"The staff is quite thorough," he said. "My own blend is difficult enough to obtain in New York; I would have thought it impossible here."
"Thank you," said the driver. "You will find the larder stocked to your taste, and the liquor cabinet as well."
"Hm. This must be costing someone a pretty penny."
"Value for value, sir. Now if you will allow me—" His guide touched a panel of buttons. "Your videoscreen serves many purposes. You may dial a two-way communication with any other guest, or any facility of the Park."
"How do I get an outside line?"
"You reserve one. You are allowed one hour a month; two minutes a day or fifteen minutes a week. We maintain only one link to the outside world. No radio communication can penetrate the jamming signal that covers the entire park. Most of our guests are here to get away from their work, and most of them would prefer to continue their usual load. There are five channels of music and three of entertainment available on your videoscreen; the music is accompanied by abstract color patterns. Dinner will be served in The Lodge at 7:00 P.M. You will find a guide to all our operations, schedules, and a map in the top drawer of your desk. The Lodge is half a mile away by the path that starts at your back door. You might want to get there early and look around. If there are any questions..."
"Not at the moment," said Waverly. "And I suppose the television in the den would be able to tell me anything I cared to know, eh?"
"More than likely. If there will be nothing else, then..."
"By all means. Thank you."
The driver nodded, and the door closed behind him. A moment later the roar of the little motor caught in the traction of the wheels and faded quickly among the trees. Waverly found himself alone.
It was slightly uncomfortable. His regular life had been crowded with communication—data coming in, people around him—and while his position had denied him close friends, still he was acutely aware of the profound absence of company from his present situation.
As his ear adjusted to the silence, he caught the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchenette and the rustling of leaves outside. He thought suddenly of the humidor on the desk, and wondered. He had packed a couple of pipes in the hope that his doctors might relent, and there had been something in the humidor... It was still there when he went to look. This time he noticed a white label inside the lid. It was a prescription blank, signed by a scribble he did not recognize, saying, Leon Dodgson. Six oz. private blend smoking mixture. Non- refillable.
He smiled slightly. They would let him taper off as he wished, but there would be no more for the duration. Instead, he replaced the lid and turned to the desk itself. In the top drawer, next to the Gideon Bible, he found the described literature. His cottage was designated 35 on the key, and on the map a path through the woods to the centrally located lodge was clearly indicated. He put the map down and picked up some thing else.
It was a tastefully done brochure, describing the many forms of entertainment and diversion available to the guests of Utopia. None of them sounded especially interesting, he thought as he leafed through. One caught his eye—a war game of some kind, on a large scale. It looked rather complicated and possibly challenging; perhaps he would look into it tomorrow. His first need was to learn the rules of the comfortably primitive prison he found himself confined in. He set his alarm watch for six o'clock to give himself time to unpack and dress for dinner, if that would be proper, and opened his suitcase.
A small black box and several coils of wire came out first, and ten minutes passed quickly as he connected the wires to all the windows and plugged in the black box. Since he was American, the bungalow was furnished with 117-volt 60-cycle a.c. and everything would work; a few adjustments on the box and the place was protected. Anyone approaching a window from outside would trigger the alarm. Essentially it was a portable edition of Mr. Solo's capacitance-actuated built-in, and would keep him safe from unauthorized visitation. The precaution was probably unnecessary, but a lifetime of habit dies hard. He turned back to his luggage and shook out a suit. Dinner in a couple hours. Mentally he began to relax a little, looking forward without enthusiasm to six quiet weeks.
Chapter 3
"Don't Make Waves."
HIS OWN MOTHER would have been unlikely to recognize Illya Kuryakin when he stepped from the same twin-jet two days later. His hair had been cropped to a severe eighth of an inch, lifts in his shoes added two inches to his height, a stubbly beard lengthened his jaw and an intentionally faulty left shoe gave him a very realistic, though slight limp. Illya was quite aware that Waverly was even more perceptive than his mother, but he felt reasonably confident of passing at least cursory examination. He had taken the false name and imaginary identity of one Klaus Rademeyer, with excellent references from some of the finest hotels in Europe.
"Klaus" existed only in the minds of a few cooperative clerks, properly placed, and in the files of Section Four of the U.N.C.L.E. He had an irreproachable record and credible background and identifying characteristics which could be adapted to many different agents—as they had been several times in the past. Now he had accepted employment in Utopia, bringing the subtle skills and special talents of Illya Kuryakin within his fierce-looking shell.
Like Waverly, he had come in alone and was met by the microbus. But he carried his own bag, and the driver shook hands with him. He gave the proper click with his heels as he returned the handshake and accepted the welcome.
The bus bounced away in a different direction, and shortly brought them up to the side of a hill. The driver touched a button on the dash and the hill split open, revealing an artificially illuminated area of unguessable extent. They drove in, and the doors closed behind them.
"You'll be going to Park Security first thing," the driver said as he drove slowly through a warren of tunnels. "They'll check you in and pass you along to Personnel, who'll see to your quarters, uniforms, scheduling and so on. Don't worry, it won't take long. We're all computerized here."
He gestured about them. "All the underground stuff is Security Area—means it's off limits to the guests. They aren't supposed to care how everything works." He pulled the little bus into a numbered slot and they got out. "Your luggage'll be safe here. This is Security."
A door ahead of them confirmed this, and opened into a small reception room. A secretary looked up, and the driver said, "Klaus Rademeyer. Just came in on the supply flight."
She looked in a narrow bin to her left and found a folder. "Right here. Thank you, Jimmy."
He touched his hat to her and told Illya, "She'll take over here. I'll see that your bags get up to your room as soon as it's assigned."
Illya approached the desk as Jimmy left, and the secretary looked him over for comparison with his picture. She gave him a good professional smile, bid him welcome and invited him to sit down. In the next few minutes she gave him a quick run-through on his back ground, took his fingerprints and cross-checked his employment record and political affiliations, all with the utmost grace and charm. It felt like a casual conversation, and if Illya had not been a professional himself he might not have spotted the thorough, intensive grilling that was going on. He played it on the same level and thought he acquitted himself rather well.
Then he was shown through into a comfortably furnished waiting room, where he found the latest issue of Spirou and settled down with it. He had scarcely finished when the next door opened and a pretty little blonde stepped out. "Hi. I'm here to see you through Personnel."
He rose and accepted the hand she extended with a crisp inclination of a few degrees from the waist—that vestigial bow which distinguishes the educated European. She led him through the door and into an efficiently organized maze.
His first acquisition was a large manila envelope full of brochures. During the next few hours he added to it
—mimeographed information sheets, mostly with a few personalized items like his locker assignment, room key, and employee identification. Most importa
nt was the general schedule. Some things happened hourly, some things happened once a year; but everything happened just when it was supposed to happen, and lasted precisely as long.
The first item scheduled for the new employee was a weekly orientation lecture, set for Sunday morning, two and a half days away. Until that time he would be working a short shift, learning his routines, and was expected to learn his way around the Security Area, discovering where everything was.
Illya approved wholeheartedly of this; it would give him a chance to find Waverly's place and probably leave a bug there. His first job, though, would be to study the maps and plans in his bulging manila envelope. Always make sure of the local customs and taboos. You never know who you might be offending by some thing you hadn't even thought of.
Wearing the gold tab with his Employee Number stamped in it, his pass to wander at will backstage, he consulted a wall-mounted directory and identified the area of his billet. He started for it on foot, hooked a ride on a fork-lift partway, shifted to an electric cart, dropped off at a convenient spot and walked the rest of the way.
His goal, when he reached it, was a single apartment, not spacious but quite adequate. A private bath, which he appreciated, and a Murphy bed. He pulled the latter down, sat down on it, dumped the big envelope and began sorting.
A technical sheet caught his eye, and he read the instructions for the small black-and-white television screen in the corner—a directory was available, so he could find Waverly with a minimum of trouble. Another glossy page told him that his portable radio would be inoperable here because of a blanket of RF interference across all the communication bands. This failed to disturb him because he had brought no portable radio. Section Eight had known about the jamming, and because of it he had been outfitted with four specially designed listening devices.
This brought his mind back to his job, and he rose from his bed to hoist his bulky suitcase up onto it. He unlocked the latches and did certain other things to make it safe to open. He had been fairly sure the Security people would not search his bag without formally asking permission, and he had been right. He rummaged around among the contents until he found what he was looking for and came up with a box containing four light bulbs.
They were descendants of light bulbs Illya himself had used many years before joining U.N.C.L.E., but with all the flaws designed away. The old ones would only function when the light was on, and had no storage capability. Each of these little hundred-watt beauties, fresh from the laboratory of Mr. Simpson of Section Eight, contained a carrier-current transmitter, a voice-triggered recording device with twelve hours capacity, and nickel-cadmium batteries capable of carrying on continuous operation for four hours after the light had been on for ten minutes. Best of all, it wouldn't need constant monitoring and would be impossible to detect, since it would transmit only when he signaled it, by carrier-current as well, and then it would transmit in a one-minute squirt everything it had heard since it had last been listened to. This he could record on a similar machine and play back at normal speed.
His time was his own, and he was expected to use it to discover his way around. Very well. He punched up the number he found listed for the directory service. Idly he scanned through the staff roster, noting department titles and positions, pausing once to observe with interest that far down under Kitchen Staff was listed one Rademeyer, Klaus, and his room number. That was interesting. Utopia was remarkably efficient indeed. He set part of his mind considering problems of learning all the security routines and getting around them to plant and monitor his bugs. He switched to the guest list, where each name was listed with a vague indication of occupation, and found his quarry—Dodgson, Leon: #35. Executive.
Somehow he would have to watch him every moment without being noticed himself. He remembered Section Six's final briefing, and his special adjuration on the maintenance of security. "Above all," he had been told, "you must do nothing that could attract attention to yourself, and especially avoid upsetting the resort's routines. Don't leave bodies lying around—it's unsanitary and reflects badly on our organization. Some of the most important people in the world are there, and you know how Mr. Waverly feels about discretion. Your motto at all times should be, Don't Make Waves."
Illya flicked the control knob until the soft floating sound of a recorded trumpet filled the speakers with Miles Davis' Sketches of Spain, and started looking through his collections of papers for a map. Number 35 was about half a mile from the Main Lodge... but where was that from where he was now? He found another map with an overlay showing the employee residences and office complex—a subterranean area centered on the Main Lodge but easily four times as large. Its major exits and entrances were screened from the guest's area by hills, stands of trees and other apparently natural obstacles. Illya smiled slightly. The entire operation was basically an expensive, adult Disneyland; and he was now one of the merry elves that scampered around keeping it all running. His smile turned wry and faded as he sank into his studies.
By Sunday morning he could find his way around, and had his mental compass locked on South. He had looked over the security personnel, from a respectful distance, and found them of the finest quality for dealing with guests. This meant they were generally polite and a little cautious, and therefore slightly easier to get by than rude and precipitous guards. He also observed them to use hand transceivers from time to time despite the all-frequency jamming, and resolved to look into the techniques they used, on behalf of Mr. Simpson.
He hadn't been able to get into Waverly's bungalow to plant his bug, but he knew how it could be accomplished. He hadn't decided where to put the other three devices and would wait until he knew enough, but he rather thought one should go into the office of Security. One of his first acquaintances had been a member of the office maintenance crew, and it would be a short step to volunteering casually to help him replace a few light bulbs. One would be more likely to need replacing somewhere in a large office than in a small residence—or so he thought until he found out the offices were consistently lighted by fluorescents, bugged versions of which had proven impossible to carry concealed.
And now it was time for the official orientation lecture. He and two other men met in a large office where another pretty and efficient blonde ran a film, showed and explained an organizational chart and answered questions. Illya, having chosen a direct approach to assuage his curiosity, asked her about the handi-talkies he'd seen the security personnel using. She explained that the jamming transmission operated in microsecond bursts rather than continuously. Although the effect was the same, there were spaces between the bursts and the communicators were keyed to chop up the transmissions into bits at a much lower level which would fit into these spaces. The receivers were similarly keyed to squelch the jamming noise.
Illya liked that. It was simple, practical, and efficient. It meant that it would be possible to communicate secretly with the outside world; it would only require a little more circuitry than was already packed inside his slim silver pen... which was presently resting in a drawer in his office in New York City, ten thousand miles away.
At dinner service the next day he saw Waverly. His assignment had been on the other side of the main dining hall in the lodge, but his quick eyes scanned the crowd for the familiar leathery face and found it no more than forty feet away. Illya busied himself with clearing a table and kept his back to his subject.
Waverly was sharing his table with three other men, all of whom looked like top executives of something or other—fiftyish and older, with strong well-modulated voices which failed to carry to where the Russian U.N.C.L.E. agent stood listening, focusing his attention to screen out the babble and quiet clatter of the hall and pick up any wisps of information. He wondered briefly about planting one of his light bulb bugs in a convenient position like the socket above their booth, but before he went to the trouble of installing it, he'd have to be sure Waverly always ate at the same table.
Well, there was no pa
rticular hurry; the place was perfectly protected, and his job would be of no particular use. He'd bug Waverly's bungalow, and his dining room table, and then he'd have nothing to do beyond waiting table and carrying dirty dishes. He'd had harder assignments, but this looked likely to be the most boring. Mentally he sighed, and settled back for six dull weeks.
Chapter 4
"Happy Halloween, Napoleon."
X X X X X X X 2910671557 Z DE: CENTRAL TO:
ALL SATRAPS PRIORITY BLUE EFFECTIVE 1500
HOURS GMT ALEXANDER WAVERLY UNCLE 1/1
OUT OF COMMAND. REPLACEMENT NAPOLEON
SOLO UNCLE 1/2. WHEREABOUTS 1/1 UNKNOWN.
ALL SATRAPS RELAY POTENTIALLY PERTINENT
DATA TO CENTRAL. HELENA THOMAS, ROGER
LADOGA, DR. THEODORE PIKE ARE RELIEVED
OF PRESENT ASSIGNMENT AND ORDERED TO
CONTACT CENTRAL BEFORE 1700. ALL STA-
TIONS COPY AND RELAY. END.
Helena was sound asleep in her Wilshire Boulevard apartment when the phone rang. She fumbled for it in the 8:00 A.M. sunshine that came in razor blade through the venetian blinds. "Hello?"
"Call Central. A Blue message came through pulling you off the Fairfax shop for something big. Looks like you might get a crack at Solo."
"That's worth waking up for. I'll slip into something and catch the next elevator down. Have Central on the line when I get there. Oh—and order me some breakfast. I think I'll need it."
Roger was in his club, working his way through the Sunday London Times, and was about two-thirds of the way into the business section when his pocket call signal chirruped. He beckoned the nearest waiter and requested a telephone. It arrived and was connected shortly, and he dialed an unlisted number. "Roger Ladoga here. What's the message?"
15 - The Utopia Affair Page 3