[Magazine 1967-­05] - The Synthetic Storm Affair - Edmonds I. G. (читать книги онлайн бесплатно полные версии txt) 📗

"I fancy she might well be," Waverly said. "Let the New York unit keep track of Miss de Rosa. You gentlemen report to me here as U.N.C.L.E. headquarters as rapidly as possible! Our situation is growing more grave by the second. It is far worse than when I spoke to you at the airport. We have received additional information that indicates THRUSH is ready to strike!"

TWO

After they broke their connection with Waverly, the two men from U.N.C.L.E. walked soberly to the main intersection, where they stopped at a drugstore to phone for a taxi.

Neither of the spoke much on the drive over to Manhattan. They were both deep in thought most of the time, trying to piece together the puzzling series of facts they faced these last twenty-four hours.

They dismissed the taxi in the lower fifties and headed in a fast walk back toward the United Nations building towering darkly against the night sky by the East River.

But instead of continuing on, they made a sharp turn and walked past a whitestone building in the middle of the long block.

A tailor shop was still open in the basement. Solo said to his friend, "We look a sight. We'd better get a press before we report to the boss."

Illya Kuryakin nodded. The two turned and went down the short flight of steps. Solo pushed open the door marked "Del Floria—Tailor" and the two went in. A little man past middle age rubbed his hands on his tailor's apron and nodded to the two.

The two men walked to the back of the shop. They entered a small dressing room and let the curtain drop behind them. They paused for a moment while a cleverly concealed electronic eye scanned them. Then the back of the dressing room wall swung in. Napoleon and Illya stepped out of the old world tailor shop into a modern, well appointed reception office.

A smiling girl at the desk asked them to place their hands on a frosted glass on her desk. She pressed a button and their prints were electronically verified from master records in the banks of computers jammed in the long steel corridors of the ultra-modern offices hidden behind the prosaic whitestone front.

Only after a verification signal from the identifications computer buzzed on her desk, did the admissions clerk give each of the two men a peculiarly shaped triangular badge to pin to their lapel. Electronic scanners would instantly sound an alarm if anyone not wearing the U.N.C.L.E. badge tried to enter any of the hundreds of top secret rooms in the headquarters.

They walked down the gleaming hall to an elevator. They took it to a top floor, walking across to a door whose oak appearance was a clever lamination. It was actually solid steel.

Solo pressed a recessed button beside the door. There was a faint buzz inside, as scanners checked their identity. The door slid noiselessly into its recess.

Across the room Alexander Waverly sat behind a desk that was in reality an elaborate communications console. At a flick of any of the rainbow colored buttons he could put himself in contact with any of the world-wide network of U.N.C.L.E. operatives.

He was watching a TV screen set in the desk. He did not look up, but said, "This will interest you. It is the aftermath of the storm that almost got you!"

Waverly pressed a button. The picture was transferred from his private screen to a giant one revealed in the opposite end of the room as the wall rolled back in obedience to his electronic command.

"This is the Bahamas after this freak storm struck it," Waverly said, motioning toward the screen.

The two men saw what appeared to be view of an island from a low flying airplane. The island was a wreck. Docks were smashed. Boats were driven as much as a half mile inland. Palms were stripped and houses were smashed like kindling wood. As far as the eye could see there was death and destruction.

"We can expect a similar disaster along the entire Pacific and Atlantic coasts," Mr. Waverly said. "I have been discussing the possibilities with meteorologists. They tell me that if a series of storms as ferocious as this one struck at strategic points about the world, it would bring the entire earth's governments to a standstill."

"Do we have any indication of THRUSH's intentions, sir?" Solo asked as the screen went dark. He and Illya Kuryakin turned to face the grim faced man behind the communications console desk.

Waverly thoughtfully rubbed the bowl of an unlighted pipe against the sleeve of his tweed jacket.

"Yes," he said slowly. "Our sources within THRUSH informs us that the plan is to throw a chain of these monstrous disturbances at the United States, Europe, and Asia. England, France, the Netherlands, the Mediterranean countries, India and Japan are expected to take the worst of the strike. All the storms will hit simultaneously."

Solo said, his face mirroring the horror he felt, "We can expect two billion people to die. That is more than have died in all the wars ever fought since the beginning of history!"

Waverly got up suddenly and strode to the large window. He stood for a long moment staring out over the lights of Manhattan. He whirled to face his two agents.

"Gentlemen, I am not sure you realize fully what this can mean. You feel that these steel and concrete monsters our architects have raised can withstand the fury of any storm.

"You are right. They can. But if twenty storms the strength of this latest one were to strike twenty separate spots about the globe at the same time, it would lash the seven seas into such a fury that tidal waves would be monstrous.

"Typhoons and hurricanes are ocean storms. That many simultaneous cyclones would pile up tidal waves so high water would pour through these man-made canyons to a height of twenty feet at least!"

"Don't we have any leads?" Illya asked, the edge in his voice mirroring his growing desperation. "What do our—sources in THRUSH tell us."

"Only that the cyclonic weapons is being handled by a special cell. Nobody can tell us where or how it operates," Waverly said in a resigned voice. "This girl, Lupe de Rosa, is our only solid lead. And it is possible we may have another very slender one in—the Waterloo."

"What is the Waterloo?" Napoleon asked.

"It is a ship—a private sea-going yacht," the U.N.C.L.E. chief said. "We do not know for sure that it is connected with these storms, but it was observed on the fringes of two which sprung up unexpectedly in the Pacific. It is possible that this ship was directing the storm's movement. We are not sure, however."

"Could we ask the Coast Guard to stop and inspect it?"

"It is not registered under the flag of any country with which we have official contact," Waverly said. "To board this ship without permission of the country involved is piracy under the laws of the high seas. You will recall that the American War of Eighteen Hundred and Twelve was fought over the principle of one country inspecting the ships of another."

"Have we contacted this country for permission?"

"Yes—and was refused."

"Is this the same country where THRUSH headquarters is located?"

"Yes!"

"Then that would indicated definite grounds for your suspicions," Solo said.

"It does. Therefore, Mr. Napoleon Solo, your next job is to find out what is happening on the Waterloo."

He turned to Illya. "Mr. Kuryakin, your job is to follow this girl who knows so much about storms. It is my supposition that she will eventually contact the Waterloo. At this point you will team with Mr. Solo to fight a new Battle of Waterloo. At that time we will have at your disposal the entire resources of U.N.C.L.E. This threat is that important."