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

At an intersection Solo found a rickshaw and hopped in. "Hotel Hong Kong International, chop-chop."

The rickshaw driver set off down the cobbled way at a brisk run. He shrieked and cursed at pedestrians and small European cars which got in his way.

Solo knew he had major trouble on his hands the moment the rickshaw driver pulled into the wide, sweeping semicircular drive of the Hotel Hong Kong International.

The wind had a banshee sound. The sky was virtually black. Electric lights had come on in buildings along the streets. Further down from the hotel, a power line had fallen. A frightened man, hurrying for shelter, ran into it and died in a waterfall of bluish sparks.

Solo ran up to the knot of Crown Colony police at the hotel entrance. He looked like a ghost, but they looked little better.

"- unnatural, that's what it is," one policeman was saying, staring at the sky.

"I have to get in the hotel," Solo said, starting past them.

A revolver was thrust hard into his midsection. The policeman with the bushy red mustache blocked his way.

"No you don't, sir. We have our orders. No persons can be admitted to the International without the proper identity card from the management."

"I lost my identity card!" Solo had to shout to make himself heard above the gale. "My name is Napoleon Solo. I'm an agent of the U.N.C.L.E."

"Be that as it may, no identity card, no admittance. If anyone tries to break into this hotel without identification, we're authorized to shoot. Now sling your hook before we all get killed in this bloody storm."

Solo grabbed the man's sleeve. "You don't understand! The International is going to be destroyed. You have to get the delegates out of there -"

"What delegates?" the policeman bawled.

"The delegates to the Seminar on Asian Cultural Resources."

The policeman's shout was emphatic: "Never heard of it. Now I warn you, move along -"

"But this storm is being manufactured!" Solo yelled over the din of rain and wind.

"Balmy!" the officer exclaimed. "I knew it the minute I spied you mixing it up with Charlie Luke. This bloke's a drunk or a hophead or worse, lads. Let's give him the

heave-ho!"

"Wait, wait, dammit, you don't understand! My name is Napoleon -"

With a thud Solo landed on the cobbles at the foot of the drive.

He came up like an angry animal, his temper raw because the fools wouldn't pay attention. He took an impulsive step toward the half dozen policemen who had assisted in his departure. All at once the strain showed on their faces. They drew guns.

The ring of police pistols hemmed Solo in. A hissing lightning bolt sent weird blue fires dancing in reflection along the gun muzzles.

The mustached officer said, "Be of, now, or we'll shoot you where you stand."

For one crazy moment, Solo wanted to wade in. Then reason checked him. He whirled and raced across the street.

A few stragglers fled past him. Portions of a roof went sailing over his head. On the fifth floor of the International several windows blew out with great explosions of glass.

The very street under his feet seemed to rock as the force of the storm increased.

Soaked and shivering, Solo darted into the comparative cover of the devastated fried eel restaurant. He pulled out the pocket communicator and pressed the concealed spring stud which opened the secret control panel. With the communicator close to his face, Solo said:

"Open Channel D."

It was the last resort. In a moment, a clear, controlled voice from the box said, "This is Alexander Waverly speaking."

"Solo, sir. I'm in Hong Kong, and -"

"Solo! Great heavens, man! I thought you had been killed."

"No sir. It's Illya. He was captured while I escaped from Tibet. THRUSH has probably put him to death by now, along with our contacts there who -"

"Mr. Solo," Waverly interrupted, "what is that dreadful racket? I can barely hear you."

"Just a bit of rain we're having," Solo's face was harsh. The street ran with rivers of rainwater now, rainwater which carried debris and now and then a pitiful human

corpse.

Solo explained what had happened. He concluded, "The THRUSH storm generator is working perfectly. But I don't know where Weng has set it up. I can't get past the police to warn the delegates at the conference. Is there an U.N.C.L.E. man inside the International? I could call him with the communicator if I knew the frequency -"

Solo's last hope faded as Mr. Waverly said, "We have no agents inside the hotel. We were relying upon you and Mr. Kuryakin. Forget the hotel, Mr. Solo. The repercussions of this can be far greater than simply the destruction of the conference. You must find the storm generator and smash it."

"But it could be anywhere in Hong Kong. It could take hours. By then -"

"Find the generator, Mr. Solo!"

Rain lashed from the inky sky and dribbled down Napoleon Solo's face. He stared a moment at the small box cupped in his hand. Mr. Waverly was asking the impossible. Unfortunately only the impossible could save Hong Kong from annihilation.

More windows burst. On a high balcony a frantic guest slipped on a terrace, hit the railing, spilled over and fell, howling. Down the street the entire wall of a brick warehouse caved in under the wind's pounding.

The crackle of Mr. Waverly's voice pulled him to his senses:

"Mr. Solo? Do you hear me? Find the generator."

"Acknowledge," Solo said. He pressed the button which silenced the communicator.

He leaped forward as he heard a grinding sound overhead. He landed face first in the torrent of water filling the street. A few feet behind him the facade of the building had given way, and dumped several tons of wood and masonry onto the spot where he had been standing.

He'd acknowledged Mr. Waverly's command. But where in the maelstrom did he start'? He staggered up and said under his breath, "The incredible we do in five minutes. The impossible takes a little longer."

Slipping, stumbling, Solo began to run back in the general direction of the hotel where he had left Miss Fong unconscious. Weng had told him that she did not know the transmitter's location. Had he lied? Solo doubted it. THRUSH discipline regarding secrets was both inflexible and uniform. Lower echelons were kept in the dark.

Still, Miss Fong was his only hope.

All around him buildings collapsed, fallen power lines hissed, people shrieked in fear. And despite the rain, fires were breaking out. Solo ran until his lungs ached.

He had gone only a few blocks when his pocket communicator began to beep frantically.

Act IV: "It Never Rains But It Pours…"

So far Dr. Dargon had been unusually cooperative. This indicated to Illya that the scientist intended to betray them at the first opportunity.

Illya was tense. The slightest odd sound or innocent-appearing shadow brought cold sweat to his forehead.

Dr. Dargon had led them through a series of maze-like passages. They had climbed three stairways and ridden two elevators. In between sucks at his tooth, Dargon kept assuring Illya that he was showing them the only safe escape route. Consequently, the further they went without detection, the more Illya became convinced that Dargon was attempting to lull him into false security.

It had taken them nearly half an hour to wind their way upward to this brilliantly lit corridor with gray cinder block walls.

"Only a short distance more," D argon whispered.

"And then we fall through a trap door into a pit of ravenous bears?" Illya asked.