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

"My repeating your history may seem pointless to you, Mr. Waverly, but I am swiftly approaching my point. Do you remember an incident near Salonica, during the Macedonian campaign? A young lieutenant of another regiment was hit by an enemy shell which shattered his left leg. You came out of your trench under heavy fire, and dragged him to safety. Do you remember?"

Waverly looked strangely thoughtful, and spoke slowly. "Yes...yes, I do remember. The officer was taken back to a field hospital as soon as the barrage was raised. As I recall, we were hit with a surprise gas attack early the next day, and what with all the confusion we lost communication with the medical unit and I never did find out what happened to him — whether he lived, or if they saved his leg." He stopped, and thought. "The man's name was...Boston? Barton? I'm not even sure. Something like that."

Their host got up clumsily from his chair, and gripped a heavy cane. "The man's name was Baldwin. Ward Baldwin." He limped badly as he crossed to the horsehair sofa, and Waverly rose slowly to his feet. "And he has waited fifty years to thank you for saving his life."

He extended his hand to Waverly, who stood now, looking rather stunned. The two old warriors shook hands, and there was a long, long moment of silence.

Then Irene arrived with their drinks. "Supper will be a few more minutes," she announced. "Robin, can you give me a hand in the kitchen?"

The blonde nurse nodded and followed her out. Napoleon gave Baldwin a puzzled look. "Ah, excuse me. Mr. Baldwin, but...somehow this domesticity seems very much out of keeping for an important figure in Thrush."

Baldwin's eyes glittered under the yellow gaslight as he smiled with pleasure. "Why, Mr. Solo? Did you expect an underground fortress or some futuristic architectural monstrosity crouching on a hilltop? Such melodramatic locations, I am aware, are favored by some of our branches, but life underground makes my joints stiff, and a strange building on a hilltop is far too obvious a target for my peace of mind. Were you looking for some sign of criminal conspiracy in the household or in our behavior? Any physical evidence would not be noticeable to even the most acute observer, I assure you, and if our behavior were affected by conscience or fear we would long ago have left this organization. Were you to break faith with our agreement and attempt to arrest Robin, my wife or myself at this very moment, you would not be able to find a scrap of material evidence that would indicate we are anything except what we seem — an aging cripple, his wife, and his private nurse, living on assorted pensions and dividends from old investments."

His eyes held Napoleon's a fraction of a second longer, and then turned to Waverly as the latter asked, "I suppose that, like myself, you have been working in Thrush since its inception?"

"I am flattered, Mr. Waverly, but no. The Hierarchy has been around longer than either of us. I came into contact with it while recovering from the Great War...."

"The Hierarchy?" said Napoleon and Illya together, sharing the vague feeling they had been expected to give the straight line.

"Originally The Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity," said Baldwin. "Since reduced to its initials by a generation trained to speak and think in shorthand."

Napoleon's eyebrows went up in spite of himself. "The Technological Hierarchy for what?"

* * *

Baldwin patiently repeated the name, and then continued. "Shall I give you the basic orientation lecture, somewhat edited from the one-hour version? You seem to know little beyond the current state of the Hierarchy, for all your intelligence sources."

He looked them over like a schoolmaster who has found his pupils have not been following his lectures.

"In its present state the Hierarchy dates back to the year 1895, when the First Council met in London. The First Council was made up of the survivors of an unnamed organization which had been built entirely from nothing by one of the most brilliant men the world has ever known. The Professor was a genius in two slightly related fields — mathematics and crime. In 1879 he began to construct a web of power which covered all of Europe and was extending its tentacles into America by the time he was killed in 1891.

"He had made no provisions for his own sudden death. Under the constant harassment of the law and its representatives, and with its guiding mind and heart gone, his network fell apart.

"But in 1895, several men who had held high positions under the Professor met in council at the Northumberland Hotel. Out of that council was born the Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity.

"Their policy decisions then and later created something far beyond the ambitions of the Professor. His desire had been to build a purely criminal organization, to cut for himself a piece of every large illegal operation in Europe and America, and in return to improve the efficiency and scale of these operations. He was in effect a director of some and consultant for the rest of crime.

"The First Council were aware of a few things the Professor had not seen. Crime, per se, does not pay as well as it used to. And money is no longer as hard to get. The true wealth, they knew, lies in personal power. They set for themselves the goal of unification of the entire world under their control, and the rebuilding of the world into the image they foresaw, with all inefficient, non-productive or anti-productive members of society eliminated, and the efficient, productive members producing at their direction.

"Electric power was relatively new at the time, radio was barely experimental, and atomic power undreamed of. But they also foresaw that their key to power would lie in science. They became the first corporation to maintain a staff under contract for pure research, and as a result at this time we are still responsible for technical breakthroughs as much as two years or more ahead of other industries."

Baldwin stopped and looked out as his wife came to the door. She said, "When your voice gets tired, supper's on the table."

Baldwin braced his arms against the chair and levered himself into a standing position. "And thus the name. The Technological Hierarchy — for the Removal of Undesirables — and the Subjugation of Humanity."

He led the way down a picture-hung wall to a small informal dining room, where a table was laid and chairs waited. Conversation ceased then, except for such necessities as compliments to Irene and requests for salt, butter, and condiments. Napoleon began to feel more at ease with these people — until he suddenly realized it. Then he tensed up again. He shot a glance at Illya, who had ended up sitting next to Robin, and tried to read his friend's feelings. As usual, this was difficult, and Napoleon couldn't tell whether Illya was feeling uncomfortable or not.

Waverly gave the impression of complete relaxation. He and Baldwin were discussing tobacco blends and preferences in pipes, just like two old friends meeting weekly for a chess game. Solo began to feel foolish, and had to keep reminding himself that these people were all important members of Thrush — Thrush, whose workers had tried to kill him and Illya uncountable numbers of time. Thrush, whose admitted goal was the conquest of the entire world by any means that availed itself. But they seemed so nice....

Funny thing, he thought. You don't look like a Thrush.... He looked over at Robin, and she threw him a smile that could have set off the cartridges in his automatic. He smiled back. They want to kill me and my friends — they want to conquer the world — well, nobody's perfect.