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

"Scare the hare and lose the snare," the Old Man had said. "No holes in the walls, not even an inspection of the suite when he goes out. He's a wily old buzzard, knows every trick in the game. He'd know, just as you'd know, that there are self-protective inspection patterns. He's setting up his own traps against surveillance, I assure you. Yours is strictly a tailing job and a most delicate one. You either get him red-handed or you don't get him at all—but we must not scare him off."

Instead McNabb had set up the rubber plungers of the audioscope against the walls, and he and his assistant, with headpieces over their ears, could hear every sound. Stanley had had no visitors. He had received no phone calls. He had eaten all his meals, delivered by room service, in his suite. But once every four hours, day and night, he had quit the suite, and immediately McNabb had alerted Solo or Kuryakin downstairs. Each time Stanley had gone to a telephone booth and each time to a different one. He had made a phone call and returned to his suite. That had been the extent of his activities. Nothing more.

And so on this hot, bright sunny Thursday in July, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin lolled impatiently in the cool dimness of the lobby. It was ten minutes after eleven in the morning. At eleven Stanley had come down to make his phone call. This time he had gone out to the street and made it from a glass phone booth. Then he had gone back upstairs.

Solo shrugged. "I'll go have a cup of coffee."

"Sure. And when you come back, my turn." But suddenly Illya held his hand up, palm out.

"Our friend has gone out again," McNabb said in his ear.

Illya removed the tiny electronic earpiece.

"He's coming down."

Solo smiled, nodded. "Good old Albert. At last. First break in the routine."

He motioned Illya to the Lexington Avenue exit. He moved toward the Park Avenue exit. He was not worried. Stanley had no car. If he walked, they would follow, shifting the surveillance from one to the other to four others deployed on the street. If he took a cab, so much the better. Since Tuesday there had been two taxis in front of the hotel on the Park Avenue side and two on the Lexington Avenue side. These taxis accepted no passengers. Their flags were down. The excuse of the drivers was that they already had a passenger who had gone into the hotel and was coming out. The doormen had been instructed and had been shown pictures of Stanley. The few times Stanley had gone into the street to make his phone call, the flags had shot up and the taxis were ready. They were frequently relieved by other taxis, but always the drivers were agents of UNCLE.

Now Stanley came out of the elevator. He was dressed in dark slacks and a brown sport jacket. He wore no tie. A tan linen sport shirt was open at the neck, its collar over the collar of the jacket. By a strap slung over his shoulder he was carrying a full-size portable radio in a leather case. He looked like a harmless little man going off to meet friends for a picnic. He chose the Park Avenue side. Illya, moving swiftly, joined Solo.

The flags of the taxi meters were shifted upward. Stanley talked pleasantly to the doorman, who nodded, went forward, and opened a taxi door, Stanley following. Solo and Illya slipped into the taxi behind. Solo touched a switch and they could hear every word spoken in the other cab.

"Yes, sir. Where to?" the driver said.

"I wish to go to the ferry to Liberty Island."

It was the first time they had heard his voice. It was soft, slow, polite, hesitant.

"Oh? Gonna visit the Lady?" That was Jack O'Keefe driving the front cab.

"Statue of Liberty," Stanley said.

"Quite a sight, quite a sight," O'Keefe said. "Used to be called Bedloe's Island. Did you know that, sir?"

"He's keeping the customer talking," Solo said. "That's for our benefit."

"So we're going sight-seeing." Illya turned down the corners of his mouth.

"Well, it's a lovely day," Solo said.

"… and the name was changed to Liberty Island during the Eisenhower administration," Stanley was saying.

"'Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses..."

"Beautiful, so beautiful," Stanley said. "You know where that comes from?"

"I'm only a hackie, mister. I know it's got to do with the Statue of Liberty."

"A poem by Emma Lazarus. It's engraved inside the pedestal of the Statue."

"How do you like that?" Jack said. "Never knew it. I'm only born in this country. You guys, foreigners..."

"Flow do you know I'm a foreigner?"

"Heck, if that ain't a British accent..."

"Yes, I am English," Stanley said. "Is it permitted, while I ride, that I play my radio?"

"I got one right up front here, sir."

"May I play my own?"

"Sure. Certainly. Why not? It's a free country."

The conversation ceased and the sound of music came back to Solo and Kuryakin in the other cab.

Illya groaned. "He likes rock 'n' roll."

"So do I." Solo grinned. "I go for the big beat."

On the ferry in the sunshine Solo said, "I do hope, because it's today, that it is sight-seeing."

"And I hope the opposite."

"But the Old Man's in Washington."

"That's why I hope the opposite."

"You know his instructions." Solo's voice was flat.

"If we have to take him in on Thursday—then that's what we do, period. And we do nothing else. No questions, nothing. He wants to handle it all himself. Important. Other aspects, the new changes in the British Sector of THRUSH, that whole bit—so he wants to handle it personally. So that's why I hope it happens today, whatever it is that does happen."

"You're losing me, pal."

"Waverly's not due back till one o'clock tomorrow. Right?"

"Right."

"So if it should happen our friend shows his hand today, then we take him in, and we're off till one o'clock tomorrow. Like that, the pressure's off. I can go home, relax, take a tub, get a good, long, wonderful night's sleep. We haven't had much of that since Tuesday, have we, Napoleon?"

"You've got a point there," Solo said.

Stanley mingled with the crowds. Many went up into the Statue; Stanley did not. The day was hot; the sky was blue; there were no clouds. Stanley sunned himself. He mingled with the crowds, as did Solo and Kuryakin. And now as they moved with a crowd toward the elevator, Stanley was in a shadowed, isolated area. Suddenly Illya grasped Solo's wrist, his nails digging in, his mouth at Solo's ear. "Look!"

Stanley had wedged the radio into an aperture behind a granite slab. Now he strolled away, slight, casual, a harmless little man, strolling out of the shadow and into the sunshine toward the returning ferry out of New York Harbor.

"Go with him," Illya said.

"There's time for the ferry."

"Go with him!"

The elevator opened. The crowd was swallowed. Solo made the turn behind Stanley. Illya was alone, moving out of the hot sunshine into the shadowy area. He knew what he was doing. He knew the risk. Waverly had briefed them well. He pulled the radio from behind the granite slab. He set it down on the ground, went to his knees, covering it with his body. Gingerly he turned it over. It was heavy. He released the snaps of the back cover, opening it. He heard the thin whine of the batteries coursing the current through the fuse. He plucked at the mesh of wires, carefully disconnecting them. The whine ceased. The triggering apparatus was dead. He sighed on his knees, a long, deep sigh. He snapped the back cover shut. He stood up, lifting the heavy portable radio by its leather strap.