She pulled down and there was a click and the lock opened and then the gate opened and she led them under the hot burning sun a long way along narrow roads. Then they were on a big road and cars passed and they waved at the cars and the cars passed.
"Look," Kuryakin said. "Steve and I better get out of the way. We look like a couple of hoods, delinquents. I don't blame them for not stopping." And he grinned. "But for you, Miss... Hunter, did you say?"
"That is correct."
"Anybody doesn't stop for you, Miss Hunter— that would be a pretty sick fella."
They went off the road and squatted behind a hedge of weeds and were out of sight of the whiz zing cars. The girl stood alone, a blond girl in a green-and-white striped dress, and waved at the whizzing cars. A truck stopped, and she talked to the driver. Then she turned and waved to them, and they came out of the shelter of the weeds and went up into the truck, and they all sat huddled together in the steamy cab of the truck thunderously rumbling on the hot road.
"I'm not allowed no riders," the driver said, a round-faced man in a visored cap, "but the little lady says emergency, and emergency, naturally that's different. But I am dropping you off at the first town, which ain't far, which is the deal I made with the little lady, which is all I can do for you. I'm not allowed no riders."
"Thank you," Kuryakin said.
"Ain't much of a town. Three blocks of town and then no more town. All the rest all around is suburbs for rich people."
They rode rumbling in the sun for a few miles, and then the truck stopped at the edge of a paved street.
"This is it," the driver said. "All I can do. I can get into trouble. I'm not allowed no riders."
"Thank you," Kuryakin said.
"Welcome. Watch your step, little lady."
The truck was gone, leaving a smell of gasoline in the motionless air. They walked and came to a diner, built in the shape of a railroad car, painted yellow. Now it was Kuryakin who was leading. They climbed up three stairs, slid open a door, and entered. It was an off hour; there were no customers. It was cool from wood-bladed fans slowly rotating from wooden staves in the ceiling. There was a counter with backless round-seat stools screwed into the floor. Opposite the counter there were booths by the windows. The windows had Venetian blinds drawn against the glare of the sun. It was dim and cool and empty.
A woman in a yellow uniform with a lacy white apron came out from the kitchen behind the counter, took up a pad and pencil from the counter, looked rather suspiciously at Kuryakin and Steve, but smiled toward Pamela Hunter.
She had a long face and long teeth and narrow inquiring eyes. Her voice was not friendly, but neutral.
"Yes, folks? What can I do for you?"
Kuryakin smiled, nodded, and said, "Please, a minute," and the three huddled. "Do you have any money?" Kuryakin asked Pamela. "We don't."
"No. I didn't bring a bag. Nothing." Kuryakin broke from them, went to the woman behind the counter.
"We don't have any money, ma'am, but if you please... ."
"What the heck's going on here?" the woman said, fear pinching in her mouth. "What is this?"
"Please, we don't mean any harm. We're in a bit of trouble."
"Look, I only work here. I can't serve you..."
"Could you lend me a dime, please, for a phone call?" Kuryakin pointed toward the phone booth at the far end of the diner. "A call to New York..."
"That costs more than a dime, mister."
"I'll call collect. I'll return the dime to you at once."
"What the heck's going on here?" She looked from the unshaven men to the well-dressed girl.
"These guys bothering you, miss? I mean..."
"No."
"You with them—or they forcing you into something?" Her voice pitched up shrilly. "Just don't you be afraid, dearie..."
"No, I'm with them."
"What the heck? Now what the heck is this? Something's darned funny..."
"Please give him the coin. Please!"
"Darned funny. Who are these guys? You sure you know them? Look, we got cops..."
"I know them."
"You in trouble?"
"Yes. All of us."
"Look, honey, if you're hungry, it's okay. I don't own this joint, but grub, a meal, I can stake you..."
"Not hungry, thank you."
"You sure?"
"Sure."
"Honey, I don't like this. Look, we got a kitchen man in the back. He's big; he can take these two guys and knock their heads together. Don't be afraid now. I can see you're afraid. You got tears in back of your eyes, I can see. Now just hold up. William!" she called toward the kitchen. "Hey, Bill!"
A towering man in a white apron came out of the kitchen and out from behind the counter. "Okay, I been listening. I'll take care of these bums, lady. I'll throw them right out on their ear." He took hold of Steve. Kuryakin pulled him off. The man clenched a huge ham-hand, turned swiftly, hammered the hand at Kuryakin. Illya ducked and jolted a fist upward, in a short thrust to the man's jaw. Abruptly the man sat down on the floor.
"No. No!" Now Pamela was crying. "Please, no!"
The man sat on the floor, blinking.
The woman behind the counter held a kitchen knife menacingly.
"Please! Please!" Pamela cried.
Kuryakin helped the man to his feet. "Sorry."
"You sure pack a wallop, young fella," the man said, rubbing his chin. "Give him the dime, Esther. This is no bad one. Bad, he could have kicked me in the head while I was sitting down there. He could have kicked my brains in. Instead he picks me up and says he's sorry. Well, I'm sorry, young fella. Mistake in judgment. Takes all kinds. It's a crazy world. Give him the dime, Esther."
The woman put down the knife and rang the cash register.
Kuryakin accepted the coin and went to the phone booth and closed himself in.
12. Change in Plans
AFTER BURROWS' CALL to Solo, Sir William Winfield had routinely called his office and had been advised of urgent business. The British Ambassador to the United States and the Japanese Ambassador were flying in from Washington for a conference with Sir William; they would be in his office in the UN Building at ten-thirty that morning and would remain for lunch with Sir William. He, of course, confirmed the meeting. His son was missing but UNCLE was actively engaged in it. There was no assistance he himself could provide. Waverly had put his own car and chauffeur at Sir William's disposal.
"You know the arrangements," Waverly had said. "The first contact is one o'clock. After that, who knows how long it will take? I'll be in communication, by telephone, with my car as soon as anything breaks. My chauffeur, Ronny Downs, beginning at one o'clock, won't leave the car. You keep him informed where you'll be. If there's any news, I'll get through to him, and he'll get through to you. When your business is completed, come down to the office and you and I'll sit out the vigil together."
Sir William had left the UN Building at one-fifteen.
"Anything?" he had asked the chauffeur.
"Nothing, sir."
He had gone home, spent a half-hour with his wife; he had been glib and cheerful, pretending assurance, encouraging her about Steven; then Downs drove him to UNCLE headquarters.
Waverly was alone when Sir William entered. Green blinds were drawn to keep out the sun; Waverly was slumped in his chair at the desk, smoking.
"Sit down, Sir William."
"Thank you."
Waverly smiled glumly. "The contact's been made."
"How do you know?"
Waverly laid away his pipe. "Stanley and Mr. Solo went off alone as Eric Burrows instructed, but five cars at safe distances went along with them not as Eric Burrows instructed."
"I—I don't understand."
"Our lab introduced certain substances into Mr. Solo's body that give off an electronic signal. Special computers in the cars indicate precisely where and what distance he is from them. The men in the cars are in communication with me." Waverly pointed to
an oblong box on his desk. "This is a lovely instrument, a sender-receiver meshed with the sender-receivers in the cars; the synchronized wave bands automatically change every thirty seconds. Thus, if by chance a conversation is intercepted, a listener can hear only a thirty-second fragment."
"The cars are out of sight?"
"Far out of sight."
"Then how do you know about the contact?"
"Mr. Solo with Stanley came to the intersection of Savoy and Remington at approximately one o'clock; that the computers were able to pinpoint. On Remington Road the car was abandoned, and they walked."
"But how...."
"The electronic signal emanating from Solo. The rate of speed of his movements can be computed. He walked, presumably with Stanley, for about a half-hour. During this time, one of our cars spotted Solo's abandoned car—didn't touch it, of course. Then, oh, about twenty minutes ago, the rate of speed accelerated again. They were picked up by a moving vehicle. And that's about how it stands right now."
"My son?"
"Not yet."
Waverly lifted a lever of the oblong box. "Alex here, calling Number One. Come in."
McNabb's voice was clear. "They're still moving at a fairly good clip. Number One, Jack and I, trailing. Number Two a half-mile behind us. Three, Four, and Five are fanned out on other roads. No significant stops since he entered the moving vehicle. No hits, no runs, no errors—nothing. All smooth, no change."
"Check." Waverly depressed the lever. Sir William was sitting forward, his hands clasped so tightly the knuckles were white. "So far, so good," Waverly said. "Please relax. So far it's going exactly to specifications, and my people are instructed not to interfere, to take no risks. Our object is to effect the exchange without putting the hostages in any possible jeopardy. We hate losing Stanley, but the welfare of your son and our Mr. Kuryakin is paramount."
"But—all this time...?"
"According to specifications, Sir William. Burrows—and we can't fault that—was being careful. He set the rendezvous a good distance from the point of destination. We can't blame him for that, can we?"
"No, I don't suppose..."
"And even before the rendezvous—he let them walk for a good half-hour on a country road, observing them from somewhere, I'm certain—making sure they weren't being followed—that we were proceeding in accord with his instructions. All of that is good rather than bad, Sir William. I appreciate your concern. Your son—"
The short sharp jangle of the phone startled him. He had left orders at the switchboard that he was not to be disturbed unless it was a matter of extraordinary importance. He pulled the receiver from the cradle and said curtly, "Yes?"
Sir William watched as the Old Man straightened tall in his seat.
"Yes... yes... um... I see." The color was up in Waverly's face; in the dim, shadowy green of the sun-subdued room his eyes sparkled with dancing lights. "Yes ... yes ... all right. Now hear me. Stay just where you are. Just stay there! They'll pick you up. 'Bye now." He hung up, turned a smile to Sir William. "Your boy is safe!"
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
"Thank goodness!" Sir William was on his feet, his hands spread on the desk; he leaned across to Waverly. "But what—how...?"
"Listen!"
Waverly flipped the lever of the oblong box.
"Alex here! Number One! Come in!"
"You're loud and clear, Chief," came the voice of McNabb.
"Hold sharp! We've got a shift in operation!"
"I hear you, Chief. Go!"
"Defection. The girl. I don't know the details. The boy and our boy are out, along with the girl. Initials P.H."
"I read you. Go!"
"They're in a restaurant called Pullman Diner in a town on the North Shore called Carbonville. Have Numbers Three, Four, and Five go directly and pick them up. Now!"
"I read you! So do they! We're all tuned in!"
"Change in operation, Mac. No more exchange. Bring back A.S. Stay in communication, all of you—among yourselves, and all of you back to me. Hear?"
"Check! We all hear!"
"I'll keep this thing wide open! Talk, any one of you, whenever you want to!"
"Check!"
Waverly slumped back in his swivel chair, looked up to Sir William. "Before, there was a faint possibility of trouble. Now it's for sure." He reached out, clicked shut the lever on the oblong box, and sighed. "But McNabb's a sturdy old bird. He'll keep the young ones in rein. You and I—even older birds—all we can do is sit and wait."
"Steve?"
"He's out of it now. Safe and sound."
"I thank you, Mr. Waverly."
Waverly grunted, clicked open the lever, and sat slumped in his chair.
13. "Two-Gun McNabb"
OUTSIDE, THE SUN glared hotly. Inside the gray Rolls, Solo was not uncomfortable. He was, in fact, cool. The car was air-conditioned, but not cold. Burrows had adjusted the thermostat after Stanley had reminded him that Solo was not wearing conventional clothes. He was a strange man, this saboteur. Aside from his work—which was exploding places and killing people—he was as kindly and considerate as a devoted grandfather. Once he had even had Burrows stop the car so that he could get a light blanket from the trunk in the rear for Solo's knees. It was as though, in the new circumstances, he was the host. He chatted with Solo, offered cigarettes, even a drink from a bar in the car, courteously; and as courteously Solo refused. The little man sipped brandy and chatted affably. It must have bored the man in front; he touched a button on the dashboard and the dividing window rose up, shutting him off from the two in the rear. He did not once turn his head; Solo's view of Burrows was black hair, the back of a thick, strong neck, and an occasional flash of a rugged profile.
But the view outside the car had changed. The Rolls now sped along a good-surfaced road; the landscape now had trees and bushes and rolling hills and fine houses deeply set in the hills. Once they passed a golf course with brightly dressed men and women at play, trying to escape the oppressive heat.
"Lovely countryside," Stanley said. "So peaceful, slumbering in the summertime. I adore a pleasant countryside. I paint, you know, in my leisure. Oil, mostly landscapes. Quite good, if I may be so immodest as to say; I've had several showings in London galleries."
Solo's eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses; Stanley could not see the amusement that crinkled the corners. "I don't get you," Solo said.
"What is there to get, Mr. Solo?"
"I mean—if I didn't know what you do..."
"One must not judge a man by the work that earns him his keep."
"But your work."
"It is work. One need not love one's own work; one may take pride, but not love. A long time ago, Mr. Solo, I was greatly respected—by respectable people—for just that kind of work. A long time ago, during a shooting war, I was a major in the British service; I was a demolitions expert." He shrugged his thin shoulders. "Quite natural, I would imagine, that peacetime people would gather in a wartime expert." He smiled a melancholy smile. "Expert! The expert failed here quite miserably, didn't he? You told Mr. Burrows I was spotted at the airport. Where at the airport, if I may inquire?"
"Customs."
"But I was only a salesman with a dispatch case that was utterly innocent."
"The dispatch case may have been innocent. But not you."
"But who would know me?"
"UNCLE is efficient, Mr. Stanley."
"We do not underestimate UNCLE, I assure you."
"Had you been as innocent as your dispatch case, you wouldn't have been molested. We would have loved to pluck you out of circulation—whether or not you made any wrongful move—but we don't work like that in this country. Instead, a heavy surveillance was put around you. The room next door to yours was ours, and we were in the lobby, and we were outside in the streets; the taxi that drove you to Liberty Island was ours."
The little man puckered his lips. "Clever, these Americans."
The ma
n up front was talking into the microphone.
This time Burrows received no acknowledgment, but it did not disturb him. Tudor was probably out in the helicopter and the girl out front on the portico as a welcoming committee of one. For that, she would be valuable; psychology had its uses. A blond, shining, cherubic-faced girl did not present an image of a terrorist, an executioner; and it was best to keep this Mr. Solo placid.
Not that he could do any damage with all his lethal little gadgets lying useless in that clearing in the weeds, but it was best to keep him placid because time was of the essence, and UNCLE was not stupid. Certainly they were about—somehow—somewhere—and he, Burrows, was a veteran. Never play down the enemy, always expect the worst. They were somewhere about, but they could not risk, would not dare, an awkward interruption. They had two lives at stake, including one of their own valuable men—he himself would have been sufficient in exchange for Stanley— plus a boy whose death could produce international furor, the son of the British Ambassador to the United Nations.
No, they wouldn't dare; nevertheless, time was of the essence! If it went according to plan it would be over five minutes after their arrival—the concrete room, an accommodating Solo supposedly to be locked in for an hour, the cyanide pellet exploded in the concrete room, the slide-door snapped shut—and the four agents from THRUSH would be off and away in the aircraft and out of the country. All told, no more than five minutes—but keep Mr. Solo placid. A break in the smooth-flowing scheme, a Mr. Solo grown suspicious and balking, the waste of time in scuffling and physical persuasion, gunfire out doors—and the people from UNCLE might swoop in, no matter the risk.
The man up front put away the microphone. The Rolls turned into a wide private pathway of gleaming white pebbles.
"Are we there?" Solo asked Stanley.
"I don't know," Stanley said. "Believe me, I don't know where we're going. They don't tell me everything. I work under orders and try to do my job; that's all." He peered out the window with casual interest.
Solo watched with more than casual interest, sitting up straight now, tense, alert. The pebbled roadway was lined with tall green trees.
MFU Whitman - The Affair of the Gentle Saboteur Page 7
