[The Girl From UNCLE 03] - The Golden Boats of Taradata Affair - Latter Simon (читать бесплатно полные книги .TXT) 📗

April said: "I'll say he will! He's laughing like a liberated general."

"Listen, Chief Kuala — listen. Tell your men to stand well back from the door. We're going to use explosive. You understand? Boom-boom!"

"My dear chap," said Chief Kuala, "have you no modern explosives? A couple of boom-booms will bring all the guards on you."

April giggled joyously. "Not to worry, Chiefie Boy. We have all mod-cons." She showed Mark the door area cut below an inspection flap. They worked swiftly to pack the quite simple lock with explosive. In two minutes the charge was ready. They packed sand around it, ripped the self-ignitor and stood well back. The lock blew with a flat-sounding "splat". The sand absorbed the vapour. Chief Kuala pushed open the door. Light flared out.

"Wow! Switch off the light — if you can!" April warned.

They shook hands as if just greeting him off a plane. It was all rather unreal, so calmly did Chief Kuala accept their presence. Mark whispered to April: "This makes it easier than we expected. Will you get all the info we need while I go reccy the other hut and link up with Kazan?"

She nodded. "I'll meet you over by the backdrop — that group of palms."

Mark soon found the same type of inspection flap and lock in the new hut. But this one's occupants were all women, one older than the others, but even she was glowingly handsome. The rest were young and more lovely than the alleged pearl-diving girls had been. All wore native dress, as if they were part of a Bali-Bali film. Mark quickly made contact, his appearance causing considerable surprise and excitement.

The older woman said: "I am Bayee, the wife of Kuala. How is it you come here?"

Mark explained quickly, then told them how he would blow the lock, how they should turn out the light, and at once run to the deep shadow by the palm trees. All went as he intended. Except the exodus.

Lars Carlson and Count Kazan were coming along the beach from their landing point, wearing only swimming trunks and carrying clothes and assault gear in waterproof packs. The girls took them for guards, or at least as belonging to their enemy factions.

Although a ladies' man, not even Kazan could cope with this rush of them. Lars didn't like to use his strength against women, so they toppled him too. Mark leapt to help them. He daren't yell loudly, and warned Bayee not to do so. He could only struggle through the press of lovely, writhing bodies, whispering fiercely: "We're friends, friends! Get back, get back to the trees!"

Mark had an armful of young girl, his face in the tummy of another, when April's cold voice said: "Of all the sex crazy louts! Get up, you over-sexed slob! We've work to do! Hear me, Mark?"

The arrival of Chief Kuala and commands from Bayee soon calmed the girls. They all moved to the shadow of trees.

"They have suffered much at the hands of Mareet's men," said Kuala. "You must forgive them."

"A pleasure," said Lars, grinning hugely. "A lovely welcome — ya?"

April groaned. "I give up! Do I have men or boys with me on this operation? Get yourselves dressed and your gear ready. We're going in behind this tropical facade and, with the chiefs help, we're going to isolate and destroy all the THRUSH cell on the island."

The check contact came when Sama Paru and Randy Kovac were on a ledge midway between sea and cave. Sama listened carefully, then spoke very softly and briefly to give their position and estimated time it might take for them to reach the valley. He relayed the information into Randy Kovac's ear.

"April and the other three have made contact with the real chief. He and his wife are going with our agents because once the islanders see that Kuala is alive, they will flock to him. That is — all those islanders who have been forced to work for Mareet and, through him, for THRUSH. So every islander left is an enrolled THRUSH member, and we attack accordingly."

"How do we know?" said Randy.

"We say, Y-Shan-U. If they answer, Y-Shan-U, they are Kuala's people. The others just won't answer. They dare not use the words because their own spirits will strike them dumb."

"Lot of mumbo-jumbo." said Randy.

Sama said sharply: "No more than some of our Western mumbo-jumbo. Who are we to judge? Anyway, that's the drill. April, Mark, Kazan and Lars are now behind the false shore-line. April says to thank you for some inspired desk work."

Randy beamed. "What is there?"

"A production-line, no less! A whole row of what look like native long houses but is really a factory. Boat-making one end — then tara processing plant, then laboratory and offices, then an entrance into the headland." Sama pointed upward. "The chief says it is hollowed out into passages and caves. Natives who caused trouble were forced to work up here, stripping bark and digging out the dust."

"What dust?"

"I don't think the chief knows for sure, but the THRUSH scientists use it in their process of curing the tara plant. Our job is to destroy the whole package. No ifs or huts. Got it?"

Randy nodded. "Will I have to kill?"

Sama stared at him. Starlight made Randy's face white. Or was it starlight?

"You will know," he said. "Every agent has to learn it. We're in a war — an undeclared war. We're in the selective-kill business — not the overkill. So you will know whether it's him or you. But if you don't — it will be you who dies. It's quite simple really. Let's go!"

Easy to reach now. A large cave, smooth floor. A telescopic gantry, motor-driven pulleys attached, could extend way out over the rock-face to lower a load on to the water. Plenty of bars embedded in rock for hand-holds. A loading platform next to an endless-belt loader. Two coracles still on the lifting claws.

The cave narrowed to a long, low room. Store racks one side filled with two-inch-wide lathes of bark, each piece smoothed, polished. Little flat-car, trollies the length of the bark sat on wooden rails, shiny with use. A winching machine to pull the trollies up. A braking shoe to hold them steady on the down trip. Tub-shaped trollies interspersed in the line. From a passage to the right, a sound of thudding, not rhythmic, uneven, almost laborious. Occasionally a clink of metal against metal.

Sama Paru made signs. They wrecked the winching machine with two well-placed near-silent explosive packs, then jammed the trollies before severing the cables in many places. Sama moved, beckoning, treading as if on eggshells into the passage. At a bend, he halted, hand raised warningly. They peered around.

A cavern of orange light and flickering shadows — yellowish dust wreathing. A tangy, soda-like smell, not unpleasant. But all else was.

Three guards, one with a gun, two with whips. White men — big, craggy-rough. And about a score of islanders — digging, digging, digging. As one slowed, so the whip lashed down.

Sama Paru's eyes glittered. Randy Kovac's belly froze, but he nodded in understanding.

Sama stood at the entrance.

"Y-Shan-U!" he cried.

The guard with the gun whirled, barrel levelling. Sama shot him between the eyes.

The thudding ceased, shovels clattered down. A score of sobbing voices chanted: "Y-Shan-U! Y-Shan-U!"

"Drop the whips," Sama called.

One man was slow. "Who the hell are you? You'll die for this!"

Sama's attention was on this man. Randy saw the other guard's gun sliding up from its holster. The barrel was clear when Randy fired. The man was flung back, staggered, fell. Two islanders grabbed shovels and hammered his head in fury.