[Magazine 1966-­02] - The Howling Teenagers Affair - Lynds Dennis (читать книги онлайн бесплатно полные версии TXT) 📗

The deep-voiced man laughed. "We will leave you now, Mr. Solo. Miss Trent and Gotz will take good care of you. If you find you would like to talk, just send for us. We will not be far."

Suppressing the smile he felt at their predictable actions, Solo flexed his arms as if preparing his body to resist the tortures of the unknown Gotz. One of the weaknesses of power was the tendency to always use the same methods to enforce its strength.

Solo had often seen this peculiarity of power-mad nations. It had been one of the weaknesses of Hitler's Germany, and it was a common, fundamental weakness of THRUSH.

But it was the time to act. Solo did not know how many men would be with the unknown Gotz.

Maxine stood watching him, her pistol in her hand, now that he was free. She was the proper distance away, and the rest of the room was still lost in darkness. Solo would need time to find a door, and exit. He stretched.

"Careful, Napoleon," Maxine said. "I would hate to shoot you now. Too bad you have to be U.N.C.L.E. They'll never let me keep you now."

"I'm sorry, really, Maxine," Solo said, continuing to flex his arms and legs, but carefully.

"You'd make a lovely pet. I could tranquilize you every day," the tall beautiful agent purred. "My little kitten. But you have to be U.N.C.L.E. Why couldn't you have been just C.I.A., or British MI-five? They'd have let me play with you then."

"I'll try to do better next time," Solo said.

"Poor Napoleon. Always trying," Maxine said. "It wasn't nice of you to trap me earlier, was it? How did you guess? The record player I imagine. I told `N' that you would guess when it shut off and the tape recorder came on."

"It was a trifle too convenient, Maxine," Solo said. And he distracted her for an instant. "So `N' isn't that smart?"

"Not as smart as he thinks," Maxine said smugly, her guard down the fraction of a second as a result of her anger at her leader. "They think they can't make errors on the Council. They."

Solo moved. His hand flicked up and across his tie, tore the pearl stick-pin out and hurled it at Maxine's feet, all in a single motion.

The force of pulling it out set off the fuse. A cloud of gas exploded and engulfed Maxine Trent. Still the beautiful agent managed to fire a single shot. The bullet tore a furrow, skin deep in the side of Napoleon Solo's head. He went down, but came back up almost at once. His head ached, but there was not much time, not after the shot.

Maxine Trent lay crumpled on the floor of the room. She would be unconscious for hours. Solo stepped quickly through the light into the dark corners. He found, once his eyes were accustomed to the dark, that the room was large and empty. Only the inlaid table and the lamp were in the completely silent room.

And there were no doors.

Solo blinked, looked.

There was nothing but smooth walls without doors or windows. He walked quickly around the entire perimeter of the room. There was no way out. And then he saw that the room was soundproof. This, at least, gave him a little time to locate some exit. There had to be a way. But he could not find it. Nothing but bare smooth walls.

Routine—and a little luck—came to his aid. Solo had been an agent for a long time, he knew no one survived long without a little luck, accident or pure chance, all helped by the mistakes of the enemy. THRUSH had a prescribed routine of operation, and it helped Solo now.

A tiny red light winked on, winked three times, and stopped. But it was enough. It had to be a signal that someone was about to enter the room. A precaution, of course, since all agents who used this room undoubtedly had standing orders to shoot anyone who entered without the signal. A precaution that would save him.

Solo waited.

The wall opened silently, without even a hiss, directly beneath the winking red light. A man stepped through. Two men.

The second man was a tall, slender Chinese carrying a machine pistol. Solo chopped him down with a single blow to the neck under the ear.

The first man turned slowly.

He was the biggest man Solo had ever seen. A giant well over seven feet tall, weighing over three hundred fifty pounds without an ounce of fat anywhere. There was no doubt that this was Gotz, the torturer.

Gotz turned ponderously, his tiny pig eyes seeing the Chinese lying on the ground, Maxine lying unconscious. He moved toward Solo.

There was not an instant to wait. Once in those giant hands Solo would have no hope. The giant could not be fought. One chance was all Solo would have, and he took it.

His feet braced against the wall, Solo pushed off as hard as he could and hurled himself toward the giant. His open hand thrust straight up and forward. The heel of his hand caught the giant flush on the point of the chin, snapping the giant's neck back with enough force to break a roof beam.

Surprised, ponderous, the giant could not evade the single blow. His head snapped back on his bull neck. He staggered, grunted once with pain and collapsed in a quivering mass of bone and muscle. It was a blow that would have instantly killed almost any man on earth, but Solo did not think the giant was dead.

He turned and dashed through the opening without waiting a second. He ran down a narrow steel corridor. At the far end there was a door. At the door Solo stopped, took off his shoe, removed the heel and took out the thin strip of thermite foil. He stuck the foil to the lock area, pulled the magnesium fuse and jumped back.

A large hole melted in the door. Solo pushed and the door opened. Alarms went off, loud, clanging. But he was in a bright hallway. There was light. He reached a window. Outside he saw the city and below him the river. He was still in New York, in some riverfront warehouse building.

The alarm clanged on; feet pounded.

The river was three stories below. The window was locked and could not be opened. Solo backed up, wrapped his suit coat around his head and dived through the glass. He fell, jack-knifed in the air, and hit the water in a clean dive.

Under water he let his coat go and swam for the dark shadow. He came up underneath the building. The film cartridge was still safe inside his shirt. A tug passed close on the river. He swam for it.

FOUR

In the Kandaville alley, Illya Kuryakin watched the flames flow toward him. The girl singer was still firing.

"Back!" Illya shouted. "Get Rillah!"

The flames that roared around them, slowly engulfing the alley had one advantage. They hid them from the THRUSH agents. Crouched low, Illya and the girl, Mahyana, dragged the paralyzed Rillah back away from the flames.

The flames blocked them from the door of The Yellow Zebra. The other wall had no openings of any kind. The wall of the club had a window, but it was high up, too high. Illya and the girl looked around. There was no way out. The flames flowed inexorably closer. Illya looked at the pretty, dark girl.

"There is only one way," he said. "We will have to go out through the fire."

"They're waiting," Mahyana said.

"There is no other way," Illya cried, raising his voice now as the flames licked at the buildings, crackling in the night.

"All right," Mahyana said. "I'm ready. But we will have to leave Rillah. We."

The sound came from above. Illya whirled; his Special aimed, ready. But he did not fire. Above them the window had opened high up. A face leaned out. A face with a black beard.

"Here, Dad—grab on!"

It was the bearded man calling down from the window. A rope came out, dropped. Illya looked at the flames. He pushed Mahyana and she climbed up the dangling rope like a panther up a tree. Bending, Illya quickly tied the rope beneath the inert arms of Azid Ben Rillah. Then he swarmed up the rope himself.