13 - The Rainbow Affair

by David McDaniel

  "Sounds reasonable. Maybe we can stop off for a bite to eat on the way. It's been several hours since we ate and I'm hungry again."

  "Fine. One thing - let's not talk about anything that happened tonight until we've had time to think about it."

  Illya nodded thoughtfully, and followed his partner up the chipped cement stairs to the street above.

  Chapter 4

  How MI-5 Spoke Condescendingly of Its Rival, and Took an Opposing Stand on the Main Topic.

  NAPOLEON REPLACED the telephone with a puzzled look on his face.

  "Did you reach our friend from last night?" Illya asked after a moment when no comment was volunteered.

  "Yes," said Napoleon, "I did. I'm still not sure who he is, but he told me to go to a friend of his in the Foreign Office if we were interested in some quasi-official cooperation on the problem of Johnnie Rainbow."

  "Who?"

  "Somebody in MI-5, apparently. He wasn't about to spell out the name for me; I got the impression he expected me to know who he was talking about. Very strange…"

  "MI-5? What business would military intelligence have with a bank robber?"

  Solo shrugged. "What business do we have with a bank robber, since you ask. There seem to be more aspects to this mess than anyone suspected. Personally, I'm beginning to doubt if we'll ever untangle all of them."

  "I'd be satisfied to untangle just one or two of them and go home," said Illya. "This whole operation feels wrong to me."

  "You're just being Slavic. We're trained and equipped to fight crime on an international scale, and if two million pounds isn't an international sum of money, I don't know what is. I can name several small countries you could practically buy on the open market for that amount in ready cash."

  "Spare me the justifications. If Mr. Waverly assigns me to write traffic tickets in Tierra del Fuego, I'll do it, even if I don't understand why."

  "Good fellow," said Napoleon reassuringly. "There are times when unquestioning obedience is still a virtue. Come on - let's pop over to this address our anonymous rescuer gave me, and see whether it puts us any closer to the end of the Rainbow and a two-million-pound pot of gold."

  "Address? I thought you said we were going to the Foreign Office. That's in Whitehall."

  "I know. But this individual isn't. Apparently he prefers to work out of his own flat, which is about a quarter of a mile away, overlooking St. James' Park, if I interpret this address correctly."

  Illya shook his head. "Anonymity seems to be a passion with these people," he said.

  "Remember, they first came up with the idea of giving their secret agents numbers rather than code names. Double-Ought-What'shisname, for example."

  "Well, let's hope we don't run into him. We seem bound to encounter everyone else engaged in the never-ending fight against crime."

  Napoleon smiled as he slipped into his coat, for the May wind was likely to be chilly, and picked up the umbrella he had purchased the previous day. Slinging it jauntily over his arm, he preceded his somewhat dour partner out the door.

  Saint James' Park was a fine fresh green lawn in the early afternoon sunshine, still sparkling from the morning's sprinkle. The air was clean and crisp, and all London seemed to have been sluiced free of smoke and haze. The two agents mounted the steps of a stately house standing shoulder-braced between a pair of identical brownstones, and touched a bell beneath one of four speaking tubes. A moment later a voice filtered out, asking the obvious.

  "Mister Solo and Mister Kuryakin, from New York. I believe we are expected."

  Though the exact phraseology was not quite clear, the voice seemed to invite them in, and a second or two later the lock on the door to their left chattered as the electrical latch operated.

  A flight of carpeted steps, led them up to a dimly lit landing, where they could distinguish three figures apparently finishing a conversation. At the top Napoleon looked around a little uneasily, wondering just who they were there to see.

  He hoped it was the girl, a sleek aristocratic redhead who gave him a single, direct, slightly insolent glance and proceeded to ignore him; but she seemed to be with the elegantly, almost foppishly dressed gentlemen who was already settling a bowler above his broad British face with mathematical precision. He gave Solo and Illya a warm and sincere smile as he did so, speaking to the third man.

  "You may as well spare the introductions, old man. I doubt that we shall be meeting these chaps again."

  "I shouldn't be too sure," said the other, a short, spare man with bright eyes and a lined face. "You have a great deal in common, you know."

  "That may be," said the girl, "but I'm not sure I'd care to find out how much." She gave Napoleon a longer, appraising look.

  "Stop tempting Mr. Solo, you little minx," said the small man, chidingly. "He's here on business, and you must be off on yours." He made little shooing motions with his hands, and the couple turned with a cheerful "Good afternoon" floating behind them.

  The small man led the way to the front room, where a small fireplace held ashes reminiscent of the previous evening's chill. Their host indicated two chairs and took a third himself, speaking as he sat.

  "I must apologize for all the secrecy," he said. "But this Rainbow business has gotten completely out of hand, and we're officially bound up in red tape. Legally, I can't do a thing to help you, because legally I don't know a bit about what's going on."

  "That puts you on a level with us," said Illya. "I must admit to being more than a little confused by all these goings on. The only people who don't act like criminals are Scotland Yard, and they deny everything. Is there anything you can tell us, and if not, what are we doing here?"

  Their host laughed delightedly, leaning back in his chair. "Of course, of course," he said. "I imagine this all seems like a game of blind man's bluff by now - well, in a way it is. But I've been wanting to get in touch with you since I heard you were coming over after the Rainbow gang. Something has to be done, and quickly. Scotland Yard won't, and I can't. My people aren't equipped or empowered to work inside the country, except for a few - the couple you just met, for example. Well, not both of them, actually. The man is one of our top professionals; the woman is a talented amateur."

  "Amateur what?" asked Napoleon suspiciously.

  "Practically everything," said the small man with a chuckle. "She's tried everything else, succeeding superbly at all of it, and now she's taking a shot at the wider reaches of counter-intelligence. But that's not what you're supposed to be interested in. Did you come here to chase girls or Rainbows?"

  "Well," said Napoleon uncertainly, but his partner interrupted him.

  "We've heard that particular pun three times in the last two days, and it's already getting stale. I don't want to seem impolite, but to be perfectly honest, I'm not at all happy with the way things have been going. If you can help us, we would appreciate it. If you can't, we have better things to do than make conversation."

  The smile faded from their host's face during this speech and he nodded. "Sorry. More or less trying to set you at ease before getting into business. All right - we'll omit the social niceties. According to my sources in the Yard, there's a jewel robbery expected in New Bond Street tomorrow night. The site will be staked out, and a full bag of game is confidently expected. I think you might enjoy participating in the haul."

  "Knocking over a jewelry store isn't the sort of operation the Rainbow gang usually pulls - they seem to specialize in goods in transit."

  "The Rainbow gang is not directly responsible for Britain's entire crime wave - Johnnie seems to be selling advice to anyone who is interested in pulling a large job of any kind. This is one. I have other sources than Scotland Yard."

  "What useful purpose would be served by our attending the party?"

  "Possibly none," their host admitted. "It is quite possible that warning has leaked back to the gang somehow and there may be nothing happening after all. But you would have an opportunity to talk to the prisoners befor
e the purblind police give them any ideas of what they can hide and get away with. I've talked with some of the old lags after just a few hours of routine interrogation, and they've never heard of a Rainbow by that time. If you were able to confront them with a changed attitude towards him, they might be persuaded to come across with something valuable."

  Illya considered this with full suspicion for some time, and then reluctantly admitted the idea's validity. "I presume your contacts in the Yard are sufficiently highly placed that they could fit us into the party without a great deal of fuss and complaint?"

  "Certainly. A Chief Inspector vouching for you will serve as a pass to all sorts of social functions."

  "I, ah, have a few more questions," Napoleon said hesitantly. "If you don't mind...?"

  "Of course not. I never mind being asked questions, if you don't mind them not being answered. Go ahead."

  "You are with MI-5, aren't you?"

  "Yes - I thought you knew that."

  "We'd been told; it's not always the same thing. Are you working under assignment on this, or independently out of pure personal interest?"

  "Mostly the latter, I'm afraid. That's why I can't be along with you tomorrow evening. As for your part in it, I may as well tell you I was asked to give you a hand by Alexander Waverly. We worked together during the last war, and earlier. Before Department Zed got him and they set out to invent U.N.C.L.E. Didn't he tell you?"

  Illya sighed. "Nobody seems to be telling us anything."

  "Oh, now, that's less than polite. Admittedly I have hardly been making a clean breast of my darkest secrets, but I do think some of what I've said may be of some help to you."

  "I'm afraid it hasn't really," Napoleon said. "We're not very used to working in total darkness, and we haven't had much else this trip. We don't know who anybody is or which side they're on…"

  "There are quite a few more than the usual two sides, which may be confusing matters a little," their host said. "There's Johnnie Rainbow, of course; and there's Thrush, which wants him to join them; and you, who want to stop Thrush but aren't that interested in Rainbow; Scotland Yard, who has little interest in Thrush, and who doesn't believe in Johnnie but wants to stop him anyway; and several individuals who are either being pulled in by Thrush or drawn in by interest in picking off some of the loot the Rainbow gang has in various secure stashes about the country, and of course various arms of the law are following them. In fact, if you traced out everyone who was somehow concerned with this operation of yours, you would end by involving practically every criminal and everyone actively connected with law enforcement from John O'Groats to Lands End. Everyone I can think of off-hand either is personally involved or has a friend or enemy who is, one way or another.

  "I would predict that until this business is resolved one way or another, you will continue to encounter people whose concern seems serious if peripheral. Many of them you will find useful; some you will find dangerous. I presume you can utilize the former and avoid the latter."

  There was a long pause, broken at last by Illya, who nodded slowly. "I begin to see. Everyone has some portion of the action, but no one besides ourselves is pointed directly at the center - which is to say Johnnie Rainbow. This is why all the fuss and interest around us."

  "Precisely. You two are probably – hopefully - the key to the entire complex situation, tugging away at the key stone of the arch which in turn supports the entire pile of masonry."

  "It sounds like a dangerous position."

  "It is. But if you couldn't take care of yourselves you wouldn't be here." He glanced at the mantle clock and stood suddenly. "Now you must pardon me. You will be picked up tomorrow evening about eleven. Have fun; I wish I could join you."

  They were accompanied down the stairs to the ground floor, and even out the door. It was late afternoon, and shadows were lengthening across the park. Their host looked up and down the street. "You didn't drive over? I should have rung for a cab. Ah - never mind. Here comes one now. I always seem to be lucky with taxis; always can find one when I need one. Good afternoon, gentlemen. Been most pleasant talking with you - hope we may get together again."

  He popped them into the taxi, gave the driver the address of their hotel, and disappeared behind them in a grinding of gears and a cloud of exhaust.

  Napoleon and Illya looked at each other. Finally the American spoke. "Well, I don't know about you, but although it seemed to me at the time he was explaining everything clearly, I'm still just as confused as I was when we went up there."

  Illya nodded agreement. "Nevertheless I fully expect to be picked up at precisely eleven o'clock tomorrow night by a car full of detectives. I developed the distinct impression that the fellow we just spent half an hour listening to knows very well what he is doing and saying - and more important, not saying. Somehow, though still quite in the dark, I feel better about it."

  Solo settled back in the comfortable seat and wondered as he reached for a cigarette whether all the threads in the complicated skein would ever be fully unraveled for him. Or, for that matter, if any of them would. He drew the smoke deep into his lungs and let it trickle out. Only time would tell.

  Section II : "Look Upon The Rainbow"

  Chapter 5

  How Illya Kuryakin Heard a Discourse on Weaponry, and A Good Time Was Had By All.

  THE NIGHT WAS clear and even moderately warm, for London, which is to say the overcoats were barely necessary. The small squad of uniformed policemen had arrived quietly from various routes to station themselves in hiding at a dozen or more locations within a block radius of the suspected target. Napoleon and Illya sat inside a parked van with two other men on a cross-street facing the jewelry shop, and watched it alternately through the concealed slits in the side paneling.

  The distant chime of Big Ben echoed over the sleeping city, tolling one o'clock, and eventually two. Cars passed occasionally, and one or two lonely pedestrians hurried along the street as the men sat patiently waiting. There was little conversation among them; like soldiers before a battle they kept the company of their own thoughts.

  From time to time a small transceiver would hiss to life as one or another of the concealed cordon of watchers reported someone entering the controlled area; pedestrians and vehicles were under almost constant surveillance from one point or another as long as they remained in the four-block area under study.

  It was about two-fifteen when an unmarked motor truck purred into their view and stopped next to the target shop. A moment later the front door of the shop opened and three men carrying large flat cases and a couple of sacks hurried out. The head of the stake-out party swore under his breath.

  "Death and destruction! They must have been in there all along, working happily on the alarm system and cracking the box while we sat out here waiting for them to show up."

  He gripped the talk-switch on the transmitter micro phone and spoke quietly into it. "Border posts - establish blocks. Let no one in or out. Observation posts - converge on the shop. Remember, these men may be armed. They've never used firearms on a job before, but there can always be a first time. Maintain security; don't let them know we're coming."

  He ceased transmission, and Napoleon reported from the observation slit, "The three men are going back for another load. How much evidence do you need?"

  "A single handful will be quite sufficient. Let's move in."

  "Shouldn't you address them through a loud-hailer and offer them a chance to surrender peacefully?" asked Illya.

  "Perhaps. But we would greatly prefer not to disturb the sleep of honest residents of the area with bullhorns and shouted threats. They should realize they are severely outnumbered as soon as the officers begin to show themselves from all the streets."

  He half rose from his crouch and opened the back double doors of the van. Moments later all four of them stood in the shadows, watching the three robbers emerge once again from the shop with armloads of loot. The Scotland Yard man said, in an even voice pitched just
loud enough to carry clearly across the silent street, "I think that will be enough, gentlemen."

  The effect was all that could be desired. Two of the three men dropped their bundles and jumped for the truck; the third, apparently confused, stepped back, seeking the safety of the shop entrance.

  Walking steadily towards them, flanked by Napoleon, Illya, and his aide, the Yarder continued to address the robbers. "I hereby place you all under arrest in the name of the Queen, and advise you that anything you say may he taken down and used in evidence against you. I further advise you that this entire area is surrounded by policemen, and you haven't a chance of escape. So you'd best come along quietly."

  Constables in uniform were beginning to emerge from various hiding places, converging on the truck. More than fifteen officers were now around the truck, including the two U.N.C.L.E. agents. Its back doors were tightly closed, and the motor was ticking over slowly, but no attempt had been made to start it moving.

  The nearest policeman threw an order towards the cab: "Stop your engine and dismount with your hands up.

  Suddenly all hell seemed to break loose. The back doors of the truck burst open, and at least forty men came leaping out, armed with truncheons and various similar forms of life-preservers. They took on the representatives of the law in groups of three, and in a matter of seconds a fierce and desperate melee had begun.

  Napoleon and Illya were far enough from the truck to react to the sudden attack. Solo whipped out his gun and shouted, "Stand clear or I'll shoot!" Even he himself, looking back on it later, admitted that it sounded rather foolish, but with only the standard eight-round clip against some two score men, all he could do was attempt a threat.

  It proved to be no more than that, as an accurately thrown tire iron cracked him viciously across the wrist and his U.N.C.L.E. Special Hew from his hand. Before he could even draw breath, four toughs were swarming over him. With his right wrist severely bruised and possibly broken, he was in less than perfect defensive shape. He called Illya's name once as he went down, but the Russian had his attention fully occupied.