15 - The Utopia Affair (9 page)

"Only ninety-eight?"

"Without fingerprints it could not be ninety-nine. It is Waverly."

"What approach do we use?"

"Always the easiest. A visit to his cottage tonight may allow us to continue our vacation here without the burden of a job undone."

"When it grows late, I think a stroll through the forest would prove a profitable end to the day. Perhaps shortly before midnight?"

"Security's rounds are well spaced after that hour."

"So let it be, then. Bezique?"

"Of course."

The dialogue beyond this point was more widely spaced and dealt almost entirely with the play of cards. Illya shut off the tape and glanced at his clock. Eleven- forty. They were probably still playing, and would leave in another ten minutes. It might take them as long as fifteen minutes to cover the mile to Waverly's cabin. That meant he had as much as twenty-five minutes, including travel time, to develop a way to thwart them, preferably without exposing himself, ideally without even letting them know they were being specifically thwarted.

At the same time he wondered what method they'd be likely to use. Not likely one readily recognizable as murder. The reign of terror that would ensue should a guest be murdered would certainly uncover both the assassins and probably Silverthorne as well. An accident would be difficult to arrange while he slept in his own bed, but some kind of poison, perhaps a gas, could leave him with no symptoms beyond the vague "heart failure." Anything they could do while keeping themselves covered would take time to prepare.

He rewound the tape and found the dialogue again. He played it through, listening carefully and projecting himself into the minds of the speakers.
What approach do we use? Always the easiest. Security's rounds are well spaced...

He glanced at the clock as the card game began again in his 'phones. Eleven forty-two. He rubbed his chin reflectively, and then nodded. Always take the easiest way. He pushed the rewind button and in the privacy of his mind allowed himself an uncommonly self-satisfied smile. He wouldn't even have to put his shoes on again to block the little opening gambit.

He spent the next ten minutes making notes in long hand for his final report, then reached for the telephone. He tapped out the number for Security and blanked his vision screen. When the night watch answered, he adjusted his throat muscles and spoke with a gravelly British dialect.

"This is Dodgson, in Number Thirty-Five. There seems to be some sort of large animal bashing about near my cabin. Could you send someone out to have a look around without disturbing me?"

"Certainly, sir," said the watch. "We'll have a jeep out there in five minutes."

"Thank you."

"Our pleasure. Good night, sir."

"Good night."

He broke the connection. The slightest flaw in the plan was that Dodgson might develop a reputation as a bit of an old maid, but this, while perhaps a little degrading, would never be allowed to come to his notice and could also result in other staff members keeping a little bit closer eye on him. Otherwise it fit every requirement. Illya rarely displayed his imitation of Alexander Waverly, but it had drawn applause wherever performed.

He went back to work on his report, leaving a receiving channel open to the bug in Waverly's bungalow and another open to the assassins' room—the Thrush suite. A good three-quarters of an hour passed without a signal from either. Occasionally he turned the amplification up full on the former and was able to detect a faint irregular snore.

Shortly before one o'clock a sound on the second channel brought him back to attention. A door opened and closed, and the signal picked up slightly as the light turned on and the circuit completed.

"So their visits are irregular after all," said the Turk's voice.

"It would appear so," said a lighter tone matter-of factly. "But since we lack the equipment necessary to defeat the alarm systems, his house will be his sanctuary. Another approach will be indicated. Let us discuss it no further until we have considered the implications overnight."

"Agreed."

There were more noises, and a few words exchanged, but nothing of import. Illya learned only that the Japanese slept on the floor in the living room, apparently out of preference.

At length he rose, switched the unit back to
Record
, and turned to his own bed again. Working two jobs was not his idea of a vacation; he hoped Section Six would remember this in a few weeks. He glanced at the schedule taped beside his clock, and winced. Tomorrow was Thursday––in America it was Thanksgiving, and for the ten or twelve Americans currently in residence a traditional dinner was arranged for all the guests. The same thing happened with fine impartiality on Passover, Christmas, Buddha's Birthday, Id al-Fitr and May Day; each time it happened the kitchen staff worked overtime in preparation and clean-up. Tomorrow he was assigned to the former, trying to adapt individual servings to the dietary requirements of a few guests with religious or medical restrictions, and was due in the kitchens at five-thirty. Wearily he set the alarm for five and turned off the lights.

At least he could be thankful tomorrow; his job had been done tonight, and done well, he told himself as he slipped off to sleep.

Chapter 8

"Are You Sure This Thing Is Safe?"

NAPOLEON SOLO blinked bleary eyes and sat up. He had been surviving on catnaps for longer than he cared to remember, and hadn't been home to bed for a week. Channel D was signaling from across the room, and he rose from the couch to answer it. A glass of orange juice and two long red capsules rested on the console next to the microphone clip; he ingested them as he listened to the call from the field agent on Clipperton Island.

"Sir, I'm going to need authorization for a light plane tomorrow afternoon. I've got a line on the submarine sightings, but it'll be murder to nail down."

As his right hand lifted the juice to wash down the Vitamin B, his left flipped through a file for data on Clipperton. "Will you need a pilot?" he asked as soon as he finished swallowing.

"I can't handle a copter, but a twin-jet or piston job is no problem."

Nothing on the island at all. He tapped two buttons and flipped a switch, and a lighted display appeared showing the Pacific Ocean, sprinkled with colored lights and blocks of symbols. There was a group of ships including one carrier about 118 W 7 N, but commandeering a plane from the military got involved with forms and huffy people. The branch office at Acapulco had a Lear Jet with long-range auxiliary tanks, he remembered, and that was only about 800 miles away.

"Can probably get you a twin-jet from Acapulco in a couple of hours. I'll hand you over to them." Let somebody else be roused at dawn. He keyed out as the operator switched the call.

The master clock above the display indicated 0845 and added that it was Wednesday 8 November. He turned as the door sighed open behind him to greet Miss Williamson bearing a stack of reports. "Operations Summaries for October," she said. "Deadline was yesterday. We've got precis' on top so you should be able to cover them. Microfilming needs them by five o'clock. And a tape came in last night you ought to hear; Cindy had it held so you could get some sleep. It didn't demand immediate action."

She set the reports on the desk and pulled a tape cartridge from her pocket. "Field Agent DeWeese explains at the beginning, sir," she said, as she slipped it into a slot in the side of the desk and pushed a button.

"I'm having this recorded for you, because I think it's something you'll want to study. Oh, this is Buck DeWeese, Flin Flon, Manitoba. We've got something definite on that monster I heard about. There's a radar site near here, up towards Sherridon. It's one of a string, and they're all in touch by radio and the communications are routinely recorded. So here's the whole thing. The, first transmission was at 5:12 last night; the transmissions ended at 5:19:30. Uh, sorry about the sound quality; you know the kind of recording gear they use."

CLICK chink whrrrishhhhh…

"Coca Bravo this is Victor Lima—I got something at Echo Kilo Three Five Two Two. Looks like either a malfunction or a storm front. You got a scan."

"Negative, Victor Lima. Try manual procedures?"

"Yeah, and it's still there. Reads like a big ground clutter. If it was solid, it'd be a couple thousand feet high moving about eighty knots."

"Sounds like a mountain. Have you tried a visual?"

"Negative. I don't think there's enough daylight left. Hey, it's changing vector. Now bearing two-seven-five degrees—it's heading for Point Zero Local; ground speed… uh, looks like 95 knots! It'll hit here in a minute or two! Stand by, Coca Bravo, I'm gonna try a visual...

"Here we go—I'm at the south window. There's a little light left but I can't see any... Holy Mary! There's something—I think there's something down there… I can see something like a thunderhead coming up over the trees and coming fast!"

"Victor Lima, this is Zebra Monitoring. What's going on out there!"

"There's something coming at the site, sir! It reads on my scope as big as a storm front, but here it comes and I think it's solid, sir. It's like a black cloud, but I can't quite see where it rests on the ground because there's too much dust. But it's knocking aside the trees, sir—even the big pines. It must be...two thousand feet tall! There's no—no
feel
to it, sir, no more texture than a big solid cloud. But there's something way up near the top—a couple red things, glowing, like eyes. It's coming this way, all right, straight up the hill. Dear God, I hope it doesn't mind radomes... It's changing a little—the red eyes are moving down—it's going slower, it's only maybe a couple hundred yards away— the top of it is swinging forward! The eyes are red as fire...they're getting bigger! The head of the thing's coming—"

riRRRRRIIIIIPPPPPPWWWOOOOOOOBAP!!...

"Victor Lima, this is Zebra Monitoring. Come in please. Victor Lima, come in please…"

"Zebra, this is Coca Bravo. I think Victor Lima is off the air. I think he's been zapped. Request permission to send a recon party."

"Granted, Coca Bravo. We'll get a group ready to go from Winnipeg on the assumption he knew what he was talking about; they'll wait on your preliminary report"

CLICK clunk.

"This is DeWeese again. The preliminary report says the station was completely wrecked—walls shattered, steel plate equipment cases ripped like cardboard. The scope trace film magazine was undamaged; the film should be interesting. They found the operator sort of spread around the room, sir; they said as if he'd been… uh,
shredded
was the word they used. The team's coming up from Winnipeg tomorrow morning. Oh—for whatever it's worth, I knew the kid. Name was Lamont. Sensible, level-headed type; never panic. Whatever he said he saw there, you can depend on it that's what he did see.

"Anyway, now that the Air Force is in on it, I think I'd be able to use an extra pair of hands. I checked with Winnipeg and Montreal, and they don't have anybody with the technical knowledge I need who can take care of himself in these woods. Give me a call back when you've got a few minutes and let me know if you've got somebody I could use. DeWeese, Flin Flon, Manitoba, ending transmission."

Napoleon Solo pounded his fist lightly on the table in silent frustration. Now, of all times, to be pinned to a desk! When mountains walked in Manitoba and tore buildings to bits, he and Illya had to be half a world apart and nailed in place. But what can't be cured must be endured, he reminded himself, and called for Section Two to recommend an agent to send DeWeese. Channel D called for his attention before he quite finished.

"John Tuber, Colorado Springs."

Sabotage in a missile complex, Solo remembered. "Have you seen General Anson?"

"The interview was inconclusive. He's under suspicion himself, as a matter of fact. This is going to be a ticklish one, I'm afraid—you may hear complaints about my being rude, but you'll just have to trust me."

"If I didn't you wouldn't be there. You and Miss Ewert are more than capable of soothing the most ruffled tempers as long as she keeps hers. I'll even let you know who complains."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Solo. Tuber out."

Miss Williamson had a tray of breakfast steaming on his desk as he swung the chair around again. He reached for a piece of toast and turned back to answer another call.

The Akhoond of Swat was shaking in his royal slippers as a result of a sporadic campaign of terrorism, and demanded additional men. The Field Agent there was sure he could handle the job alone, but couldn't convince the Akhoond.

"I'm almost certain it's not a political matter, sir. Things keep indicating that it's more personal—within the household."

"What sort of things?"

"Little things...you could almost call it a strong hunch. But I'm willing to bet it's something inside the harem."

"Sounds as if they're some strong-stomached women, slitting that dog's throat at the foot of the Royal Bed."

"They have more control over the eunuchs than the Akhoond does. And it wasn't the Akhoond's dog after all, by the way. Oops—gotta cut off."

His signal broke, and Napoleon made a face. Shaking down the harem was always a particularly favorite assignment of his. Half the problems that crossed his desk seemed designed to draw his attention. A mountain in Manitoba, a ticklish situation in Denver, a harem in Swat... Channel D flashed again.

"Solo here."

"Pat Gavin, Anchorage. The contact paid off. I'm about to get a chance to sit in on a meeting, and I want a tape put on my signal. I'll leave the transceiver on and you can get down everything that happens."

The dossier on the assignment was at the back, and it took Solo a good ten seconds to have it on the desk. Black market gold, mined deep in the mountains and smuggled out of the country unregistered. Gavin had been on the job nearly six months.

"Good work. Transfer to Channel M. We'll have you home for Thanksgiving."