[The Girl From UNCLE 01] - The Birds of a Feather Affair - Avallone Michael (книга жизни TXT) 📗

He decided that when Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin came back from Rangoon he would set them on the trail of Dr. Egret.

Experimentally, he toyed with the buzzers on his panel board and was pleased when the televised screens lit up as always. The systems had been restored to their normal function. whatever James Wilder had done to them. Good. The technicians and experts were on the job, as usual. He quailed at the prospect of running this vast complex without his highly trained men.

The radio transmitter on his desk beeped.

Waverly spoke into the mike setup.

"Yes?"

"All clear, Mr. Waverly. If there is a bomb in Headquarters, it's invisible. The Engineers say No Bomb."

"Splendid. Anything else?"

"The corpse in the street was James Wilder. Positive identification. Mole on knee, dental report and fingerprints. He's in the Morgue Room. Harbor Patrol reports complete destruction of the plane."

"He'll keep, thank you. Good work."

"Yes, sir."

Waverly relaxed and sank back into his chair. He closed his eyes. For him, there was no home but U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters. It was the only place in the world where he felt comfortable and happy.

Still, one amazing thought kept recurring to him.

How different all things would be right now if Mark Slate was not phenomenal with weapons or if Miss Dancer hadn't been so fortuitous with the machine gun.

Somehow, he decided, in April Dancer's case, luck had nothing to do with it.

The greatest comfort of all was that both of them were agents for U.N.C.L.E.

"You room with me, tonight at any rate. Okay, Joanna?"

"That would be fine with me. Doesn't Mr. Slate live in this building?"

"No," April said evenly as Mark Slate waved good-bye, wheeling the sedan down the block, turning the corner and zooming out of sight with a roar. A deep, pitch-black night hung over the city, the solitary corner street light shining with the radiance of a full moon. April sighed and took Joanna Paula Jones' arm. "Come on. It's only one flight up. Not a bad duplex. You'll see."

When she had first come to town to take up her duties fulltime as an U.N.C.L.E. agent, April had decided that a woman of her age and appearance and dress, would seem less conspicuous living in the environs of a neighborhood such as the fashionable East Thirties. Also, it placed her at a convenient distance from Headquarters. If any inquiries had been made or her postal matters checked, it would have been seen that on the first or second of every month she received a substantial check from Augusta, Maine. From her parents, of course. Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Dancer. The Dancers were rather well-fixed and did a lot of traveling around the world, so why shouldn't they provide for their beautiful young offspring in the wilds of New York?

April had actually been born in the little town of Old Orchard on the coast of Maine. Her father had been a dedicated Army man, having attained the rank of full colonel before being killed by a sniper's bullet in the early days of the Vietnamese conflict. April had been a service brat all her formative years, living on one military base after the other. From Hawaii to England to California. Until she had had to come home to finish her education at Radcliffe. Her mother had died only two months after her father's death. So, in truth, she was an orphan. But the world didn't know that. U.N.C.L.E. had seen to that. If anyone investigated, there was still a Colonel and Mrs. Dancer, alive and kicking, traveling about the globe on special military duties.

"This is keen," Joanna Paula Jones marveled. "It's really super."

It was.

The apartment was a notable combination of the modern and old in furnishings and decor. No frills, however. There was a round inlaid coffee table set before a superb brick fireplace. The hearth was lined with fanciful pewter mugs and metal tankards; on the mantle was an impressive bust of Beethoven. April had always liked his fighter's scowl, likening it to the bulldog features of Winston Churchill, whom she also admired.

The chairs, lounge and Danish modern furniture had been selected and arranged with taste. A wide picture window was concealed behind high deep red drapes that operated by drawstring.

A low staircase spiraled to the upper level, where the bedrooms were. The carpeting on the steps matched the wall-to-wall crimson of the carpet on the floor below.

A quiet collection of oil paintings adorned the beige-colored walls. None of them were identifiable. One was a seascape, another a landscape and still another, a beautifully impressionistic version of the Manhattan skyline. Joanna, after April had taken her coat and put it in a hall closet, ran around the room, admiring one thing and cooing over another. April laughed. It was like having a kid sister home for a holiday from school, spending the weekend. The glass-doored bookcase against the wall, beside the drapes, was choked with thick, big books, of every size and description. And language.

"This is all so exquisite, April. Are you rich?"

"Just practical. You can pick up a lot of bargains in New York if you know where to look. See those paintings? Got them for a song downtown from a junk dealer who had no eye for art. Good, aren't they? As for old Beethoven, he's a gift from Mark Slate, who believe it or not, plays the guitar and likes rock 'n' roll."

"But those books—Chinese, Russian, French, Italian—"

"Oh, I read them. I traveled a lot as a kid. Guess I can handle about twelve languages. Es verdad, senorita."

Joanna Paula Jones blinked. "Are you fooling me?"

April laughed. "I just said in Spanish that it was true what I said about knowing languages. Want some coffee? Tea? A drink?"

"I could go some coffee, thanks. I'm pooped."

"Ditto." April started for the kitchen, turning on wall switches. Joanna Paula Jones followed her, exactly like the kid sister, anxious to tell all. April was humming. It had been a long, merry chase, over hill and dale, finding Mark Slate and fitting all the pieces together for old, dear U.N.C.L.E. And now it had come to the right end. The proper end. The books were closed on Mr. Zorki. Too bad they had lost Mr. Riddle and that Egret or whoever the heck she was. She turned on one jet and rummaged for some cups and saucers in the cupboard.

"How are the neighbors?" Joanna Paula Jones laughed.

"Never see them. You seldom do in places like this. People have all kinds of jobs, all hours."

"Any interesting men?"

"Just pushers and whiners and hand-trouble types. That's about all. Why? Are you shopping?"

"Mark Slate doesn't look pushy or whiny and if he had hand trouble, I don't see how that could be so awful."

April turned to look at her, wagging a spoon.

"You stay away from that poor man's Rex Harrison. I told you. He likes rock 'n' roll, guitars, fast cars and faster women. He's a swinger. Forget him unless you just like laughs."

Joanna chuckled slyly.

"Ho, ho, ho. You do like him, don't you?"

"Of course, I do. He's like a brother to me, no joke. We just never got around to thinking about birds and bees. I told you, he's a very popular fellow with the ladies. He's not hungry."

"Well, I am. Nothing interesting ever happens to me. Except for yesterday and today, I could write my biography on a post card. Oh, April, you think I could transfer from Naval Intelligence to U.N.C.L.E.?"

"Don't spell it out. It won't bite you. What would your father say? Come on, bring the cups in for me and I'll carry the pot."