[The Girl From UNCLE 01] - The Birds of a Feather Affair - Avallone Michael (читаем бесплатно книги полностью txt) 📗

"Thanks for the nick-of-time routine, April."

"Sure, sure."

"She was ready to skin me alive." He indicated the glowering Arnolda Van Atta, suspended painfully between Fleming and Barnes.

"Losing your touch, Mark?" April laughed. "I should have thought she would have wanted to neck with you."

He winced in memory of the whip and how close he had come to matching Jenkins, the man in London.

" 'Fraid not. You see our lady here is a confirmed sadist. Worth knowing, April, should you ever desire to show her one jot of human kindness. A snake, this one."

"I'll keep it in mind."

She eyed Mark Slate affectionately, ignoring the venomous glares of the redhead. "Besides, I can't lose sight of you just yet, you refugee from an English fox hunt."

He raised his eyebrows superciliously. "Why not, pray tell?"

"You still haven't taught me the complete lyrics of 'I Want To Hold Your Hand.' "

Walter Fleming and Pete Barnes tried not to laugh but their sober faces relaxed in quiet smiles. Mark Slate said nothing.

April Dancer stared at the handcuffed pair known as Fried Rice and Pig Alley. It was too bad they had missed Mr. Riddle. But Slate was alive and that was all that mattered.

And Mr. Waverly was coming back; he could take over the whole operation again.

The Zorki Affair was coming to a head and it was high time things were finally resolved.

Still, she couldn't get out of her mind the plaintive young girl called Joanna Paula Jones and the whole business of U.S. Naval Intelligence being involved. Had the girl gotten out of that flood and fire alive?

April Dancer had her own ideas about a woman's role in life and there was nothing for herself but U.N.C.L.E. She didn't want anything else; she didn't care about anything else.

But she would have placed Joanna Paula Jones at the kitchen stove, cooking meals for a man and taking care of a houseful of kids. It just didn't add up. Not in the least.

There was something so damned strange, peculiar really, about that young lady. What was it; what could it be that was kicking around in her head dying for an answer?

She didn't know.

She still didn't know as they all piled into the two sedans that would take them back to Headquarters. Barnes drove the blue panel truck.

New York shone in the night. Neon gleamed. Cars squealed and roared. A horn tootled. Somewhere, a church bell ding-donged the hour.

Ten o'clock.

Two hours to midnight.

Midnight, when THRUSH wanted Zorki. But they had no bargaining power now. Mark Slate was out of their hands. So was she. What would THRUSH ask for now? April had a hunch that Mr. Waverly knew. Else why the sudden trip to Washington, D.C.?

Well, they'd know soon enough.

"You know," Mark Slate said suddenly, his wry voice alive with his own devilish sense of humor. "There's a jolly good movie playing Radio City. It's about spies and foreign intrigue and all. Stars Sophia Loren. Imagine that Italian pizza playing a spy. Quite ridiculous on the face of it. But what say we drop everything and go see it?"

"Sure," April said, "and why don't I run for Congress or grow wings and fly over London and drop leaflets inviting everybody to the wedding of George Hamilton and Luci Baines Johnson, or is it Lynda Bird he's marrying?"

"Lynda Bird," said Mark Slate and lapsed into silence again.

The round, magnificent table-desk in Mr. Waverly office was one of those ornate yet supremely technological masterpieces that defies description. The table revolved at a finger's touch and whoever was sitting at a place there could command the use of a telephone, radio set, transmitter or a host of filing treats that made an agent's work much easier.

Mark Slate, in jocular moods, would spin the table like a roulette wheel and call out numbers. But only when he and April were awaiting Mr. Waverly's presence.

On this particular occasion, the head of U.N.C.L.E. was waiting for them when they entered the office. After brief greetings, Mr. Waverly asked them for detailed reports of the day's activities.

Slate began the narration, leaving off where April had entered the picture. From that point on, she added all that she knew and had accomplished. She spoke lightly in an even, melodious voice, whose tonal quality Mr. Waverly had always found soothing. And rather astounding too. When one looked at Miss Dancer, for all her vital good looks and obvious intelligence, one hardly expected a combination of Mata Hari and a female Tarzan. Mr. Waverly had always thoroughly approved of April Dancer. She was a credit to her U.N.C.L.E. Academy training. A living refutation of the claim that women could not be made to serve in the capacity of Enforcement agents.

"Good work. Miss Dancer," he murmured, when she had concluded. "You too, Mr. Slate. Glad to have you both back in one piece, as it were." He steepled his fingers, regarding them in his headmaster way. "This certainly has the thoroughness of a Thrush project. I'd rather hoped that I was in error about our Mr. Zorki."

April moved around in her chair. The bruised leg and shoulder were still bothering her, having stiffened somewhat. But her mind was on something else.

"How do you mean, Mr. Waverly?"

"You recall Zorki's miraculous escape from death the day he was exposed to the radium bullets? And his subsequent boast about a drug that guaranteed life everlasting?"

"But that's—fiddlesticks," April blurted. "He's an egomaniac. A fluke saved him. Possibly the machine wasn't working at full power. As for his boast, well, he only thinks he's the greatest living scientist in the world, doesn't he?"

Mark Slate prodded his weary eyes with his hands. "I go along with April on that, sir. It's all beer and skittles."

"Is it?" Waverly smiled fondly at them both. "I wish I could say that I shared your certainty. I'm afraid I cannot. What explanation is there then for the efforts of Thrush to regain his services? For abducting you, Mr. Slate? And you, Miss Dancer? Look how extensive their plain out-and-out efforts were. The business with this blue truck of theirs. The circus aspects of the thing. Your captors. This mysterious Mr. Riddle and the Van Atta woman. No, I am quite convinced in my mind. Which is why I chose to fly to the capitol and discuss the matter with some VIP's. We shall have to treat Mr. Zorki as if he indeed is the discoverer of the most shocking panacea of them all. There is no other alternative."

April shrugged. "We have the man. Isn't that enough?"

"It is, certainly. But I'm sure we haven't seen the last of Thrush in the matter. They are still in the wings, ready to come on. I'm sure of it."

"He could be brainwashed," April suggested.

"Perhaps. But not just yet. I have planned a diversion. You see, Dr. Egret is in this somewhere. The communique I received re your capture, Mr. Slate, was signed with that name."

"Egret?" April murmured the name; she and Slate exchanged impressed glances.

"Yes, Egret. The diabolical, the unknown. The woman of a thousand faces and disguises." Mr. Waverly unsteepled his fingers and leaned forward across the polished table. "What of this Van Atta woman, Miss Dancer?"

"She checks out, sir. All the way down the line. Born in New York, raised here. Career woman from the word go. No romantic affiliations. She does work at the UN as a translator. Her sole means of support, barring any funds she receives from Thrush. No, she's not Egret. She couldn't be. Just a gorgeous magpie who flew with the bright, new movement. An intellectual radical. And a bit of a case for the analysts. Ask Slate."