13 - The Rainbow Affair

by David McDaniel

  Rainbow removed his cigar and looked at Illya. "Perhaps it is not so in Russia or the United States, but here there are still remnants of what used to be referred to as 'honor.' I will not betray the trust even of those whom I personally dislike."

  "Trust needs to be mutual. Do you think you can rust Thrush not to destroy you if you continue to refuse them?"

  "I have seen nothing to indicate they are less than honorable. And allow me to say immodestly that I may take a great deal of destroying."

  "Thrush is capable of directing more effort than you might believe possible towards the destruction of an individual."

  "Perhaps. How is it that Mr. Solo and yourself have escaped their attentions all this time? Luck?"

  A bit of a smile creased the Russian's dour face. "It helps. But there are many factors which contribute to our continued survival. You will understand if I don't explain them."

  "Of course, of course. The information would do me no good, and could conceivably lessen your chances. But to return to my point - you have before you on the desk your partner's hardware. He himself will be returning to you tomorrow around noon, unharmed, as he would have been even had he not escaped when he did. Please convey to him my apologies for the rough treatment which he received, and add that I hope our next meeting will be under more amicable conditions." Rainbow leaned forward again and touched a button on the desk.

  A moment later, Illya felt rather than heard the door open behind him, and his host said, "Return Mr. Kuryakin to his hotel, please, and give him back his gun and radio along with those on my desk when you arrive." His eyes focused back on Illya's face, and he said, "You will have to be blindfolded again, Mr. Kuryakin. I hope you won't mind, but it is quite unavoidable under the circumstances."

  And the interview was at an end.

  Section III: "Add Another Hue Unto The Rainbow"

  Chapter 9

  How Napoleon and Illya Met an Old Old Gentleman, and Had Several Obvious Things Pointed Out to Them.

  THE NEXT DAY WAS Tuesday, and Napoleon sat across a restaurant table from Illya exchanging stories.

  "There's no possibility of finding the place again?"

  The Russian shook his head. "They drove a different route on the return trip. Each way took about thirty minutes, but I know they spent some of that time doubling back. It was quite a professional job."

  "What about the cab number?"

  "I checked it out as soon as I returned. There is such a company, and they have a cab with that number - but it was working steadily all evening. I was riding in a clever forgery."

  Solo nodded. "What was your impression of Rainbow? Did I miss much by declining his invitation?"

  "Not that much. He's an interesting individual. I would say he is probably quite serious about not wanting any part of Thrush; he has found a place in the world and is quite satisfied with it."

  "Would he be likely to help us against Thrush?

  Illya sipped at his cup of strong black tea before answering. "Not unless something very large happened to change his mind. He can be just as stubborn to us as he's being to them. If they were to set out actively, specifically and obviously to destroy him, then he might be persuaded to give evidence against them. If he lived long enough after the evil bird fixed its sights on him. On the other hand, I can think of few people I would give better odds for surviving under such circumstances.

  "And what did you learn from your peaceful sojourn in the country?"

  Napoleon smiled. "I learned that a hundred-pound girl can handle a five-hundred-pound motorcycle as well as I can handle a skiff. I learned never to underestimate the abilities of little old ladies or plump priests. And I learned that Johnnie Rainbow's center of operations stands a fairly good chance of being inside a lighthouse on a little lump of rock called Donzerly."

  "Not an unprofitable weekend. How much more were you able to find out about this Donzerly?"

  "Not an awful lot. According to the files at the Admiralty, the light was decommissioned about six years ago. This retired Naval officer picked it up at an auction of Crown property for a song, plus tax, and has decided to maintain and modernize it. Apparently there has been quite a bit of action around the light for the past five years, but no one seems to know exactly what's going on there. No one in any official capacity has set foot on Donzerly since the deed was signed over."

  "And the mysterious retired Naval officer?"

  "Not mysterious at all. Commander Horatio Dascoyn. Not a brilliant career, but an unblemished one. Every day of his life is on record, and there isn't a hint anywhere to connect him with anything more criminal than a few dust-ups in foreign ports when he was young. Absolutely unimpeachable, and totally above suspicion."

  "Which in itself is highly suspicious," said Illya, and Napoleon nodded.

  "My thought precisely. I put the local Section Three on it. They haven't found anything yet, but if there's anything there, they will."

  "Even if it takes them six months. Did you get anything we can use right now?"

  This time Napoleon used his drink to fill a few seconds of silence while he thought. "Well, not exactly. All I got was a sort of suggestion. It's not a lead, and it's not a clue, and it has no direct bearing on our assignment - but right now it's the only thing we've got until some thing turns up on Dascoyn."

  "If you wanted to capture my interest, you have succeeded. What is this thing - the product of a Ouija board? Or a cryptic message you found in a bottle?"

  "Neither. I mentioned already that both Aunt Jane and Father John claimed the hobby of criminology. They gave me the name and address of a man whom they seem to consider the leader of their little clique, and suggested we talk to him."

  Illya gave Napoleon a look that implied a straitjacket and probably a padded cell. "A hobbyist?" he said unbelievingly. "An amateur detective of some kind? What on earth could you hope to find out from an armchair expert? He probably follows all the crime stories in the newspapers and pastes them in scrapbooks, with little notations on theories and resolutions. With the resources of Scotland Yard, part of MI-5, and all of U.N.C.L.E., you want to seek the advice of some utterly incompetent little man who has probably never seen an actual crime outside a newspaper photograph?"

  Napoleon raised a hand to shorten his partner's out burst. "He may be, or he may not," he said. "Talking with a little old lady and an equally unprepossessing priest, I gained quite a respect for their minds and abilities, as I believe I said only recently. They seemed to admire this man tremendously, and because of this I am willing at least to talk to him. You may either come along or pursue your interests here in the city while I go alone."

  "Where? And what do you know about him? What does he do for a living? What's his name, and what are his qualifications?"

  "Actually I know very little. He's very old, apparently - somewhere around a hundred years old, according to Father John. Aunt Jane said he was once a detective, though I imagine most of our modem techniques would be beyond him by this point. Outside of that, all I know is that he is long retired, and keeps bees on his little Sussex farm. And his name is William Escott. I'll be going down to see him tomorrow afternoon."

  Illya sighed. "I may as well come along. It might be interesting, if not educational."

  It was three o'clock on a still May afternoon when two casually dressed individuals descended from the second passenger car of a little local train at the station of a sleepy Sussex town. One was tall, long-jawed, and obviously American. The other was square-faced and blond, wearing American clothes but of less certain nationality. They conversed together in low tones, and though the usual station loungers could have taken oath that neither of them had ever been in the village before, both strode directly up High Street without pausing to ask for directions.

  They walked completely through the village and out the other side where High Street narrowed again to a two-laned strip of pavement cracked with heavy use. The shriek of the train announcing its departure from the statio
n came faintly to them across the somnolent haze of the afternoon.

  They had walked perhaps half a mile beyond the last houses of the village before Napoleon turned left into a narrow dirt lane that wound off under the branches of great antediluvian oak. The only sounds that reached them now were the whispers of a fitful breeze stirring the leaves nearby and the distant drone of insects. The harsher buzz of a light plane somewhere far away in the sky mingled with the soft undercurrent of sound to give an impression to city-bred ears of total silence.

  Weeds stood cockily down the center of the road between parallel ruts, and the most observant eye would detect no trace of the oil stains that mark a road frequented by motor vehicles. They seemed to have stepped from the train into a village of 1900, and to have walked from there to a time a hundred years earlier. A feeling of peace, of separation from the Twentieth Century, soaked slowly into them with the heat from the haze-shrouded golden sun. A startled rabbit leaped from the cover of a clump of grass and bolted across the roadway - a flicker of gray fur and a rustling and then stillness again.

  The road wound around the foot of a low gentle hill, and dipped into a green valley. They stopped at the top of the grade and looked ahead of them. A small stream sparkled amid rush-crowded banks, and a grove of ash trees stood tall and graceful beside a small thatch-roofed cottage. Behind the cottage ranks of white boxes perched on low tables, grass standing proud and uncut about them. Now the two visitors became aware of numbers of bees, humming like a chorus, darting around them.

  Illya finally broke the silence that had accompanied them since passing the edge of town. "Is this the place?" His voice was almost unconsciously lowered to match the hush of the little valley.

  Napoleon nodded, and started on down the lane. A path wound off it to the door of the cottage, and ended where an ancient thorn bush stood beside the slab of rock that served as a stoop. Napoleon knocked at the heavy dark wooden door, and the sound seemed to echo inside the house for several seconds before it died away and was replaced by the sound of shuffling footsteps.

  The door swung inward, and an aged face peered out at them.

  "William Escott?" Napoleon inquired.

  "At your service," said a whispery voice, which still held overtones of a former strength. "Come in, come in."

  They followed him into the dim, cool interior of the cottage, and found chairs set about a fireplace. The room was a shambles. Books were stacked on tables and chairs, a stench of sulfur dioxide tinged the air from an ancient fractionating column visible on the kitchen sink, a few letters were pinned to the top of the mantel piece with an opened jackknife, a violin case stood in a corner by the most comfortable chair, and various unidentifiable objects stood and lay about the cozy little room.

  When they were seated, Escott spent several seconds studying them both intently while they returned his scrutiny. They saw a very old man, not bent with age but standing as straight as a soldier, whose hawklike eye had not been clouded with the passage of time, and whose face retained the keenness that must once have been his. His bright gaze darted from one to the other of his guests as his bees darted from flower to flower. At last he spoke, directly to Napoleon.

  "You have recently been in Devonshire, where you had a misfortune of some kind. You spent a short time there, and returned to London... yesterday. You came from London today to see me. Why?"

  Taken off balance by the sudden question, Solo said, "That's very good. How do you do it?"

  "From the looks of mudstains on your coat, I should imagine," Illya murmured.

  "But I had it cleaned and pressed as soon as I got back."

  Escott chuckled, a surprisingly deep rich sound. "Precisely how I placed you in London yesterday." He pointed to Napoleon's trouser cuff. "That particular type of crease is affected by a chain of dry cleaning establishments in London, and while the garment has obviously scarcely been worn a day since the pressing, the cloth lacks the slightly matted appearance of moderately long storage. I decided it was pressed yesterday. The slight tear in your coat indicates the misfortune, but the fact that it is only stitched up, not fully repaired, also indicates that it was quite recent. Presumably you would have had the damage taken care of on your return to London unless you only had a day - enough time for a dry-cleaning but not enough for invisible reweaving."

  "Oh," said Napoleon inadequately. "How did you decide it was in Devonshire?"

  "Come now. If I gave away everything I should soon lose my value. But you still have not stated your business with me. You are not reporters come for an interview on the latest large robbery. You are not from the Yard; neither of you is English." He was mumbling to himself now, having apparently lost the thread of the conversation. "Besides, the Yard scorns my advice as they have always done. Yet you are connected in some way with law enforcement. These robberies are of no interest to Interpol. The only other organization that would mix nationalities in a team would be the U.N.C.L.E..."

  His voice rose again, leaving him apparently unaware of having spoken his thoughts. "You are from the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. This means that my theory as to the disposal of the loot was essentially correct - it was sent abroad by diplomatic carrier."

  Illya's mouth was slightly open in amazement, but only for a few seconds. Napoleon stepped into the moment's silence. "Mr. Escott, my name is Napoleon Solo, and this is my partner, Illya Kuryakin. As you have surmised, we are indeed from the U.N.C.L.E., and we are here in regard to the Royal Mail robbery and the recent Rothschild gold robbery."

  "In other words, the Rainbow Gang." The old man leaned forward and plucked a pipe from the table. While the effects of his words filtered through the room, he filled, packed and ignited it.

  This time Illya recovered first. "You were recommended to us by a friend of Mr. Solo's who held a very high opinion of your abilities. Your parlor tricks are most impressive, but I frankly doubt…"

  "You are grasping at straws, in other words." The late afternoon sunlight came straight in through a dusty window and spotlighted his face against the dimness of the room as he leaned forward. "Pray continue. I am so seldom consulted these days that I welcome recognition even in desperation. Tell me the exact nature of your interests - spare no detail. I am no longer able to conduct my investigations in person, but my mind remains keen."

  Napoleon and Illya looked at each other, and the latter shrugged slightly and the former nodded, and together they began with the data they had collected in the last few days. Escott listened attentively, nodding occasionally, through the entire recital, then asked a few questions, touching on points he felt had been inadequately covered. During this cross-examination the sun had set, and oil lamps were lit when Napoleon's pocket transceiver twittered, and he excused himself to answer it.

  "Solo here."

  "Section Two, London. There's to be an airdrop of assorted hardware from Thrush to Rainbow tomorrow night. Sources are unable to establish location. We'll keep you informed. London out."

  Napoleon folded his transceiver and replaced it in his pocket with a thoughtful expression. Illya finished clearing up a detail about the house - or more specifically the room - in which he bad met Johnnie Rainbow, and looked up.

  "Bad news from home?" Lie asked.

  "Not good. The London office got word of a delivery of devilish devices to Johnnie sometime tomorrow night - they don't know when and they don't know where. All they know is it's to be an airdrop."

  "Time will be between one and three A.M., the morning of the 19th. The location will probably be in the southern part of England - the terrain is better. The target will probably be near something easily identifiable on radar, but far from major habitation." The old man's voice was calm.

  There was silence for several seconds. Illya cut it short with one word: "Stonehenge."

  "Quite likely," said Escott.

  "Among the papers on Rainbow's desk there were several maps, including one of Stonehenge. It was mostly covered, but I saw the
corner with the name. I think it's worth a try."

  "So do I." Solo turned to Escott. "I doubt if there will be another train out of here tonight, but we'll leave for wherever Stonehenge is first thing in the morning. Do you have enough data to start formulating a theory?"

  "I never theorize. I merely examine, correlate and reason. But I have enough data to begin work. If you could give me a list of the maps you saw on Rainbow's desk it could help."

  "I think I can remember most of them. I was mentally recording as much as I could in the short time was there."

  "Capital. An excellent habit."

  Napoleon interrupted one more time. "What time did you say it would be?"

  "Between one and three in the morning. The moon is just past its first quarter, and will set about one A.M. If the airbase is nearby, the drop will arrive shortly after moonset. If they are as far away as France, they may take two hours to make the journey each way."

  "But... no later than three?"

  Escott sighed. "Dawn comes before five A.M. They would want to be safely back at their base by that time."

  "Oh, of course," said Napoleon. "That's really quite elementary."

  Escott winced visibly and returned to Illya.

  Chapter 10

  How the Heel Stone Proved an Achilles Heel, and Napoleon Solo Crossed Salisbury Plain on a Bicycle.

  A SLIGHT OVERCAST dimmed the stars, and the moon, as advertised, had disappeared shortly after midnight. The silence of the night was unbroken, and in the faint glow from the sky tall black shapes reared in ancient stillness.

  The eldritch sarcens and cromlechs of Stonehenge stood patiently against the night sky, hinting at mysteries older than civilization, waiting for the world to bring them to sunlight again.

  Napoleon and Illya sat in moderate comfort in hiding between two great standing stones. They had come with great stealth as soon as darkness was fully upon the face of the land, and had waited many hours since then. About two o'clock they became aware of surreptitious noises, as of several men attempting to move quietly and mostly succeeding. Because of the possibility of the expected aircraft using infrared to locate its target, the U.N.C.L.E. agents did not have similar equipment - an IR floodlight shows up quite as clearly on the enemy's scope as a real one to the naked eye. Illya was quietly regretting the lack of opportunity to return to London and pick up a light-amplifier, which operated undetectably. But at the time, Stonehenge had seemed only the most likely of several possible locations, and the chance of it paying off had not been worth the extra effort, Now it was about to, and they had only minimal gear themselves.