The Utopia Affair - McDaniel David (электронные книги без регистрации TXT) 📗
Wearing the gold tab with his Employee Number stamped in it, his pass to wander at will backstage, he consulted a wall-mounted directory and identified the area of his billet. He started for it on foot, hooked a ride on a fork-lift partway, shifted to an electric cart, dropped off at a convenient spot and walked the rest of the way.
His goal, when he reached it, was a single apartment, not spacious but quite adequate. A private bath, which he appreciated, and a Murphy bed. He pulled the latter down, sat down on it, dumped the big envelope and began sorting.
A technical sheet caught his eye, and he read the instructions for the small black-and-white television screen in the corner—a directory was available, so he could find Waverly with a minimum of trouble. Another glossy page told him that his portable radio would be inoperable here because of a blanket of RF interference across all the communication bands. This failed to disturb him because he had brought no portable radio. Section Eight had known about the jamming, and because of it he had been outfitted with four specially designed listening devices.
This brought his mind back to his job, and he rose from his bed to hoist his bulky suitcase up onto it. He unlocked the latches and did certain other things to make it safe to open. He had been fairly sure the Security people would not search his bag without formally asking permission, and he had been right. He rummaged around among the contents until he found what he was looking for and came up with a box containing four light bulbs.
They were descendants of light bulbs Illya himself had used many years before joining U.N.C.L.E., but with all the flaws designed away. The old ones would only function when the light was on, and had no storage capability. Each of these little hundred-watt beauties, fresh from the laboratory of Mr. Simpson of Section Eight, contained a carrier-current transmitter, a voice-triggered recording device with twelve hours capacity, and nickel-cadmium batteries capable of carrying on continuous operation for four hours after the light had been on for ten minutes. Best of all, it wouldn't need constant monitoring and would be impossible to detect, since it would transmit only when he signaled it, by carrier-current as well, and then it would transmit in a one-minute squirt everything it had heard since it had last been listened to. This he could record on a similar machine and play back at normal speed.
His time was his own, and he was expected to use it to discover his way around. Very well. He punched up the number he found listed for the directory service. Idly he scanned through the staff roster, noting department titles and positions, pausing once to observe with interest that far down under Kitchen Staff was listed one Rademeyer, Klaus, and his room number. That was interesting. Utopia was remarkably efficient indeed. He set part of his mind considering problems of learning all the security routines and getting around them to plant and monitor his bugs. He switched to the guest list, where each name was listed with a vague indication of occupation, and found his quarry—Dodgson, Leon: #35. Executive.
Somehow he would have to watch him every moment without being noticed himself. He remembered Section Six's final briefing, and his special adjuration on the maintenance of security. "Above all," he had been told, "you must do nothing that could attract attention to yourself, and especially avoid upsetting the resort's routines. Don't leave bodies lying around—it's unsanitary and reflects badly on our organization. Some of the most important people in the world are there, and you know how Mr. Waverly feels about discretion. Your motto at all times should be, Don't Make Waves."
Illya flicked the control knob until the soft floating sound of a recorded trumpet filled the speakers with Miles Davis' Sketches of Spain, and started looking through his collections of papers for a map. Number 35 was about half a mile from the Main Lodge... but where was that from where he was now? He found another map with an overlay showing the employee residences and office complex—a subterranean area centered on the Main Lodge but easily four times as large. Its major exits and entrances were screened from the guest's area by hills, stands of trees and other apparently natural obstacles. Illya smiled slightly. The entire operation was basically an expensive, adult Disneyland; and he was now one of the merry elves that scampered around keeping it all running. His smile turned wry and faded as he sank into his studies.
By Sunday morning he could find his way around, and had his mental compass locked on South. He had looked over the security personnel, from a respectful distance, and found them of the finest quality for dealing with guests. This meant they were generally polite and a little cautious, and therefore slightly easier to get by than rude and precipitous guards. He also observed them to use hand transceivers from time to time despite the all-frequency jamming, and resolved to look into the techniques they used, on behalf of Mr. Simpson.
He hadn't been able to get into Waverly's bungalow to plant his bug, but he knew how it could be accomplished. He hadn't decided where to put the other three devices and would wait until he knew enough, but he rather thought one should go into the office of Security. One of his first acquaintances had been a member of the office maintenance crew, and it would be a short step to volunteering casually to help him replace a few light bulbs. One would be more likely to need replacing somewhere in a large office than in a small residence—or so he thought until he found out the offices were consistently lighted by fluorescents, bugged versions of which had proven impossible to carry concealed.
And now it was time for the official orientation lecture. He and two other men met in a large office where another pretty and efficient blonde ran a film, showed and explained an organizational chart and answered questions. Illya, having chosen a direct approach to assuage his curiosity, asked her about the handi-talkies he'd seen the security personnel using. She explained that the jamming transmission operated in microsecond bursts rather than continuously. Although the effect was the same, there were spaces between the bursts and the communicators were keyed to chop up the transmissions into bits at a much lower level which would fit into these spaces. The receivers were similarly keyed to squelch the jamming noise.
Illya liked that. It was simple, practical, and efficient. It meant that it would be possible to communicate secretly with the outside world; it would only require a little more circuitry than was already packed inside his slim silver pen... which was presently resting in a drawer in his office in New York City, ten thousand miles away.
At dinner service the next day he saw Waverly. His assignment had been on the other side of the main dining hall in the lodge, but his quick eyes scanned the crowd for the familiar leathery face and found it no more than forty feet away. Illya busied himself with clearing a table and kept his back to his subject.
Waverly was sharing his table with three other men, all of whom looked like top executives of something or other—fiftyish and older, with strong well-modulated voices which failed to carry to where the Russian U.N.C.L.E. agent stood listening, focusing his attention to screen out the babble and quiet clatter of the hall and pick up any wisps of information. He wondered briefly about planting one of his light bulb bugs in a convenient position like the socket above their booth, but before he went to the trouble of installing it, he'd have to be sure Waverly always ate at the same table.
Well, there was no particular hurry; the place was perfectly protected, and his job would be of no particular use. He'd bug Waverly's bungalow, and his dining room table, and then he'd have nothing to do beyond waiting table and carrying dirty dishes. He'd had harder assignments, but this looked likely to be the most boring. Mentally he sighed, and settled back for six dull weeks.
