The Man From Uncle 02 - The Doomsday Affair - Whittington Harry (читать книги онлайн без .txt) 📗

The congestion of parts wavered before his eyes. He yawned savagely. He got up and prowled the suite, returning to his chair. There was a tension and silence in this place now. He supposed it must be early in the morning—those black hours between midnight and false dawn. Hours when anyone in his right mind would be sleeping, he thought as he yawned again.

And why shouldn't he sleep?—this was a rest home, wasn't it?

No, not a rest home. That was just a circumlocution for insane asylum. He was in an insane asylum, so why should he assume he was in his right mind anyway?

Drowsy. He sat down in the chair and reached for a small metal spring, trying to bring his thoughts back to focus by concentrating on the parts before him. But the drowsiness continued. Broadmoor Rest, he thought. Where had he heard that name before? Something about U.N.C.L.E. briefings… he couldn't remember.

His head nodded, and he sank forward on the table. He was asleep before his cheek settled upon the wood.

IV

He awoke with a start.

There had been a noise behind him, and he jerked erect, turning. But it was only the waiter, bringing breakfast. He set the tray down on the table, his eyes flicking over Solo silently. Solo yawned loudly, and rubbed his eyes. The waiter started to leave, but Solo said, "Just a minute."

The man paused, eyeing Solo cautiously. Solo yawned again, exaggeratedly, like a man who had had far too little sleep and was having trouble waking. The waiter seemed to believe it; a faint smile touched the corners of his mouth.

"My friends," Solo said thickly. "They haven't eaten since God knows when. We ought to see if we can get them to swallow something. Will you give me some help feeding them?"

The man's eyes narrowed suspiciously, and Solo laughed, letting it trail off into another yawn. "The story of my life," he said. "I never can get a "waiter when I want one." He sat up, running his fingers through his hair. "Look, you've got a guard right outside the door. I'm not about to try anything funny. It's too early in the morning to get shot."

The waiter hesitated visibly, then stepped over to the bed and looked at Barbry and Illya. Barbry was still asleep, but Illya had awakened at the sound of Solo's voice and was trying to sit up. His limbs thrashed about weakly and he sank back down.

"Looks sinister, doesn't he?" Solo said. "Obviously dangerous."

The waiter flushed. "All right," he said. "Bring the tray. But any funny business and I'll yell my head off; remember that."

Solo picked up the tray from the table and took it over to the bed. The waiter nodded for him to sit down with it. "You feed him, while I hold him steady."

Solo nodded, and the waiter approached Illya cautiously. Illya watched him coming, his eyes flickering from the waiter to Solo. Solo smiled at him, and winked. The waiter sat down next to Illya, took him by the shoulders and lifted him to a sitting position. All the time he kept his attention riveted on Solo, alert for any quick moves.

But it was Illya who exploded into action.

With wild, deadly strength his arms flailed out, striking in all directions at once. He butted with his head, jabbed with elbows, struck with half-balled fists. He had no coordination, no timing; he didn't look like a trained U.N.C.L.E. agent in action. But he was effective enough—the waiter fell backward and slid off the bed, dazed and hurt by several of the wild blows.

Instantly, Solo was upon him. He karate-chopped him sharply in the neck, and the waiter slumped into a heap on the floor.

Solo stood up and smiled at Illya. "He didn't even get a chance to yell," Solo said. "Not that it matters—the room is soundproof, as our friend Su Yan so obligingly told us."

A sound like grotesque laughter came from Illya's throat as he settled back down on the bed and his twitching arms and legs relaxed. Solo's eyes narrowed for a moment. The sight of Illya in this state cut deeply into him. But he'd have to leave him here; there would be no chance of escape if he tried to take him along.

Quickly, Solo stripped the waiter and changed clothes with him. They were nearly of a size, fortunately, so the waiter's uniform fit Solo reasonably well. Stepping to the door, he knocked on it in the pattern he had noted the waiter use last time he had been there. After a moment there was a buzzing as the lock was electronically freed.

Solo stepped through, his head down as if in thought. The guard glanced at him, and then took another look. Solo could almost see the guard adding it up in his mind and getting the wrong answer every time. But the few seconds' delay caused by Solo's having the uniform on was enough. The guard lunged for the warning button, but Solo struck him at the nape of the neck, caught him, heeled him around and shoved him through the door into his suite.

The door swung shut, and Solo looked around him. At this hour the subterranean corridor was silent and empty, deeply shadowed. At its end was a bank of elevators; Solo strode toward them. He stepped inside one that stood open with garbage cans lined outside it—apparently a maintenance elevator. They weren't likely to be watching this one as closely as the others. He pressed the. button marked "1".

When the elevator bumped to a stop and the doors opened at ground level Solo stepped out, walking purposefully. He turned left, because that was as good a way to turn as any, and a little way down the hall he saw a red lettered exit sign marked Maintenance.

He strode to it, then paused, looking for a handle or button to open it. There was none. He felt a twist of panic. If anyone should see him standing there searching the panels beside the door it would be obvious that he wasn't a waiter, despite his uniform.

He reached out and ran his fingers quickly along the door jamb, trying to control his mounting tension. His finger brushed an inset plastic bar. It gave slightly under his touch. Exhaling, he pressed it harder, hearing the door-lock buzz. He shoved the door, pushing it open, feeling the chill of early morning air sweep in across his face.

He stepped through the door, almost afraid to glance over his shoulder. Never look back. Keep your eye on the future.

The door sighed closed behind him, making a flat brick wall of the rear of the huge chalet. He found himself in a grease-tanned cement courtyard with dozens of metal refuse containers lined like soldiers at attention.

The morning was far from silent out here. There was a discordant symphony of sounds: the disturbed barking of police dogs beyond the fifteen-car stone garage, the pulsing of generators, the keening wind out of the high mountains rustling the eucalyptus trees.

He walked toward the front of the courtyard, off the cement and onto the firm, well-tended grounds surrounding Broadmoor Rest. There were guards stationed in strategic places all over the grounds; several of them glanced up as he stepped out into the open. But their glances bounced off his uniform and back to the silent boredom of their sentry duty.

The morning was still only dimly lit by the sun peeping over the mountains in the east. Wind flung the manes of the trees wildly. And the dogs kept barking. Did they always bark? Solo wondered as he kept going purposefully across the grounds, neither too fast nor too slow.

Suddenly the barking of the dogs became a roaring cacophony.

As if that were an electronic impulse setting them off, white lights abruptly hissed on all over the grounds, turning the lawn into a brilliantly illumined cage set down in the dark morning. A rifle fired, the bullet hurn-ming only feet above Solo. The barking dogs raced from the kennels. Men came running from all directions.