MFU Whitman - The Affair of the Gentle Saboteur (6 page)

"Yes."

"Is there still coffee?"

"Yes."

"Would you bring me a cup, please?"

"Certainly, Mr. Burrows."

In the kitchen she poured hot coffee into a mug and set it on a tray. She added a small pitcher of cream, a spoon, a container of sugar, and a napkin and carried the tray into the drawing room. She was troubled, hesitating to open the subject again, watching as he stirred cream and sugar in the cup. He sipped, then lit a cigarette. He sat at a table drinking the coffee, smoking. She remained standing.

"I don't quite understand, Mr. Burrows."

"What?" he said pleasantly, exhaling a cone of smoke.

"What you said before."

"Said before?"

"Now we must kill—not incidentally."

The dark eyes looked up at her. She felt dizzy, weak, pulled as though drowning in a sea of dark eyes. "You've a right to be informed, Miss Hunter. After all, all of us are cogs in the machinery. There must now be killings with a purpose. The boy, Kuryakin, and Solo."

"Oh, no!"

"Yes."

"But why? What possible purpose?"

The dark eyes remained fixed on her. "Stanley will be delivered, and Solo taken. You heard me on the telephone. Solo will be locked in with the other two."

"You told him it would be for an hour."

He sipped, smoked, looked back to her. "He will be placed in the room with the other two. The ventilation vents will be closed off. A cyanide pellet will be exploded in the room, injected through the slide-slot, the slot then instantly shut. Death will be quick, merciful, no suffering. Then we'll immediately take off—we four—in the helicopter."

The huge helicopter was there now, waiting, fueled and already packed with their things, on the wide private beach at the rear of the house. The house was a half-mile in from the road. The back had the beach and the ocean; the other three sides had paths, lawns, trees, sculptured gardens. The entire estate was surrounded by a high, iron, picket fence which, in an emergency, could be electrified.

"But why?" she asked again.

"Why what?" Angrily he pushed away the coffee mug; it tilted, then turned over, and the dregs of the coffee spilled. She brought a towel from the kitchen, wiped the table, and took the things away. When she came back he was standing, smiling, leaning against a baby grand piano, smoking a new cigarette. "I'm sorry," he said. His voice was back under control. The dark eyes were now narrow, wrinkled, amused. Softly he said, "What was it we were discussing, my dear?"

"Murder. Senseless murder."

"Murder must never be senseless. That, too, I'd advise you to repeat over and over again. Your second lesson for today."

"But to kill them?"

"Not senseless."

"Why not as you told him? An exchange. Stanley for them. Mr. Solo to be locked in with the other two for an hour. An hour. Two hours. Whatever. Wouldn't that provide our margin for safety?"

"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 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.

"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?"