The Doomsday Affair - Whittington Harry - Страница 23

And then when the lunch was cleared away, Solo was left alone in the suite with the silent Illya and Barbry. He forced himself to draw a chair to the table where Su Yan had emptied the dismantled gadgets from his attache case. Somehow he felt he was doing exactly what Su Yan wanted him to, that anything he could do would only play into his hands, or at the very best would be useless.

He refused to become enmeshed in this negative thinking. The wires, metal, batteries, plastics, all so meaningful when assembled, were like the parts of some fantastic jigsaw puzzle. He went on sitting there, refusing to permit his mind to wander from the immediate task he set for himself: he sorted all the pieces, painstakingly, with infinite patience. Perhaps if he saw what he had, he might see where he could go. Or maybe it ground down to what Su Yan had said: it passed the time.

He gazed with pride at the small stacks, piles, sets, pyramids, assortments. Plastics, wires, batteries, minute aluminum cones, empty pellets, even a communication earplug had been dismantled.

Solo’s concentration was interrupted by the arrival of the waiter with his dinner. He was startled to look up and know that six hours at least had passed since he’d eaten his lunch. Nothing else seemed altered much. Illya remained where he was and Barbry lay unmoving on the bed. The busy hum of motors continued from deep within the earth.

“How are things in the outside world?” Solo inquired.

“It’s raining, sir,” the waiter answered before he thought. Solo saw the man’s face go gray, as if he were frightened because he had spoken to him.

“Don’t worry; I won’t tell a soul,” Solo said.

He ate the small filet mignon, drank his wine and coffee, poked at his salad, pushed the rest of it away. Alone again, he returned to his hopeless, thankless task as if his life depended on it. He was still at it when the engines ceased grumbling beneath him, when silence seeped down from the chateau above.

The congestion of parts wavered before his eyes. He yawned savagely. He got up and prowled the suite, returning to his chair. There was a tension and silence in this place now. He supposed it must be early in the morning—those black hours between midnight and false dawn. Hours when anyone in his right mind would be sleeping, he thought as he yawned again.

And why shouldn’t he sleep?—this was a rest home, wasn’t it?

No, not a rest home. That was just a circumlocution for insane asylum. He was in an insane asylum, so why should he assume he was in his right mind anyway?

Drowsy. He sat down in the chair and reached for a small metal spring, trying to bring his thoughts back to focus by concentrating on the parts before him. But the drowsiness continued. Broadmoor Rest, he thought. Where had he heard that name before? Something about U.N.C.L.E. briefings…he couldn’t remember.

His head nodded, and he sank forward on the table. He was asleep before his cheek settled upon the wood.

IV

HE AWOKE WITH a start.

There had been a noise behind him, and he jerked erect, turning. But it was only the waiter, bringing breakfast. He set the tray down on the table, his eyes flicking over Solo silently. Solo yawned loudly, and rubbed his eyes. The waiter started to leave, but Solo said, “Just a minute.”

The man paused, eyeing Solo cautiously. Solo yawned again, exaggeratedly, like a man who had had far too little sleep and was having trouble waking. The waiter seemed to believe it; a faint smile touched the corners of his mouth.

“My friends,” Solo said thickly. “They haven’t eaten since God knows when. We ought to see if we can get them to swallow something. Will you give me some help feeding them?”

The man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, and Solo laughed, letting it trail off into another yawn. “The story of my life,” he said. “I never can get a waiter when I want one.” He sat up, running his fingers through his hair. “Look, you’ve got a guard right outside the door. I’m not about to try anything funny. It’s too early in the morning to get shot.”

The waiter hesitated visibly, then stepped over to the bed and looked at Barbry and Illya. Barbry was still asleep, but Illya had awakened at the sound of Solo’s voice and was trying to sit up. His limbs thrashed about weakly and he sank back down.

“Looks sinister, doesn’t he?” Solo said. “Obviously dangerous.”

The waiter flushed. “All right,” he said. “Bring the tray. But any funny business and I’ll yell my head off; remember that.”

Solo picked up the tray from the table and took it over to the bed. The waiter nodded for him to sit down with it. “You feed him, while I hold him steady.” Solo nodded, and the waiter approached Illya cautiously. Illya watched him coming, his eyes flickering from the waiter to Solo. Solo smiled at him, and winked. The waiter sat down next to Illya, took him by the shoulders and lifted him to a sitting position. All the time he kept his attention riveted on Solo, alert for any quick moves.

But it was Illya who exploded into action.

With wild, deadly strength his arms flailed out, striking in all directions at once. He butted with his head jabbed with elbows, struck with half-balled fists. He had no coordination, no timing; he didn’t look like a trained U.N.C.L.E. agent in action. But he was effective enough—the waiter fell backward and slid off the bed, dazed and hurt by several of the wild blows.

Instantly, Solo was upon him. He karate-chopped him sharply in the neck, and the waiter slumped into a heap on the floor.

Solo stood up and smiled at Illya. “He didn’t even get a chance to yell,” Solo said. “Not that it matters—the room is soundproof, as our friend Su Yan so obligingly told us.”

A sound like grotesque laughter came from Illya’s throat as he settled back down on the bed and his twitching arms and legs relaxed. Solo’s eyes narrowed for a moment. The sight of Illya in this state cut deeply into him. But he’d have to leave him here; there would be no chance of escape if he tried to take him along.

Quickly, Solo stripped the waiter and changed clothes with him. They were nearly of a size, fortunately, so the waiter’s uniform fit Solo reasonably well. Stepping to the door, he knocked on it in the pattern he had noted the waiter use last time he had been there. After a moment there was a buzzing as the lock was electronically freed.

Solo stepped through, his head down as if in thought. The guard glanced at him, and then took another look. Solo could almost see the guard adding it up in his mind and getting the wrong answer every time. But the few seconds’ delay caused by Solo’s having the uniform on was enough. The guard lunged for the warning button, but Solo struck him at the nape of the neck, caught him, heeled him around and shoved him through the door into his suite.

The door swung shut, and Solo looked around him. At this hour the subterranean corridor was silent and empty, deeply shadowed. At its end was a bank of elevators; Solo strode toward them. He stepped inside one that stood open with garbage cans lined outside it—apparently a maintenance elevator. They weren’t likely to be watching this one as closely as the others. He pressed the button marked “1”.

When the elevator bumped to a stop and the doors opened at ground level Solo stepped out, walking purposefully. He turned left, because that was as good a way to turn as any, and a little way down the hall he saw a red lettered exit sign marked Maintenance.

He strode to it, then paused, looking for a handle or button to open it. There was none. He felt a twist of. panic. If anyone should see him standing there searching the panels beside the door it would be obvious that he wasn’t a waiter, despite his uniform.

He reached out and ran his fingers quickly along the door jamb, trying to control his mounting tension. His finger brushed an inset plastic bar. It gave slightly under his touch. Exhaling, he pressed it harder, hearing the door-lock buzz. He shoved the door, pushing it open, feeling the chill of early morning air sweep in across his face.