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

"Very well, sir. We'll do our best to handle it."

"Quite, Mr. Kuryakin. Keep me informed."

Illya stared momentarily at the silent communicator, then hurried downstairs. A minute later he was dialing Sascha Curtis' number.

In answer came the impolite noise that telephone companies use for a busy signal. Illya held the receiver out and glared at it. What was Curtis doing, using the phone at this time of night? Honest citizens should be in bed. He hesitated, but there was now little choice. U.N. C.L.E. had only one other trustworthy ally in town. Reluctantly, he called Rita Berman.

She answered almost instantly, sounding sleepy. "Who is it?"

"Illya. I'm afraid I have a favor to ask."

She yawned slightly before answering. "Ask away."

"I'm at Lem's. I have to get to Whateley's right away to help Napoleon, and I need a car. If you could pick me up here, I could drop you off at home on my way through town."

"You can have the car - on one condition."

"What's that?" Illya asked, with a sinking feeling that he already knew.

"I come with it."

"No," he said firmly. "This could be dangerous. Whateley is a Thrush, and he has quite an army at his command."

"Then," Rita pointed out, "you need all the help you can get."

"Spying on Thrush is dangerous enough for professional agents, trained for the job. It's nothing for amateurs to get mixed up in."

"Then you can't have the car. It isn't trained either, and what sort of driver would I be if I ordered my car to go where I wouldn't go myself?"

"Look, this is serious!"

"So am I. Where the car goes, I go."

Illya continued to protest, but eventually gave in. Rita promised to pick him up as soon as she could get there. She arrived a short time later. As Illya approached the car and started to enter, he came to a sudden stop.

"Professor Curtis! What are you doing here?"

"I thought you were in a hurry," Rita said. "Get in and let's go."

Illya climbed into the front seat.

"Where do you want to go?" Rita inquired. "I know you said Whateley's, but were you planning to drive up to the front door, or were you planning to try coming up on them from downwind, so to speak?"

Illya sighed resignedly. "All things considered, the more indirect the better. Is there a place where you could hide the car, say a half-mile from Whateley's house?"

"Aye, aye," she said, saluting with her free hand as she drove. Illya looked at her curiously. For the occasion, she had donned dark slacks, a sweater, a black scarf to cover her blonde hair, and a jacket with a suspicious bulge in one pocket.

"What's that?" Illya inquired, looking at the bulge. For answer, she drew out a .25 caliber Walther automatic pistol. Illya looked pained.

"That's what I was afraid it might be. Did I ever tell you that I once saw a man who had been shot seven times with one of those things?"

Rita looked horrified. "No! What happened to him?"

"He was on trial for manslaughter. After being hit seven times, he'd beaten the other fellow's head in with a shovel. If you ever have to use that, you might as well throw it at somebody. Don't bother to shoot it." He snorted. "I said this game wasn't for amateurs."

Leaving Rita looking crestfallen but determined, he swung around to Curtis. "What are you doing here?"

"I had to go right by his house," Rita explained, "and I saw his lights on, so..."

"I've been up half the night," Curtis said. "It's this survey. All the anti-U.N.C.L.E. types have taken to calling me up in the middle of the night. It's really a very interesting phenomenon, considering the fact that the basic motivation is artificially induced. But it does get monotonous. When Rita stopped, I jumped at the chance to come. I suppose you could call it a field trip. I've never had a chance to observe actual criminals in action before. These should be particularly interesting; I've never heard of anything quite like what they are attempting in Midford. It should be fascinating; I hope to get much of it recorded." Curtis reached in one of his pockets and pulled out a miniature tape recorder.

Illya stared at the machine for a moment, then turned to face forward and slumped down in the seat. After a few minutes of silence, Rita suddenly swung the car off the rough back road she had been traveling and rocked to a stop next to a wild raspberry thicket.

"We're well hidden," Illya admitted. "But where are we?"

"A half mile from the Whateley manse, as requested," Rita said. Illya noted unhappily that she seemed to have regained her spirit of adventure.

Curtis, meanwhile, was staring happily out the window at the raspberry patch. "I must remember this location," he said. "Raspberry yoghurt has always been one of my favorites, but it's difficult to find really good raspberries." He glanced at Illya who was beginning to look ill. "I must be sure to return here next summer.

"Now look here!" Illya shouted as he jumped out of the car. "I don't think either one of you realize what's going on. Your friend Whateley is a killer. Napoleon has found the lab where the drug is made, and it's in Whateley's basement - or in a secret passage next to the basement. Whateley is a Thrush, and regardless of what you think about him, he is not just a harmless crackpot!"

For the first time, Curtis and Rita both looked slightly taken aback.

Illya looked at both of them for a moment. "Now that I have your attention, there is something you can do if you really want to help." Rita and Sascha both nodded, somewhat submissively. "Good. First, get this car turned around so you can get out of here fast. Then get inside, lock the doors, and be ready to move quickly. If neither Napoleon nor myself gets back here within two hours, go back home and telephone this number in New York City." Illya hastily scribbled a number on a piece of paper and handed it to Curtis. "Ask for Mr. Waverly and say you have information about Solo and Kuryakin. Then tell Mr. Waverly everything, and follow his instructions. And if anyone - and I mean anyone – other than Napoleon or myself shows up, get going. The way things are in Midford at the moment, any of your friends could be either Thrush agents or brainwashed. Understand?"

"Perfectly, Mr. Kuryakin," came a deep voice from the darkness a few yards behind Illya. "You express yourself very well. If you will hold perfectly still and not twitch a muscle for the next few minutes, I'll allow you to go on expressing yourself, at least for awhile."

Illya did as instructed, putting a dejected slump into his back and reflecting that the sort of man who enjoyed the sound of his own voice as much as this one did would be more apt to make a mistake than a less flamboyant villain.

"All right, Mr. Kuryakin," the Thrush's voice came again. "Turn around now, slowly, with your hands be hind your head. And walk just a few feet away from the car."

Illya turned to face in the same direction as Rita and Curtis. Three men stood about ten feet away. The one in the center was pointing a double-barreled shotgun at Illya's midsection. The others had standard Thrush rifles. Behind them, a section of a hollow tree had opened like a door, revealing a stairway leading into the ground.

Illya decided it was a good thing he had suppressed his initial impulse toward immediate action. The time to fight was when your enemy was unprepared. After a moment, one of the Thrushes put down his rifle, walked behind Illya and very carefully removed his gun. Then, more boldly, he took the U.N.C.L.E. communicator and began removing various pieces of odd-looking equipment from unlikely parts of Illya's person. He paused a second.