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

"We will contact him immediately," Solo said.

"Good!" Waverly said, "And Mr. Solo—"

"Yes, sir?"

"I know the producer of Miss Lula LaAmour's films. I will arrange with him to get you an autographed picture of the lady. A sort of consolation prize, shall we say!"

Solo broke off the connection ruefully. Although there was a certain amount of chagrin at losing his date with the lovely movie star, years of working with the great crime-fighting organization known as U.N.C.L.E., had made Napoleon something of a philosopher.

TWO

With Waverly the job came first, last and always. The dedicated man in the driver's seat in New York made that plain to all of them. They also knew that he demanded the same devotion to duty of himself that he asked of them.

Solo slipped into his coat and walked across the hall to Illya Kuryakin's room. He found his partner just putting on his coat. Illya was a slightly smaller man than Solo and his blond hair contrasted with Solo's dark head. The blond hair had a perpetual unruliness about it that somehow matched the look in Illya Kuryakin's eyes. His pale blue eyes stared out of his Slavic face with a hint of sadness when he caught the expression on Napoleon Solo's face.

Don't tell me," he said plaintively. "Mr. Waverly called. Mr. Waverly said in effect that vacations are for bums. And he said—"

"A man's life is in extreme danger," Napoleon broke in. Waverly said there wasn't a second to lose."

"Have you arranged for wheels or is it within walking distance?" Illya said crisply, his manner changing to grim efficiency.

"A cab will be in front of the hotel in three minutes."

"I can make it to the lobby in two minutes flat," Illya said. "That leaves me one minute to take care of an essential matter."

He picked up the room phone and dialed room service.

"I want a hot dog," he said. "That's right. Put one on a silver platter. Deliver it to room three hundred four, occupied by a Miss April Dancer. Tell her that the 'dinner'—provided through the courtesy of Mr. Alexander Waverly—is a substitute for the pheasant under glass with caviar and champagne promised her by one Illya Kuryakin."

He grinned at Solo as he jammed down the phone. "Come on, Napoleon," he said. "Adventure calls again!"

"It's okay for you to take this lightly," Solo said with a grimace. "A date with a girl married to her job like April could not possibly be more than just a friendly evening. But Lula and I might have made some beautiful music together."

"Sure!" Illya retorted. "She would have sung you right into the movies yourself. You could dodge ersatz bullets instead of real ones."

"I don't know but what I wouldn't like that to this," Napoleon said gloomily. "There was a tone in Waverly's voice that indicated this was going to be one tough case."

"What is it?" Kuryakin asked as they hurried down the hall to the elevator.

"He hinted that THRUSH was on the track of a method to control storms. Can you imagine the havoc they could raise if they could hit us with a hurricane or typhoon at will?"

Illya Kuryakin whistled softly. He face grew more grave.

"A hurricane can do more damage to a town than a bombing," he said slowly.

"Mr. Waverly said the average typhoon packs the explosive force of a thousand atom bombs," Napoleon Solo said.

"And worse," Illya added, "the storm travels over a wide track. A directed hurricane could strike Miami in Florida and devastate the entire Atlantic coast all the way to Canada!"

"Not only the coast but inland for a hundred miles," Napoleon said hurriedly. "Imagine not one storm, but a series hitting the East Coast, the West Coast and the Gulf States simultaneously! Millions would die. The country would be paralyzed. The effect would be greater than any possible nuclear bombing by intercontinental ballistic missiles."

"It this thing is true—and Waverly should know—then THRUSH has come up with the most devastatingly terrible weapon the world has ever known."

"It looks like that is what we're faced with."

"What's our lead, if any?" Illya asked.

"A world famed meteorologist named Campos-Lopez seems to be the key to this thing. THRUSH is after him. He is staying her in Rio incognito. We are going to see him now."

At the meteorologist's hotel, a frigidly polite desk clerk informed them that the hotel never gave any information about its guests. Napoleon Solo flashed his U.N.C.L.E. identification card and the clerk's manner changed abruptly.

"I am sorry, sir," he said. "The gentleman you inquire about is registered here as Senor Diego de Vega of Argentina. He left early this morning and has not returned. I have no idea where he went."

"I see," Solo said. "It is very important that we contact him as soon as possible. If he—"

"But wait, sir! Yes, it is he! Senor de Vega is just getting out of the cab outside."

"Yes, I see him." Illya Kuryakin said. "The gray-haired man paying the cabbie."

"Come on," Napoleon said, striding rapidly across the lobby.

Illya Kuryakin frowned slightly as if hit by an uneasy hunch. His hand reached up and touched the small automatic in the shoulder holster under his coat. He missed the super U.N.C.L.E. gun, but it was much too large to carry under the coat.

Solo went out the revolving doors just ahead of his companion.

"Dr. Campos-Lopez?" he said, extending his hand to the stooped gray-haired man who was just turning away from the cab driver.

The meteorologist jumped back against the cab. His hand jerked down to his coat pocket. Napoleon stopped short as he faced the ugly muzzle of a small gun in the hands of the frightened man.

"Don't come near me!" Dr. Campos-Lopez cried.

"Doctor! We are your friends," Napoleon said soothingly. "We are from U.N.C.L.E."

"I have no friends!" the man cried in a choked voice. "Keep away from me. Take your hands away from your pocket! Don't try to pull a gun on me. I'll kill you if you make a false move!"

"Please, doctor—" Napoleon began.

"Don't move! I'll shoot!" the frightened man warned.

The meteorologist had not seen Illya. Kuryakin moved to the side. He looked around and caught Solo's eye. Napoleon gave a short negative shake of his head. His orders from Waverly was to protect Campos-Lopez, but not to force himself upon the scientist.

The frightened man reached back and pulled open the cab door.

"Take me to the airport!" he said hurriedly. "I'll not wait for the baggage."

He slammed the door, still holding the gun on Napoleon Solo. The uneasy cab driver jerked the car, clashing the gears as he went off.

"Shall I follow him?" Illya asked.

"Yes!" Napoleon said. "Do the best you can, but don't force yourself on him. I'll contact the South American bureau of U.N.C.L.E. and get a Spanish-speaking agent to pick him up at the airport. He—"

"Napoleon!" Illya's sharp cry cut in on Solo's words.

The man from U.N.C.L.E. whirled to see a car dart from a side street just as the fleeing cab turned the first corner away from the hotel.

There was a sudden blaze of gunfire straight into the cab. The horrified men saw the cab careen wildly and plunge into a thick hedge. They started to run toward the wreck. The killers' car spun around in the road. Its headlights flashed full on the two men from U.N.C.L.E.