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

Silverthorne wasn't the type that took well to being frustrated. Would he keep after the Thrush assassins to do his spying, or might he even attempt it himself?

As a guest he had a freedom of movement outside which they, as employees, would be hard put to match. But would he be foolish (or confident) enough to risk the disastrous shame of being caught cheating?

It wasn't enough, Illya thought, that he had to keep two experts from killing Waverly; now he had to help him keep his military secrets. Idly, in the back of his mind, he started calculating time-and-a-half for two weeks, and wondering if it was really worth it.

Illya's suspicions were well founded. The following night his bug played him both ends of Silverthorne's casual afternoon call to Waverly inviting himself over for the evening, and he caught the tail end of a conversation on his last unit that put the last straw on a back-breaking day. The tape came up on the sound of a door opening and voices fading in.

"… to make another try. Perhaps the bungalow again."

"But the window alarms will not make it easy. There is no rush; we have yet eleven days. The food is good, the beds are soft, and the water is sweet."

"Mmmmmmm..."

"It is worth taking the time to do a professional job."

"It is. The bungalow again, then."

"But with care. Our old fox is wily, though he may be off his guard. And his good fortune exceeds my imagination! The disturbance around his cottage, which I insist we should have ignored—and whatever happened to the gas capsule?"

"It must have fallen to the floor and been swept up with the dirt, which means it will be burned or buried. Either way it is unlikely to misfire or to be discovered and linked to us."

"Is it possible we could be spied upon?"

"No. You know the security system here; everything is guaranteed clean!"

The voices faded to and fro as they talked, and at this point the shower was turned on, muffling all other sounds. Illya flicked a switch and the roar rose to a hiss that ended in a second of babble, then silence. Bed time, hit the rewind button.

Illya mentally repeated Mr. Simpson's assurance that the bug would be indetectable while not actually transmitting. He was sure about his own cover as Klaus Rademeyer, but if they found a bug they'd be looking hard enough to pierce it. On the other hand, if they expended their energies in a spy-hunt they'd be a little less inclined to concentrate quite so much attention on getting Waverly.

"Life," said Illya to himself, "is not as simple as crossing a field." And he started dismantling his gear for the night.

Silverthorne arrived on Mr. Dodgson's doorstep precisely at six, with dinner to be delivered at seven. Their conversation tended to steer away from the subject of their Game onto relatively safer topics such as Rhodesian Independence and American Involvement in Southeast Asia.

As they talked idly and toyed with dinner and brandy, Silverthorne used every opportunity to study Dodgson's possessions. Each time his host was absent from the room, he would seize the opportunity to acquaint himself more intimately with several objects. He peered into a vase, glanced under two table mats and ran an inquisitive hand under the edge of the desk. Moving idly about the room he eyed the few books with which the shelves had been stocked from the Park library. They might bear looking into....

In another free moment he checked the backs of three pictures, taking care that each was hanging straight when he left it. His dark eyes darted around the room, considering the upholstery—too hard to get at; concealed paneling—worth a check later; the books—they'd take time to search; the bricks of the fireplace—a good bet.

He would have to gain access to the cottage some time when the occupant was out for several hours. A master key was no problem, and the built-in burglar alarms were probably identical with his own. The next afternoon, then. Dodgson would be at the Lodge from two o'clock until the dinner hour for a physical therapy session.

"The problem, of course," said the host as he returned to the room, "is that the British blockade doesn't seem to be effective."

"On the contrary," Silverthorne said, picking up the interrupted conversation smoothly, "there is every reason to believe the continental subtle attritions are having their effect already."

Only the drone of insects in the trees broke the forest stillness as Silverthorne easily let himself into #35 and looked around its carpeted quietude as he eased the door shut behind him. A small device came out of his pocket as he moved to the fireplace.

For several seconds he occupied himself running it carefully over the surface of the bricks, then rose, looking around. He passed the gadget along the wall between the main room and the kitchenette, sweeping it in a pattern which covered every square foot. He repeated this across the other interior walls, and then around the window frames in the outer walls.

At last he turned to the bookshelves, pocketing the silent box. Only a few dozen volumes stood there: historical, technical and a few fictional. Carefully, one at a time, Silverthorne took each from its place, opened it and flipped through the pages. Waverly's notes could be on a single sheet of paper, rolled or folded and hidden almost anywhere that would admit of easy access.

A small volume of fiction felt oddly light to his hand when he lifted it, and as he attempted to open it his fingers found the pages fixed together in a solid mass. A moment later he had the cover open and saw the empty hollow space that lay within. He knew almost instinctively that the plans he wanted either had lain here in the past or would lie here in the near future—quite possibly both. He studied the book, turning it over in his hands, fixing its appearance in his mind.

The dust jacket was a muted brown with faded lettering: The Purloined Letter and Other Tales by E. A. Poe, which brought a slight smile to the burglar's face. Somehow typical of the old fox, he thought. What a book to hide something in.

He replaced it, and continued his check perfunctorily. The rest of the books contained no surprises, and the walls behind them proved innocent of concealed spaces. The desk was clean.

He looked once again around the apartment after his quick scan of the two other rooms and nodded. Dodgson could carry everything he needed in the book and consider it safe from discovery. Reasonably safe—but not quite safe enough. Not from Silverthorne.

Chapter 11

"This Looks Like One Of Those Days."

THINGS WERE fairly peaceful around U.N.C.L.E. head quarters for a few days following the 'Thrush attack. After his first uninterrupted night's sleep in ten days, Napoleon Solo took the following night off to go home and sleep in his own bed. Only one Priority call awakened him, and his slumber was deep and dreamless.

The daily reports were already on his desk when he strolled in at seven-thirty, half an hour before his usual time; he browsed through them, handling three Channel D signals from field agents without losing his place. His nerves, tautened by the week and more of unrelenting pressure, had found release in the familiar action Wednesday, and he faced his lessened though still strenuous task with renewed vigor and zeal.

That the job was lighter, he found an additional relief. Thrush had apparently tried to soften him up, climaxing eight days of full-bore razzle-dazzle all over the country with the sneak attack through that forgotten sewer line. But he'd stood them off, with the help of Simpson and his semi-portable Cloak of Invisibility, and now they were pausing to catch their breath. Fine—so would he.