[Whitman] - The Affair of the Gunrunners' Gold - Keith Brandon (читать полностью бесплатно хорошие книги TXT) 📗

"Are we going to tie her up, too?" Raymond asked.

"What for?" replied Parley.

"Don't ask me," said Raymond. "You're the guy that tied them."

"Force of habit." Parley's smile was ghastly. "No reason for tying them. No reason for tying her. They'll sleep."

"But not for long," said Raymond.

Parley winced. "Would you explain that, Mr. Raymond?"

"In the living room. We have time to talk, I take it."

"There's time," said Parley.

In the living room, awaiting Brian Powell's call, they made themselves comfortable.

"We get rid of them," Raymond said.

"How?" asked Langston.

Raymond calmly puffed his cigar. "They're sleeping. It'll be a simple matter for Tito to throttle them. You know my motto, Otis—dead men tell no tales."

"But not the girl," expostulated Tito. "Why the young girl? She knows nothing."

"But we won't be able to explain the absence of her father. We don't need a hysterical kid on our hands." Raymond exhaled aromatic cigar smoke, negligently flicking the ash. "I say kill them—get them out of the way—the three of them."

"I say kill none of them," interjected Parley.

"You say! Who are you?" Raymond's gaze was contemptuous. "You're nothing, that's who you are!"

"May I express an opinion?"

"You may express nothing."

"Let him talk," said Langston.

"Why? He's a lackey. A servant. He does what he's told and nothing else. He has no right to talk back to his superiors."

"Just an opinion," wheezed Parley.

"Let the man talk," said Langston.

"But he's merely a—"

"Let him talk, Felix."

"Okay, Mr. Parley, Mr. John Parley talking back to his superiors––talk!" Raymond blurted.

Parley's nostrils were compressed to white ridges. His lips trembled. "An opinion. I just wish to express an opinion," he quavered.

"This is talking?" sneered Raymond. "Talk, brave Mr. Parley—but remember, I won't forget this insolence."

"What I'm trying to say," said Parley, "is why not leave this decision—life or death—to the higher echelon, the T.H.R.U.S.H. executives?"

"In the field, I make the decisions," boomed Raymond.

Parley pressed on. "The high echelon in T.H.R.U.S.H. might want to talk to these people, might want to examine them. We had no idea that Craig was a man from U.N.C.L.E. The T.H.R.U.S.H. executives might want to question him on that. They could learn a lot from him. And they can learn a lot from the other agent—the one posing as Evan Fairchild—once we deliver him—alive!"

"He's got a point," piped Langston.

"Your decision, Mr. Raymond, might not meet with the approval of the men above you—and there are men above you." Watching Raymond, Parley was beginning to regain composure. "But once we execute your decision, then these people are dead and we cannot reverse the decision."

Parley hesitated.

Blandly Felix Raymond smoked his cigar. "Please continue, John."

"They're in coma. They won't be any trouble to us. We'll have a special van here. I'm sure I can get them onto one of our planes—just as I know I can get you three onto the plane. I say we bring them over to Europe with us, to a T.H.RU.S.H. sanctuary, and let the big shots there make the life-or-death decision. They might very well appreciate that we brought them two U.N.C.L.E. agents—alive. And without any real trouble on our part. It would be different if we had no alternative––if we had to get rid of them."

"The man has a point," said Langston.

Raymond sat back, eyes half-closed, smoking his cigar. "Maybe you do have a point, John," he purred. "Perhaps I've been a bit stubborn; I have a hard head, you know." He laughed briefly. "And a quick temper." Raymond sat forward. "John, if I've insulted you—and I have—I humbly apologize. Quick temper, quick tongue."

"His bark is worse than his bite," Langston said lamely.

"John," said Raymond, smiling, "you've presented some excellent arguments, and I propose, right here and now while we still have time, that we put those arguments on the table and discuss them—a full, forthright discussion. All of us—pro and con. That includes you, too, Tito. I want you to feel free to..."

29. Circus Catch

THE SCANNING TRUCK came to a stop.

Waverly, Bankhead, and Solo alighted.

Bankhead pointed. "He's in that house."

"I'm going in for a look," said Solo.

"Careful," said Waverly.

"Sure," said Solo.

"And I mean careful." The Old Man smiled wearily. "We almost lost you once today."

Solo winked, then strolled into the lobby of the apartment house. There he looked at the name plates. CRAIG was printed in blue ink on a white slip-in cardboard. The apartment was 1-A.

Solo tried the lobby door. It was not locked. Silently he entered into a hallway. Apartment 1-A was on the ground floor, in the rear. He paused at the door of 1-A and listened. He heard the sound of voices, but did not tarry long enough to distinguish them. One of them sounded like Raymond's boom, but Solo was not certain.

He returned to the street to report to Waverly. "Craig has an apartment in there. One-A. Ground floor, rear. The lobby door's not locked. I sneaked in for a listen at One-A. Voices. One of them sounded like Felix Raymond's, but I didn't stay long enough to make sure."

Bankhead said, "Illya Kuryakin is in that apartment house."

"Then he figures to be in One-A," said Solo.

The Old Man nodded. They went back to the truck.

Waverly gave instructions. "We're going to have to go in en masse—all of us, in a great group. We're going to have to rush them. Whoever is in there— and Solo suspects Felix Raymond is one of them—they're probably armed. We've got to go in so fast that they won't have a chance to go for their guns. Where's Colin Walker?"

"Here," said Walker.

"The lobby door's open, but the apartment door figures to be locked. Can you open it without making noise?"

Walker grinned broadly. "A simple lock? An apartment door? You've got to be kidding."

The Old Man lost himself. For a moment, in a fatherly gesture, he hugged the young man. Then, embarrassed, he released him.

"Good luck," he said dryly.

"We'll need it," breathed Solo.

Fifteen men followed Colin Walker into the building. Fascinated, they watched as he inserted the slender, steel picklock.

Inside, the life-and-death debate still raged. Raymond was for the immediate disposal of the three in the bedroom. Parley and Tito were for keeping them alive. Langston was not convinced either way—he wavered between the opposing factions—and it was toward him that the arguments were directed. Raymond said, "Make up your mind, Otis. I don't want to carry the brunt of this all alone. If you vote with me, we do it. If you vote with them, we don't do it. It's up to you. Your decision."

But the decision was never made. The door burst open and they were overwhelmed by U.N.C.L.E. agents.

Dr. Blaine went to work on the three in the bedroom.

Illya came out first, then Kenneth Craig, followed by Candy, yawning deliciously. She stared in amazement at Parley, Raymond, Langston, and Tito—all handcuffed.

Solo rushed at Illya and they embraced. "Brother, you sure had me worried," said Solo.