[The Girl From UNCLE 01] - The Birds of a Feather Affair - Avallone Michael (читаем бесплатно книги полностью txt) 📗
It was now eight o'clock in the evening.
She stalked down the hallway imperiously, halting only when she reached the smooth-paneled brown door to the left of the twin elevator cages. The smile on her face evaporated as she turned the knob and stepped inside.
Mr. Riddle, Fried Rice and Pig Alley looked up quickly, stopping in the midst of a busy game of gin rummy. Mr. Riddle still wore the Frankenstein mask. His lanky, cadaverous figure seemed more ludicrous than ever. But an aura of terror clung visibly to the man. Fried Rice and Pig Alley were unnerved sitting with such a parody of a human being.
But they feared Arnolda Van Atta more. They all did. It was apparent in the almost subservient way they lapsed into silence at her appearance. She drifted to the table, eyes gleaming, the riding crop waggling impatiently in her slender fingers.
"Yes, Arnolda?" Mr. Riddle asked.
"Our man at Uncle has contacted Zorki. It seems Mr. Waverly intends to play games with us. Substituting a look-alike for our dear Alek Yakov." Her words were suffused with anger. "So we know where we stand. Waiting until midnight would be a farce now."
"What do you intend to do, then?"
"First I will deal with Mr. Slate. Then we will leave this place and station ourselves at a point I designated to the man at U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters. We'll get Zorki without making deals."
Pig Alley stared up at her now, wonderingly. "Sacre, but you are gorgeous, ma chere. What a charming dress!"
She ignored him and tightened her hands on the riding crop. She only had words for Mr. Riddle.
"Wait for me here. I shall be no longer than an hour. You understand?"
"Of course," Mr. Riddle's flat voice echoed hollowly in the mask. "We can play cards all night, if we must."
She laughed. A sarcastic, pealing laugh that had no humor in it. With that, she turned on her high heels and left the room. Mr. Riddle's Frankenstein head stared after her.
Pig Alley's Errol Flynn moustache twitched. He was not too young a man but he obviously found Arnolda Van Atta astounding in more ways than one.
"Did you see her? Dressed like a queen! To what end—and that whip in her hands—" He broke off, confused, staring at Mr. Riddle and Fried Rice.
"She always dresses that way," Mr. Riddle remarked, picking up his hand once more and riffling the cards. "Usually just before she is about to do something extremely vicious. What a woman."
"Yes," Fried Rice agreed, his purple mandarin's sleeves flung back to allow him to handle his cards. "I do not envy Mr. Slate the hour Miss Van Atta will spend with him."
Pig Alley swallowed nervously, dark eyes afraid.
"You mean she—"
"Sadism," Fried Rice said calmly enough. "She is a ruthless sadist. Thoroughly versed in the De Sade lores and customs. Come, cards please."
Mr. Riddle, Pig Alley and Fried Rice went back to their game. Each of them tried to concentrate on what they were doing. But it was far too interesting to dwell on what the redhead would do to the man from U.N.C.L.E.
Had they taken an informal poll among themselves, they would have found themselves in unanimous agreement on one major point.
Whatever Arnolda Van Atta was going to do, it would not be nice.
April Dancer reached Del Floria's Tailor Shop just as the bells in the church steeple five blocks away tolled the hour of eight. The taxicab driver's gift of a dime had accomplished a host of miracles. An excellent sedan, a Dodge with a motor that could achieve the speed of a Ferrari, had picked her up almost thirty minutes after her call. The driver was a tall, blank-faced U.N.C.L.E. chauffeur who made no comment about her odd appearance or battered condition. He merely drove cars and was prepared for instant duty and emergencies, as might be any one who drove an ambulance for a hospital.
Meanwhile, on the long drive into Manhattan, April had mended herself as best she could. There was a specially equipped cabinet in the rear of the sedan that came down off the wall like a dressing table. With this before her, she redid her face—washing, and applying restoring lotions and healing creams to her bruises. A complete wardrobe trunk, artfully concealed in the cushioned seat afforded her a smart, simple blue wool dress and regular pumps. By the time the sedan had reached the ramp at Pershing Square, she was, at the very least, extremely presentable once again. The only things that didn't show were the great aches and enormous fatigue that made her body scream for sleep. To combat this depressing feeling of lassitude, she sniffed freely for a full minute from a curious brown capsule. The immediate effect was one of head-clearing and complete recovery. It wasn't just spirits of ammonia or Benzedrine; it was something far more efficacious than that. Instant Wake-up, the Lab boys had labeled their discovery.
The tattered remnants of the dead man's clothes she consigned to a disposal unit on the floor of the sedan.
Darkness, pierced by neon, filled Manhattan as the sedan wheeled up to Del Floria's, literally the front door to the vast complex that made up Headquarters, U.N.C.L.E., New York.
There was a not unattractive blonde in a print dress operating the steam presser as April came in. The shop was small, neat and extremely orderly, but nothing to write home about. The blonde eyed April obliquely.
"Is my red dress ready do you know?" April inquired sweetly.
"Oh, yes. Right in there." The blonde gestured toward a dressing cubicle. April nodded to her and stepped behind the curtain that closed off a view of the shop's interior. The steam presser hissed as the blonde clamped it down again.
April waited in the cubicle, facing the rear wall. A steel panel slid to the left and she hurried through. The steel panel, actually one wall of the dressing room, closed again.
April heaved a sigh. Home again. U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters.
Before her lay the outer offices of the amazing complex. Steel files, a reception desk at which sat another woman. This one was a brunette with sharp features and steady eyes. She smiled at April as she handed her a peculiarly shaped card badge which April pinned to the bosom of her dress.
Beyond this anteroom lay the elevators and then the honeycomb of rooms and offices which comprised the inner workings of the organization. April, still occupied with her fears for Mark Slate, now had only him on her mind.
"Will you buzz Mr. Waverly for me, please?"
The brunette apologized. "Sorry. He left for Washington. Won't be back until ten or eleven, I expect."
April tried not to bite her lip. With the old man gone, she would have to take the assignment by the horns. God knew there was little time to lose.
"Then would you alert Section Two, for me? I'll be in the Weapons Room for twenty minutes and I'll be ready for a conference at eight thirty."
"Yes, Miss Dancer."
She paused a second longer before going on up to Weapons to rearm herself with the materiel and equipment that her capture by THRUSH had destroyed.
"Any word from Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin?"
The brunette's face warmed a trifle.
"They contacted us that they were leaving Rangoon tomorrow. That should put them back here by Wednesday at the earliest."
"Thanks."
April took an elevator that whisked her up to the Weapons Room. With Mark Slate hors de combat and Lord knew what else, it would have been a comfort to have had Solo and his Russian colleague on deck to call some of the shots.
This way, it all fell on her shoulders. Not that she lacked self-confidence. Far from it. It was just that she was willing to take all the help she could get.
