20 - The Corfu Affair (2 page)

A carefully impersonal voice began to recite: "This is the Argyr Palace," it said. "It stands on the island of Corfu some seven miles south of Corfu City. For many years untenanted and in decay, it was purchased some ten years ago by Countess Anne-Marie Louise de St. Denis and renovated. It is now her home for some eight months in every year."

The fairy-tale palace dissolved into a close-up of a face, still in color. "The Countess de St. Denis is thirty-four, of French-Italian descent, has been married four times, is now a widow, is owner and director-controller of the St. Denis Laboratories in Paris."

Solo stared and marveled. Belatedly he remembered that Corfu was Greek, and this was a face to make anyone remember. In some subtle way it failed to match the Palace image. This woman was part Eve, part Aphrodite, with glossy black hair, vivid coloring on a flawless skin, eyes so blue as to be almost black, and a personal magnetism that radiated even from this, a mere picture. Yet, somehow, there was a touch of the Medusa about her too.

Waverly turned to look at his agents. "That woman," he said, "is the most dangerous person alive. That may sound like exaggeration, and I have never before said as much aloud for that very reason. But now I have evidence in proof of my statement. She is a brilliant brain, by any standards. From four marriages she has made money, gained skills, and is deeply involved with the higher council authorities of Thrush Central. This much I know. In addition, she is a skilful cosmetic surgeon in her own right and has a degree of earned fame in that field. But there's nothing she won't turn her hand to. The police and secret services of half a dozen nations would dearly love to be able to pin something on Countess Louise, and make it stick, but she is too clever for that. Take a good look, gentlemen, because we are going to move against her, and it's as well that you know just what you are taking on."

"Do we know anything factual about her, sir?" Kuryakin asked, and Solo echoed that in some wonder.

"I thought I was pretty well acquainted with the big villains of the world," he said. "And in particular the big guns in the Thrush hierarchy, but this lady is news to me."

"As I said." Waverly nodded, "she is extremely clever. She is the power behind the throne always, never out in the open. Think of Corfu for a moment. It's a small island, not too easy to get at. Under Greek rule, a very uneasy government. Corfu City is the only settlement of any size, and it is little more than a town, only about thirty-five thousand people all told. For the rest—villages! Adequate surveillance is impossible in such a setup. Furthermore, the Palace is accessible from the sea, so visitors can come and go virtually at will. Nevertheless I was able to learn that, about a year ago, the Countess was entertaining guests, rather special guests. By twos and threes the top people in Thrush, the Hierarchy, were visiting her, very quietly and discreetly. There was a regular pattern, much too regular to be just coincidence."

"Any idea what's in the wind?"

"No idea at all, Mr. Solo. I wanted to know, of course; but remember what I said, Corfu is not easy to cover. That is almost certainly why the Countess chose it. In a place like that, one behaves like a tourist, or one sticks out like a sore thumb. I did not hope for quick and easy answers. But I did send a very good man to investigate."

"Anybody we know?"

"I think so, Mr. Kuryakin. You'd know him. Frank Stanton."

"They don't come any better," Solo said. "Frank gave me most of my basic training."

"And me," Kuryakin declared. "But surely he's a bit long in the tooth by now, sir. Due to come off the active list?"

Waverly sighed. "I sent Mr. Stanton to Corfu seven months ago, gentlemen. I heard from him just once, to let me know he had arrived safely. Since then—nothing!"

The room went silent as the two agents digested this fact. Then Solo stirred restlessly. "Frank could have made a slip," he suggested. "It's possible. A man has his off days. I don't see that we have enough evidence, just on that, to move the Countess up into the genius class. I'm sorry about Frank, but we all know the score when we go into a job…"

"It not that simple, Mr. Solo." Waverly moved the switch a hut off the Medusa face. "I had written off Mr. Stanton, with deep regret and the determination not to expose any other men to such a dangerous spot. I decided it was better to wait and see what devilish kind of brew the woman was hatching before trying again. But... well, look at these." He moved the switch again and now the screen held a picture showing a gun, a bullet, and several clear finger-and-palm prints.

"When General Hagen came to me for help he offered his fullest cooperation. This is part of it. His security people are very thorough. They lifted prints from the scene of the break-in. When the soldiers chased that getaway car they fired at it. They hit one man, causing him to drop a pistol. That man was subsequently burned beyond recognition in the car. The prints on the gun match those at the scene of the crime. The bullet which hit the sergeant was fired from that gun. Hagen admitted that he has not the facilities to trace either prints or gun. Nor has any agency he can call in. He gave them to us, to be of assistance. And they are. I've had them processed, because I thought I recognized the gun in any case. And I was right. That gun, and those prints, beyond any doubt, belong to Mr. Frank Stanton!"

Both men had seen this coming, but it was still a shock. Then Kuryakin spoke.

"Does the army know this?"

"No!" Waverly spoke quietly, but in his own way was more angry than either man had ever seen him before. "No one knows, except the three of us and the file-clerk who processed the prints, and even she doesn't know the background. I may be wrong, but I am of the opinion that the information would not help the army at all. What is left of Mr. Stanton is in that burned-out car, and that's the end of it, so far as they are concerned. For us it is a different matter. That is why I wish to confine it to us three, at the moment. If I'm to wash dirty linen, I prefer as small an audience as possible."

"You think Frank Stanton turned renegade?"

"It's a possibility we have to bear in mind. If he did, then he took a lot of very valuable information with him. If, on the other hand, that woman managed to bend him in some way, then we have to know how, and deal with it. Either way, this is an extremely delicate business."

"That's one assignment I want to volunteer for, sir. Frank taught me a lot." Solo said this very quietly. Kuryakin was just as quiet, and equally emphatic.

"Tell us what you have in mind," he said. "She won't bend us!"

"I expected nothing less," Waverly said. "But this is one case in which valor must give way to prudence. Never lose sight of this one fact. That woman is dangerous!"

CHAPTER TWO

Now that the bitter truth was out in the open Waverly seemed more like his usual pedantic self. Sitting back in h chair he surveyed his two men.

"Let me spell out the situation in detail," he said. "As I've already explained, Corfu is difficult. It is small, so that strangers tend to be conspicuous. We cannot possibly undertake an action in force unless and until we are absolutely sure of our ground. And we can hope for nothing from the local authorities. What's needed at the moment is information, a lot more information, before we can take any decisive action of any kind."

"The time of year is right," Solo offered. "What could be more natural than a tourist wanting to look over a palace?"

"I imagine that is precisely what Stanton thought," Waverly pointed out. "We can't go at it as easily as that. Above all I must have your assurance that you will not initiate any action until you have obtained sufficient hard data."

Solo looked pained. "I'm not about to let her take my scalp, sir. It's not the thing for me to say, but I am not exactly strange to the ways of good looking women."

"This woman is more than just a pretty face, Mr. Solo. She has buried four husbands already." Waverly swung his chair to face the impassive Russian agent.

"You, Mr. Kuryakin, will approach the other aspect of the business. As you heard, Countess Louise is owner and director of a laboratory in Paris. The laboratory specializes in biochemicals, with special emphasis on cosmetic surgery. You will investigate that end. You will, if possible, get into the business."

"Any idea how, sir?"

"Yes. You'll have to look it up, but there is this. Surgery, and particularly orthopedic surgery, is increasingly involving itself with electronic aids. Heart pacemakers, artificial limb control, radar for the blind and so on. Familiarize yourself with the latest matters in that field. You will assume a suitable identity. You will go by a roundabout route into the U.S.S.R. We will have cooperation laid on. From there, after an adequate period to establish a background, you will enter Paris. You will be an undesirable Russian bioelectronics specialist seeking to do a shady deal with the St. Denis laboratories. And so on. We can elaborate that as we go along. For the beginning you need to get into the technicalities of the part. Understood?"

"If you say so, sir." Kuryakin shrugged and kept his reservations to himself. Studying up on electronic aids to surgery and similar fields would be no more than a chore, and he didn't mind that part. But entering the Soviet Union was something he didn't care for at all. His homeland had memories that he would just as soon have left forgotten.

Waverly dismissed the two men with a gesture, hardly bothering to watch them go. None knew better than he just what hazards he was sending them into, but he had that faculty indispensable to any commander, of being able to dismiss a problem entirely once it had been dealt with. Almost before they had left the room he was leaning back and reviewing the next stage in his strategy. First there would have to be a stringent check on all U.N.C.L.E. security, to minimize any valuable hints Stanton might have given away. That would have to be done without letting too many people suspect that one of U.N.C.L.E.'s best men had gone sour. Then there was the need to get those sample modules to research, to try and find out what Thrush, and in particular, Countess Louise, could want them for.

Also, as his insulted digestion complained to him, there was the matter of the canteen to be looked into. Others called it "cafeteria", but he called it "canteen", and either way it left a lot to be desired!

Outside Waverly's door the two agents paused for a brief word before going their separate ways. Kuryakin was more serious than usual.

"Take no chances with the black widow, Napoleon," he advised. "She has forgotten more about the battle of the sexes than you'll ever know."

"I've never been afraid of a woman in my life, Illya, and I'm too old to start now," the other retorted.

"Corfu is quite a place too. Your titular ancestor fought a battle or two there, and lost. It's a bad place. In Homer's time it was called Phaeacia. Remember, Ulysses was washed ashore there, and got into a lot of trouble with a woman."

"You should change your name to Cassandra, old man. What can she do, carve me up?"

"Why not? She's a surgeon, too."

"All right, save me out a couple of artificial legs, huh? Say, Illya, what do you suppose she wants those modules for?"

"I've no idea, but I'll wager it's for nothing healthy!"

As the airport bus trundled him into Corfu City, Solo settled himself diligently into his guise of a typical tourist. His fellow travelers were few and unremarkable and he anticipated no difficulty in slipping away from them. In himself he had made no spectacular changes, apart from wearing a rather louder suit than he really cared for. His real disguise lay in his expression and attitude, in the naive wide-eyed gape and stare. Not that this required any great effort, as the place warranted it.

There was that peculiar clearness in the air, the purity of color and tint, the freshness of everything, that is to be found nowhere else in the world. Artists have been known to come with the intention of painting such scenery, only to give up in despair because it already looks like a fresh picture. Out there in the bay, beyond the long narrow causeway, were a couple of mysterious islands, where the gaunt ruins of some old buildings lifted the tops of their bones above thick green cypress. And over there, across the sea that was the Ionian Strait, he saw mighty snow-capped mountains, the Epirus mountains. That was Albania, and the stretch of water between had seen its quota of bloody conflict over the centuries. Sea battles of Christian against Turk, Knight versus Infidel... History. The whole place reeked of it.

The hotel was a pleasant surprise. Not up to Hilton standards, maybe, but the Corfu Palace was reasonably clean, efficient, and the people spoke a kind of English good enough for him to understand. After inspecting and approving his room, and working the tourist image a bit more, he decided to quit wasting time. For all his apparent innocence, he was alert for any sign that anyone was taking more notice of him than was justified. He was not likely to forget what had happened to Frank Stanton, but he thought that if Countess Louise did have some kind of alarm system set for her, he might as well get out into the open and see how it worked. And it would help to do some reconnaissance of the land.

Accordingly, he slung a camera round his neck—only it wasn't a camera but an extremely powerful and compact telescope—and ventured out to explore the town. As he wandered through the narrow winding streets and pretended to be impressed by the Italian-style architecture, the gaudy shops, the unlovely apartment blocks, he kept alert for any one appearing to be unduly curious in his doings, and at the same time tried to understand Stanton's method of work. The older man had been a quiet and effacing but very thorough worker, the type to take time to blend thoroughly with the scenery as a long-standing local resident. Judging purely by results, the approach had failed. Solo decided it might be just as well to throw away that pattern and try a different one. He would be the brash and obvious type, the man who has never been anywhere or seen anything before.