[Magazine 1966-­08] - The Cat and Mouse Affair - Davis Robert Hart (версия книг .txt) 📗

"Don't even say it," Solo said.

"I'll say something more to the point."

"And that would be?"

"How do we get out of here?" Illya said.

Solo looked at the soldiers, who had reached the highway now, then down at the sea breaking angry on the rocks far below. Then he looked to the right, where the wall and the cliff joined a few yards away and left nothing but open space for birds all the way down. Then he looked left—to the left there was enough room to walk, and ledges of rocks leading down. It was a way for goats, but it was the only way.

"Left," Solo said, "and fast."

Crouched below the wall, the two agents moved as fast as they could to the left. They peered over the wall in the night to see where the soldiers were. The soldiers had reached the jeep and found it empty. Now the soldiers came running down the road. Illya opened fire. The soldiers went to ground and began to fire back. The fire was high over the agents' heads.

Solo led the way along the narrow cliff, then down to the first ledge. But the going was too slow.

"I'll have to hold them," Illya cried. "You go on!"

Illya leaped back up to the wall. Resting his Special on the parapet, he opened fire. Solo continued on down, ledge to ledge, as fast as he could, but it was very slowly. Above, Illya continued his covering fire until the soldiers, well-trained and skilled, worked around and had him covered from two sides.

Halfway down the cliff Solo looked up and saw Illya stand with his hands up. The soldiers swarmed around Illya. But they did not give up with the capture of one man. Leaning over the parapet they opened fire on Solo, called on him to surrender. Their shots were still too high, but Solo was pinned against the cliff ledge. He looked down.

Below, the water seemed deep. He could see no rocks. At the next fusillade Solo cried out, clutched his chest, and let himself fall over the edge of the ledge down into the sea.

Above, the soldiers turned away with their prisoner.

The night became silent.

Below in the water nothing moved.

ACT III: COUP, COUP, WHO'S GOT THE COUP?

ONE

The sea outside the harbor of San Pablo is an angry one. It breaks against the cliffs and deserted beaches that curve out toward the sea itself until the beaches reach the opening into the harbor.

Inside the fine harbor the water is calm and sheltered, and anyone who swims does so on the harbor side. On the sea side, below the cliffs and on the beaches there is nothing but the surf and the flotsam of the sea.

This night, on one of the empty beaches below the cliff road, among the driftwood and seaweed, something rose from the white water, staggered, and fell again. The figure struggled up, falling and rising, until it lay beyond the reach of the surf on the silent beach. The figure was Napoleon Solo, bruised and half drowned.

After a time, Solo raised his head and looked around. The beach was as deserted as it had seemed. Nothing at all moved in the night. From time to time a car passed high on the road above the beach and the cliffs. Solo stood up. He checked his arms and legs, but there were only bruises. Nothing was broken by the rocks.

It was time to go to work.

Aware that when a coup threatened you could not afford to trust anyone, Solo walked the miles from the beach to the mansion of O'Hara above the city. He his whenever a car passed. It was close to morning by the time he staggered into the mansion, and, behind the bookcase in the silent rooms of U.N.C.L.E. in Zambala, told the story to O'Hara.

"What do you want to do?" O'hara asked.

"Go after Illya. Do you know what the insignia of the second regiment looks like?"

O'Hara went to a filing cabinet and took out a folder. He showed Solo a picture. It was the insignia worn by the soldiers who had attacked on the cliff road. Solo nodded.

"Right, then I'm going to their camp. Are they in their regular camp?"

"At Tidworth Barracks, ten miles northeast on the Real Plain," O'Hara said. "You want help?"

"No, we can't tip U.N.C.L.E.'s hand yet, and your men might be known," Solo said. "I'll just need a car."

"Take the small Triumph. It's equipped. Smoke, extra guns, bombs in the usual places, super-charged for extra speed."

"Right," Solo said.

Ten minutes later the powerful little Triumph was on the road into the mountains again. Napoleon Solo drove swiftly with the sun up and bright over the tall blue mountains. The small car ate up the ten miles. A sign on the side of the road told Solo that Tidworth was one mile ahead. He drove more carefully.

His sharp eyes began to notice things. There were troops in the fields on both sides of the road—troops and vehicles in full battle dress. On the sides of the mountains there were flashes that showed high observation posts. Small planes flew over from time to time as if reconnoitering the area.

These were not the normal activities of a regiment in barracks.

Solo continued to drive. Ahead he saw a roadblock. He eased the Triumph up to the wire. Four soldiers watched him. A sergeant stepped up to check his papers. Solo handed him the specially-prepared papers that identified him as George Solo, uniform salesman from New York.

"And why are you here, sir?" the sergeant asked.

"To sell uniforms, naturally," Solo said with a smile.

"Really? The colonel made no mention of a uniform salesman visiting the barracks today."

"Ah, yes. Well the colonel doesn't know. I, ah, just decided to visit Zambala's best regiment to see if I could find a few, shall we say, flaws in the present uniforms."

"On your own, sir?"

"Ah, yes, all my own little idea," Solo said with a dazzling smile. "Of course, the premier knows I'm here."

"I see, sir. Very good. Then I'm sure the colonel will welcome you."

Solo eased the Triumph into reverse. "Well, as a matter of fact I can see that you're busy, so I think I'll just come back some other time."

The sergeant nodded to his men. They stood around the Triumph with their rifles pointed very accurately at Solo's chest.

The sergeant nodded again, this time to Solo.

"I know you want to see the colonel. Such a long trip, you don't want to leave empty-handed, I'm sure."

Solo looked at the rifles and got out of the car.

* * *

Illya lay on the floor of the room. He was not tied, and the room had a window. Looking out, he could see the grounds of the complex of buildings, and the soldiers walking across the grounds. But the window was barred, and three stories up with no holds to the ground.

Where he lay he considered what had happened. After his capture there had been the trip in the truck guarded by the soldiers. The arrival at what was obviously a barracks station of some regiment, and his delivery to an officer, who promptly locked him in this room. Papers had been handed to the officer. The officer had treated him well, but refused t listen to him.

Ever since then he had been fed regularly. He was not bound or chained, no one had bothered him or questioned him. He was simply being held in what was clearly a guardroom just like any military prisoner.

Illya Kuryakin was puzzled.

The soldiers who had attacked Solo and himself had shot at them, literally kidnapped him. Yet when they arrived with him here at the barracks they had handed him over with papers as if he were a prisoner being transferred. They kidnapped him by force, yet treated him more like a prisoner of war.

They had not eve searched him or taken away his watch, belt, rings, shoes or clothes. They had fed him well; he had seen no one but the soldier who brought his food since he had arrived. No one kept him from looking out the window—and from the window he could clearly see the preparations.