[Magazine 1967-­10] - The Mind-­Sweeper Affair - Davis Robert Hart (читать лучшие читаемые книги .TXT) 📗

"I never thought of that," the other man said.

"That's why you're not Boss and never will be," the tall man said.

"The Boss takes his orders."

"Sure he does, and up top they know more than we do. We do our job and get paid. Right? We get paid pretty well."

"It beats working," the other man agreed.

"Do we just wait here?" the one who had not spoken said suddenly.

"For a signal from Gregor. Maybe Forsyte ducks out the back. Who knows?" the tall man said.

"Or the front. I better check with Ord out front to be sure he's watching," the man said.

Starting to walk as he talked, the man came directly toward Illya. Despite the shadows it was still daylight. There was no way for Illya to not be seen. He drew his U.N.C.L.E. Special, fired a sleep pellet at the man, and ran for the mouth of the alley.

The man he had shot took another step, opened his mouth, and pitched forward, unconscious. The other two saw Illya. But they had to draw their guns and he had almost reached the mouth of the alley when two shots whistled past him.

Two men suddenly appeared in the alley mouth. They had guns.

Illya skidded to a halt.

The two men came toward him. Behind him he heard the other two men. The blond Russian looked around quickly. There was an open window just to his right in another building. He ran and jumped for it. He was sure they would not shoot until they knew who he was.

His fingers closed on the window sill and he hauled himself up to the sill. He raised his knee to climb inside.

Something stung his neck.

The last he knew his fingers were slipping and then there was only falling through space.

SIX

WRAPPED IN THE towel, Napoleon Solo moved along a dark hallway on the floor above the health club.

The rooms up here were all dark, and nothing seemed to move. The hall stretched silent and dim Solo felt very naked and exposed in his towel in the dark hall, but downstairs he would have been conspicuous in clothes. He moved on along the hall.

He heard voices and someone coming in the distance where the hallway ended. There was a closet near. He opened the door and slid inside, leaving the door ajar a crack.

The voices came closer, and turned into the narrow corridor outside the closet.

"I tell you there was a disturbance in the alley."

"And I don't like the look of that muscular fellow in the hot room. He's never been here before."

"We better finish with Forsyte fast."

The voices and footsteps almost reached the closet door, but turned sharply right before they came abreast. Solo saw the two men, both wearing the white uniforms of health club attendants. They went through a door in the opposite wall and failed to close it. Solo heard the humming sound, louder now and closer. He slipped out of the closet and glided up to the half open door.

He looked in and saw a macabre scene like the scenes he remembered from the horror movies of his childhood.

The room was totally bare except for two more men, four in all, and a grotesque-looking machine. The four men all wore health club white uniforms. The machine wore nothing but a sense of cold efficiency.

It was a large machine that looked like a computer on wheels. A square section, covered with dials and buttons and flashing lights, was mounted on legs. Tape reels turned on its face. Beneath it, where it stood in the center of the room, a long tubelike shape protruded down like a searchlight and entered a hole in the floor.

The humming noise came from the machine. The four men all worked around the machine, touching dials, observing gauges, making adjustments. They looked like the fanatic priests of some evil god. They were so intent on their work that they did not notice Solo standing in the open door.

Solo had little doubt that this machine was aimed down into the hot room and at Colonel Forsyte.

"Finish it off," one of the men snapped.

"Quiet," another man said.

This last man spoke softly, almost gently, and yet there was a hard commanding sound to his voice. When he spoke the others all looked at him. Solo had no doubt that he was the leader. In the flashing lights of the machine Napoleon Solo saw his face. It was a pleasant face: tanned, healthy, with a sharp nose and bright, intelligent dark eyes. His hands were long and slender as they worked the dials of the macabre instrument. His hair was grey and thick, like the shock of hair of some professor. He was a small, slender man.

"To withdraw the instrument abruptly could kill Forsyte," this leader said quietly. "It must be shut down slowly. Would you care to leave a body here? Or a mad man? I have no wish to be traced through Forsyte and a hasty mistake. We are almost ready for the full development."

"Sure, Chief," one of the other men said.

The other two nodded. The slender man continued to work his dials like a man caressing a woman he loves. He seemed to talk to himself, almost crooning, as he worked. "The key to the sweeper is that it leaves no trace and no memory of its use, remember that. Isn't that so, little beauty? You touch the mind and the mind whispers to you and no one knows. That is your talent, isn't it, little one? No one can ever know you have been at work."

The slender, grey-haired man laughed softly. It was a laugh with an edge of insanity. The kind of insanity a brilliant mind can have when something has given it a small, sudden twist, and left all else normal.

"Professor—" one of the other men began to say.

The slender, leader snapped. "Very well! I understand the need for speed. I am nearly finished. Another few minutes. I have begun the withdrawal. If you are so worried, check with Drago below and hasten the departure of our patrons."

One of the men turned and started for the door. Solo leaped back just in time and slid again into the closet. The man came past the closet—and his footsteps stopped. Solo looked around the closet. There was a large laundry hamper filled with soiled towels and white uniforms. He climbed inside quickly and covered himself.

He heard the door to the closet open. He held a deep breath so that he would make no sound and the towels would not move to his breathing. He heard someone poking around in the closet. Then the man went away and the closet door closed.

There was a sharp click.

Solo raised his head from among the towels. The closet was pitch dark now. He climbed out of the towels and went to the door. It was locked and there was no lock inside. The man who had come in had sprung the lock and closed the door, and it operated only from outside. Solo listened at the door.

He heard low voices and movement. He could not break out while anyone was there. He would be a sitting duck—naked as a baby and without weapons. All he had was his ring. He bent close over the ring and touched a tiny button.

"Bubba, this is Sonny. Mayday. Come in Bubba. Mayday, Code Two, come in Bubba. Sonny calling Bubba."

Silence.

Solo stared at his ring in the dark. He tried again. "Bubba come in. Sonny to Bubba. Mayday."

Silence that seemed to hang in the dark air of the closet. Solo rubbed his chin. He could use the audible signal—but what if Illya were hiding? He tried once more.

There was no answer. Solo touched the ring again.

"Control Central, Sonny reporting. Come in Control Central."

It was the voice of Waverly himself that answered.

"Where are you, Mr. Solo? Your signal indicates you are very close to Headquarters."

"Close, but too far," Solo said dryly. "I'm about five blocks away, locked in a closet."