Their job would be to interfere with the airdrop such an extent that they could capture the prize - whatever it was. Casualties or prisoners from the other side didn't matter at this point. It was a simple matter of hijacking the cargo.
Straining their vision across the darkness, Napoleon and Illya watched while a few small pieces of equipment were unpacked and adjusted - apparently signals for the expected aircraft. And shortly before three o'clock it came.
The distant drone of an engine gradually grew to point where the hearing could take conscious notice it, and with a bit of cautious whispering and pointing the two U.N.C.L.E. agents were able to pick it through a break in the clouds.
Across the circle of stone, a light flashed three times, casting deep featureless shadows across the faces of the stones. The plane gave no sign, high above them, as it approached, but continued on its course directly over the monument. Then, just as it passed head, something small and white appeared far below it faintly against the sky. It swayed and grew slowly, drifting towards them. It resolved gradually into a parachute with a crate of some kind swinging beneath it.
It made an audible landing just to the west of the circle, and four men detached themselves from the shadows and ran across the grass towards it.
In seconds they had surrounded the case, which was perhaps three feet on a side. Apparently secure in the belief of solitude, they were caught quite unprepared when a sharp voice out of the darkness said, "All right - hold very still and raise your hands. All of you." At the same moment a powerful battery-operated floodlight pinned them to the spot. The four men stood frozen in their various positions, harshly lit against the blackness of the night.
Then, as though directed by a single control, all four of them leaped away into the darkness in different directions. Napoleon's first shot snapped through the space where one of them had been standing, and an instant later muzzle flashes flickered from the shadows. Illya swept the light across the plain, but no heads were to be seen above the grass. As two slugs whipped past him, he killed the light and dived for cover behind the nearest stone himself.
He wriggled over to Napoleon for a fast conference. In terse whispers, punctuated by occasional gunshots, they worked out a plan of action.
A few seconds later the floodlight appeared again, weaving and bobbing, picking out the hiding men. As the light rose higher and higher from the ground it swung about, bathing the short scrub grass in light. The Rainbow men stayed concealed, as Napoleon's sights traversed the area.
At the same time, Illya, having thrown the cord of the floodlight over the top of a lintle-stone so it dangled in the air, and hauled it up to perhaps twelve feet from the ground, was running silently in the opposite direction. Just beyond the Heel Stone to the east was a road, and just across the road their little two-seater was concealed. While Napoleon kept the opposing team under control, he could zip around among them, pick up the box and remove it.
He whipped the camouflage blanket away, vaulted into the seat and hit the starter. The engine raced, and rear wheels threw clouds of dirt as they tore at the ground for traction. In seconds he was around the end of the fence and bounding over the tussocky grass, his headlights stabbing at the sky and sweeping the ground. The dangling floodlight picked out the crate he was after, and he gunned the engine in second gear, hoping the defenders would be able to keep out of his way.
The car jerked to a halt between the light and the box. Illya leaped out the near side and hoisted the case. Three shots whipped by him, and a short burst from somewhere below the light clipped the tops of the grass blades.
The case was large enough to be clumsy, but weighed no more than fifty pounds. Illya crouched, gripped fingers under the edge, and lifted. For a moment he was silhouetted against the harsh floodlight, and the car lurched slightly as he dropped the case into the passenger seat. He took off again, swinging right, as a fusillade went off behind him and to his left. As he made a long U-turn, headlights out, the communicator in his pocket twittered. Steering one-handed, he fished it out and flipped it open. Napoleon's voice whispered in his ear.
"Illya - I've been pinned down by the four of them while you were loading up. I can hole up where I am, but you can't get in to me. Get that box somewhere safe, and I'll call for help."
The Russian clicked an acknowledgment. Solo could take care of himself, as had been noted, and under the circumstances the box of Thrush's latest developments was worth as much as a chance on his life.
A few slugs sang by like mosquitoes as Illya dropped into top gear, fighting the steering wheel and forcing the bucking car back towards the road.
Napoleon, at the same time, crouched behind a stone and stuffed cartridges into his long magazine. There seemed to be more than four men out there now - perhaps there had been another crew with a truck some where nearby. He had seen Illya go bounding away over the plain with the box in the left-hand seat, and there had been no concerted effort to chase him.
He glanced at his watch. The glowing hands read shortly past three. It would be dawn in another hour and a half, and darkness would no longer hide him. His last act before escaping from his former hiding place had been to disconnect the lamp and deactivate the battery; that was one weapon they wouldn't be using against him. He finished reloading his twenty-shot magazine and settled down to wait.
Some ninety minutes later Napoleon crouched once again behind a stone - the Heel Stone, the same that Illya had sprinted past on his way to the car. During the last hour and more, he had been harried and chivvied from place to place, dodging from one stone to another in an effort to avoid encirclement, retreating slightly. And now he was at the easternmost stone in the whole monument - a great rough boulder perhaps ten feet wide and twenty high, jutting up from the Wiltshire grass. A wide stretch of open space lay between him and the edge of the monument.
The stones were beginning to show lighter against the western sky, now, and the last of the stars were swallowed in a light mist which formed in the air. The Rainbow men - those who were left - could not rush him across the open ground, but he could not escape from the sanctuary of the standing stone. If he could only hold them off for a while longer...
Then he felt a warmth on the back of his neck, and turned his head, shading his eyes with the palm of a chilly hand. The sun had just cleared the horizon, and the mist was burning away. The golden rays were suddenly dazzling against the last wisps of night, and he looked down.
He holstered his automatic again as the last of the mist faded, and began to run. He ran low, half-bent among the tufts of grass, directly toward the rising sun. He heard a few shots from behind him, and dodged slightly. The rising sun, almost directly behind the Heel Stone, blinded his pursuers and guided him to escape by its shadows.
Ten minutes later Napoleon rose from a crouch in the grass to check his backtrail visually. There was no sign of pursuit. Gradually he stood upright and looked all about him in the cold, wet morning air. He was alone. There was only a farmhouse, perhaps half a mile away, where no light showed to indicate a wakeful inhabitant.
He started towards it, slogging through the dew-heavy grass. And thirty seconds later something cracked through the air beside his head like the tail of a whip. He broke into a run, leaping and dodging, heading towards the distant farmhouse, as the sound of the shot reached him, flat and far away across the moors.
Into the farmyard he staggered, winded from the run. He may have lost them, or they may have been hurrying along behind. He glanced at the shuttered windows of the sleeping farmhouse, and decided against involving the citizenry. Around the far side of the house he found a bicycle leaning against a wall. He fumbled in his pockets for a pen and paper, and scribbled a note. Am borrowing your bicycle; it will be returned. Here's something for your trouble. He fastened it to a five-pound note and tacked it to the wall.
Then he straightened the bike silently, straddled it, and spun away, wobbling slightly, down the dirt road that led from the farmer's gate. Unless
his pursuit had been able to bring a vehicle along with them in that long chase over the plain, he could now outdistance them with ease. The road was reasonably level, and merged with a paved thoroughfare after a mile or so, heading south.
At the junction, wet and cold, Napoleon surveyed the road and tried to orient himself. He was now, uh, southeast of Stonehenge. The nearest large town was Shaftesbury, which would be... ah... to his right. Probably.
He regretted having left the map of the area in the car. He turned to the right, consciously remembering to stay in the left lane, and pedaled away into the lonely morning.
The sun warmed his back as he pumped along down the road, and the instinctive equilibrium a cyclist develops came back to him. One car passed him from behind as he pedaled down the seven or so miles into Shaftesbury, and it came upon him so suddenly he almost veered off the road and into the ditch. It zoomed past, and the stench of its exhaust faded quickly.
At last the outskirts of the town were about him, and he left the bike on the steps of the local police station and wandered on afoot. He found a small park and settled down on a dew-spangled bench, dredged out his communicator, and called for Illya.
With no answer on the local channel, he called for the London relay, and signaled again. After several seconds the Russian's voice answered.
"I'm in Shaftesbury," Napoleon announced casually, "and I'm safe. How soon can you pick me up?"
There was a thoughtful silence from the other end, and then Illya said, "There was a little trouble with the car, Napoleon. A hole in the fuel tank left me dry near Dorchester. Fortunately we have a retired agent there. I left the case with him, and borrowed his transportation."
"Fine. How soon can you pick me up?"
"In Shaftesbury?"
"That's where I am, across the street from the Noughts and Crosses public house. How soon?"
"Twenty minutes."
"Fine. And hurry - I'm freezing."
The connection was ended, and Napoleon leaned back on the bench to watch the street.
About fifteen minutes later a muffled roar grew far away on the other side of town, and approached. Soon it was visible, coming up the street towards him - a fine, low-slung, broad-beamed motorcycle, purring gently up the street at fifty miles an hour. It slewed on the wet pavement, and Napoleon winced. Then he looked at it and winced again, more slowly.
Did the posture of the driver, the broad serious face, seem too familiar? The cycle rumbled heavily to a stop, and stood there muttering as the rider beckoned towards him and raised his protective mask to shout, "Come on, Napoleon. Hop aboard!" It was Illya.
"What's that?" Solo asked doubtfully.
"It's a motorcycle. Specifically, a Bruff-Sup, or formally, a Brough-Superior vintage 1935. Fifty-two horse power at top. Come on - hop aboard. I borrowed this from our friend at Clouds Hill, near Dorchester. He'll want it back."
Napoleon gathered his coat around him and climbed carefully up to the tiny padded square pillion seat behind his partner. With a moment's search, his feet found the footpegs and his hands found the grip behind the front seat. Illya blipped the motor a few times, then gunned it and slipped the clutch, and instantly they were whipping along the shop-lined street, almost without a feeling of acceleration.
Solo's knees, lifted by the footbraces, stuck out diagonally to either side of the hurtling machine. The wind, unbroken over Illya's bent back, blasted into his face like powdered snow. His hair pulled at his scalp and his tie almost tore from under his vest.
They veered left, then left again, and were on a major through road which bore traffic even at this hour. A sign pointed to LONDON, 97 MILES. Their speed increased, and a voice floated back to him as Illya straightened and shouted something. Solo leaned forward and yelled, "What?"
Illya half-turned his head and shouted, "We'll be in London in about an hour. Hang on!"
Napoleon did a fast calculation, and his jaw dropped. Speed-driven cold air forced into his mouth and out his nose before he snapped it shut again. Then he ducked down too, bending along the curve of the driver's back, trying to keep the wind out of his eyes.
Engines roared faintly over the scream and thunder of the wind in his ears, and they began to overtake trucks. Great combinations, speeding towards London with goods and materials for the morning markets. Illya wound smoothly from lane to lane, passing them like a racer, keeping his speed up to an area Napoleon didn't want to know about.
He clung to the handgrip and locked his fingers around it, and kept his eyes squeezed shut most of the time. He opened them once to see the trailers of two trucks side by side, filling the entire roadway ahead of them, and heard Illya shout, "Knees in, Napoleon!" as they shot between the trucks.
For a measurable part of a second there were two walls of swaying gray steel inches away from them on either side, and a noise that clogged the ears with sound. Wheels hissed on pavement, powerful engines thundered and wind screamed. And then they were out in the low golden sunlight, and the snouts of the trucks shrank away behind them. The road unwound ahead, and London lay waking at the end of it.
Chapter 11
How Napoleon and Illya Heard a Violin, and the Old Old Gentleman Spoke of Bees, Drugs, Death and Other Mysteries.
DUSK WAS SPREADING over the gentle Sussex hills as Napoleon and Illya walked again along the winding lane that led back to Mr. Escott's bee farm. They talked quietly during the mile or two out from town.
"I never knew you felt that way about motorcycles, Napoleon."
"Well, I've never been that fond of them, and I do think your driving could have been more cautious."
"I wasn't used to the machine. Those old ones are tricky."
"All the same, I think the next time I'll wait for a helicopter from the local office."
They came around the curve of the dirt track and paused, as before, at the sight of the little cottage with the field of small hives behind it. And as they stood there, the faint wailing strains of a violin floated up to them. Both listened as they approached until the sounds were loud enough to form a recognizable melody. Illya nodded and said, "Chopin's Fantasie Impromptu."
Napoleon recognized the tune by another name, and made a face. "A whole island of punsters," he said wryly.
"What do you mean?"
"Never mind. I forgot your knowledge of American popular music starts with Charlie Parker and continues unidirectionally."
"Perhaps. I always preferred specialization."
"Umm," said Napoleon as the piece drew to an end and they stood on the doorstep of the cottage and knocked.
Several seconds later, the door opened and they were invited in. "And how did you find Stonehenge?" Mr. Escott asked as they sat down.
"Quite pleasant," said Napoleon. "Everything went very much as predicted, and we collected the delivery. There was a little problem..."
"Our equipment proved somewhat inadequate," Illya explained. "But we, ah, won through."
"Tell me everything. Spare no detail, no matter how minor. I am no longer able to gather my own data in the field, but the hunter's nose is still there."
Once again they reported all they could about the operation, and again, when they were talked dry, Escott shifted the conversation. "I hope you won't mind an hour's idle conversation. Although solitary by nature, I occasionally find my remote location a trial, and human society is a rare delight. I observed you had some transportation trouble the moment you walked in, but resolved to let your story unfold. You, Mr. Kuryakin, had obviously had less trouble but rather farther to go." The keen eyes narrowed slightly, and the old head nodded. "A long motorcycle ride always leaves its marks." He smiled and leaned back, and added, "Though fewer than an ordinary bicycle."
Napoleon and Illya looked at each other, wondering which would have to ask the inevitable question.
Napoleon lost. His suit had been cleaned and pressed again after his long walk through the foggy dew and that hurricane ride to London, and neither grass stain nor flaccid
creases could have betrayed the morning's activities. He finally opened his mouth and got as far as, "How could you have told it was a bicycle, though?"
Escott sighed politely, and pointed to Napoleon's trouser-cuffs. "The fraying of the right cuff on the inside is characteristic of cycling. The fact that you returned to London is again apparent in the appearance of your creases. By the way, would you unhook that slipper beside the fire and hand it over here? Thank you."
Illya performed the requested service, and they watched as Escott packed an aged meerschaum with a pungent mixture from the toe of the slipper. He handed it back, and then carefully set fire to his well-tamped pipe. Between puffs, he said, "But would you be willing to talk of your organization, and your opponent's? I have heard rumors many places of something called Thrush, and I would be most interested to see if it bears any resemblance to a network I had some hand in cracking many years ago."
For the next few hours, Napoleon and Illya described the nature of Thrush as well as they could. The satraps, the Supreme Council and the Ultimate Computer, the semi-independent operations that went on within this great hierarchy; the range of activities they participated in, always with an eye to their ends, which were, simply enough, the conquest of the entire world and its inhabitants.
Escott finished a pipe and began on another while they talked, and then told of his struggles against a prototype of Thrush. As it grew later in the evening, he brought out, refreshments and the conversation continued. They covered everything they had found out about the Rainbow Gang and its leader, and wandered afield into tastes in music and odd facts of life.
13 - The Rainbow Affair Page 9