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

"Is someone using you for a dummy?" Solo said. "I heard General Weng."

The general's polished head poked around the edge of the open doorway where the girl with the slanted eyes had taken up her stance. "My little charade," Weng said in his asthmatic wheeze. "I am here, in the flesh, so to speak." He appeared, hands pressed to paunch and a jaunty white woven tropical hat freshly jammed onto his skull. "Are you surprised to find yourself alive in my suite in Hong Kong?"

"That's a considerable understatement." Solo had been outfitted in slacks, a fresh white shirt, shoes, socks and other linen, all of his size. In his shirt's breast pocket he felt an oblong thing, like an old friend. He reached up to pull it out.

"Do not raise your hand," said the girl with a charming smile, "or I will shoot you."

"You don't have to enjoy your work so much. I only wanted a cigarette."

"It will be permissible for him to smoke," Weng nodded. "Our agents searched him thoroughly when the plane landed. He has no weapons. A brilliant idea my pilot had, eh, Solo? Doping us both in order to capture you? And captured you are. May I present Miss Rachel Fong of our Hong Kong apparatus? Miss Fong is only twenty-two, but she has held the regional THRUSH medal for superior marksmanship for the past three years. I trust that will be sufficient warning."

The girl's ripe smile widened. At first, her pansy-colored eyes had seemed to hold a smoky, romantic warmth. Now Solo decided with a shiver that he had confused sensuality for good clean sadism.

Carefully he reached into his shirt pocket. He drew out the cigarette case and flicked the top open. After he had lit up, he replaced the case.

He did not yet know how he would capitalize on the error of the THRUSH searchers who had overlooked his pocket communicator. Probably there had been no time for an electronic scan of his person. The communicator did hold several cigarettes.

Unfortunately, the unwavering presence of Miss Rachel Fong's mammoth snout-nosed pistol gave him no immediate opportunity to use the communicator. So he left it in his shirt as his ace. He needed one if he was to play this game out, not only for Mr. Waverly, but for the sake of Illya, and Ah Lan and Mei. He wondered how they had died.

General Weng gestured to the open French doors. "Lovely morning, isn't it?"

"I suppose you'll do your best to change it," Solo said.

Weng's paunch heaved once or twice by way of appreciation. "You really are most entertaining, Mr. Solo. As a matter of fact I am on my way to do just that. The storm generating apparatus is stowed in my limousine." Weng examined his platinum watch. "The car is at the curb now, I believe. This hotel should be relatively safe. A pity we can't say the same for the Hong Kong International. Good day, Mr. Solo. Enjoy your balcony seat overlooking the display of Mother Nature at her most capricious. About an hour and we should be positioned for a bit of typhoon. Watch the sky."

General Weng waddled toward the door. Solo said, "Why can't you work from here?"

"We follow the recommendations of Dr. Dargon and our other scientists as to optimum location."

"Where is your optimum location, General?"

"Ah, Mr. Solo, even though I am positive that you can do THRUSH no harm while Miss

Fong attends you, it would be unwise, and a breach of policy, for me to reveal the information. Even Miss Fong does not know. As soon as my task is finished I shall return here and we shall fly back to Tibet together. There you will be most permanently decommissioned -"

Weng chuckled at his little euphemism "- as an agent of U.N.C.L.E. I have already decided to have motion pictures shot of the entire proceedings. They will be forwarded anonymously to your superiors, for whatever amusement they may provide."

With a jaunty wave General Weng marched out. Miss Fong latched the door behind him. Solo waited.

The Eurasian girl leaned against the gold-flecked panel and scraped her shoulder blades on the wood in a slow, feline way. Solo cocked a mental eyebrow. Maybe Miss Rachel Fong was not so loyal as General Weng imagined.

Solo unloosed his most potent smile. "Miss Fong, you're the sexiest THRUSH agent I've ever seen. And I've seen scads of them."

The smile on the lips of Miss Rachel Fong widened appreciably, as if in invitation.

With this encouragement Solo advanced a couple of steps. Miss Fong did not fire a bullet into his stomach. That was even more encouraging.

Solo was now barely; a step away from the girl's warm, moist mouth. Her pansy-colored eyes were lidded.

Miss Fong closed her eyes and pouted her lips. Solo murmured, "You are young. Miss Fong. And pretty. Indeed you are pretty pretty -" Solo timed his last word to come out just at the moment he was pressing his lips to Miss Fong's and preparing to rabbit punch her.

Miss Fong hit him in the stomach with her knee.

Two more karate chops and one judo toss later, Solo lay on his back. Miss Fong drew her leg back gracefully and kicked him in the side of the head.

"I didn't realize that in addition to being good with a gun you were the leading actress in the THRUSH theatre guild," Solo groaned.

"That was your error," Miss Fong replied with a smile that was no longer dewy, but venomously delighted. "You U.N.C.L.E. agents are such naive fools. You think a mere flex of a bicep will strip us of our dedication to the most glorious organization in the history of the world." As if to emphasize the incorrectness of Solo's reasoning, Miss Fong hauled off and let him have another kick in the temple.

This final act of defiance was her undoing. Solo grabbed her flying boot and gave it a terrific wrench.

With an enraged scream, Miss Fong spilled backwards. Solo jumped on top of her. He tried to wrestle the gun from her hand. Her long, unpainted nails tore bloody channels down his cheek.

The girl heaved from side to side to roll him off. She was incredibly strong. Solo clamped both hands on her gun wrist. Miss Fong twisted hard. The muzzle swung around, aimed at Solo's rib cage.

Instantly Solo released her and jerked himself away. The abrupt loss of tension threw Miss Fong off balance. Her gun cracked. Two panes of the folded back French doors shattered.

Solo doubled his list. "No lady kicks a gentleman where you kicked me, Miss Fong -" He connected.

Miss Fong's head snapped back and hit the rug. The pistol spurted one more time as her knuckles banged the carpet.

She lay still.

Solo staggered to his feet. It took him only two minutes to arrange the effect he wanted. In one of the bedroom closets he discovered a collection of feminine clothing. The property of one of General Weng's lady friends, perhaps?

Solo chose a black negligee. Then he dumped Miss Fong into the king-size bed, wrapped her in the negligee and drenched the room with a perfume atomizer from the dressing table.

The room reeked with Essence d'Amour. Solo glanced at the slumbering THRUSH valkyrie.

"I hope you can explain your loyal, efficient appearance to General Weng after the big blow, sweetie," he said. He kissed his fingertips at her and ran for the door.

Five

On the bustling Hong Kong street outside the plush hotel, Solo merged into the polyglot crowd. He walked briskly for five minutes, trying to organize his thoughts.

As he walked he kept glancing up past the bizarre shop signs with the Chinese characters and English legends side by side. A small cloud had rolled across the sun. Around him, clipped British accents mingled with singsong dialects in typical midday unconcern.