[Magazine 1966-­05] - The World's End Affair - Davis Robert Hart (бесплатные онлайн книги читаем полные версии TXT) 📗

"We'll find out after dark we try to get in the place," Solo said. He sat down against one the tree trunks. "Right now we might as well rest. The fun and games in the snow made me tired. Illya, how about breaking out some more of those crumbly crackers? You'd think U.N.C.L.E. could afford better fare for -"

A chill went all the way through Napoleon Solo as a sliding panel opened in the trunk of the tree directly across from him.

Other panels snapped open in the other tree trunks around them. Rifle muzzles appeared in the openings. Mei jumped into her father's arms with a cry of horror. Illya's jaw hung down in untypical amazement. Solo whipped his gun hand toward a fold of his robe.

"That would be inadvisable," said a voice from the largest tree in the lane.

The whole side of the trunk opened outward like a door. Through the door walked a tall man in the peaked cap and smart, tight-fitting black uniform of the officer elite of THRUSH.

The man had a large automatic in his right hand. A slender white scar traced an S-curve down the left side of his cruel face, hairline to jaw. It was the Red Chinese officer from the truck.

"You folks certainly switch sides fast around here," Solo said.

"Not at all, Mr. Solo," said the officer in English. "My loyalty has but one fixed point – THRUSH. Of course I know who you are. The cameras hidden in several imitation

pomegranates hanging on these trees have already supplied your photographs to our technologists just there."

The officer used his gun to indicate the black buildings in the center of the valley. "Our computers have analyzed the photos and sent back your names. Mr. Napoleon

Solo and Mr. Illya Kuryakin of U.N.C.L.E. These two traitors -"

The officer's cruel expression turned lascivious as he studied Mei. She huddled against Ah Lan. The old man's chin came up, defiant. The officer smiled.

"- we are familiar with them, too. They shall be dealt with."

"Since when does a Chinese nightingale turn into a THRUSH?" Illya asked.

The officer shrugged. "Actually, it's a most convenient arrangement. I have access to information from all the Chinese radar installations in the district. You see, we have been expecting visitors from U.N.C.L.E. ever since our experimental flight on Air Pan-Asia apparently met with failure due to your meddling.

"You were observed in Hong Kong taking Mr. Chee aboard the flight for the United States. So we have been preparing. As senior officer in charge of the district beyond the pass, I receive immediate reports of all unidentified aircraft in our airspace. Thus I was reasonably certain you had arrived by parachute two nights ago.

"Of course I was forced to carry out the charade of searching the terrain with the truck convoy. A pretty predicament! I knew you were hiding behind those rocks beside the road. I saw the marks in the earth. But one of my soldiers also saw them, so I was unable to overlook them. Fortunately the wild yak happened along to explain away the marks and give me a legitimate excuse to call a halt to the search."

The scarred officer stepped two paces forward, to allow room for the other THRUSH soldiers who were appearing from the door in the tree. There were six of them, a squad, all in black boots, trousers, blouses. They carried rapid-fire machine pistols with large, round infra-red snooper sights mounted on top.

They were a mixed lot, typical of THRUSH forces: two appeared to be European, one English or American, and three Oriental. All of them had the flat, featureless expression of the professional assassin.

"Are there any more questions before it is my turn to be inquisitive?" the officer said.

"Yes," Solo said. "You didn't take us prisoner yesterday because you wanted to save us for THRUSH. Isn't that a pretty risky business?"

The officer looked amused. "In certain quarters it might be. Here it is not. This region of Tibet is sparsely populated. It is even more sparsely garrisoned by the Chinese army. Since I am in command of the area, my orders are executed without question."

Illya gestured at the valley, the peaceful, sun-dappled rice fields. "How do you convince your Chinese friends to leave this place alone? After all, observation planes from the Chinese air force must have spotted it."

"Naturally," the officer said. His tone indicated the question was naive. "Again, by deft maneuvering, all Chinese military units within a certain radius have been convinced that this valley is actually a highly secret research installation - which is true - operated by the

Peking regime - which is not true. We manage to maintain the fiction."

Solo shook his head. "From Mao to THRUSH. That's quite a transformation."

The officer's lips curled. "We find the Chinese contemptible milksops."

The officer jerked his gun muzzle down the hill. "I believe we have wasted enough time. Shall we go?"

"Preferably to hell," Solo said, diving his hand under his robe for his pistol.

The odds were hopeless. As Solo dropped into a fighting crouch and leveled his gun, the THRUSH squad swarmed forward. Machine pistol butts thudded against his skull, into his midriff, onto the back of his neck. Solo swung a punch and hit nothing but air. A THRUSH soldier kicked him in the belly.

Solo went down on his knees. A rabbit-chop drove him flat. Other soldiers rushed out of the tree door to seize Illya, Ah Lan and Mei.

A little line of blood ran out of the left side of Solo's mouth as he sprawled on his back in the warm, fragrant orchard. The officer loomed above him, S-scar shining white. The officer placed the hobnailed sole of his boot on Solo's Adam's apple and pressed down.

"That was a damned fool trick," said the officer. He smiled thinly. "I can see by the expression on your face, Mr. Solo, that you are surprised I speak your language."

"Yes," Solo grunted.

"It's quite simple. I was educated. in your country. At U.C.L.A."

Solo said, "I should have guessed."

For his sarcasm he got another forty pounds of pressure applied to his throat, hard.

Act III: So Sorry, Mark Twain

The four prisoners were taken to one of the black buildings. An elevator shaft carried them an unknown distance underground. They were led down a corridor to a huge chamber equipped with computers, control consoles, and a dozen television monitors with fifty-inch screens.

Generators hummed. Technicians in THRUSH smocks busied everywhere. As their captors prodded them forward, Solo noticed that several of the monitors which cast a pale, eerie light over the vaulted rooms showed scenes in the valley. But three of the screens contained views of buildings and a harbor which Solo could identify.

"They're interested in Hong Kong for some reason," he whispered to Illya.

"No talking!"

The officer with the S-scar hit Solo in the lower backbone with a swagger stick. Solo ground his teeth together. That particular nasty was going to be dealt with before this affair was finished.

His attention was diverted to their destination, a large, open area in the center of the humming chamber. The focal point of the area was a spacious work table. Two objects sat on it. One was a dully shining vinyl-covered belt, of the sort the renegade pilot had worn. The other was the belt's companion equipment, a black generator box.

A disconcerting difference hit Solo then. This black box was three times the size of the one discovered in Alfred C. Chee's luggage.

Hovering over the apparatus were two men. One was bony, horse-jawed, with thin gray hair over an elongated skull. He had Occidental skin coloring but slanted eyes. His hands fluttered restlessly at his waist. He peered through thick spectacles as the officer marched the prisoners up to the table.