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

At the bar, Illya ordered another of the cheapest rums, and paid for it, just as the powerful man returned. Illya watched the men from the black car put their heads together in the booth for a conference.

Then he heard it.

A faint, strangled cry.

Low or distant, it was impossible to tell which.

But Illya had heard the cry, there was no doubt. And he was not the only one. In the booth the men in business suits stopped talking and sat alert. The bartender stopped mixing a drink to stare at the door. Two other men at the bar turned.

Illya was on his way to the door. He reached it and went through on the run. He saw the cause of the cry in the middle of the street.

Nathan Bedford lay there. Illya did not have to go to the man. Bedford lay on his back with his throat cut wide open, a pool of blood spreading from him.

There was no one else on the street.

But far down the dark waterfront Illya thought he saw a tall black figure running silently away. He watched the figure until he became aware of something behind him.

The disguised U.N.C.L.E. agent whirled. The men from the black car stood close behind him. They were looking at the body of Nathan Bedford, and at Illya. They were looking at his leg. Too late Illya realized his mistake. In his haste to get out and find the source of the strangled cry he had forgotten to limp.

Now the grey-haired man, Mr. Smith, raised his hand slowly and pointed to Illya's eyes. In making his disguise there had been no time to disguise his eyes with contact lenses. His eyes were blue! Black hair and a dark skin and the rags of a native Zambalan dock-worker—with blue eyes.

The men came toward him with their hands in their pockets.

Illya looked around quickly. Behind him two more men in business suits. Illya wasted no time. He reached into his pockets and dropped the small smoke bomb.

As the smoke exploded, raising a blinding smoke screen, Illya turned with his U.N.C.L.E. Special out and ran toward the two men behind him. His Special set on sleep-darts, he shot one of the men at once. The other hurled himself sideways and clawed for his pistol. Illya shot him. He leaped over the prostrate forms of the two men and raced away down the street.

The black car, its lights on, blocked his path. He whirled and raced toward the water. As he reached the edge of the water a light flashed on him from below, from some boat. To escape the light, Illya ducked and began to run to his right.

The land ended abruptly in a sharp right turn.

Illya whirled. They were all around him. Something struck his head and it all turned green and red and—black.

In New York, Alexander Waverly sucked on his cold pipe and slowly paced his silent office. The outer door slid open. Napoleon Solo entered. The face of the handsome young chief agent of Section II showed concern. Waverly wasted no time on useless words.

"O'hara reports that all attempts to contact Kuryakin have failed. Two of his agents discovered that a man named Nathan Bedford was killed in the street on the San Pablo waterfront."

"The owner of The Morgan House," Solo said.

"Precisely," Waverly agreed. "The police have no clues. The patrons of the Harbor Inn, a waterfront tavern nearby, claim to have heard nothing."

"Naturally," Solo said.

"They claim further that a crippled dock-worker ran out of the Harbor Inn about the time of the killing. They said he ran, although he seemed to be crippled."

"Illya!" Solo said.

"O'Hara agrees. The men he sent found a black wig floating in the water nearby. I should say that Mr. Kuryakin is in need of help."

"I'll be on a plane in an hour," Solo said.

Waverly nodded. "Yes. See that you are. But remember, Mr. Solo, your primary mission in Zambala is to find out what is behind these assassinations and attempts. That comes first. if you have time, see what you can do for Mr. Kuryakin, but the mission is first, as always."

"Yes, sir."

Waverly began to light his pipe. "I rather imagine Mr. Kuryakin can take good care of himself. In a way, this may be all in our favor. I trust Mr. Kuryakin is learning much."

"Yes, sir," Solo said as he left.

The cold manner of his chief did not fool him. Waverly was as concerned as he was about Illya, but Waverly headed an organization charged with saving the world from itself if necessary, and one agent was only one agent.

To Napoleon Solo it was different. This agent was Illya Kuryakin.

* * *

Illya Kuryakin opened his eyes. The blond agent grimaced at the pain in his head. He felt his head and found a soft and sticky wound. He tired to rise and found his feet tied securely.

A voice spoke. "Now tell us who you are and who you work for."

Illya looked across the room. Seated on a chair in the room that was not a room but a cave, was a small, wiry man of about forty. The man was dressed all in black with some kind of military insignia on shoulder straps. The man held a pistol and wore soft black boots.

Next to the small, wiry man stood the grey-haired Mr. Smith.

"I'm a voodoo doll," Illya said.

The small, wiry man stood up and came close to Illya. The blond U.N.C.L.E. agent looked up at the man. He saw that the small man wore a thin beard that was almost white, a wisp of long hair on the man's chin. And the eyes that looked down at Illya were large and deep, the powerful eyes of a fanatic.

"Tell us who you are," the man said softly.

Behind the small, wiry man with the wisp of beard there were many other men wearing black uniforms in the silent cave.

ACT II: GO, BID THE SOLDIERS SHOOT!

ONE

Police headquarter in San Pablo is the lower two floors of the left wing of the prison. At night there is only a guard at a desk just inside the door. Police are there, but the corridors are dim and quiet during late night hours.

This night, the single guard dozed at his desk. Since the murder of Nathan Bedford, the police had been working hard and the guard had done a double shift. With the murder, the assassination attempts on the premier, and the threat of a Stengali war, the San Pablo police were short-handed and the guard did not hear the soft footsteps approach him.

He cam alert just long enough to see the boyish young man leap on him and hold the cloth over his mouth.

The guard asleep, Napoleon Solo stepped over his prostrate form dn. moved on into the building. There were low voices talking somewhere as Solo moved as silent as a cat along the dim halls. The office of Inspector Tembo was on the second floor in the rear.

As yet the involvement of U.N.C.L.E. in the affairs of Zambala was not known, and Solo intended to keep it that way. He wanted to talk to Inspector Tembo, but first he wanted to search the office of the inspector. Tembo was aware of the true identity of Martin O'Hara, and had tacitly called U.N.C.L.E. into the matter. Solo wanted to know why.

He moved quickly up the stairs to the second floor. The long corridor was empty. There was no sound. At the far end of the corridor light showed under the door of one office. Solo moved catlike along the corridor. The door that showed light was Inspector Tembo's office!

Solo frowned. Tembo was in his office. There would be no opportunity to search. He put his U.N.C.L.E. Special away in its shoulder holster and stepped to the door. For some reason, some sixth sense perhaps, he opened the door quietly and without knocking.

It was a small office with a single window and the ground of the hill behind the prison close outside the window. There were two straight chairs, filing cabinets, and a small wooden desk. But it was not the furniture nor the office itself that Solo saw first.