[Magazine 1966-­04] - The Unspeakable Affair - Davis Robert Hart (книги онлайн полные .TXT) 📗

"What can you tell me?" Solo said.

Wozlak shrugged. "Nothing. All we know is that we woke up about two weeks ago and we couldn't speak or write, not even our names. Last night it went away. You tell me."

"You must have some idea," Solo insisted. "Something that happened that was unusual."

"Not a clue," Caslow said. "Nothing happened at all."

They were lying. Solo sensed this. He could not say just why he knew it, or what the lie was, but he felt that they were lying.

"Nothing at all unusual happened?"

"No," they said in unison.

"What do you know about a man named Diaz?" Solo snapped.

It was Caslow who blinked. Solo watched him. There was no doubt, the name had meant something to Caslow. Wozlak covered for both of them.

"Diaz? Nothing, I don't know any Diaz. And that's all we can tell you, Mr. Raille."

"I see," Solo said. "You're sure about that?"

"We're sure," Wozlak said.

Solo nodded. "All right, I'll just have to report a blank to the State Department."

He was sure Wozlak smiled. "I guess you will. Anyway, it's over now. We're okay."

"Nice and safe," Solo said. Wozlak nodded as he looked straight at Napoleon Solo. Caslow licked his lips. The Army man was nervous. But Wozlak did not flinch.

"Safe as we can be," Wozlak said.

Outside in the corridor, Solo stopped to think. The MP sergeant was down at the end of the corridor, talking to a pretty nurse. Solo was about to go and remind the sergeant of his duty, when he heard the noise.

He snapped alert.

A low, hissing sound.

Without moving, or showing that he had heard it, he let his eyes search the bare corridor for the sound.

It came again, "Psssst!"

Just behind him Solo saw a door open a crack. His hand stole under his jacket for his U.N.C.L.E. special. There was a face at the small opening in the door.

"Psssst! In here!"

The voice whispered low. Solo glanced down the corridor. The MP was still in deep conversation with the pretty nurse. The rest of the corridor was empty. His hand on his pistol, Solo stepped to the door and entered.

He stood in a small storeroom. The voice that had hissed at him belonged to a woman. A girl— really, a very pretty girl. He had momentary hopes that it was him she wanted, for himself. But the girl had something else on her mind.

"You're not from the State Department," the girl said.

Solo clicked off the safety on his Special. The girl was quite young and very pretty. She wore a white smock, and her hair was dark red. Her green eyes were staring up at him.

"Why do you say that?" Solo asked.

"I know you have a gun under your coat, and you don't act like a State Department man," the girl said. "Besides, you asked questions about Diaz. I'm Penny Parsons—Penelope, but I hate the name."

"And just what do you do here, Penny?"

"In the lab, research assistant. I'm terribly bright, you know. Magna cum laude from Cal Tech."

"Good for you," Solo said. "Now what about Diaz?"

"He vanished. I don't know why, but I do know he was working on a case for someone. He asked me a lot of questions," the girl said.

"Why you?"

"I'm Mark Caslow's girl, or I was," Penny said. "It was a secret. The powers around here don't like romance among the minions."

"What did you tell Diaz?" Solo said slowly.

"That they are lying," Penny Parsons said eagerly. "Mark and that Wozlak are lying in their teeth. A lot has been happening that's not usual. On half their flights they stay away hours too long. They always report that they had some troubles with the new engines up there, but Mark got drunk one night and let it slip. They've been landing somewhere. In New Mexico, I think."

"New Mexico?"

"They can fly there in minutes," Penny said.

"How long has this been going on?"

"Off and on since they got back from vacation six months ago."

Solo released his hold on his pistol in the holster under his coat. "Vacation? They went on vacation six months ago?"

"And they were overdue on their test flights by four hours the day they turned up unspeaking!"

"Where did they take their vacations?"

The girl looked around, whispered. "In Santa Fe. At least they said it was Santa Fe, but they weren't there! I went to surprise Mark. I never told him. They checked into a motel at Santa Fe, but then they vanished."

Solo closed the door of the storeroom. He stepped closer to the girl. Her eyes were bright and eager as she began to whisper her whole story again.

TWO

ILLYA HAD almost reached Noche Triste when the car had the flat lire. He had landed at Santa Fe and hired the car at once. He told the car-rental people he was looking for uranium, and he drove out toward the Navaho Reservation, and the flat tire was actually a blowout. He fought the skid of the car to a halt.

He stood beside the car on the deserted highway. As far as he could see in the hot sun there was nothing but barren sandhills and cactus. A dry and desolate country fit only for lizards. He looked down at the blown tire. Then he went to the trunk to get his tools and the spare. The blowout would hold him up at least fifteen minutes.

He saw the cause of the blow-out. A large two-by-four studded with nails was lying on the highway.

Illya took his tools and spare tire from the trunk, setting to work on his blown tire, but his eyes beneath his lowered brow searched the countryside near the road. The two-by-four could be an accident, or it could be a trap. The board was at least six feet long, studded with nails all around. Nothing could have passed over it without a blowout, yet his car was the only stalled vehicle.

It could have been dropped, accidentally, of course, only a short time ago, and traffic was light on this highway. Not another car had passed since the blowout. But it could also have been placed in the road purposely to stop him. He was still puzzling this out, and working on his tire, when it happened.

At first it was only a low rumble, a rumble and a whine, distant and off to the north.

Illya glanced up. There was a line of low brown mountains off to the north. The sound was behind them, growing louder. Growing rapidly louder.

Incredibly louder—a roar and a screaming whine—the road began to shake. His car began to shake: he felt the ground tremble.

A fantastic noise, roaring and whining, growing louder and louder.

Illya Kuryakin fell flat to the ground.

It appeared over the crest of the low brown mountains two miles away. The noise of its roar was impossible, it was so loud.

It flashed over.

Was gone.

Illya whirled to see it vanish, climbing high into the glazing hot blue sky.

Illya stood up and stared after it. A long black cylinder, with stubby wings and glowing a dull red. Without markings or identification of any kind.

He turned and stared out across the arid land to the line of low brown hills. It had come from behind there. And then, even as he watched, it appeared again. Miles away it went past at its incredible speed, vanished behind the low hills, and there was silence.

It had landed. Somewhere out there behind those hills. Illya completed changing his tire, put away his tools, and drove the car off the road. Then he stopped, gathered up his kit and the small suitcase, and started to walk out across the dry land toward the distant hills.