by Simon Latter
"No," she spoke sharply, then added quickly: "Oh no—you must not think of it." She angled her cleavage his way. "I cannot bear these damp clothes any longer. I must go straight home and change." She gave a little girl pout. "You promised."
"So did you," he said meaningfully.
"Ah!" She wagged a finger. "We shall see, eh?'
Mark settled the bill, grinning to himself as he thought of April's reluctance to be accommodating with money. The day she willingly and cheerfully picked up the tab had yet to dawn. He felt it would be a long, long night to that particular dawn. His loyalty to April Dancer was unbounded, but if pressed he would have to admit that whilst he'd never met another woman so talented, courageous and beautiful, he also had never met one so mean with money.
They taxied to the Regent's Park area of London. The house was the end one in a row of graceful porticoed Nash houses. The exterior was as gracious as the day it had been built, but the interior obviously had been modernized with no regard to expense.
She led the way to a door at the rear of the hail.
"You will be comfortable here," she said. "I will not be long." She opened the door and stood aside.
It was a lush room, all green leather furniture, gold and ivory walls, grass-green carpet, tapestry curtains, an executive desk with green glass table, topped with phones of cream and green. He didn't have time to observe more before the door closed. He turned at the sound and stared down into the black round eye of the gun which was aimed at his heart.
"You heard the lady," said Ginger Coke. "Take a seat, chum, and make yourself comfortable."
CHAPTER THREE: WHERE BIRDS CAN FLY
SAMA PARU daily blessed U.N.C.L.E. He was a French citizen, son of an Armenian mother, a Turkish father, grandson of an Hungarian circus performer who married an Italian high-wire artiste. With such a family it was natural that Sama's childhood should be spent traveling back and forth through Europe, natural too that he should like freedom and excitement. He came to U.N.C.L.E. via Morocco and certain Middle East espionage rings. Sama Paru cherished the aims of U.N.C.L.E., having spent hard years proving his worth before being appointed a European Field Contact man.
Count Kazan, his partner, had an entirely different back ground. He always had known wealth and luxury, yet instead of engaging himself in the social life of his generation or, as did so many of his contemporaries, entering politics, he sought an outlet for his fierce ambitions to see the world free of tyranny, war and injustice. He was an idealist, but years of training had matured this idealism into more purposeful and practical channels. He became an expert in International Law, a skilled pilot, an expert in codes and in physical sports. He used these skills also as social assets, for part of his U.N.C.L.E. work was to maintain contact with the upper echelons of society. Indeed, he blessed U.N.C.L.E. for having given his life a decided purpose.
They worked well together, these two men from such different backgrounds. Neither of them wanted personal power, though both could have achieved it. They were, in fact, internationals rather than Europeans, and their work with U.N.C.L.E. gave them the satisfaction of world service rather than that of local service to some local cause.
Seeing them together one was reminded of two of the famous Musketeers, Count Kazan being D'Artagnan to Sama Paru's Porthos. Yet they were seldom seen together in social life. When called to work together on an U.N.C.L.E. assignment they adopted such roles as Kazan the wealthy master to Paru the chauffeur or manservant, mechanic or gardener. Sama Paru slipped easily into any such role; Count Kazan did not, although he was expert at disguise. But usually he remained himself and, having no experience of hardship nor the usual necessity for working to earn a precarious living, could not easily assume working-class roles.
Sama Paru was alone in his Paris apartment when Count Kazan called him up.
"You are alone, Sama?"
"I am."
"That is hard to believe. Where is Colette? Or is it Trudy, the little American? Or perhaps Sofia, the Italian? I confess I cannot keep pace with your amours."
"Alone, I said," Sama growled. "And why should I care whether or not you can count?"
"Been caught in any good rain showers lately?"
"You should call me on emergency channel to ask me that?"
"Tut! Tut!" said Kazan. "Paris always makes you so touchy. Now me—I am full of sunshine, sitting on top of a mountain way, way to the south of you, watching the sky."
"A pleasant occupation."
"April Dancer is in London."
"So is Mark Slate. Happy sky watching. Over and out."
"'Wait!"
"So?"
"So what makes it rain?"
"In parts of Ireland they say it is the little people."
"In other places it could be big people."
"Try the Hopi Indians—they have a reputation as rain makers. Is this connected with that Rue Rivoli report I sent to New York?"
"What did you think of it?" Kazan asked.
"On reports, I give the facts that are required. When Mr. Waverly requests my opinion, he asks for it. The facts were that there was a shower of rain and there were some people who claimed their money melted. I do not have enough spare cash to leave around in the rain, but if I did, I would expect it to get wet."
"What do you, personally, know of Dr. Carl Karadin?"
Sama Paru frowned at the ceiling. "One of those Left Bank professors in his younger days. Later, a frustrated research scientist with some pretty wild theories. An admirer of Parsimal, though he quarreled with Parsimal's theories. Became a nutcase—very clever, many talents, but too diversified. He faded out of the Paris scene—oh, three years ago. Married, parted—one daughter. I heard he inherited money. Retired to carry out his own research. I couldn't prove that, though." Sama paused. "Wait now—there was something."
"Political?" Kazan suggested.
"Not really. It was in keeping with his role as a nutcase. He wanted to replace world currency with the French franc. Or did he want a world currency to replace the franc? Some such gibberish. Well, goodbye now. Don't take too much sun."
"London office reports April Dancer and Dr. Karadin heading to west of England in a helicopter. Mark Slate engaged with Karadin's daughter in London."
"And you are sitting on a mountain."
"I've got a helicopter too." Kazan spoke slowly and clearly. "There is a point on the French coast—Omonvile, in the Department of Manche. Get yourself a helicopter. Omonvile is opposite the English south-west, a few miles from Cherbourg."
"It is, more exactly, opposite Bournemouth, which is on the English south coast," said Sama coldly. "They have four tides a day and the sands are quite clean. We could nip over for a paddle. Or have you a more exciting suggestion?"
"There could be birds on the wing. If you brought your bird-watching outfit we might see the lesser thrush."
"Or even the greater thrush?" Sama Paru's eyes gleamed at the mention of the word.
"What else is in south-west England?"
"Traffic jams," said Sama. "On the roads, of course. Or what they call roads over there. I once went to Gilhooley, the space satellite relay station."
"Ah!" said Kazan. "Interesting. There also is Dartmoor."
"A very nasty prison."
"And a wild moorland?"
"Where birds can fly in freedom and remain hidden if they wish. The thrush is often a sky bird."
"Exactly," said Kazan.
"Exactly where?"
"That depends on our bird-watching skills."
"I will load all necessary equipment." Sama Paru ceased his bantering tone as he asked: "Is this a directive?"
"No—a request. There appears to be a deal of guessing going on at the moment. Our charming April is allowing herself to be used as bait."
"I would not care to be the fisherman who caught her. I do not know of a fishing line strong enough to hold a tiger."
"At Omonville," said Kazan. "Yes?"
"But yes!" said Sam
a Paru. "I leave within the hour. You have had to hire a chopper—couldn't you wait for our Paris-based U.N.C.L.E. machine?"
"No. Two choppers were requested. I shall fly it so there will be no strangers aboard. Au 'voir, mon vieux!"
CHAPTER FOUR: CHOPPERS AWAY
DR. KARADIN almost caught her out with his sudden change of plan. Fortunately, just as she was leaving her hotel room she made a last contact with London Headquarters to report that she was on her way.
"You told me not to call you," said the London link man, "but just after you reported in, we received information that Karadin seldom drives to the west. He picks up a helicopter outside London, flies to Exeter and takes his car from there. New York is a little annoyed. We cannot raise Mark Slate, and Mr. Waverly considers you are taking an undue risk."
"Tell him it's a matter of comparison," said April. "All risk is undue—if you see what I mean?"
The link man grinned. "I do, but will he?"
"That's up to you," said April, smiling sweetly. "But if you say it the wrong way—I'll have your guts for garters. Over and out."
In the hotel lobby Dr. Karadin, who had changed into country tweeds which gave him a chunky and less suave appearance, said cheerfully: "I have decided to use the helicopter. The roads are very crowded and I am anxious to reach the west country as soon as possible. You do not mind?"
April contrived to look surprised. "My! But you must be an important man around here! Your own helicopter service!"
He smiled. "A small matter of effective organization. The chauffeur-driven car is parked around the corner from the hotel. I will join you in a moment." As she left he was heading towards the toilets.
Through an angled mirror Karadin saw April Dancer leave the hotel. He at once changed direction and went past the curving reception desk into a small corridor. He leaned through an open window to where the hotel telephonist sat at the switchboard and passed her a slim fold of money.
"The lady made no calls," said the girl, pushing the money under a phone pad. "Nor did she receive any."
"Good," said Karadin. "And Slate?"
"No messages either in or out. He hasn't returned to his room since he left this morning."
"You will phone my London number should any calls for either be received?"
The girl tapped the phone pad, smiling. "As long as this lasts."
"You are being overpaid," Karadin snapped.
The girl shrugged. "That's a matter of opinion. You'll get your money's worth."
"Pah!" snarled Karadin as he hurried away.
As a journey to benefit a tourist, it was a dead loss. The car whizzed through the dense traffic of Knightsbridge, Kensington and Chiswick, occasionally darting along side streets to escape jams, so all that April Dancer saw were rows of parked cars, grubby houses and fume-belching red buses.
"Good grief!" she exclaimed. "How do they ever sort out this tangle on these horse and buggy roads? Why don't they have a heliport in central London?"
"They have," said Karadin. "But as yet we have not succeeded in filing up enough forms to defeat the red tape which binds private operators. So we cannot use it. We have not long acquired permits to land a helicopter near our house on the moors. I have to fly to Exeter and drive by road from there."
They chatted about the ways of bureaucrats in various countries and the difficulties of filling forms and obtaining permits and licenses. April Dancer purposely kept the conversation at this inane level. In some ways it was a natural conversation for a tourist, but with her usual insight she had detected a change in Karadin. He too had been acting a part and, if her own hunch was correct, had many more important things on his mind right now than the subject they were discussing.
There is nothing so infuriating as having to listen to a constant flow of trivial chatter when one is trying to assess the dangers, difficulties and other aspects of a problem. She had forced herself upon Karadin after that lightning hunch hit her, leaving him only two courses to follow. To exchange pleasantries, give a brief explanation of why he was in town and leave her; or to stick with her until he'd made certain she really was a holiday tourist. What else could he think she was?—and why? If any other thought entered his head, then he'd proved her hunch to be correct. Slightly illogical reasoning, but then, for all her talents and efficiency as an U.N.C.L.E. agent, April Dancer was still a woman. Which was why Mr. Waverly often gave her a latitude he would not allow the men. She had a flair for being right before logic could prove her to be.
By the time they had almost reached London Airport it was obvious that her companion was becoming edgy. The car took a side road, then drove along a track which led to a small field where a helicopter was parked. The chauffeur took her overnight bag and Karadin's luggage. The pilot stowed them away. In less than five minutes they were airborne. April began chatting again.
"Please," said Dr. Karadin, raising a protesting hand. "Please do be silent for just a little while. I have a severe headache."
"Oh dear, I am sorry," April gushed. "Now you just lean back in your seat and I'll look out of the window. Have you been overworking? Yes, you do look kind of tired. I had an uncle once who suffered from headaches. Nearly drove him mad. But he had a wonderful cure... ." She giggled and launched into a long and impossible explanation.
This was a weapon not issued to U.N.C.L.E. agents—the weapon of the female mind linked to the female tongue. Stronger men than Karadin have taken to their heels to escape it; in the close quarters of a helicopter there was no escape from the strident, high-pitched voice April Dancer purposely adopted. It even got on the pilot's nerves, for he kept stabbing venomous glances in her direction.
Nor did surveying the patchwork-quilt panorama of south-west England make her silent, because soon after take-off they ran into heavy rain and low cloud so that she couldn't see much anyway. So she jabbered on and on, hoping her voice wouldn't crack under the strain. Karadin cracked first.
"Blast you, woman!" he yelled. "Will you keep quiet?"
"Well, really!" April screeched indignantly. "I don't call that very polite. Fancy speaking to your guest like that! After all, you invited me to see your precious West country and this house on the moors. You know, I always did think you were too good to be true—now listen to me, Professor. I guess you've been out of this world too long. Women have rights now, you know... ." And off she was again, in a long tirade.
At last Karadin reached for the first-aid kit, turning away from her to open it.
"That's right," she said. "You take a handful of aspirins. They'll settle your nerves."
"My God!" Karadin exclaimed. "I'll settle yours!" He whirled in his seat, a Beretta automatic pointing at her navel. "Keep still," he said huskily. "Very still or I'll blow a hole right through you." He moved swiftly and slapped a piece of sticking tape over her lips. When she brought her hand up he slashed the gun across her knuckles, grabbed her hand, forced it down and lashed it to a seat strut with more tape.
April could have taken him then by one swift action, but this outcome was what she had wanted. She'd been prepared to have to wait until they reached the house, but when she guessed he was under strain she hoped he'd be forced to make his first move.
Karadin leaned back in his seat. "Okay," he said to the pilot. "Radio ahead for the car and two attendants. Use the code."
He turned to April Dancer. She glared at him, still maintaining her role of outraged innocence.
"U.N.C.L.E. made a mistake in sending you to London," he told her. "You are a little too famous to be ignored. I did not want to be bothered with you, but once you had made contact with me I had to take you out of circulation. I don't know whether you are a very foolish or brave young woman to make yourself so obvious. There were other means available to me, but I could not take them. We Europeans are still rather hidebound by tradition. We cannot truly accept that a woman who does a man's job should also take the same risks." He shrugged. "And anyway, violence against a woman always attracts more attentio
n. For that, you should be thankful."
April mouthed stifled words. "What are you going to do with me?" she managed at last to say.
He shrugged again. "That is not really my department. You may get hurt. You may not. That will depend on you. My friends will want you to talk..." He smiled nastily. "That is a pleasure to which they are welcome. I don't care if I never hear your voice again. It will be a long time before you are found—if ever."
Mark Slate surveyed the gun, then grinned at Ginger Coke.
"This isn't very chummy, old boy."
"My pleasure, mate," said Ginger. "I hope you force me to squeeze the trigger."
"Charming of you. That means you have orders not to shoot unless forced to."
"Don't get ideas. You'll be dead soon enough, but you've some talking to do first."
"To you?"
"I'll be there. I've waited a long time, my old Mark—a long time. I never fitted, did I? Not with you or Jeff, or any of the other"—he sneered—"old boys. Not Ginger Coke—not really one of us, old man. Oh yes, mate, I volunteered to set you up as soon as we knew you were in London."
"You did?" Mark laughed. "I thought that was the sex pot's job. Will she claim the lunch on her expenses?" He saw the fury flood into Ginger's eyes. "Who is she, Ginger?—one of those French bints who're out of work now the blue film racket is a bust? But you always went for the easy ones, didn't you? Remember that bint in Germany? And the one in Kuala Lumpar? None of us would touch 'em with a barge pole, but our Ginger did—didn't you, chum?" He saw the knuckle whiten and the gun quiver. "What are you around here, besides being a one-gun hero—the prize stallion?"
The quiver became a jerk as Coke fought for control—a jerk big enough to deflect the gun from its vital target. In that split second Mark Slate moved—silent, swift.
The first blow paralyzed Ginger Coke's gun hand. The second across the throat had him gasping and retching. The next doubled him up in agony. Silently, ruthlessly, Mark all but destroyed the renegade, beating him to the lush green carpet—sobbing, gasping, pain-wracked. Yet even as his eyes were glazing, the hatred seeped enough strength into his arm for Ginger to fling his hand against a wall switch set low down on the skirting board. Mark Slate crashed one foot into a vital part. Coke's breath gushed out in a sighing moan as he collapsed into senselessness. Mark picked up the gun.
