The Invisibility Affair - Stratton Thomas (лучшие книги онлайн TXT) 📗

The wires ripped loose and Napoleon eased the trunk lid open a crack. By now it was too dark to see much, but they could tell they were still on a secondary road; the tar surface whipped by inches from their faces.

"You hold the lid down to keep it from springing all the way up," Illya said after a few seconds, "and get a grip on me too. I don't want to get bounced out." He rolled up his coat and placed it across the sharp edge of the trunk, unwrapped several sticks of margarine and laid them on his stomach as he straightened out, face up, his feet touching the back of the trunk, his head and shoulders extending past the edge of the partially raised lid. Napoleon raised his legs and lowered them over Illya's, bracing his feet against the spare tire. Locating the rest of the margarine, he began unwrapping it.

Illya picked up one of the margarine sticks from his stomach, squeezed it until it was good and soft, and hurled it over the top of the car. Picking up a second stick, he repeated the process. A splat and a sudden swerve of the car indicated that the second throw had been successful. He quickly hurled some more sticks, with Napoleon replenishing his supply as he needed it.

"I think that did it," Napoleon said. "They're slowing down. The moment they stop, we take them. I'll get the driver; you take the other one." Both agents armed themselves with as much margarine as they could conveniently hold.

Even before the car rocked to a complete stop, the two agents slithered out of the trunk, one on each side of the car. Almost in the same instant, both car doors opened and the Thrush agents leaped out. Napoleon and Illya launched themselves around the corners of the car, hurling the sticks of margarine as they came.

McNulty, gun ready, had whirled to face possible trouble from his passengers. Before he could fire, he got a partly melted ball of margarine in the eyes, and Illya was on top of him before he could see exactly what was going on. Andy, more intent on examining the substance which had mysteriously appeared on his windshield, took a margarine stick in the back of his head and then Napoleon was on him, thrusting a soggy mass of it into his face before he could turn. Blinded, the Thrush agents were no match for Solo and Kuryakin.

The two U.N.C.L.E. agents retrieved their guns and communicators from their captors. While Illya reached into the back seat of the car and picked up his briefcase, Napoleon called Mr. Waverly.

"Yes, Mr. Solo," came the voice from the tiny instrument. "You've been to see the girl already?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. That wasn't me you were talking to a few minutes ago; it was a Thrush agent who says his name is Arpad McNulty. You might send us a dossier on him. He's now our prisoner, but he relayed the girl's name and address to someone else, and Thrush agents are on their way to pick her up now. We're too far away; you'd better have someone from Milwaukee headquarters get to her house immediately."

"Very well, Mr. Solo; hold on a minute."

Meanwhile, Illya had extracted a small spray hypodermic from the briefcase and was pressing it against the neck of each Thrush agent in turn. "That should hold them for a few hours," he said.

"Mr. Solo," the communicator rang out. "The Milwaukee branch will have someone at the girl's home in five minutes. I told them to wait for you there."

Illya leaned over the communicator. "Have them bring some fresh clothes for both of us. Ours are turning yellow."

"Yellow, Mr. Kuryakin?" Some new Thrush device?"

"No sir," Napoleon replied. "We've been dealing intimately with some smuggled margarine."

"Well, well"—Mr. Waverly sounded mildly impatient—"be sure to put it all in your report. At present, however, I believe you had best make for Miss Griffin's home at your best speed. I'll be waiting for another report from you after you have arrived."

Napoleon and Illya hauled the two unconscious Thrush agents into the trunk they had so recently vacated themselves. Napoleon pulled off Andy's jacket and started around to the front of the car. "See if you can at least get a couple of those wires connected," he suggested. "We're in no condition to be picked up by the local gendarmes, with Thrush agents unconscious in the remains of a case of smuggled margarine. I'll clean off the windshield and try to find a map."

Minutes later, Illya slid into the seat beside Napoleon, who was studying a map spread across the steering wheel. "This won't be much good until we find a road sign." Napoleon said, handing the unfolded map to Illya and starting the engine. "We might as well go ahead; presumably they were taking us somewhere in Milwaukee anyway."

"Unless they're part of the Chicago satrapy," murmured Illya.

* * *

Almost an hour after they started, Napoleon and Illya pulled up in the 4,000 block of North Farwell. The proximity of Lake Michigan was making itself felt, for the temperature had drooped noticeably in the last few minutes, and the margarine had begun to stiffen on their clothes. They got out of the car and walked down the tree-lined street, watching for the address. It turned out to be a two-story building, apparently divided into upper and lower apartments. As they approached the front door, a man leaped from behind a large tree between the sidewalk and street. Leveling an automatic at them, he said, "Hold it! Where do you think you're going?"

A second man stepped from around the corner of the house and came forward. He pocketed his gun and started to frisk the two agents, but stopped after a second, a distasteful expression crossing his face. "It's okay, Sam," he said, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe the margarine from his hands; "these are our men, the ones we brought the fresh clothes for."

"Does she know what's going on?" Napoleon asked.

"As much as we do, which isn't much. Mr. Waverly just said we were to get to the girl before Thrush did, and bring some clothes for you. The clothes are inside. They ought to fit; Mr. Waverly gave us your sizes. Funny thing—he didn't even have to look them up."

"Good," Napoleon said. "While Illya and I change, would one of you take our car—it's the one with the crumpled fender and the margarine on the windshield—and deliver it to your local headquarters? There are two Thrush agents sleeping in the trunk, and we should get them to a safe place before the drug wears off."

Illya and Napoleon walked to the house, opened the door and stepped into a small entryway. To the left a man and woman sat, ill at ease, in a small living room. As they rose Napoleon and Illya introduced themselves but avoided shaking hands.

"I'm Don Brattner, of the local U.N.C.L.E. headquarters," the man said. "This is Kerry Griffin. There's no one else in the house; she lives alone here." Napoleon studied the girl. She was tall, with a figure which was shown off spectacularly by the green knitted dress she wore. Her hair, a deep auburn, fell loosely almost to her shoulders. Green eyes studied the U.N.C.L.E. agents appraisingly. Napoleon was uncomfortably aware of his disheveled clothing, smudged face and margarine coating.

"How do you do, Miss Griffin?" he said, and turned to Brattner. "I understand there are fresh clothes for us here."

"Of course," the girl broke in. "The garments procured for your utilization have been given temporary storage space in the sleep module reserved for non-residents. Cleansing facilities are also available in an immediately adjacent area." She motioned toward a door halfway down the hall.