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

"Then someone else may be directing him and his gang," Solo completed.

"Precisely," Waverly said. "And not necessarily another power or government. Zambala is highly strategically placed."

"THRUSH?" Solo said.

"The possibility has occurred to me," Waverly said. "Steng might be just the man to be fooled by THRUSH suggesting a third-road government."

"Is there any hint of THRUSH?"

"No, I must say there isn't—yet. As it stands, Premier Roy has been forced to kill a would-be assassin, and Mura Khan, Security Chief of Zambala, has been assassinated. Both the man Roy killed, and the man who was suspected of killing Mura Khan, were known members of the Stengali. O'Hara seems to think there is some connection between Zamyatta and the Stengali now. O'Hara also reported that Inspector Tembo was not happy with the whole affair. All in all, Mr. Solo, it adds up to a state of unrest in Zambala, and that is something we do not want."

"What about this international tribunal?" Solo said. "Can they do anything?"

Waverly puffed on his pipe. "Perhaps. I think the tribunal is primarily a good move by Premier Roy to forestall civil violence. The Zambalans are hot-blooded. But a tribunal may make them feel the situation is being handled fairly. Especially with Ramirez heading the tribunal. Miss Heatherly, please."

A fourth picture flashed onto the screen. It was the picture of an old man, tall and white-haired, the epitome of a Spanish grandee of the old school.

The eyes were strong and alert, and the man leaned heavily on a cane.

Waverly smiled as he looked at this picture. "Carlos Ramirez, Mr. Solo. A living legend," he said. "The greatest poet of South America, a fighter in all causes of freedom, and a life-long pacifist. A truly amazing man, Carlos Ramirez. I have had the privilege of meeting him many times. He began life as a landowner and grandee, inherited the largest sugar plantation of the island, built it into many businesses.

"Then, in middle-age, he became a poet and world-renowned pacifist. Still later, when the struggles for freedom began, he joined the fight. His leg was shattered by a British bomb. He is the only man I know who has engaged in violence while remaining a pacifist and meaning it. A man of great dignity. With him on the tribunal, the world will take notice."

"Who are the other members?" Solo asked.

"Two men from the West, one from Poland, one from India. Three Zambalans: Ramirez, O'Hara, and a labor leader named Mark Boya. But Ramirez is the guiding genius."

"And you want me to go down and stay close to the tribunal?" Solo said.

"Yes. I fear possible attacks on the tribunal itself. We—"

The low beep-beep-beep of overseas communication began to sound from the large console in the small office. Waverly touched a button on his desk. Instantly a voice entered the room, the voice of Martin O'Hara.

"—report a bomb thrown at the tribunal, two injured. Also a second attempt on the life of Premier Roy. Situation urgent; Stengali apparently making all out war. In my opinion they must be getting help, probably from elements of the army."

Waverly held his microphone. "Any further word from Mr. Kuryakin?"

There was a pause. Then, "Unable to contact agent Kuryakin!"

FIVE

The Harbor Inn on the waterfront of San Pablo was a small tavern with two rooms and a kitchen in the rear. The first room contained the bar and some tables. The second room, through an archway, contained booths on either side. The kitchen opened to the rear of this second room.

Less than an hour after they had left the black car, the three men in business suits sat in a rear booth. They looked at their watches from time to time. They did not notice the shabby dock-worker who limped into the tavern and stood leaning on the bar at the end nearest the rear room.

This dock-worker was small and slender, and his black hair was cut thick and long. His nose was heavy and broken, and there was a long scar on his dark face. His clothes were the rags worn by the poor of San Pablo. He drank the cheapest raw rum made for the poor from the dregs of the sugar cane. To look at he was no different from thousands of other poor workers of San Pablo. Even his limp was common in a country where the poor worked hard and were often injured.

But his eyes were not the eyes of a San Pablo dock-worker. They were sharp eyes, shrewd and glittering and they were blue!

They were the eyes of Illya Kuryakin.

Kuryakin watched the three men.

He watched them for an hour before the other two men came into the Harbor Inn.

The two newcomers were a grotesque contrast. The man who came in last was broad and powerful and held his hand in his suit pocket. The man who walked in front of the broad man was small and frightened. This small man wore a white suit and his hands shook. His eyes darted around like some small animal looking for escape. There was no escape.

The scared man was marched to the booth where the three men waited.

The man in the booth who spoke was obviously the leader.

"Sit down, Nathan," the man said.

Where he leaned on the bar Illya watched this man, the one who had spoken. He saw that this man was of average height, not big but in good condition, with the movements of a trained soldier. His hair was grey and long. There were scars on his face. He could have been the old beggar with a patch over his eye and a certain amount of make-up.

"Give Mr. Bedford room to sit down," the man said to his companions.

Illya Kuryakin immediately turned his attention to the small man who was so frightened. Nathan Bedford! That was the name of the owner of The Morgan House, the cheap hotel where Premier Roy had killed the Stengali leader, Tavvi. A very frightened Nathan Bedford. The owner of the hotel sat down like a man sitting on the edge of a very high cliff. The grey-haired man with the scarred face smiled pleasantly.

"So, Nathan," the grey-haired man said. "It has been a long time. Alas, we do not get into San Pablo often."

"Too long, Mr. Smith," the frightened Bedford said.

"We were always friends, Nathan."

"Of course, Mr. Smith. The best," the terrified owner said.

"Then you will tell me all about what really happened the night the premier shot Tavvi, won't you?"

"Sure, sure, Mr. Smith," Bedford stammered. "Only I was downstairs. You know I stay downstairs. I didn't see—"

"Suppose I judge that? You just start from the very beginning. Now, who paid for that room?"

Bedford licked his dry lips. "Tembo asked me that, too. I don't know. It was a woman. She wore a veil. She came in and took the room from my assistant. She gave her name as Brown. Then—"

The frightened owner suddenly lowered his voice and bent closer to the man he called Mr. Smith. At the bar Illya moved closer, then started for a booth. He saw the eyes of the other men with Mr. Smith watching him closely. Instead of stopping at a booth he continued on back to the men's room near the kitchen.

When he came out, Bedford was already standing up. The grey-haired man called Mr. Smith was still seated and staring up at Bedford. The hotel owner was as pale as a ghost. Then Smith waved his hand.

"All right, Nathan. But try to remember a little more, eh?"

"Yes, Mr. Smith. Anything I remember."

"Good," the grey-haired Mr. Smith said. "See Nathan to the door, Sergeant."

The broad, powerful man nodded to Bedford and the two men headed for the door. Illya, passing the booth on his way back to the bar, limping in his dock-worker's rags, heard the use of the rank. Smith had called his man Sergeant! Then the men from the black car, the beggar, and the powerful man were all members of some military unit!