But in the relaxed atmosphere, Napoleon and Illya found themselves remembering little details. The type of caps worn by the men who drove his truck, or the odd smell about Johnnie Rainbow's borrowed country estate. And gradually pieces of a picture began to build up, with Escott's voice weaving the individual bits of evidence into a tapestry of circumstance that wound around men whose names were unknown, but whose presence made themselves felt everywhere. They saw the perfect simplicity of the lighthouse as a head quarters, safe, solitary, and well-defended. They saw glimpses of his network of representatives, strung out about the country, working independently but always available for an assignment; a network which fluctuated from moment to moment, evading a similar growing set being established by Thrush. Thrush had always had some difficulty establishing native agents in England, and to encounter this ready-made operation must have seemed a gift.
But in the course of their organizing drive, they occasionally ran into stumbling blocks. One such was Johnnie Rainbow, who wanted to keep England safe for the common burglar, and avoid foreign entanglements except those necessary to get loot out of the country. Escott made a comment that stuck in Napoleon's memory, to the effect that thieves were more deserving of prison terms than murderers. "A thief," he said, "is very hard to reform. By yielding to temptation once he has weakened his will to resist the next time. But a murderer, nine times out of ten, kills once, under a combination of circumstances that could never occur again, and then is punished so he may never repeat something he would be incapable of anyway." He paused, and sucked reflectively at his pipe. "But on the other hand there are those who would make murder a hobby - or a habit. These are the demons I most love to run to earth."
A small log in the fireplace snapped in the silence, and a golden shower of sparks spat onto the hearth stone.
"What are the things that drive men to murder, Mr. Solo? In my experience desperation of some kind is always evident. It may build slowly, like a banked fire, or it may blaze suddenly forth and destroy two lives - the victim and the killer." The old man's eyes shone in the light dancing from the fireplace. "These demons were my life's work, Mr. Solo. I had them catalogued, and could recognize a specimen by a single characteristic."
"Did you work alone, or were you part of a force?"
"Mostly alone. I was completely independent, except for a good and helpful friend. I made it my livelihood for many years, and prided myself that I had gained some measure of fame for my efforts. But now my talents are less in demand, and perhaps my grasp is slipping. It is not gone by any means - but could you please tell me, Mr. Solo, were you married at one time?"
Napoleon scarcely moved, but his eyes shifted first to Illya and then to the old man. "No," he said suddenly, with a quick grin. "Just a carefree bachelor." His glance turned to Illya, and grew very serious for a moment. "We ought to get back to the main problem, though. It's getting late, and there should be work to get done tomorrow."
He shifted position on the couch and addressed Escott again. "Do you have any ideas that might help us?"
The cue was not missed. Illya added, "It seems obvious to me that our course of action should be an invitation - ah, investigation, that is - of the lighthouse on Donzerly."
The old man nodded. "It must be the location. From Rainbow's speech it is obvious that Solo was being taken directly to where he was at the time, and his reference to the convenience of his headquarters indicates he would have been there. Unless he lives in a cave inside the cliffs, miraculously invisible to all the boats that pass, he must be on Donzerly. The only question that remains is will you take a small task force for a full-scale attack, or attempt an infiltration. The former would be safer and more effective, but the latter could net you invaluable data on his entire operation. How will you go about it, whichever you decide?"
"Stealth is our primary consideration," Illya said. "Don't you agree, Napoleon?"
Solo nodded. "The two of us should be able to sneak aboard that hunk of rock and pick out something valuable. It's a very helpful ability of ours."
"But Rainbow has all sorts of detection apparatus," Illya said. "We'd have to allow for anything he could try to find us with - infrared, radar, sonar, light-amplification devices, or something Thrush has given him recently. How can we hope to foul all of them? I don't relish the idea of swimming from the mainland in this weather, even with a wet-suit."
"Well, we can't fly. He'd see us in parachutes, and I'm not an accurate enough jumper to be sure of hitting such a small target."
"That leaves a boat, and they're easily seen," Illya said.
"Unless there's a fog," Napoleon said. "That would also kill the light-amplification."
"Infrared would work, but only with a short range," Illya nodded.
"A good heavy rain would blind it."
"But radar goes right through rain."
Napoleon shrugged. "A low-profiled boat in a high sea is completely lost in ground clutter on radar."
Illya sighed. "Sonar?"
"Wind, and turbulence on the surface. But they wouldn't cover the sound of a motorboat."
"In other words you want us to go across several miles of open sea in a full storm in a small, low-profile sail boat." Illya's voice did not change during this sentence, but there was a hint of raggedness.
"Essentially," Napoleon admitted.
"Now, I know you're an expert small-boat handler, Napoleon. You can do very nice turns around Long Island Sound in a skiff. But to take a small boat out in a storm..."
"Illya, it'll be perfectly safe. Probably. Depending on how severe the storm is."
"How can we tell when we start out how bad the storm will get? We would be swamped, capsized and sunk unless we had a very strong-hulled boat with sealed flotation chambers."
Escott leaned back in his old wing-chair and watched smiling as the two younger men thrashed out the solution to their own problem. This method had become more and more natural to him in later years, and he liked it. When his mind occasionally clouded, he could still guide others to the logical conclusions in their ways.
"All our gear could be packed in watertight compartments, and the sailors said there was a floating dock there left out in all weathers. We could even come in there."
Illya nodded, and Napoleon rose, saying, "Think it over for a minute while I get a drink of water."
As he left Escott leaned forward, a look of intense curiosity on his face. "Mr. Kuryakin, if it would not be betraying a confidence, could you tell me - did Mr. Solo lie about his marriage?"
Illya glanced at the closed kitchen door, thou quickly, and decided the truth was deserved. "Yes, did. It's not a confidence, but he doesn't like to be reminded of it. Married at nineteen, wife was killed in an automobile accident a year later. Sometimes I think he's never gotten over it. He probably denied it a moment ago through shock reaction."
Escott nodded. "I quite understand," he said. "Sorry to have intruded."
"I won't mention it."
Napoleon popped through the kitchen door again, asking, "Are you willing?" and Illya, caught slightly by surprise, said "Of course," before he had fully grasped the question.
"Fine," said Solo. "Tomorrow we will return to Baycombe and see about reserving an appropriate vessel for the next good storm."
"That should be in a few days. A low-pressure area was reported moving down from the Norwegian Sea, and within three days you will have all the storm you could desire," Escott said with a smile. "Today is Friday… that gives you the whole weekend to make your preparations. You may spend the night here if you wish, and take a main-line train tomorrow morning towards Baycombe."
"Well, it's a fair walk back to town…" Napoleon admitted.
"There will be my own honey with breakfast - the finest honey produced in this whole Kingdom," said Escott.
"Quite a temptation," Illya said, glancing at Napoleon, who nodded agreement. "Thank you. We accept both invitations."
Chapter 12
How Illya D
iscovered the Pleasures of Seafaring, and Napoleon Solo Sought a Rainbow in the Midst of a Storm.
SATURDAY THEY returned to Baycombe, and with help from their friends there, found a satisfactory boat. Sunday was beautiful again, with a light breeze from the north hinting of the storm to come. Napoleon and Illya attended Father John's mass in the morning, and went with Joey and Aunt Jane for a picnic in the afternoon. They sat in the grass atop a low cliff overlooking the sea and talked of inconsequentials.
Joey showed them what looked like a military Pill box - the remains of a Coastal Defense Station better than fifty years old. "It looks as if someone tried to convert it into a cottage," Joey said. "I can't think why."
"I can," said Napoleon. "This would be a nice place to get utterly away from the world. Just the wind and the sea, and a safe solid place to hide from the weather. If it's still around when I retire, maybe I'll see about buying it. That's probably what the previous inhabitant did."
"Oh no," Aunt Jane said. "This was the residence of a young man - about six feet tall and quite athletic. He had an older man with him, and was quite well off."
Illya sighed. "You were taught that trick by Mr. Escott, weren't you. Go ahead. How can you tell?"
"There are holes in the wall above the sink where a mirror was mounted. Its height indicated the height of its user. The older man had the second room back; he was in the position of a servant, because the younger man had the larger bedroom with the window."
Napoleon and Illya examined the areas she indicated, and Illya looked up first. "He must have either been well off or subject to fluctuations in fortune," he said. "There was no difference at all in the color or texture of the paper where nailholes indicate something was hanging, like a picture."
"Therefore," continued Napoleon without a pause, "he spent all sorts of money making the place livable and then moved out very shortly."
Aunt Jane nodded proudly. "That was quite good. I hadn't noticed that myself - my statement was based on other evidence. You see how your association with him has sharpened your eyes."
Napoleon and Illya looked at each other. Perhaps it was so - they hoped it was.
Monday blew up cloudy and cold. It started to rain around noon, while Napoleon and Illya were down at the dock making sure all their gear was safely stowed. They sealed the last box and hurried back up the street to Joey's house. There they had a hearty lunch and lay down for a few more hours' sleep before the long night ahead.
It was dark when they awoke, and Joey had supper ready for them. The storm was higher, and wind muttering around the house like an animal. They ate again, light, rich food which would keep them going through the cold without overloading their stomachs.
They spent nearly half an hour getting dressed for the excursion, from warm undergarments out through several layers to the waterproofs they slipped on over the entire ensemble. A last steaming cup of tea, and they were ready to go.
Two electric torches lighted their way down to the sheltered harbor, where the waves, even with force abated, tossed their craft from side to side, bouncing against the pilings and tugging at her moorings.
Illya looked at his partner and shook his head. "The storm is getting worse," he said. "Only an idiot would go out in an open boat on a night like this."
"I know," said Napoleon. "You ready?"
"Of course."
The waterfront was deserted in the storm, and alone the U.N.C.L.E. agents rigged the boat and cast off. Napoleon pushed the dock away with a small spar at the crest of one wave, and hauled up the single jib sail they would use. Illya hung on the rudder as he had been instructed, and the wind caught them up and hurled them from the shore.
It took some work to keep them from the end of the breakwater, but shouted instruction and bruised hands brought them clearly past the rain-dimmed lighthouse into the sweep of the open sea.
The wind was steady, here, and in a matter of minutes Napoleon had them so rigged that it bore them along, heading crabwise towards a particular compass setting. Rain slashed at the deck and tore at their foul-weather gear, which was earning its name. The tiller had been lashed, and Illya had nothing to do but hold on, and adjust the lines from time to time. Holding on still took most of his attention.
Napoleon was up at the prow where the jib was belayed, one hand on a cleat and the other on the rope, keeping the sail trimmed as the slamming waves against her hull tried to force her to fall away from her true course. He was really at home on a somewhat smaller boat, but he adjusted his touch and had the craft under good control for all her bucking. Boiling waves swept up around him and tore at his legs as they raced across the deck. The salt spray stung his eyes and chilled his exposed face, and the sharp tang of it tasted in the back of his mouth. He leaned back on a fixed line and looked for Illya.
The Russian was holding onto the starboard rail with both hands, facing away from the wind, kneeling on the hard bench that ran around the inside of the cockpit. The tiller was securely fastened at the proper angle, but the wind was beginning to shift again.
Napoleon shouted his partner's name, and Illya straightened at once. "Aye aye, Captain," floated back over the howl of the wind.
"Stand by the tiller," Napoleon told him as he made his way aft. "The wind's turning."
Illya bent over the long handle and released one of the lines that held it, letting the rudder back easily, though it threatened to wrench itself out of his grip. Napoleon refastened the line on the lee side while Illya tied down the other, then leaped, or more accurately scrambled precariously, back to his position at the bow. The jib had to be adjusted.
On the way he took a quick look at the inertial guidance device whose glowing display showed through the spray-splattered glass plate. They had come about a quarter of the way to the island, and were essentially on course. Napoleon checked his repeated compass, and returned to the prow.
At the far end of the boat, Illya crouched in a cockpit that was regularly filled with water and drained, several times a minute. The stern, sturdy with flotation tanks, seemed to bounce about more than the rest of the boat, and he was holding on with his eyes shut against the driving wind-blown salt whipped in froth off the tops of the leaping waves and flung in his face by the storm. The tiller fought viciously against the ropes that held it, bucking and straining against them as the boat strove to hold its course. A few degrees either way in this blindness could land them in Wales, if they held up that long under the hammering the Bristol Channel was giving them - or out in the Irish Sea, where the full fury of the storm swept down over open water for a hundred miles.
He had nothing against boats, certainly; his naval training had left him quite accustomed to them. But it had also taught him the folly of attempting such a passage in rough weather - if rough was quite the word he wanted. Only his sincere faith in the incredible luck of Napoleon Solo convinced him they could make the crossing. He had been with Napoleon long enough to know what kind of long chances he could take and still come out on top.
Napoleon, meanwhile, didn't care. Even the goal of the little island of Donzerly where they were bound shrank to a small corner of his mind. His whole concentration was focused on his personal, physical struggle with the wind for the mastery of the boat.
Now there was a stout rope tied around his waist and securely belayed to a sunken cleat, lessening the danger slightly. Still the storm whipped about him, pulling and throwing him from side to side. This, he thought, was really his element, battling nature with only a stout ship and his own skill between him and disaster. Even his stomach was holding up well, considering the beating it was getting. He wasn't sure how Illya was doing, astern.
Neither was Illya. The world had resolved into two simple bits of awareness - the rudder must be kept set, and remember which is the downwind rail. Time lost its identity, and was blown away by the endless howl of the wind and the slashing of the silver-dagger rain. It could have been an hour or six months before he became aware of Napoleon calling his na
me again.
During this period, Napoleon too lost track of reality to some extent. Shaken, bruised, pounded by wind and wave for another indefinite length of time, he gradually heard something over the noise of the storm. So faint and blown-about was the sound, fading beyond the range of hearing from moment to moment, he wasn't sure whether it was his imagination. But then he heard it again, a little louder. The sound bellowed against the night that surrounded it, bellowed and fell away as it paused for breath, then bellowed forth again. The deep distant note cut through under the sounds of rain and wind, and it grew as it sounded again.
Napoleon made a quick knot to hold the sheet reefed, and clambered back to the inner cockpit where the internal guidance calculator continued its eerie green-lit gyrations. They were within two hundred yards of Rainbow's island headquarters!
He spun back to the stern and shouted, "Illya! Stand by to come about! Illya!" The Russian stirred numbly from his position at the tiller and nodded.
"Aye, aye. Ready to come about, sir," he said.
"Watch for my hand signal and swing the tiller towards the same direction as my hand points, about half way."
"Got it," said Illya as Solo scrambled back to his look out post.
Now he began to hear something else under the rain and the lonely hoot of the foghorn - a sea-bell, rocked and rung by the leaping waves at the shore of the island. And then, as they swerved to approach directly, he could hear the hiss of gravel as it was sucked and rolled by the roots of the waves that passed over, and he knew they were very close.
Suddenly a sheer wall of jagged rock loomed out of the night, towering into the darkness beyond their feeble running lights. The bell rang clearly to their right, and Napoleon thrust the rock away with his spar.
13 - The Rainbow Affair Page 10