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

Slate nodded. "They must have contacted her for this assignment. She was figurative head of this League of Nations gang. The man called Mr. Riddle seemed to be the top man but I'd stake my last penny that our redhead was the one calling the plays."

"Neither of you saw this person at any time?"

"Just a voice to me," April recalled. "A flat emotionless voice. Like someone reading a grocery list. Really a hard voice to pin down to a definite category."

Mark Slate coughed. "I saw half of him when they crowded around that serving board they had me laid out on. The voice sounded muffled then, half-clear, as though the man was wearing a mask of sorts."

"Man," Mr. Waverly repeated. "Then you would both rule out the possibility that it could be a woman disguising her natural speaking voice?"

"I wouldn't commit myself," April answered, trying to hear once again that flat voice coming into their cell room. "If it was a woman talking like a man, then Dr. Egret must be a marvelous mimic."

"She is, Miss Dancer. She once posed as an eighty-year-old Nobel prizewinner and fooled the police of three countries for five months. Mr. Slate?"

Mark shook his head. It was impossible to say for sure.

Waverly pursed his lips.

"Let's recap, shall we? Might clear the air a bit. Alek Yakov Zorki comes here to do a bit of damage, indulging in his old fondness for bombings. We apprehend him. Thrush knows almost immediately that we have. A troubling thought about our Headquarters Security system, incidentally. Now, Thrush captures Mr. Slate through the ingenuity of this Van Atta woman. She is equipped with an entourage of international help—the Chinese, the Frenchman and the poor Hindu you mentioned, Miss Dancer. His corpse, as well as the truckdriver's is probably in the rubble back there at that burned-out factory in the Bronx. We'll know better in the morning. The note from Egret suggests a swap of agents at midnight in Grand Central Station, or at the very least a continuance of negotiations. We have put a stop to that by having you both back safe and sound. The next move is Egret's. Will she or won't she get in touch with me? All fairly simple now, save for two odd factors." The head of U.N.C.L.E. fixed his stern but parental gaze on April and Mark Slate. "Who and what is Mr. Riddle and where did he get off to? And that dear little girl you found in the lockers—Joanna Paula Jones?—odd name that—where does she fit into the picture? We are contacting Naval Intelligence now to see if such a person was assigned to this matter. When I was in Washington, the Navy Chief did mention some interest in Zorki. But we shall have to wait. As I see it, that about represents all we have so far. Have I left anything out?"

"Yes," April interjected. "You mentioned some diversion you had planned in regard to Zorki—"

"Ah, yes." Mr. Waverly smiled. "You will turn your attention to the far wall." He glanced at his watch. "It's a bit late but in any case, you will be able to judge for yourself the efficacy of our experiment."

April and Slate wheeled around in their chairs to face the elevated row of closed television circuit screens aligned on the far wall. Mr. Waverly pressed a button in the recess of the table where he sat.

One of the screens lit up, instantly. A bright, clear picture, unmuddled, without snow. As clear as a glass of water. They could see a man, dressed in a gray turtleneck sweater and trousers; the massive body and bull head were familiar.

"The Great Zorki," April murmured. "Caged Russian bear."

"And now this," Waverly said and pressed another button. The screen adjacent to the picture lit up. It was uncanny. The same man, only this time the mood was different. The bull head was propped on a pillow, the bushy eyebrows were knit in concentration, the face staring at the floor of the cell. This Zorki was deep in reflection. The garments were identical. Gray turtleneck sweater, whipcord trousers. Mr. Waverly chuckled drily as both men came to life on the screen.

"Now, I've a question for you both. Which one of the men that you see is indeed our Russian friend?"

"It's an amazing duplication," Slate marveled. "But I'd place my pennies on the joker that's stalking like a bear."

"And you, Miss Dancer. Take your pick."

"I'm not being contrary," April laughed, "but I'd have to say the one staring at the floor. I don't base that opinion on any flaw in the disguise, though."

"Oh." Mr. Waverly sounded amused. "Why do you select the reflective Zorki as the real one?"

"He's wearing a wristwatch. And we don't allow our prisoners anything like that."

"Tallyho," Mark Slate laughed. "You're right."

"And so she is," Waverly agreed, clicking the buttons on his desk again. The screens went dark. "I shall have to remind Mr. Wilder about that. Though it does no harm at the moment."

"Wilder?" April echoed. "That was James Wilder? Yes, yes—I see now. He's built like Zorki, the face and hair is close enough and with makeup—"

"Quite. You really wouldn't be able to tell them apart if they stood in the center of this room."

"But," Slate interrupted. "There's no need now for this game of Zorki, is there, sir? You've no place to go with him."

"You forget, Mr. Slate," Waverly's expression was grim. "We have yet to hear from Egret again. And don't worry. We will hear from her. I'm sure of it."

"It's close to eleven o'clock," April said blandly, reaching for a cigarette. "Do we get any beauty sleep tonight?"

Mr. Waverly's teeth showed for one of the few times in their long acquaintance with him.

"I would be the first to suggest you do not need sleep to augment your beauty, Miss Dancer. Getting back to reality, however, I would prefer you both remain at Headquarters tonight. I expect to be hearing from the teletypes and I shall want you on hand."

"Roger, sir." Mark Slate rose to his feet, still incongruous in Basque shirt and blue jeans. "The bunks aren't bad in this hotel."

"Do change to more suitable raiment, Mr. Slate."

"Yes, sir," he said soberly.

April got up too and straightened her skirt. She replaced the unlit cigarette in her pack. Waverly regarded her keenly.

"A suggestion, Miss Dancer." April looked at him.

"Since Miss Van Atta is a woman and her ankle has been seen to in the interim, I think she will be in the mood to talk. At any rate, I should like you to try before you settle down for the night. Can't tell. A declawed tigress sometimes is apt to growl a different tune. She just might be ready to trade information as a price for her crimes."

"The idea was on the tip of my tongue," April smiled.

"Of course it was," Mr. Waverly agreed and dismissed them both with a wave of his hand. When they had closed the door behind them, they could hear him on the transmitter, asking for a call to be relayed to Napoleon Solo in Rangoon. It was still daylight in Rangoon.

Arnolda Van Atta's cell was one in a row of cubicles in the underground maze that housed the facilities of U.N.C.L.E. Mark Slate had taken a turn to the left, down a corridor running north toward the sleeping quarters, but April walked quickly toward Arnolda Van Atta's pen. It was late, very late, and she wasn't in much of a mood to talk to the redheaded woman, but Mr. Waverly's idea was sound. A badly broken ankle and a plot gone awry could work wonders with a woman like Arnolda.