The Assassination Affair - Holly J Hunter (читать полностью бесплатно хорошие книги .TXT) 📗

A quick scan of the barn revealed no stacks of any thing to be shipped out. If they were making a shipment, then it must be already packed in the trailers.

Barber came to him and bound his wrists with rope, leaving his hands in front of him and his feet free as an act of disdain.

Look down your nose all you like, Solo thought and leaned his back against another bale. He was tired and the hay, though old, smelled incredibly good.

A half hour passed and word came that Dundee was outside. Mr. Saturn began buzzing about like a long-legged insect, setting up a folding chair and card-table, pouring out cold drinks, opening sacks of sandwiches, all for Dundee. They acted as though the man's entrance would require a call of trumpets.

Dundee stamped across the stage boards and stood hands on hips, surveying the barn. Solo recalled him clearly from the picture he had carried about New York. He was a short man, bulky and given to flabby muscles. He had red hair, blue eyes, and thousands of freckles. Only the eyes were a relief, because when they encountered Solo they glinted with intelligence. At last a Thrush who wasn't a lackey, who wasn't tottering on the edge of insanity. Solo watched him intently.

"Ah, Mr. Solo." Dundee paced over. "They told me you were here and I could hardly believe our good fortune. Especially with this group of operatives."

"They do leave a lot to be desired," Solo answered.

"From your experience you know they aren't representative of Thrush."

"Oh, really?" Solo opened his eyes in mock surprise. "I was convinced you had sunk to this level since you let them be in charge of Operation Breadbasket."

"In charge?" Dundee laughed. "You know better. These men actually offend me."

"You all offend me."

Dundee stiffened, then relaxed himself. But he couldn't hide the redness that swelled over his face. "I learned long ago not to let a prisoner raise my temper. After all, a prisoner has no dignity. He isn't worthy of contempt."

Solo didn't speak. He simply leaned back, settling himself more comfortably on the hay.

Dundee eyed him up and down. "I hear you even stooped to personally dispense with Abel Adams. A harmless little idiot like that - wasn't it a waste of your time?"

"It was time badly spent, anyway," Solo said with a shiver.

"Saturn!" Dundee shouted suddenly, and the thin man came buzzing up. "You let Solo sit here with this much freedom? You'll lose him."

"Not at all. Mr. Solo isn't going anywhere in the face of our guards. I had grand things planned for him but you destroyed all of that. You and Central."

Dundee scoffed. "You couldn't have any business with Solo. You probably don't even realize what he is or why we want him."

Dundee's habit of ridiculing his underlings had set Adams off, and Solo now hoped it didn't trigger a like effect in Saturn.

"I caught him," Saturn protested.

"And you'll be rewarded. But he is for Thrush Central. They've been waiting for him with itching palms for years."

Solo sighed to himself, relieved. The interrogation would come much later, then, and at the hands of professionals. Probably unpleasant to the ultimate degree, but still in the future.

"What do you think of Operation Breadbasket, Solo?" Dundee asked him.

"It's completely vicious and thoroughly Thrush. Hit the world where it hurts the most."

"Yes. The corn, the wheat, rice - every grain crop, every vegetable crop, and thus every bit of livestock because they can't live without the grasses. Ingenious!" Dundee showed him the grin Solo had seen so often on Thrush faces. "Too bad you're out of it and won't be around to see it reach its climax."

"Too bad, is right," Solo countered. "I've always enjoyed watching starving children clutch their bellies."

"The bleeding hearts of U.N.C.L.E.," Dundee snorted. "You people can never see the glory of the result, only the tiny bad points of the process."

"You take the low road and I'll take the high," Solo said. "What I'd like to know is why you were so open with this project. No isolated lab, no mountain hide-out. How did you think you could get away with destroying farmland in Michigan?"

"Boldness, Mr. Solo! Thrush has taken on a new boldness. And it has worked. Besides which, time is short. We had no time to set up an artificial farm. Now is the time to strike! Right in the middle of the growing season."

"Is this all your brainchild, Dundee?"

"No - I wish I could claim it. Unfortunately, the man who conceived it is dead. Central has taken it over completely."

Saturn was still hovering, eager to collect his share of the glory. "When you radio Thrush Central, Dundee, I demand to be at your side. You must give me credit for a change. I arranged for Solo's capture, and for the other one."

Dundee spun right around to face Saturn. "What other one?"

"The little blond one."

"And where is he?"

"Well - he escaped. Solo did it. I had him properly finished, but Solo let him loose."

Dundee was red-faced and fuming. He reached into his pocket and produced two photographs, holding up the second for Saturn to view. "Blond? Small? Is this the man?"

Saturn looked and nodded.

"You blasted idiot! That is Illya Kuryakin! As much use to us as Solo, himself. You let him go?"

"I was only told to watch for Solo," Saturn explained. "I was only shown Solo's picture and told to watch for him. I presumed I was supposed to kill him."

"Then you should have done a little more inquiring." Dundee sighed. "Very well. It's done. But put two more guards on Solo because with Kuryakin at large we can't be sure we're out of danger."

The two extra guards moved in immediately. Dundee shook his head in exasperation, picked up a cold drink, gulped it down, and slammed the glass on the table. "I'm going to radio Central right now," he said. "Come along, Saturn. You can explain to them how you let Kuryakin slip through your fingers."

Saturn trailed Dundee, his bouncing walk subdued to a reluctant shuffle. Solo smiled. Illya was outside free somewhere, and for himself, he was happy with the thought.

The two men went out of the barn and the place became quiet. Solo's personal guards were alert but the rest of the men lounged about drinking pop and saying little. Word came that the fire in the field had been put out and things were quiet again.

A sudden disturbance ruptured the deceptive peace. Voices shouted, a girl screamed back, and two men entered the barn dragging Gloryanna, clad in her red slacks, between them. She fought every step of the way, making them half carry her along, twisting her arm brutally. When she neared the place where the mimeograph machine stood she jerked free and ran two steps. The biggest man shoved her down and as she fell she slammed into the ink bottles, tumbling them about the floor. One labeled RED crashed and broke, splashing a yellow liquid over her left forearm.

Solo sat up. Yellow liquid. The label had said Red Ink. The men grabbed her immediately and dragged her to Solo, kicking and shouting half-formed curses. Solo intervened before she forced them to injure her. "Take it easy, Gloryanna. Walk, and it won't be so hard on you."

She looked up sharply at his voice and rushed for him, pulling the men with her. She stood in front of him, saw the ropes on his wrists, and her eyes watered up, her mouth twisting.