The Dagger Affair - McDaniel David (читать хорошую книгу полностью .TXT) 📗
The motor was gasping, and seemed to be missing on all cylinders. Napoleon guided his limping steed into an emergency off-ramp rather than risk permanent damage to the engine. He pulled up, set the hand brake, and watched the distant red star of a tail-light vanish around a far curve. He knew he would meet the driver of that Jaguar again — and there would be a re-match worth waiting for. He unfastened his seat belt, climbed stiffly out of the car, and raised the hood.
Section I: "Is This a DAGGER That I See Before Me?"
Chapter 1: "Let's Call It A Little Vacation."
Chapter 2: "What Do You Know About DAGGER?"
Chapter 3: "Today Just Isn't Our Day."
Chapter 4: "He Really Could Destroy The World!" Section II: "Give Me The DAGGER!"
Chapter 5: "The Most Fun By A Damsite."
Chapter 6: "But He Left His Glass Slipper."
Chapter 7: "Call It Egotism, But I Think We're Worth More Alive."
Chapter 8: "Looks As If They've Got It Working." Section III: "Though It Rain DAGGERs With Their Points Downward."
Chapter 9: "Take Us To Your Leader."
Chapter 10: "The Technological Hierarchy For What?"
Chapter 11: "We May All Be Outnumbered!"
Chapter 12: "Let's Take Him Sightseeing." Section IV: "The Hand That Held The DAGGER."
Chapter 13: "I Have A Special Tour In Mind."
Chapter 14: "Such A Sloppy-Looking Thing To End The World With."
Chapter 15: "Mr. Solo, We Are DAGGER!"
Chapter 16: "'The Object of Power is Power!'"
Section I: "Is This A DAGGER That I See Before Me?"
Chapter 1: "Let's Call It A Little Vacation."
The Intelligence Section of U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters in New York City maintains complete files of all information that could conceivably be of use in any investigation. And since Napoleon Solo was involved in an investigation, he carried a small scrap of paper with a license number into the automobile registry file room. His investigation was not connected with an assignment, but this was his secret. The license was that of a certain well-driven Jaguar he had encountered in the small hours of that morning.
With an especially serious set to his face, he stalked past the secretary at the desk, returning her greeting crisply, and drew out the proper file drawer. Leafing through the cards, he felt a twinge of guilt about his presence there — Alexander Waverly, his superior, had objected more than once to Solo's occasional use of U.N.C.L.E. facilities or records for his personal projects, which Waverly referred to as "peccadillos." Actually, Napoleon had seldom done more than make an outside telephone call or two. He'd checked out a company car a few times, and once a helicopter, and sometimes he would use U.N.C.L.E. files to find a telephone number or address, but that was all.
Even so, Waverly reacted as though he spent half his salaried time working for U.N.C.L.E. and the other half working on his own. Which was hardly the case — a man could not have achieved the rank of Chief Enforcement Agent at the age of 33 without devoting vast amounts of time, talent and concentration to his real job. What few people besides Waverly realized was that Napoleon Solo worked as hard at relaxation as he did at his job.
So it was that he was spending part of his lunch hour in automobile registry, in the hope of finding the girl he had raced the Long Island Expressway with the night before.
"2Q-727...729...730!" Address of registry: Washington Car Rentals, at Kennedy International Airport! His eyes recorded the legend just as the loudspeaker in the wall requested, "Napoleon Solo — Napoleon Solo. Please report to Mr. Waverly's office at once!"
Napoleon's hand froze on the card. He was discovered. The secretary had reported him to Mr. Waverly. She was jealous because he hadn't asked her for a date in almost a month. He glanced sideways, thoughtfully — she was looking at him. Oh, of course — the page for him. He pushed the card neatly back in place and headed for the door. He paused there, and said, "Miss Brown...I wonder..."
"I'm sorry, Napoleon," she said, "but I've got a date for this weekend."
"I was about to say, I wonder if you could call the commissary and have them send a roast beef sandwich and coffee up to Mr. Waverly's office for me."
She looked down quickly to hide her blush, and said, "Certainly, Mister Solo," as the door closed behind him.
* * *
Mr. Waverly's secretary nodded recognition as Napoleon sauntered past the desk to the sliding steel door which sensed his presence and opened automatically as he approached. On the way up from Section Four, he had decided to face his reprimand bravely, and follow up the registration on the car tomorrow. So as he stepped into the nerve center of U.N.C.L.E.'s Western Hemisphere Operations, he attempted a serious and efficient appearance. But neither of the occupants of the room noticed.
Illya Kuryakin, his deceptively innocent face intent and worried, was talking quietly to Waverly across a large round table which dominated the room. As Solo entered, he was saying, "...burst on the floor. Ten seconds later I was unconscious. I woke up about six-thirty, checked over the desk and the rest of the room. As far as I could tell, nothing was missing."
Waverly glanced up, saw Napoleon, and waved him to a seat at the table. Illya continued. "The helmet looked like a slightly modified version of the Thrush dark-vision set — an Infrared flood on the forehead and two screens over the eyes. With a backup man outside the window for support. I'd like to know how he got around the alarms on the window, though. Good morning, Napoleon. Did you have a visitor last night?"
"Ah, no — not that I know of. But I didn't get in until about four. I had some engine trouble coming home. What time was your little party?"
"Just after three. They could have hit your apartment before, or even after, they hit mine."
"And by your description of their efficiency, I wouldn't be able to tell they'd been there. Well, they certainly could have been — that's exactly the way it looked when I came in."
Waverly cleared his throat. "There appears to be no reason to believe this was more than a routine surveillance by Thrush. But it is annoying to think they have ways of circumventing our best alarms. I'll post a guard on your apartment, Mr. Kuryakin, and put some technicians to work checking all the alarm systems. It could be inconvenient if our best agents were murdered in their beds some night." He fumbled a pipe out of his pocket and reached for a humidor. "What happened to your car last night, Mr. Solo? You mentioned engine trouble."
"Well, nothing, really. I was driving west on the Long Island Expressway..."
"Over the speed limit, I presume," said Waverly, tamping his pipe.
"Ah...yes...a little.... And for no particular reason that I could figure out, the motor kicked off."
"Just stopped?"
"Just stopped. I pulled over — in the area of the Clearview Expressway — and looked it over. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with the motor, so I tightened a few wires and tried to start it again. It caught right away, and gave me no more trouble all the way home."
