The Mad Scientist Affair - Philifrent John T (читать книгу онлайн бесплатно без .TXT) 📗

As Illya Kuryakin slid down the steep hillside in a desperate attempt to lose the THRUSH agents who had spotted his spying device a few moments ago, he saw at the bottom of the hill a smooth and inviting open green space. Scrambling with heels and elbows as he slid, he steered for it, his whole body braced for the impact of stopping.

Suddenly, as he shot out over the fast ridge and into the air, he seemed to notice something ominously suspicious about that smooth greenness. He twisted in mid-air and spread-eagled himself—and fell with a great slap into slimy green ooze! It was a bog—quicksand!

And above him, as the ooze crept up to his mouth, he faintly heard a voice say, “No need to worry further about him—no one has ever come back alive from there!”

THE MAD SCIENTIST AFFAIR

CONTENTS

Prologue

ONE

“Are You Deliberately Trying to Give Me the Cold Shivers?”

TWO

“The Spirits of Me Ancestors Are Watching Ye.”

THREE

“Lovely Night for a Drive, Isn’t It?”

FOUR

“I’m Afraid the Birds Have Flown.”

FIVE

“Talk About Burning Your Boats After You!”

Prologue

JULY WAS DYING in a blaze of sub-tropical swelter, and New York was one vast oven as the two men marched side by side along to Del Floria’s tailor shop. They were looking forward to air-conditioned comfort for a brief while, at least, inside.

An uninformed onlooker would have seen only a row of aged and unremarkable brownstones, with one fairly new three-storied whitestone at the south end of the row to lend a little tone, but these two men knew that the exterior belied the facts. They knew, for instance, just how exclusive was the key-club restaurant, The Masked Club, which took up the first and second floors of the whitestone. They knew that the innocent and rather ordinary offices on the third floor, an organization calling itself U.N.C.L.E., was a pale shadow of the reality. Under that facade of crumbling stone, decrepit shops, a struggling garage and a clutter of lower-income residents, there was one large and complex modern building, the headquarters of the real U.N.C.L.E.

There, in a maze of steel-walled corridors and ultramodern suites, an extremely efficient squad of brisk and alert young people of all nations and persuasions made it their unrelenting business to be curious about and deal with anything at all that offered a threat to international law and order. They had on call every resource of modern technology, plus the drive that comes from hard training and utter dedication.

The two men now passing through the secret entrance in the tailor shop knew as much about it as anyone and more than most. One was Napoleon Solo, Chief Enforcement Agent for U.N.C.L.E., and the other was that imperturbable and coldly efficient technologist and gatherer of unusual and useful information, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin.

ONE

“Are You Deliberately Trying to Give Me the Cold Shivers?”

ALEXANDER WAVERLY was in a rare mood as he clutched an unlit pipe and eyed the two agents who had come in response to his summons. The Chief of Section One of U.N.C.L.E. usually looked like an untidy, rather severe professor about to pronounce caustic judgment on some miserable student, but at this moment he twinkled. Solo frowned and felt uneasy in consequence.

“It’s our business to know what’s going on,” Waverly began. “We must begin with the facts, no matter how fantastic they may seem. Don’t be too quick to judge, therefore, as I introduce you to an eccentric genius, one Michael O’Rourke, who lives in a castle in Ireland and calls himself ‘King’ Mike. This face.” He swiveled his chair to stare at the screen on the wall as a picture glowed there. The man in the picture was old, with a halo of white hair and a bristling white beard that came to a caprine point, but he had been caught in a sardonic smile, showing a lively eye.

A female voice recited the dossier over a loudspeaker concealed somewhere in the room:

“Dr. Michael O’Rourke, biochemist, bachelor, age 58. Traveled extensively and adventurously in youth, often on the wrong side of the law. Is now head of chemical research for O’Brien’s Beautiful Beers, Inc., at their highly modern brewery near Conway, County Clare, Eire. As well as its commercial functions, the laboratory conducts pure research into vitamins, proteins and molecular chemistry, under Dr. O’Rourke’s direction.”

The goat-bearded grin faded and was replaced by a picturesque view, in bright sunshine over green moor, of a castle.

“Cooraclare Castle,” the impersonal voice went on, “is small, typical of the region, but of dubious authenticity. Dr. O’Rourke acquired it four years ago, has modernized its interior, and lives there with a small staff and his two nieces, the daughters of his two brothers, now deceased. The nieces assist their uncle in the laboratory. The castle is three miles from the brewery, four miles from Conway. Dr. O’Rourke is known locally as ‘King’ Mike.”

Solo grinned. “I never yet knew an Irishman who didn’t claim to be a descendant of one of the kings of ould Ireland. This one seems to believe it.”

“It’s a real castle, at any rate,” Kuryakin murmured. “The architecture looks genuine. Apart from being a mad scientist, why are we interested in him, sir?”

Waverly stroked his cheek with the stem of his cold pipe. He was very seldom seen to light up, and he didn’t now. “O’Rourke is, as you say, a mad—or eccentric—scientist. It is not a crime. Nor is it reprehensible to seek to improve the quality of beer. Quite the reverse. I like a glass of O’Brien’s myself, on occasion. It’s very good. But wait.”

The castle picture gave way to another portrait, this time of a pudgy-faced timid-looking man with wispy dark hair and eyes peering trustfully through heavy pebble lenses. The unseen female voice declared this was:

“Dr. Vittorio Trilli, Genovese biochemist, brilliant but unorthodox. Was in trouble with authorities over illegal experimentation when he was killed in a mysterious laboratory explosion in Milan, four years ago. Is known to us to be a high-ranking Thrush field-agent, and alive.” Solo nodded grimly. That was a very familiar pattern. The voice went on, “Our man in Limerick reports Trilli is in the neighborhood and very interested in O’Rourke. Trilli is accompanied by two lesser Thrush agents—muscle-men.”