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

"I don't care what you believe! I am going—"

Arnolda Van Atta was starting to rise, but April placed her right hand on the cashmere shoulder and quietly slammed her back into a sitting position. The redhead gasped.

"Who are you—really?"

"The Avon Lady. And I'm giving away free samples if you answer all questions correctly without me having to twist your arm off."

Before the redhead could answer, the phone shrilled into life. April recovered her scorched handbag, leveled it at Arnolda Van Atta and juggled the receiver to her ear, expertly. She didn't take her eyes off the redhead.

"Mr. Slate?" a voice asked.

"Mark zero, Mr. Waverly."

"Oh—Miss Dancer. I take it you have not found Mr. Slate?"

"No, sir. Only a dead snake and a live lady."

Mr. Waverly's voice was very tired. "Look no further for information about Mr. Slate. We have word of his whereabouts. It's not good. Check back here immediately."

April held her breath. "How bad?"

Waverly sighed. "He's not dead, if that's what you mean."

"See you shortly," April said, and hung up. An almost dizzying sense of relief charged through her. At least, Slate was alive.

Arnolda Van Atta was showing signs of hysteria, now. April recognized the symptoms because she had seen them so many times. A delayed reaction to the threat of the snake, enhanced perhaps by the aiming of the handbag at her ripe figure.

"Hang onto yourself, Sweetie. Rise and shine. We are getting out of here before some neighbors or police inquire, however belatedly, about the latest thing in handbags."

"I can't," Arnolda Van Atta protested. "I'm due at the UN at one. There's to be a special session on the Vietnamese situation—"

"We have our own situation to translate into common sense. And your help is needed. March."

"But—" The redhead began to splutter.

"I'm getting tired of repeating myself, Miss Van Atta."

The redhead rose to her feet, her skirt wrinkled, the cashmere sweater riding high. A gleaming patch of naked midriff showed charmingly. April sighed. Why were THRUSH lady agents always so damned lovely? She didn't for a moment believe the fairy tale about the UN. For all his secrecy, Mark Slate would have mentioned a dish like this one some time or other in the past.

Good old THRUSH. Ready to strangle, beat or kill you at the drop of a snake. The secret organization with roots buried all over the world, just waiting to make their move for world domination.

"You don't believe what I told you," Arnolda Van Atta said coldly, when they had locked Slate's door and April nudged her toward the stairs.

"No," April admitted. "But I'm open to logic of any kind. And I have been known to change my mind. Lady's privilege and all that sort of thing." She didn't comment on the small, irritating mystery that the redhead had no purse of any kind about her person.

"You're a fool," the redhead hissed. "Even if you did save my life."

"Yes. But I'm not a perfect one. After you, Miss Van Atta."

The redhead moved ahead. Tall, vibrant and athletic. Her figure was enviable. April shook her head, watching the sensuous twitch of buttocks beneath the beige skirt. The legs were superb, too. Miss Van Atta was a body built for bed.

As they started down the poorly carpeted stairs, April's sixth sense was working overtime. Not a solitary soul had come running to investigate the explosion of her handbag. That couldn't be right. Something was wrong with such an abnormal amount of things-going-on-as-usual in an apartment house. She couldn't even hear a child squalling or a TV set blasting.

She had her answer before she and Arnolda Van Atta reached the ground-floor level.

There was suddenly a rush of bodies, figures, men, crowding the front door which had been flung open. She stopped on the staircase, pulling Arnolda Van Atta to a full halt by tugging on the cashmere sweater. The redhead blurted "Oh!" and froze a step below her.

Three men stood on the threshold staring up the stairs at them with an intensity that was unmistakable. They looked so curious that April involuntarily raised an eyebrow.

They had fanned out, in a cordon, to block the door. Their faces were grave, solemn, almost animal-like in fixity of purpose. And menace.

A turbaned Hindu stood there. Bearded and imposingly tall like a Sikh warrior, he wore civilian clothes like a uniform.

The second man was a Chinaman in mandarin robes, with both hands out of sight, tucked into long, voluminous purple sleeves.

The third wore the traditional beret, slacks and Basque shirt of the French apache.

Outlandishly emblazoned across each chest front was a gaudy sash of some kind, blatantly advertising ROMEO'S LEAGUE OF NATIONS EXHIBIT.

Talk about the United Nations. This THRUSH threat came in three different languages. April poked the handbag around Arnolda Van Atta's trembling shoulder and waited.

"Stay where you are," the bearded Sikh boomed up the stairwell. "We have come for you too, Miss Dancer."

Death in Three Languages

Arnolda Van Atta whimpered like a nervous schoolgirl. April moved quickly. Before either of the three characters in the doorway had produced a weapon, she had whipped the redhead back, encircling the slender waist with her left arm. Her right hand snaked over the cashmered shoulder, shoving the automatic handbag front and center for all to see.

"Will the real Thrush agent please stand up?" she called down the staircase. "I've got a secret weapon."

The Sikh scowled fiercely at his companions and then leveled his gaze upward. White teeth flashed in his swarthy face.

"What is your friend Slate's life worth to you?" he bellowed in his more than passable English.

"Loads," April said, keeping the redhead from twisting out of her grasp. "But he knows the rules. No bargains with the competition."

The fantastic trio had approached the foot of the stairway. They now stood a mere seven steps from April and Arnolda Van Atta. The apache, a tawny, lion-faced man with an Errol Flynn moustache was poised as though to spring. The Chinaman, a bland and inscrutable cliche, smiled almost happily. The Hindu laughed harshly, his spade beard wagging.

"You will not shoot in cold blood. You are too scrupulous. As are all soft-hearted, weak Americans."

"Don't count on that," April leveled coldly. "Our soft hearts disappear when dealing with rats. Now, all of you, over against the wall. Quick, now. I must remind myself to report this apartment house to the police department. No sense of civic duty and pride. Not one head poking out of a doorway to see what's going on."

"The building is surrounded," the Sikh said simply.

"Sure. And so was Custer. But he took quite a few Indians with him. You want to try for a last stand? Back, I said."

She edged Arnolda Van Atta down the stairs ahead of her, flourishing the handbag gun. The outlandish trio moved to the side wall, raising their hands slowly. Even the Chinaman had unsleeved himself. Arnolda Van Atta stumbled once, falling back against April. She could feel the hard metal band of a wristwatch or bracelet of some kind scrape the soft skin of her left hand.

The redhead cried out. In fear, in apology. April growled and followed her down the stairs.

And suddenly, swiftly, the lights of the hallway began to flicker and coalesce in alarming waves of shadows. April swore under her breath. It was too late now but she realized what had happened. Grimly, she flung Arnolda Van Atta violently from her tight hold. The redhead sprawled headlong to the floor of the hallway, white legs flashing. April sagged against the wall, raising the automatic handbag. Even as her numbed fingers tried to do something about blasting away at the Sikh, the apache and the Chinaman, she knew with a sinking sense of doom that she wouldn't be able to—