[Whitman] - The Affair of the Gentle Saboteur - Keith Brandon - Страница 11

"What's the matter?" he said.

"It's cold. The air conditioning."

"Yes, the air conditioning," he said, and the dark eyes, narrow, smiling, grew crafty, and he uttered what now in the coldness she knew to be a warning, lecturing sternly, educating her. "We must kill as part of our work. The work of peace cannot always be peaceful. We are soldiers of peace in an army of peace, but we are soldiers. A soldier who defects is a traitor, and the penalty for treason is death. A soldier does not always like his duty, but he obeys orders and does his duty. If not, he is a traitor. There is much he does not understand because, above him, there is a grand plan." Burrows lit another cigarette. "In essence, here, in our own little company, you are a soldier, I am a colonel, Leslie Tudor is the general. I take orders from above, and you take orders from me, and neither of us questions the instructions. We are soldiers fighting in a cause."

"But isn't a soldier—without questioning the orders—allowed to ask questions?"

"Idiocy! I've been answering your questions, haven't I? I'm trying to give you—at this long last—an understanding."

"An understanding about murder?"

"You did not question me about murder. You questioned about senseless murder. I'm against murder, just as you are—against senseless murder. But don't you ever forget that our fight for peace is just that—a fight!—and in a fight people die."

"And those three must die?"

"But not senselessly. On the contrary, quite sensibly—because our own self-preservation is primary. Unless we do preserve ourselves, how can we continue our fight for peace? Sounds pretty—fight for peace––but there's another name to that game, more real but not as pretty; not a pretty little game with pretty little rules; there are no rules at all in that game."

"What game without rules?"

"War," he said. "The name of our game is 'war'."

"Even war has rules."

"Not this war; on our side there are no rules."

"What about the other side?"

"The deuce with the other side. Our concern is only with our side, us! That's lesson three for today, my dear. And now, if you please, I'm bored with giving lessons. Where's Leslie?"

"On the beach by the helicopter."

He clicked his heels, made a mock salute. "Should anybody want me—and nobody will except possibly you—I'm outside with General Tudor arranging the final details."

8. The Living Beacon

AT UNCLE headquarters Mr. Solo was being prepared, but with caution.

"Remember that," Waverly said. "Caution! You're young; I've known you to be foolhardy, to go to daring extremes. Don't!" They were in the Laboratory Room. Solo was being fitted out with his equipment, and they were waiting for what one of the lab technicians had called "your galvanized thick shake."

"Caution." Solo grinned. "Yes, sir."

"There are lives at stake, Mr. Solo—an innocent boy, your friend Kuryakin—so please, no heroics. Your job is to deliver Stanley and effect the return of our two. It sounds simple; it may not be as simple as it sounds. If it works out simply, well and good—don't push it. If not"—he shrugged—"we're arranging precautions. But essentially your job is to effect the exchange."

"Right," Solo said. "Anything else?"

The Old Man rubbed a finger along his jowls and his smile was small. "Well, if without risk––without any risk, mind you—if by chance—you'll be in the field, you know—if by chance and without risk you can find out anything about Leslie Tudor, we would, of course, appreciate that."

"Ready," a white-jacketed technician called. "Here you are, Mr. Solo." He brought a tall glass filled with a thick cream-colored mixture.

Solo made a face. "What's it taste like?"

"Good, as a matter of fact. We flavored it with vanilla syrup."

"Well, here goes." Solo gulped it down, grimacing.

"That bad?" the technician said, but his expression had gone sour in sympathy with Solo.

"Let's put it this way," Solo said. "If I sponsored it to replace malted milks, I'd go broke."

The technician laughed. "Well, it's down and that's what counts. You're ionized. From here on out you're a living beacon, electronically charged. For the next twenty-four hours you'll have these ions in your bloodstream. Harmless, but most effective. Listen." The technician went to a wall and touched the switch of an instrument. A sharp, penetrating screech filled the room.

Waverly put his hands to his ears. "Enough." The technician switched off the sound. "They'll be able to hear that, in the cars, within a hundred mile radius."

"What cars?" Solo asked.

"We'll go to my office now," Waverly said.

In the office, he sat behind his desk and lit his pipe. "The car's waiting upstairs. Nothing special, an ordinary Chevy. They'll bring Stanley out to you, and off you'll go. You'll follow Burrows' directions to the letter."

"How much does Stanley know?"

"That they have hostages, and he's being exchanged for them."

"Does he know who?"

"No."

"May I tell him?"

"For what purpose?"

"To prevent him from trying to make a break. If he knows who, he'll know how stupid he'd be to try to break."

"He's not quite the type, but yes, you may tell him; no reason why not."

"And if he does try to break?"

"Then you'll have to use your pistol, but low, not for a kill. You'll get him back to the car and proceed according to instructions. A wounded Stanley would be infinitely better than a dead one. Our object is rescue, not retribution. By the way, do you have your sunglasses? It's blistering out there."

"I have them."

Waverly opened a drawer of his desk, took out a pair of sunglasses, and handed them up to Solo. "For Stanley. To keep him comfortable. What's good for you is good for him. As long as we're doing what we're doing, we may as well do it properly right down the line. Now about those cars."

"Yes?" Solo said.

"There'll be five cars, ten agents, two in each car. They'll be all around you, at various distances, out of sight, of course. But they'll be able to judge just where you are by instruments, marking you by the electronic sound that emanates from you."

"Be careful," Solo said. "No interference. We really don't know how many of them there are; perhaps Stanley himself doesn't know. You said yourself there are lives at stake. That poor kid, and Illya..."

"A most careful man is in charge. McNabb."

"Excellent."

Waverly looked at his watch, then stood up. "You have all your equipment?"

"Everything."

"Good luck, Mr. Solo."

9. "A Crazy World"

SOLO DROVE. Stanley sat silently beside him. It was early, the city traffic was not heavy, and they crossed 59th Street bridge without misadventure. There, as Solo made the turn into a narrow one-way street leading toward the highway, he saw the car bearing down on him, going the wrong way on the one-way street. He jammed on his brake, veered, as did the other car; their collision was light, but their bumpers were firmly entangled.

Solo got out, wary, ready for a trick from THRUSH, but from the other car there emerged a squat, elderly woman, fat and perspiring and obviously frightened.