[Whitman] - The Affair of the Gunrunners' Gold - Keith Brandon. Страница 6

"What do we tell the lab boys?" asked Solo.

"I'll do the telling." The Old Man grinned. "Me Tarzan. You go."

Chuckling, the young men left the office, and at once Waverly flicked a key on the console board and informed the laboratory technicians of the circumstances and the requirements of the two U.N.C.L.E. agents who, from the moment they left the room, were already embarked on their perilous mission.

8. Tools of the Trade

"WELL, GREETINGS, Mr. Owens, Mr. Fairchild."

There was laughter and banter in the laboratory all through the serious work of providing Solo and Illya with new tools for their ever-changing assignments, but first their old tools were checked—their Communicators. Each, of course, carried his Communicator, the innocent-looking pen which was both sender and receiver.

Hank Jenkins, the electronics expert, was the man in charge. He refurbished the Communicators, cleaned them, adjusted them, put in new transistors, and returned each to its owner.

"Now, then," said Hank Jenkins, "we've got to set you guys up with a communications system of your own, a foolproof independent system between you—and what we've got for you is just what the doctor ordered."

And so Solo and Illya were introduced to the latest electronics marvel perfected by the U.N.C.L.E. scientists.

A lab dentist fitted each of them with a palate-plate similar to the bite-plate given to youngsters when they are undergoing dental orthodontia, except that these plastic bite-plates contained no pressure points to straighten teeth. Instead each was an ultrahigh-frequency transmitter, worn as a palate-plate in the mouth, and each palate-plate had a tiny spring which was to be clicked for the transmitter to go into action. Solo and Illya were given an opportunity to practice with their palate-plates, and then a lab doctor came to the fore.

With delicate surgical instruments the doctor inserted tiny, unseen earpieces into the right ear canal of each man.

"You guys can now be in independent communication within a thousand-mile radius," Jenkins informed them. "But kindly remember—the palate-plates and earpieces are not to be removed; they remain a permanent part of you until you're off this assignment."

For his particular job Solo was furnished with additional equipment. New shoelaces were put into his shoes, each shoelace an electric-current detector, and he was given an object which looked like a dial on a safe. He was fully instructed as to the use and purpose of these devices. Then he was given Harry Owens' passport, his own photo having been substituted for Owens', and he was given the two suitcases into which had been packed every item they had originally contained.

"Okay?" said Jenkins.

"What about the rest of Owens' papers?"

"Not only his papers," laughed Jenkins, "but every other item belonging to Owens including his clothes, which we've altered to your size. Get undressed."

While Solo changed, Illya capered about, making jokes.

"His time for fun but not for long," said Jenkins. "He's next—cameras and stuff—but for Evan Fairchild we've got until tomorrow morning. For you, my boy, it's now." And when Solo was dressed and ready, Jenkins said, "Up you go now, Mr. Owens, to the Old Man for your final briefing."

9. Solo Delivers the Goods

HARRY OWENS, carrying two heavy bags, passed from the bright sunshine of the street into the cool quiet of the Raymond and Langston showroom. A smiling salesman immediately approached him.

"May I help you, sir?"

"I should like to see Mr. Raymond. Or Mr. Langston."

"Oh, would you?" The smile disappeared.

"I would," said Solo.

"If you have something to sell, sir, the purchasing department—"

"I have nothing to sell."

The salesman sniffed. "Well, unless you have an appointment, I'm sorry, but—"

"My name is Owens. Harry Owens."

"Mr. Owens? Oh, yes, of course." There was a quick shift in the salesman's attitude, and he was smiling again. "Yes, Mr. Owens. They're expecting you. Would you come this way, please?"

Solo following, the salesman walked quickly to an elevator at the rear, then stood aside and let Solo enter before him. The salesman touched the button for the second floor and they ascended in silence. In the large waiting room the salesman said to the only occupant, a red-haired secretary, "Mr. Owens. To see Mr. Raymond. Or Mr. Langston. Or both. He's expected."

The secretary glared. "I know he's expected. Thank you."

The salesman sidled back to the elevator and disappeared.

The secretary stood up and said, "Please come with me, Mr. Owens."

She led him along a broad, carpeted corridor to a burnished, carved mahogany door. She knocked.

"Come in," said a deep voice.

She opened the door but did not go in.

"Mr. Owens," she announced.

"Yes, delighted," said the deep voice.

She permitted Solo to enter, closed the door behind him, and he was alone with two men.

"Ah, Mr. Owens," said the deep voice. "I'm Raymond, Felix Raymond." About fifty years of age, he was short, stout, with black crew-cut hair and black horn-rimmed glasses. He advanced upon Solo, hand outstretched. Solo put down the bags and shook hands with Felix Raymond. "Permit me," said Felix Raymond and waved toward the seated man now behind him. "My partner, Otis Langston."

It was an immense room, well furnished, with twin mahogany desks. Otis Langston stood up from one of the desks. About the same age as his partner, he was long, lean, lank, and bald, and he had a thin, piping voice.

"How do you do, Mr. Owens?"

Solo nodded. "Mr. Langston."

Langston looked at his watch. "We were getting worried about you."

"Why?" Solo said gruffly.

"We called the airport. Your flight arrived quite some time ago."

"A man has to eat," said Solo, pretending sullen ill-humor. "These planes from South America, they feed you ladylike. I am not a lady. I'm a man with a man's appetite. I was hungry. I stopped off to eat. Anything wrong with stopping off to eat? A real meal? A man's meal?"

Raymond's laughter boomed. "Well, I'll be switched! Oh, these wonderful people they send us from South America. Here's a man carrying a hundred thousand dollars in gold and he stops off to eat. A real meal. A man's meal. Well, good for you, Mr. Owens. Good for you." And he took up the suitcases, carried them to his desk, and opened them.

Solo watched with interest.

The dark, crew-cut Raymond was obviously the metals expert. He went to a huge safe in a corner of the room, opened it, took out instruments, cut through the veneer of the iron-plated articles in the suitcases, used a magnifying glass, used his instruments, inspected carefully, and was finally thoroughly satisfied.

"Very good, very good," he murmured. The bald Langston helped Raymond return the machinery parts to the suitcases. Raymond carried the suitcases to the safe, shoved them in, extracted a packet of money from the safe, and locked it.

"Ten thousand dollars," he said. "Your fee, Mr. Owens."

"Thank you." Solo pocketed the packet.

"Aren't you going to count it?" piped Langston.

Solo made a grin for Felix Raymond. "Your partner's the suspicious type, isn't he?"

"Yes, that he is," boomed Raymond.