MFU Whitman - The Affair of the Gentle Saboteur (7 page)

"Sure," Solo said. "Don't worry, ma'am. There's hardly any damage at all, as you can see. No damage, no payment, no lawsuit. And now if I can get us unhooked—"

"You are a gentleman and a scholar." The fat lady smiled with big white teeth. "And also very handsome, if I may say."

"Thank you, ma'am."

He went to the locked cars, the woman toddling with him. Her bumper was over his, and her car was heavy. He pulled at the bumpers to no avail; he could not dislodge them. Perhaps he should ask Stanley for help. No, better to keep him sitting where he was. He tried again, knowing the strength of one man was not enough; he would have to use the jack from the rear compartment of his car. Then he heard the woman whispering behind him: "Oh, no! We got company. Just my luck."

He looked up. A police patrol car was rolling to a stop behind his car. One of the policemen got out and strolled toward them slowly. He was heavy-set and red-faced, gray hair showing beneath the sides of his visored cap.

"Well, what have we got here?" he said in a gravelly voice.

"Bumpers caught," Solo said. "Would you give me a hand, please, Officer?"

The policeman disregarded him. He looked from one car to the other, then pointed to the one obviously at fault.

"Who owns this heap?"

"Me," the lady said.

"What are you doing wrong way on a one- way?"

"I made a mistake," she said lamely.

The policeman puffed up his cheeks, blowing out a sigh. "Just a little mistake, hey? You got a driver's license, by any chance?"

"Sure."

"Okay, let's have it."

She took her handbag from her car, and from the handbag produced her license. The police man read it slowly.

"You Rebecca Brisbane?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you own this heap?"

"No, sir. My husband."

"Where's the registration?"

"Right here, sir."

She gave him the certificate of registration. He studied it carefully, compared it with the license plate of her car, sighed again, took out his book, and laboriously wrote out the summons. Solo wanted to hurry him but didn't dare. This policeman, positively, wasn't in a pleasant mood, or, simply, he wasn't a pleasant man.

"Okay, Rebecca," the policeman said. "Wrong way on a one-way, that's a violation. You could have killed this gentleman. You know?"

"Oh, I know. This is one ticket I deserve."

For the first time the policeman smiled. He gave her the ticket, the driver's license, and the certificate of registration, and Rebecca returned her possessions to her handbag. Solo fidgeted in the morning sunshine, watching Stanley. Stanley sat uncurious, immobile, disregarding them.

"Now you get back in your car, Rebecca," the policeman said, "and we'll get you loosened up." He put away his summons book and his pen. "You and me ought to be able to manage it, young fella."

They went together to the entangled bumpers. Solo opened his jacket. They wedged their hands beneath the bumper of Rebecca's car. "When I say heave, we'll heave," the policeman said. "One—two—three—heave!" The bumpers became disengaged. "Okay," the policeman called to Rebecca. "Put her in reverse and back up—slow."

Rebecca obeyed. Grindingly her car moved away from Solo's.

"Okay, keep going like that," the policeman called. "Back up to the corner and go your way."

Solo watched until the car disappeared around the corner, turned to thank the policeman—and found himself facing a leveled gun!

"What in the world—"

"Easy does it, young fella. Into the prowl car. Move."

"But—"

"You heard me! In the prowl car. Now move!" The man in the passenger seat of the police patrol car was a sergeant with a gold badge. Rigidly, observing intently, he watched as Solo, under the policeman's direction, entered the car from the driver's side. Then the policeman got in, slammed the door, and Solo was wedged between them, the muzzle of the policeman's gun a sharp warning thrust into his ribs. Solo could see Stanley in the car in front. Stanley was sitting motionless. If this were some complicated deception engineered by THRUSH, then by now Stanley should be out and running. Or was it a deathtrap? He was helpless, wedged between them, the muzzle of the gun tight in his side.

"What's up?" the sergeant said.

"This baby's got a gun on him, that's what's up. He had his jacket open when we were working on them cars. He's wearing a shoulder holster."

"Yes?" the sergeant said.

Solo breathed deep in relief. No deathtrap. Proper police work. But now it became a matter of time. Enough time had been wasted. He had an important appointment, but he was not at liberty to divulge it. "Yes," he said.

The sergeant slipped a hand beneath Solo's jacket, opened the holster, and drew out the pistol.

"You got a permit for this firearm, mister?"

"Yes, but not with me."

Aside from his driver's license there was very little in the way of identification he did have with him. On this kind of job, the fewer papers that could fall into the hands of THRUSH the better.

"Why not with you?" the sergeant said.

"It's hard to explain."

"Well, try."

"I'm on official business. That man up there in my car is a prisoner. I'd appreciate it if you kept an eye on him."

"We're keeping an eye on him," the policeman on Solo's left said. "Just let him make a move and you'll see. But we are also keeping an eye on you, buster."

The sergeant asked, "Any proof of this official business?"

"I'm sorry; no."

"What's your name?"

"Solo. Napoleon Solo."

"What kind of official business?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't tell you."

"By any chance, if I may ask—you got a driver's license, Mr. Solo?"

There were two guns on him now: the police man's, and his own in the sergeant's hand. He moved gingerly getting out his driver's license. The sergeant inspected it and returned it.

"I'm afraid we're going to have to take you in, Mr. Solo. You and that guy up there—your prisoner, you say."

"No," Solo said.

The sergeant had a calm, level voice. "Could be you're telling the truth; these are crazy times we're living in. In that case, can you blame me? You're a guy with a gun and no permit. You say you're some kind of law enforcement officer on business. Could be. But you got no proof for us. So we got to take you in, don't we? At least until that proof is furnished?"

"Yes," Solo said. "But no."

"You're losing me, mister." Exasperation put a flush on the sergeant's face. "Yes—but no. What kind of an answer is that?"

Solo sighed. "Yes—because you're right. Certainly, logically, of course you'd have to take me in. No—because it's a matter of time. I'm on an urgent mission and time is of the essence."

"Then what do you want, mister? That we take your word for it? What would you do in my place? Take your word?"

Solo snapped his fingers, pointed at the two- way radio.

"Who's your man in charge, Sergeant?"

"Lieutenant Weinberg."

"Can you get through to him?"

"Sure."

"Would you do that, please? Tell him to call this number." Solo spoke Alexander Waverly's private number. "Tell him to ask for Waverly."

Perplexed, the sergeant said, "Who's Waverly?"

"Please do as I say, Sergeant. Believe me, this is urgent business and official business, and if you don't cooperate you'll be subject to censure. You've nothing to lose, sir. If it doesn't work out then you can take me in, and I'll have no cause for complaint."

The sergeant shifted about uncomfortably.

Solo understood his dilemma. If the sergeant com plied and then the man with a gun without a permit turned out to be some sort of crank, the sergeant would be labeled a fool by his colleagues. If he did not comply and then the man truly turned out to be an agent on urgent business, then he would be severely reprimanded by his superiors as an inflexible fool.

And now the policeman on his left said sarcastically, "That prisoner you say you got up there— he don't seem to be in no hurry to try for an escape, does he?"

Solo made no reply to that. He looked to his right.

"Please, Sergeant," he said. "Time. Don't let me run out of time."

The sergeant touched a switch. The short wave thrummed, crackling. "Lomax here," the sergeant said. "Harry Lomax. Put me on with the lieutenant."

"Okay, Sergeant," the voice answered.

"Lieutenant Weinberg here. What've you got for me, Harry?"

"I got a crazy one, Lieutenant. I got a guy with a gun, no permit. Says he's some kind of law enforcement officer but he's got no papers to prove it. Wants you to call this number." He stated the number. "You're to talk to a Mr. Waverly. This guy here says this Waverly will straighten you out. His name is Solo, Napoleon Solo."

"Hold it a minute," Solo said.

"Just a minute, Lieutenant." He turned to Solo. "What?"

"Insurance," Solo said. "Let him tell Waverly that you people picked me up because of a minor traffic accident. And let him just state these additional names—Kuryakin, Winfield, Stanley, Burrows. That should do it."

Into the microphone the sergeant said, "Do you hear that, Lieutenant?"

"You sure you're all right?" the lieutenant's voice crackled back.

"If I think I'm getting you right, Lieutenant— yours truly's sober as a judge."

Brief laughter came through clearly. "All right, Harry. Stay with it. I'll get back to you."

Silence.

They sat, Solo between the two pistols pointed at him.

Then, finally, the radio came alive. "Harry! Sergeant Lomax! Weinberg here!"

"All yours, Lieutenant."

"A-okay on Napoleon Solo. Let him loose and forget the whole deal."

"You sure, Lieutenant?"

"Let him loose. That's an order."

"I got his gun."

"Give it back to him."

"Okay, if you say so."

"I say so. And wish him good luck from me." The radio went dead. The sergeant returned Solo's gun and Solo buttoned it into the holster.

"Sure is a crazy world today," the sergeant said. "Good luck from the lieutenant. Lieutenant Weinberg tells me to tell you good luck from him."

"Thank the lieutenant for me," Solo said. "And thank you, gentlemen."

"Don't mention it," the sergeant mumbled and opened the door and got out. Solo followed and the sergeant watched, his brow crinkled, as Solo got into his car and drove off.

"Local police—efficient officers," Solo said to Stanley. "They mistook me for somebody else, but they didn't jump all over me; stayed patient and proper till we got ourselves straightened out." He glanced at his watch. "We're still okay for time. It's a good thing we started early."

Stanley said nothing.

10. Rendezvous

IT WAS A scorching morning, without wind, humid and hot, the sun blazing through the windshield directly at them. Solo put on his sunglasses, gave the other pair to Stanley, who accepted them with out spoken comment but with a grateful grunt. They were a half-hour out now, not speeding but going at a good pace, and already on the highway. In that time Stanley had not said a single word.

He was clean, spruce, shaven, and smelled of pomade. Solo wished he would say something.

"Have you been treated well, Mr. Stanley?"

"I have no complaints."

Solo, watching the road, made a proper turn, then settled back.

"Do you know where you're going, Mr. Stanley?"

"I'm being returned to my people."

"Do you know why?"

"My people have acquired hostages, and I'm being exchanged for them."

"Do you know who?"

"No."

"Would you like to know?"

"I don't care. It's sufficient that I'm here alone with you, driving along your remarkable highways. Whoever the hostages are, they must be important. My people aren't idiots. Nor are your people, for that matter."

Solo shook his head. "Pretty cool, aren't you?"

"Cool? Contrary. Hot. Is it always so beastly hot in your country?"

"Not in the winter."

That brought a chuckle from Stanley and a sidelong glance.

"How long before we get to where we're going?" he asked.

"One o'clock, the man said."

"What man?"

"Burrows, I think."

"Probably."

"Talked to me on the phone, made the arrangements. Of course, it might have been Tudor."

"I wouldn't know," Stanley said. "All right, whom are they holding?"

"The man who worked with me when we picked you up. Also, the son of the British Ambassador to the UN."

"Two for one. I'm important, eh?"

"Seems you are."

Stanley lit a cigarette, threw the burnt match out the window.

"It pleases the ego."

"Pardon?" Solo said.

"When one knows that one is considered important."

"Important to them, perhaps, Mr. Stanley; not to us. What we think of you would not, I assure you, please your ego. You mean nothing to us. Should it enter your mind, for instance, when it happens we're stopped for a light, to bolt, I'd shoot you down like an animal."

"Sorry, but I won't afford you that pleasure. Run? Where would I run? A fugitive in a strange country? I'm not quite the type. I imagine you would know that by now. Albert Stanley is a thorough professional who prides himself in his work, but he's never, ever, pretended to be a blooming hero."

"Just wanted to clear the air."

"Nothing to clear."

"So be it."

Solo drove. The little man slumped down, leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and appeared to be asleep—but he was not. Each time the car stopped for a light his eyes opened. But as they went farther east, the lights grew fewer. There was less and less traffic, and it was hot. The sun was high now, burning down, and the car was like a cauldron. Solo opened his collar and pulled down his tie. He used a handkerchief on his face and down his neck. His body was wet with perspiration. Finally they came to Savoy Lane, broad at this section, and Solo pulled the car to a side. It was ten minutes to one. He took a road map from the glove compartment and opened it on his knees. The little man sat up and leaned over.