GFU01 - The Global Globules Affair

by Simon Latter

  Mr. Waverly never laughed at such reports from his experienced and trusted agents—and of all mirth-provoking reports, this latest one from April Dancer, concerning "chicks in armor" and paper money that melted, was a beaut.

  But once again that intuitive sense which all agents must have had linked together apparently absurd incidents, and in this linking set into operation the powerful undercover machine of U.N.C.L.E.

  The "obbo" men and women—the passive man-in-the-street observation agents of U.N.C.L.E.—were alerted. Slowly the reports came in, were tabulated and assessed. No pattern emerged, but the pointers were there.

  April Dancer had not made a joke.

  CHAPTER TWO: WATCH IT - LOVER BOY!

  THE powder room was obligingly empty. April Dancer jammed the door, opened her purse, extracted compact and U.N.C.L.E. communicator, manipulated both. The compact mirror became a miniature TV screen and the head and shoulders of the London H.Q. contact appeared.

  "Hi, April! Fine reception."

  "I'm on the Post Office Tower—couldn't have a better spot. Did you pick up the money package from my hotel?"

  "Yes, working on it now. It'll take time—but preliminary check shows presence of two substances. One dissolves ink, the other works on the fibers found in banknote paper. You may be on to something."

  "You bet your life I'm on to something. This could be global. Have you contacted the British Treasury?"

  "Mr. Waverly and Washington have done so. There'll be no press leakage. It's classified."

  "I should hope so. Just remember that's my cash—I want a refund in real money. Forty-two pounds."

  He smiled gently. "We made it about thirty."

  "Are you calling me a liar?"

  "No, Miss Dancer. I'll send it to your hotel."

  "Do that. Inform Mr. Waverly that I'm lunching with Dr. Karadin."

  "Will do. Mr. Waverly suggests caution. He feels that a tail might be better at this stage."

  "I'm sorry—I can't hear you."

  "No." He smiled again. "I thought you couldn't. Sama Paru in Paris reports a possible money-melting incident in the Rue Rivoli but cannot confirm. Count Kazan is in Monte Carlo."

  "He would be! So?"

  "No money incidents, but a number of models wearing metal-type dresses have been seen. Local opinion is that they are an advertising gimmick."

  Somebody turned the powder room door. April heard a woman's voice say, "It seems to be locked."

  "Over and out," she said quickly. "Keep my channel open." She closed the compact and manipulated certain of the articles on her charm bracelet. "Mark Slate—hear me. I shall lunch with Karadin. Don't interrupt but look for signal. Saw you in bar on my way through. One of your old chums—the red-haired one—looks very much like a THRUSH agent I knew of in Germany—so watch it, lover boy! Out."

  She un-jammed the door, smiling sweetly at the women outside. "Oh! I'm so sorry—it sort of got itself stuck. Pardon me." She stepped around them and walked to the restaurant, passing the bar on the way.

  Mark Slate, two other men and a small, vivacious girl with a large bosom and a pretty-pretty face were at a table. The girl seemed to have known Slate a long time. "At least ten minutes," April thought nastily. "So that's Suzanne Karadin! She's sure enough grown since I last saw her."

  Mark Slate glanced up, saw April and raised one hand casually to his ear to signify that her message had been received through his ear radio; otherwise he made no recognition.

  Dr. Karadin came forward to meet her.

  "Our table is ready."

  April thought—he must have seen me glance in the bar. He must know I saw Suzanne. Likewise he must know she is there, because he'd see her when he came by. A cold feather flickered in her tummy. A silly way to describe one of her inexpiable warning systems. Sometimes it happened to the nape of her neck. A serious warning feathered cold ripples up her spine. She never denied these feelings. They were like radar to her. Many people have similar signs when unseen danger threatens them. To those who live constantly with danger, this "radar" becomes a highly tuned mechanism.

  "You have been here at night?" Karadin asked when he had ordered their meal. "The scene is like a fairyland city."

  "My first visit." She gazed through the panoramic windows at the vista fanning out hundreds of feet below them. The day was showery, the blue sky patchworked with grey- white cloud giving good visibility as the restaurant slowly revolved.

  "Over there is what you Americans call Buck House." He indicated. "Follow the line from the Nelson column in Trafalgar Square—see the Admiralty Arch, the wide avenue of The Mall, the white monument in front of Buckingham Palace—all so tiny, so neat, don't you think?"

  "Yes indeed." She let him talk as she acted her part of ex-pupil. When he switched to French she answered him in that language. He played a little game by pointing out the position of various Embassies and Legations and describing them in the different languages of their countries.

  April Dancer answered him in each tongue. They smiled and laughed, the suave bon vivant and the young American beauty—yet as each language was exchanged it became obvious that Dr. Carl Karadin was using words like probing rapiers. Intellect sparred with intellect, talent with talent.

  "You have studied well and traveled widely," he said. "I congratulate you, my dear. I wish Suzanne had one tenth of your mental power."

  She laughed. "And I wish I had one tenth of yours! Have you lived in London a long time?"

  "Not very long, but I have known it for years."

  "You are working over here? Don't you miss Paris?"

  He shrugged. "Each city, each country has its attractions. You say you are on a touring holiday. Do you not miss New York?"

  "I guess so. But working away from home is very different—it must take more adjustment. Are you still pursuing the Parsimal Theory?"

  "Ah! So you remember that too! I have not wholly discounted Parsimal. His theory of moisture layers being directed and harnessed by sonic waves is palpably absurd, but his sub-theory of stratum has a potential."

  "Spare me!" April Dancer giggled. "My old professor is as brilliant as ever! You are the only man I ever met whose eyes flashed when he spoke about air. What was it you told us?––the whole of creation is suspended in air? Every thought, every act, every sound is transmitted and received by air—air, the invisible, air, the unseen power, air, the giver and taker of life!"

  He laughed softly. "And what did my students call me? Papa Hot-air?"

  "Students are not the nicest of people." She switched subjects suddenly. "But surely your talents would be more appreciated by commercial firms? Have you not been to America?"

  "Soon," he said. "Soon, I hope to go."

  Oh brother! she thought. Why the cover up? After all, I'm only an ex-student, so why be coy? I know damn well you've been to America. Aloud she said: "They'd love you there."

  He smiled. "You think so? I have work to finish here." He waved a hand embracing the scene below. "A mellow city, this London. A grimy city, as are many English towns. They have a big air pollution problem here. I am carrying out some research. The British have given me facilities."

  "That's wonderful !" She beamed at him, then glanced up as Mark Slate and Suzanne passed on the way to their table.

  Dr. Karadin gave no sign of recognition. They both started talking at once, then laughed. A waiter came.

  "Excuse me, sir—Dr. Karadin?"

  "Yes?"

  "There is a phone call for you—if you would come this way, please."

  Karadin rose, bowed slightly. "Forgive me? I left word that I would be lunching here."

  She smiled. "Of course." Waited until he was across the room, then rested one hand against her head, the other hand apparently idly twiddling the charm bracelet. She lip-spoke into the micro-sender. "Hear me, Mark." She saw his hand flick casually up to his head as if smoothing the side hair. "Watch it, lover boy. The little lollapalooza is daddy's girl and I'm working on daddy. Th
is thing is wide open. We'll have to play it by ear. Headquarters is on to it. Turn and smile acknowledgement."

  Mark Slate did not at once turn, but flicked his finger over his button micro-sender. The howl nearly blew out her eardrums. Then he turned, nonchalantly surveying the restaurant, and beamed a beatific but devilish grin at her as if to say: "Don't be childish—I know what I'm doing."

  April was furious. She oscillated her own sender just as Mark was raising his glass of wine and smiling into the eyes of Suzanne. The blast lifted him in his seat. The glass of wine shot in a neat spout between the well-advertised breasts. Dr. Karadin returned at that moment, thus cutting out April's view of the fun. Karadin ignored the commotion of bustling waiters and mopping napkins at the distant table.

  They ate their meal, leisurely talking and watching the panoramic views below them. Karadin pointed out landmarks, famous buildings, wittily discussed their historic associations and compared them with the more modern, changing skyline around St. Paul's and the City of London.

  "As in all countries," he observed as they were served with coffee and liqueurs, "the tourist usually is drawn to tourist centers. While these are major attractions, there are many others sometimes of even greater interest. For example, Paris does not represent France any more than New York represents America, and the English countryside with its smaller towns and centuries-old villages is not truly represented by London."

  "Time is restricted, I suppose," said April. "One books a tour to Europe—takes in London, Stratford-upon-Avon, some cathedral cities, then zips over to Holland to see windmills, canals and tulip fields." She spoke in the same easy, friendly, impersonal tone set by Karadin himself. But she knew this was all feed-in guff. To what, she didn't know, but her "radar" was beaming strong signals.

  "The roads, of course, are difficult for the foreign driver." Dr. Karadin smiled. "They not only drive on the wrong side but in many areas the roads are so narrow and winding that one has to drive in the middle. A most disconcerting experience for many tourists."

  "But surely no different from many mountain roads and other country areas in Europe?"

  "True?' He nodded. "But hedge-lined roads are a particular hazard. One cannot see over the tall hedges, nor is it wise to use a very large car. It is a pity you are on a timed tour. I am sure you would find the West country of England quite fascinating. My research center is on Dartmoor—a wild and lonely place, but quietly secluded."

  "It sounds ideal for research work." She rose to his thinly disguised bait. "I'm not actually booked on a tour—not with a party—just following a schedule of my own."

  He smiled. "Ah! The discipline of the ordered mind! At work or play, this discipline must be applied else all is chaos. Others prefer to be disciplined by committing themselves to an organized party with its fixed timetables and block bookings. So you can change your schedule if you wish?"

  "Certainly I can." She assumed an air of embarrassment. "As a matter of fact, Dr. Karadin, I am a little bored with ordinary sight-seeing. I love to get off the beaten track. I think I'll hire a car and drive through this West country you've been telling me about."

  He paused to sip his liqueur, then walked right into her trap.

  "That phone call was to tell me that an important experiment of mine is about to be resolved. This means I have to drive down to the West country this afternoon. We have a large house with a number of guest rooms. I'm sure you would be enchanted"—he beamed a warm smile at her––"and so would I, if you would care to accompany me?"

  She beamed right back at him, the picture of a little girl delighted.

  "Oh! That would be marvelous! I don't have much to pack. What time do you leave London?"

  He glanced at his watch. "In about an hour. I will pick you up at your hotel."

  "That's fine. Your chauffeur knows it."

  "I use the chauffeur-driven car only in London. The parking and traffic problems irritate me. I have my own car. We will leave here when you are ready, and meet later."

  She watched him settle the bill from a well-filled wallet—an unusual wallet which looked like silver leather. He noticed her interest.

  "A present from Morocco," he said casually. "A trifle flashy, but I like it." He stowed the wallet away, rose briskly and stood aside for her to leave ahead of him. But by using a blockage of waiters to her advantage, April made her way by a different course among the tables and so was free to give Mark Slate a swift signal message.

  Mark read the message as: "I'm walking into a trap. Contact H.Q. for link" as April Dancer came towards his table. He stuck out his foot as she passed, causing her to stumble. He leapt up. "So frightfully sorry! My fault. I really should watch my big feet."

  April laughed. "That makes two of us." She passed on out of the restaurant.

  Mark sat down, grinning at Suzanne with a humor he didn't feel. Despite her obvious femininity, he found her extremely boring as a woman. He always did when they threw it at him in large handfuls. He'd known for some time that April Dancer made other women seem pretty drab. He'd got along fairly well in his social life without this perfection spoiling the general crop, but Suzanne—who should be, and no doubt was considered to be—a moderately lush dish, was hard work. A great strain on his natural reactions because he hardly reacted to her at all.

  From the moment of meeting she'd lushed it up—not ham-like, but so forcefully that it was hard to believe she didn't really find him irresistible. Perhaps she did? You never knew with dishes. They came hot or cold, or with transparent covers or asbestos lids. Suzanne was the "open dish" type, guaranteed to give you heartburn from an overdose of uncooked protein served in rich malarkey sauce.

  Ginger Coke had introduced them in the bar, where Mark and Jeff Hale, now a Ministry wallah, were sinking a quiet noggin. He'd flown with Jeff in the old days. There'd been four of them—four hell-raisers. Stan and Jack Dill, the hell up twins, crashed in a big way and went out—zppt! Ginger had been a replacement pilot. A good enough lad, but not from the same stable as the twins.

  When Ginger and Suzanne joined them, Ginger made it very clear that he didn't know the girl very well. "Only met once at some party, old boy—glided into each other at the entrance." This was strange talk from Ginger. In the old days, Ginger latched on to any passable female, whether he'd met her once or many times. Yet now he worked hard to explain that Suzanne was virtually unescorted, while Suzanne behaved as if she had come to the Tower especially to meet Mark Slate. Jeff watched them with an amused and tolerant gaze, occasionally flicking a questioning eyebrow at Mark. Ginger insisted on loading them up, saying he had a lunch appointment elsewhere, but why waste good drinking time with old chums?

  They had reached the stage of, "I say, d'you remember that buzz-around in Malaysia... and whatever happened to old Blanco White?" Suzanne played footsie, eyesie and why-not-take-all-of-me with Mark, who didn't react helpfully until he received April's call. After that he had returned footsie, handsie, where-have-you-been-all-my-life with such gusto that Jeff had said coldly: "You know where to contact me when you're free. So long, Mark!" Ginger jumped in with a "Aw, hell! Is that the time? I'll ride down with you, Jeff. Cheerio, you two—see you around!"

  Mark hinted that he'd been stood-up on his lunch date; Suzanne hinted that this had happened to her, too, but neither gave details. Mark had in fact been stood-up by April, whose company he would have preferred. It wasn't this that irritated him so much as the knowledge that all of a sudden she had zoomed him into work again when he'd laid on the perfect evening, following what he'd hoped would be a softening-up lunch.

  To be off duty with April was a rare event. Too rare to pass-up. He cursed her womanly intuition, her keen observance, her all-consuming career ambitions—or whatever had launched her suddenly onto this new case. He'd wanted to show her off to Jeff, who would certainly appreciate a woman like April Dancer. Now, all he now had was this monstrously coy little sex-pot, and was forced to switch his mind from personal to impersonal rea
ctions. On U.N.C.L.E. business the job came first and last—and in the middle.

  The message from April at the table helped him to understand Suzanne's behavior, so what had been a personal bore now became an impersonal chore—all part of the job. But he couldn't resist giving April a blast on his micro-sender just to let her know how he felt. He hadn't been quick enough to switch out the circuit before she herself had slammed an oscillation right back at him, causing him to shoot his wine over Suzanne's frontal armory.

  Even this seemed to please her.

  "You will have to take me home to change my dress, you naughty man!" She giggled. "You will like that, no?"

  Instead of replying: "Oh Gawd! No thanks, mate!" as he felt, he said: "Sure am glad I'm clumsy. Gosh, I thought you'd be furious."

  "How could I be—wis you?"

  He almost groaned aloud at the corn she was handing him, but at last he knew this had been her objective. Where was home?—and what else besides a new dress would be waiting for them? The exchange of signals with April put him back in the duty groove. The anticipation of action was compensation enough.

  April Dancer had taken Mark's swodge of paper money, leaving him with some small change. She'd conveniently forgotten to lend him the two five-pound notes he had requested and as Jeff and Ginger had bought drinks, he'd forgotten his lack of cash. He searched his pockets, while Suzanne watched him.

  "I think perhaps you have left all your money at your hotel," she said. She opened her purse, extracted notes from a shiny silvery wallet and passed them under the table.

  "How very understanding of you! I'll stop off at my hotel and pick up some traveler's checks."