“I think we managed to get it all, Napoleon.”
“What about the first two canisters?”
“They seem to be trapped alongside the engine. Safe enough. Not much danger of them bursting, or corroding away. Not polyethylene.”
“That’s a relief, anyway. I suppose all we can do now is wait for this damned craft to founder under us?”
“I don’t think so. The stem is stove in, and the weight of the engines is dragging that end down, but there should be enough reserve of buoyancy to hold us up.”
“Great! So now we just sit here and wait for that pair on the cabin-cruiser to pick us off at their leisure!”
“It looks like it.” Kuryakin nodded gloomily. “We’ve lost our rifles. There’s not much we can do about it now.” He turned to Sarah with a wry grin. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid we got you into this.”
“But you didn’t!” she denied valiantly. “I volunteered! And anyway, we’re not dead yet! Can’t we radio for help? You’ve a radio there!” She indicated the long-range communicator that Kuryakin still had slung on his chest.
“You’re not thinking straight, Sarah,” Kuryakin smiled kindly. “I could call, yes. And help might come, eventually. But we wouldn’t be interested, by the time it got here.”
Solo smiled wryly and turned away, dragging out his sodden pocket-handkerchief in a futile attempt to wipe the oil traces from his hands. He stared over the heaving billows without seeing them. Help? Illya was absolutely right. They could call for it, but it would take hours arriving. And they didn’t have hours. At the most, they could anticipate a few more minutes.
His thoughts were curiously mixed. Always, in this hazardous profession of his, one had to face the prospect of sudden demise. It was always in the cards. But somehow he had never imagined it would be this way, miles out at sea and helpless.
His fingers met something foreign in the wet folds of the handkerchief, and he looked down. It was a crumpled and wet visiting card, the legend on it barely legible: DR. MICHAEL O’ROURKE. He curled his lip at it, took it between his fingers and flicked it away, watching as it fluttered and fell into the thin film of oil. King Mike! And the gentleman himself was just over there, only a few yards away, in that cabin-cruiser. He had been badly thwarted in his maniacal dreams of world conquest. He would be seeking appropriate vengeance any moment now. Solo sighed, and swung back to see Illya’s face grow suddenly intent with purpose. It was an expression he knew very well indeed.
“What?” he demanded. “What’s hatching in your mind now?”
“Just a thought. Something she said, about sending a radio-call for help. It reminded me. That trick circuit.”
The blond Russian dabbed at his fringe suddenly and turned on Sarah in tense interest. “Let’s think again about that circuit your uncle wanted you to design for him. Here!” He struggled to reach into his pocket and get the notebook that was still there, wet and compacted. He shook it briskly to free most of the water from it, and began leafing through the soaking pages until he found the place he wanted. “This. Now, what exactly was the idea?”
The two fair heads came close together, peering and muttering, and all at once Kuryakin looked up, blue eyes gleaming.
“Keep an eye on the enemy, Napoleon. I think we may have something!”
The cabin-cruiser had slowed and begun to circle back by now, just in sight from time to time as the waves heaved the stricken launch up and down. Solo watched it, trying to guess which way those minds would be working, over there. Caution would be in order. Not too close, not at first. They might still be armed. But then, by degrees, closer and closer. Make sure they are quite helpless. And then out with the rifles. Target practice.
He felt for his pistol, even though he knew it was futile. He looked to Illya, wondering what was going on in that head, but knowing better than to interrupt the process with time-wasting questions. Sarah seemed to understand, at any rate, to judge by the way she was nodding vigorously. He took his gaze back to the heaving sea.
The half-scuppered launch was drifting now away from the oil-slick. Not quite clear of it, but almost. And the cabin-cruiser was edging in closer, cautiously. Solo could distinguish two figures standing by the midships guard-rail, staring. One had binoculars. The tall one, that would be King Mike. Solo pointed his pistol, aiming very high, and fired. The watchers ducked nervously back, but they needn’t have worried; they were well out of range.
Kuryakin looked up at the shot. “Are they that close?”
“Close enough for them, too far for me. How’s your department?”
“I think I’ve got this. It’ll take a minute or two more, and some luck.”
Solo saw now that he was tinkering with his personal transceiver, with the cover off and poking at its entrails with a tiny screwdriver. “You’d better duck down and let us cover you,” he advised. “They’re due to start target practice any time.”
As if they’d heard the cue, the enemy opened fire. Solo could see the pair of them distinctly, O’Rourke standing free with his feet spread and belly to the rail, Trilli more professionally bracing himself against a stanchion, but both intently holding rifles. He had heard angry shots wail by many times before but never in such a desperate position as this. The two rifles spoke again, one right after the other. A bullet thunked into the hull of the launch just below them; another screamed from the water no more than a foot to the right. Getting close, he thought. And they had all the time in the world to perfect their aim.
“That’s that!” Kuryakin lifted his head. “If it works!”
“What are you going to do, give them a farewell oration?”
“A farewell message, yes. I’ve cut out the audio circuits, and shorted some of the resistors. It should give enough power, if only for a brief burst.” Flying steel ripped a long yellow splinter from the woodwork close to his head. He gripped the little instrument tightly. “It ought to work. Watch those two.”
Three pairs of anxious eyes concentrated on the cabin cruiser, which was now almost close enough for a pistol shot. The two prominent figures still held weapons, took time about their aim, steadied themselves against the rail.
“Now!” Kuryakin muttered, and pressed hard with his thumb on the transmit button.
In that instant they saw the two threatening figures suddenly jerk and stiffen. There was a jet-puff of smoke from O’Rourke’s chest, a lesser one from Trilli’s. Two muffled explosions sounded, across the water. Then those two men buckled, dropped their weapons, folded like dolls over the rail, hung there a long moment, and then slid and fell into the sea.
“That’s the most beautiful double act I ever saw!” Solo gasped. “What the hell did you do to them, Illya?”
“It was the old visiting card routine, Napoleon. Sarah gave me the clue. Apparently Uncle Mike had an eccentric habit of presenting his visiting card only to very special people.”
“That’s right. He gave me one.”
“Well, King Mike isn’t the sort of man to do anything without a very good reason. So it was obvious, when I added it to that trick circuit. Those cards are plastic explosive, each one with a trigger-circuit incorporated in it, a radio-frequency circuit. Each circuit is slightly different from the rest, and each one numbered. King Mike had a special transmitter with a selector-switch, so that he could pick any one, and explode it. That’s all in the diagram. All I did was adjust my communicator to a broad band that would blow them all at once, you see?”
“I get it. The old man had a wallet full of them. And Trilli had one. And—hey! Wait a minute! He gave me one of those cards, too!” Solo slapped instinctively at his breast-pocket—then, remembering, cast a frantic glance over his shoulder at the oil-slick where he had pitched the card. He saw a great leaping wall of smoky red flame come whooshing across the waves at them as the scattered oil burst into eager blaze.
“Let’s get out of here!” he yelled and flung himself into the sea, the other two only split seconds after him. Imagination
made the sea seem hot. For a few frantic seconds they swam as if it were boiling, then they slowed and turned to look back where the flames were licking around the hulk of the launch.
Solo blew water from his lip and glared at his colleague. “Just as well I decided to toss that card away, wasn’t it? You might have said something about what you were up to!”
Kuryakin shrugged in the water. “It never occurred to me that King Mike would give you one of his cards.”
Solo looked back to the burning relic and snorted. “Talk about burning your boats after you! What do we do now?”
“At least,” Kuryakin said, “the fire will take care of any further hazard from the ferment. It is destroyed by high temperatures.”
“I don’t exactly thrive on them myself. I suppose we’d better head for the cruiser and thumb a ride.”
They turned and began swimming for the cabin cruiser, but they had hardly gone a dozen strokes before they heard a by-now-familiar explosive sound and the water ahead of them was lashed into sudden foam.
Solo snorted again. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Irish mothers must give their boy-babies a shotgun in the cradle instead of a rattle.”
“How many would there be in the crew?” Kuryakin asked Sarah.
“Only two—helmsman and deckhand. I’ve an idea. You two have done all the clever things so far—now it’s my turn.” She unfolded her plan, and they didn’t care for it at all, but they had nothing better to offer, so she won out. “Don’t be too far away, now,” she warned, and set off to swim towards the idling craft with much unnecessary splashing and agitation. The two men watched anxiously, then set off in very quiet pursuit. They saw a brawny figure lean over the stern and take aim. At the very last moment, when they were both expecting to hear the sound of the shot, she lifted her head and began to yell.
“Help! Help! It’s me—Sarah! They’re after me!”
The man in the stem hesitated, leaned forward to peer. Solo muttered, “She’s made it. It’s up to us now.”
He inhaled an enormous breath, set his aim on the midships ladder, and went under, swimming strongly in that direction, keeping on until he felt certain the top of his head was coming off. And then, thankfully, he could make out the wavering black bulk of the cruiser just ahead. He surfaced, blowing hugely and ready for anything, just in time to see Sarah approaching the ladder, and a man on board turning to lower himself a step or two, and to crouch, to extend a hand to help her out. A wave lifted itself between them, went on to hoist her up. She reached for that helping hand, clung to it, struggled on to the bottom rung, then the next, got a good grab on the side-rope, and then, bracing her feet against the side of the cruiser, she surged back and out, heaving with all her weight.
The helpful one yelled as his one-handed grip tore loose, hampered as it was by his ardent desire to hold the shotgun in that same hand. The scene seemed to hang for a moment in slow motion, the helmsman describing an arc over her head, her hand wrenching free of his, then darting out to catch the falling weapon. As he struck the water with a mighty splash, she went up the rest of the ladder like a cat and threw herself flat on the deck.
Solo made for the ladder hurriedly, glanced up to see a familiar double-muzzle aimed at him from over the bows, and dived fast. He came up in time to hear Sarah’s weapon speak loudly, saw that the menace from the bows no longer threatened, grabbed the ladder and went up as fast as he could, across the narrow deck and into the cover of the wheelhouse, where Sarah was busily stuffing fresh shells into the captured weapon.
“You won’t need that,” he panted. “Let me keep him busy with mine.”
“It’ll take the pair of us,” she argued. “He’s got plenty of cover up forward, and we’ve got to keep him busy, to give Illya a chance.”
“All right, you take that side, I’ll take this.”
He went down flat once more and edged until he could peer around the wheelhouse superstructure and along the deck. Nothing moved. All at once he heard her let fly thunderously, and two sea-booted feet dropped urgently to the deck up there on his side. He snapped a shot and rolled back hurriedly as a blast of small lead wailed by, bouncing from the woodwork. He waited for the second barrel, and cursed as it failed to come. This fellow was too crafty to fire both barrels at once.
Sarah stood up abruptly and fired blind, over the top of the wheelhouse, and then down. This time there was an immediate reply and Solo chanced his eye around the edge, pistol ready—and then halted, as he saw a wet blond head come up over the bows and grin. Two eager arms reached, there came a wild and despairing yell, and then a splash.
“And that’s it!” Solo straightened up and sighed, feeling suddenly old and tired. “Talk turkey to those two, will you, while I look for some rope to tie them with.”
Not too long later, with the prisoners safely tied and the engines growling out their powerful song, Sarah took the wheel. “Going home,” she said. “And I do have a home, now. Won’t you come and stay a while?”
“That depends.” Solo smiled, as Kuryakin operated the transmitter.
“Volga to Shamrock.”
“Shamrock here. Hold it.”
A click, then Waverly’s voice. “Mr. Kuryakin?”
“Yes, sir. Mission accomplished, ferment destroyed, Royalty and Thrush won’t be troubling us any longer. Prisoners taken; no damage to us, threat eliminated. I’m afraid we lost the launch, sir, but we are returning in the cruiser. I would like to suggest some kind of commendation to Miss Sarah O’Rourke, sir. She has been most helpful.”
“I would agree. She seems to be a most intelligent young woman. Let me speak to Mr. Solo, please.”
Illya passed the set across to his companion. “Solo speaking, sir.”
“Mr. Solo. I have been having a long and very interesting talk with Miss Bridget O’Rourke. She too has proved most helpful. I get the impression that Dr. O’Rourke has been a bad influence in her life.”
“I’m glad you see it that way, sir. I had the same impression.”
“Yes. She tells me you saved her life. Is that so?”
“Well—” Solo hesitated. “I happened to be handy, that’s all.”
“I see. I get the impression that your action has made a great impact on her outlook, that she wishes to reform. I’d no idea you had such a salutary influence on young women.” A pause, during which Solo frowned, wondering what was coming next. Then: “She’s very intelligent. See what you can do with her, will you?”
Solo stared in amazement at the instrument in his hand. “What? You mean—?”
“There are a number of loose ends to clear up. Damage to the castle will have to be made good, for one thing. And the illegal processes in the brewery must be eliminated and all information impounded. A lot to do, and those two girls are the legal inheritors. They stand in need of help, advice and guidance. I’m leaving you in charge for a while. Use your influence!”
“Yes, sir!” Solo vowed heartily, and winked at Illya. “On my own?”
“Mr. Kuryakin will assist you with the technical side. I estimate it will take you at least two weeks to settle everything. I think Miss O’Rourke wishes to speak to you now. Go ahead, my dear.”
“Hello, Napoleon.” Her voice sounded uncertain and timid. “Did you hear that? Mr. Waverly says you’re to stay on a bit and take care of things!”
“That’s right.” He deliberately kept his tone casual. “Help you to make a new, clean start. You are clean, I hope?”
“Oh yes.” She managed a laugh. “I’ve had a bath. Will you be coming back to the castle right away?”
“Right away.” He glanced at his watch, exchanged a grin with Sarah at the wheel, and added, “We should be in time for early lunch. Can you cook?”
“Not very well. I suppose I shall have to start learning all the dull things now. No more excitement.”
“Well now,” he said, and raised a brow at Illya’s faint grin, “excitement comes in several different forms. I wouldn’t say the
prospect is exactly dull, somehow!”
Sarah laughed, and turned to Illya. “Dull, he says! Illya—” And she paused as if tasting the sound. “That’s a strange name. Have you another one?”
Solo grinned broadly and opened his mouth to say it, but Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, seeing the terrible prospect of being called “Nicky” for the next two weeks, leveled his chill gray eyes at his friend and reached for the instrument.
“Napoleon!” he said warningly. “You too have another name. Would you want me to whisper it to Miss Bridget, right now?”
Napoleon Solo caught himself, closed his mouth hurriedly and smiled. “I guess you’re right, Illya. U.N.C.L.E. agents must preserve some secrets!”
Table of Contents
Prologue
ONE “Are You Deliberately Trying to Give Me the Cold Shivers?”
TWO “The Spirits of Me Ancestors Are Watching Ye.”
THREE “Lovely Night For a Drive, Isn’t It?”
FOUR “I’m Afraid the Birds Have Flown.”
FIVE “Talk About Burning Your Boats After You!”
Man From U.N.C.L.E. 05 - The Mad Scientist Affair Page 13