[The Girl From UNCLE 01] - The Birds of a Feather Affair - Avallone Michael (книга жизни TXT) 📗

"All of your clothing and personal possessions have been examined. Therefore, do not hope that any of your devices and gadgets will serve as lifesavers. Alas for you, we have burned your clothing and dismantled all your arsenal weapons. The homing devices and electronic transmitters will gain you nothing, as they have been destroyed. The explosive compounds and jellies which you managed to carry about your person are no more. Most ingenious, I would say, were it not for the fact that it merely duplicates our own inventiveness. Further, I will add, there will be no one coming to see you or talk to you, lest you manage some miraculous escape. You will remain as you are until U.N.C.L.E. agrees to our offer. As you may have guessed, we are arranging an exchange of agents. It should come as no surprise to you that the release of Alek Zorki is our main objective. Since you both had a hand in his apprehension, it is somehow fitting that you should also be the instrument that affects his return to our ranks. Therefore, rest easy, try nothing foolhardy and do stay away from the door of your cell. It is electrically charged and sufficiently high-voltage to render you very dead in less time than it would take to turn the doorknob. I really do hope you will both be sensible and remain patient. If I were you, Mr. Slate, and I were left alone with a woman of Miss Dancer's obvious charms, I should certainly know what to do so that time did not hang heavy on my hands. Au revoir, Mr. Slate and you, Miss Dancer. May we never meet again."

The room was suddenly silent once more. The flat, bland voice had vanished as quickly as it had come.

"Isn't he sweet?" April said, low.

Mark Slate, eyes thoughtful, nodded. "Very friendly type."

April sat down on the floor and looked at the toes of both her feet. Mark Slate did likewise. Without a word to each other, they began to inspect the nails of each of the toes on their feet.

They worked quickly and fluidly, hardly looking at one another. If Mr. Riddle could have seen them, he would have imagined they were quite mad.

"Mark," April murmured, working the thumbnail of her right hand against the big toe of the corresponding foot. "I know how to solve a riddle."

"Roger," Slate chuckled. "But how did your Benjamin Franklin discover electricity, really?"

"Easy. You go fly a kite."

Security had given them the last desperate measure of self-protection. Underneath their bantering conversation, to allay the suspicions of any of the enemy who might be listening—they were both scraping enough polish off their nails to produce five ounces of X-757. This extremely volatile explosive chemical, manufactured by the research laboratory of U.N.C.L.E., was a harmless substance until wadded into a compact ball. Once ignited, it could fuse a steel door into molten metal.

Mark Slate, however, now asked the vital question:

"Can we match that?"

"We," April Dancer said firmly, a humorous light in her warm brown eyes, "shall try."

Bora Singh, his spade beard wagging fiercely, stared across the battered metal desk, at the man sitting there impassively, with hands pyramided together. At Bora Singh's left, Arnolda Van Atta, her flaming tresses gleaming brilliantly in the lights of the room, sat quietly. She seemed to be studying the long, slender fingers of her own hands. Bora Singh was a tower of rage. His turban bobbed as his tall, warrior's body quivered with indignation.

"Are we children that we play games with one another?" Bora Singh was bellowing. "Why must you wear that ridiculous mask? Don't you trust me?"

The man behind the desk, his face hidden by a Frankenstein monster mask, such as are sold in novelty shops all over America, shrugged. The shrug did not match the fixed frozen leer of the rubber monster face.

"Calm down," the man said. It was the same voice which had mysteriously filled the bare prison room that housed April Dancer and Mark Slate. "Control yourself, Singh. Thrush has its own methods. My face is not to be made known to you."

"Riddle," Singh sneered, his dark face contorting as if he wanted to spit across the desk. "Very well, then. But why the delay about Zorki? We have the U.N.C.L.E. agents. Why must you procrastinate?"

The Frankenstein face said nothing.

Arnolda Van Atta shifted in her chair, looking up. Her classic face, so proper for the cover of Vogue or Redbook, became ugly.

"Simmer down, you turbaned hothead. Whose brilliant notion was it to plant that snake in Slate's apartment?"

Bora Singh looked at her. A wicked smile split his beard and moustache, framing large white teeth.

"A diversion. Why not? You will admit it would have kept the Dancer woman very occupied until we returned?"

Arnolda Van Atta's green eyes went cold. "Yes, and it very nearly killed me."

"Who asked you to interfere?" Singh snarled. "Is this woman's work? You should have left the room as soon as you rendered the other one unconscious. Why did you loiter?"

"That," the redhead said, "is none of your affair, Bora Singh." She lowered her eyes and reached into a large, corduroy clutch bag now visible on her lap, as though wanting a cigarette.

Mr. Riddle coughed through the mask. The sound was incongruous, coming from behind the Frankenstein face.

"Bora Singh, you should really not get too excited about these things. Nor must you concern yourself with the movements of the rest of our agents. Surely, you realize that Thrush has many heads, hands, arms and legs. You are but the East Indian representative in this enterprise."

Bora Singh glowered at the rebuke.

"Riddle, I must protest. Since we have all been allotted this Zorki mission, I cannot see why we do not have a mutual share of interest. Was it not myself who arranged this Romeo's League Of Nations Exhibit as a cover for the kidnapping? How else could we have gotten away so easily with two prisoners in broad daylight?"

"Yes, yes," Mr. Riddle said almost abstractedly. "An ingenious piece of work. But now comes the finer, more subtle business of arranging the trade with Uncle Headquarters. I prefer that you stay out of that part of it."

The Sikh wagged his awesome head, eyes blazing.

"And I say I will not! You and the woman here are glory-seekers! You think to load yourself down with honors to curry favor with Central Headquarters. Therefore, I protest. You understand me?"

"Yes," Mr. Riddle said mildly. "I understand."

"Good. And you—" Bora Singh whirled to glare down at Arnolda Van Atta. "What is your decision, Missy Sahib?"

Arnolda Van Atta smiled up at him.

"A simple one, snake charmer. You want a medal and you're going to get a bullet."

Bora Singh blinked. "What's that, woman? You dare to threaten me—"

Mr. Riddle laughed. "Yes, I think that's best, Arnolda."

"Fine," she said lightly, and took her hand out of the large clutch bag. A mammoth .45 Colt automatic, Army issue, seemed to train itself at Bora Singh. For a second, the Sikh stood his ground, then he blurted in fear and tried to run, breaking for the door behind him. He had not gotten further than three feet away before there was a muffled, yet somehow thunderous burst of sound.

There was no nicety about the murder.

The heavy bullet caught Bora Singh in the back of the neck just below where the white border of the turban met his shoulders. He flew against the doorway, propelled by the impact. His hands pawed briefly at the panel before he fell heavily. He was very dead by the time he hit the floor.