[Magazine 1966-­04] - The Unspeakable Affair - Davis Robert Hart (читать книги онлайн бесплатно без сокращение бесплатно txt) 📗

Even as he smiled, his office door opened and a powerful, swarthy man entered. This newcomer wore the uniform of a full general of the Venezuelan army. The gaunt man turned smartly from the window and bowed deferentially to the general.

"You have news, General Hoyos?" the gaunt man asked.

"I do. They are on their way, two of them. They assure me that no one else knows about our problem," General Hoyos said. The defense minister showed more worry on his face than his voice would have indicated.

"I wonder if we are being wise," General Hoyos went on. "To keep it so secret. This U.N.C.L.E. organization, can they handle it all alone?"

"With our help, sir, they can." The tall man smiled. "After all, Rudolfo, they will not be alone. I will personally lead the Sixteenth Regiment to help them."

"A good regiment, the Sixteenth," the defense minister agreed.

"You trained them yourself, Rudolfo," the gaunt man said.

"With your aid, Miguel," General Hoyos said.

"We make a good team, General," the gaunt man said.

Hoyos looked at him shrewdly. "I wonder why you have been content to remain behind me all these years, Miguel?"

"Because I am a soldier to serve," the gaunt man said with a smile.

General Hoyos nodded. Then he turned and strode to the first telephone. He barked an order. "Colonel Montoya? This is General Hoyos, yes. You will prepare the Sixteenth Regiment for immediate duty, yes. Immediate. You will report at once to General Valera in his office."

The defense minister hung up. "The rest is up to you, Miguel. I know you will not fail."

And the defense minister was gone. The tall man walked slowly out into the full light. He wore the uniform of a major general. He smiled his thin smile.

"Yes, the rest is up to me, Rudolfo Hoyos," he said in a soft voice. "And the time has come. I will not be behind you much longer, dear Rudolfo. I will certainly not fail."

And Major General Miguel Valera began to laugh a soundless laugh as he turned and walked into a private office. He locked the door behind him and picked up a telephone.

"Bring Dr. Guerre to the telephone," he barked.

FOUR

THE RAVEN-HAIRED young girl looked up from her desk at the Defense Ministry. She saw a small, slender, blond young man smiling down at her. She touched her hand to her black hair, and her full red lips were moist. She wondered if this young man was married. His clothes looked American—a fine suit and white shirt, and the thick horn-rimmed glasses suited his lean face.

"Yes, Senor?" she said.

His clothes were indeed American, and the girl liked Americans. They were rich and very important, at least under the present regime. She believed in the present regime, whatever regime it happened to be at any moment.

"Max Derwent to see General Valera," the young man said in perfect Spanish.

The young girl frowned for an instant. Then she brightened again. He spoke fine Spanish, true, but there was an accent. He was not of her country, and that pleased her. She had plans to see the world, become rich. Yet she was puzzled. The young man wore American clothes, was clearly of the North with his fine blond hair, and yet his accent in his perfect Spanish was not quite American. Perhaps an Englishman? That was not so good, but not too bad.

"Of course, Senor Derwent," she said. "And your business?"

"Uniforms, I sell uniforms," the young man said.

The girl nodded, smiled, and moistened her lips again. Illya looked at her fine full lips, red and soft. He looked at her raven-dark hair, and at the figure. What he could see made him glad that Napoleon was not here. He did not have Napoleon's way with women. Still, after this was over, perhaps he could try with this girl.

"General Valera will see you," the girl said.

Illya frowned at himself. The mind on the job, that was his code. He had not left his own country, joined U.N.C.L.E., to meet pretty young girls. A man had his work, his studies, the millions of facts about his world he did not know

but wanted to know. Self-discipline and control, that was what Zen had taught him, and that was how he lived. Still, a pretty girl—

"Thank you," Illya said.

The supposed Max Derwent entered the office of Major General Miguel Valera, assistant to the defense minister. He carried his small suitcase that, supposedly, contained samples of military uniform cloth, and approached the smiling Valera. The general stood up to greet him. Illya saw a tall, gaunt man.

"Ah, Mr. Derwent," Valera said. "Or perhaps I should say Mr. Kuryakin."

"You can say that if the walls don't have ears," Illya said.

Valera laughed. "I assure you, Mr. Kuryakin, my office is not, how do you say, bugged. Not that such is not done here, but the penalty is rather severe, and, anyway, I check carefully each day."

"It must be a difficult way to live," Illya said dryly.

"Alas, ambition and the desire to serve have their penalties in my poor country," Valera said. "We do not have your, shall we say, orderly minds. But then, I forget you are a Russian. Still, the Russians, too, have orderly minds." Illya watched the gaunt general. Valera seemed to be talking a great deal, but that could be just the Latin temperament, as Valera was implying. Valera smiled and waved Illya to a seat.

"General Hoyos has, as you say, filled me in on all this. A terrible affair," Valera said. "I imagine you are anxious to start, as I am myself. We have the Sixteenth Regiment standing by in the area, but out of sight, eh? But first, please, your credentials."

Illya Kuryakin handed over his identification. His quizzical eyes were lowered beneath his brow. He watched Valera. The general read the credentials. Illya smiled.

"You're too modest," Illya said innocently. "I understand this was entirely your idea, not General Hoyos's."

"We work as a team," Valera said crisply. He handed back the credentials. "Now, I am ready if you are. Mr. Solo is waiting, I hope; we have little time to lose."

"Not with those nuclear planes running loose, I agree. You have accounted for all of them?" Illya said quickly.

Valera nodded. "Yes, all six. They were seen to land."

"Excellent," Illya said. "It is important that we get them all."

He talked to cover the slip. But inside he was alert. It was always the same thing that tripped up a liar—too much knowledge. Valera had slipped—not because he knew too little, but because he knew too much. All six, the general had said, but there had been only one in the picture, and Hoyos had not mentioned six to Waverly.

Illya smiled, but his eyes darted around, alert. He was sure that if six had been seen, Hoyos would have mentioned that important fact. No, Valera had said six planes because Valera knew there were six. Only two groups of people knew that there had been six nuclear planes in New Mexico—U.N.C.L.E. and Thrush!!

Valera smiled. "We really better have Mr. Solo join us now, don't you think?"

"Of course," Illya said. "I'll call the hotel. He'll be ready by now, I'm sure."

"Time is of the essence, Mr. Kuryakin," Valera said.

"Of course," Illya said. He picked up the telephone on Valera's desk.

"Hotel Splendide? Mr. Solo, please. Room four-sixteen."

Illya waited, smiling at Valera. The general smiled back, and then busied himself over papers on his desk.