many - some for the better, others for the worse. Come speak with me again in two week's time, and I will give you an answer to take back to your leaders. If you acquit yourselves well, perhaps I may join you."

  "My superiors will not be pleased with another delay. They may deem it necessary to give you a demonstration of their powers in the hopes of influencing your decision."

  "I will await their leisure as they have so kindly awaited mine." The voice was almost a whisper, and the eyes were green sparks behind slitted lids. "But I fear I have kept you from your most important business far too long. Please accept my most humble apologies for the continued delay, and convey my very best wishes to superiors."

  He made no move, touched no buttons, but the curtains at one side of the room parted and two huge swarthy men with shaven heads came into the chamber, taking positions with arms folded on either side of the entrance. The man in the gray suit stood, gripping his briefcase. His voice was only a bit less than perfectly even. "In two weeks' time, then. Very well. It may be that by then you will begin to appreciate the powers of Thrush."

  The old Chinese gave no sign that he had heard the thinly veiled threat, and with a quick glance at the impassive Lascars flanking the door, the man in the gray suit took his leave.

  As the two guards followed him out and the curtains fell soundlessly back into place, the faint dry whisper of something like rustling leaves might have been heard in the room. Only the most acute observer might have realized that it came from between the parted lips of he Mandarin, and even such a one might not have recognized it as quiet, sardonic laughter.

  In a basement room only a few feet away, two of the factors of which Thrush was quite unaware were struggling back to consciousness. Solo had inhaled a little less of the gas than his partner, and was the first to recover awareness of his surroundings, but even so he had not decided quite where they were when Illya began to stir.

  "Welcome back to the land of the living," he greeted the Russian wryly. "We've been packed away somewhere, and I think it's somebody's basement. A rat ran across my feet a minute or so ago."

  "I hope you kicked him."

  "Certainly not. If we treat him nicely, maybe he'll come back and chew through our ropes. I've heard of it happening."

  "I'd prefer to get out without any help from you furry friends, Napoleon." Illya squirmed around a little, checking his bonds. "As near as I can tell, we haven't even been disarmed - just temporarily incapacitated."

  "It looks as if either Johnnie Rainbow has decided to get us off his trail, or Scotland Yard has developed a new method of dealing with troublemakers. Can you think of anyone else we've offended recently?"

  "How much of a tip did you leave at the restaurant?"

  "Twenty percent - my usual. They never objected before."

  "Well, whoever it was certainly knows their ropes. These won't even budge. In fact, I can hardly shift around without nearly pulling my thumbs out of their sockets. It's an East Indian type of binding, which was what led me to think of the restaurant. Knowing your propensity for making enemies..." Illya broke off suddenly. "What was that?"

  Before Napoleon could phrase a suitable reply, he heard the same sound. A faint scraping in the wall to their left. A moment later a section of paneling slid back and a tiny slender Oriental girl slipped out, followed a moment later by a tall gaunt Englishman in a trench coat.
The girl spoke swiftly in a whisper. "See? They are here as I said."

  The Englishman hurried to them and bent over. Napoleon started to speak. "I have several obvious questions to ask…"

  "Sorry, old chap. No time. This young lady has placed her life in our hands by bringing me to you; we mustn't trifle with it. The fellow who had you brought here is a fiend in human shape - make no mistake. When he finds you gone, all the furies will be set loose."

  The girl knelt daintily to help him loosen the ropes. In the dim light, Napoleon could see that her eyes were a startling shade of violet such as he had never seen be re. "My master plays an intricate game, and you both are but pieces. You were to be used to bargain with a group that seeks his wisdom."

  "Who is your master, anyway?" asked Illya as his lands came free.

  Her hand came to her mouth in a peculiar gesture. "I dare not speak his name," she said fearfully.

  The lean Englishman helped Napoleon to his feet. "Don't ask too many questions, chaps. Where ignorance is bliss, and so on. Her master may not be as well known these days as the people you're after, but he's every bit dangerous in his own way. Now, come on. We'll head out the way we came in. And keep silent, as you value your lives!"

  The dim yellow beam of a pocket torch led them trough a narrow, foul-smelling maze of tunnels, which eventually brought them out where the Thames lapped, black and oily under the city-lit overcast, at slime-crusted pilings and crumbling masonry. "Afraid you'll have to make your way home from here. I must get this little lady to a place of safety, if there is such in this world."

  "But who..."

  "No time to talk now. Telephone me tomorrow WHItehall 9213. I know what you're after, and I think I can help you find it. Cheerio." And the blackness swallowed him up.

  The two U.N.C.L.E. agents stood looking at each other in the dark for several seconds, until Napoleon said, "I don't know about you, but I'm not especially crazy about the smell around here. What do you say we head for home?"