19 - The Power Cube Affair

by John T. Phillifent

  There was a large portrait on the front page, and over it, in screamer headlines: ANOTHER BATTLE OF HASTINGS! The editorial matter went on in rich prose to describe a large scale riot that had taken place on the beach and promenade at Hastings, just a few miles along the coast, at about midnight. Gangs of leather coated motorcyclists had descended on the seaside town, smashing and wrecking with a fine disregard for others, until a squad of police had come in haste to drive them away. In counting up the damage they had found the body of a young girl, floating in the surf. So far, it said, she was unidentified. Guard took one look and his eyes burned.

  "That's her. That's Mary Chantry."

  "And that's one way to get away with bloody murder," Solo muttered.

  Guard shut his eyes in thought. "I can't ask you to step in. It isn't any of your business, and these people play rough, as you've seen."

  "Somehow," said Kuryakin, "I don't fancy the idea of just idling around while this kind of thing goes on. I'd like a word or two with Mr. Green."

  "So would I. And his boss." Solo laid the newspaper aside. "We'll keep in touch, John. Just you concentrate on getting well."

  TWO

  ON THE Thames Embankment, not far from New Scotland Yard, stands the venerable old graystone building which houses the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, British Sector. Even to the well informed eye it looks like a highly select residential hotel slightly gone to seed, and this is in fact its cover function, but there is an astonishing amount of space reserved for other activities which the public knows nothing at all about. It was in one of those "private" rooms that Solo and Kuryakin sat and listened to the tape Mary Chantry had lost her life to get.

  The first thing they heard was a crackle that made the ear wince, then the slip-slap sound of sandaled feet going away over a hard floor, and the click-slam of a door.

  "Stick it in place, switch on, then go away and leave it," Solo interpreted. Listening to the faint rhythmic creaks, distant shouts, the ding of a bell, he added. "That's a cabin, a ship at sea. Plain enough."

  There came the purr of an engine, then the snarl of reverse to halt, more shouts and bells, then a clatter that sorted itself out into two sets of footsteps. The door again, noises suddenly louder for a moment, then the click of closing, and two voices, the first one crisp and cold.

  "You saw the girl outside? She's the reason why I asked you to come aboard. She's on to something."

  "Indeed!" This was a large and rounded voice, full of good living. "A pity. She's quite decorative. In view of those occasional times when we entertain guests, I've often wondered whether we need a stewardess, and she would fill that bill perfectly. Your note described her as a spy. You are convinced of that?"

  "Completely, sir. She showed undue interest about two weeks ago, in France. The crew reported she was asking too many questions, of the wrong kind. So I advertised discreetly for a stewardess, she applied immediately, and I engaged her."

  "The better to observe, eh?"

  "Exactly. To my knowledge she has been through all the papers and documents she could lay Hands on. She has lockpicks and other devices, and she has a camera—"

  "Has?" The well-fed voice became suddenly keen.

  "Yes, sir, but it will no longer take pictures, although she doesn't know that. And she has not been able to pass on any of the knowledge she's gained. We haven't touched port since she came aboard."

  "What other precautions have you taken?" This time the rotund voice held overtones that made both the listeners shiver.

  "One or two. At my suggestion she has adopted the brief swimming costume you saw. Consequently we have been able to abstract her clothing and put it under lock and key. Also all her effects."

  "To make sure she doesn't run away, of course. Now, who's behind it all, eh?"

  "Some newspaper I would think, sir, judging by the notes we found. But she is freelance, not professional. That's just a feeling."

  "You have a flair, Green. An intuition that I am prepared to trust, or you'd not be working for me. Hmm!" Into the silence of consideration came a crackling rhythmic beat, and over It a keening melodic whistle that made Kuryakin raise his brows in surprise.

  "'Sir,' " he said, "is tapping the table while he ponders, and he is whistling Bach. 'Jesu joy of man's desiring,' I think."

  Solo hushed him as the overfed voice started up once more. "We'll have to shut her mouth, Green, that's obvious."

  "Yes, sir. I wanted your decision on that. I can arrange for her to fall over the side—"

  "No. Not missing. That way would lead to inquiries, an open file. We can do better than that. A decisive end. How soon can you arrange one of your lamentable demonstrations of juvenile delinquency, somewhere along the coast?"

  "This evening, if you wish. Nearby? How about Hastings?"

  "Why not? Very well, you go and arrange that and send her here to me as you go. And send Rambo along in about five minutes."

  Feet marched away, the door clicked open and shut, and then there was only the chilly sound of that thin, precise whistling. Solo started as the tape ran out and stopped with a crackle.

  "Automatic reverse," he said, with his hand over the play back button. "I can't say I'm exactly looking forward to hearing the other track."

  "We have no choice," Kuryakin muttered. "Go ahead."

  The whistling came again, then broken by a sigh and the rotund voice musing aloud. "A crystal, a jewel to some, a curiosity to others, but to the insane genius of Gorchak a way of setting a man an insoluble problem. My loss that I never met him, but I'll solve his damned problem in a way he never dreamed of. Twenty-five pieces I have. Two to go. And I'll solve it, if it kills me!" There was a curious sliding and clicking noise, and labored breathing, then a knock at the door, a scuffle, and the voice said:

  "Come in! Ah yes. What's your name, my dear?"

  "Marie, sir. Was there something you wanted?"

  "Many things, indeed, but for the moment you might bring that tray and the brandy." Judging by the noise, she set the tray down on the table. There came another knock, and the whistler greeted this newcomer as "Rambo."

  "Shut the door. Bolt it, and pay attention. Now, Marie, my dear, I fear I have bad news for you. You are going to die."

  "I beg your pardon!" There was surprise only in her voice, no fear as yet. Solo felt sweat spring out on his face and saw that his companion was equally disturbed.

  The voice went on almost jovially. "This must be done just right. Bodies are a nuisance to dispose of, but not impossible if one uses thought. Rambo, you will beat her very hard until she is almost dead, but not quite—"

  Then the girl screamed. Solo ground his teeth in futile rage at the terror he heard, as she realized the incredible reality to come.

  "You see," the jovial voice explained, in between thuds and grunts, "if we put her in the water at the right time, still alive, she will drift in to shore to be found. Examination will show that she died of injuries, but in the water. Speculation will find two avenues. Concealed rocks and a rough sea, perhaps? Or some brainless melee, which will be provided to order. That will be enough to keep the authorities from guessing the correct answer, and enough to keep her people from suspecting anything at all."

  This was delivered in between the thick thuds of bone breaking blows. Solo tucked his emotions away for future reference. He forced his stomach to behave.

  The voice in charge said, "That will do, Rambo. Leave her here. We'll go and check up on time and tide."

  In the almost silence of the cabin came a faint labored sound, a moan, then a cough. Scraping noises. Sobbing. The scraping noises getting louder. Then a sudden crackle. And then the tape reels turned on total silence. Solo let them spin;

  "She got the tape, stuffed it in her swim-suit, climbed out of the cabin window, fell into the sea—and then Guard found her." He looked at Illya and shook his head. "First of all we have to find this Captain Barnett. To deliver the tape, of course, but I think I'm going to
have a few words to say to him first. I've heard various things about British Naval Intelligence, but if this is the way they work things out I must have heard it all wrong!"

  The two had decided on the way back to London that this was something U.N.C.L.E. had no part in, yet, so they had made no report, but they had been able to use the comprehensive information services to get some useful data, among which was a telephone number that would put them in touch with Roger Barnett, RN. With the tape cassette stowed in a safe place, Solo dialed the number and waited. Sharp after the second warble an exquisitely modulated voice cooed at him, repeated the number, and added:

  "Dispositions. Thompson."

  "Speak to Captain Barnett, please," Solo kept his voice level, trying not to imagine what exotic creature he had on the line.

  "You have an appointment?"

  "Afraid not. I just want to talk to him."

  "I'm afraid you can't do that," the delicious voice regretted, "without an appointment"

  "I can't, but you can. Tell him it's about his girlfriend."

  After a moment or two another voice came on, chesty and thick with suspicion and surprise.

  "Barnett here. What d'you want? Who are you?"

  "My name is Solo. It doesn't mean a thing to you, but the girl's name should. Initials are M. C. and it reminds me of singing."

  There was a distinctly audible gulp and then the voice again, but now in tip-toe apprehension.

  "What has she told you? Is she there with you now?"

  "She is not, and she didn't tell me a thing that I can repeat on the phone. Personal message. I have to see you, right away."

  "Not right away!" Barnett was almost squeaking. "Wait! I can fit you in after lunch. Find your way to Earl's Court and ask anyone for Admiralty House. You can't miss it. I'm Roof Nine. I'll leave word. And Solo—"

  "Yes?"

  "Don't—do not, whatever you do—bring her with you. No matter what she says. Understand?"

  Solo hung up with a sense of disgust and the shattering of a dream or two. So this was the form of the Royal Navy, fabled in song and story? Kuryakin, who had been listening on an extension, met his gaze stonily.

  "Jolly Jack Tars and all that," he said. "Nelson would flip!"

  "So will Captain Barnett, when I'm done with him. Come on."

  The unfortunate captain had been completely accurate about one thing, though. You couldn't miss Admiralty House. Three columns of concrete, each twenty-seven stories high, stood in a triangle to support sweeping convex façades of window glass, and a pedestal on the roof resembled nothing so much as a mighty gun turret without guns. Against the mixed architecture of this borderland between Chelsea and Fulham it stood out like something from a futurist dream. The staff work had been done too. They were expected, shown to the elevator, and efficiently decanted away up on the top level, where the interior decor was pale unstained wood and cherry pink enamel. Solo rapped on a door bearing the figure "9," and as it opened they met the owner of the delicious voice.

  For once in a lifetime of wry disappointments Solo had to admit that Miss Thompson matched her voice. In that first slow second of meeting he knew he was looking at near perfection. Her wealth of copper red hair shone as if polished. Crushed violet eyes opened very wide and dazzling teeth were vivid against her perfect complexion as she smiled and said: "Mr. Solo?"

  "You're Miss Thompson? This is Illya Kuryakin, a colleague."

  "Come this way, please." She swiveled and undulated be fore them, her shape outrageous in white nylon shirt and the briefest possible navy blue skirt. For one female to have so much, marveled Solo, so exquisitely arranged and so blatantly exhibited, didn't seem natural. Miss Thompson halted in the doorway of a far room, turned sideways to inflate her magnificent prominent curves even more, and intoned musically:

  "Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin, sir."

  Miss Thompson's room had been filing cabinets, a desk and a long window expanse. This room carried on the window along the whole of one wall, but the other three walls were solid with maps. From behind a cluttered desk with four telephones, each a different color, Barnett rose and stood, unfriendly. He was tall, broad shouldered, giving the impression of having been tailored to fit his uniform. And handsome enough to assure him a living as a toothpaste model if ever the navy decided to dispense with his services. As soon as the door was safely shut he barked:

  "Very well, what is this all in aid of?"

  Solo shrugged, not liking the tone at all. By way of reply he stepped up to the desk, pulled the newspaper out of his pocket and spread it out for Barnett to stare at. There was no need for speech, yet. Barnett looked down, stiffened, and the fresh color drained from his face. He sat, groping for the chair, picked up the newspaper with a shaking hand, and read it carefully.

  "My God!" he breathed. "That's—but it can't be! At Hastings? In a delinquent mob? There must be some mistake."

  "No mistake," Solo assured him. "That is who you think it is. And she didn't die at Hastings, but somewhere else. She talked, just a little, before the end. Enough to identify."

  I'm curious," Kuryakin said, in a deceptively mild tone. "Naval Intelligence, and you can't get as far as the front page of this morning's newspaper without help?"

  "She never told you that!" Barnett was suddenly savage.

  "She never said anything like that," Solo admitted. "We deduced it. Wrongly, maybe. But she gave us a message to pass on to you."

  Barnett had control of himself now, his face gray but calm.

  "Very well. Deliver it. No, just a moment!" He rose suddenly, almost ran to the door to open it and call, "Louise, dear, lay on some coffee, would you? Better get it yourself, you know how slack they are in the canteen." He came back, walking heavily. "All ears and tongue, that girl. Now, that message, if you please. And you do understand, I hope, that I can't do any explaining. At all. I could be up to the neck in trouble as it is just by having you two here."

  "I was hoping for explanations. In fact I intend to have them. I want to know what kind of brainless setup let her in for what she got—before I deliver any message, to you or anyone else. You say you're not in Intelligence?"

  "I am not. This is my job, right here." Barnett flung out an arm to embrace the walls full of maps. "Home and Mediterranean Fleet disposal. Nothing else. My relationship with—her—is—was—something utterly private. Nothing to do with this. Or you."

  "You're not the big man," Kuryakin said, with sudden insight. Barnett stared at him. The Russian agent went on deliberately. "You're just a cog, or a link in some chain. If we gave you this message, you'd pass it along to somebody else."

  Solo listened approvingly. Barnett's face gave away the accuracy of Illya's guessing. "We want to meet the man who tells you what to do, the man to whom you'd pass this message. Or we don't deliver."

  "That's telling him, Illya. Look, mister, a very good friend of ours is on his back in the hospital right now because he stepped in to help—her. We are making this our business, and we deal with the head man, or nothing."

  Barnett sagged, reached for his chair again and slumped into it. His handsome face was wet with perspiration. "You don't know what you're asking. I can't make that kind of decision!"

  "You don't have to. Just talk to him. Tell him what we've said."

  Barnett shook his head, not as a negative but like a man recovering from a solid punch. "I don't know. This is so— damnable! Mary! I can't take it in yet." The outer door clicked open and the gorgeous Miss Thompson came in pushing a tea cart. Barnett rose urgently, came around his desk at a trot and swerved to pass Miss Thompson.

  "Look after them, dear," he muttered. "Give them anything they want. I won't be long!"

  "Well!" She stared wide eyed, then busied herself with the ceremony of pouring, a process involving a degree of stooping and wriggling that Solo couldn't bear to watch. "Milk and sugar for both of you?"

  "Please!" Solo said, then before he could help himself he added, "The view is certainly somethin
g, up here!"

  "Yes, isn't it?" she cooed. "It's a pity, really, that not many people get this far, to see it properly." She finished pouring, took a cup herself, and hitched herself recklessly onto the edge of the desk, perching one foot on Barnett's chair. "I wonder why Roger ran off like that."

  "Went to phone someone," Solo answered, then looked at the colored array on the desk and frowned. To cover the gaffe he ventured, "Just you and Captain Barnett up here alone all day?"

  "It's dreadfully dull," she confessed. "After all, you can get fed up with just looking, can't you?"

  Solo smiled uneasily, eased the collar from his neck and turned away to look out of the window. The click of the door saved him from trying to go on with the impossible conversation. Miss Thompson slid leggily down from the desk and departed. Barnett shut the door firmly after her, his face set.

  "You're in," he said forcefully, "and don't blame me if you find yourself something a lot bigger and nastier than you imagine. You have a last chance to deliver that message to me and forget all about it—"

  "Nothing doing!"

  "All right. On your own heads. By eight o'clock tonight you're to find your own way to a place called Ferrier's. It's a club, of a sort, not hard to find. There'll be a table for you. The headwaiter's name is Mario Scarabella. You'll be met."

  "Cloak and dagger stuff," Kuryakin snorted, from his stance by the big window. "Should we give some password or other?"

  "You'll be met," Barnett repeated between his teeth. "And you'll be judged. On trial. All right?"

  "Fair enough," Solo admitted. "We'll be there."

  Miss Thompson gave them a beaming smile as they left.

  Outside, they managed to hail a taxi and told him where to go.

  "And what do you make of all that, Illya?" Solo murmured.

  "Chiefly, that we have been fed a lot of myths, what with the Royal Navy being all stern and seaworthy, and the British being a law abiding people, according to you."