[Whitman] - The Affair of the Gentle Saboteur - Keith Brandon (мир книг .txt) 📗

"Yes," Solo said. "But no."

"You're losing me, mister." Exasperation put a flush on the sergeant's face. "Yes—but no. What kind of an answer is that?"

Solo sighed. "Yes—because you're right. Certainly, logically, of course you'd have to take me in. No—because it's a matter of time. I'm on an urgent mission and time is of the essence."

"Then what do you want, mister? That we take your word for it? What would you do in my place? Take your word?"

Solo snapped his fingers, pointed at the two- way radio.

"Who's your man in charge, Sergeant?"

"Lieutenant Weinberg."

"Can you get through to him?"

"Sure."

"Would you do that, please? Tell him to call this number." Solo spoke Alexander Waverly's private number. "Tell him to ask for Waverly."

Perplexed, the sergeant said, "Who's Waverly?"

"Please do as I say, Sergeant. Believe me, this is urgent business and official business, and if you don't cooperate you'll be subject to censure. You've nothing to lose, sir. If it doesn't work out then you can take me in, and I'll have no cause for complaint."

The sergeant shifted about uncomfortably.

Solo understood his dilemma. If the sergeant com plied and then the man with a gun without a permit turned out to be some sort of crank, the sergeant would be labeled a fool by his colleagues. If he did not comply and then the man truly turned out to be an agent on urgent business, then he would be severely reprimanded by his superiors as an inflexible fool.

And now the policeman on his left said sarcastically, "That prisoner you say you got up there— he don't seem to be in no hurry to try for an escape, does he?"

Solo made no reply to that. He looked to his right.

"Please, Sergeant," he said. "Time. Don't let me run out of time."

The sergeant touched a switch. The short wave thrummed, crackling. "Lomax here," the sergeant said. "Harry Lomax. Put me on with the lieutenant."

"Okay, Sergeant," the voice answered.

"Lieutenant Weinberg here. What've you got for me, Harry?"

"I got a crazy one, Lieutenant. I got a guy with a gun, no permit. Says he's some kind of law enforcement officer but he's got no papers to prove it. Wants you to call this number." He stated the number. "You're to talk to a Mr. Waverly. This guy here says this Waverly will straighten you out. His name is Solo, Napoleon Solo."

"Hold it a minute," Solo said.

"Just a minute, Lieutenant." He turned to Solo. "What?"

"Insurance," Solo said. "Let him tell Waverly that you people picked me up because of a minor traffic accident. And let him just state these additional names—Kuryakin, Winfield, Stanley, Burrows. That should do it."

Into the microphone the sergeant said, "Do you hear that, Lieutenant?"

"You sure you're all right?" the lieutenant's voice crackled back.

"If I think I'm getting you right, Lieutenant— yours truly's sober as a judge."

Brief laughter came through clearly. "All right, Harry. Stay with it. I'll get back to you."

Silence.

They sat, Solo between the two pistols pointed at him.

Then, finally, the radio came alive. "Harry! Sergeant Lomax! Weinberg here!"

"All yours, Lieutenant."

"A-okay on Napoleon Solo. Let him loose and forget the whole deal."

"You sure, Lieutenant?"

"Let him loose. That's an order."

"I got his gun."

"Give it back to him."

"Okay, if you say so."

"I say so. And wish him good luck from me." The radio went dead. The sergeant returned Solo's gun and Solo buttoned it into the holster.

"Sure is a crazy world today," the sergeant said. "Good luck from the lieutenant. Lieutenant Weinberg tells me to tell you good luck from him."

"Thank the lieutenant for me," Solo said. "And thank you, gentlemen."

"Don't mention it," the sergeant mumbled and opened the door and got out. Solo followed and the sergeant watched, his brow crinkled, as Solo got into his car and drove off.

"Local police—efficient officers," Solo said to Stanley. "They mistook me for somebody else, but they didn't jump all over me; stayed patient and proper till we got ourselves straightened out." He glanced at his watch. "We're still okay for time. It's a good thing we started early."

Stanley said nothing.

10. Rendezvous

IT WAS A scorching morning, without wind, humid and hot, the sun blazing through the windshield directly at them. Solo put on his sunglasses, gave the other pair to Stanley, who accepted them with out spoken comment but with a grateful grunt. They were a half-hour out now, not speeding but going at a good pace, and already on the highway. In that time Stanley had not said a single word.

He was clean, spruce, shaven, and smelled of pomade. Solo wished he would say something.

"Have you been treated well, Mr. Stanley?"

"I have no complaints."

Solo, watching the road, made a proper turn, then settled back.

"Do you know where you're going, Mr. Stanley?"

"I'm being returned to my people."

"Do you know why?"

"My people have acquired hostages, and I'm being exchanged for them."

"Do you know who?"

"No."

"Would you like to know?"

"I don't care. It's sufficient that I'm here alone with you, driving along your remarkable highways. Whoever the hostages are, they must be important. My people aren't idiots. Nor are your people, for that matter."

Solo shook his head. "Pretty cool, aren't you?"

"Cool? Contrary. Hot. Is it always so beastly hot in your country?"

"Not in the winter."

That brought a chuckle from Stanley and a sidelong glance.

"How long before we get to where we're going?" he asked.

"One o'clock, the man said."

"What man?"

"Burrows, I think."

"Probably."

"Talked to me on the phone, made the arrangements. Of course, it might have been Tudor."

"I wouldn't know," Stanley said. "All right, whom are they holding?"

"The man who worked with me when we picked you up. Also, the son of the British Ambassador to the UN."

"Two for one. I'm important, eh?"

"Seems you are."

Stanley lit a cigarette, threw the burnt match out the window.

"It pleases the ego."

"Pardon?" Solo said.

"When one knows that one is considered important."

"Important to them, perhaps, Mr. Stanley; not to us. What we think of you would not, I assure you, please your ego. You mean nothing to us. Should it enter your mind, for instance, when it happens we're stopped for a light, to bolt, I'd shoot you down like an animal."

"Sorry, but I won't afford you that pleasure. Run? Where would I run? A fugitive in a strange country? I'm not quite the type. I imagine you would know that by now. Albert Stanley is a thorough professional who prides himself in his work, but he's never, ever, pretended to be a blooming hero."

"Just wanted to clear the air."

"Nothing to clear."

"So be it."

Solo drove. The little man slumped down, leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and appeared to be asleep—but he was not. Each time the car stopped for a light his eyes opened. But as they went farther east, the lights grew fewer. There was less and less traffic, and it was hot. The sun was high now, burning down, and the car was like a cauldron. Solo opened his collar and pulled down his tie. He used a handkerchief on his face and down his neck. His body was wet with perspiration. Finally they came to Savoy Lane, broad at this section, and Solo pulled the car to a side. It was ten minutes to one. He took a road map from the glove compartment and opened it on his knees. The little man sat up and leaned over.