13 - The Rainbow Affair (10 page)

Illya cleared his throat. "This is only true to a certain extent," he said. "In many Satraps, individuality is very highly prized - at least, by those in charge."

Rainbow shook his bead. "I know only the few men I have seen. They act very strangely, and seem incapable of making decisions on their own." He pondered a moment. "They seem very foreign.

"I don't think of myself as a prejudiced man, Mr. Kuryakin. But I do consider myself an Englishman first and foremost. The Crown was my only parent, from an orphanage through the Royal Army. Now, these Thrush people have been making noises about taking over everything, unifying the whole world under their own control. And I will not be a part of such a scheme. I fought against Hitler - working my way up through the ranks as an officer and a gentleman preventing other people from getting the whole world under their thumbs."

"The Army no longer seems to hold any warm feelings for you," Illya pointed out.

Rainbow grimaced slightly. "Perhaps not. I made a mistake - and I was quite justly punished for it. I defaulted in a position of responsibility. It was my only error in nineteen years of faithful service. I have never since proved false to an oath given.

"But Thrush has not proven easy to refuse. In the last several months they have been presenting me with samples of their technology for use in my own operations -"

"Those gas guns you used in the Rothschild job?"

"Those were part of a recent shipment, yes. But they have given me as well many items of hardware which I have as yet found no use for. I do not wish to become obligated to these men whom I distrust, yet their importunity is becoming annoying. They have become increasingly insistent on my agreeing to work with - or for - them, and refuse to entertain the thought that I sincerely might not wish to.

"My true headquarters is still maintained in utmost secrecy - this lovely manor house is only on loan for a short period for various conferences concerning an operation of great complexity and commensurate reward. So far, Thrush is only able to contact me by devious channels, which is the way it will remain."

Rainbow leaned back in his chair and reached for a cigar. He extended the humidor towards Illya, who shook his head politely, then clipped one end neatly, inserted it beneath his moustache, and ignited the other end. When a blue haze had formed around his head, and silence had filled the room for a good two minutes, he spoke again.

"This, then, is my position. I am being wooed by this distasteful but stubborn group, Thrush. You have come here after me, I believe, but you maintain a constant interest in Thrush. I would like to suggest that you go after the larger game, and leave me alone."

Illya nodded. "I understand your point of view," he said. "But you admit to some contact with these recruiters - could you not give us perhaps some more material assistance, such as names, addresses, descriptions?"

Rainbow removed his cigar and looked at Illya. "Perhaps it is not so in Russia or the United States, but here there are still remnants of what used to be referred to as 'honor.' I will not betray the trust even of those whom I personally dislike."

"Trust needs to be mutual. Do you think you can rust Thrush not to destroy you if you continue to refuse them?"

"I have seen nothing to indicate they are less than honorable. And allow me to say immodestly that I may take a great deal of destroying."

"Thrush is capable of directing more effort than you might believe possible towards the destruction of an individual."

"Perhaps. How is it that Mr. Solo and yourself have escaped their attentions all this time? Luck?"

A bit of a smile creased the Russian's dour face. "It helps. But there are many factors which contribute to our continued survival. You will understand if I don't explain them."

"Of course, of course. The information would do me no good, and could conceivably lessen your chances. But to return to my point - you have before you on the desk your partner's hardware. He himself will be returning to you tomorrow around noon, unharmed, as he would have been even had he not escaped when he did. Please convey to him my apologies for the rough treatment which he received, and add that I hope our next meeting will be under more amicable conditions." Rainbow leaned forward again and touched a button on the desk.

A moment later, Illya felt rather than heard the door open behind him, and his host said, "Return Mr. Kuryakin to his hotel, please, and give him back his gun and radio along with those on my desk when you arrive." His eyes focused back on Illya's face, and he said, "You will have to be blindfolded again, Mr. Kuryakin. I hope you won't mind, but it is quite unavoidable under the circumstances."

And the interview was at an end.

Section III: "Add Another Hue Unto The Rainbow"

Chapter 9

How Napoleon and Illya Met an Old Old Gentleman, and Had Several Obvious Things Pointed Out to Them.

THE NEXT DAY WAS Tuesday, and Napoleon sat across a restaurant table from Illya exchanging stories.

"There's no possibility of finding the place again?"

The Russian shook his head. "They drove a different route on the return trip. Each way took about thirty minutes, but I know they spent some of that time doubling back. It was quite a professional job."

"What about the cab number?"

"I checked it out as soon as I returned. There is such a company, and they have a cab with that number - but it was working steadily all evening. I was riding in a clever forgery."

Solo nodded. "What was your impression of Rainbow? Did I miss much by declining his invitation?"

"Not that much. He's an interesting individual. I would say he is probably quite serious about not wanting any part of Thrush; he has found a place in the world and is quite satisfied with it."

"Would he be likely to help us against Thrush?

Illya sipped at his cup of strong black tea before answering. "Not unless something very large happened to change his mind. He can be just as stubborn to us as he's being to them. If they were to set out actively, specifically and obviously to destroy him, then he might be persuaded to give evidence against them. If he lived long enough after the evil bird fixed its sights on him. On the other hand, I can think of few people I would give better odds for surviving under such circumstances.

"And what did you learn from your peaceful sojourn in the country?"

Napoleon smiled. "I learned that a hundred-pound girl can handle a five-hundred-pound motorcycle as well as I can handle a skiff. I learned never to underestimate the abilities of little old ladies or plump priests. And I learned that Johnnie Rainbow's center of operations stands a fairly good chance of being inside a lighthouse on a little lump of rock called Donzerly."

"Not an unprofitable weekend. How much more were you able to find out about this Donzerly?"

"Not an awful lot. According to the files at the Admiralty, the light was decommissioned about six years ago. This retired Naval officer picked it up at an auction of Crown property for a song, plus tax, and has decided to maintain and modernize it. Apparently there has been quite a bit of action around the light for the past five years, but no one seems to know exactly what's going on there. No one in any official capacity has set foot on Donzerly since the deed was signed over."

"And the mysterious retired Naval officer?"

"Not mysterious at all. Commander Horatio Dascoyn. Not a brilliant career, but an unblemished one. Every day of his life is on record, and there isn't a hint anywhere to connect him with anything more criminal than a few dust-ups in foreign ports when he was young. Absolutely unimpeachable, and totally above suspicion."

"Which in itself is highly suspicious," said Illya, and Napoleon nodded.

"My thought precisely. I put the local Section Three on it. They haven't found anything yet, but if there's anything there, they will."

"Even if it takes them six months. Did you get anything we can use right now?"

This time Napoleon used his drink to fill a few seconds of silence while he thought. "Well, not exactly. All I got was a sort of suggestion. It's not a lead, and it's not a clue, and it has no direct bearing on our assignment - but right now it's the only thing we've got until some thing turns up on Dascoyn."

"If you wanted to capture my interest, you have succeeded. What is this thing - the product of a Ouija board? Or a cryptic message you found in a bottle?"

"Neither. I mentioned already that both Aunt Jane and Father John claimed the hobby of criminology. They gave me the name and address of a man whom they seem to consider the leader of their little clique, and suggested we talk to him."

Illya gave Napoleon a look that implied a straitjacket and probably a padded cell. "A hobbyist?" he said unbelievingly. "An amateur detective of some kind? What on earth could you hope to find out from an armchair expert? He probably follows all the crime stories in the newspapers and pastes them in scrapbooks, with little notations on theories and resolutions. With the resources of Scotland Yard, part of MI-5, and all of U.N.C.L.E., you want to seek the advice of some utterly incompetent little man who has probably never seen an actual crime outside a newspaper photograph?"

Napoleon raised a hand to shorten his partner's out burst. "He may be, or he may not," he said. "Talking with a little old lady and an equally unprepossessing priest, I gained quite a respect for their minds and abilities, as I believe I said only recently. They seemed to admire this man tremendously, and because of this I am willing at least to talk to him. You may either come along or pursue your interests here in the city while I go alone."

"Where? And what do you know about him? What does he do for a living? What's his name, and what are his qualifications?"

"Actually I know very little. He's very old, apparently - somewhere around a hundred years old, according to Father John. Aunt Jane said he was once a detective, though I imagine most of our modem techniques would be beyond him by this point. Outside of that, all I know is that he is long retired, and keeps bees on his little Sussex farm. And his name is William Escott. I'll be going down to see him tomorrow afternoon."

Illya sighed. "I may as well come along. It might be interesting, if not educational."

It was three o'clock on a still May afternoon when two casually dressed individuals descended from the second passenger car of a little local train at the station of a sleepy Sussex town. One was tall, long-jawed, and obviously American. The other was square-faced and blond, wearing American clothes but of less certain nationality. They conversed together in low tones, and though the usual station loungers could have taken oath that neither of them had ever been in the village before, both strode directly up High Street without pausing to ask for directions.

They walked completely through the village and out the other side where High Street narrowed again to a two-laned strip of pavement cracked with heavy use. The shriek of the train announcing its departure from the station came faintly to them across the somnolent haze of the afternoon.

They had walked perhaps half a mile beyond the last houses of the village before Napoleon turned left into a narrow dirt lane that wound off under the branches of great antediluvian oak. The only sounds that reached them now were the whispers of a fitful breeze stirring the leaves nearby and the distant drone of insects. The harsher buzz of a light plane somewhere far away in the sky mingled with the soft undercurrent of sound to give an impression to city-bred ears of total silence.

Weeds stood cockily down the center of the road between parallel ruts, and the most observant eye would detect no trace of the oil stains that mark a road frequented by motor vehicles. They seemed to have stepped from the train into a village of 1900, and to have walked from there to a time a hundred years earlier. A feeling of peace, of separation from the Twentieth Century, soaked slowly into them with the heat from the haze-shrouded golden sun. A startled rabbit leaped from the cover of a clump of grass and bolted across the roadway - a flicker of gray fur and a rustling and then stillness again.

The road wound around the foot of a low gentle hill, and dipped into a green valley. They stopped at the top of the grade and looked ahead of them. A small stream sparkled amid rush-crowded banks, and a grove of ash trees stood tall and graceful beside a small thatch-roofed cottage. Behind the cottage ranks of white boxes perched on low tables, grass standing proud and uncut about them. Now the two visitors became aware of numbers of bees, humming like a chorus, darting around them.

Illya finally broke the silence that had accompanied them since passing the edge of town. "Is this the place?" His voice was almost unconsciously lowered to match the hush of the little valley.

Napoleon nodded, and started on down the lane. A path wound off it to the door of the cottage, and ended where an ancient thorn bush stood beside the slab of rock that served as a stoop. Napoleon knocked at the heavy dark wooden door, and the sound seemed to echo inside the house for several seconds before it died away and was replaced by the sound of shuffling footsteps.

The door swung inward, and an aged face peered out at them.

"William Escott?" Napoleon inquired.

"At your service," said a whispery voice, which still held overtones of a former strength. "Come in, come in."

They followed him into the dim, cool interior of the cottage, and found chairs set about a fireplace. The room was a shambles. Books were stacked on tables and chairs, a stench of sulfur dioxide tinged the air from an ancient fractionating column visible on the kitchen sink, a few letters were pinned to the top of the mantel piece with an opened jackknife, a violin case stood in a corner by the most comfortable chair, and various unidentifiable objects stood and lay about the cozy little room.

When they were seated, Escott spent several seconds studying them both intently while they returned his scrutiny. They saw a very old man, not bent with age but standing as straight as a soldier, whose hawklike eye had not been clouded with the passage of time, and whose face retained the keenness that must once have been his. His bright gaze darted from one to the other of his guests as his bees darted from flower to flower. At last he spoke, directly to Napoleon.