The Mad Scientist Affair - Philifrent John T (электронная книга txt) 📗

“Some.” Solo nodded. “Of course we’re pretty helpless without the technology. The trick gadgets. You know? A gun without slugs isn’t much use, is it? But there are other ways.” He held the cup delicately, watching the other man pour his own. “For instance there’s this. I could make a jerk, a gesture of some kind, a gasp—and point—and say, ‘Hey! Look there!’—” The man’s head moved instinctively, and Solo darted his empty hand at that cup, snatching it away as the officer swung swiftly back again. “And that would give me just enough time to slip something into your drink. Not that I’d really do it, of course; that was just an instance.”

“Yeah.” The jailer eyed his cup dubiously. “Just an instance. You wouldn’t try anything funny on me, would you?” Solo pretended to sip at his cup, watching intently, seeing the doubt grow and spread and become certainty. “Just a minute there. Maybe you wouldn’t try to slug me with dope, but I’m not so sure! Here, you drink it! I’ll have that one!”

Solo frowned protestingly. “Oh come on, you don’t really believe I’d—?”

“You have mine!” the officer insisted, suddenly harsh. “And I’ll take yours. Come on!”

Solo shrugged ruefully and accepted the exchange, but carefully held the new cup away from his mouth. The jailer glowered, took a healthy sip from his cup and swallowed, savoring the taste, his eyes hard on Solo.

“This is good coffee, mister. Go ahead and drink. I want to see you. Go on!” He finished his own cup, crumpled it in his hand and leaned belligerently forward. “What’s ’a matter? Lost your thirst? Cute tricks backfired on you again?” He glared at Solo, waiting. Ten seconds later the answer didn’t interest him at all. Solo was just in time to catch him from rolling off the bunk onto the floor of the cell. He snored peacefully as he lost his uniform tunic.

“Comes of having a nasty suspicious mind,” Solo murmured. “You’re a bit too old to learn new tricks, friend.” Ten minutes later, having plodded placidly past the desk-sergeant in his borrowed clothes—at this hour no one was paying very much attention anyway—he discarded the tunic in a conveniently dark doorway and went on his way.

Twenty minutes later Miss Sarah O’Rourke awoke from an exciting dream to the more exciting but frighteningly realistic sensation of a firm hand over her mouth. A familiar voice murmured, “This is another way of rendering someone speechless. Shall we agree not to scream for a bit?” She gathered her wits, nodded, and the hand went away. In the gloom she recognized Napoleon Solo sitting on the edge of her bed.

“How did you get here?”

“Skip the trivia and listen. Have you gathered by now that someone wanted to stop Amazov from talking to you too long? All right, now what did he say?”

“Not very much, at all. He had it in his head that my molecular diagrams were all wrong. And that’s silly, for didn’t I draw them myself?”

“But somebody altered them before you had the copies run off. I’ve had your paper checked, and it is nonsense. That’s for sure. So it follows that there is something very important about those diagrams. You’re sure you don’t know anything about the effects?”

“Nothing at all. What’s all this about, anyway?”

“I don’t know it all, only this—that you have some dangerous knowledge tucked away in that pretty head of yours, and certain parties are keen to see that it doesn’t leak out. There’s a chance they might try to silence you again, more permanently this time.”

“Are you deliberately trying to give me the cold shivers?”

“I am. And I hope I’m succeeding. The people I have in mind are good people to be scared of, believe me.” He sat back and eyed her thoughtfully. As she sat up in bed in a white linen nightdress she looked very lovely—and extremely vulnerable. He got out his wallet, extracted a card, handed it to her, and she made a giggle that was just short of hysteria.

“This is a crazy time to start being formal, isn’t it?”

“No formality about it. That card is bugged. See that you keep it safe and handy. If at any time between now and when you board your plane you are in any danger, or distress of any kind, you take that card and fold it, just once, down the middle.” He made a gesture to explain. “That will trigger a signal that I will be able to detect and follow. An alarm. All right?”

“Holy Mother!” She stared at the pasteboard in her fingers. “I believe you mean it!” He stood up from the bed and smiled grimly.

“I do. Don’t forget now, Keep it handy. See you on the plane tomorrow—I hope!”

“You’re coming along too?”

“You bet. You don’t think I’d let a gorgeous creature like you get away from me as easily as that, do you?”

The new day was just half an hour old as he entered The Masked Club on the ground floor of the old whitestone, and from there made his way into the headquarters of his arduous profession. A glance at the pinlighted “state” board told him Waverly was still awake and in business. He shook his head at it. That old man seemed able to get by with little or no sleep and could always be counted on to be handy when things were happening. Solo made his way swiftly to the lead-lined office that was Waverly’s own, the only room in that steel-walled maze that boasted a window. Perhaps, he thought, he could surprise the old man yet.

But Waverly merely looked up at him from beneath his shaggy gray eyebrows and murmured, “I had expected you ten minutes ago. I suppose it is difficult to get a cab at this hour. I’ve been studying the latest reports on those papers. You were quite right—they have been tampered with.”

Solo sighed. “And the original version?”

“Something quite new, according to our experts. They are running a set of computer simulations at this moment to try and estimate the possible effects. It will take time, and will be only a guess, at that. We won’t know for sure until we’ve tried the stuff on a human volunteer.”

“Try me,” Solo said instantly. “After all, I did make a bit of a hash—”

“Don’t be silly, Mr. Solo. I can’t afford to expend you as a guinea-pig. You’re much too valuable to be wasted in that manner. In any case, you have problems of your own, if you’re to catch that flight tomorrow.”

Solo shrugged and went away thoughtfully. As he busied himself with the minor things, such as loading up his pistol and setting up an electronic ear that would listen out for a cry for help from Sarah, he mused about this other, less spectacular side of U.N.C.L.E., the nameless and unsung toilers who took the calculated and cold-blooded chances in the obscurity of the back room. That was one aspect he didn’t care to think about too often. Soon somebody would try a measured dose of Uncle Mike’s new synthetic molecule, and would sit and wait while others watched him with clinical detachment. All would wonder and be on the alert to observe and study whatever new hellishness was due to be let loose on a long-suffering world. And, if that unnamed hero were very lucky, he would survive to write up his notes. And that was all in a day’s work.

The exercise had its points. Reflections like this were what a field agent needed to inspire him to try his damnedest not to waste that sacrifice. Solo applied his mind to devising some way of getting himself on that plane all in one piece. “They” would want Sarah safely back home. “They” would believe Napoleon Solo still safely in jail, and the police would not be in a hurry to advertise otherwise. With those two cards, plus an aesthetic liking for simplicity, he had his plans made before he drifted off to sleep.

His sleep was brief. He was up and away from U.N.C.L.E. headquarters long before anyone would have expected, long before certain observers took up their posts. They saw, as they were intended to see, a man leaving, carrying a small case, a man who neither advertised his presence nor did anything to conceal it. Even the uniformed observer would have guessed, by the appearance, that here was someone of reasonable importance departing on a mission of some worthy nature. The agent was one Jerry Willmott, and his ability to look like a dignified minor official was not the least of his many attributes. Keen eyes monitored his sedate procession by taxi from U.N.C.L.E. headquarters to Kennedy International Airport. Brisk instructions passed. Purposeful men began to close in. The lineup for the Customs check became slightly agitated.