[The Girl From UNCLE 03] - The Golden Boats of Taradata Affair - Latter Simon (книги читать бесплатно без регистрации полные TXT) 📗

"So Mareet is chief. Where is Kuala?" Mark asked.

Again Sidano shrugged. "We do not ask. It is their affair."

"We'll make it ours now," said April. "It should be interesting."

CHAPTER NINE: SELECTIVE KILL

IT happened as they expected. The Taradata port officer told Captain Sidano to bring his ship in on the next tide, to keep his passengers aboard, and to discharge and take on cargo in time to leave on the morning tide. He even gave an official reason for the landing ban — an epidemic of island fever, a reason to which no authority could object — nor query — as it was backed by the Taradata medical officer, Dr. George Lodori.

The U.N.C.L.E. team — except Sama Paru and Randy Kovac, who were well out to sea in the submarine — made their plans, which included taking several of the younger passengers joy-riding in the launch. Lars Carlson shed his wig and sunglasses. Count Kazan, recovering with each hour, acted the gracious, wealthy host. They all swam and frolicked in the sea within sight of the beaches.

Clusters of gorgeous-looking girls waved to them, but didn't swim out from the sands. Obviously, they were as much guards as ornamental local colour, and already had fixed the steel-mesh net below the water so that no propeller-driven craft could pass without being smashed up.

April, Mark and Lars took it in turns to swim under water. But only one at a time left their guests, so the fun and games were not interrupted, and the cutting shears passed from one to the other until the whole mesh had been severed, sinking to the sea bed.

Lars raised the sun awning on the launch, adding colour and covering from shore-based binoculars his own activities of preparing certain weapons and assault aids. Kazan kept their guests amused on the inflatable raft, even serving drinks and providing paper sunshades to protect the lady visitors' fair skins. There were all the outward and visible signs of wealth and leisure combined for the delight of everyone.

This also helped April and Mark to relax in preparation for the action ahead. Mark got rid of his whiskers fairly painlessly, but Lars's idea of a hair-trim was the "chop- chop-ouch!" variety. Mark emerged half-scalped — the massacre being covered by a jaunty red-bobble cap. It so changed his appearance that the passenger-guests failed at first to recognize him.

Several miles east of them, beyond the anchored Island Traveller, the Dx5 submarine cruised the sea depths at low speed, stopping every now and then as it overran the tide-rise. They hoped to be directly under the towering slope of Taramao Point at the same time as Island Traveller slipped into harbour. Already the shadows were lengthening over the Point when the launch returned to the ship; which immediately started engines, upped anchor, and swung shoreward.

Sidano put her astern before actually entering harbour. One of the stern hatchways opened. Two coracles were lowered into the water, April Dancer and Mark Slate slid down the guide-ropes into the tiny craft, carrying special oars made that afternoon by Island Traveller's chippy — who had also given them expert tuition in coracle handling.

Opposite the beach — dark material draped over her white hull, paint daubed on bright metal — the launch sidled in on the tide, its drift corrected by Kazan with one expertly-wielded oar over the stern. In the cave, the submarine surfaced very slowly. Two rubber-suited figures emerged onto the hull. One swung into the sea, carrying a grappling anchor to one of the rocks, then returned to the submarine. Sama Paru whispered: "Ready?" Randy Kovac nodded. Both men snapped on headgear and visors, slid into the velvet-dark sea, and began silently to swim to the rock-face.

As Island Traveller tied up, the cargo-dock lights and the ship's own deck lights came on almost together. Their reflection sheened the water, flared against the harbour arms, casting inky-purple shadow over the two coracles paddling to shallow water.

At last April and Mark lifted the tiny craft clear of the water and on to the sand, then crept on thick-soled overshoes up the shadow of the wall. "There are no stone fish," the seamen had said. "Only the usual risk in stepping from an incoming tide when the deadly barbs may rise from the moving sand. But above the water-line — no."

They reached a fencing laced with barbed wire. Light from the harbour, to the left of it, showed four guards between the fence and a round hut in comparative shadow away to their right. Mark whispered in April's ear. She nodded, then shedding the overshoes, sped wraith-like to the hut and was lost in its shadow.

Mark removed his own overshoes, trod quietly, to a vantage point of shadow midway, then deliberately kicked sand. The four figures turned like puppets at the sound.

"Hullo!" said Mark softly. "Can you direct me to Fifth Avenue? I'm Father Christmas looking for a present to happen to."

They rushed towards him, then halted after the first impetus of surprise. Three of them hung back to push the fourth guard forward. He held a rifle awkwardly, not aimed but with one hand around the stock, the barrel pointing away from his side.

"I'm sure you haven't got a licence for that," said Mark. "Sorry, fellas." His sleep guns fired with hissing spats at four targets outlined against the distant lights.

He had leapt among them even before they crumpled, ripping away the rifle, hurling it into the sea. It was a silly, unthinking trick, for it made a loud splash. Mark dropped to the sand — waited, breath held. No more guards. Empty space from here to the beach backdrop. A cluster of huts beyond the fence. An opening between, leading to the harbour, from whence came the chug of the winches lifting cargo.

Mark dragged the unconscious guards into deep shadow, then raced to the hut. It was much larger than he expected. Round, with a conical roof, laced with palm and other foliage over cane sticks.

April came close, whispered. "Steel. It's all steel. The jungle stuff is fake top-dressing. Come back here."

Around the far side she lifted a portion of cane and palm leaf, disclosing a large opening the size of a letter-box. They peered through it. The area around the opening vibrated slightly. Air was sucked past their cheeks. A restricted view showed men — native islanders wearing a type of sarong-like mini-kilt of coloured cloth. Some had coloured bangles on their right arms, none on the left. Some wore necklaces of sharks' teeth or shells. The youngest had no such adornment. All were grouped, squatting on their haunches in a semi-circle, around an imposing-looking man with white hair, gnarled hands, high-veined arms, yet a smoothly boyish face.

He was speaking quietly, soothingly, his dark eyes gentle, his white teeth gleaming in the dim light thrown from one electric globe. Two gaps in his teeth gave him an even more boyish air — almost mischievous. Several of his listeners appeared to be either asleep or entranced by his words.

"Air-conditioned," April whispered. "Vents around the top. This is no native hovel. Surely that's Kuala?"

Mark nodded. "Chief 'Boy' Kuala himself. He's practising Y-Shan-U. Well, it's one way of keeping up their spirits!"

"Hypnotism?" she queried. "Trance states? Will it do them harm if we break it up?"

"Let's try." Mark put his mouth into one end of the slot, called softly "Y-Shan-U" a number of times, while April kept watch.

"He's heard you. He's coming over! " she said suddenly.

Mark bobbed his head down, to see "Boy" Kuala coming close.

"Who calls?" said Kuala.

"I come from the High Priest of Y-Shan-U. He is on the island boat. The great Chas says listen to me. I have come to save your people. You will help me?"