[Magazine 1966-­04] - The Unspeakable Affair - Davis Robert Hart - Страница 3

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"You really can't be serious, Chief?"

Waverly blinked. "What? Oh, yes, Mr. Solo, I fear I am. We are dealing with true unidentified objects, which means they could be from anywhere."

"Just how many is ten percent?" Solo asked.

"Four, Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "There have been forty reported sightings all over the world in the last six months."

"Do we know what they were like, the four unidentified objects flying around?" Illya said.

"As it happens, we do," Waverly said. "Long and quite thin. They appeared to be painted black, unlike most such sightings, which are invariably silver colored. They also glowed, as if red- hot, and moved with incredible speed. Fast enough so that no one could get a really good look at them."

Illya was puzzled. "You make it sound as if all four were identical."

"They were," Waverly said. "Absolutely identical. And at least two were seen by extremely reliable people." Waverly looked at his two agents. "You can see why we are rather concerned. They seem a trifle too real."

"Is there any pattern, any correlation about where they were seen?" Solo said.

"Yes, a very simple pattern—all four were seen over New Mexico, near Santa Maestre, a small town at the edge of the Navaho Reservation."

Both Illya and Napoleon Solo studied Mr. Waverly as if certain that their chief was playing some kind of joke on them. When Waverly did not blink or change his serious expression, the two agents looked at each other again.

"I see you've grasped the significance," Waverly said dryly. "That was why we sent Diaz to New Mexico to investigate. He had little luck. That he reported. But when we called him about the two rocket pilots who were unable to speak, he seemed really excited."

"He thought there was a connection?" Solo said.

"He did, and so do I," Waverly said. "Both of the sick men are rocket pilots. The connection would appear obvious. I think Diaz believed they were faking the inability to speak, but he had no chance to report, obviously. So I am afraid it is now up to you gentlemen."

Solo grinned. "It's my job to go to Elk River, find out what Diaz learned and how he lost his speech, and try not to lose mine."

"I should say that would be approximately correct," Waverly said dryly.

You don't want me to accompany Napoleon?" Illya said.

"No, Mr. Kuryakin."

Illya sighed. "Which means that it is New Mexico for me, and l hate the heat."

Waverly was unsympathetic. "We all must make our sacrifices, Mr. Kuryakin. I suggest you both arm yourselves well, seeing what happened to Mr. Diaz, and we'll set up a relay so that you can keep in touch with each other. And one more thing, Mr. Kuryakin.

"I suggest you begin your search it a village called Noche Triste, on the Navaho Reservation. It seems hey had a mysterious explosion a mile from the village. Large hole in the ground, considerable noise, and a very high radiation count."

"Nuclear radiation?" Solo said.

"Very," Waverly said. "The Navaho medicine man attributed it to the indigestion of some god. But I think that an unlikely explanation."

"I tend to agree with you, sir," Illya said.

The two agents left their chief staring into space, already concerned with some other problem that had been placed in the hands of U.N.C.L.E.

They dressed and armed themselves. Solo dressed in a well-cut suit; he would go to Elk River as Mr. Roger Raille of the United States State Department, a cover already prepared by Washington.

Illya wore old clothes. Black, fit for hot work in the deserts of New Mexico. Both carried small briefcases, Illya's containing a specially sensitive miniature Geiger counter, which fitted his role as a uranium prospector.

Their jets left at the same time from Idlewild, but they slipped out of U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters separately. It was a sensible precaution.

FOUR

NAPOLEON SOLO saw the two men run for a car that pulled out into the night traffic and followed Illya's taxi down the East Side street. He ducked into a doorway and took out the thin ballpoint pen that was not a pen at all but a miniature radio sender-receiver. The latest U.N.C.L.E. communications improvement, he held it to his lips and whispered.

"Bubba! This is Sonny. Mayday. Over. Repeat, Mayday."

The new instrument, developed by Section-IV, had an increased range of ten miles over the old sets. Almost instantly, the voice of Illya answered.

"Sonny, Bubba here."

Solo leaned over the tiny instrument. His eyes watched the dark street as he talked.

"Bandits on your trail. Two bandits in a black Mercedes. License begins with XB 12, three other digits I missed."

There was a silence. Solo listened intently in his hidden doorway. Then Illya's cool voice came over the radio again.

"I have them, just behind me, three cars back. Thanks, Napoleon."

"Be careful," Solo said into the tiny pencil set.

"Have no fear, and be careful yourself. I rather doubt our friends came alone."

"Roger," Solo said. "Meet at the BOAC information booth. They'll think we're going abroad."

"Right and out. I see my friends gaining on me."

In his dark doorway, Napoleon Solo replaced his radio-pen in his suit pocket. His keen eyes scanned the empty street. Illya was undoubtedly correct. If they had two men waiting to trail Illya, they had probably not neglected him. The difference was that he was warned.

He studied the dark street intently, noting every detail. He knew every car, every face, every shadow that moved or lurked on the street. One car, an old Cadillac, caught his eye. He did not remember seeing the Cadillac before on the street. It appeared empty and innocent. But Solo saw something else that made him smile to himself.

On the steps of the brownstone near the old Cadillac he saw a man and a woman. They appeared to be lovers dallying innocently with each other on the steps, with eyes and thoughts only for each other. Even as he watched they embraced, and he realized that they could see him clearly in his doorway.

They were putting on an act because they saw him watching them—and there was only one way they could have seen him where he was hidden in the dark shadows of the doorway. Infra-red glasses, or the infra-red scope-sights of a Thrush rifle! He flattened back against the wall.

But no shot came. Either he was wanted alive, or else they were not ready to shoot.

Solo smiled. He would have to see that they did not get another chance. And if they wanted him alive, then he wanted them alive. He peered out, carefully. They were still playing the lovers, the man and woman across the street on the steps.

He stepped out of his shelter and hurried away down the dark street.

At the corner he glanced back, so quickly no one could have seen him.

The Cadillac was moving along behind him.

Still smiling, he sprinted along the wide avenue he had turned into. The Cadillac came around the corner behind him, speeded up. He ran across another cross street until he reached a shabby tavern on the avenue. The Cadillac was close now.

Solo let it come very close, watching it out of the corner of his eye. Then, as if seeing the Cadillac and panicking, he looked wildly around, and dashed into the seedy tavern.

Inside the tavern the six or seven dilapidated customers at the long bar did not even look up. They held their drinks in both hands, stared into the depths of the whisky or at their own faces in the mirror behind the bar. They were long past caring about anything that moved, cared only for the small glasses of golden liquid in front of them.

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