[Magazine 1966-­03] - The Beauty and Beast Affair - Davis Robert Hart (читаем книги онлайн бесплатно полностью без сокращений .txt) 📗

THE BEAUTY AND BEAST AFFAIR

by ROBERT HART DAVIS

Trapped, at gunpoint, they heard THRUSH's deadly ultimatum crackle over the airways across the world: "Give us this machine which can destroy nations—or Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin die!"

ACT I—INCIDENT OF THE SLAIN AGENT

NAPOLEON SOLO and Alexander Waverly locked stunned gazes across the forgotten device they'd been inspecting in the command room at United Network headquarters.

Illya Kuryakin slain.

The incredible words erupted, sharply white, on the televised instant-bulletin screen.

Solo felt ill. Illya dead? After the first harsh moment of shocked disbelief, he sagged, immobilized by a sense of loss, deep grief. The slender young U.N.C.L.E agent brought his hand up, dragging it across his mouth. His elbow bumped the concealed shoulder holster and U.N.C.L.E. Special. Weaponry there to inflict death or to outwit it one more time. Thirty-seven ounces, including silencer—the man who carried this weapon accepted all obligations, risks. Risk of death remained constant.

But Solo's handsome young face, wry-pulled mouth, could not conceal his reaction to the impact of this tragic news.

He'd seen death strike, the violent dying of other agents, some working with him, all under his immediate command, but at this moment he felt as if the very rock of Manhattan Island might sink under him.

"It can't be!" Alexander Waverly spoke in unconcealed outrage.

Solo saw grief in the old soldier's face. Now one of the five men— each from a different mother nation—heading United Network Command, Waverly was a veteran of two world wars. He wore every medal and honor, many bestowed post-war by former enemy nations, for gallantry, bravery beyond the call of duty. Waverly had been embroiled most of his life in hand- to-hand combat with violent death.

Waverly's hand still gripped the activating switch of the atom-separator he'd been demonstrating.

They stared at the screen as the first bulletin was replaced by an amplifying message:

"Kuryakin and woman evangelist Ann Nelson Wheat have been executed as spies in Middle-East Zabir by order of Sheik Ali Zud—"

"No!" The word burst across Waverly's mouth. "Sheik Zud himself invited Illya into Zabir as an advisor. This is vilest treachery!"

For one more moment Waverly glared at the atom-separator as if it were somehow guilty. Built like a portable television set, with narrowing barrel instead of screen, the machine gleamed metallically in a room of metal machines, senders, receivers, monitors. The command room was the heart muscle of this huge, never-sleeping organization— United Network Command for Law and Enforcement—spread across the face of the globe, and via electronics into far reaches of space.

The Network Command building, unobtrusive in the Forties near the United Nations complex, was linked with the remotest areas by means of elaborate sending and receiving antennae concealed on its roof, and by secret channels underground, leading to the East River.

Solo tried to remember that urgent business came first. He said, "You were saying that his atom separator came from a THRUSH agent who defected to U.N.C.L.E."

"Yes." Grimly, Waverly too made the effort. "Only the scientist—his name was Polar Fuch—didn't quite make it. THRUSH had him—uh—removed. I he invented the machine, he told me, for peaceful aims, but it has a lethal application, and when he found this was the use THRUSH meant to make of it—"

Waverly gestured downward sharply. "No. It's no good. We'll discuss this thing later."

He swung around to his desk, slapped at the intercom buttons. He spoke in a cold, flat tone that dared his subordinates even to question his command: "I want the ambassador from Zabir in the conference suite. Within the hour. Do you understand? Within the hour."

TWO

ZABIR'S AMBASSADOR Zouida Berikeen looked across the long conference table at the chilled faces of Napoleon Solo and Alexander Waverly.

His heavily accented voice broke, pleadingly: "But I have counted you as my closest friends. Both of you. I shall remain indebted beyond death to you, Solo, for saving my life. Need I remind you? And Alexander––friend since the evil days of the Dardanelles, before my poor little nation even was born!"

"We are not here to talk over old times." Waverly's voice remained implacable. His expression did not alter. His relentless gaze bore into Zouida's face. He nodded toward Solo. "Can you think of any good you could say of this man?"

Solo shrugged, his face also chilled. "Well, he got here in less than an hour."

"So we give him one mark—or one lash—for punctuality," Waverly said icily. "He has fortitude I never suspected, to face us at all after such treachery."

Zouida Berikeen scrubbed his hands over his face. He wore the uniform of the diplomat: morning coat, creased black trousers, stiff shirt. But his hair was uncombed, and sleep showed in the corners of his black eyes. He was a small man, swarthy, and deeply tortured.

"My old friends," he pleaded. "Can't you believe I know no more of this—very little more—than you do? Just what came via bulletin from my poor nation. That's all."

"You said you knew a little more," Solo said grimly. "How little?"

Zouida licked at his mouth. "A direct communique with my ruler, the King of Lions, Sheik Zud, asked only that Napoleon Solo come to Zabir to collect the mortal remains, effects and belongings of the lamented Illya Kuryakin. And this bit more—that Sheik Zud is himself bereaved."

"He ordered the execution!" Waverly lashed out.

"True." Zouida paced the carpeting across the table from the agents. "But reluctantly, and with great heartsickness. We all loved Illya Kuryakin. Whatever his crime—and I swear to Allah, and to your own gods—I don't know what it was. Spying. It must have been heinous to force Sheik Zud to take such dreadful action."

Waverly waved his hand. "And this woman, this evangelist, Ann Nelson Wheat? What of her? Was she spying too?"

Zouida nodded, his face showing inner torments. "Yes. She is from your Los Angeles. She has a great following, much like your Billy Graham. The young college students in our country—rebellious as they seem to be all over the world today—want to know more about your religion. Sheik Zud invited this woman, Ann Nelson Wheat, into Zabir. He would let her explain Christianity to the people of Zabir, so they would know what it was—though of course, Zabir and Sheik Zud know only the true God, Mohammed his prophet—"

"And what was the Wheat woman's crime?" Solo prompted.

"Spying. She must have forgotten she was our guest as a religious woman. She was caught photographing secret installations—"

"And what kind of trial did she get?" Waverly said, leaning for ward at the high-glossed table.

Zouida shrugged. "The sheik is a headstrong man, of some violence when aroused." He paused, added almost defiantly, "But he is a good man, better even than he believes."

"Yes," Solo said in irony. "He has a great record."

Tears brimmed the little ambassador's eyes. "Sheik Zud's problems are complex, difficult to comprehend unless you face them. Please do not judge this good, but hard-pressed man, until you know him better. His goodness lights the desert. I ask only that you suspend judgment until Napoleon Solo returns with his report."

When they were alone in the long conference room, both Solo and Waverly sat some moments without moving.