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

April Dancer was ready for that too.

She had brought to the roof one of the light, compact guns that had been harvested from the arsenal found in the blue panel truck which had advertised ROMEO'S LEAGUE OF NATIONS EXHIBIT. A .45 caliber, Thompson submachine gun, one of the deadliest automatic weapons ever devised by the United States Army.

At close range, it was a practically unbeatable destroyer. As the helicopter flashed over the building top, rising like a bat, the range was something less than thirty yards. April braced the gun on one of the cross-girders before her, anchoring her shoulder against a convenient skylight to accept the recoil. She opened up, keeping the trigger depressed. Bursting, chattering, blazing lead erupted from the weapon, thudding into the undercarriage of the helicopter. For one full second April was able to pour it on. Pounds of lead buried themselves somewhere in the helicopter's fuselage. She had tried for the engine, one of the blades, anything.

The copter clawed briskly away, heading out over the river. April sagged against the machine gun. Spent, exhausted, her hands vibrating from the tension. Mr. Waverly had placed an arm on her shoulder. The roaring blast of the whirlybird filled the darkness of the night, and receded. The echoes of the machine gun's chatter seemed to resound on the roof. But it was an illusion.

"All right, Miss Dancer. We did our best."

"Slate got one of them," she exulted. "What a shot."

"But which one?" Mark wondered. "Better get down to see about that cadaver. I hope to God it was Wilder."

Joanna Paula Jones who had been rooted in fear and wonder at the door to the rooftop, suddenly blurted. Her high, feminine shriek was like a dash of cold water in the face.

"Look!" she shrilled. "Look!"

They looked.

Far away, yet close enough to seem like the very death of a meteor, they saw the ball of fire light up the evening sky. A gigantic flash of light which flung out as much illumination as all the neon in New York.

The helicopter was on fire. They could see the red trickle of flame, then the building, explosive flash as the whole thing ignited like a Roman candle. For one second, the whirlybird hung poised, giant blades standing out starkly in the red glare.

And then it skyrocketed downwards, extinguishing itself somewhere in the quietly running waters of the East River.

There was a din of violence, a mammoth geyser of water erupting. And then silence, and darkness.

April blinked, unable to believe her eyes. How lucky could you get? Maybe one, just one of the tommy gun's drum, had found the gas line of the copter. She patted the stock of the weapon, her fingers still trembling from the recoil.

"Bull's-eye, April," Mark Slate said proudly, eyes shining. "Perfect skeet shooting. On the wing."

Mr. Waverly almost clapped his hands together in delight. But he recovered his composure and nodded almost to himself. He clucked approvingly, smiling at April.

"Well, now. That alters matters considerably. Let's all get below, shall we, and see what's to be done about the possibility of a bomb in Headquarters."

That sobered everyone up. It was no time for celebrations. Not really.

Mr. Waverly had one last comment before they quit the vicinity of the roof.

"Life everlasting formula or not, I didn't suppose there was anything Mr. Zorki could do about complete disintegration of his earthly body, was there?"

He was talking to himself because neither April nor Mark Slate nor certainly Joanna Paula Jones could have answered that question.

Mr. Riddle

"It will take another twenty four hours to clear up the details of this affair," Mr. Waverly said, from the comfort and control of his desk. "I suggest you all go home and get some sleep. Time enough tomorrow to unwind things."

April shook herself, blinking the fatigue out of her eyes. "But the bomb—"

Waverly smiled patiently.

"The hunt is on right this moment, all over the building. Far more technical minds than ours are busy with that problem. I feel Egret was bluffing now. With two of their people in here, I don't think they would have gone through with it, no matter how highly they would regard our ultimate destruction. Especially counting the priceless secret contained in Zorki's brain."

Mark Slate flexed his shoulders, his face grim.

"April tells me how our redheaded lady was killed tonight. Knife and all that. Wilder?"

"It would appear so. Knowing the woman was the sort obviously to crack sooner or later, he must have seen fit to take the time to silence her. As he did poor Fleming. Nasty business, that. Agents being killed under our very noses. Shall have to tighten the security as much as possible. I don't want these things to happen again."

"It's not your fault," April said loyally. "James Wilder has been with us for years. I didn't think he was one of theirs. Who would? And looking so much like Zorki, well—we'll probably find out they're brothers or something and the time had come for Thrush to make use of him."

"You do have a way of getting to the truth, Miss Dancer.

Most commendable." Mr. Waverly once more was amazed at her perception. Should he tell her that he had had some doubts about Wilder, which was why he had attempted the dual impersonation in the first place? No, certainly not. That made him only more liable for what had happened. He should have had James Wilder watched more closely. But in the morning, when the corpse in the street was classified for fingerprints, identifying marks and such—if it was Wilder that Slate had felled with his remarkable marksmanship— why, they would know much more.

Joanna Paula Jones was still goggle-eyed with excitement. "All I can say is, things sure happen around this place. Naval Intelligence is dull by comparison."

Mr. Waverly smiled thinly.

"Mr. Slate, will you see these young ladies home?"

"Pleasure, sir." Slate unwound his long, athletic body from his chair and stood up. He nodded to his superior and bowed toward the door. "Ladies."

April rose, indicating to Joanna Paula Jones to follow.

"Good night, Mr. Waverly. See you tomorrow."

"Take your time, Miss Dancer. You too, Mr. Slate. You've both earned a bit of a holiday. I'll contact you both should the need arise."

"There's still Mr. Riddle," April pointed out. "Unless he was the pilot of that helicopter."

"Not likely," Waverly murmured. "Too important a person for menial work like that. Well, we'll see. Good night to all of you."

The three of them trooped from the office. April couldn't vouch for the rest of them but she was certainly dragging her feet. It had been the busiest twenty-four hours of her career at U.N.C.L.E.

They took the outside elevator down. Joanna Paula Jones was still bubbling. "Do you people have this sort of fun everyday?"

Mark Slate stared down at her with mock sternness.

"Fun, Miss Jones? Oh, yes. All larks and sprees, aren't they, April?"

"Uh huh," April smiled. "Takes all the kinks out."

Upstairs, Mr. Waverly had returned to the wealth of data and detail on his desk. The quiet of the room was comforting. He buried himself in the stack of reports and sheets before him. There was a lined weariness to his craggy, leathery features. But his eyes held all the wisdom and contentment of the ages. Once more, THRUSH had been foiled.

Oh, perhaps Egret had once more slipped through their fingers but what of that? The Zorki Affair, at least, had been resolved. Time enough to worry about Dr. Egret—or Mr. Riddle, if that was one and the same person. The important consideration was that Alek Yakov Zorki, KKK on the files—The Bomber—had plunged into the East River in a flaming aircraft and no amount of miracles could have kept his body intact. Whether or not he had been truthful in his boasts of life-everlasting formulas for the future, he nevertheless was ashes now.