[Magazine 1966-12] - The Goliath Affair - Jakes John (чтение книг TXT) 📗
Illya was above it all. He laced his fingers together and pulled hard until his cheeks began to redden from the tension.
Then he relaxed and repeated the exercise.
Solo kept studying the delightful way Fraulein Bauer's trim legs were attached to the remainder of her equally delightful form. He concluded that as a companion for a lonely secret agent at liberty in a strange city, she would be ideal. He'd have to get busy—
Ten minutes after the flight was airborne, Solo had arranged the date.
THREE
At the Munich airport, another of those oddly obvious watchers picked them up and followed them at a distance from the baggage reclamation area. This man was a slight, rat-faced individual in a cheap suit of somber hue. He walked with a decided limp in his right leg. He smoked a cigarette by holding it from beneath, with thumb and right index finger.
In the taxicab which carried them away from the airport toward the Hotel de Luxe, Solo and Illya decided that this was a cross they would have to bear, at least until they met with their contact the section chief tomorrow morning.
The rodent-featured individual hopped into a Volkswagen just to the rear of the taxi rank and drove behind them by about six car lengths all the way to the hotel.
They registered as Herr Solo and Herr Kuryakin, sales representatives for International Elementary Education Materials, Inc., of New York City. Rat-face was still lingering in the plush, chandeliered lobby as the bellboy bore their bags into the elevator. As the elevator doors closed, Solo and Illya saw their shadow break into a quick stride and head for the bank of phones at the back of the lobby.
In front of the bathroom mirror in their suite, Napoleon Solo adjusted his tie. Illya Kuryakin lounged in the doorway. "I hope you and the Fraulein have a pleasant evening."
"Your sincerity overwhelms me. And you heard her say she had a friend."
Illya shrugged. "Mitzi, Betsy, Trixie—They always have friends. I was not cut out to be the excess baggage in your romantic life. I prefer to go my own way, thank you."
"With isometric tension to keep you company. Well, have a ball."
Solo slipped into his well-cut dinner jacket and sauntered to the phone. He rang up the service desk and ascertained that his rented Mercedes was ready at the main entrance. Noting the way Illya paced back and forth, Solo frowned.
"Look, you've never raised a rumpus when I've had a date before."
"Fiddlesticks, Napoleon," Illya snapped. "It has nothing to do with your date."
"Then what's wrong?"
"All the Thrushes are twittering right out in the open where we can't miss them. The fellow with the sun glasses in New York. Rat-cheeks the moment we arrive here. That."
Irritably Illya gestured toward the baseboard. The remains of a pulverized electronic device measuring half an inch on a side glittered dully. A quick search of the room upon arrival had turned up the device at once. It was crudely affixed to the rear side of a chair leg with electrical tape. One fast stamp of Napoleon Solo's right heel had rendered it useless.
"It's almost as though they're begging us to notice them, Napoleon. That's not like them. What does it mean?"
"I don't know," Solo admitted. "Unless it's all one huge red herring."
Illya's brow puckered. "Possible. But then where's the authentic fish?"
Solo shook his head. He reached into the side pocket of his jacket and brought out the short rod-like pocket communicator.
Twisting it, he aligned the notches to the correct position. A similar device which belonged to Illya and was currently resting on an expensive coffee table began to emit a low, not displeasing, warble.
Quickly Solo unscrewed the upper part of his communicator. Now he had a cylinder in his palm only half an inch in diameter and perhaps two inches long.
He manipulated a trick fold in the lining of his dinner jacket, slipped the small part of the communicator out of sight and re-buttoned the jacket. The communicator on the coffee table continued to warble, though at a lower pitch.
"There," Solo grinned. "You can keep track of me all night."
"Don't hang your jacket in some soundproofed closet," Illya said. "If the signal weakens the slightest bit, I'll be after you. You wouldn't want to be rudely interrupted, but I'll do just that unless you stay in range."
"Thanks. I'll remember." Solo walked toward the door. "Still time to change your mind and come along."
Illya flopped into a chair and picked up his isometrics pamphlet.
"No, I'll stick at this. With Herr Klaanger and his muscles lurking somewhere backstage, I feel like the typical ninety-seven pound weakling always facing the rotten end of things in those body-builder advertisements."
Remembering Peterson's ghastly corpse, Solo said, "Don't we all?" and bowed out.
FOUR
The motor of the Mercedes purred. Behind, the light-spangled area of ultra-modern apartments slid away into the Munich dusk. Solo said, "Where?"
"A left turn at the next corner," Helene Bauer said. "That is, if you favor good dark beer and quite elegant wienerschnitzel."
"I've always been a veal man. Lead me to it, charming Fraulein Bauer. I was lucky to discover you."
"Ordinarily, Herr Solo," she said in a bantering voice, "I would not have accepted your invitation on such brief acquaintance—"
"I'll bet you say that to all the passengers."
"Herr Solo—Napoleon—I do not!" Her blue eyes blazed prettily. Then she snuggled against his side and linked her arm in his. "With you—well, you have der teufel's sparkle in your eye, that's all. And I had a free evening. Do we need further explanations?"
"Not a one," he said. His eyes ranged up to the rear-vision mirror. Clipping along behind them through the pools of light thrown by street lamps was a Volkswagen which Solo was sure had been parked near Helene Bauer's apartment. Unless he was mistaken, the driver of that automobile was rat-faced.
Fortunately Helene Bauer was pretty enough in her swirling dress of bluish lacy stuff and her white knit stole to take his mind off mundane concerns, such as the possibility of a THRUSH agent on their tail. She nestled against his side, smelling delightfully of soap and a light, pleasing perfume. Altogether a charming companion for an evening of fun.
Shortly they reached the narrow, dim-lit street where, Helene promised, they would find a restaurant of excellent reputation. This turned out to be Der Goldenne Schwann, or so a lemon-colored neon sign above a shabby-looking cellar entrance announced. The other buildings in the area were blacked-out commercial establishments.
Expensive American and European vehicles were parked bumper to bumper on both sides of the street near the restaurant. As they tooled past, Solo heard the raucous noise of a concertina.
"I thought we only had parking problems in America," he grumbled.
"There is a parking area to the rear, I think," Helene answered. "Turn in here."
Solo swung the wheel. The Mercedes bumped along a short alley. At the end lay a small asphalt lot with room to accommodate a dozen cars. Half the slots were already taken. One of the parked cars was a silver-gray Rolls Royce that brought a whistle of admiration to Solo's lips as he parked.
The lot was illuminated by one dim spotlight high up on a steel pole. Long shadows of the parked cars spread out over the ground. Solo hopped out and ran around to the left side to assist Helene. He felt somewhat more relaxed. He felt somewhat more relaxed. Just as he turned into the alley, he'd checked the street behind them. There was no sign of the pursuing Volkswagen at all.
