The Utopia Affair - McDaniel David (электронные книги без регистрации TXT) 📗

"Indeed. Your encirclement maneuver was masterfully executed, sir. I fear my flank has been broken. Never fear; I will have it re-formed in an equally vulnerable position by mid-afternoon." His dark face smiled leanly as he drew up a canvas chair and signaled a waiter. "I must thank you, sir, for an interesting game. Frankly, I had not expected the diversion to prove so challenging."

Waverly carefully and tenderly packed his noon pipe. He could easily nurse it along through the hour after lunch. His self-ordered rationing ensured his limited supply would last until his departure, but temptation sometimes twitched at his fingers. "I have you to thank for precisely the same reason, Silverthorne. And may I say I admire your familiarity with the techniques of small-scale warfare."

"A modest acquaintance. But after all, it is only a game. What of value is really at stake? A bit of pride perhaps. My interest is but loosely held, I fear.

"What of value did you have in mind? A sort of side bet?"

"Perhaps. I hadn't actually begun to consider it."

"Mmm. The madreleine looks rather good this afternoon. And the Chef's salad has been recommended."

The subject did not recur for nearly an hour. Waverly was half-reclining on the balcony, drawing deeply on his pipe as Silverthorne sipped a liqueur. "I'm handicapped by not knowing your background," the latter admitted at last. "What would you consider a reasonable side bet?"

Waverly thought through another long pull at his smoldering pipe. "What have we in common? We're both here. Each of us can afford the expense of this place—and each of us would prefer not to have to. Either of us could probably afford to cover the other's expenses."

The aristocratic black eyebrows arched. "My dear Dodgson!"

"A little steep?"

"Well, of course..."

"After all it is war." His eyes twinkled frostily for just a moment as he glanced sideways to the other man.

Silverthorne rolled a few molecules of Anisette between his tongue and palate, and considered for several seconds before swallowing. When he spoke, he said, "Done."

Chapter 10

"Our Old Fox Is Wily."

ILLYA STROLLED purposefully down a corridor where he really had no right to be, bearing a covered tray and looking to neither side. He moved around the vicinity of Waverly's command office until the halls were clear in both directions, then let himself in.

The room was empty, of course. Illya checked the chair cushion, found it untampered with, and looked around. A tall map-board compartment was outlined by cupboard doors in one wall; a glance revealed it to be available for immediate occupancy and Illya took quick advantage. Work the night before had made it habitable—twenty minutes of muffled carpentry and hardware work by the light of a shaded torch had put a wide-angle peephole in the door of the cabinet where it would pass unnoticed as a glass bead half-set in the wood. He produced from his covered tray a packet of sandwiches and a bottle of ginger beer, and placed the tray discreetly in the bathroom.

Everything else went as if he had choreographed it. The two trained killers entered the office stealthily at 12:13 after knocking twice. At 12:16 the Turk placed a plastic capsule gingerly within the springs of the large brown leather chair, moved it experimentally with his hand, and nodded. At 12:17 they cracked the door, looked around, and left. At 12:17:30 Illya had the bolt drawn on the inside of his hide-hole and was scrambling under the chair. At 12:24 he finished his interrupted lunch, and left the office exactly as clean as he had found it. Beneath the cover on the tray he bore rested a bulging packet of thin plastic with a lightly stenciled code number across one end. He passed unnoticed from the command room and down the hall, wondering quietly to himself how long his two pet demons would go unaware that their trap had misfired, and how soon they would begin to become suspicious of continuous failures.

Once again that night he had the dubious pleasure of hearing both ends of a telephone conversation and piecing them together mentally. He'd been scanning the bug in the Thrush suite, as he thought of the assassins' room, when the phone chimed.

"Yes?" Several seconds pause.

"If possible." Several more seconds. "You know the priorities. We will come if nothing interferes."

"Exactly, sir. Good evening." The phone clattered into its cradle and something very like a snort followed the sound closely.

Silverthorne's bug revealed what Illya had expected. It started with the click of the telephone buttons and continued thus:

"You know who this is. Come to my quarters at ten o'clock. I want your help."

"You're using that assignment a little too heavily as an excuse to get out of work I want you for."

"If anything interferes we may just take this whole matter up with the Council."

Four seconds passed, ending with a sudden slight indrawing of breath and the beginning of a muttered imprecation.

High-speed scan showed nothing as the tape sped forward several uneventful hours and stopped smoothly just past a door chime. Familiar voices greeted his tired ears.

The conversation was tiresome, circuitous and politely formal, but it boiled down to a demand by Silverthorne that the two trained Thrush assassins double as a spy service for him.

"I've more or less gone so far as to put money on you, in fact. Dodgson was awfully quick to accept the offer, and he placed the bet high. I'm certain he has some kind of plan he's relying on. It's only one week before the Game is due to conclude—he probably has prepared the outline for his final drive. I must have that outline, without his knowledge."

Silence, while Illya imagined sharp black eyes glancing back and forth, balancing factors and weighing choices.

"We are sincerely sorry sir, that we cannot help you in this. We beg you not to ask us again to depart from the path of duty. Our mission has met with minor setbacks, and we too work within a limited time. Please do not forget which is the game and which is real."

"In other words, sir, if we were caught in something like that, we would be discharged from the Park and our real work would be left undone. One of the Basic Directives is Take No Unnecessary Chances."

"You're experts; blast your mealy-mouthed modesty—you're two of the best in the world! Do you mean to tell me it would be at all dicey for you to do a little looking around in a man's room? He'll have it written down somewhere. I'm not asking you to kidnap him and torture a confession out of him!"

A longer pause, while faint sibilants indicated quiet conferral. "The best we can do, sir, is to promise you that as soon as our first duty has been accomplished we will be completely at your disposal."

"We also beg to remind you, sir, that interruptions delay our conscientious efforts towards this goal." The lighter voice picked up the cue like a trained actor—which in some senses he must have been.

Silverthorne cleared his throat roughly, and his voice itched with barely suppressed anger. "Very well. You will be free to move unencumbered until you finish whatever you're here to do. But I charge you now to report to me as soon as you are free."

The Turk's voice was calm as he said, "Perhaps tomorrow morning, sir. We must see what the day brings."

"So let it be, then. You may go."

They went, and Illya scanned briefly ahead to check that nothing further was said before his subject settled do for the night. His neck was stiff when he finally slipped the light plastic earphones from his head and rubbed his aching ears.