The Finger in the Sky Affair - Leslie Peter (читать хорошую книгу полностью .TXT) 📗

The big woman in the orange terrycloth beach robe replaced the receiver momentarily and then lifted it again. As soon as the high-pitched calling tone sounded, she dropped two 20-centime pieces into the coin box and dialed a number. The tone changed to a continuous burble, there was a click, and then the melodious single note repeated which indicated that the number was ringing.

Outside the beach cafe, a wind whipped foam from the tops of the waves. A few bathers were daring the backwash, but most of the vacationers sat or lay on striped mattresses on the shingle. Waiters in aprons and Tee-shirts bustled up to the bar with orders for drinks. It was hot and close in the small wooden building.

The woman in the beach robe pushed a strand of wet hair from her eyes. The ringing tone had stopped, the receiver at the other end had been lifted.

"Hello?" she said. "Madame? Celeste here. Larsen has just telephoned an urgent report. Solo and the Russian are going to try again. They are flying to Orly this afternoon to catch the T.C.A. Trident coming in to Nice tonight. I am to emphasize that they'll be on the later flight: the one that lands at ten thirty-five."

She paused and listened for a moment.

"No, Madame. Larsen managed to tape a conference in the director's office, but apparently nothing was mentioned about the methods they were using...No, they said nothing about last night's flight...No. Nothing about that either. He didn't know if they knew an attempt had been made or not...Yes, ten thirty-five...Very good, Madame."

She replaced the receiver, pushed through the hanging bead curtain and walked back, under a rattan awning that was flapping in the wind, to the crowded beach.

* * *

Solo and Illya, however, did not in fact fly to Orly airport.

Under an aching blue sky scoured clean of clouds by the mistral, the twin-engined Cessna was crossing the gaunt limestone peaks between Brian?on and Gap when Solo leaned forward and tapped the pilot on the shoulder. "We've changed our plans," he said. "Will you please radio Grenoble and ask permission to land there?"

The pilot looked over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised in astonishment.

"Yes, I know it's not in accordance with the flight plan we filed," Solo said. "But I think you'll find it's okay. Just tell them to check back with Nice if there's any difficulty..." He sank back into his seat and grinned at Illya.

"Do you think Mr. Waverly will have been able to arrange the helicopter in time, Napoleon?" Kuryakin asked.

"I guess so. I had the cipher radioed to him at ten o'clock this morning. He'll be hopping mad at having to organize things in the middle of the night—God knows what time it was in New York then!—but the 'copter will be there all right."

"Do you think THRUSH will have swallowed the bait?"

"Let's hope so. I don't see why not. Our security was watertight on the details of last night's flight. Only a hand-picked team of Matheson's best men knew we had taken a duplicate Murchison-Spears box aboard. And the comparison tests were carried out in complete secrecy. I'm pretty sure our birdlike friends have no idea of the line we're following."

"So they'll have no idea we were in the tail of the aircraft—or why their device failed to make it crash as usual?"

"I guess not. I hope not. That's why I was so careful to have nothing mentioned about it at the conference this morning."

"And why you kept broadcasting the fact that we were having a conference?"

"Sure. I figured they were bound to have the room bugged when they knew it was on. And once they learn we're going to have another go, they're certain to make another attempt to bring the plane down. After all, so far as they know, we just sit in the cockpit holding a watching brief—and there's no reason why their device should fail a second time. Only this time we won't be on the plane at all: we'll try to steal up behind them and catch them in the act as the Trident comes in."

"There's no chance they'll find out we haven't gone all the way through to Orly—and call the attempt off?"

"No. Not a soul at Nice knew we intended to land at Grenoble. I asked Waverly to delay sending instructions about the altered flight plan until after we'd taken off. And once they'd seen us leave, THRUSH's agents would stop covering the airport—so even if there was a leak when Waverly came through, there'd be nobody around to hear and report it."

"I see. That's why you insisted that the arrangements for the helicopter were made through New York instead of through Station M?"

"Yeah, that's it."

"Well," Illya said, leaning his forehead against the cabin window and squinting down at the jagged serrations of the mountains five thousand feet below them, "it only takes six hours to get to Grenoble from Nice by car. If they send us one of the new Sikorskys, we should be able to make St. Paul an hour and a half before the Trident's due and still have time for a leisurely dinner at the Relais des Alpes before we take off..."

The pilot, who had for some time been talking into the radio microphone, replaced it on its hook under the instrument panel and half turned towards them with one arm extended in the thumbs-up signal.

Banking steeply, the Cessna dropped six hundred feet in an air pocket over the summit of La Meije and then flattened out for the long glide down the valley of the Drac to Grenoble.

Chapter 13 — Outdoor fireworks

St. Paul-de-Vence is one of the most typical of the medieval 'perching' villages which stud the hilltops just inland from the Cote d'Azur. It is also one of the most expensive: the slopes of the tree-clad collines surrounding it are terraced with high-income villas and building land brings from $45 to $300 a square yard. The village itself is built on a spur and lies entirely within ramparts rising steeply from the valleys on either side. There is only one entrance, through an ancient arch in the wall. Inside the cobbled streets separating concentric rings of old houses are too narrow for cars, and those rising to the two tiny squares in the center are stepped every few yards.

Napoleon Solo peered down through the perspex blister of the Sikorsky as they flew across from the north. There was something wrong with the village—something unexpected which he could not quite place. Beyond, a distant chain of bright lights marked the motor road which ran beside the shore. But here...

"It's a funny thing," he began, turning to Illya Kuryakin.

"I know," the Russian cut in, looking over Solo's shoulder. "The place is in darkness. There's not a light in the whole village. Even the street lamps seem to be out."

From below, a vivid red streak arrowed through the air towards them, accelerating fiercely as it approached. There was a bright flash a hundred feet beneath the helicopter, then a shower of stars subsided gently earthwards.

The pilot from the Deuxi?me Bureau turned his head and laughed. "St. Paul is en f?te tonight, messieurs," he said.

"Fireworks!" Solo exclaimed in relief. "For a moment you had me worried there: I thought THRUSH had dreamed up an anti-aircraft battery!"

Three two-stage rockets fizzed upwards to their left, bursting into golden streamers which exploded again to release red, blue and green stars.

"Every August the municipality puts on this giant display," the pilot said. "Some years it last an hour and a half, two hours. It is the most lavish spectacle in Europe. Truly it is fantastic!"

"What is it for?" Illya asked.