[Magazine 1966-­10] - The Moby Dick Affair - Davis Robert Hart - Страница 9

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Commander Ahab's black beard gleamed as he nodded. "Unfortunately, you and your friend Solo balked our attempt to kidnap Shelley and get him out of the country. You also foiled certain associates of mine, who are going to wish they'd succeeded, when they tried to eliminate Dr. Shelley at the hospital.

"Now, however, while other phases of the plan go forward, we must get Shelley's secret data from his files. His laboratory is under heavy guard. Only one sort of person could manage to get in. A recognized, trusted agent of U.N.C.L.E."

Lights glided past the car in the fog. Illya had a feeling of isolation, of being hopelessly trapped. Only the knowledge that the homing signal was being beamed to Solo's pocket communicator buoyed him up.

"You want me to go into the lab and find his papers?" Illya said. "What makes you possibly think I would?"

Commander Ahab chuckled as the car took a corner. "We know you wouldn't. Voluntarily."

Cleo St. Cloud had opened the front of her silver fox jacket. She unfastened a gold chain around her neck. A large stone which appeared to be glass, hung from the chain on her bosom. When she pulled the chain free the stone's retaining ring allowed the stone to slide down to one end, where it dangled.

Next she flicked the cheap-looking glassy bauble with her finger.

Immediately it began to glow a deep red.

The reddish light pulsed stronger and weaker. It cast a weird ruby glow over the interior of the racing car.

"Here, Victor, you do the honors," Cleo said. "Swing it gently back and forth. Gently! Now, Mr. Kuryakin, I am going to place you into the deepest state of hypnosis. That business of subjects being unable to be hypnotized against their will, and of refusing to do anything against their morals—both those notions are simply more of the tommyrot which surrounds the science of hypnotism. If they weren't sheer myths, I wouldn't dare tell you what I'm telling you, would I?"

She smiled with sweet venom. Illya had difficulty keeping his eyes off the bauble at the end of the chain. Ahab swung it back and forth, back and forth, while the reddish light from its interior, a small, burning spot of brightness, alternately brightened and dimmed, brightened and dimmed.

Illya began to feel dizzy.

"I intend to give you two simple post-hypnotic suggestions, Mr. Kuryakin. One will be an order to go into Dr. Shelley's laboratory and search it, tear it apart, until you locate a file folder which bears the code letters CR dash ninety-nine dash two. You will destroy it. The second suggestion will be an order to instantly shoot and kill anyone who disturbs you. How are you feeling, Mr. Kuryakin? Eyelids heavy?"

Illya shook his head. "No-no, I'm wide awake. It won't work."

"Watch the light, Mr. Kuryakin." Her voice was soft, insinuating. "Watch the ruby light. You are tired, Mr. Kuryakin. You are tired in every muscle, every fiber of your body. Weary to death. You have one consuming desire. The desire for sleep—"

Cold horror welled up in Illya's mind. What if the plot worked?

What if by some mad chance he did fall under their command? What if he were instructed to shoot and kill anyone who attempted to stop him from searching Shelley's quarters? The homing transmitter was silently signaling from his pocket, the signal searching the night, hunting for Solo, bringing Solo in pursuit.

He had to turn off the transmitter.

His hands, like fifty-pound bags of cement, remained in his lap. He could not move them.

Back, forth, back, forth went the ruby light on the chain. Brighter, dimmer, brighter— "Sleep, Mr. Kuryakin. You are sleepy, totally tired, ready to obey me—"

Fight it, fight it, fight it, he thought. The ruby light swelled and filled the world. Then every thing went black.

The Daimler let him out on a damp, foggy corner, then sped off into the dark. Illya Kuryakin stood shivering under a lonely streetlamp.

His mouth was slack. His eyes were empty of emotion. He began to walk along the pavement under the looming cement wall of a building whose large signboard read FLETCHAM AND STROOL, WOOLEN GOODS.

Two U.N.C.L.E. security men with triangular badges challenged him at the gate in the wire fence round the next corner. Illya identified himself and was admitted. His right hand curled around the butt of a pistol which had somehow gotten into his pocket.

He had almost pulled it out and shot the two guards to death for presuming to question him.

And nothing remained in his mind to tell him that Napoleon Solo was on the way.

ACT II

"NOBODY HERE BUT US TOURISTS"

THE TAXICAB deposited Napoleon Solo in front of the innocuous and deserted facade of Fletcham & Strool, Woolen Goods. The driver, an U.N.C.L.E. man, said, "Want a bit of help, sir?"

Climbing out, Solo shook his head. "Let me look the situation over first. You cruise around a little. If you spot anything, suspicious cars or whatnot, go right on. Circle back, park here and wait. Got your receiver on the right band?"

The driver tapped his knuckles against a dashboard unit. "Channel F, lined up on yours."

"The homing signal is still going strong. Illya must be inside."

Solo turned up the amplification on his communicator, let the signal beep-beep loudly a second, then damped it down. He slammed the taxicab door. The vehicle rattled off.

Solo walked along under the gloomy wall. At the gate in the wire fence around the corner, he discovered two agents with riot pistols. He flashed his identification.

"Solo, Operations and Enforcement out of New York."

The taller guard hooked an eye brow up. "One of your mates is already 'ere, sir. Mr. Kurry-what's-'is-name."

Solo's backbone crawled again. "Kuryakin. How long has he been inside?"

"Five, ten minutes, I'd say."

"Alone?"

"Right."

"How did he look? Banged up? Like he'd been beaten? Or drugged?"

"Seemed all right to us, sir. Spoke a little slowly. Yawned once. It's late, though."

"I hope it's not later than we think," Solo said, slipping past them.

One of the guards threw an electric switch on the gate post. The lock in the steel outer door whirred. Solo stepped through into the hollow emptiness of a warehouse full of bales on wooden pallets.

Far down an aisle a light gleamed. Carefully Solo drew out his pistol and began walking.

He was drenched with cold sweat and sure something was diabolically wrong.

If Illya had escaped his captors, he would have turned off the homing signal and called via Channel D. Yet THRUSH was not so lunatic as to send a captive Illya off on his own. Solo didn't understand it. But his lonely passage through the eerie, towering avenues of stacked bales wrenched his nerves another notch tighter.

The bale storage area came to an end. Ahead brighter lights gleamed in a short corridor. There was a gray-painted door at the end. Beyond that door should lie Dr. Shelley's outer workrooms.

Warily, Solo ran forward.

Half way down the corridor, Solo dug in his heels and skidded up short. From beyond the gray-painted door he heard bangs and crashings, as though of office furniture being overturned. He sniffed. The source of the acrid odor became clear in a moment. From under the gray-painted door, wisps of smoke were curling.

He jumped to the heavy door, pulled it open quickly. "Illya?"

Solo could see little of the area beyond the first workroom, which boiled with smoke. The smoke issued from another doorway in the far side of the room, which was full of filing cabinets. Holding a hand to his mouth, Solo advanced. Beyond the next doorway, bright spurts of flame flickered through the roiling grayness.

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