[Magazine 1966-­08] - The Cat and Mouse Affair - Davis Robert Hart (версия книг .txt) 📗

FOUR

Illya Kuryakin hurtled through the air in the dark Zambala night. The bullets cut the air around him. Still in the air, the lithe agent doubled over and landed curled into a ball. He bounced twice and came to rest in the dark of the ditch.

Instantly he was on his knees, crouched and ready, his U.N.C.L.E. Special out. There was a sound to his left. He moved and circled toward the left; he had no time to wait for his assailant to come to him. He caught a glimpse of the black-masked man moving toward him. The man had removed his mask! A sharp, arrogant face.

Illya worked his way around in the night until, through the movements of both of them, he was to the left and behind the stalking man. Cautiously, Illya stalked him in turn in the night. But the man was no amateur. He heard Illya, guessed what was happening, and went to cover. With a sudden grin, the blond U.N.C.L.E. agent let go with a burst from his Special, set on automatic.

The man had vanished, pinned down. Illya Kuryakin was now between the man and the road. The black car was still moving away. Illya had no time to waste on the man who had spotted him. He fired another burst and broke for the road at full speed.

He did not even look at his motorcycle. He raced to the jeep and jumped in. As he had expected, the keys were still in the ignition. He started the jeep and roared away in the night, just as the masked man ran out onto the road. The last volley from the man's submachine gun whistled harmlessly above Illya's head.

With a wave, Illya pressed down on the gas and the jeep leaped ahead.

Soon he was in the city itself. There was more traffic now, and he saw the black car ahead. It was easy to spot, and his photographic memory had already memorized the license plate. He carefully brought the jeep closer and continued to follow the black car through the night streets of San Pablo.

The car moved at an easy pace through the capital city, with Illya following at a respectful distance. The chase seemed to wander erratically along the crowded main avenues and through dark side streets.

But as he drove the jeep, Illya became aware of the fact that no matter how much the black car turned and twisted, it always headed in the end closer to the harbor.

When the black car finally stopped, the dark water of the harbor stretched silent in the night to Illya's right. He parked the jeep some fifty yards away from the black car at the edge of the water. He watched as three men got out of the black car and walked into a small waterfront tavern set out over the harbor on wooden pilings.

The beggar was not one of them. All three men who got out of the black car were dressed in business suits. They entered the tavern like any other patrons out for a night of pleasure. Illya waited until the door of the tavern had closed behind them. Then he moved swiftly past the black car.

The car had a man still in the front seat.

In the dark night his eyes looked from under his lowered brows at the tavern. A sign above the door read simply: Harbor Inn. Illya returned his attention to the black car. There was nothing inside the car to give him any clue as to the fate of the old beggar. Only the driver slumped down, eyes closed.

Illya crouched down in the night beside the black car and took out his pencil-radio. He pressed the send button.

"Code ten. Kuryakin to O'Hara. Relay to Waverly, New York."

The pencil whispered in the night. "O'Hara here. Waverly standing by on relay."

Illya crisply reported what had happened to the masked man in black, and to the beggar. "It appears that the beggar either left the car during the time I was evading the masked man, or else his outfit was a disguise."

Waverly sucked on his pipe and arched a bushy eyebrow in the direction of Napoleon Solo as they listened to the direct relay from Illya Kuryakin in far-off San Pablo.

"It is somewhat important whether the beggar eluded you or is one of the men in that tavern, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said drily into his transmitter in the small office. "I suggest you get on to it. What is your estimate of the masked man? Was he trying to stop you on his own, or was he covering for the beggar?"

"I don't know that yet," Illya's voice said from beside the black car in San Pablo.

"I expect you will," Waverly said. "Report to me when you do know."

"Yes sir," Illya said, and clicked off.

Waverly replaced his microphone on the edge of the large communications console and turned to Solo. The bushy eyebrows of the chief were knotted in concentration. He sucked on his pipe, began his perennial search for matches in his pockets.

"One of those men was certainly a Stengali. The question is—which one, and who is the other man? Unless, of course, they are both Stengali covering each other."

"It doesn't sound like it from their actions," Solo said.

Waverly found his matches. "No, it doesn't, does it? Well, I expect Mr. Kuryakin will report on that soon enough. Meanwhile, we have Mr. O'Hara to keep close touch with the affairs of the Stengali."

"Could Zamyatta have joined forces with the Stengali?" Solo said.

"That is a distinct possibility, and not a pleasant one. Zambala is a key link in the entire Western Hemisphere defense."

"Just what is the Stengali?" Solo asked.

Waverly managed to light his pipe again. "If you would spend more time in our library, Mr. Solo, and less time with the young lady librarian, you would know. However, I will not press the matter. Miss Heatherly, if you please."

Another picture flashed onto the wall screen in the small office of the U.N.C.L.E. Chief. It was a picture of a small, wiry man about forty years old. His beard was thin, little more than a wisp on his chin, and his eyes were large and deep—the powerful eyes of a fanatic, yet not at all insane. The clear power of a dedicated man was in those eyes.

"Max Steng," Waverly said. "Little is known of his early history, except that he is not a native Zambalan. There are those who think he was born in New York, but his birthplace is usually given as London. He was another of the leaders against the British. But unlike either M.M. Roy or Zamyatta, he always refused to deal in any way. From the start he led an armed band. He has said that he will settle for nothing but complete independence, complete autonomy, and complete neutrality."

"A difficult goal these days," Solo remarked drily.

"Steng is a difficult man, Mr. Solo," Waverly said. "He is also extremely astute. He broke with M.M. Roy when he guessed that Roy was going to make a deal with the British. He broke with Zamyatta less than a year later, with the curt pronouncement that Zamyatta was only the tails to Roy's heads. He refused any part in the new government and went underground."

"I gather he is still there?" Solo asked.

"Perhaps, Mr. Solo. The rumors are many. You can take your pick. Steng has been reported dead, in Russia, in China, in Africa. His underground has been reported disbanded, doubled. All I know for certain is that Max Steng is a military genius, especially at guerilla warfare. I doubt that he is dead. I imagine that the Stengali are very much alive, and that is not good for the Western world."

"What does Steng have against Roy?" Solo said.

"Primarily his retention of some British influence and aid, and Roy's close ties with the West. Our missile bases, for example. Steng wants complete neutrality. He has his own theories of government, as most fanatics do. The danger, obviously, is that Steng and his Stengali might be used by someone else. His methods have always been to take over small areas and apply his theories. He has never used assassination. If he has now turned to methodical assassination as a weapon, then—"