[Magazine 1966-­02] - The Howling Teenagers Affair - Lynds Dennis (читать книги онлайн бесплатно полные версии TXT) 📗

Something sprayed against his eyelids, a cool mist. He waited, blinked and his eyes came open.

"Hello, Napoleon," Maxine said.

She stood before him, changed now. The soft female face was longer, harder. Her languid clothes of the afternoon had been changed for a severe black suit, a wide-brimmed hat pulled low. But she was smiling the same smile. She was still almost six feet tall, yet not too tall. Solo sighed. Even here and now she was a beautiful woman.

"Hello, Maxine," Solo said, mustering up a smile.

Behind Maxine all was black. He could not make out any shape to the room. There was a bright light on a fine inlaid table, but the light did not seem to reach any corners anywhere.

Solo could just make out the shapes of two men behind Maxine. He could not see them. While he was pretending to stare hard to make them out, he tested his bonds. The rope around his wrists behind the chair he was sitting in seemed secure. The soft material encasing his feet would not budge.

He glanced down to be sure of what he was up against, and he stared. Maxine Trent laughed mockingly. Solo stared at his feet. There was nothing holding them—nothing at all. They were encased in nothing, yet he felt some soft but strong material holding his feet.

There was nothing holding his feet, yet he could not move them. When he tried to move them the unseen material clung and cut into his legs. Maxine laughed again.

"If you could turn around, Napoleon, you would see that there is nothing holding your hands, either. No rope at all. See?"

Maxine held two mirrors in such a way that he could see his bound hands behind the chair. There was no rope. There was nothing holding his hands, yet they were bound tight.

"A toy, Mr. Solo," the deep male voice said from the darkness.

"A simple hypnotic drug that paralyzes the muscles and induces the brain to ascribe some physical cause, such as ropes or a cement block on the feet. It is both effective as a restraining device, as a demonstration of our limitless sources of power."

There was a sudden hiss from the dark, an eerie sound like wind whistling through a thin reed. Reedy, hissing and yet it was a voice. It was the weird, toneless voice of the other man hidden in the dark.

"We waste time. He will tell us," the hissing voice said.

Maxine Trent seemed to stiffen like a dog whose master has whistled. Her beautiful face changed, became a mask. A tremor very like fear seemed to shudder through her.

Solo stared toward the point in the dark where the reedy voice had hissed. It was a voice that was inhuman, made not of flesh and bone but of metal and plastic, yet Solo knew now that this was the voice of a leader of THRUSH—a council member. It had to be, to make Maxine jump like a dog in obedience and terror.

"Tell us what Waverly told you, Napoleon," Maxine Trent said. "It will save time."

"I like to see THRUSH work," Solo said calmly. "Sometimes I even learn something."

The deep male voice snapped in the dark. "The needle."

Solo laughed. "Pentathol? How unimaginative. I really expected better, especially with a council member present."

The reedy hiss of the hidden voice neither laughed nor threatened. "Council Member N if that will help, Mr. Solo. And the needle does not contain pentathol. That would be far too slow and unreliable. NO, I have developed something much better. Its effect is similar, but it acts instantly; no one can withstand it."

"Proceed, Agent Trent," the deep male voice ordered.

Maxine approached with the needle. Solo thought about the deep voice. This had to belong to a chief agent, above Maxine Trent, but below the horrible hissing voice. Somehow he had to see them.

"Try to relax, Napoleon," Maxine Trent said. "You will anyway. In five seconds you will tell us all you know."

The beautiful woman raised the needle, found a vein in his paralyzed arm, and plunged the point into his flesh.

TWO

Illya Kuryakin leaned to look out the window of the small jet as it circled the city below. A white city, dazzling in the African sun, the great river curving like a snake around the buildings. Even from the sky, Illya could see the great white government buildings in the center, and the grey-brown shacks surrounding them where the people still lived.

Illya stared down. It was for this that he had left the service of his own country—to bridge that terrible gap between the great white buildings and the miserable shacks of the people. To free the great river that wound below to serve the people, all the people.

He had seen the failure of a dream in his own country, the failure of many dreams in many places, and other places where there had not yet even been time to dream amid the misery.

And, somewhere sown there was a man, Azid Ben Rillah, who served a "nation" that wanted to destroy all dreams—all dreams but the dream of keeping every misery as it was. Down there, somewhere, THRUSH was at work to keep the hovels dirty, to forever separate the power from the people.

It was a "nation" Illya would destroy, and all like it. Then, perhaps, he could listen to his jazz records, read his books, travel as he had always wanted to, alone and afraid of no on and nothing, with no one afraid of him.

"Fasten your seatbelts please."

The voice of the stewardess pulled Illya from his reverie. He fastened his seatbelt and waited. He had abandoned his disguise in Paris—even Napoleon might be made to talk—and now sat in the small jet a Specialist Tworkov of the Soviet trade mission to the new country. A drooping blond mustache hid his young face. He had acquired a creditable limp. Thick glasses hid his dark eyes. All his weapons were checked and in place.

Illya left the jet fourth in line. Behind the thick glasses his eyes watched. The field was clear. A fawning native porter ran up to clutch his suitcase. Illya casually fingered the deadly, needle-like knife in his side pocket. The native porter grinned up.

"Bwana have three more suitcase?"

"Can you carry three or six?" Illya said.

"Uphill three, downhill six," the native said.

"I have only one." Illya said.

"One is very good. I am twelve," the native said.

"I am nine," Illya said.

"So?" the native said. "Welcome to Africa, Mr. Kuryakin. Follow me closely."

Illya followed the porter across the field, his eyes, behind the thick lenses, scrutinizing everyone who neared them. The porter moved fast, did not pause on his way into the single main building of the airport. Once inside the building the porter led Illya to customs, and through customs under the regular procedure.

Illya continued to follow the porter out to a taxi. Once inside the taxi, Illya watched the porter vanish. The taxi driver waited for Illya's instruction.

"Imperial Hotel," Illya said.

The driver nodded and drove off. Once out of the area of the airport, with no cars in sight on the sunny morning, the driver reached into his pocket and brought out an innocent card. It was plastic.

Illya opened a small bottle of fluid and placed a drop on the plastic. A faint purple spot appeared. It had identified the driver as Joseph Ngara.

"You were supposed to have another man with you," Joseph Ngara said.

"We ran into trouble in New York."

"I'm sorry. Who was it?"

"Napoleon Solo," Illya said. The taxi swerved a hair. "Napoleon? I've worked with him. Damn, Kuryakin, we can't afford to lose chief enforcement agents like him."

"We haven't lost him yet," Illya said. "You're Section-II out here?"