13 - The Rainbow Affair (7 page)

Illya never took his eyes off the man's face. It was, a lean, smiling face, a face that should have belonged to a buccaneer, or Robin Hood. It definitely did not belong in the Twentieth Century; its owner seemed equally out of place. Gentlemen in evening dress did not ordinarily step out of dark alleys and impale jewel thieves with ivory-handled knives. There was definitely he decided, more to this than was readily apparent to the eye.

"But really, I hate to monopolize the conversation. What have you heard recently about the Rainbow gang?"

"Very little," said Illya honestly. "They were supposed to have been responsible for the Rothschild gold robbery two weeks ago; they had a jewel robbery planned for tonight which seems to have gone astray somewhere. And they seem to have a most remarkable assortment of people looking for them for one reason or another."

"You have no leads on his location, of course."

"None. I don't suppose…"

"Afraid not. But the more people searching, the more likely success. I take it you are interested in Johnnie only for his own charming self, and not for his fine collection of rare British cash?"

Illya nodded. "You are suggesting a pooling of information?"

"The idea had occurred to me."

"It might be worked out. Unfortunately, at the moment, I fear neither of us has anything useful to the other."

"Regrettably. However, I shall keep in touch. If I uncover anything you detective types might call a 'clue,' I'll certainly ring you up and invite you over for a look at it."

"And if we come up with anything?"

"I'll know about it." He glanced at Illya, and the flare of a passing streetlight struck a blue glint from his eyes. "There are times when I think half the population of this little island has a personal interest in finding Johnnie Rainbow. And it's very hard to keep secrets in such a close-knit family. Now here's your hotel - good night."

And Illya was standing on the curb, looking off up the street after the sleek gray car until the burble of its exhaust had died away in the distance.

Chapter 6

How Napoleon Solo Declined an Honor, and Met an Exciting Young Lady.

GRADUALLY NAPOLEON became aware that he ached in several places. His wrist hurt - he remembered having it nearly broken just a few minutes ago, or so it seemed. His head hurt - that he couldn't quite justify. It ached as if it had been hit very hard recently. And in addition to these complaints, he felt as if he had been thrown around rather roughly for several hours. His shoulders, back, hips and legs hurt too. He considered the combination of sensations for a while, and decided be didn't like it.

In fact, he decided, he was still being thrown around. He wasn't moving around himself, but large flat surfaces kept swinging around and hitting him, mostly in places where he was already bruised. He stuck out a hand and found something which was either a wall or a floor and groped around for a projection of any kind to hold on to.

He found nothing, but the feel of the cold slick metal helped bring his senses into focus. There was a loud roaring and rumbling which he was able to identify as the motor of a truck - a fairly large one, probably. He braced himself as well as he could on the slippery floor, and wrapped his arms protectively around his sore head.

The swaying of the truck still swung him from side to side, and wherever they were the pavement was not of the best - the floor still had an annoying tendency to drop away from under him and then leap up again just as he started to fall to meet it.

It was still dark, and he was attempting to read the luminous dial of his watch when he realized his eyes were still closed. He tried to open them, but it stayed dark. He concentrated until he was quite sure the eyelids were in a raised condition, and then looked around, trying to focus.

There was a little light after all - a vertical line of gray off at right angles to the directions he kept swaying. Since the swaying was an indication of turns, he reasoned that must be either the front or back of the truck - and since there was presumably a cab of some kind covering the front, it was probably the back.
In fact
, he decided as he finally pulled into full orientation,
that is the space between the two doors at the back
.
Also
, he added to himself,
it is daylight outside, which means I've been out for at least four hours
. He looked down at his watch again, and was relieved to find it glowing faintly in its accustomed place near the end of his arm. It looked like either two o'clock or ten minutes after twelve; his eyes still weren't focusing perfectly.

A quick check of his pocket showed his communicator missing - to be expected. Too many people knew what that little silver fountain pen was capable of - Section Five should start work on something new to hide the tiny long-distance radio in. A shoe-heel, for instance, or maybe a hollow tooth, depending on how miniaturization was progressing. His automatic was gone, of course - probably still lying there on the pavement of New Bond Street. He hoped somebody had picked it up; it would be a devil to clean if the dew got into it and rust pitting developed in the barrel. But his shoulder-rig was also missing. He hoped they were to together.

He checked his other concealed surprises - they were all in place. The little goodies that made each U.N.C.L.E. agent's suit into a walking arsenal were all present. As he contemplated the mental roll, his confidence returned. He could still blast his way out and make it back to London.

On the other hand, he might be almost anywhere. He had apparently been out of touch with reality for from eight to ten hours - that would be enough time for him to be halfway around the world. On the third hand, if he was halfway around the world and it was twelve-ten - or two - in England, it should be dark outside, so he was probably at least in Europe. But on the fourth hand, they could have reset his watch while he was unconscious, so it would be reading in local time. But that seemed uncommonly considerate for a bunch of kidnappers.

On the fifth hand, if he had been traveling in a truck for all - or even most - of those eight or ten hours, he could still be several hundred miles away. Or at least a few hundred, considering the size of Britain. On the sixth hand…

Napoleon was running out of hands, and the thought reminded him to look at his watch again. It was now either ten past one, or five minutes past two. He decided that, in view of the subjective time that had passed since he'd last looked at his watch, it was probably five minutes after two.

The truck bounced violently, and a wall he hadn't expected swung out of the darkness and dealt severely with a tender patch on the back of his head. Specks of light danced before his eyes for a moment, and he raised a shaking hand to steady himself again.

Judging from the vibration, they were going at a pretty good clip. It would be pointless to use one of the little 'skeleton keys' - the tiny lumps of thermite with a manually ignited fuse which would make slag of the sturdiest lock in seconds - to blow open the door of the van; probably be better to wait until they arrived wherever they were going, and the doors were opened. For one thing, he believed in letting the opposition do as much of the work as possible, and for another, he had several questions he wanted to ask somebody.

He settled back to rest and wait.

He was awakened again a short time later as the truck lurched violently to the left and began to bounce about as though it had just left the road. It went slower and slower, making many turns, and eventually lumbered to a stop. Napoleon rose stiffly to a crouch just inside the back doors.

Several seconds later there were clanking noises around the area of the latch, and he tensed his aching muscles for the leap. He remembered to squint his eyes just at the instant the doors swung open and a flood of daylight rushed in upon him.

There were two men, both with automatics, standing a few feet below him, on the ground. While their light-accustomed eyes peered into the darkness of the truck, Napoleon was gauging their distances and angles from him. Before they had more than realized their prisoner was crouched just within the door instead of flopped against a wall, he had leaped out upon them, flailing arms and yelling.

But his bruised leg betrayed him as he landed, and buckled as he tried to sprint for cover. Before he could regain his balance the guns were leveled at him, and a patient voice was saying, "Back on your feet, now, and try not to fall over again."

Napoleon slowly worked himself upright, and looked around at his captors. "What exactly is going on here?" he finally asked.

"You've been wanting to find out about Johnnie Rainbow," said the patient one, "so Johnnie has decided to find out more about you. The difference is he knew where to find you."

"Couldn't he have found out without bringing me in for a personal interview?"

"Possibly he thought you could tell him more. I don't make policy for the gang, I just do what I'm told. You should try it… you'll find it makes life ever so much simpler. You can start by walking over there."

"Over there" was the edge of a cliff, and somewhere far beyond the grassy knoll that led up to it Napoleon could hear and smell the sea. As he crossed the twenty-odd yards and climbed to the brink, he saw a wooden railing and a small platform which turned out to be the top of a flight of steps zigzagging down the face of the cliff to a narrow strip of pebbly beach some seventy-five or a hundred feet below him. A small motor launch bobbed on the water of the little cove, and figures were visible moving about the after deck.

Napoleon looked down at it and murmured, "A floating headquarters? Ingenious, but restrictive."

"That's not headquarters, you nit," said the second man. "That's a boat. Come on - down the stairs. They're perfectly safe."

"After you," Napoleon said, stepping back politely.

"But we insist," said the first. "After all, you're the guest of honor. Remember, if we'd wanted to kill you we've had plenty of chances. If you'll cooperate it'll make things easier all around - I don't especially want to have to carry you down these steps, and you likely don't want another clout on the head."

Solo felt the back of his skull carefully, and agreed. He brought his hand down unexpectedly in a crisp chop across the wrist of the nearer man, and one gun flipped into the undergrowth. At the same time his opposite leg flashed up and caught the other man's gun hand in a demonstration of coordination that would win applause on any vaudeville stage. This audience seemed singularly displeased with it, however, and let out simultaneous howls of complaint. One was silenced an instant later as Napoleon's other hand, slightly bent and rigid, chopped through a short arc which ended on the side of the nearest neck.

Agony shot through his wrist as he connected, but the pain was compensated by the sight of half his opposition collapsed on the tough marsh grass.

The other half had jumped back, clutching at his own injured wrist, and Napoleon felt a moment of sympathy for him. But he was unarmed, and there was no telling how distant help was. He decided not to press the engagement.

Resolutely ignoring the twinges that shot up his legs and through his back, Solo broke and ran for cover. The truck stood empty and unguarded, but the first gunman, who no longer looked as patient as he had, stood between him and the open door of the cab. A motorized escape was out. Dodging and ducking, Solo was out of sight among the trees within five seconds.

There were shouts behind him, as the driver of the truck summoned help, probably from the boat. Napoleon hoped so; it would take them some time to climb those steps and to get their breath back afterwards. He glanced over his shoulder to establish the direction of the cliff, and hurried in the opposite direction.

They had turned off the main road - or at least a paved road - somewhere back this way. It couldn't be more than half a mile, he thought, judging from how long it had taken and how slowly they had been going. Half his muscles were stiffening up already, but with a combination of will power and fear of capture driving him, he was able to keep going.

He heard the pursuers long before he saw them, crashing through the brush and swearing. They were audible enough to give him both location and direction; as soon as both had been established he swung at right angles to their course, moved quietly some twenty feet, and stopped, listening.

They shouldn't be making that much noise; they weren't fools, by any means. More than likely, a few men were trying to beat him into the arms of the main group which was moving quietly in the opposite direction. He didn't think they were clever enough to create a second-order deception, the main body making the most noise so he would think it was a trap. He took the situation at face value and doubled back, heading roughly towards the major source of racket.

As he approached, he became more cautious. They sounded only about fifty feet away now. He crouched low behind a bush and, parting the branches cautiously, peered out from his covert.

There they came - only two men, talking together as they came and brushing branches aside all about them, making quite a satisfactory racket. Napoleon pulled down into a tight little ball behind the bush, and tried to breathe as little as possible as they went by, less than fifteen feet away from him. After they passed, he began counting quietly to himself.

He counted off two hundred and fifty, and then looked around very slowly. There was no one else in sight. Very quietly and carefully he rose from his position of concealment and looked around again. Still no one. He took a cautious step, and then another. Eventually he was striding on through the woods, all pursuit left far behind him.

He became aware of the road shortly before he could see it, as the sound of a well-muffled engine and the unmistakable hiss of tires on pavement came to him. He hurried forward, his feet silent on the tufted grass, up a slight rise and past another line of bushes, in time to see the rear end of a big old battleship-gray Bentley disappearing around the next curve. Too bad he'd missed it - he needed a ride to the next town. No way of telling how far it was, or in which direction.