[Magazine 1967-­05] - The Synthetic Storm Affair - Edmonds I. G. (книги регистрация онлайн .TXT) 📗

As they went through customs, Illya contacted Waverly and received word that two other U.N.C.L.E. agents were at the airport to help them watch over the lovely meteorologist. This made both he and Solo feel a little better.

Solo spotted both of them as they came out of customs. He joined the two men for a quick conference while Illya followed the girl out to the taxi stand.

Suddenly she turned to face him. He braced himself for another angry blast, but she fooled him.

"Mr. Solo—or is it Kuryakin?"

"Kuryakin," he explained patiently for the second time.

"Oh," she said with a smile that brightened her face and seemed to give her a new and more inviting personality. "I never could keep names straight! I'm sorry I was so rude to you on the plane."

Illya tried to play down his startled pleasure.

"I'm afraid it was I who was rude," he said. "You had ample reason to be annoyed with me."

"Well I was annoyed. It was the first time I've ever been the object of a bet between two young men. I didn't quite know how to take it."

"I must apologize. It was extremely ill-mannered of us."

"I thought so at the time, but now that I've had time to think about it, I'm not sure but what I should have been flattered."

"Anyway, you had your revenge," Illya said with a grimace. "You caused me to lose."

"If I recall correctly, in my annoyance I made a bet with you."

"You did," he said. "You offered to bet a drink yourself that I wouldn't succeed in learning your name. But I did, didn't I?"

"Yes, and I suppose I must be a good sport and buy you one."

"Why not?" he said quickly.

"I suppose you are going down town," she replied. "Why don't we share a cab? I'm going to Park-Plaza."

"Right on my way!" Illya lied quickly. "Let me get my bag and I'll be right with you!"

He walked hurried back inside the terminal, passing Napoleon Solo who stopped just inside the door to light a cigarette.

"Watch me and learn how to get along with the girls!" Illya whispered quickly as he went past. "Park-Plaza!"

Solo gave no indication that he heard. He finished lighting the cigarette and went over to a phone booth.

Instead of dialing he removed his pen-communicator and called U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

When he got Waverly, he said, "Illya has made contact with the lady. They are off by taxi to the Park-Plaza to have a cocktail together."

"Excellent!" Waverly said. "Tell Watson and Armat to put a stakeout on her room there. Contact the hotel management and ask their cooperation. We want a twenty-four hour watch on her. However, keep out of sight. This woman is not a criminal. We are protecting her, but we must be positive that we do nothing that can cause her to complain that her right of privacy has been invaded."

"Yes, sir," Solo said and broke the connection.

He walked back outside just as Illya was helping Lupe de Rosa into the cab. He couldn't help noticing the very friendly manner in which she smiled at Kuryakin.

TWO

In the cab Illya Kuryakin found Miss de Rosa exactly the opposite from the silent sphinx of the plane. She talked quite animatedly. On the plane she seemed angry at the world in general, but now her mood had done a one hundred eighty degree turn. He knew that she had made a phone call after leaving customs and before coming out of the terminal. He wondered if this accounted for her change of spirits.

But knowing women, he wondered how long her good humor would last. It took him twenty-two minutes to find out. It was just exactly that long after they left the airport that she said, her voice changing from its feminine chatter to a grim coldness:

"Mr. Solo—"

"I'm Kuryakin!" he said wearily.

"It makes no difference. Do you see this!"

She lifted the bag in her lap. Illya saw a tiny automatic with the barrel directed straight at him. Her finger was on the trigger and she had a business-like expression on her face. It told him she could and would pull the trigger if she had to.

He eyed the gun and quirked his eyebrows up in an exasperated quirk.

"I take it we aren't friends any more," he said.

His voice was light, but his eyes were wary. This woman had shown during the storm that she had nerves of steel.

"Don't move!" she snapped. "And don't try to signal to the car following us!"

Illya Kuryakin leaned back, his eyes half closed, watching the girl.

"Whatever you are up to, I can be more help to you as a friend than as an enemy," he said quietly.

"I don't think so," she said. "You strike me as the kind of person who would be burdened with that most useless of things: a conscience!"

Before Illya could reply to that surprising observation, the girl leaned forward and spoke hurriedly to the cab driver.

"How much longer before those fools are going to stop the car following us?"

"Just after we come out of the tunnel," the driver said, half turning his head. "Don't worry. They'll shoot a razor dart into the car's tires. Then we'll get away before Napoleon Solo can get another cab."

"There were two men with him in the terminal. I saw him signal to them," she said hurriedly.

"Stop worrying! We know our business!" he snapped. "We'll throw them off the track and get you there."

"Mind if I smoke?" Illya said. "Looking down a gun barrel is sort of hard on the nerves."

"Shut up!" she snapped. "There's nothing you can say I want to hear!"

Suddenly the driver floorboarded the cab's accelerator. The car shot forward. Illya glanced in the rear view mirror. He saw the cab carrying Solo dropping back. Tires screeched as their own cab took a corner on two wheels.

The driver went up one block and then took another turn. There was nothing haphazard in his attempts to throw off Solo's pursuit. He drove exactly like a man who has every turn of the wheel plotted in advance.

He made two other turns and drove into the garage back of an industrial building.

"Get out!" Lupe snapped to Illya.

"You might say please!" he said, giving her an amused quirk of his lips that definitely did not reflect his inner feelings.

She gave him an angry glance. His casual manner was beginning to worry her. She paused and looked at him sharply. Her indecision was mirrored clearly on her face.

"He's taking this too easy," she said to the fake cab driver. "Do you think there's still another car following us?"

The driver shrugged.

"You can never tell anything for sure when you're up against these U.N.C.L.E. rats," he said. "They're tricky, Lupe. Just remember that if you expect to pull this deal off."

She nervously bit her lower lip. "Don't let him kid you, lady," Illya said, twisting his own lips in a peculiar grin. "Solo and I are the Laurel and Hardy of U.N.C.L.E. Just a couple of clowns. You don't have to worry about us."

Lupe's face flared. She was goaded to the point of explosion by Illya's mockery—which was what he intended. She suddenly swung her purse at him.

His heart leaped as the purse slammed against the side of his face. It was just what he was hoping for. The blow gave him an excuse to stagger back without causing the driver to jump him. He doubled up and hit the driver's legs.

Lupe cursed, and jerked the gun around to shoot. Illya swung the startled driver and shoved him into the girl. The two hit just as she squeezed the trigger. The jar spoiled her aim. The bullet slammed into the metal cross beams overhead.