13 - The Rainbow Affair

by David McDaniel

  Four more unshaven mugs were moving in on him, exhibiting iron bars and self-confidence. Illya fell back a couple of steps, his glance flicking from one face to another. He heard his partner's call without turning his head, and just at that moment all four charged him.

  He leaped forward with a lightning-swift double kick that left one man writhing on the ground and another clutching at his shin and hopping about swearing profanely. The other two swung their iron bars at a sturdy figure that seemed to pass between them like a ghost, and struck only the uncomplaining air.

  In the same fraction of time, Napoleon was struggling in the grip of eight strong arms. He had been unable to inflict any damage on his assailants, who had not given him the moment which Illya had taken to assess the situation, but had simply laid into him without pausing for formalities.

  He managed to wrench his left arm loose, and delivered an adrenalin-charged chop to the first available neck. The grip on his left leg loosened, and he kicked, feeling something soft collapse before his toe. This entire operation took something under two-thirds of a second, and before the thin hand of a hypothetical stopwatch could have finished marking off another full division his left hand had done something indescribable to the closest ear of the brute who was treating his damaged right wrist with much less than the respect it deserved.

  A ham-like fist rebounded off the side of his head and his back slammed against the ground as flecks of light sparkled momentarily in his vision. Then, bracing his elbows against the pavement, he flipped sideways and I locked his legs around the neck of the fourth man. At the same time, his good hand was flailing about trying to connect with the man whose ear he had just mistreated.

  While a scissors-hold is a convenient way of immobilizing an opponent, it also renders oneself relatively immobile. It was with a surge of relief that Napoleon saw his second attacker suddenly fold over himself and spread his unlovely features on the inoffensive cement. Illya was standing behind him, someone's crowbar in his hand, looking down disapprovingly.

  "Shall I clip the other one for you, or are you having fun?"

  "You seem to wear out your playmates fast; you can have him if you like," said Solo from the ground.

  Admittedly there wasn't much left for Illya to do; he took careful aim and tapped the last of the four on the side of the head with the rounded end of the bar. Napoleon unwound his legs and got unsteadily to his feet.

  He was almost there when something came sailing through space at Illya. Solo's free arm - his right - swung around to catch his partner behind the knees, and Illya dropped like an acrobat as another iron rod whipped through the space his head had occupied. Napoleon could hardly control a groan as pain lanced through his wrist again.

  Illya was on his feet in an instant, taking off from a sprinter's crouch in the direction of the main fight. The small force of police appeared outnumbered and several uniformed figures were stretched senseless on the pavement. In the distance, whistles and the distinctive two tone sirens could be heard heralding reinforcements, still a vital minute or two away.

  Napoleon was hardly in a condition to rejoin the fight, but a momentary investigation of his right wrist revealed that it was in fact not quite broken after all. It also revealed that he could hold nothing heavy in his right hand. He picked up one of the opposition's crowbars in his left and waded back into the melee.

  Illya, plunging into the thick of the struggle, found more targets than he expected. Oddly enough, he seemed to attract more attention than the uniformed officers, and within thirty seconds he found himself forced into strategic retreat in the face of overwhelming force. He fell back until the rough brick of a building front pressed against his spine, and then, as the semicircle of men appeared to close about him, he feinted right, then left, then ducked suddenly and decisively to his right, leaving another of the apparently inexhaustible army of bad guys gasping on the pavement.

  Napoleon, regretfully, did not get nearly as far. Accepting the limitation of his injured arm, he would have felt satisfied to remain on the fringes of the battle, denting any skulls that came within his range. And, in fact, he left perhaps half a dozen heads so dented. There was the beginning of a respectable pile of victims growing around his feet when he became the focus of interest for several of the gang who seemed to have nothing better to do, having filled their individual quotas of incapacitated policemen.

  They circled warily in front of him as he retired slowly, a step at a time, to make sure the solid side of the van was behind him. With a wall at his back and almost three feet of steel in his fist, he could stand them off for the seconds that remained before the fresh force of police would arrive and restore order. He heard the approaching sounds and took heart; not quite the U.S. Cavalry, but certainly the next best thing to relieve a beleaguered and outnumbered force.

  The sound of sirens covered the soft shuffle of booted feet on the pavement behind him. As a result, it came as something of a surprise when the back of his head exploded with pain and a flash of colorless light, and he fell forward into blackness.

  At the same time, Illya, untouched but harried along, found a narrow alleyway opening behind him. He rejected the obvious trap, and continued following the shop fronts. The moment he had a few feet to spare, he broke to the freedom of the street and began a dash backwards the center of the fighting.

  Even as he did so, the engine of the large van could be heard to rev up, and a quick tattoo of the horn apparently summoned the small army of toughs to return to their transport.

  Just as the horn sounded, a flung crowbar caught Illya across the heels as he ran, and he sprawled face down towards the pavement. He rolled as he hit, feet together, ready to catch the first attacker as the four of them charged him.

  Then one of them stumbled and fell, scrabbling helplessly. Another turned and yelled wordlessly to his companions as he saw a figure in the shadows of the alley. A second later his cry died in a gurgle as he staggered backward, clutching frantically at the slender hilt of a knife which had appeared suddenly springing from his chest.

  Illya was on his feet again before the second man hit the ground. As he blocked the kick of one of the survivors, the figure detached itself from the shadows and drifted lazily forward towards the other one.

  In five seconds of block and swing, block, kick and chop, Illya's opponent was out for the count. Breathing heavily, he turned around.

  His rescuer was leaning over two of the bodies, extracting a matched pair of beautifully delicate throwing knives, one from a chest, one from a back. Carefully he wiped each blade clean on the clothing of its victim, and with a flick of each wrist the knives seemed to vanish - probably into forearm sheaths, Illya decided.

  He was tall and elegantly slim, as well as impeccably dressed. It almost seemed as if he must have passed by on pure chance, on his way home from the theater. The third thug resting on the pavement bore witness to his ability at hand-to-hand combat, but not a strand of his perfectly parted hair appeared to have been disturbed. As he straightened, he glanced at Illya with an almost foolishly innocent smile.

  Then a suddenly rising roar of engines and screech of brakes announced the arrival of the rest of the police force. As Illya looked in doubt at his impeccable rescuer, the latter spoke, and his voice was a regretful drawl. "So much for the evening's entertainment. And it was just promising to become interesting, too." He flashed a dazzling smile at Illya. "I hope you don't mind my cutting into your fight, but I was beginning to feel rather left out of things, and I hate the thought of being a wallflower."

  He glanced down the street, to where half a dozen police cars were disgorging the reinforcements. "I see the groundskeepers have arrived. They will doubtless want to tidy up now, so there won't be much left for us to do. Of course you will accept a ride back to your hotel. My car is just around the corner."

  Before he knew quite what was happening Illya found himself following a friendly pressure on his elbow away from the approaching police and down t
he alley. He cast a final look around the street, and observed that somehow the truck had disappeared with those of the gang who were still able to navigate. He took a quiet pleasure in the knowledge that several of the remainder were awaiting the cleanup squad through his own personal courtesies. As for Solo, he could always take care of himself, and this gentleman had several questions to answer.

  The questions were still unformed when Illya found himself sitting in the lefthand seat of a long sleek Hirondel, of a design that had practically disappeared from the highways of Europe more than twenty years ago. The engine purred to life at the touch of its master, and the great car moved silently off through the streets of London.

  Illya glanced sideways at the keen profile of the driver. A cigarette was canted carelessly between his lips, and the regular flash of streetlights cast his face into sharp outline. The Russian cleared his throat and started to ask the identity of his chauffeur.

  Before he spoke, he was anticipated. "Actually," the other said, "I can't tell you very much. You're after Johnnie Rainbow, of course. By this time, practically everyone knows that much. So am I. He must have an awful lot of loot stowed away from his unholy labors, and as an ardent Socialist I feel it should be redistributed. The most beautiful bundle of boodle in the civilized world is waiting to be put to charitable purposes, and I am heeding its call," he added simply.

  "For such a kind-hearted and thoughtful man, you wield a wicked knife," Illya commented dryly.

  "My only protection in a wicked world. And it's knives, not knife. I can impale a flying champagne cork at twenty paces. It's one of my celebrated party tricks. Actually it stems from a dislike of guns. Nasty, noisy, barbarous inventions of the devil."

  Illya never took his eyes off the man's face. It was, a lean, smiling face, a face that should have belonged to a buccaneer, or Robin Hood. It definitely did not belong in the Twentieth Century; its owner seemed equally out of place. Gentlemen in evening dress did not ordinarily step out of dark alleys and impale jewel thieves with ivory-handled knives. There was definitely he decided, more to this than was readily apparent to the eye.

  "But really, I hate to monopolize the conversation. What have you heard recently about the Rainbow gang?"

  "Very little," said Illya honestly. "They were supposed to have been responsible for the Rothschild gold robbery two weeks ago; they had a jewel robbery planned for tonight which seems to have gone astray somewhere. And they seem to have a most remarkable assortment of people looking for them for one reason or another."

  "You have no leads on his location, of course."

  "None. I don't suppose…"

  "Afraid not. But the more people searching, the more likely success. I take it you are interested in Johnnie only for his own charming self, and not for his fine collection of rare British cash?"

  Illya nodded. "You are suggesting a pooling of information?"

  "The idea had occurred to me."

  "It might be worked out. Unfortunately, at the moment, I fear neither of us has anything useful to the other."

  "Regrettably. However, I shall keep in touch. If I uncover anything you detective types might call a 'clue,' I'll certainly ring you up and invite you over for a look at it."

  "And if we come up with anything?"

  "I'll know about it." He glanced at Illya, and the flare of a passing streetlight struck a blue glint from his eyes. "There are times when I think half the population of this little island has a personal interest in finding Johnnie Rainbow. And it's very hard to keep secrets in such a close-knit family. Now here's your hotel - good night."

  And Illya was standing on the curb, looking off up the street after the sleek gray car until the burble of its exhaust had died away in the distance.

  Chapter 6

  How Napoleon Solo Declined an Honor, and Met an Exciting Young Lady.

  GRADUALLY NAPOLEON became aware that he ached in several places. His wrist hurt - he remembered having it nearly broken just a few minutes ago, or so it seemed. His head hurt - that he couldn't quite justify. It ached as if it had been hit very hard recently. And in addition to these complaints, he felt as if he had been thrown around rather roughly for several hours. His shoulders, back, hips and legs hurt too. He considered the combination of sensations for a while, and decided be didn't like it.

  In fact, he decided, he was still being thrown around. He wasn't moving around himself, but large flat surfaces kept swinging around and hitting him, mostly in places where he was already bruised. He stuck out a hand and found something which was either a wall or a floor and groped around for a projection of any kind to hold on to.

  He found nothing, but the feel of the cold slick metal helped bring his senses into focus. There was a loud roaring and rumbling which he was able to identify as the motor of a truck - a fairly large one, probably. He braced himself as well as he could on the slippery floor, and wrapped his arms protectively around his sore head.

  The swaying of the truck still swung him from side to side, and wherever they were the pavement was not of the best - the floor still had an annoying tendency to drop away from under him and then leap up again just as he started to fall to meet it.

  It was still dark, and he was attempting to read the luminous dial of his watch when he realized his eyes were still closed. He tried to open them, but it stayed dark. He concentrated until he was quite sure the eyelids were in a raised condition, and then looked around, trying to focus.

  There was a little light after all - a vertical line of gray off at right angles to the directions he kept swaying. Since the swaying was an indication of turns, he reasoned that must be either the front or back of the truck - and since there was presumably a cab of some kind covering the front, it was probably the back. In fact, he decided as he finally pulled into full orientation, that is the space between the two doors at the back. Also, he added to himself, it is daylight outside, which means I've been out for at least four hours. He looked down at his watch again, and was relieved to find it glowing faintly in its accustomed place near the end of his arm. It looked like either two o'clock or ten minutes after twelve; his eyes still weren't focusing perfectly.

  A quick check of his pocket showed his communicator missing - to be expected. Too many people knew what that little silver fountain pen was capable of - Section Five should start work on something new to hide the tiny long-distance radio in. A shoe-heel, for instance, or maybe a hollow tooth, depending on how miniaturization was progressing. His automatic was gone, of course - probably still lying there on the pavement of New Bond Street. He hoped somebody had picked it up; it would be a devil to clean if the dew got into it and rust pitting developed in the barrel. But his shoulder-rig was also missing. He hoped they were to together.

  He checked his other concealed surprises - they were all in place. The little goodies that made each U.N.C.L.E. agent's suit into a walking arsenal were all present. As he contemplated the mental roll, his confidence returned. He could still blast his way out and make it back to London.

  On the other hand, he might be almost anywhere. He had apparently been out of touch with reality for from eight to ten hours - that would be enough time for him to be halfway around the world. On the third hand, if he was halfway around the world and it was twelve-ten - or two - in England, it should be dark outside, so he was probably at least in Europe. But on the fourth hand, they could have reset his watch while he was unconscious, so it would be reading in local time. But that seemed uncommonly considerate for a bunch of kidnappers.

  On the fifth hand, if he had been traveling in a truck for all - or even most - of those eight or ten hours, he could still be several hundred miles away. Or at least a few hundred, considering the size of Britain. On the sixth hand…

  Napoleon was running out of hands, and the thought reminded him to look at his watch again. It was now either ten past one, or five minutes past two. He decided that, in view of the subjective time that had passed since he'd last looked at his watch, it was probabl
y five minutes after two.

  The truck bounced violently, and a wall he hadn't expected swung out of the darkness and dealt severely with a tender patch on the back of his head. Specks of light danced before his eyes for a moment, and he raised a shaking hand to steady himself again.

  Judging from the vibration, they were going at a pretty good clip. It would be pointless to use one of the little 'skeleton keys' - the tiny lumps of thermite with a manually ignited fuse which would make slag of the sturdiest lock in seconds - to blow open the door of the van; probably be better to wait until they arrived wherever they were going, and the doors were opened. For one thing, he believed in letting the opposition do as much of the work as possible, and for another, he had several questions he wanted to ask somebody.

  He settled back to rest and wait.

  He was awakened again a short time later as the truck lurched violently to the left and began to bounce about as though it had just left the road. It went slower and slower, making many turns, and eventually lumbered to a stop. Napoleon rose stiffly to a crouch just inside the back doors.

  Several seconds later there were clanking noises around the area of the latch, and he tensed his aching muscles for the leap. He remembered to squint his eyes just at the instant the doors swung open and a flood of daylight rushed in upon him.

  There were two men, both with automatics, standing a few feet below him, on the ground. While their light-accustomed eyes peered into the darkness of the truck, Napoleon was gauging their distances and angles from him. Before they had more than realized their prisoner was crouched just within the door instead of flopped against a wall, he had leaped out upon them, flailing arms and yelling.

  But his bruised leg betrayed him as he landed, and buckled as he tried to sprint for cover. Before he could regain his balance the guns were leveled at him, and a patient voice was saying, "Back on your feet, now, and try not to fall over again."