The Dagger Affair - McDaniel David (читать хорошую книгу полностью .TXT) 📗

Illya stepped into the breach. "Robin, this is Napoleon Solo. Despite everything you may have heard, he's really quite decent. Napoleon, Robin has been sent, appropriately enough, as a welcoming committee from Thrush."

She said, "Welcome to San Francisco, Mr. Solo," in such a way that Napoleon found himself wanting to go out and come in a few more times — and then to stay for several months. "Our car is just outside," she added, turning to Illya, "and your luggage is already loaded."

Napoleon looked around and saw that all the bags had somehow disappeared while he was being welcomed. He nodded. "Smoothly done, Robin. I'm well on my way to becoming a full-time birdwatcher."

She laughed like a wind-chime in a light breeze, and started toward the door with Waverly, beckoning Illya and Napoleon with her eyes.

Outside the door stood a big, beautiful, brilliantly polished and quietly aristocratic Rolls-Royce, vintage about 1928. It was black with unostentatious gold trim, and a chauffeur in a gray uniform sat at attention behind the wheel. Large and clear on the doors, in place of a crest, was the black-and-white insignia of a thrush — the badge of the owners.

The footman appeared and opened the door for them. All four entered the back seat area, and the footman resumed his place beside the driver. The coach seemed to be the size of a small sitting room, with a horsehair sofa along one wall, and a plush-cushioned chair against the other. Robin sat in the middle of the sofa, and Illya took the folding jump-seat. It was difficult to tell when the car started, but soon it was out of the airport and on the freeway going north toward the city.

Robin was every bit the charming hostess, even offering drinks around from a built-in cocktail cabinet. Illya watched her intently, and only occasionally did his attention wander around the car. After a time he broke the silence. "This car — is it standard Thrush equipment?"

Robin's laugh tinkled briefly. "Oh, not at all! But we find it so much more in keeping with the tradition of our city that we take extra trouble and expense for it. Actually, we seldom use it except for formal occasions — such as meeting Very Important People at the airport. The head of the San Francisco branch thinks our public image is very important."

"Public image," said Waverly, in a bemused tone. "Somehow I have never given thought to Thrush having a public image."

"But it does," said Robin definitely. "And we try to keep it a good one. At least in this Satrap. After all, what is autonomy good for if you don't do something autonomous once in a while?"

"Reasonable," said Napoleon. "But before we get into a political discussion, could you tell us where we're going at seventy miles an hour in perfect silence?"

"Oh, you're going to meet the head of San Francisco operations — the leader of this Satrap. Of course he can't meet you at headquarters — we have to keep a few secrets, you know — but you will be guests in his home, practically in the heart of the city."

Illya nodded. "Hospitable, concerned with tradition — a veritable hotbed of the old-fashioned virtues."

"Oh, he is," said Robin. "He really is."

* * *

The house before which the Rolls stopped looked like it had been built out of the old-fashioned virtues solidified under pressure into bricks. It stood tall and respectable on a corner at the top of a hill overlooking the center of the city, and facing a small green-velvet park with little gnarled trees and shaded walks. The sunset glowed to their left as they faced the house, which rose three stories from the main floor some eight feet above street level, and descended one to a windowed ground floor. Rising above the roof, and the building next door, was a square tower set back half the length of the house. With its high-peaked roof, the tower added another floor and a half to the building's height. A perfect spot, Napoleon's practiced eye recognized, for long-range antennas to be concealed.

The ground floor could connect to any number of tunnels to anywhere — the small windows under the eaves on the third-floor could conceal machine guns...He shook himself and collected his thoughts. After all, he said to himself, we are among friends. We are among friends. Really. All right, he finally agreed, but just the same...

He looked over his shoulder, and imagined the green surface of Alamo Square peeled away, revealing a warren of Thrush operations under the hill. But that really was unlikely. And anyway, they were being invited inside.

He followed Waverly up the flight of stone steps to the front porch, and Robin rang. A moment later a buzzer sounded, and the door opened.

They were ushered into a cozy Victorian sitting room, gas-lit, lined with overstuffed and leather furniture, rubbed oak tables, and high, crowded bookshelves. A bay window at the far end looked out on the square.

A large, elderly Siamese cat wandered out to investigate them, and passed them reluctantly. As they entered, a man was doing something at a bookcase. He turned to greet them.

"At the risk of repeating something you have heard before, allow me to welcome you to San Francisco." He was tall and spare, and the gas-light from the lamp on the table left the top of his balding head in shadow and cast strange highlights on his beard. The flames seemed to glimmer in his eyes as he extended a hand to each of them in turn. "Mr. Waverly — Mr. Solo — Mr. Kuryakin. Truly pleased to meet you."

There was a soft rustle of skirts at the door, and he said, "Gentlemen, my wife. Irene, you should know our guests." He gave her name the British pronunciation, with both e's long.

"Of course I recognize them, but I could hardly claim to know them, under the circumstances." She shook hands all around, and said, "Can I get you anything to drink? Did you have dinner on the plane?"

Napoleon was reluctant to accept drinks from strangers — especially here. But Waverly, without hesitation, said, "Thank you. I'm afraid we didn't. I would like a scotch and soda." Napoleon fought his instinctive caution, and took the same. Illya requested a light liqueur, and they took seats.

"Mr. Alexander Waverly," their host began formally, with a note of almost sinister satisfaction in his voice. "I have been looking forward to meeting you for longer than you could imagine. Mr. Alexander Waverly...." He smiled, and Napoleon's eyes began to scan the paneling of the walls, certain now that they had been led into a trap.

"I know practically everything about you," their host continued, his voice low. "Parents, background, education..." The Siamese crouched by the chair a moment, and leaped into his lap. His hand moved over and began scratching the furry head.

"You were a clerk in Whitehall in 1914, and when the Great War broke out you enlisted in a regiment called the Artists' Rifles. You saw action near Brest for a while, and then in 1915 you went to serve under that imbicile Sarrail at the Macedonian Front. The next year your regiment was again transferred, this time to Allenby's command in Palestine. I don't need to remind you of this — I see you remember. You were wounded severely there the day before All Hallow's Eve, in 1916, and shipped home. By the time you recovered your health, the war was over, and you returned to Civil Service. You rose through the ranks of British Intelligence during the second act of the same Great War, and when the United Network Command was formed in 1946, you were the logical choice to head the American operation.