GFU01 - The Global Globules Affair

by Simon Latter

  CHAPTER ONE: CHICKS IN ARMOUR

  APRIL DANCER surveyed the London scene with a benign gaze—if the word benign can be applied to a lissome lovely in a Paris dress. But benign she felt. London did that to her. She loved New York; Paris had its strident claims; Berlin its efficient bustle hiding the deep scars of a quartered city. All great cities had their special effect on her. There were few she didn't know, or whose language she couldn't speak. But London made her feel benign. Especially after a grueling session in the mountains of Tibet and the hectic round up of her former enemies—THRUSH agents—in the steamy clamor of Bombay.

  Now, that session was over—mission accomplished—the last loose ends tied and severed, here in London itself. "Ah yes, of course, my dear Miss Dancer," Mr. Waverly had said. "You do indeed deserve a holiday. Mr. Slate also. By all means—stay for two days in London."

  "Two days!" Mark Slate had yelped. "I can't even choose the right hat in two days, let alone a whole new outfit of the right gear."

  April Dancer frowned at the memory. She felt less benign, became more aware of the crowds of mods and chicks pattering past her or blocking the sidewalk as they stroked the Carnaby Street shop windows.

  Mark Slate was in one of these shops, but she was damned if she'd go bolting in and out of any to find him. He should be here. Right now he should be here.

  If Mark Slate said: "I'll see you seven minutes past three on top that mountain, old girl," he'd always be there. But now in his home town, London—oh no! he couldn't—least of all in his precious Carnaby Street. On the job itself—yes. But not now. Not when he was off the hook and roaming free among the latest mannie fashions.

  No—her benign feeling was rapidly disappearing. She could forgive his eccentricities of dress. The impossible cut of his clothes, his passion for fancy weskits, his curly-brim hats, his "old girl", and "I say—bang on, old boy!" Because other more reliable and dependable attributes were his also. Admirable attributes. Mark Slate could kill without a qualm. Even be polite about it.... Yes, a strong ally in a weak situation.

  April Dancer shut her mind to these good points in her friend Mark Slate, U.N.C.L.E. agent, and quietly cussed him in four of the most flowery languages she knew. She glanced above the rooftops at the shimmering, revolving cone of the great Post Office Tower. In three minutes they were due to be lunching in that restaurant.

  The fact that Mark Slate might not be there to pick up the tab held her for a while longer. April Dancer's meals always were made more appetizing if someone else took care of the check. Well—why not? A girl has a right to be careful in such matters.

  As her gaze lowered she saw two red and white barbers' poles revolving at some speed, one on each side of the street. Strange, she thought, I'll swear they weren't moving just now! A metallic glinting movement also caught her eye as a number of girls came on to the street.

  It was the land of the model chicks and the mod-gear cowboys, so there wasn't really anything strange about seeing a number of young chicks dressed in sheen-glinting "armor" dresses. And armor was the word... petals of metal with a sort of chain-mail linking around shoulders and arms. No one took much notice of them. In this swingingest part of London you had to appear way, way out for anyone ever to do this.

  The man himself wasn't way, way out; yet he didn't belong. Not in Carnaby Street. He wore impeccably cut traditional clothes, white linen, dark tie, highly polished shoes, carried a hat and umbrella. An aesthetic face, high brow, a small beard. He moved quickly and smoothly along the crowded sidewalk.

  April Dancer watched him pass as she stepped to a window, seeing his reflection until it passed the window level, then turned in time to see him entering the doorway from which the chicks had appeared.

  Someone had said to her: "Stand in Carnaby Street for ten minutes and you'll see anyone who is anyone come by. It's that sort of place." Oh yes? Well, the only such person she had recognized was Dr. Carl Karadin, and he was neither a swinging London chick nor a way-out cowboy.

  Link the improbable with the possible. Use each second of every unforgiving minute constructively and objectively. Around you, always, is the pattern. It's up to you to follow each line. The outside "you" is lovely, lissome, alluring. The inside "you" is chrome-steel, coldly glittering, probing, resilient and deadly. The mind of this girl is that of a trained computer, its reflexes honed to searing sharpness.

  April Dancer had never stood around waiting for a man. Never until now. Only that slop Slate would have the nerve to think she would. An improbable thought, as many a man had observed. Yet had she not stood here amid the Carnaby Street throngs, would she have seen Carl Karadin? She doubted if his mission was to purchase way-out weskits and other sartorial splendors. So the computer mind went whizz-click-whizz—and the first link was made.

  She didn't even cuss the rain which now swept in a sudden pattering rush over the street, nor hurry to escape its dampness, so she was late in reaching shelter. Only the chicks in armor seemed unaffected by it. They continued their model-mincing perambulations through the length of the street. Little catty eyes mewed at them from doorway shelters, assessing this latest dress gimmick. One came close to April Dancer.

  "So where's the sale, honey?" said April.

  "Pardon me," said the chick. "There is no sale. D'you mind?" She pushed past. April knotted her knuckles and tapped lightly.

  "Ouch!" the chick yelped.

  April brushed rain drops from her purse.

  "Real metal," she said thoughtfully. "Watch you don't turn rusty."

  "Get lost!" said the chick, and teetered onwards.

  At this moment Mark Slate slid around a bunched crowd.

  "Frightfully sorry, old girl!" he said casually. "Desperate situation—they had to send to the warehouse for my size."

  "Coffin, I hope," said April smoothly. "Or is that too much to expect?"

  He laughed. "Aha! We are peeved. How dare we be kept waiting!" He swept off his feather-stacked, curly-brimmed hat. "A thousand apologies, your Royal Highness. For that I will buy you a fabulous lunch in a famous place." He waved his hat towards the gleaming Post Office Tower. "Table's booked—all is arranged."

  "That hat," said April. "What is it—a bird scarer?" She didn't wait for an answer. Something else was on her mind. "Why the chicks in armor? Publicity?"

  Mark Slate shrugged powerful shoulders.

  "Could be. Anything goes around here. You like?"

  April Dancer surveyed her knuckles. "Real metal. But what metal?"

  A metal-dressed model came close. She smiled at Mark.

  "I say! I say!" White teeth flashed, charm oozed. "But what a shame to encase such loveliness in armor... Or is it?"

  The girl giggled.

  "For thine own safety, I expect," said Mark. "Snazzy. Real snazzy!" His hands flicked expertly. "Who makes?"

  "I wouldn't know. I just wear it."

  "Until when?"

  She giggled again. "Five o'clock." She jerked a hand. "Down there. If you're around."

  He gripped her shoulder caressingly. "Five o'clock," he said softly. She moved on.

  April Dancer said: "You overdressed rat!"

  Mark smiled. "A Highness's wish is a command. Metal—yes. Titanium? That's silly. But not an alloy. Not aluminum. Very light. Who'd dress a chick in titanium?" He shrugged again. "Does it matter?"

  "Interesting," she said. "And not for sale... And Karadin too."

  "Carl Karadin? Your doctor chum from Paris? Here?"

  "My ex-professor," she corrected him. "The chicks come out. He goes in."

  "It's all in your mind," said Mark, taking her arm as they walked through the crowded street. The rain had stopped. The throngs were
again on the move. "You're trained to link—to associate. Why shouldn't he be here? This is a two-day break. Why pause for thought?"

  She smiled. "Perhaps you're right. I'm hungry."

  Mark was silent for a moment. "My traveler's checks are back at the hotel."

  "So?"

  "So for an hour or two—loan me enough to treat you right. I spent out in the store back there."

  "And relied on clipping me?"

  "Well, no—not exactly." He took something from his pocket, a colored pappy swodge. "I'd stashed these notes in another pocket. Got caught in a shower on the way here. They must have got wet. Don't see how, but there they are."

  She fingered them. "They feel damp, but they'll be legal tender."

  "Perhaps so, but you'd make it easier if you lent me a couple of flyers."

  "Oh! All right!" She wasn't pleased. She opened her purse, probed, then stopped dead, pulled out a note clip. In it was a slim pappy wad of color. She glanced at him. "Okay—joke over. I don't know how you did it, but I am not amused."

  Mark stared at her hands. "I'll be dammed..."

  "You will be if you think I'm going to stand for your schoolboy tricks."

  He raised a protesting hand. "So help me, April."

  "Then how?" She swung around, gazing back down the street.

  "The revolving restaurant on top of the Tower," she said suddenly; "do you mind going on? I'll meet you there."

  "Well, there were some chaps—" he began hesitantly. "Old chums, y'know. Just a chance to swill the old noggin with them."

  She glared. "Some chaps? You and half a regiment of your old R.A.F. chum-buddies! Okay—be in the bar."

  "Now listen, mate." His voice lost its old-boy lilt. "This is a two-day leave. I'll be where I damn well please."

  "Go!" she said urgently.

  He glanced into her eyes, smiled softly.

  "Gone," he said—and went swiftly into the press of traffic and disappeared.

  April Dancer walked back the street, crossed over, sauntering, window-gazing. In a while the well-dressed figure came closer. She turned quickly, stumbled.

  "Oh! I'm so sorry. Pardon—" She looked up, smiled gushingly. "Why—Dr. Karadin, of all people!"

  He frowned slightly, anger flashing across his face; then a mask of smiling pleasure replaced it, though the eyes remained cold. He appeared to be searching his memory.

  "Ah, yes! Yes, of course. Dancer, isn't it? Miss April Dancer."

  She fluttered eyelashes at him. "Was I so hard to remember?"

  They shook hands.

  "A surprise," he said. "Such a surprise! Would I ever forget such a brilliant pupil?"

  "Nor I such a brilliant master."

  He bowed, smiling. "You are lovelier than ever."

  "And you are more suavely elegant."

  "We are a beautiful pair, are we not?" he agreed. "And you have the courage, mon amie, to wear a Paris dress in London's own Carnaby Street."

  She laughed. "A discerning man! Does the professor need some swinging gear to replace his Savile Row custom-made elegance?"

  He ignored the question. "I trust your career is fulfilling its early promise?"

  She sighed a little-girl-puzzled sigh. "I sometimes wonder. I thought life was a challenge, but it's really a battle, isn't it, Dr. Karadin?"

  "A succession of battles. One cannot win them all, but it is the salt and savor of life to keep trying. You are still doing research?"

  "Yes—research." Well, what else would you call it right now? she thought. "And you, my friend?"

  He shrugged. "I research also—it is an endless task. A success here, two failures there—so it goes." He glanced at his watch. "I am annoyed. My daughter wished me to meet her here. She is late and I am hungry. You remember my daughter, Suzanne?"

  "Why, yes, of course. A lovely little girl."

  "The little ones grow up. She is now very much the lady."

  April laughed softly. "A swinging lady, no doubt! I too made the mistake of agreeing to meet my friend here. He has a passion for fancy vests—oh, pardon me, weskits, he calls them. And as a bribe he was taking me to lunch in that marvelous Tower."

  Dr. Carl Karadin spread his hands as he exclaimed: "Let us leave them to find their own way. Be my guest, Miss Dancer. My car is at the end of the street. A table is reserved. Let us make the most of our meeting."

  "How nice! Thank you, Dr. Karadin. Might I be driven around to my hotel on the way? I have to check on a call I'm expecting."

  "Certainly—certainly. Direct the driver. We will wait for you."

  In the New York Headquarters of U.N.C.L.E., Mr. Waverly sat puffing at his pipe and tapping one finger on the console edge.

  "Foolish," he said. "So foolish." He looked up as Randy Kovac entered. "Did you raise our London contact?"

  "No, sir."

  "Or Mark Slate?"

  "No, sir."

  "Sama Paru in Paris?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Mr. Waverly put down his pipe slowly and deliberately, gazed at the ceiling and spoke softly.

  "Mr. Kovac, you are an intelligent and at times overenthusiastic student. You are aware that Miss April Dancer recently came through from London requesting certain information concerning one Dr. Carl Karadin. Also, she requested knowledge of my reports from this country concerning mysterious melting of money. We were able to inform her that Karadin was believed to be in London—which she knew—and that we have two reports of such mysterious melting of money—which has nothing to do with high prices. Am I right?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And did I not ask you to endeavor to raise our London agent, failing Mr. Slate or Mr. Paru, and report to me?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Yet I had to ask three questions before obtaining the only information you were able to give me. Remember not to be so concerned with appearing to be efficient, Mr. Kovac, and concentrate on being so in fact. Now—let us begin again. Did you raise our London contact?"

  Randy Kovac flushed.

  "No, sir, nor Mr. Slate, but I made contact with Sama Paru in Paris. Mr. Paru reports that Dr. Karadin has not been seen in Paris for several months. He is believed to have inherited a large amount of money, or is engaged upon a lucrative research project—possibly with American backing. He is known to have visited this country during the past year, but he has spent more time in England."

  "Ah! Thank you, Mr. Kovac. You see how easy it is when you try? I shall now require the exact dates of Karadin's visits to this country, the contacts he made whilst here, and a dossier on those contacts. We shall also send out a general observance alarm, and I think a brief word with the Treasury people will be in order. But I will attend to the last two details, thank you, Mr. Kovac."

  Randy Kovac hurried from "the presence". He didn't find Mr. Waverly merely awe-inspiring; he just scared the hell out of Randy, whose sole ambition was to become a skilled field agent for U.N.C.L.E. At present a high-school senior, he worked at U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters for two afternoons a week, was planning to go to college and felt keenly that if only Mr. Waverly would understand that he had the makings of a brilliant agent, the future of U.N.C.L.E. would be assured.

  Mr. Waverly did in fact think highly of young Kovac and knew exactly what his new member thought and how he felt. But an U.N.C.L.E. agent has to have far more than resourcefulness and inspired guesswork. Mr. Waverly admired Randy's initiative in making opportunities for escaping from his job as messenger in Section One, or from the Map Room, to get into the more exciting departments. U.N.C.L.E. encouraged initiative in its members, but overenthusiastic juniors had to be gently curbed and carefully directed.

  Randy Kovac had those failings of youth, but he also had a large amount of commonsense and knew very well that his learning had scarcely begun. This didn't prevent him from stepping outside his routine tasks whenever he could see or make the chance. He admired Napoleon Solo, held Illya Kuryakin in high esteem, and sincerely respected Mr. Waverly. But Mark Slate was a special obj
ect of reverence to him.

  Mark—that brilliant "export" from London Headquarters. A Cambridge graduate with honors, ex-R.A.F. veteran, former member of the British Olympic Ski Team, expert at judo, karate, and a dead shot. Fluent in a dozen languages and yet a buccaneering gallant with unbounded zest for modern life and living. Randy Kovac had only to think of Mark Slate to know exactly how much more he had to learn.

  He wasn't jealous of Mark Slate, even though his hero was April Dancer's partner. Which showed how emotionally balanced he was—for in April Dancer there dwelt all that Randy, the man, could desire in a woman. And what a woman! Young, beautiful, talented—a graduate of a good New England girls' college, daughter of service folk who had traveled with her all over the world.

  Randy often sneaked into personnel files just to gaze there on the assorted pictures of lovely April and to read all he could decipher of her background. She also was fluent in a dozen languages, as expert as any man in judo and karate or with her U.N.C.L.E. gun. But her record showed that she preferred not to kill and seldom used her weapon or her knowledge of karate for any means but to save another agent's life. She constantly faced danger, yet emerged unscathed, possessing intuitive reactions as well as vast experience for one so young, and an unbreakable nerve.

  Reading such a record would scare off many an admirer, but Randy knew also about April Dancer the golfer, horse rider, trap-shooter (and crap shooter as a matter of fact); the April Dancer who could fly a plane and for relaxation had beaten men drivers at their own sports car races. Yet no lady was more lovely when gowned for graceful ballet or ballroom dancing, or even the more virile dances of the frug and the pachanga. Those were the things she did. For Randy Kovac, she would have been top of every pop by just being herself around town—but those other assets lifted her to glorious heights in his esteem.

  Small wonder, then, that any official U.N.C.L.E. business involving April Dancer and Mark Slate made Randy Kovac work thrice as hard to play a more active part in the many routines and actions followed through at Headquarters.

  A general assignment agent such as April Dancer usually followed direction from Headquarters, but in U.N.C.L.E.'S endless battle against the forces of destruction an agent did, at times, notice some odd pointer when in the field. Such agents' training, experience and natural resourcefulness helped them always to link the improbable with the possible. Their knowledge of world affairs helped them to recognize agents of opposing factions and leaders of groups who held views harmful to the national security, or individual scientists and others whose activities were suspect.