[Magazine 1966-­08] - The Cat and Mouse Affair - Davis Robert Hart. Страница 20

The new voice came not from behind Illya where the door was, but from his right. A fine, cultured voice.

"Alas, how true, Mr. Kuryakin. A new government, and I could not allow that. You are right, and how unfortunate for you!"

Illya began to turn.

"Drop the weapon, please, Mr. Kuryakin."

Illya dropped his Special and turned toward the voice. There were five men standing in front of a secret passage into the room. Four of them were black-clad soldiers. The fifth smiled at Illya Kuryakin.

* * *

Solo entered the mansion of O'Hara as silently as a snake. The boyish agent crossed the large living room to the bookcase. He pressed the secret button. The bookcase opened. Solo went inside and the bookcase closed behind him.

The girl agent at the desk smiled at him.

"We thought you had left, Mr. Solo."

Solo looked around quickly. "Er, yes, I did leave, but I came back. May I have my badge?"

The girl handed him his badge. Then she tensed as if sensing something.

"Does Mr. O'Hara expect you?"

"I doubt it," Solo said pleasantly.

The girl reached for the pistol in the holster behind her back. It was the correct procedure for a field headquarters—no one entered U.N.C.L.E. Field Headquarters anywhere in the world without the written consent of the agent-in-charge, or without the agent-in-charge having notified the reception desk of the arrival. No one, not even Mr. Waverly or any other member of Section I!

The girl acted as she had been trained—but she had made the error of not acting at once, lulled by her acquaintance with Napoleon Solo.

Solo caught her as gently as he could, pressed the spot on her neck, and she slumped in his arms. He returned her to her chair. He hurried down the small corridor. The alarm system passed him, of course, since he was wearing the badge the girl had so carelessly given him. He reached O'Hara's office. The TV camera scanned him—and O'Hara made the same error. The door opened.

O'Hara looked up and saw Solo standing there with his U.NL.C.L.E. Special aimed straight at O'Hara. The Zambalan chief-agent blinked, opened his mouth, and then started to reach for a button.

"Ah, ah!" Solo said. "No, O'Hara, don't. I would be forced to put you to sleep and ask my questions in private with pentathol."

O'Hara moved his hand away. "Questions? Have you gone mad, Napoleon?"

"Maybe. But I don't think so."

O'Hara blinked. "You came back? I—What's up? What do you mean with that gun?"

"If I'm wrong, O'Hara, I might apologize. But it is clear now that there was no coup, no attempt at revolt, no assassinations or attempts. It was all a put-up job by Premier Roy. But not the premier alone. Someone else in Zambala is behind it, and that someone knew, and knows, who Illya and I are!"

"A put-up job? No coup? Someone else?"

O'Hara stared at Solo as if either he or Solo had lost his mind. The chief-agent seemed to sit there at his desk totally paralyzed. Twice he stopped. He seemed to be staring at Solo's pistol.

"You were the only person in Zambala who knew who we were!" Solo said. "No one else knew U.N.C.L.E. existed in Zambala! Unless you told someone."

Solo watched the chief-agent-in-Zambala. Only twice before in U.N.C.L.E. history had an agent at any level turned traitor for any reason. Once the unfortunate man had lost his mind. The second time was the case of the woman in Personnel, Section V, who had been a planted THRUSH agent. Never had anyone above Section III been suspected—and O'Hara was Section II!

"Knew? No one knew! No one outside myself and two agents in this office, communications and reception, could have known! It is not possible! I told no one at all except perhaps -"

O'Hara stopped. Napoleon Solo froze. For a full fifteen seconds the two men stared at each other. It was O'Hara who spoke.

"Except Carlos Ramirez! The night you reported the connection between Colonel Brown and Zamyatta that you had found at Jezzi Mahal's beach house. I told Ramirez!"

Solo turned without a word and ran out of O'Hara's office.

He ran down the corridor where the other agents had found the receptionist and were waiting with guns drawn.

"No! Let him pass!" O'Hara shouted, strapping on his gun, running after Solo.

Carlos Ramirez smiled at Illya Kuryakin. The tall, white-haired old poet leaned on his cane and smiled sadly at the blond agent. Illya could not take his eyes off the distinguished face of the old poet and patriot.

"You!" Illya said.

The old man shrugged, his austere face suddenly going hard, twisted. "Me! Yes, the old poet! Why is it that you idealistic young men must think that because a man is a poet he must also be a fool? Mao-Tse-Tung is a poet, a great poet, perhaps better than I! Then why should not a Western poet be also a practical man of politics, and power, and profit!"

"Poet and patriot," Illya said.

The old man laughed. "Patriot? The last refuge of a scoundrel, Mr. Kuryakin. But in my case, being a patriot means being a Zambalan. I want the best for my country—and the best is that I run the country behind the figure of the Lion of Zambala! It is my country!"

The fine and noble old face twisted into a mask of sudden hate. "My country, and my power! Where do you think a man gets his power, Mr. Kuryakin? From his money and his influence! I own many companies. I am the man who gets the loans from abroad. I sell the guns, Mr. Kuryakin, and the means of defense! If they all stop fighting, if there is no crisis in Zambala, if the great powers are not worried, then where do I get my power?"

The old man laughed. "For me to remain powerful, I must have them against each other. I must have a crisis all the time. Zamyatta was going to pardon Steng! Julio Brown wanted peace in Zambala! The lion and the lamb were to lie down and work out the future without strife! I could not have that. No, in another few years Steng could have laid down his arms, Zamyatta could win an election, Colonel Brown could have made friends and peace.

"Could I allow that, Mr. Kuryakin? No! Why, in a really independent and free Zambala, who knows what the people might learn of how I live, and how much the Lion of Zambala and myself owe to the, shall we say, contributions of certain foreign companies? Zambala belongs to those companies, and to me! I intend to keep it despite the childish dreams of Zamyattas and Colonel Browns and Max Stengs!"

All the while the old man had been speaking, Illya had watched them all. The old man was clearly half mad. But the others, the tall premier, the woman, the dark Bengali, they all had a stake in keeping Zambala in crisis. The soldiers in black showed only that they were loyal to Ramirez. Now the old poet saw Illya carefully watching. He smiled.

"Ah, you are always alert, Mr. Kuryakin. I like that. When O'Hara told me who you were, I knew we had to act faster than we had intended. Who knows what might have happened if you had had too much time to think after your visit to Brown. Still, Bengali was very stupid. Sergeant!"

The old man waved his cane once and snapped the word, "Sergeant!" The sergeant fired a burst from his submachine gun. Ahmed Bengali was hurled backwards and lay dead in a pool of blood.

"I dislike bunglers," Carlos Ramirez said. "Bring him!"

The old poet turned and stalked from the room, leaning heavily on his cane. The soldiers prodded Illya Kuryakin.

The blond agent marched out with M.M. Roy and the woman behind him.

FOUR

The old poet led the way down a narrow flight of hidden stairs behind the walls of the old palace. They seemed to go down for some time, but Illya realized that they were only going at an angle behind the walls. At last they came out into a large room that was lined with stone walls.