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

Inside the window he hauled the unconscious Rillah up and into the room, where they all stood. Flames licked at the walls of the room. Fire engine sirens were wailing closer.

"You could of got singed, man," the bearded man said.

"Yes, we could have been burned a little," Illya said.

The bearded man looked out the window once more.

"Say, that's some fire. I mean, how come it burns so good on stone like that, Dad?"

"It would take too long to explain," Illya said, "but we thank you. Now I suggest we leave. The fire seems to be burning the building.

"I hear you, Dad. We abandon the scene," the bearded man said.

Illya and the bearded man carried the inert form of Rillah out and down a flight of dark back stairs. Mahyana led the way, the U.N.C.L.E. Special she had taken from the dead Ngara ready in her hand.

"A cool chick, man," the bearded man said.

Illya studied his new helper. A boy, really, not a man. But a boy who had had the right strength at the right time.

The bearded kid saw Illya watching him.

"I play banjo, man," the bearded boy said. "Joe Hooker."

"Fighting Joe?" Illya said.

"You beat me, man? Just Joe Hooker from Hoboken. I play banjo with The Beavers, take a chorus sometimes. We come out here for the loot. Out here it's still beards. The long hair ain't made it yet."

"Well, Mr. Joe Hooker, I thank you."

"Say no more, man," the bearded boy said.

They carried Rillah to the cellar of the club and out a side entrance Mahyana knew.

The dark girl surveyed the street carefully.

"Come," she waved with her pistol.

They carried Rillah to her waiting car. Joe Hooker went back to his banjo. Illya drove fast away from The Yellow Zebra toward a safe room where Mahyana directed him.

* * *

Napoleon Solo, a bandage on his head, and wearing a fresh suit, watched Alexander Waverly study the photographs he had taken in the THRUSH room.

"They will have abandoned that place by now, of course," Waverly remarked. "You say the voice sounded mechanical?'

"Like wind through metal and plastic," Solo said.

"Yes," Waverly said as if thinking about it. "You have given our chemical people all you can about the drugs they used on you? Well, what do you make of the pictures?"

Solo looked at his copies of the blowups. "The one you can see I recognize. He was the baggage handler at Idlewild. Hardly a council member."

"No, I think not. A chief agent, though, and we know him. Good work, that," Waverly said. "Which voice do you think he was?"

"The deep voice. He had to be, sir."

Waverly nodded, looked for his pipe. "Unfortunate that the other is turned away. We can hardly see his face at all in any picture. Still, we know he is small, rather thin, and has an odd voice. From what you say, he may also be a chemist himself. Council members are often scientists in their own right, you know."

Solo studied the pictures. "Research says that from the cut and the cloth of his suit he could be British, or from any of the Commonwealth nations."

Waverly found his pipe. "A rather large Commonwealth, I should say."

"What puzzles me, " Solo said, "is that voice. I'm sure it was his real voice, and how could he hide it? Why don't we have anything in our files? It stands to reason he's an important man—all THRUSH Council members are. We should have the voice on file."

Waverly searched for his tobacco. "They ran it through. The result was negative. Possibly the man never speaks in public. Have you seen my tobacco?"

"It's in the second drawer. You put it there," Solo said. Waverly opened the second drawer. "Ah, yes, thank you. I suggest we wait for a report from Mr.—ah—Kuryakin. It seems he has good prospect in Kandaville."

* * *

Azid Ben Rillah came awake in the hidden room of U.N.C.L.E.'s Section-II in Kandaville.

Illya sat in a straight-backed chair, the chair turned so that he could rest his chin on the back, and watched the Somali come awake. The room was as secure as human brains could make it. It was high, with a wide view of the great river that skirted the city.

Azid Ben Rillah touched is face and looked at Illya. The small, blond U.N.C.L.E. agent smiled.

"It won't come off, the skin coloring," Illya said. "But I removed the contact lenses. Your eyes are blue again."

Rillah nodded. "I thought you spotted me." The fake Somali lapsed into his native language—Russian. "How have you been, Illya?"

"Quite well, thank you, Alexy. Interesting that you kept the initials," Illya said, also in his native tongue. "Alexy Borayavitch Razov and Azid Ben Rillah. You were reported dead."

"Our homeland dislikes defectors," Alexy Razov said. "I felt safer to vanish after I turned my coat, shall we say. And you? Since you were looking for me, I gather you still work for our friends the secret police? Am I to expect a quick and secret trip home? After ten years it will be strange. All that snow. Hard on a poor Somali."

"No, Alexy, home is not where you are going. Exactly where you go will be up to you."

Razov sat up on the bed. He looked down at the chains on his hands and feet. Then the dark-skinned man with the strange blue eyes looked at Illya.

"How is it up to me?"

"If you like, you can be safely in New York tomorrow. In London. Anywhere you choose. And with a new face, a new identity."

"New face? You can do that?"

The turncoat Russian was studying Illya very carefully. Razov seemed to be suddenly afraid, very afraid.

"You could protect me? Hide me?" Razov said.

"Yes," Illya said. The ex-Soviet agent was trembling. "In exchange for what?"

"For the meaning of PowerTen. For where it is being made, and for what exactly it does."

Razov seemed to collapse on the bed. The dark-skinned, blue-eyed turncoat lay on the bed shivering, his lips trembling. Razov's whole body shook as if in the grip of some terrible fever. His Russian was broken, shaking.

"You know! You know what I am. Then." Razov turned his face to stare at Illya, "then—you must be with—U.N.C.L.E.! Yes I see it now, U.N.C.L.E.! I wondered about that girl, the singer. Damn you to hell, you're with U.N.C.L.E. and I'm done, finished."

"We can hide you from THRUSH," Illya said.

"Oh, damn you! Why? Why?" Razov cried. "We were friends!"

"It seems that we took different paths, Alexy," Illya said.

"Very different paths."

Razov sat up, his fear gone for a moment. "U.N.C.L.E.! A pack of milk-sops, do-gooders, bleeding hearts! What counts in this world but power, money, victory? THRUSH will be everything soon! Everything!"

"No, " Illya said. "THRUSH will be nothing. They are nothing now and they will always be nothing but an evil force doomed to failure."

Razov turned white under his dark tint. "Failure! You know who I am. I'm dead. I'm through. They will kill me now."

"We can protect you, Alexy!" Illya said. Alexy laughed. A hollow, hopeless laugh. A laugh of the dead and the damned.

"No one can protect me, Illya," the turncoat Russian said. "I can't even make a deal. They will kill me now."

"Don't be an utter fool! They can't reach you here," Illya said testily. Razov began to laugh.

"They can't get to you. They can't even know what room you're in!" Illya cried. Razov laughed harder, a wild, hysterical laugh made up partly of fear, partly of sardonic amusement.