by Simon Latter
The U.N.C.L.E. file so carefully studied by April Dancer gave detailed information about the Palaganian checking system, so much ingenious thought had to be given into devising different ways and means for the agent to carry her necessary field equipment.
As she lay her bronzed loveliness on the flower-gay sun bed she was not, apparently, much different from other lush lovelies lazing beneath the coloured umbrellas. Many had local escort companions, others had new husbands or old boyfriends. But it would be safe to assume that April Dancer was the only lovely wearing a miniscule bra with a built-in TV sending/receiving aerial, a necklace throat mike and a solid gold portable TV set in the shape of a compact. By resting her shoulder casually against the sun bed's steel frame she could have achieved a strong enough signal to transmit through the Early Bird Two Satellite.
Orlando knew nothing of these things. He knew only the pattern of love-making prescribed for such visitors and performed his work with trained precision. His caresses were just right — not too far but far enough — his kisses warmly languorous, his manners impeccable, his attentions devout. At three hundred dollars per twenty-four hours — less if the night was for sleeping alone — plus all expenses paid, he was not expensive.
Palaganian men were not tall, but they were lithe, bright-eyed, olive-skinned and muscular. They tanned to a glowing brown and had enough body hair to suggest virility. If not, they stuck some in the right places, should female visitors feel the need for such an assurance Orlando wasn't only a good specimen of muscle-boy. He'd had an expensive education, could speak seven languages, had run a less-than four-minute mile, was a high-dive champion and could ride as if grafted to the horse's back.
All in all a worthy companion for April Dancer, who herself was no mean exponent of languages, horse-riding, sports-car racing and the physical arts of fencing, karate and judo. In other circumstances she and Orlando could have really set the hours alight. But she also was an actress with a role to play. The role of the bored, rich-born lovely.
Which, she felt, was a great pity. But there, duty calls, she sighed.
"A long, cool drink," she murmured drowsily.
Orlando caressed her gently with practiced concentration.
April quivered, then knuckle-punched him in the stomach. She really did feel resentful. Orlando stirred sweet lust — which didn't mix with business.
"You choose the silliest times, Orlando!" She spoke lazily through a half-yawn. "A long, cool drink, huh?"
His eyes smiled at her, though his mouth had winced at the blow. He sensed a strange strength in this customer. She puzzled him.
"Ah, yes!" said Orlando, feathery fingers tracing the lines of her figure. "A long, cool drink — but of course, at once."
"No hurry." She smiled. "You are always too quick, Orlando. Slow down, huh? Give a girl a chance to unwind. Take your time."
He sprang up — a gleaming brown Jack-in-the-box released from prison.
"I will be very slow. For you, very slow indeed. Then you will miss me more — as I shall miss you." Here was real corn with the ring of a crepe suzette, April thought.
April watched him go, extracted compact from beach bag, flicked it open, operated the hidden switch, leaned the band of her bra against the sun bed frame and spoke in her throat, lips scarcely moving. "Hear me," she said. "Hear me, Mark."
"And see you," said his voice as the tiny picture in the compact mirror came into focus. "Marvellous reception." He scowled. "Too good."
Not the usual debonair Mark Slate but burned bronze beneath scruffy face fungus, hair tangle-matted, greasy cap slanted over one ear.
"You look feelthy," said April. "Where, oh where is my debonair side-kick?"
Mark snarled, "Who's your pretty boy?"
She giggled. "You've been peeking. Orlando is a nice boy. He is also a contact for local THRUSH operatives. These Palaga hombres play both ends against the middle. Orlando is a grade four. I should hate to tangle with a grade one in this family set-up. In most family-inheritance outfits, the higher you go, the dumber they get. Not so here. Oh, brother, they are one talented bunch!"
"They must know THRUSH is operating here, surely?"
"Sure they must — and at astronomical deposit fees, you betcha; but are the Palagas with 'em? I doubt it. The only thing they're really with is another Palaga. I'd like out. All this talent is unnerving."
Mark grinned. "We aim to please. Your passage is booked on the Island Traveller. The Palaga cargo exit port allows you passage under their heading of 'eccentricities of the rich — to be humoured'. Only the poor never want to go slumming."
"'Is it as stinking a tub as it looks?"
"It is for the crew, but passenger quarters aren't bad. You'll survive."
"I always survive. What is the route?"
"Corn Island, Providencia, San Andres, a couple of other calls, and then the island of Taradata, before going back on the same route to pick up cargo."
"Is Lars Carlson with you? Has he made contact?"
"He's a slow and careful laddie, is Lars. I think the sun slows him down."
"More likely that belly dancer he met in what they call the Cargo Town over the mountain. I'm not completely isolated in this lush oasis, y'know."
"Tut-tut to you too! You've got Orlando. Lars has Maria. She's an ex of Captain Sidano, and he, but definitely, is THRUSH. By the way — Sama Paru and Count Kazan are out in the deep blue yonder some place."
"Air?"
"No, water. You are to contact Mr. Waverly. Randy Kovac has been doing some inspired map-reading."
"He would." April glanced up, to see Orlando approaching the beach. "I'll see you aboard. Over and out."
"Watch yourself, darling." Mark smiled as his image faded.
"You too, lover-boy," she said softly, then snapped the compact shut.
CHAPTER TWO: KEEPER OF A THOUSAND SECRETS
THE captain's cabin on the Island Traveller was a shade more luxurious than the old island-run tub would appear to boast. Recent luxuries too — such as a new bunk, electrical fittings, modern desk and other fitments, including a chrome-sparkling new radio built into a bulkhead below a large mirror.
Captain Sidano and Petrov Maleski, his first mate, sat staring at this mirror. By their conversation it was clear that Maleski was the senior, despite his shipboard rank.
Sidano growled some complaint. Maleski said:
"Quiet — enough of your protests. Listen!"
The mirror flickered into a TV screen. The head and shoulders of a balding, bespectacled man appeared.
Sidano sat upright. "Good evening, Mr. Padrack. Shall we have the pleasure of your company this evening, sir?"
Padrack ignored this inquiry.
Maleski said sharply: "Do not waste time, Sidano. This is not very wise, Padrack." He used the tone of an equal. "We agreed not to make contact from shore except in dire emergency."
"You have an U.N.C.L.E. agent aboard. Would you not call that an emergency? It also is a form of carelessness which cannot be tolerated."
"This I cannot believe!" protested Maleski. "I screened every man through our local office. But, if it is true, then I agree it is a big mistake."
"All my crew are tough cut-throats," said Sidano, obviously pleased that Maleski — the arrogantly efficient Maleski — had been discovered at fault. "They are very easy to check through their last prison address." Sidano smirked.
"Quiet! " Maleski snapped. "Who is this man?"
"Carlson — Lars Carlson. He is using the name of Sven Telsen. Our agent C.47 found him."
"C.47!" Sidano gasped. "That is Maria! It is a trick, Mr. Padrack. A jealous woman causing trouble."
"Yes," said Padrack curtly. "For you. That I do not mind. You should learn to keep your women out of your business, Captain. It is fortunate for you that Maria is one of our most loyal agents."
"But I dropped her when I discovered she was one of your agents," Sidano said angrily. "And I personally collected Telsen — or Carlson, as yo
u call him — from the prison on the mainland. How can he be an U.N.C.L.E. agent? He was serving fifteen years for robbery and armed assault. He had beaten up three prison guards. It cost me two thousand to get him paroled to me. No, sir — Maria is mistaken."
"I would find your faith in what is told you to be most touching, were it not that you are an imbecile," said Pad- rack coldly. "Was not Carlson transferred from another prison only three weeks before you visited the mainland?"
"Yes — because he was violent."
"Pah!" Maleski snorted. "That is an old trick. I would have been very suspicious, myself, if I had known."
"So clever, you are!" said Sidano. "You know it all — after it has happened!"
"His record was faked," said Padrack. "Carlson was never in any other prison. He was planted there for you to pick, and you fell for it. You will now get rid of him — at once. You understand? Maleski, I hold you responsible."
"Yes," said Maleski. "There will be no more mistakes. You are coming aboard?"
"Very soon." The screen went blank as Padrack broke contact.
Way up in the old-fashioned rigging of the Island Traveller, Mark Slate listened in to the conversation in the captain's cabin. Tapping into the ship's aerial circuit with a new U.N.C.L.E. device had saved much risk for himself and Lars. The crew were as tough a bunch as he'd ever met, but few of them were very experienced seamen, so when Mark had shown willingness to climb aloft to tend the necessary work there, no one had protested.
Lars worked in the galley and, more often than not, was alone, so their contact could be maintained without it being obvious they were friendly. Mark now operated the switch embedded in the large buckle of his broad leather belt and, when he heard Lars open the circuit, spoke into the ring mike on his finger.
"Ya, me?" said Lars.
"Ya, you!" Mark chuckled. "Hear me. Vanish pronto before we sail. In fact — instanter. Maria has spotted you. Dunno how, but you'll be shark meat if you stay."
"Bliddy women!" said Lars. "She ben saw my tattoo. Was done when I was field agent in Antarctica. So she must be THRUSH bird."
"THRUSH bird ben singing," said Mark. "Get going, my sexful Swede. I'll try to cover you if there's trouble. Contact H.Q. when you're clear. April is due aboard soon. Go now."
"Ya — I go."
Trouble there was. Mark had a crow's-nest view. Lars emerged on deck, heading for the gangway. Four hefty crew men advanced on him from for'ard. Three more were amid ships, closing in from the stern. A Palaga taxi had just pulled up and April Dancer alighted from it. Behind the three men Maleski, gun in hand, stood a pace ahead of Sidano. Mark was a camera viewing a 3D scene.
Lars paused in midstep. Bronzed, blond cat-man — lithe, powerful, balanced to attack or defend. Mark moved fast, slipping knots, jerking stay-ropes on the heavy auxiliary block and tackle. The ropes hissed and whipped as the pulley crashed deckwards, smack among the three men amidships. It crunched on one shoulder and the man was spun back — into Maleski, the other two ensnared in writhing ropes.
Mark backed up his play — screaming curses, swaying at the end of the mast-arm, then springing out, clear in a tumbling dive into the water. Lars didn't look up, guessing Mark was covering him. The four other men were diverted, heads jerking up, eyes staring mastward as Lars leapt. His bunched fists swung like hammers and two men went flat on the deck and stayed there. Lars tangled with the other two, fists jabbing, hands chopping, until both men crumpled.
People were moving up the gangway. Lars ran to the rail, leapt up, poised, then took off, body angled as a low-loader truck came along the quayside. He plummeted into the load of copra, disappearing as Maleski cleared ropes and men to come within gun range.
April Dancer, seeing Mark aloft in the same moment Lars appeared on deck, recognized the signs of trouble. She ran to the gangway. Unfortunately her taxi driver, luggage- loaded, ready to give eager-beaver-service, dashed after her, so choking the gangway against Lars' escape and blocking her own way back.
She reached the head of. the gangway as Maleski was drawing careful aim at the truck. With a scream and a flurry of arms, she flung herself from the gangway into Maleski's chest, hanging on to his neck. He staggered back, gun hand waving skyward, the other clamped around her waist — a natural reflex-action.
"That's dangerous!" she bleated. "Ever so dangerous." She leaned back, smiled into his eyes. "Lucky me! I'd have hurt myself if you hadn't caught me. Thank you so much!" She ignored the gun and the fury in his gaze. "You can put me down now, you naughty man."
At the stern a soaked figure clambered up from the anchor chain, sloshed on to deck and flip-flopped up to Captain Sidano.
"— —!" said Mark Slate, vigorously. "When are you going to spend some of the owner's money on new tackle? Don't you know that goddam rigging is half rotten? Blasted stinking old scow this is — call yourself a captain!" He let go a few more opinions until Sidano slashed a back hand across his face.
"Silence, you scum! You fell from the mast because you're a stupid, bungling fool. I shall dock one half of your pay for smashing that tackle. Now get aft and stand by to cast off."
Mark's eyes glittered, but he pretended to be cowed, as would any roughneck afraid of being returned to some stinking mainland prison.
"Got a right to complain, ain't I? Could've blasted well killed meself."
"That would be no loss," Sidano snarled, then walked onwards to greet April Dancer.
"Poor man!" said April. "You were very hard on him. After all, he did dive into the sea!"
"They have no feelings, miss," said Sidano. "Like animals, they are. Don't waste your pity on them."
Mark slouched past them. April smiled at him. "That was a wonderful dive."
He surveyed her coolly — undressing her with insolent eyes.
"Yeah," he growled. "Think quick, act fast, trust nothing and no one around here. Thanks all the same, miss."
"All right," said Maleski. "Get aft…" He paused. "No — wait — you." He looked at Sidano. "The steward was deported yesterday. The fool got drunk. His replacement hasn't shown up. This man has a little more class than the others."
Sidano shrugged. "A wash and shave and a white coat might make him presentable. Okay, you — get cleaned up and report to the purser."
"At stewards' pay?"
"We'll see."
"Fair's fair," whined Mark. "A man works well for the right pay."
Maleski pointed ashore, to where more taxis had pulled up. "Our other passengers are arriving, sir."
"You'll have what you earn," said Sidano to Mark. "Get below and clean yourself up."
"Aye, aye, sir." Mark went, and so missed an interesting scene.
April Dancer found this humorous, yet ominous. She knew of the Padracks. They were mentioned in the original Palaga report, as were many other names. Some were now identified as having THRUSH connections, some THRUSH sub-agents. This was the big difficulty when assigned to a carefully researched case. Better, really, to "go in cold", because then at least you got to know all your contacts.
H.Q., and mostly this meant Mr. Waverly, had a tendency to regard a research file as gospel for the guidance of the converted. U.N.C.L.E. agents were trained not to pre-judge situations they met with on their field of assignment. But if they accepted everything contained in those Top Secret dossiers, they automatically pre-judged and, in such pre-judging, became biased by the reports of researchers as well as unknown informants.
Reports contained many statements such as this:
"Padrack, Simon, aged forty-five, slim build, balding, quiet-spoken. Wears spectacles. Appears absentminded. Ex-teacher, Trinidad and Tobago, believed inherited money, set up as bookseller, also adviser on library supplies to island committees. No known political affiliations. Now retained as adviser on catalogue and indexing of library belonging to a senior Palaga family. Travels frequently around islands contacting teachers and others with book connections.
"Padrack, Lucy, aged forty-one, w
ife of above subject. Ex-teacher, now assists husband in his work. Has written and published two books on legends of the islands, with special emphasis on erotic practices. Unusually tolerant marriage relationship, as she indulges herself with younger men. Husband apparently knows of this and refers to them as 'Lucy's little attacks' or 'Lucy has another cold — rather feverish this time'. No police record, but in her student years was prominent in various leftist groups. Arrested four times for obstructing police, refusing to disperse, uttering threats and distributing pamphlets calculated to incite revolt."
Well, all right — so you read and digest; so when you see Simon and Lucy Padrack coming up the gangway, what does this fact really tell you? You look at them and pre-judge them according to the alleged facts you've digested. They stick in your throat.
Simon Padrack looks as the report says, but his outward appearance did not convey the more important, essential Padrack. The way he strides up with an air of authority, the coldness of his eyes — pale grey pebbles behind polished lenses. The clipped, incisive tone of voice. These belie the pre-judged character. You say at once: "Watch it, my girl — just watch it. This man knows exactly what he's doing, where he's going and why — and it ain't for fun. Sex he might have, but fun? No, siree!" And you shiver slightly under the hot Palaga sun.
Lucy comes ahead of him, small, thin, with nobbly breasts. "Maybe falsies, but I don't think so," April thought. "Thin legs, large thighs, slim flanks. Large blue eyes in a thin, bronzed face, a sensuous mouth, small, thin nose — not beaky. The mouth and nose give her away. Tangle with that, man, and come the night you have yourself a wild cat!" Nothing about her to make immediate physical impact. You have to look hard — or with knowledge and training — to really see these things, because she doesn't project herself.
Her clothes are expensively ordinary, even unflattering. Mousey hair, uncut, plaited, wound around her head, straggling over forehead and temples. Very little make-up. First appearance — middle-aged, sterile, withdrawn. Blue veins patterning brown hands below skinny wrists. Yet when she speaks with that voice, she becomes alive. The report didn't mention that. The voice projects right enough — deep, warm, vibrant, yes, sir, all the clichés. Goddam, it even pulses, husky, smooth-cream!