The Power Cube Affair - Phillifent John T. (версия книг .txt) 📗

"Maybe, but not right away. He won't be expecting anything, not for some time. We can catch him bending."

"I think that's valid too. Good. You need Barnett. Get over to him as quick as you can. Whatever you want, just ask. He'll deliver, I'll see to that. Get her back, Solo. I don't give a damn how!"

"Well try!" Solo hung up and saw Kuryakin swipe a couple of apples from a bowl. "Grab a few for me and come on. Keep your fingers crossed, Curtis."

The little Mini got the chance to show its powers as they fled through Norwood and clown the steep slopes into Sydenham and Lewisham. Their map studying paid off in that they were able to strike the most direct route for their purpose.

"Peckham," Kuryakin said, "then Stockwell, Battersea Bridge, and we should have the traffic flow on our side. Do you think we'll get her, Napoleon?"

"No more than you do, Illya. Can you see Beeman honoring any kind of deal? But we have to try."

There had been a change in the internal decor of Admiralty House. Replacing the gorgeousness of Louise there was a leather faced sergeant of Marines who marched them in to Barnett without wasting words. Captain Barnett looked different too.

"Stirred something up this time," he greeted, rising from his desk. "What can I do for you?"

"First off," Solo declared, "we have to locate that yacht."

"Already done." Barnett caught up a signal form, took it across to a wall map, read from it and put out a finger. "Fifty-one-oh-eight north, one-eighteen west. Just below Folkestone, out of Dungeness. That's where she was at thirteen hundred hours. Making up the coast about nine knots."

"Nice work. Now"—he and Kuryakin had worked this out on the way—"what we need is something that can catch her, and something else. One to hold her up while the other sneaks around behind, so we can hop aboard and take a look.

"Hmm!" Barnett scratched his jaw dubiously. "There's a duty destroyer standing by at Harwich will do for the hold up. That's routine. We've had a bit of trouble with illegal entry lately, as you may have heard. But for the other—just a minute!" He strode back to his desk, rummaged among the paper and snatched at one form. "This might be it. Squadron of M.L.s—motor launches—out on exercise at the moment, due in at Parkestone Quay in about an hour and a half."

"Take your word for it. How long will it take us to get to Harwich, starting now?"

"Under four hours, sir," the Marine sergeant spoke up, "With a fast car and a good driver."

"We can lay that on, I think," Barnett offered. "See to it, Chitty."

"Sir!" The sergeant saluted and strode away.

"Four hours!" Kuryakin looked at his watch. "Say six- thirty. Where will Oberon be then?"

Back at the map Barnett made brief estimates. "Four hours at nine knots will put her about here, just north of Margate, in the estuary. If you leave Harwich about seven—nineteen hours—you'll have a couple of hours of daylight. But Oberon may run in somewhere for the night."

"Yes." Solo scraped his jaw. "This could be tricky. We need to get the drop on her just at dusk. How close can you follow her movements?"

"Put the finger on her any time. Coastguard Shackletons will do that for us."

"And can you radio that information to the destroyer?"

"Nothing to it."

As they went out they heard Barnett dictating, "Signal to Trojan, Harwich. Rendezvous at nineteen hours at Cork Buoy with M.L."

"That's more like the Royal Navy as I've heard of it," Solo murmured, as they went down in the elevator. "They can move when the heat's on."

Out in the forecourt, conspicuous among the other vehicles there, stood a large and sleek black Daimler, a pennant drooping from its right front fender and a tiny uniformed Wren sitting at the wheel. Solo stared, went across to it.

"I'm Napoleon Solo," he said. "Are you waiting for us?"

"Yes, sir."

"You know what's required?"

"You want to go to Harwich, sir, in a hurry."

"Fair enough. Come on, Illya. Miss—?"

"Wren Heston, sir."

"Ah. Yes, well, do you have maps I can look at?'

She reached into a door pocket and produced a flat bundle for him. The two men sat back as the car growled into life and wheeled out into the road. Solo unfolded the map thoughtfully.

"Let's not give Beeman credit for impossibilities. Say he could snatch Nan within half an hour of her leaving home. Eight A.M. He still has to get her to the yacht. Barnett said she had come out of Dungeness. Let's find that, first."

"South coast. Work back from Folkestone."

"Ah. Yes, there's an airfield. And there's one at Croydon. So If Uncle Henry has a private charter plane, he could make it with time to spare."

He folded the map again, struggling with it as the powerful car swooped to avoid a lesser road user, swung into a major road, and began to roar in earnest.

"Looks like we have a second Stirling Moss here," he murmured. "I think we're going to be on time, Illya."

They were. As they crested the hill just outside Dovercourt and flew down the far side into Parkestone Quay, with the river Stour stretching out beyond, it was fifteen minutes short of six-thirty. They bounced over the level crossings and sighed to a halt on the quayside.

"Much obliged." Solo stooped to grin at the driver. They moved away, striding along the planking, casting curious eyes over the tied up craft. "That looks like ours." Kuryakin pointed to where a low lying vessel hugged the woodwork. It was one of three. They approached the gangway and a seaman in jersey and sea boots came to intercept them.

"Looking for M.L. one-oh-four. We're expected. Solo and Kuryakin."

"That's her, the outboard one. Ask for Lieutenant Woods."

Woods proved to be a chunky youngster with a straggle of beard and a wry grin, with a uniform jacket over his sweater.

"No rest for the wicked," he said, offering his hand. "I gather you two have something special in mind?"

"You could say that. How quiet are your engines?"

"Motors!" Woods corrected patiently. "Depends what you call quiet. Hold on a bit." He moved away to the cabin superstructure, spoke into a voice pipe, and came back. "Is this something hush-hush, then?"

"In a way. About those—motors?"

"They're running now. Did you hear them start up?" Solo, who hadn't heard or felt a thing, nodded approvingly. "That's fine. You know about the rendezvous with Trojan?"

"Yes. Ready when you are."

"Let's go. You'll hear all about it when we talk to her skipper."

The commanding officer of Trojan was Lieutenant Commander Hope, a tall, lean man with a sad expression. The two agents gathered with him, his first, and Lieutenant Woods, in the destroyer's tiny wardroom, and Solo put the proposition to them.

"Oberon's a privately owned yacht. The man who owns it on paper is called Green. The real owner, his boss, will also be aboard. A very rich and powerful man, who can— and will, given half a chance—cause trouble. Also aboard is a young woman, very much against her will. Just to give you the right kind of picture, if this is fumbled and the big man gets even a hint that Mr. Kuryakin or myself are involved—too early—she is as good as dead. So what we would like is this. First to find Oberon. Ideally, just as it's getting dark. Then, this destroyer closes up on one side and makes a fuss. You know, lights and hailings and talk. While the launch, with us two aboard, sneaks around the other side in the gloom, and we get aboard and take a quick look, before anybody can get rid of the evidence."