The Mind-­Twisters Affair - Stratton Thomas (книга читать онлайн бесплатно без регистрации TXT) 📗

Illya agreed. "What are your plans?"

"I'll try to ambush Whateley when he returns; he left all the lights on and the burner going, so presumably he's coming back. I don't have any equipment to get information out of him, so about all I can do is hang onto him - unless he decides to talk voluntarily. You relay this to Mr. Waverly and get over here with some truth serum. Once we have the formula and manufacturing process from Whateley, the lab boys can come up with an antidote."

"I'll notify Mr. Waverly right away," Illya said, "but it may be a little while before I can get to you. Lem took the only serviceable vehicle on the farm to Fort Wayne with the drug samples, and you have the U.N. C.L.E. car there."

"All right," Napoleon said. "Get here as soon as you can. I'll try to hold the fort until you arrive."

Napoleon had just closed the communicator and returned it to his pocket when the lights went out. He was left in darkness illuminated only by the blue flame of the Bunsen burner. He started to pull out his flash light but thought better of it. The lights had been put out deliberately; his flashlight would make a perfect target. Instead, he pulled out his gun and began cautiously feeling his way toward the doorway to the hail. He was almost there when Jabez Whateley's sepulchral voice came from somewhere in the blackness.

"I have infrared goggles and can see you perfectly, Mr. Solo. Kindly refrain from any motion whatsoever."

Chapter 13

"How Does 'Whateley For President' Strike You?"

NAPOLEON FROZE, the U.N.C.L.E. Special still in his hand. Whateley chuckled, the sound echoing hollowly in the underground room so that Napoleon was unable to tell where the Thrush leader was standing. The eerie voice came again.

"You're doing fine, Mr. Solo. Stand perfectly still while I pull your fangs."

An invisible hand removed his pistol and a second later delved into his pocket and removed his communicator and the other pen-sized devices he carried there, plus his flashlight.

"Now then, Mr. Solo, I'm sure you still have a few other lethal items about your person, so I warn you; don't even twitch unless I tell you to. It is expedient to keep you alive for the present, but not at all necessary. Now, clasp your hands behind your head. That's right, clasped tightly."

There was a click and the lights came back on. Whateley was standing a few feet from Napoleon, holding a rectangular device similar to the unit that opened the secret panel in his study in one hand and a Mossin-Nagant revolver in the other. He put down the remote-control light switch long enough to strip off the infrared goggles and lay them on a bench, then motioned with the revolver.

"Walk slowly ahead of me."

Following his captor's directions, Napoleon walked down the corridor past the other doors. At the intersecting corridor, he was directed to turn left; he shortly found himself in a gloomy passage with unfinished stone walls and a damp concrete floor. At a barred door, he halted and faced the wall while Whateley opened the door; then he was marched through and down a short flight of steps to a dungeon-like area, with sturdy cells flanking the walls and an open area in the center containing various instruments. Napoleon recognized a rack, a charcoal brazier with tongs, and an iron maiden. He failed to recognize other implements which looked equally unpleasant.

"As you see," Whateley remarked, "even in my information-gathering techniques, I am something of a traditionalist. However, you may consider yourself fortunate, Mr. Solo, for I do not require any information from you. Now then, over into that open cell on your left."

Napoleon complied, and extended his hands back through the bars as he was instructed. Whateley handcuffed his wrists together and stepped back to admire his handiwork.

"That should render you reasonably harmless, but just to make sure..." Whateley produced a roll of adhesive tape from somewhere and taped Napoleon's wrists together. "That should take care of any little tricks you might have left. I feel much more comfortable now."

Napoleon nodded at the revolver, which Whateley was transferring from his belt to a coat pocket. "Does the Russian armament have any significance, or is Thrush merely flaunting its international status?"

Whateley shook his head. "No, the head of a certain European satrapy was offered a bargain in military arms." He looked at the weapon distastefully. "Naturally, the stuff eventually got dumped on us. Whenever Thrush Central finds itself with material it doesn't know what to do with, we get it. Just because this is largely a rural satrapy, they think they can get away with anything. We were getting nothing but Volkswagens until I put my foot down. Of course, it's a nice little car, but it has certain drawbacks for our work. It's really amazing what they try to palm off on us; once they even tried to give us a second-hand dirigible. Can you imagine it?"

Napoleon nodded solemnly. "I know how it is. You wouldn't believe the sort of thing we at U.N.C.L.E. have to go through to get a simple expense account approved."

"Oh, yes I would," replied Whateley. "I have the same problems. I know the official position is that Thrush is a free-wheeling organization, throwing millions around in a quest for world domination, but you'd never know it by working in the Central Indiana Satrapy. I've sent Thrush Central four requisitions for cyanide in the past month, and do you think I've seen any of it? Not a gram!"

"You might try conjuring it up," Napoleon offered.

Whateley produced his sinister smile. "I suspect that you aren't entirely convinced by the insistence of Rita and Flavia that my demonology is merely a pose. It isn't, of course. What better place to hide a serious interest in demons and gods than under an opera cape and theatrical gestures? Nobody believes in that sort of thing any more, and so anything I may be seen doing is simply explained as another example of my melodramatic nature. In fact, my father and uncle were the last full time practitioners. There are easier ways of obtaining power than by invoking malign and capricious entities which would be as much inclined to kill me as to obey my orders. It's much simpler to invoke Thrush, red tape and all." He paused reflectively. "My cousins tried a different method. I understand they made an affiance with some Irishman and went into politics."

Whateley paused again.

"I thought you said the old gods were so powerful that mankind could not resist them," Napoleon said. "Thrush doesn't have that kind of power."

"It will, Mr. Solo; it will. However, there is the problem of communicating with the old gods and of striking a bargain with them. Their history does not show them to be particularly trustworthy and there are very few ways to force a god to obey one's will. In any event, one does not invoke them lightly. For general use, the standard, or garden variety of demon, is sufficient. Even they, however, are not particularly reliable."

"Does Flavia know about all this? She's a good actress if she does; she sounded as if she really believed that your demonology was a pose."

"Oh, she does, just as Miss Berman does. I cultivate that opinion, of course. However, Flavia is becoming something of a problem. When she was younger, we operated differently and she didn't question my being away from home a lot. We put in this underground base while she was away at school. I wasn't expecting her to return and set up shop in the basement; I expected her to find some nice young man and settle down somewhere. As it is, I hope her work starts selling well; I've offered to pay her expenses if she will live in New York, but she insists on being able to pay her own way. I'm considering priming the pump, so to speak; a few good purchases through a third party should do the job. If it doesn't, I'll have to, ah, consider other solutions.