[The Girl From UNCLE 01] - The Birds of a Feather Affair - Avallone Michael (читаем бесплатно книги полностью txt) 📗
It was a mad miracle of daylight and darkness, life and death.
They were outside the building now, shooting along a narrow, dim alley, their bodies buffeted and catapulted like corks in the sea. April let her body relax and go limp; it was the only thing her training had left her as a conditioned reflex. The rest was confusion, and the exhilarating hope that she might get out of this mess alive. She uttered one last prayer that Joanna Paula Jones would do likewise.
Behind her, she sensed the thundering vibration of destruction. There was a cataclysm of violence and disintegration in the air. Then her lungs were full of the foul, wretched water. She sputtered, struck her hands out like flails, trying blindly to check her headlong propulsion. It was a veritable Perils of Pauline situation—
It was then that her head struck the cobbled sides of the building.
The rest was darkness in the surrounding fierce thunder of holocaust.
She awoke to the keening of sirens and an earthquake of sound. When she opened her eyes, she didn't know where she was. She lay quietly, composing herself. She counted slowly, waiting for the clamor in her bosom to slow down. She could feel her heart thumping.
She checked herself gingerly, expertly for broken bones and more severe injuries. Darkness surrounded her, intermittently pierced by the probing beam of a searchlight. She took stock of her surroundings; weariness throbbed through all the muscles in her body.
She was lying on her side somewhere, half of her soaking in water. She stared up; the cubed, dark outline of a span of concrete rose above her. A bridge. She was under a bridge, lying on a damp, muddy shore with her naked feet still extended into a low body of gently running water. She made herself sit up, conscious of a tingling in her limbs. Her arms and legs ached. Her ribs felt sore and bruised. She shook herself, trying to locate all the uproar and confusion of the night. It was not far away.
She lay back on her right side, studying the bridge ramp arcing overhead. Dark and ghostly. Beyond it, to the left, she made out a fiery hue lighting up the night sky. From one point, she heard the clang of sirens, the hoarse shouts of fiercely busy men. Dimly, she made out the tops of the green trees, forming a solid mass of cover to the East. She looked down the river and remembered where she was.
The factory. The explosion. Bronx Park. Yes, she had been hurled outward by the blast, carried through the wall, out into the alley and then—of course. She had been swept to the river and dragged along until her body had anchored in low water close to the shore, under this very bridge. She wasn't that far from the building. And the girl—
Joanna Paula Jones was nowhere in sight.
She raised herself stiffly. A sharp pain centered its hot knives in her right thigh, letting her know she had torn a ligament somewhere. She had gotton off easily, though. It was a miracle to be alive. The girl, obviously—
April then put aside the thought of her. She blocked out the bedlam that reigned some five hundred yards away. On her feet, she tested her legs. Stiff but they'd have to do. She hobbled toward an incline of ground at the side of the bridge. A paved walk lay in a wash of moonlight. As she had suspected, because of the bridge, she was close to a park exit. She fumbled at her soaked clothes. The baggy man's pants were like ridiculous balloons. Her bra, taut from immersion, was strangling her breasts. Firmly and with great effort, she tore the trouser bottoms below the knees and fashioned a semishirt to cover her torso. It was a farce but it would have to do. She had lost the oversized shoes that had adorned the feet of the man she had killed.
A dead smile dominated her battered, dirty face.
She wasn't exactly dressed for the Riviera though the costume could have been mistaken for clam-diggers and Bikini top. She was a ragged derelict, really, and she didn't even have the necessary dime to make a phone call to Headquarters. If she tried to bum a coin from people in the streets, the chances were they would shy away from her Bowery bum appearance. Yes, it was a great life for a girl. Still, she was elated to be alive.
The street was bereft of passersby, despite the pell-mell activity in the vicinity of the blaze. Or maybe because of it. April cut over the walk, toward Boston Road, away from the center of all attention. Ahead, the street lights glowed. Automobiles flashing by, hooted their horns derisively at her, taking her for some kind of kook. She stayed away from the fire. Nobody at the scene would have believed her. Least of all any tired Bronx policemen or far too busy firemen. No, she would have to get out of this mess on her own.
There was a cab parked at the intersection of 180th Street and Boston Road. April hobbled stiffly toward the driver, standing alongside his vehicle, munching a hot dog, watching the blaze lighting up the sky.
The cabbie recoiled when he saw her, raising his frankfurter as if it were a weapon, in self-defense.
"Mister," April said in her coolest and brightest voice though she knew she felt and looked positively terrible, "you wouldn't believe me if I told you I was a very secret agent who had to get downtown in a hurry and would see that you got twenty dollars for taking me there?"
The driver made a face. "Beat it, sister."
"I don't blame you. I'll make that fifty bucks if you'll do what I ask."
The man nearly choked in disgust on his hot dog. Sour-faced, he dug into his pants pocket and flipped a coin at April. "There. Don't bother me. You'll give me indigestion."
April caught the coin. A dime. Elation shot through her. She eyed the cab and the hackie's number on the badge pinned to his peaked cap.
"Thank you, Number seven-one-three-five-nine. This may be the nicest thing you have done all year."
"Sure, sure, sister. Beat it, wilya, or I'll call a cop!"
"Gently, sir, it's Mother's Day."
She blew him a kiss with her grimy fingers, winked and limped across the street to the luncheonette where the driver had obviously bought his frankfurter. The elevated subway overhead was just disgorging a flood of passengers. April became the cynosure of all eyes as she walked into the luncheonette and headed for the telephone booth at the rear of the establishment
It didn't matter. So she wasn't the Queen of the May. At least, she had a dime.
A dime to call U.N.C.L.E. and get back to civilization again.
And get some decent clothes and a good hot tub before she forgot she was a woman altogether. She could smell herself. A foul smell.
There were only two things on her mind, really. And both of those were human beings. One male, one female.
Mark Slate. And Joanna Paula Jones.
The carpeted corridor was long and deserted. A trail of red plush headed toward the twin elevator cages. There was one lone closed door at the far end of the hall. This led to a fire stairway.
One of the elevator cages whirred open. Arnolda Van Atta stepped out. She wore a long green velvet dress that clung to her statuesque body in enticing curves. A pendant of jade stones hung about her slim throat, falling across the swell of her abundant bosom. The flaming red hair was wound into a sophisticated bun atop her classic head. She was radiantly, exquisitely beautiful. Looking at her one would find it hard to believe she was capable of the very most inhuman, cold-blooded acts.
Her green eyes glinted in the subdued lighting of the corridor. A cold smile etched her regular features into a mold of sheer iciness. The oddest of her accouterments was the black leather riding crop she held lightly between her slim, tapering fingers.
