MFU Whitman - The Affair of the Gentle Saboteur Read online

  "One hour would be enough."

  "Then why?"

  "We all learn. Even I. We're never too old to learn, not one of us. Just as you're learning today from me, so have I learned from Leslie Tudor. Passion for anonymity. That's not just some stock remark. That's not a bright saying made for the purpose of sounding clever. It has depth, meaning, merit. Anonymity—that's why Albert Stanley was chosen for this job. It has made him unique—his great capacity to blend, to be another blade of grass in an orchard, another tree in a forest, another grain of sand in a desert, to be anonymous, unknown, an unrecognizable part of the whole. Somehow his anonymity failed him; somehow he was recognized; and that made the rest of it easy for them. We don't have to be geniuses to know that. He was recognized, followed, caught in the act doing his work, apprehended. The point is, he was recognized! That resulted in our failure and Leslie's bitter disappointment."

  "What's that to do with this?"

  "What?" There was annoyance again in Burrows' voice.

  "With murder, cold-blooded murder?"

  "Anonymity. Not to be recognized. It is a form of self-preservation––even for you, my dear. You are a part of a secret organization, but always remember: Secret is the key word for your very own protection and self-preservation." He moved away from the piano and crushed out his cigarette in an ashtray. "Kuryakin and young Winfield have seen you and have seen me; alive, they can recognize us in the future. No good. Solo has seen Stanley, and he will see me; alive, he can recognize us in the future. No good. The fewer from their side that see and know and can recognize, the safer it is for those of us on our side. Not senseless murder, my dear, not at all."

  She shivered. She knew now, finally, what her "cause" had led her into. Up to now she had been an amateur, mouthing words, thinking in abstractions, marching with the students in London, going limp and being carried off into the police vans, shouting deliriously with the others, "Down with the Bomb! Fallout is Failure! We want a Future! Better Red than Dead! Peace! Peace!" And so, with soft words and hard words, she had been recruited to THRUSH, and the hard words were attributed to the enemy, and the soft words had been the words of THRUSH. So she had been won, and had believed, and had even believed that the destruction of the shrines here in America were but steps toward peace. Peace! This was not peace. They had won her, experts had lectured her, and so she had gone with them now on her first endeavor—a professional for peace. Peace! This was not peace! This was crime! And she began to understand. Caught with crime, involved with crime, crime upon crime, there could not be a turning back. These were the professionals using the slogan of peace for the purpose of their professionalism; she was now one of them, a professional, already caught in crime; she had been won to the "cause" by the soft words and was hearing now from Burrows the new words, the hard words from this side, the truth. And she shivered again, crossing her arms, her fingernails pinching her skin.

  "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 h
im?"

  "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.

  "Gee whiz, mister, my fault," she said, "my fault entirely."

  "Yes, ma'am," Solo said, keeping an eye on Stanley.

  "I got onto this one-way street just by the other corner. Like before I knew it, I was on this one-way street. Figured I'd go the one block and get off and then, boom, there you were."

  "Yes, there I was, wasn't I?" Solo smiled. This was no trick of THRUSH.

  "Gee whiz, I sure hope there's no damage, mister."

  "Doesn't seem to be. I'll just have to pry us apart."

  "I mean, I hope you won't sue me. I'll pay you right here for any damage. I've got some cash on me; if it's not enough, I'll write you a check. You can have my name and address from my license. Anything you say. The thing is—my husband."

  "Your husband?" Solo inquired.

  "He always ribs me that I'm a lousy driver. Maybe I am, but you don't like it your husband always ribbing you you're a lousy driver. When I get a ticket, I don't care; I pay it and my husband, he don't know about it. But if I get sued, a lawsuit, he has to know—because the car is in his name. You know?"

  "Sure," Solo said. "Don't worry, ma'am. There's hardly any damage at all, as you can see. No damage, no payment, no lawsuit. And now if I can get us unhooked—"

  "You are a gentleman and a scholar." The fat lady smiled with big white teeth. "And also very handsome, if I may say."

  "Thank you, ma'am."

  He went to the locked cars, the woman toddling with him. Her bumper was over his, and her car was heavy. He pulled at the bumpers to no avail; he could not dislodge them. Perhaps he should ask Stanley for help. No, better to keep him sitting where he was. He tried again, knowing the strength of one man was not enough; he would have to use the jack from the rear compartment of his car. Then he heard the woman whispering behind him: "Oh, no! We got company. Just my luck."

  He looked up. A police patrol car was rolling to a stop behind his car. One of the policemen got out and strolled toward them slowly. He was heavy-set and red-faced, gray hair showing beneath the sides of his visored cap.

  "Well, what have we got here?" he said in a gravelly voice.

  "Bumpers caught," Solo said. "Would you give me a hand, please, Officer?"

  The policeman disregarded him. He looked from one car to the other, then pointed to the one obviously at fault.

  "Who owns this heap?"

  "Me," the lady said.

  "What are you doing wrong way on a one- way?"

  "I made a mistake," she said lamely.

  The policeman puffed up his cheeks, blowing out a sigh. "Just a little mistake, hey? You got a driver's license, by any chance?"

  "Sure."

  "Okay, let's have it."

  She took her handbag from her car, and from the handbag produced her license. The police man read it slowly.

  "You Rebecca Brisbane?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Do you own this heap?"

  "No, sir. My husband."

  "Where's the registration?"

  "Right here, sir."

  She gave him the certificate of registration. He studied it carefully, compared it with the license plate of her car, sighed again, took out his book, and laboriously wrote out the summons. Solo wanted to hurry him but didn't dare. This policeman, positively, wasn't in a pleasant mood, or, simply, he wasn't a pleasant man.

  "Okay, Rebecca," the policeman said. "Wrong way on a one-way, that's a violation. You could have killed this gentleman. You know?"

  "Oh, I know. This is one ticket I deserve."

  For the first time the policeman smiled. He gave her the ticket, the driver's license, and the certificate of registration, and Rebecca returned her possessions to her handbag. Solo fidgeted in the morning sunshine, watching Stanley. Stanley sat uncurious, immobile, disregarding them.

  "Now you get back in your car, Rebecca," the policeman said, "and we'll get you loosened up." He put away his summons book and his pen. "You and me ought to be able to manage it, young fella."

  They went together to the entangled bumpers. Solo opened his jacket. They wedged their hands beneath the bumper of Rebecca's car. "When I say heave, we'll heave," the policeman said. "One—two—three—heave!" The bumpers became disengaged. "Okay," the policeman called to Rebecca. "Put her in reverse and back up—slow."

  Rebecca obeyed. Grindingly her car moved away from Solo's.

  "Okay, keep going like that," the policeman called. "Back up to the corner and go your way."

  Solo watched until the car disappeared around the corner, turned to thank the policeman—and found himself facing a leveled gun!

  "What in the world—"

  "Easy does it, young fella. Into the prowl car. Move."

  "But—"

  "You heard me! In the prowl car. Now move!" The man in the passenger seat of the police patrol car was a sergeant with a gold badge. Rigidly, observing intently, he watched as Solo, under the policeman's direction, entered the car from the driver's side. Then the policeman got in, slammed the door, and Solo was wedged between them, the muzzle of the policeman's gun a sharp warning thrust into his ribs. Solo could see Stanley in the car in front. Stanley was sitting motionless. If this were some complicated deception engineered by THRUSH, then by now Stanley should be out and running. Or was it a deathtrap? He was helpless, wedged between them, the muzzle of the gun tight in his side.

  "What's up?" the sergeant said.

  "This baby's got a gun on him, that's what's up. He had his jacket open when we were working on them cars. He's wearing a shoulder holster."

  "Yes?" the sergeant said.

  Solo breathed deep in relief. No deathtrap. Proper police work. But now it became a matter of time. Enough time had been wasted. He had an important appointment, but he was not at liberty to divulge it. "Yes," he said.

  The sergeant slipped a h
and beneath Solo's jacket, opened the holster, and drew out the pistol.

  "You got a permit for this firearm, mister?"

  "Yes, but not with me."

  Aside from his driver's license there was very little in the way of identification he did have with him. On this kind of job, the fewer papers that could fall into the hands of THRUSH the better.

  "Why not with you?" the sergeant said.

  "It's hard to explain."

  "Well, try."

  "I'm on official business. That man up there in my car is a prisoner. I'd appreciate it if you kept an eye on him."

  "We're keeping an eye on him," the policeman on Solo's left said. "Just let him make a move and you'll see. But we are also keeping an eye on you, buster."

  The sergeant asked, "Any proof of this official business?"

  "I'm sorry; no."

  "What's your name?"

  "Solo. Napoleon Solo."

  "What kind of official business?"

  "I'm sorry, but I can't tell you."

  "By any chance, if I may ask—you got a driver's license, Mr. Solo?"

  There were two guns on him now: the police man's, and his own in the sergeant's hand. He moved gingerly getting out his driver's license. The sergeant inspected it and returned it.

  "I'm afraid we're going to have to take you in, Mr. Solo. You and that guy up there—your prisoner, you say."

  "No," Solo said.

  The sergeant had a calm, level voice. "Could be you're telling the truth; these are crazy times we're living in. In that case, can you blame me? You're a guy with a gun and no permit. You say you're some kind of law enforcement officer on business. Could be. But you got no proof for us. So we got to take you in, don't we? At least until that proof is furnished?"

  "Yes," Solo said. "But no."

  "You're losing me, mister." Exasperation put a flush on the sergeant's face. "Yes—but no. What kind of an answer is that?"

  Solo sighed. "Yes—because you're right. Certainly, logically, of course you'd have to take me in. No—because it's a matter of time. I'm on an urgent mission and time is of the essence."