MFU Whitman - The Affair of the Gunrunner's Gold

by Brandon Keith

  "But how can you be so certain?"

  "John, I've been in tight spots before; I've had long experience. U.N.C.L.E. isn't crazy. If contact had been made, they'd have stopped us. They'd have had people all around us. They wouldn't give us a gift of six million dollars, would they? Quite simple, my dear man, they wouldn't let us pick up our gold and go away with it. You can bet they wouldn't!"

  Langston spoke up. "But they're on to something!"

  "Oh, I quite agree," boomed Raymond. "From somewhere they learned something, but not too much. They got a little angle on something, and were trying to learn more."

  "Angle?" queried Parley, arching one eyebrow. "From where? From whom?"

  "An information leak from one of the idiots in South America."

  "Yeah." Tito grinned. "Plenty of wild idiots down there among the crazy Communists."

  "Anyway, they were scouting their information to find out if there was anything to it. They put a man on Harry Owens, and they sent a man out here. The guy on Owens either killed or captured him, took his papers and suitcases, changed the picture on the passport, and came to us as Owens. The other guy came to you as a reporter from Scope. But your guy didn't get through to his headquarters, did he, John?"

  "Definitely not."

  "And neither did our guy, for reasons already stated." Raymond sighed. "I'm not saying I'm happy about the situation but I am saying we've been lucky, and we've got time to clear out. Now, John..."

  "Yessir?"

  "With Craig out of action, who's going to handle the lions in the cage while we fill up the false bottoms of the feeding troughs in the wagon?"

  "His daughter."

  "Daughter!"

  "A youngster, but she can handle the animals almost as well as her father."

  "Where is she?"

  Parley smiled. "Resting. Taking a nap. I told her she was going to handle the lions this evening. I told her I had given her father the evening off to go out with his new friend Evan Fairchild." Parley laughed. "He sure is out with his friend Evan Fairchild."

  "I repeat, where is she?"

  "In a nearby cabin. Brian Powell's."

  "Who's Powell?"

  "My right hand, my first assistant—and also the public relations man for the circus. As a matter of fact, he's out there now, in charge of the dismantling and packing. But they've started way off on the other side—far away from the lions' wagon."

  "Does your Mr. Powell know anything about this?"

  "Nothing."

  "What reason did you give him for this sudden moving of the circus?"

  "Orders from the home office."

  "Good work, John."

  "Thank you."

  "And now, if you please...."

  "Sir?"

  "Get her!"

  John Parley gently shook Candy until she came awake.

  "Oh? Already?" She sat up and looked at her watch.

  "No," Parley said. "Another thing. A nuisance, but necessary."

  She stood up, stretched, yawned. "Be happy to do whatever I can."

  "A sudden visit from health inspectors. Now they want to see the lions' wagon, their food, their feeding troughs. Somebody's got to take the lions out of the wagon and into the outdoor cage while the inspectors poke around in the wagon. I wish your father were here. I hate to trouble you with this."

  "No trouble at all, Mr. Parley."

  Parley accompanied Candy to the cage, while Raymond, Langston, and Tito brought the truck up to the rear of the yellow wagon.

  Candy entered the cage and snapped the lion door shut. Then she unbolted the swing door and called the lions out. She talked to them, petted them, ordered them to stay down. The lions sprawled out. Recently fed, they were sleepy. They lay quietly, blinking, two of them already asleep.

  "The swing door bolted, Candy?"

  "Shut tight, Mr. Parley. Your inspectors are perfectly safe."

  Parley went around to the rear and motioned to Tito in the driver's seat. Tito jumped out and opened the doors of the truck for Raymond and Langston. Parley unbolted the rear doors of the huge yellow wagon, and then the four of them, working rapidly, transferred the ingots into the wagon.

  Within the hot, stuffy, smelly wagon, they packed the ingots into the false bottoms of the feeding troughs, then quickly restored everything to order.

  "Finished," said Tito, mopping his face with a handkerchief.

  They came out into the relief of the open air.

  "Okay, John," Raymond said after Parley had securely bolted the doors of the wagon, "have the girl put the lions back." His laughter boomed. "They guard our gold, and who could ask for better guards?"

  "Not yet," said Parley.

  "Now what?" A frown put a crease between Raymond's eyes.

  "I want to talk to Brian Powell."

  "What for?"

  "To tell him where I'll be."

  "Where's that?"

  "With you—and also our sleeping company—at Craig's apartment. Also, I want to arrange a special van for us. Leave it to me."

  "Okay. But quick."

  "It'll be quick." Parley pointed to a motor scooter leaning against the side of the wagon. "In the meantime, Mr. Raymond, I'd like you and Mr. Langston back in the truck and Tito back up there in the driver's seat. And leave the truck doors open."

  Raymond squinted, then nodded.

  "All right. Now get a move on, mister."

  Parley chugged away on the motor scooter, all the way across to the other end of the grounds. There he found Brian Powell.

  "How're we doing, Brian?"

  "Shipshape, Mr. Parley."

  "Good man. I'll be at Kenneth Craig's apartment. When the vans are packed and ready for the airport, call me there."

  "Right, Mr. Parley."

  "And keep a special van open for me, Craig, and Candy––and their bags and stuff. The reporter, too. He might want to see us off."

  "Right, Mr. Parley. You'll have a van all to yourself."

  "Thank you, boy."

  "Not at all, sir."

  "See you later."

  "Right."

  Parley climbed onto the motor scooter and chugged away.

  "Candy!" called Parley through the iron bars of the cage. She was sitting cross-legged among the lions. She smiled at Parley and stood up.

  "Are the inspectors done inspecting, Mr. Parley?"

  "All finished, dear. You may get the animals back in now."

  Candy laughed. "Look at them. All sound asleep, so peaceful and happy out here. It's a pity to have to wake them."

  "But we have to, dear."

  "Yes, we do."

  Candy roused the lions and quietly coaxed them, one by one, through the swing door and into the wagon. While she was busy Parley removed his dart pistol from its holster and held it down along his thigh.

  After the last of the lions was in, Candy bolted the swing door, came out of the cage, and latched that door.

  "There!" she said. "All done."

  "Would you like to meet the inspectors?"

  She laughed. "Would they like to meet me?"

  "They certainly would—a seventeen-year-old who can handle lions like you can."

  "I'd be pleased, Mr. Parley."

  "This way."

  He led her around to the rear, and beside the truck, without further ceremony, discharged a dart at her and caught her as she fell unconscious.

  Raymond helped drag her in.

  "I see what you mean, John."

  "Impossible to let her wander around alone."

  "Yes," agreed Raymond. "How long do they stay unconscious like this?"

  "Unless revived, twelve hours."

  Raymond lit a cigar. "All right. Now what's the schedule?"

  "We go back to Craig's apartment. We wait there till I get a call from Powell. That'll mean the circus is packed up and the vans are ready for the short trip to the airport. We'll have a special van for ourselves. At the airport our big planes are all ready and waiting. A lot of the work here
on the grounds is already done. My estimate is that within an hour we'll be en route out of the country."

  "Good! You're a good man, John. I'll see to it that you get a fine bonus for this day's work."

  "Thank you, Mr. Raymond."

  Parley leaped from the truck, shut the doors, and clambered up alongside Tito.

  "Here we go." Tito grinned. "But where do we go?"

  "Drive. I'll show you."

  27. Zeroing In

  SIREN WIDE OPEN, wailing a warning, the scanning truck raced along the highway, eating up the miles. The immense steel armored truck had sufficient room to carry in comfort the veritable army of U.N.C.L.E. agents—sixteen men in all. There was the driver who had brought the truck to the Raymond and Langston Building with Professor Philip Bankhead inside. There were the ten men who had accompanied Waverly. And there were Waverly, O'Keefe, Johnson, and Solo, wearing shirt, tie, and jacket. But of the sixteen, only two men were visible: the driver and the lookout sitting alongside him in the front seat. Inside, Waverly was saying: "... first and foremost, Illya Kuryakin. Our first concern is Kuryakin. We must get to him, Phil."

  The scientist nodded. "We shall do that, Alexander."

  Outside, the driver nudged the lookout man. The lookout man turned his head to the slitted vent behind him.

  "We're on the outskirts of Westbury."

  "Turn off the siren," Waverly ordered. "Proceed at normal speed."

  Solo glanced at his watch. "We made excellent time."

  Waverly looked toward Bankhead. "Now, Phil?"

  The scientist smiled. "Now, Alexander."

  Philip Bankhead was seated away from the others, in front of a radar-equipped scanning board. To his left was a metal amplifying tray. To his right was an instrument panel with its delicately attuned knobs, buttons, wheels, and levers. He touched a button, activating the equipment.

  "Now, if you please, Dr. Blaine. Mr. Solo's earpiece. Just drop it in the amplifying tray, please."

  Dr. Blaine did as he was bade. No sooner was the earpiece in the amplifying tray than a faint, hissing sound of breathing was heard by all of them. Solo's earpiece was receiving the sounds of Illya's breathing.

  "Marvelous," whispered Dr. Blaine.

  Philip Bankhead put a headset over his ears. Clearly, distinctly, he heard the breathing. He turned his head, nodded, smiled at Waverly, and returned to his work. He touched a button on the instrument panel and a directional antenna rose up from the roof of the scanning truck. Watching the scanning board, listening intently through the headset, turning knobs that rotated the outside antenna, Philip Bankhead plotted his course. Suddenly he spoke.

  "Tell him he's going too fast. Tell him to slow his speed—considerably."

  Waverly repeated the order through the vent. They could all feel the sudden reduction of speed.

  Bankhead smiled. "Yes. That's it. I don't want him going any faster."

  Waverly relayed the advice through the vent.

  Bankhead was smiling up at the scanning board, transfixed, as though in worship. Despite the beads of perspiration on his forehead, his face bore a beatific expression. "I've got a perfect line on him. We're still a distance away, but we can't miss. Right turn now... good, yes... straight ahead… easy, easy now... left... that's it... another left now... good... straight away... no... hold it... right turn now... yes, good... another right… good boy... straight ahead... easy, easy does it...."

  And so, slowly but surely, they came nearer and nearer to Illya Kuryakin.

  28. Parley Makes His Point

  BETWEEN THE TWO of them, Parley and and Raymond, holding Candy upright but dragging her as though she were ill, had gotten her into the apartment without misadventure. Tito had parked the truck around the corner, and then he and Langston had been admitted to the apartment, Parley locking the door behind them. Tito had carried Candy to a bed, and Raymond had seen the bound Kuryakin and Craig.

  "Are we going to tie her up, too?" Raymond asked.

  "What for?" replied Parley.

  "Don't ask me," said Raymond. "You're the guy that tied them."

  "Force of habit." Parley's smile was ghastly. "No reason for tying them. No reason for tying her. They'll sleep."

  "But not for long," said Raymond.

  Parley winced. "Would you explain that, Mr. Raymond?"

  "In the living room. We have time to talk, I take it."

  "There's time," said Parley.

  In the living room, awaiting Brian Powell's call, they made themselves comfortable.

  "We get rid of them," Raymond said.

  "How?" asked Langston.

  Raymond calmly puffed his cigar. "They're sleeping. It'll be a simple matter for Tito to throttle them. You know my motto, Otis—dead men tell no tales."

  "But not the girl," expostulated Tito. "Why the young girl? She knows nothing."

  "But we won't be able to explain the absence of her father. We don't need a hysterical kid on our hands." Raymond exhaled aromatic cigar smoke, negligently flicking the ash. "I say kill them—get them out of the way—the three of them."

  "I say kill none of them," interjected Parley.

  "You say! Who are you?" Raymond's gaze was contemptuous. "You're nothing, that's who you are!"

  "May I express an opinion?"

  "You may express nothing."

  "Let him talk," said Langston.

  "Why? He's a lackey. A servant. He does what he's told and nothing else. He has no right to talk back to his superiors."

  "Just an opinion," wheezed Parley.

  "Let the man talk," said Langston.

  "But he's merely a—"

  "Let him talk, Felix."

  "Okay, Mr. Parley, Mr. John Parley talking back to his superiors––talk!" Raymond blurted.

  Parley's nostrils were compressed to white ridges. His lips trembled. "An opinion. I just wish to express an opinion," he quavered.

  "This is talking?" sneered Raymond. "Talk, brave Mr. Parley—but remember, I won't forget this insolence."

  "What I'm trying to say," said Parley, "is why not leave this decision—life or death—to the higher echelon, the T.H.R.U.S.H. executives?"

  "In the field, I make the decisions," boomed Raymond.

  Parley pressed on. "The high echelon in T.H.R.U.S.H. might want to talk to these people, might want to examine them. We had no idea that Craig was a man from U.N.C.L.E. The T.H.R.U.S.H. executives might want to question him on that. They could learn a lot from him. And they can learn a lot from the other agent—the one posing as Evan Fairchild—once we deliver him—alive!"

  "He's got a point," piped Langston.

  "Your decision, Mr. Raymond, might not meet with the approval of the men above you—and there are men above you." Watching Raymond, Parley was beginning to regain composure. "But once we execute your decision, then these people are dead and we cannot reverse the decision."

  Parley hesitated.

  Blandly Felix Raymond smoked his cigar. "Please continue, John."

  "They're in coma. They won't be any trouble to us. We'll have a special van here. I'm sure I can get them onto one of our planes—just as I know I can get you three onto the plane. I say we bring them over to Europe with us, to a T.H.RU.S.H. sanctuary, and let the big shots there make the life-or-death decision. They might very well appreciate that we brought them two U.N.C.L.E. agents—alive. And without any real trouble on our part. It would be different if we had no alternative––if we had to get rid of them."

  "The man has a point," said Langston.

  Raymond sat back, eyes half-closed, smoking his cigar. "Maybe you do have a point, John," he purred. "Perhaps I've been a bit stubborn; I have a hard head, you know." He laughed briefly. "And a quick temper." Raymond sat forward. "John, if I've insulted you—and I have—I humbly apologize. Quick temper, quick tongue."

  "His bark is worse than his bite," Langston said lamely.

  "John," said Raymond, smiling, "you've presented some excellent arguments, and I propose, right
here and now while we still have time, that we put those arguments on the table and discuss them—a full, forthright discussion. All of us—pro and con. That includes you, too, Tito. I want you to feel free to..."

  29. Circus Catch

  THE SCANNING TRUCK came to a stop.

  Waverly, Bankhead, and Solo alighted.

  Bankhead pointed. "He's in that house."

  "I'm going in for a look," said Solo.

  "Careful," said Waverly.

  "Sure," said Solo.

  "And I mean careful." The Old Man smiled wearily. "We almost lost you once today."

  Solo winked, then strolled into the lobby of the apartment house. There he looked at the name plates. CRAIG was printed in blue ink on a white slip-in cardboard. The apartment was 1-A.

  Solo tried the lobby door. It was not locked. Silently he entered into a hallway. Apartment 1-A was on the ground floor, in the rear. He paused at the door of 1-A and listened. He heard the sound of voices, but did not tarry long enough to distinguish them. One of them sounded like Raymond's boom, but Solo was not certain.

  He returned to the street to report to Waverly. "Craig has an apartment in there. One-A. Ground floor, rear. The lobby door's not locked. I sneaked in for a listen at One-A. Voices. One of them sounded like Felix Raymond's, but I didn't stay long enough to make sure."

  Bankhead said, "Illya Kuryakin is in that apartment house."

  "Then he figures to be in One-A," said Solo.

  The Old Man nodded. They went back to the truck.

  Waverly gave instructions. "We're going to have to go in en masse—all of us, in a great group. We're going to have to rush them. Whoever is in there— and Solo suspects Felix Raymond is one of them—they're probably armed. We've got to go in so fast that they won't have a chance to go for their guns. Where's Colin Walker?"

  "Here," said Walker.

  "The lobby door's open, but the apartment door figures to be locked. Can you open it without making noise?"

  Walker grinned broadly. "A simple lock? An apartment door? You've got to be kidding."

  The Old Man lost himself. For a moment, in a fatherly gesture, he hugged the young man. Then, embarrassed, he released him.