The Corfu Affair - Phillifent John T.. Страница 15

"Enough." Lafarge was humble. "You must realize that in this business one has to be careful. There are secret formulae and techniques. And spies. And you do not look like a surgeon, or a technician."

"What do I look like, a Cossack?" Kuryakin did not say Cossack, but used an idiomatic equivalent that had such shocking associations that Gerda, who knew it, sucked in her breath in outrage. He swung his sword-like stare on her again.

"Does that shock you, polyak?"

Gerda cringed. In addition to her outrage, to be called Polish was too much, especially as she was and had worked hard to conceal the fact.

"I am not a Pole!" she denied shrilly.

"Then you must learn not to neigh like one. Have you any more little tricks to perform?"

She glared at him, compressed her thin lips, ducked her head at Lafarge, then scuttled out, shutting the door after her. The managing-director of St. Denis Surgery-Cosmetique made haste to repair the damage in relations.

"Please banish the whole unfortunate incident from your mind, my dear M. Krasnin. It was terribly gauche. I apologize. Now, which particular field of cosmetic surgery are you interested in?"

They talked generalities for a time, but Kuryakin was still on his guard. Lafarge was no fool. It was instructive to see how his expression tightened at the mention of skull and head surgery.

"I cannot speak on that section, M. Krasnin. Madame la Comtesse is the expert on that. No doubt you will have the opportunity to speak to her in person sometime soon. Now, perhaps you would like to see round the laboratories and surgeries? Good!" He touched an intercom and spoke briefly, then rose. "Yvette will show you the way. Our chief surgeon awaits you. I think you will be impressed, M. Krasnin."

With the visitor departed, Lafarge settled back in his seat to think. Illegal surgery is not the most active market in the world. A pipeline from Russia could easily bring in a flow of patients. Profits. Madame la Comtesse would be pleased! M. Lafarge was beginning to smile to himself as his banished guest came from the far room and stood staring down at him.

"You know who that character was you just entertained?"

"Of course. M. Boris Krasnin, of Tashkent—" Lafarge let the words die into uneasy silence at his very important visitor's headshake. "No?"

"Definitely not, my friend. That repulsive and scruffy character was none other than Illya Kuryakin. An U.N.C.L.E. agent. One of their best."

"You are sure of this?"

"Absolutely positive."

Lafarge seemed to shrink. "An U.N.C.L.E. agent, here? What could he want? What can they suspect? There will be a raid!"

"Take it easy, now, Louis. He's on his own, a loner. I know his ways very well. When you're working a charade like that you have to do it alone, to cut down the chances of a slipup. As for what he's after, that doesn't matter much, not now."

"But it does! It matters a great deal!" Lafarge grew excited. "We do not want trouble, not that kind. We avoid publicity, always. He must be stopped. Eliminated!" A he reached for his intercom once more.

"Hold it right there! You say you don't want publicity, and I can understand that, but if you send some of your boys to tangle with him you'll get publicity that will turn your hair white overnight. He doesn't stop easy. I know him that well. He is very good—or very bad—depending on your point of view."

"Then what shall I do? I do not want U.N.C.L.E. agents here!"

"Don't worry about a thing. You have the address of his hotel? All right, just treat him nice and let him go back there. I'll take charge from that point. You just leave it all to me. I can handle him!" And Napoleon Solo grinned evilly down at Lafarge. "Oh yes." he said confidently, "I know his ways. I can handle him!"

It was late that same afternoon as Illya Kuryakin shut the door of his hotel room after him and leaned on it wearily. He was thankful to be able to relax for the first time in many hours. His encounter with chief surgeons and technicians had gone very well but it had been a strain, and he was not looking forward to maintaining the pretence very much longer. He would have to find what he was looking for quickly. Just now, though, all he wanted was a rest. He glanced round the large barn-like room he had acquired, and liked it. As in so many of the old, large, expensive Paris hotels, this very top suite, called the chambre de courier, was an awkward and misshapen afterthought, but it had a certain charm, and a truly magnificent view.

He crossed to the window to study the far-stretching roofscape. Rising out of it like some fantastic island stood the gilt-wreathed dome of the Invalides. Up here, high above the luxury level, one felt like a beggar at the gates of a great city, in it but not quite of it. The feeling suited him very well. He shrugged off his jacket, moved to the bed, paused a moment to admire its brass-bound massiveness, then heaved up and stretched out on it, kicking off his boots and wriggling deep into the white counterpane. An idle moment like this was a rare treat and he savored this one as far as he could stretch it. Then, sighing, he got out his communicator and flicked it into action with a practiced finger.

"Overseas relay," he requested, and traced the impossible outline of a flower on the wallpaper while he waited for the link.

"Is that you, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Yes, sir. No snags so far. The managing-director and technical staff of St. Denis seem to have accepted me, after a bit of preliminary suspicion. I've had a general look over their facilities."

"Good beginning. Don't try to rush it."

"Couldn't if I want to. Their facilities are really extensive, and first class. There was a lot I didn't see, and some that called for explanations that I didn't get. They have four highly qualified embryologists on the staff, for one thing."

"Indeed! But you saw nothing to account for the theft of the communication modules?"

"No, sir. They'd be easy to hide, and impossible to detect unless one was in use. Anything new from Napoleon, on the Corfu end?"

"Hmm!" Waverly sounded peevish all at once. "News, you say? I have had reports, of a kind. The last I had was three days ago, from Turin."

"Turin? What on earth was he doing there?"

"I wish I could tell you. All he would say was that he was on the trail of something important but with no time to tell me what. It is most irritating!"

Kuryakin grinned as he shut off his instrument. Waverly was sparing with emotive words. For him to describe a situation as irritating was the equivalent of a string of lurid curses from anyone else. And, to be sure, Napoleon's behavior was curious. He had been staring absently at his little communicator for some seconds before he noted something highly significant about it. Right on the pencil-type tip a tiny neon glowed faintly. Just before leaving U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, Section Three had presented him with this modified communicator. Jeremy Cronshaw, the technician working on the problem, had explained: "If you're anywhere within a half mile of one of those modules, if it's in use, you'll get a glow from the lamp. It's not directional, I'm sorry, but at least it'll tell you if you're warm."

And he was warm now. Unfortunately, half a mile was quite a lot of ground to cover. He lay quite still on the bed, warm in the blood-red glow of the setting sun, and wondered what was the best thing to do; indeed, if there was anything effective he could do. And, in the hushed silence, he heard a faint but unmistakable click from behind a door he had not as yet opened.