"The first is entirely innocent," said Illya. "The man simply has no knowledge of the operation and therefore has nothing to report."
"The second is terribly guilty," said Solo. "The man has full knowledge of the operation, is himself a member of T.H.RU.S.H., and is therefore a dangerous thorn in the side of U.N.C.L.E."
"Innocent or guilty?" Illya's face was alight with excitement.
"That shall be your job to find out, Mr. Kuryakin." The Old Man had recovered, his voice alert and resonant. "Gentlemen, our work is now twofold: to thwart T.H.R.U.S.H. in its six-million-dollar caper, and, far more important, to discover whether or not U.N.C.L.E. has a deadly serpent in its midst. Is U.N.C.L.E. harboring a Judas?"
"I'm glad that's his job," said Solo.
"Your job, Mr. Solo, will be to investigate Raymond and Langston. You will go—with the suit cases, as Harry Owens—to the armaments firm."
"Harry Owens." Solo winked at Illya. "That's me."
The Old Man opened a drawer of his desk, took out a leather-bound loose-leaf book, turned the pages slowly, finally stopped at a page, studied it, and murmured, "Evan Fairchild."
"Pardon?" said Illya.
"That's you. Evan Fairchild."
"Me, Tarzan," laughed Solo. "You, Evan, fair child."
A grim upward glance from the Old Man put down the ever-irrepressible spirits of the young men. Jocularity instantly ended.
"Evan Fairchild," said the Old Man, " a photo journalist from Scope, the picture magazine. Tomorrow morning, Mr. Kuryakin, you will go out to Westbury as Evan Fairchild. Your supposed job as Fairchild is to spend three days with the Parley Circus for a picture story. Your real job will be Kenneth Craig—is he one of us, or one of them? Do you understand, Mr. Kuryakin?"
"Yessir."
The Old Man closed the leather-bound book. "By morning you will have the necessary credentials, and the magazine will validate you in case of any inquiry." He looked toward Solo. "As for you, Mr. Harry Owens, your job, which will start at once, is to outflank and checkmate T.H.R.U.S.H.'s six-million-dollar maneuver." The Old Man sighed deeply. "Actually, gentlemen, you will be working together, hand in glove, the two jobs interweaving as one. And for that purpose, gentlemen, kindly go down to the lab now for the proper equipment."
"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.
Solo looked toward Langston. "Mister, if you trusted me with a hundred thousand in gold, doesn't it figure that I'd trust you with ten percent of that in cash?"
"Ah, wonderful people, wonderful people they send us from South America," cried Raymond. "Please, Mr. Owens. This way, please."
They led him out to the elevator and up to the next floor. There they showed him their sumptuous apartment.
"Beautiful," said Solo. "You've got a beautiful place here."
"It's where you're going to spend your next couple of weeks," squeaked Langston. "The two-week vacation you've been promised."
"Here?" said Solo, making his eyes round.
"The next-door apartment," boomed Raymond. "The one next to ours, and quite as lovely."
Impatiently Langston said, "We don't have the time now to explain everything, Mr. Owens. You and your large appetite for a man's meal—you've sort of delayed us."
"A quick outline before we go." Raymond smiled. "This place—our place of business—closes down at five o'clock. We've got to hurry now, Mr. Langston and myself, and you'll virtually be shut in." He laughed. "Give you a chance to rest and relax. We'll be back at about seven, and then we'll have a chance to be proper hosts for you. Take you out for a late dinner and an evening on the town. But we really are in a hurry now, Mr. Owens. Come, let me show you your apartment."
It was next door. It was quite posh—three rooms: parlor, bedroom, and kitchen.
"We must be off now," said Raymond. "You'll be locked in at five, but we'll let you out again at seven, and at that time we'll explain all the details to you. In the meantime, anything you wish you'll find right here. See you later, Mr. Owens."
Alone, Solo prowled his new domain. Cabinets and refrigerator were well stocked, but at the moment he was not interested in food. In the bedroom there was a walk-in closet, and as he inspected it he heard a murmur of voices. He pressed his ear against the far wall. It was thin and Solo knew it abutted upon the living room of the other apartment because, ear pressed, he could hear, quite clearly, Raymond and Langston conversing.
"We're already late for Westbury..."
That was Raymond's hearty boom.
"He delayed us." That was Langston's thin wail.
"Otis, my dear man, what do you expect? These aren't people of our own social status. They have their quirks. They're bold, baffling—common adventurers. But he delivered, and that's all we can ask of him, isn't it?"
"All right! Enough of Harry Owens. He delivered and we delivered to him. He's been paid. We've much more important matters to attend. Final arrangements. Now, Felix, move!"
"I'm ready. Who'll drive? Whose car?"
"Mine," declared Langston.
"So be it," said Raymond.
Then there were shuffling sounds and a door slammed. Then silence.
Solo retreated from the closet. Until five o'clock his activities were restricted. There wasn't a thing in the world he could do in furtherance of his duty. So he made himself a peanut-butter sandwich, washed it down with a glass of milk, took off his jacket, took off his shoes, opened his tie, and sprawled out on the bed in the bedroom, his mind teeming but his body resting.
10. First Report
ALTHOUGH HE could not make out particular sounds, he could feel the vibrations, the hum of activity, the faint, far-off thrum of business. But at five o'clock there was the beginning of cessation, bit by bit a deadening, and at five-thirty he was encased in a total, throbbing silence. Dead silence.
Solo got off the bed, put on his jacket, thought about putting on his shoes, and did not. In stocking feet, in the great silence of an empty building, he shuffled to the elevator and pressed the button for the basement.
He came out into a vast concrete room, a room that was certainly forbidden to the employees of the firm of Raymond and Langston, although even if one did venture here, what could he see? At one end a smelting plant, not, in truth, improper for an armaments business dealing, as it did, with steel and iron. At the other end of the concrete basement was a huge steel vault.
Solo bestowed a casual glance at the smelting plant but did not go near it. His present business was with the vault. Shoeless feet cold on the concrete floor, he walked to the vault and around it, carefully inspecting, and in the rear he found a spot suitable for his purposes. That section of the vault had an overhanging ledge.
From a pocket of his jacket he extracted the dial instrument Jenkins had given him. Inserting his hand deeply into the space, he attached the instrument by its suction cups to the underside of the ledge. He stood back for a view. Perfect. The dial instrument could not be seen. Now the electronic dial would turn and whirl in silence when and if the dial on the door of the vault was used; it would register the combination to open the vault.
Solo sighed in satisfaction. The first work of his adventure was accomplished. Now be took the Communicator from a pocket and gazed at it fondly. A marvelous scientific instrument. A direct communication to Headquarters, but on a revolving frequency that shifted second by second. Nobody in the world could overhear a conversation except those special persons equipped with an identical Communicator. He clicked it into operation, then spoke softly.
"Solo here, reporting. First report."
The Old Man's voice came through clear as a bell.
"Waverly here. Proceed with report. Over."
"I've been accepted as Owens. I'm alone in the building. Subjects have gone off to Westbury. I have attached the instrument to the vault. Neither the smelting plant nor the vault has been put to use yet. I'm down in the vault room, the basement. Any further instructions for the present? Over."
Waverly's chuckle crackled through the receiver.
"Were you paid your fee? Over."
"Ten thousand dollars in cash. How's Illya? Over."
"Validated by the magazine. He'll be off in the morning. They've made contact with the press relations man there. He'll be expected and welcomed. Over."
"Any further instructions for now? Over."
"Nothing. Play it by ear and report when convenient. So far, so good. Nice work. Over and out."
There was a click and then silence.
Solo went back to his apartment. He made him self a meal, ate, then stalked about impatiently. There was nothing to do, so he took off his clothes and went to bed.
11. An Evening Chore
AT SEVEN-FIFTEEN in the evening Solo heard a car scrape to a stop.
The sound came from the rear. He hurried out of the bedroom to the kitchen, where a window faced the rear. Standing taut at the side of the window, he looked down. It was an alley, wide and long. Some of the Raymond and Langston trucks were parked there. The rear would be the delivery entrance to the establishment. From a black sedan parked at the curb Otis Langston and Felix Raymond emerged and entered the building. Barefoot, Solo swiftly padded back to the bedroom and took position in the closet.
Finally he heard their voices faintly, coming from their living room. He entered the closet and pressed his ear to the far wall. Now he heard them more clearly, but there was not much to hear.
"Time now to take care of the delivery," Langston's thin voice piped.
"Yes," agreed Raymond's baritone.
"What about Owens?"
"Let's have a look."
Instantly Solo was out of the closet, closing the door. He leaped into the bed, pulled up the covers, and closed his eyes. Within a few minutes the men were in his bedroom. Solo snored.
"Asleep," whispered Raymond.
"Let's lock him in," whispered Langston. "For safety's sake. No sense his wandering around at this particular time."
"Right."
Napoleon Solo was displeased but could not voice his displeasure. Instead he snored angrily as the men left the room. Solo heard the key in the lock of the outside door and the turn of the lock. In a few moments he padded out and tried the knob. Locked. He returned to the bedroom and opened the closet door, so at least he would know when they came back to their apartment. Then—what else could he do?—he sprawled out on the bed and waited.
Felix Raymond and Otis Langston took the elevator to the second floor. There, in their office, they removed their jackets, ties, and shirts. Raymond opened the safe and pulled out the suitcases. Each carrying a suitcase, they went to the elevator and down to the basement. Langston locked the door while Raymond opened the suitcases.
MFU Whitman - The Affair of the Gunrunner's Gold Page 3