[The Girl From UNCLE 01] - The Global Globules Affair - Latter Simon - Страница 3

Mr. Waverly did in fact think highly of young Kovac and knew exactly what his new member thought and how he felt. But an U.N.C.L.E. agent has to have far more than resourcefulness and inspired guesswork. Mr. Waverly admired Randy's initiative in making opportunities for escaping from his job as messenger in Section One, or from the Map Room, to get into the more exciting departments. U.N.C.L.E. encouraged initiative in its members, but overenthusiastic juniors had to be gently curbed and carefully directed.

Randy Kovac had those failings of youth, but he also had a large amount of commonsense and knew very well that his learning had scarcely begun. This didn't prevent him from stepping outside his routine tasks whenever he could see or make the chance. He admired Napoleon Solo, held Illya Kuryakin in high esteem, and sincerely respected Mr. Waverly. But Mark Slate was a special object of reverence to him.

Mark—that brilliant "export" from London Headquarters. A Cambridge graduate with honors, ex-R.A.F. veteran, former member of the British Olympic Ski Team, expert at judo, karate, and a dead shot. Fluent in a dozen languages and yet a buccaneering gallant with unbounded zest for modern life and living. Randy Kovac had only to think of Mark Slate to know exactly how much more he had to learn.

He wasn't jealous of Mark Slate, even though his hero was April Dancer's partner. Which showed how emotionally balanced he was—for in April Dancer there dwelt all that Randy, the man, could desire in a woman. And what a woman! Young, beautiful, talented—a graduate of a good New England girls' college, daughter of service folk who had traveled with her all over the world.

Randy often sneaked into personnel files just to gaze there on the assorted pictures of lovely April and to read all he could decipher of her background. She also was fluent in a dozen languages, as expert as any man in judo and karate or with her U.N.C.L.E. gun. But her record showed that she preferred not to kill and seldom used her weapon or her knowledge of karate for any means but to save another agent's life. She constantly faced danger, yet emerged unscathed, possessing intuitive reactions as well as vast experience for one so young, and an unbreakable nerve.

Reading such a record would scare off many an admirer, but Randy knew also about April Dancer the golfer, horse rider, trap-shooter (and crap shooter as a matter of fact); the April Dancer who could fly a plane and for relaxation had beaten men drivers at their own sports car races. Yet no lady was more lovely when gowned for graceful ballet or ballroom dancing, or even the more virile dances of the frug and the pachanga. Those were the things she did. For Randy Kovac, she would have been top of every pop by just being herself around town—but those other assets lifted her to glorious heights in his esteem.

Small wonder, then, that any official U.N.C.L.E. business involving April Dancer and Mark Slate made Randy Kovac work thrice as hard to play a more active part in the many routines and actions followed through at Headquarters.

A general assignment agent such as April Dancer usually followed direction from Headquarters, but in U.N.C.L.E.'S endless battle against the forces of destruction an agent did, at times, notice some odd pointer when in the field. Such agents' training, experience and natural resourcefulness helped them always to link the improbable with the possible. Their knowledge of world affairs helped them to recognize agents of opposing factions and leaders of groups who held views harmful to the national security, or individual scientists and others whose activities were suspect.

Mr. Waverly never laughed at such reports from his experienced and trusted agents—and of all mirth-provoking reports, this latest one from April Dancer, concerning "chicks in armor" and paper money that melted, was a beaut.

But once again that intuitive sense which all agents must have had linked together apparently absurd incidents, and in this linking set into operation the powerful undercover machine of U.N.C.L.E.

The "obbo" men and women—the passive man-in-the-street observation agents of U.N.C.L.E.—were alerted. Slowly the reports came in, were tabulated and assessed. No pattern emerged, but the pointers were there.

April Dancer had not made a joke.

CHAPTER TWO: WATCH IT - LOVER BOY!

THE powder room was obligingly empty. April Dancer jammed the door, opened her purse, extracted compact and U.N.C.L.E. communicator, manipulated both. The compact mirror became a miniature TV screen and the head and shoulders of the London H.Q. contact appeared.

"Hi, April! Fine reception."

"I'm on the Post Office Tower—couldn't have a better spot. Did you pick up the money package from my hotel?"

"Yes, working on it now. It'll take time—but preliminary check shows presence of two substances. One dissolves ink, the other works on the fibers found in banknote paper. You may be on to something."

"You bet your life I'm on to something. This could be global. Have you contacted the British Treasury?"

"Mr. Waverly and Washington have done so. There'll be no press leakage. It's classified."

"I should hope so. Just remember that's my cash—I want a refund in real money. Forty-two pounds."

He smiled gently. "We made it about thirty."

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"No, Miss Dancer. I'll send it to your hotel."

"Do that. Inform Mr. Waverly that I'm lunching with Dr. Karadin."

"Will do. Mr. Waverly suggests caution. He feels that a tail might be better at this stage."

"I'm sorry—I can't hear you."

"No." He smiled again. "I thought you couldn't. Sama Paru in Paris reports a possible money-melting incident in the Rue Rivoli but cannot confirm. Count Kazan is in Monte Carlo."

"He would be! So?"

"No money incidents, but a number of models wearing metal-type dresses have been seen. Local opinion is that they are an advertising gimmick."

Somebody turned the powder room door. April heard a woman's voice say, "It seems to be locked."

"Over and out," she said quickly. "Keep my channel open." She closed the compact and manipulated certain of the articles on her charm bracelet. "Mark Slate—hear me. I shall lunch with Karadin. Don't interrupt but look for signal. Saw you in bar on my way through. One of your old chums—the red-haired one—looks very much like a THRUSH agent I knew of in Germany—so watch it, lover boy! Out."

She un-jammed the door, smiling sweetly at the women outside. "Oh! I'm so sorry—it sort of got itself stuck. Pardon me." She stepped around them and walked to the restaurant, passing the bar on the way.

Mark Slate, two other men and a small, vivacious girl with a large bosom and a pretty-pretty face were at a table. The girl seemed to have known Slate a long time. "At least ten minutes," April thought nastily. "So that's Suzanne Karadin! She's sure enough grown since I last saw her."

Mark Slate glanced up, saw April and raised one hand casually to his ear to signify that her message had been received through his ear radio; otherwise he made no recognition.

Dr. Karadin came forward to meet her.

"Our table is ready."

April thought—he must have seen me glance in the bar. He must know I saw Suzanne. Likewise he must know she is there, because he'd see her when he came by. A cold feather flickered in her tummy. A silly way to describe one of her inexpiable warning systems. Sometimes it happened to the nape of her neck. A serious warning feathered cold ripples up her spine. She never denied these feelings. They were like radar to her. Many people have similar signs when unseen danger threatens them. To those who live constantly with danger, this "radar" becomes a highly tuned mechanism.