15 - The Utopia Affair

by David McDaniel

  Napoleon thought the picture which filled the wall was rather large to conceal a safe, but stood in the specified position, faced southwest towards the picture, and said clearly, "Napoleon Solo." Nothing happened. He lowered his voice a bit and repeated, "Napoleon Solo." Still nothing. He cleared his throat and said conversationally, "Napoleon Solo." There was a muffled clunk and the side near the door swung back.

  He stepped forward and saw the heavy gray door of the safe. And beside it, to his left, a tall rectangle flickered and glowed with cool light. A paneled closet, its floor level with the back of the couch, which could only be an elevator. An emergency exit and entrance, its existence utterly unexpected. Well, Waverly would explain anything that needed explaining. Now, how to close up that picture again?

  Settling on a direct course of action, Napoleon swung the picture back by hand, and was rewarded by the sound of a latch dropping solidly into place. A few seconds later the outside door opened and Waverly reentered. A raised hand held Napoleon's questions while he resumed his seat, and then he answered them unspoken.

  "The elevator will take you directly to the westbound tunnel of the Fifty-Third Street subway, opening to place you there directly after the passage of a train. A worn pair of coveralls are stowed in the elevator. You turn right as you come into the tunnel and the Third Avenue station is only a block away. No one will notice a solitary figure in coveralls coming out of the tunnel and going into a Men's room to divest himself of the rags that cover his street clothes. This, incidentally, will be my route of departure for Australia tomorrow morning. Communications will be suspended for twenty minutes following my departure and then all channels will receive a videotaped transmission wherein I will explain the situation and name you my temporary replacement. This will give me time to pass Thrush's watchers before they become aware of my absence."

  Waverly leaned back in the leather chair. "You may treat the entire office as your own," he said. "You will find a small refrigerator under the sink in the corner, behind the curtain"—he gestured—"and a two-burner hot plate. Miss Williamson—ah––prepares things occasionally."

  His hand fell back to the desk and his eye lighted on the solid old humidor. "I will probably be forbidden my pipe there," he said, "and stale smoke is unpleasant. If you run out, order the same mixture from my tobacconists. The blend is written inside the lid. And of course you will use your own pipes."

  He stood again. "Thus, having disposed of all my property, I shall let you go now. Tomorrow morning at nine you will be here ready to pick up the reins."

  The door slid open as Napoleon stepped out, and Miss Williamson was ready with his hat and coat. She met his eyes directly as he glanced at her, with a look he was unable to read.

  At one minute after ten Napoleon stepped back into the office where he had left Waverly ninety seconds before. Now it was empty. He hesitated a moment, then walked directly across the room towards the large leather chair at the desk. He was halfway there when a call signal chimed. He hurried forward and connected. "Solo here."

  "All net communications have been cut, sir. Tape ready to roll in eighteen minutes."

  "Check. Thank you."

  That meant he'd have almost twenty minutes of peace in which to…

  The intercom called, and he answered. "Solo here."

  "Head of Section Six, sir. Urgent."

  "Send him in."

  The gray-haired physician hurried in. "While the curtain is still up around us, I would like to make a request," he said as he came to perch on the edge of the desk. "Surely we could spare one field agent, the best one available, to follow Mr. Waverly and act as his bodyguard."

  "But Utopia's security system must be adequate."

  "Their security is fantastically tight, Mr. Solo, but Waverly is fantastically valuable. It will not be an easy job. The managerial staff of Utopia has refused us permission to send our own man in legally; their policy includes complete separation of the guest from his old environment. Whoever we send will have to remain undercover from the staff as well as from Mr. Waverly."

  "We have no competent agents he wouldn't know on sight."

  "Then you'll have to assign the most competent and hope he's good enough. I especially don't want Waverly to spot him; he's supposed to keep his mind off business. Besides, he'd be insulted at the idea that he couldn't take care of himself." He smiled wryly.

  Napoleon's mind clicked automatically to the most competent agent available, discarded it, retrieved it, weighed four reasons for sending him against three for keeping him, one of which was recognizably selfish, and by the time he had finished drawing a breath he was ready to say, "It'll have to be Illya Kuryakin. As you said, Mr. Waverly would recognize any agent he spotted. Kuryakin is also capable of functioning as a one-man assault force. How soon do you think you can get his cover arranged?"

  The older man dipped into a manila envelope and spread its contents on the table. "Here is a full set of identification showing him with close-cropped hair and a short beard to disguise the jaw line. His references are excellent—he recently left the Cunard Lines, where he was a cabin steward—and he has been hired by Utopia to begin work for them on the first of November, next Wednesday. This will give him time to fly to Melbourne, become this man, and take the private flight into Utopia the following day. Mr. Waverly will be unguarded only thirty-six hours, and I am more than willing to concede him the ability to take care of himself for that long."

  Napoleon looked over the material presented, then glanced up. "You and Mr. Kuryakin have worked together on this. Why didn't you give me a little warning?"

  "You were not in charge, and only the acting commander could act to approve our plans."

  Napoleon shrugged. "Illya's outside, I suppose," he said towards the intercom. "Send him in too."

  The Russian agent, one large suitcase in his hand, came in as Solo said, "There's a communications blanket over everything for the next ten minutes. Are you ready to leave in thirty seconds?"

  "I'm ready as I stand."

  Solo rose and motioned the head of Section Six towards the door. As it zipped shut behind him, Napoleon addressed his friend. "The radio silence has Thrush on the boil by this time. They'll be ready around every exit, watching like hawks."

  Illya nodded and Napoleon continued. "You know that business about being sworn to absolute secrecy?"

  "Yes."

  "Consider it all said and agreed to. Step outside for a count of twenty and then come back in. Don't say a word to anyone outside."

  Illya's eyebrows canted slightly, but he went without a word. Napoleon slipped the electronic lock so he could get back in with the security circuit activated, then stood and spoke as before, in a relaxed conversational tone, the magic words, "Napoleon Solo." The picture opened.

  A moment later Illya stepped back into the room, allowing the latch to drop as the door closed. He made no comment, but studied the newly-revealed view intently.

  Napoleon spoke briskly. "The elevator will deposit you at the end of a tunnel. Follow it and you'll come out in a subway. Turn right and you'll have a short walk to the station at Fifty-Third and Third. Put on the coveralls you'll find in the elevator, though I doubt you'll meet anyone at ten o'clock on a Sunday morning. Take a taxi up Third to the Pan-Am heliport and you'll be on your way."

  "Fine." Illya stepped carefully up onto the couch and squeezed himself and his suitcase into the tiny elevator. "I may even get there ahead of Mr. Waverly. Oh, and Napoleon—good luck."

  Solo grinned. "Have fun on your vacation. I'll bet you gain ten pounds."

  Illya grimaced. "That's what I'm afraid of. I'll bet you lose ten."

  Solo raised his hand in farewell as the picture swung closed, and saw Illya's free hand lift in answer.

  For several seconds he studied the line where the picture met the wall, then glanced up at the master clock. Well, at least he could have five minutes and thirty seconds in which to collect his thoughts and prepare to deal with the nex
t six weeks. He crossed the oddly silent room and sat gingerly in the large leather chair, then bounced experimentally a couple of times before reaching for the humidor.

  Chapter 2

  "Let's Wait And See How You Work Out."

  SUNDAY WAS comparatively easy. After handling the flush of calls which followed Waverly's pre-recorded announcement that while he was on vacation everything would be handled by Napoleon Solo, Acting Chief of U.N.C.L.E. North America, there were only a few matters which demanded his attention. During his free minutes Miss Williamson instructed him in several subjects Waverly had passed over. Routine handling of daily reports from dozens of sources would occupy a fair percentage of his time; there were fifty or sixty such, averaging about fifteen hundred words each. Napoleon began to appreciate the benefits of the speed-reading training he had been put through a few years ago; no one who read less than a thousand words a minute could hope to keep up with the constant flow of data through this office.

  She showed him Waverly's personal shorthand coding on the priority file and drew up a sheet of notes for him to learn. She taught him the pink copy goes into this slot, the blue copy belongs here, and the rest of them come to me. She completed his check-out on the controls—teletyped printouts, audio translations, tracking data, records access, video pickups and intercom— and made two pots of strong sweet tea during the day. From time to time she came up with something else to startle him.

  "Monthly report from Section A, Philadelphia, sir. Did he tell you about Section A?"

  "I don't believe so..."

  "It's a pet project of his. We've been recruiting out of high schools for some time; Section A is a loose-knit string of inactive agents in the mid-teen range. Sleepers, essentially, doing nothing but watching until we have further training, or an immediate need. Local Section Heads file routine reports on observations and recruitment once a month. This one is from Tern Harris, in Philadelphia."

  "A kid?" said Napoleon blankly.

  "No younger than many Thrush has used in the field, as you may recall. Besides, Mr. Waverly believes in spotting talent early and developing it. Why, we had our eye on you before you went into the Army, even if you weren't approached until you left college." She smiled. "Or didn't you know that?"

  Napoleon studied her appraisingly. "Just how long have you been here, anyway?"

  "Only four years, but I learned everything the girl before me knew." She gave him a meaningful look with a little smile under it. "Everything."

  The communicator panel chimed and he swung to answer it. A field agent in Haiti reported completion of his assignment while Napoleon's brain raced to remember what it had been. There'd been a newspaper publisher, suspected of either fascist or Communist leanings but necessary to the communications of the island.

  He glanced at the big backlighted map display; no trouble in the area. The agent could fly home directly.

  Having prepared an answer, Napoleon was surprised to be told, "The people are satisfied to leave him alone now, but they won't let me leave. I'm holed up in a hotel room and there are about fifty guys out in the lobby." "Mr. Rothschild, how did you get them after your

  "Uh—can I try to explain later, sir? It's sort of complicated.'

  "I see. We can't send an army to get you out," Napoleon said as he considered the situation. "Have you seen the bellhop?"

  "Huh? Sure. He brought my lunch."

  "Is he anywhere near your size?"

  There was a pause from Haiti. "Uh-huh. I call him, put him to sleep, and sneak out in his uniform. I'll give it a shot. If it doesn't work, there's always the laundry chute. Ta."

  Napoleon broke the connection. "What do you mean, everything?"

  "Just about everything. Like the business with the belly dancer from that little Greek place over on Eighth Avenue in the Twenties. That little escapade isn't even in your personal file, you'll probably be relieved to know."

  Solo's eyebrows crept up towards his hairline. "You're referring to an old and slanderous rumor."

  "I'm referring to a well-established fact."

  Napoleon turned back to .his desk and cleared his throat. "Ah...you have misinterpreted the circumstances completely. Perhaps you would allow me to explain—over dinner some evening when you're free?"

  Her face, reflected in the glass of a TV monitor he was watching, broke into a smile, quickly suppressed. She glanced at her watch, and said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Solo. Thank you for the invitation, but I'd prefer to wait and see how you work out."

  And she was gone in a flicker as the priority communication signal chimed again and Napoleon reached to answer it.

  At her desk, she touched a button and was answered. "Files."

  "Marsha, time's up. Just about a minute ago—3:48."

  "That was quick. Five and three-quarters... Miss Gruenwald had it."

  "How much was in the pool?"

  "Almost three dollars."

  "Congratulate her for me. 'Bye."

  Alexander Waverly had dozed on the plane during the endless day of his westward flight halfway around the world. At 11:00 A.M. he had taken off from a military airport near New York. Eighteen hours later it was sunset, and the coastline of New South Wales was a thin cloudbank on the ruddy horizon to starboard. Even though the sun had not set nor risen since he left New York Sunday morning, he knew it was now Monday evening. A pleasant hotel in Melbourne would be a stopping place for the night, and then the charter flight to Utopia tomorrow morning. His body, still on New York time, ached with the weariness of long confinement, but the fitful napping had left him tired enough to face the prospect of a normal night's sleep, after which he would awaken already half-adjusted to the change in circadian schedule.

  His body would adjust to the new environment before his mind, he was sure. Only a small portion of his consciousness was wondering what lay ahead—most of his thoughts were still in New York, grappling automatically with the memories of problems which were supposed to lie behind him. Those submarine sightings off Clipperton Island—were they military maneuvers or not? And whose? The rash of illness that had gone through the European Continental HQ and had defied all efforts of Section Six to analyze it, let alone cure it. La Grippe was a convenient explanation, but scarcely adequate under the circumstances. He tried to remember if he had mentioned to Napoleon his suspicions in that matter.

  He fumbled briefly in his coat pocket before remembering his communicator had been taken away from him at the airport. The doctor there to see him off had lifted it from its place, saying chidingly, "Now remember, you are officially on vacation."

  Vacation! Waverly stared out his window at the deepening red of the sky as the coastline slipped beneath him. A murrain upon their vacations; he wasn't going to relax and enjoy it; his best medicine was his work. Besides, he still doubted the necessity for the outrageous expense Section Six was incurring in his name; two or three weeks in Vermont would have done quite as well. Upset and frustrated, he felt for his pipe, only to remember that it too had fallen to the probing fingers of his send-off delegation. He looked around the cabin for someone to complain to, saw no one, and gradually settled back. Thoroughly irritated, he stared out his little window into the purple stratosphere, where unfamiliar constellations stood with uncanny clarity, and drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair.

  Utopia would take some getting used to. Waverly knew this as soon as he stepped from the little twin-jet shuttle plane that had brought him from Melbourne in a little over two hours. The last half hour had been over water as they passed well south of the vast, desolate Nullarbor Plain, and only gradually had they approached the coastline again.

  Waverly had gotten a glimpse of his eventual destination as the plane was descending, but had retained only a confused impression of trees and open water—both alien to this part of the country—surrounded by steep and obviously artificial hills. The place was apparently square, he thought, but it must be at least fifteen miles on a side, the south edge opening to the sea. He lost sight
of the mysterious interior as the jet slipped down into a long slot a quarter of a mile wide between the double wall of hills on the west side and touched down without a jar on a well-tended runway. By the time it finished taxiing, it was near a small hangar. A microbus was approaching.

  As Waverly came out the door to the head of the exit ramp, he looked around. There were no structures but the aircraft hangar, and no marks of civilization but the narrow dirt road that wound off into the trees a short distance away. There was no sound except the mutter of the bus engine and the dying whine of the jet turbines. The air was warm and dry, and a light breeze stirred the leaves.

  The driver came from the tail of the plane carrying Waverly's two suitcases. He lifted them into the bus, then stood to casual attention and opened the passenger door. Waverly settled his hat and climbed in.

  A pane of glass separated the front and rear compartments, precluding conversation between driver and passenger. The ride was barely comfortable, and the road seemed designed to fit in with the genteelly primitive atmosphere. Waverly, studying the forest which was passing his window, was aware that it must not only have been transplanted, tree by tree, from somewhere far away, but would require a small lake of reasonably fresh water every week. That meant a large, probably concealed, desalinization plant. All things considered it would be atomic, and should supply all the water and power used by the resort, as well as profitable by products.

  He nodded slightly. Perhaps he would be able to keep his mind occupied here after all. It would be interesting to see how much he could find out that Utopia might not want him to know.

  He was pleased with his assigned bungalow, having half expected a log cabin. The driver doubled as bell man, carrying Waverly's suitcases inside, presenting him with the key and showing him around the comfortable four-room cottage. It boasted a small sitting room, a bedroom, workroom/office and kitchenette, with a bath and shower fitted into a corner. In the workroom were a telephone, a TV screen, and a few devices not instantly recognizable. One of them turned out to be the mouth of a small pneumatic tube which could deliver small articles. On the desk Waverly observed a humidor and lifted the lid out of curiosity. Then he looked up at the driver, who stood nearby.