[Whitman] - The Affair of the Gunrunners' Gold - Keith Brandon - Страница 19

Waverly interrupted.

"Stay where you are! Over and out!" Waverly touched levers on the console board.

"I want ten men," he snapped. "In two cars. Downstairs. Ready to go. I'll join them."

The answer crackled from the loudspeaker. "Yes, Chief."

"Colin Walker must be one of those ten men. Tell him to take all his equipment."

"Yes, Chief."

"And Dr. Blaine from the lab must be another of the men. He's to have all his equipment, too."

"Right, Chief."

"And send in Brad Randall. Right away. Hop to it!"

"Yessir."

Waverly clicked off.

In two minutes Brad Randall, breathless, in shirt sleeves, pushed through the door.

"Chief?"

Randall was a burly white-haired man, one of the inside executives.

"Take over in here," Waverly ordered.

"Right."

"I'm expecting word from Kuryakin. If it comes through, contact me immediately."

"Right."

"That's it, Brad. Take care of the store." Waverly hurried to the door.

"Chief," Randall called softly. Waverly turned.

"Take it easy, Chief. We're neither of us as young as we used to be."

Waverly smiled, nodded, waved, and went out.

O'Keefe and Johnson heard them coming, and when they entered the vault room there was quite a gang of them—eleven men, including Alexander Waverly. Doc Blaine was also among them, but most important, Colin Walker. Colin Walker was the most accomplished safecracker this side of Leavenworth Penitentiary. Colin Walker, an important U.N.C.L.E. agent, was a genius with safes, locks, and vaults. During the trip to lower Park Avenue Colin Walker had been briefed.

Now, immediately, he went to work. He used an instrument that looked like a doctor's stethoscope. Headset clamped to his ears, his left hand held the listening device pressed against the steel of the vault while his right hand slowly twisted and turned the dial. His face was like granite, rigid in concentration, as he listened and judged the inner clickings of the tumblers.

O'Keefe and Johnson stood directly behind him. The others were gathered in little groups—except Waverly. Alone, he paced up and down relentlessly, and he kept looking at his watch.

It took ten minutes. Even for a genius like Colin Walker, it took ten... long... minutes. Then, with a sigh, he grasped the handle and opened the vault door.

Instantly O'Keefe and Johnson rushed in—and came out slowly, carrying carefully between them the unconscious form of Napoleon Solo.

They laid him on the floor.

25. The Old Man Takes Charge

EXCITEMENT BUZZED through the group like a nest of wasps.

"Quiet!" roared Waverly.

The doctor was on his knees, the side of his head pressed against Solo's heart. When he looked up he was smiling.

"He's alive. He'll be all right, I'm sure. Please stand back, gentlemen." He looked toward Waverly. "My bag, please."

Waverly brought the little black bag. This time the doctor used his stethoscope. Johnson nudged O'Keefe and O'Keefe nodded. Doc Blaine's expression of concentration as he examined Solo was oddly similar to what had been Walker's expression as he had listened to the clicking of the tumblers.

The doctor snapped off the stethoscope and laid it aside.

"No damage. He'll be all right. Somebody help me, please."

Johnson knelt beside him. "What, Doc?"

"We'll take off his jacket, shirt, and tie."

They lifted the unconscious Solo to a sitting position, removed his jacket, shirt, and tie, and gently laid him back. The doctor swabbed Solo's arm with an antiseptic, then, using a hypodermic, injected a stimulant.

"He'll come around in a few moments."

Sure enough, in a few moments Solo's eyes fluttered. Color seeped back into his face and a tremulous sigh escaped his lips. Then suddenly his brown eyes opened wide. He stared, frowned—and suddenly remembered.

He saw the men gathered about him and focused on Alexander Waverly.

"Something—something happened to Illya."

He tried to get up. The doctor kept him sitting.

"Easy, Mr. Solo."

"I—I'm all right."

"How do you feel?"

"Thirsty."

"And a little bit weak? A little shaky?"

"No. Just thirsty."

"Somebody get him a glass of water." Somebody went out and returned with a glass of water, which Solo drank thirstily. Then he stood up. O'Keefe made an effort to support him, but Solo shook him off. "I'm okay."

"Kuryakin?" the Old Man asked.

"They shoved me into the vault. They had guns on me, three of them. They locked me in." He shuddered. "Murder in there. I couldn't get back to you, Chief—they stripped me of all my stuff, including the Communicator. But then I remembered my mouthpiece––the crazy walkie-talkie that connected me to Illya. I put it into operation and I did get through to him."

"Then why didn't he instantly report to me? I've had no word from him!"

"Please, sir."

"Yes. Forgive me," said the Old Man, silently rebuking himself for the impatient interruption.

"I got through to him," said Solo, "and he got back to me. He told me he was alone with Kenneth Craig."

"Where?"

"He didn't say where. He said that before reporting to you he had some preliminary remarks to make to Craig. It was an emergency, and he had to test him right then and there. Illya admitted to Craig that he was an U.N.C.L.E. man and that it was imperative that he, Illya, communicate with Headquarters. And right there he challenged Craig. If Craig was a double agent, then Craig could try to stop him. Naturally with this independent walkie-talkie system, I couldn't hear Craig, but I sure could hear Illya and he was thoroughly satisfied. I can tell you now that Kenneth Craig is no traitor, no double agent. He is one of us. He simply had no idea of the plotting going on around him."

"Wonderful," murmured Waverly. "Yes; then what happened?"

"Suddenly—silence. Something happened to them! I think somebody must have attacked them, overpowered them. I kept trying to get back to Illya. I got no answer. Just a sound—a sound of breathing. Then I passed out."

"A sound of breathing," the Old Man repeated thoughtfully. Then alertly he asked, "You're still wearing that earpiece, Mr. Solo?"

Solo grinned. "I couldn't take it out if I wanted to."

There was an excited murmur from the circle of U.N.C.L.E. men crowded about them.

"Do you hear anything now, Mr. Solo?" Solo held up his hand. A hush fell. He listened intently.

"A sound of breathing," he announced. "That means he still has his mouthpiece in operation," declared the Old Man. "It also means that he can't answer for one of two reasons. He's either bound and gagged or he's unconscious."

"Yes," said Solo.

Quickly the Old Man pulled his Communicator from a pocket and clicked it on.

"Waverly here. Brad? Over."

"Yes, Chief. Over." Randall's calm voice came through clearly.

"I'm at the Raymond and Langston Building. I want the scanning truck down here right away! And I want Phil Bankhead inside that truck!"

"Bankhead?" It came through like a shot—explosively. Brad Randall was finally excited. Phillip Bankhead was a major scientist, a professor—the man in charge of the Science Section of U.N.C.L.E. Professor Bankhead was not one to be traveling about in trucks. He had assistants for that purpose. "Did you say Bankhead? Over."