The Cross of Gold Affair - Davies Fredric - Страница 29

On 2 August, 1944, Maj. Porpoise, then in British Intelligence, was captured by Nazi agents while entrusted with a high priority mission in the north of France. The pressure of German High Command conflicts and backlash from the attempted murder of Hitler the preceding month threw the lone Intelligence officer into an unreal focus, and Nazi doctors became almost maniacal in their attempts to wring his mission from him.

Imprisonment and starvation had no effect on him except to strengthen his resolve not to talk. Collateral reports from others held nearby verify that he became completely convinced that the security of his nation depended on his continued secrecy, although in point of fact the mission’s failure had crippled a Resistance effort and the whole story could subsequently have been told. Maj. Porpoise did not allow this in the face of questions, and his inquisitors could only keep digging for what seemed to be a vital message.

Enduring privation gave him an inner source of power for what came next. Hitler’s growing irrationality forced the prison doctors to bum the captives hair and eyebrows. His stoicism at the pain and the High Command’s orders made them follow up with a systematic destruction of his beard follicles, and then application of fire torture to every patch of hair anywhere on his body. Pelvic, limb and pubic hair were scorched off, and today Avery D. Porpoise is covered with white scar tissue, completely bald.

“He’s a repulsive little beast in the flesh,” said Napoleon,

“but I didn’t see enough of him to notice all that.” He flipped the dossier back to Waverly with a shudder.

“Those scars on his body are actually marks of great heroism, despite his current activities, and despite the misplacement of his heroism. He’s somewhat less than a man, now, crisscrossed with scar tissue and turned obscenely fat through years of self-indulgence, but one must conclude that his pain threshold is superhumanly high when inspired as he was in World War II.

“It was his misfortune, however, that the Crown did not reward his refusal to talk under such treatment. His Majesty’s government naturally awarded him a 60% disability pension for life, and the Prisoner of War ribbon with, I believe, a bronze star. To indicate the torture, I suppose. They were quite uninterested in his story of saving the nation, because after all the mission he had started on was a thorough fizzle.”

“Kind of hard-nosed, I’d say. What else did he want?”

“A medal wasn’t quite enough, we can assume. He resigned his commission when they didn’t make him a general, and he never claimed a shilling of the pension.”

“Probably he just wanted somebody to clap him on the back and give him the ‘Jolly good show, old chap!’ routine,” said Napoleon. “A promotion-yes, Porpoise would have wanted recognition on all sides. He was probably sorry England didn’t have an opening for the job of King just at that time.”

Waverly frowned slightly. “In any event, he sold out in disgust to the highest bidder. His recent knowledge of the Intelligence service was considered very valuable, and for a while it looked as though post-war German underground operatives would get him. But he joined the neighborhood covey of Thrush in early 1947. All his subsequent activity has been in England and Africa, an undistinguished career in Thrush’s financial department. We noted his entry into this country, but from that point he seemed to have gone into retirement. If Major Porpoise had continued in His Majesty’s service he might well have become a member of U.N.C.L.E. by now. As it is, we will all be relieved to close out his file.” Waverly shut the folder and dropped it into a crowded basket of files.

“We’ll close out his file well enough,” Napoleon said with a frown. “Now that Illya has, if you’ll excuse the expression, solved the crossword puzzle. I only wish he could have managed the timing a bit better; I’d really rather not have spent the last few hours the way I did.”

“Speaking of timing, Mr. Solo,” his chief answered, a touch of concern coloring his usually dry tones. “I believe Mr. Kuryakin entered Mr. Porpoise’s establishment just as you were making your exit. You both might have improved upon your timing. Further, and more to the point,” said Waverly, “is the distressing lack of communication in the past hour. At last word he was on the beach at Coney Island, intending to head into the Space House to rescue you. Naturally we couldn’t risk contacting him when you showed up in such abused condition, but it is well past the alarm point; he certainly should have called in before this.”

“I came out a side door, sir, and he may well have been taken by the search party that was sent out to get me. I didn’t know he was there. If he went in and didn’t report, they probably have him; some of the residents of that fun house are far from slouches, and the place itself is wired for sight, sound and general unpleasantness. May I suggest the obvious course is a full-force attack on the pier, to retrieve Illya if he’s there, and wipe out the nest?”

“As Chief Enforcement Officer, that is precisely your area of responsibility, Mr. Solo. From the information we have been able to gather, you will be removing the core of this stock market fiasco at the same time. You may use my desk, if you wish.” With a gesture, Waverly took one of his pipes and began pacing the room, tamping it. Napoleon slipped into the vacated chair of command, and tripped a switch on the communications panel before him.

“Yes, sir?” said a girl’s voice from elsewhere in the building.

“Solo,” he said. “Get me the Enforcement Duty Agent, and while I’m on the line with him please find the supervisor of our STEP coordinating team and ask him to come into this office for a word with me.”

“Yes, sir.” ,

“Two other things. Alert the helicopter to stand by for

me starting thirty minutes from now for a run to Long Island; and if Mr. Kuryakin reports at any time, interrupt me immediately and tie him in here.”

The Enforcement Agent standing the night duty was delighted to talk to his superior. Napoleon smiled for the first time with real excitement as he felt the enthusiasm surging through the phone.

“Matt, I want your squad to meet me in ten minutes down in the Communications area, in laboratory 17C. We’re going to get Illya out of a jam, and I want to brief you on it down there.”

“Yes, sir!” snapped the communicator. “We’ll be there with bells on, chief; all we’ve done all week is shine our gear, except for the day-men who backed up your action in the brokerage. Our night crew is getting pretty itchy.”

Napoleon looked up from the communicator to greet the long-faced U.N.C.L.E. man entering Waverly’s office.

“I’m sorry not to be more familiar with your work, Dr. Angers,” he said, offering a seat while Waverly stood by, watching. “I must confess most of my activities have been confined to dry land. Let me outline our current problem, and ask your help in solving it.”

Spinning the conference table, Napoleon placed a map of Coney Island in front of Angers. “We plan to assault this amusement pier by land, with a standard operation by my Enforcement personnel. However, I’m afraid this attack will fail in one important respect, in that it will give the Thrush contingent time to kill Illya Kuryakin. We have reason to believe he’s held captive there, but Thrush has had no incentive to harm him yet; we don’t want to give them a chance.

“Now, I escaped from the fun house atop this pier via a trapdoor opening into the sea. This exit is designed as a fall onto a bed of knives, and it’s safe to assume Thrush would be taken by surprise if we entered that way. I visualize the whole thing starting with men placed under the trapdoor-can you get me in as far as that starting point?”

Angers looked to Waverly and Solo for permission, and started loading a big curved pipe that made his face look even longer and sadder. “I believe I know how to get you in, and at the same time stop anyone else who might try to