MFU Whitman - The Affair of the Gentle Saboteur

by Brandon Keith

  "Very good, sir." The clerk made his notations on a pad. "Is there anything else?"

  "That's about it," Waverly said.

  "Thank you then, Mr. Cunningham."

  "Thank you," Waverly said and went out into the humid heat and got a cab and settled himself, beginning to perspire again.

  "Hotel Vesey," he said to the cab driver and lit his pipe and puffed slowly as the taxi moved into the traffic toward Hotel Vesey where Alexander Waverly was registered as Dale Cunningham.

  "Hot," the cab driver said.

  "Yes," Waverly said.

  "July in Washington—but the hottest," the cab driver said.

  "Hot," Waverly said, puffing contentedly. Just as soon as H. Douglas Montgomery returned to the King George Tobacco Emporium, just that soon would Mr. Alexander Waverly be rewarded with action. Five pounds of the special mixture was the code combination for one word—urgent.

  And H. Douglas Montgomery would himself deliver the can of tobacco because H. Douglas Montgomery was chief of the American Division of British Intelligence, Special Services.

  When the phone rang in Suite 803 of Hotel Vesey, Alexander Waverly had just completed a cool shower. "Yes?" he said into the telephone.

  "Mr. Cunningham?" the voice said.

  "This is he."

  "Mr. Montgomery here."

  "Ah, yes."

  "I have your tobacco, sir. When would you like it delivered?"

  "Six o'clock?" Waverly said.

  "Six o'clock. Excellent, sir."

  "I'll be hungry then."

  A chuckle came over the wire. "So will I."

  "Good. See you at six."

  "Good-bye, Mr. Cunningham."

  "Good-bye, Mr. Montgomery."

  Waverly hung up and then called downstairs to the restaurant, reserving his favorite table for six o'clock.

  H. Douglas Montgomery was very tall, very thin, smiling and courteous. Waverly stood up when the maitre d' escorted Montgomery to the table. Montgomery first bowed, a correct military bow, then shook hands; then the two of them sat down.

  "How are you, Mr. Cunningham?"

  "Very well, thank you, Mr. Montgomery."

  "Gentlemen?" the maitre d' said, holding a pencil over his pad as the men looked at the menus. "Something to drink?"

  "Nothing here," Montgomery said.

  "Nothing to drink," Waverly said.

  They gave their order for food and the maitre d' went away and then, for the first time, quietly, Montgomery addressed Waverly by his true name. "Rather a surprise, Alexander. To what do I owe the extreme pleasure of your company this warm day in our fair city?" He had a lean, smooth face, ruddy with high color; his eyes and hair were jet black.

  "I'm wondering," Waverly said, "whether to tell you before dinner or after."

  "I don't quite understand," Montgomery said.

  "Hate to spoil your dinner." Their table was in an alcove, secluded from the other diners and out of earshot.

  "Nothing spoils my dinner when I'm hungry. And I'm hungry. By the way, I left the five-pound tin of your special mixture at the desk. All right now"—he laughed—"spoil my dinner. I challenge you."

  "Albert Stanley's in New York."

  The laughter ceased abruptly. The color fell away from his face like a dropped mask. From pale caverns his startled black eyes gleamed brilliantly. "No!"

  "Yes," Waverly said.

  Montgomery smiled sheepishly. "You win. I lose. Appetite's gone. Dinner's spoiled."

  "You asked for it, my friend."

  "That I did. Now please tell me about it, Alex."

  Now it was Waverly who was smiling. "I may be able to return some of that appetite to you, Doug. We've got him."

  "Pardon?"

  "My office called me here at the hotel. Right after you called me, as a matter of fact. My secretary, of course, couldn't give me all the details, not on an open-wire call to Dale Cunningham at Hotel Vesey. I got the facts in a kind of semi-code. Point is, we've got him—he's out of circulation. Solo and Kuryakin picked him up—at work, as it were—planting a nice neat bundle of explosives at the base of the Statue on Liberty Island. Caught him red-handed."

  "Albert Stanley," Montgomery mused, "the gentle saboteur." Then his brows knitted. "Did they get Burrows?"

  "Burrows?"

  Montgomery leaned forward. "Do tell me, Alex. All of it, if you please."

  Waverly recited the facts beginning with McNabb's sighting of Stanley at the airport. "I'll do the interrogation myself when I return tomorrow. Neither Solo nor Kuryakin knows yet that I know—nobody in my office does except my secretary—and I'll keep it that way. I'll start fresh, from scratch."

  "But—but why did you come here?" Montgomery asked.

  "He was still footloose. We had a large operation around him—but he was still footloose. You're British Intelligence. Certainly you would know more about him than I. I wanted all the information I could put together—in advance. I still do. Now what's this about Burrows?"

  "Eric Burrows."

  "What about Eric Burrows?"

  "If Albert Stanley's near, Eric Burrows can't be far behind. They work as a team. And, in my humble opinion, Burrows is far more deadly than Stanley. You know about the recent reorganization of the British Sector of THRUSH, don't you?"

  "I do."

  "Eric Burrows is now Number Two. Directly under the Chief. Second in command. The new Chief is Leslie Tudor. Burrows was entitled—"

  "Tell me about Tudor."

  "Burrows was entitled to the top slot. In the regular order of things—in the normal order of importance, growth, escalation—Eric Burrows was entitled to be and fully expected to be the new Chief of the British Sector of THRUSH. Any idea why he didn't get it?"

  "No," Waverly said.

  "Because he's a psychopath. He's deadly. He's like a venomous snake—a killer. A cold-blooded, sadistic killer. They simply wouldn't take a chance putting a killer like that on top of the heap. That much we know."

  "What do you know about the one who is on top of the heap now?"

  "Tudor?"

  "Tudor."

  "Not a great deal, I'm afraid."

  "Tell me, Doug."

  "We know Tudor's a skillful organizer, a planner, a schemer. A killer, perhaps—but not a cruel, vicious killer like Burrows."

  "Do you have a photo of Leslie Tudor?"

  "No."

  "Can you procure one?"

  "Tudor?" Montgomery's brief laugh was grim. "Not Tudor"

  "What's he look like?"

  "We don't know."

  "Any description?"

  "Nothing at all, Alex. But nothing. Be sure to pump Stanley on Tudor—as thoroughly as possible. Any bit we can glean, we'd appreciate. This new Chief has been a thorn—for that very reason. We know nothing, nothing visual; whatever we know, we've heard through roundabout methods or hearsay."

  "And what have you heard?"

  "That whoever he is, he's careful and clever. That whoever he is, a shadowy figure with a passion for anonymity, he's gained the respect of all the THRUSH chieftains, worked his way up, without exposure to us, to the very pinnacle of the British Sector." Montgomery sighed. "Congratulations on Stanley." It had no ring of enthusiasm.

  Waverly's eyes were wistful. "You don't sound overly optimistic."

  "Pessimistic would be a more precise word."

  "Doug, my boys had specific orders. If they've got Stanley, they've got him dead to rights, believe me. They weren't to pick him up on suspicion. Nothing like that—no possibility that he could be taken away from us by tricky lawyers with legal technicalities. Red-handed—or not at all. Those were the orders."

  "Not that," Montgomery said.

  "What, then?"

  "If they've got Albert Stanley without Eric Burrows, then they've only got one end of the stick, and the small end at that. Like having a bull by the horns—there's a lot of powerful animal left over, enough of the animal to do tremendous damage. Quite simply, I'm worried, and I
won't pretend I'm not. Ridiculous, isn't it? You people have accomplished quite a catch and here I am being pessimistic about it. Please, let me try again, more heartily." He smiled. "Congratulations on Albert Stanley."

  "Thank you," Waverly said.

  At that point their dinner arrived. They ate, but neither of them with appetite.

  3. A Morning Stroll

  FRIDAY MORNING at ten o'clock Steven Winfield came down from the duplex on the eighteenth floor of the apartment building on Fifth Avenue and 76th Street. The doorman smiled at the quick striding, buoyant young man.

  "Morning, Mr. Winfield."

  "Morning, Patrick."

  "We sure have us a beautiful day this day."

  The towheaded young man nodded. "That we have."

  "And how are Sir William and Lady Winfield this beautiful day?"

  "Fine, thank you, Patrick."

  "Shall I get you a cab?"

  "No, I'm going to walk a bit."

  "This sure is the day for that." The doorman opened the door.

  Steve crossed to the park side and strolled southward, breathing deeply of the clear air. Central Park was in full bloom, and there was a morning fragrance. The sun was already high, but it was a dry day, and there was a cooling little breeze from the east. It was July 12 and an important day for the Winfield family. It was a day of celebration: July 12 was Steve's birthday and his father's birthday. He was seventeen, his father fifty-two, and this evening—as always on the evening of July 12—there would be the double birthday party. Steve was on his way down to Abercrombie and Fitch.

  He enjoyed the noises of the birds in the trees. He whistled intermittently as he strolled southward. He would walk to Fifty-ninth and from there take a cab. He was going to pick up the gift he had already selected for his father—and what a gift. A gorgeous set of golf clubs! He had been saving all year and still didn't have enough money. He had had to borrow the balance from his mother. But what a gift! Expensive, yes; but foolhardy, no. His father would love the new clubs, and he himself would inherit the old clubs— in a sense a double gift. The man at Abercrombie's had wanted to arrange for delivery but Steve had said no. He wanted the joy of looking at them again, then waiting while they were packaged. He would bring them home himself, leave them with the superintendent, then slip them into the apartment when his father was out.

  He whistled softly, happily, while he strolled. He loved Abercrombie and Fitch, loved all of America, four years now his adopted country, loved being a Winfield. It was exciting and wonderful to be the son, the only child, of Sir William Winfield. Sir William Winfield. What was the full title here in America? Sir William Winfield, Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary, Permanent Representative to the United Nations from the United Kingdom.

  He stopped whistling, hearing his name called. He saw the long, sleek, gray Rolls Royce slide to the curb.

  "Steve! Steve Winfield!"

  He moved toward the car. The girl at the wheel was blond and pretty.

  "You are Steve Winfield. I mean, I hope..."

  "Yes," he said awkwardly.

  "There!" she said. "I was certain. Don't you remember me? Pamela Hunter?"

  "No, I don't think...

  The voice, somehow, was familiar, but not actually familiar. He understood. It was clearly a British voice and any British accent, here in this country, would somehow ring familiarly. He did not know her. Perhaps he did. Through his parents he had met many persons, however fleetingly. She was very pretty.

  "It's been a long time," she said. "London. It must be five years. You weren't quite as handsome then. Pamela Hunter. I'm a friend of your mother's."

  "My mother's?" His mother was forty-seven. This girl was at most twenty-three.

  Her laughter tinkled. "Well, my mother's your mother's friend; not I, really. Look, get in, or they'll be giving me a ticket for illegal parking." She reached back and opened the rear door.

  He got in and closed the door. The car purred away from the curb. Sitting at an angle behind her, he could see her eyes in the rear-view mirror. They were large and blue and friendly, and the sweet smell of her perfume permeated the car. Heck, he thought, this is better than a taxi.

  "Out for a bit of exercise?" she asked.

  "Not really. I'm going down to Abercrombie and Fitch."

  "Rather a long walk," she said, and the tinkling laughter came again.

  "I was going to take a taxi after a while."

  "Oh? So?"

  "You can drop me out if it's out of your way."

  "Quite the contrary. I'm to pick up Mother outside of Bergdorf's. She'll be positively delighted to see you. Steve Winfield. New York—every thing happens. We've only been here a few weeks. Visiting. Shopping. Mother'll be ecstatic. Old friends. How's your father?"

  "Fine."

  "Your mother?"

  "Fine, thank you."

  She tapped out a cigarette and held the package back toward him.

  "Cigarette?"

  "I don't smoke, thank you."

  She took out a gold lighter. "A gift from my mother. Isn't it exquisite?"

  He leaned forward. The car stopped for a red light. She turned and showed him the lighter. She extended it close, right under his nose. He heard the click, heard a hiss, heard nothing more.

  The gray Rolls parked on East 68th Street. The girl got out, propped up the sleeping boy in a corner of the car, slammed the door, and went to the tall, dark man lounging at a side of the many-windowed, modern apartment house. The tall man needed a shave and his eyes were red rimmed. His smile was brief and somewhat sullen. "All right?" he asked.

  "I have him," the girl said. "Now what about the other one?"

  "He'll come out."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Look, I've been loitering here since yesterday. I saw him go in, and he hasn't come out. He'll come out."

  "And if anything goes wrong?"

  "Then we'll use the other plan. As long as we've got the boy."

  "Oh, we've got him."

  "Nothing'll go wrong. He'll come out. He's due. Now you take over. You know what to do."

  "Yes, Mr. Burrows."

  "Good girl."

  The tall man went to the car. He opened the rear door and looked at the boy. He put a cigarette between the boy's lips, and there it dangled. He closed the rear door, got in behind the wheel in front, and sat waiting. The girl would know whom to approach. She had seen his picture many times, studied the picture. She would know what to do. She was bright, intelligent, devoted to the cause, an idealist. He made a grunt in his throat, his mouth closed. Idealist. He did not trust idealists; he preferred mercenaries. Not his business. He was not the boss. Leslie Tudor was the boss. Tudor trusted the girl. No question the girl was perfectly suited to her role. But an idealist. A devotee of the cause. People like her were good workers, even great workers, fanatical but unpredictable. He sighed. He was—how did they put it in Americanese?—the second banana. Leslie Tudor was Number One. What suited Tudor had to suit, perforce, him. He grunted again, lit a cigarette, and sat watching, waiting.

  In time, Illya Kuryakin came out. Quickly the girl approached him. "Mr. Kuryakin?"

  "Hello?" A fellow tenant whom he had missed? Possible, not probable. A bachelor, somehow he did not miss the pretty ones. Maybe she had recently moved in. She was certainly pretty, blond and shapely in a yellow sleeveless summer dress.

  "I was about to go in and ring," she said. "You are Mr. Kuryakin?"

  "Yes, but how would you know?"

  "I've seen pictures of you."

  "Who showed you?"

  "Sir William Winfield."

  "Well! The good lord of the manor!" Sir William was a friend. A year ago there had been a private time of stress, and he had been assigned as a private bodyguard for the Winfield family and had so served for a period of three months.

  "I'm a messenger from Sir William."

  "He certainly picks them beautiful."

  "Well, thank you, sir. It's his b
irthday today. I imagine you know."

  "No, I don't know."

  "It is."

  "Good enough. So take a message, lovely messenger. My hearty congratulations to Sir William."

  "No. There's to be a party for him tonight." She smiled at the good-looking, blond, young man, thinking to herself that if this emergency had fallen on another day Leslie Tudor would have coached her to mouth another reason as adequately appropriate. Aloud, she said, "A surprise party. Mrs. Winfield has not sent out invitations. We're personally inviting the guests."

  "We?"

  "Steven Winfield and myself. I'm Sir William's new secretary. Pamela Hunter."

  "Pleasure to make your acquaintance. Where's Steve?"

  "He's right there in the car."

  She pointed and Illya looked. A new Rolls. He shook his head and grinned. What else for Sir William Winfield but a sleek, long Rolls?

  "Please, Steve would like to talk to you," Pamela Hunter said.

  "Sure."

  He went with her to the car. The chauffeur smiled, nodded. The girl opened the door, and Illya bent over the seat toward Steve. A cigarette? He did not remember that the boy smoked.

  "Steve," he said. "Hi."

  The boy seemed to be dozing. The chauffeur leaned back, reached back with a hand holding a gold lighter, clicked it, and moved it swiftly to ward Illya. He heard the hiss, tried to fight away from it, and lost.

  The girl settled herself between the two sleeping men, propping Illya's limp form up in the corner opposite the Winfield boy.

  The chauffeur turned the ignition key and drove off with his new passengers.

  4. The Gentle Saboteur

  ALEXANDER WAVERLY entered his office at twenty minutes past twelve. His buzzer sounded and his secretary said, "Napoleon Solo."

  The Old Man took up the phone. There was no sound. He said into the intercom, "I thought you said Solo."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Phone's dead."

  "Not on the phone, sir. He's here."

  "Here?" The Old Man frowned. "All right. Send him in. Thank you."

  Almost at once Solo knocked. He came through the door smiling, obviously rested, natty in a freshly pressed mohair suit. "Good afternoon, Mr. Waverly."