The Assassination Affair - Holly J Hunter (читать полностью бесплатно хорошие книги .TXT) 📗
The bullets played at Illya's feet. "But, Napoleon -"
"Go on!" Solo shouted. "This guy's marksmanship isn't all that good. He'll hit you any minute."
Illya backed across the sidewalk and off the curb, every move reluctant. He finally surrendered and ran with a limping, offbalance run, favoring his bleeding arm. He turned the first corner, and Solo was alone in the street with the four men.
Adams was confident now that he had gotten his way. "Put Mr. Solo in the car," he ordered, "and we'll be on our way. Waverly may decide to honor us, and I'm not ready to see him. I have what I want." His eyes came up to meet Solo's and they were like marbles, hard and cold.
The contact was broken by a shove from Julius' big hand, and Solo was pushed into the Cadillac. There was nothing he could do about it so he let them have their triumph with their shoving and manhandling. He settled himself in the seat, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. He was suddenly exhausted. And surprised that he wasn't dead. If this old man's mission in life was to kill him, why hadn't he simply pointed a gun and had it done?
Chapter 6
"Most Accidents Occur at Home"
SOLO ESTIMATED the drive at an hour, going the speed limit. He had no watch to check, but he had his senses. They had left the city and gone into the dark country side, turning off the highway onto blacktopped roads. They finally stopped at a farm. It was abandoned, the lawn full of coarse, tall grass. A big farmhouse teetered on its foundation two hundred feet from the road, and they pulled in behind it. As Solo was dragged out of the car, he saw a blazing sky of stars. There was no moon.
The entire ride had been silent. Adams had sat on one side of him and Julius on the other, holding his arm tightly. They obviously thought he was still dangerous and the idea comforted him. He couldn't lose all of his dignity when the men who had him chained were wary of him.
They pulled him along to the rear of the house and pushed him up the rickety steps into a shed-like room that leaned precariously on the back of the kitchen. Mud-room, maybe, he thought. A place for dirty boots, chore clothes, mops and brooms.
Adams spoke. "Please watch this next operation care fully, Mr. Solo."
He was forced to stand watching as Julius leaned over and with a great plank levered the rickety steps out of place. Under the steps was a gaping hole.
"It goes down thirty feet," Adams told him. "Straight down. We dug it especially."
Solo refused to give the old man the satisfaction of asking why he had dug the hole. He was curious. But that answer would come later. If it was to be his grave, he would just as soon not know beforehand.
They brought him away from the pit and into the kitchen. The room was bare and austere from disuse. Large, as country kitchens once had been, it held a huge wooden table, six straight chairs, and a sideboard. The china cupboard showed glass that was too dirty to see through, and the windows were hung with grimy brown rags that had been white curtains once, but had been methodically devoured by the sunshine.
There was one overhead light and it cast harsh shadows upon them. Adams pulled out one of the straight chairs, placing it four feet from the table. He motioned that this was where he wanted Solo. As Solo was led to it, he took in the rest of the scene. Dirty sink, blackened old-fashioned stove, and pantry cupboards. The thing that interested him most - the door to the rest of the house - was closed.
Robard shoved him into the chair. Then Robard was leaning close, whispering into his ear, his breath reeking with onion. "You should have let Louie and me kill you the first time, buddy. I hate to see you in the Professor's hands. He's crazy, you know."
Solo smiled a sickly smile to cover the swallowing of the lump in his throat. He clasped his chained hands together in his lap and sat straight, easing his back.
Adams summoned Robard away. "Get busy, Robard. Put the finishing touches on it."
Robard, onion breath and all, trudged across the room obediently and picked up a wooden tool kit containing hammers of various sizes, nails, and screws. He continued in his steady pace to the closed door and opened it, passing through into the rest of the house too quickly for Solo to get a glimpse inside.
Solo brought his attention back to the kitchen. There was nothing for him to do but wait. He doubted if there was even any sense in hoping any more. Julius, more ugly than ever with the overhead light casting cliffs and chasms of shadow on his face, still had his gun in his hand. So did Louie.
Adams' step was lively and cocky. Behind his glasses, his eyes sparked. "And now for Waverly's little lamb."
"I've been called a lot of things, but never a lamb," Solo said, relieved to find his voice clear and steady.
"A pure misnomer." Adams was suddenly towering over him, face white and splotched with red. "You're no more pure than your Thrush counterparts! No better than they are!"
"I hope I am," Solo answered. "I think I've proved out so far - toe to toe."
"This is no game, Mr. Solo," Adams hissed at him. "This is the black edge of death you're facing."
To hide the fact that he couldn't quite manage another smile, Solo said, "You make it sound very dramatic, but I've been there before, too."
"Ahh." Adams was gleeful. "Bravado! You see, Louie? Just as I told you. Corner a killer and it shows its teeth. I would have been disappointed, Solo, if you hadn't given me this little interlude."
But Solo was disappointed that he'd been forced to give it. He was frightened. Every part of his body was tensed and ready to explode into fight, yet all he could do was sit here and pretend it didn't matter. He turned the talk. At least he could get some facts. "Just who and what are you?" he demanded.
"My name is Adams. Doctor Abel Adams."
The name registered with a sinking feeling in Solo's stomach. "Abel Adams! My Uncle Abel. The man with all the charms - coffins, dollar signs, and boat trip souvenirs." A spy in the organization, Mr. Waverly had said. But, Mada Adams? The girl afraid of her own job?
"Only the coffin is of interest to you, Mr. Solo."
"Doctor of what?" Solo asked.
"I've spent my life studying the flora of the world. Plants. Grain. Growing areas. Patterns of vegetation."
"A gentle vocation for such a violent man."
"I'm no ordinary man. I have a mission, Mr. Solo. And the man with a mission always wins. You can see how well I planned. Not all of U.N.C.L.E.'s resources could save you from me."
"You had the help of a viper," Solo spat.
"Inside your Headquarters. Of course! I couldn't have done it otherwise. The point is, I was intelligent enough to know it. Now ask me what my mission is. I'm a killer of killers. A highly honorable thing, don't you think?"
The sound of hammering from behind the closed door interrupted Adams' tirade. For a change, the old man didn't mind. He smiled.
"What's your man doing in there?" Solo asked. "Building a gallows?"
"Nothing so simple. You'll know soon enough. Don't wish your life away when you have so little left."
---
In the next room, Robard went about his work methodically, spending no time with qualms or conscience. The room was actually two, dining and living, joined together in a large el shape. He had only put two dim lights on because he didn't like to see the results of his hammering.
He'd been working on the setup, supervised by the Professor, for a full day. It was nearly ready. The two rooms were a shambles. All the furniture had been pulled away from the wall and placed in various spots on the floor. There they rested in weird positions. Ottomans tilted on their sides. Chairs were upside down. Extra furniture had been brought down from the upper floor - bedside tables, bookcases - and added to the congestion. It was a long obstacle course of furniture that spread out behind him in the dark light, making it impossible to walk a straight line from the kitchen to the front door. Even a carefully maneuvered zigzagging line was dangerous because all the scattered furniture gleamed with the shine of steel.
