15 - The Utopia Affair (2 page)

Napoleon was speechless. Finally he looked at Illya, who looked back and said, "Congratulations."

"Thank you," said Solo automatically and turned back to Waverly. "But why don't you have one of the other Continental Chiefs take over your job, as you did last time?"

"The last time was for three days. None of the Continental offices could spare their own commander for as long as six weeks. Besides, you ought to have the practical experience."

"Then I'll be moving into your office?"

"Of course. This is where communications is centered. You couldn't hope to coordinate operations from your own office."

Napoleon looked around the room consideringly. "I presume tomorrow will include checking me out on all the controls?"

"All that and more," said Waverly. "Much more."

Saturday was a busy day for Napoleon. He came in half an hour early and was not at all surprised to find Waverly already deep in his work. For the rest of the day he stood behind his commander, observing the never-ending flow of information through the complex control console and studying the practiced ease with which Waverly juggled the factors of more than a score of active assignments, suggesting new approaches or continuing action, keeping all the salient facts of each in his head, responding to call after call, checking on various operations apparently at random but maintaining constant control over all the activities of the various levels of the U.N.C.L.E. A ten-minute conference with Mr. Simpson of Section Eight covered field problems with the modified communicator design, the current state of development on a practical personal invisibility shield, developed from the researches of a captured Thrush project; and a report on preliminary investigation into a limited-range mental activity detector. Shorter conferences with other Section Heads covered swiftly and with equal detail their respective operations, problems and goals. Waverly had a single file drawer, arranged in some system of his own, with slim manila folders, each with the skeleton globe insignia of U.N. C.L.E. large on the front. Into this he would dip from time to time for a concise summary of something to refresh his memory. He paused once to tell Solo, "This is my reference file. Notes on all current operations are here in order."

"Alphabetical or by reference number?"

"Hem! Neither. The system was most efficient for me, but will probably be rather difficult to learn. They are placed in order of priority. This order changes from time to time. I rearrange them almost every time I consult them." He flicked out a red-tabbed folder two inches from the front and opened it. "This man is on bodyguard duty to the Akhoond of Swat during a period of ritual unrest. The unrest has eased slightly in the last two days, so he is shifted"—the knobbly thin fingers dived into a slot a little farther back—"towards the rear."

Solo bent to look. There was a neatly typed reference number on the red tab which indicated Field Operations. It would be slow for a while, but he could have a constantly updated list of reference numbers by name taped over the cabinet, which would be rearranged logically. He made a mental note to that effect.

Miss Williamson, a leggy redhead much younger than one would expect in such a position of responsibility, flickered in and out of the office with dizzying irregularity. She typed the most confidential material, fielded low-priority calls, prepared his outlines, and made tea. She also acted as an extra memory and a mobile pair of hands; in short, a perfect secretary. Good looking, too, Napoleon thought, watching her pass him as though he were invisible, and wondered momentarily at the perquisites of his temporary position.

He was called back to his duties a moment later when a team of agents, a sleek dark-haired girl and a young Englishman, was called in for a quick briefing and a fatherly, cautionary word of encouragement before setting out on an assignment. As the automatic door slid closed behind them, Waverly allowed his face to seam into an expression of concern. "By the way, Mr. Solo— another sensitive problem you will have to keep in mind is the use of female enforcement agents. The Board of Directors has never fully approved our employment of young women in front-line operations, despite the fine account they have given of themselves."

He pushed his chair back from the desk and rose, Napoleon following. "In my personal safe, there is a sealed package containing information concerning our operations which you will need to know only if I am gone for more than three months. You need not concern yourself with it now, nor, hopefully, for quite some time. My personal safe is behind the large picture to the left of the door. It is keyed to my voice-print, and now also to yours. It will not function with more than one person in the room. I shall step outside for a moment while you test it." Waverly moved to the door, pausing short of the opening sensors. "Just say your name. Stand about three feet straight out from the rubber plant and address the middle of the picture. If it doesn't trip directly, try varying your inflection a trifle. It's rather sensitive." The door slid open and closed behind him.

Napoleon thought the picture which filled the wall was rather large to conceal a safe, but stood in the specified position, faced southwest towards the picture, and said clearly, "Napoleon Solo." Nothing happened. He lowered his voice a bit and repeated, "Napoleon Solo." Still nothing. He cleared his throat and said conversationally, "Napoleon Solo." There was a muffled clunk and the side near the door swung back.

He stepped forward and saw the heavy gray door of the safe. And beside it, to his left, a tall rectangle flickered and glowed with cool light. A paneled closet, its floor level with the back of the couch, which could only be an elevator. An emergency exit and entrance, its existence utterly unexpected. Well, Waverly would explain anything that needed explaining. Now, how to close up that picture again?

Settling on a direct course of action, Napoleon swung the picture back by hand, and was rewarded by the sound of a latch dropping solidly into place. A few seconds later the outside door opened and Waverly reentered. A raised hand held Napoleon's questions while he resumed his seat, and then he answered them unspoken.

"The elevator will take you directly to the westbound tunnel of the Fifty-Third Street subway, opening to place you there directly after the passage of a train. A worn pair of coveralls are stowed in the elevator. You turn right as you come into the tunnel and the Third Avenue station is only a block away. No one will notice a solitary figure in coveralls coming out of the tunnel and going into a Men's room to divest himself of the rags that cover his street clothes. This, incidentally, will be my route of departure for Australia tomorrow morning. Communications will be suspended for twenty minutes following my departure and then all channels will receive a videotaped transmission wherein I will explain the situation and name you my temporary replacement. This will give me time to pass Thrush's watchers before they become aware of my absence."

Waverly leaned back in the leather chair. "You may treat the entire office as your own," he said. "You will find a small refrigerator under the sink in the corner, behind the curtain"—he gestured—"and a two-burner hot plate. Miss Williamson—ah––prepares things occasionally."

His hand fell back to the desk and his eye lighted on the solid old humidor. "I will probably be forbidden my pipe there," he said, "and stale smoke is unpleasant. If you run out, order the same mixture from my tobacconists. The blend is written inside the lid. And of course you will use your own pipes."

He stood again. "Thus, having disposed of all my property, I shall let you go now. Tomorrow morning at nine you will be here ready to pick up the reins."

The door slid open as Napoleon stepped out, and Miss Williamson was ready with his hat and coat. She met his eyes directly as he glanced at her, with a look he was unable to read.

At one minute after ten Napoleon stepped back into the office where he had left Waverly ninety seconds before. Now it was empty. He hesitated a moment, then walked directly across the room towards the large leather chair at the desk. He was halfway there when a call signal chimed. He hurried forward and connected. "Solo here."

"All net communications have been cut, sir. Tape ready to roll in eighteen minutes."

"Check. Thank you."

That meant he'd have almost twenty minutes of peace in which to…

The intercom called, and he answered. "Solo here."

"Head of Section Six, sir. Urgent."

"Send him in."

The gray-haired physician hurried in. "While the curtain is still up around us, I would like to make a request," he said as he came to perch on the edge of the desk. "Surely we could spare one field agent, the best one available, to follow Mr. Waverly and act as his bodyguard."

"But Utopia's security system must be adequate."

"Their security is fantastically tight, Mr. Solo, but Waverly is fantastically valuable. It will not be an easy job. The managerial staff of Utopia has refused us permission to send our own man in legally; their policy includes complete separation of the guest from his old environment. Whoever we send will have to remain undercover from the staff as well as from Mr. Waverly."

"We have no competent agents he wouldn't know on sight."

"Then you'll have to assign the most competent and hope he's good enough. I especially don't want Waverly to spot him; he's supposed to keep his mind off business. Besides, he'd be insulted at the idea that he couldn't take care of himself." He smiled wryly.

Napoleon's mind clicked automatically to the most competent agent available, discarded it, retrieved it, weighed four reasons for sending him against three for keeping him, one of which was recognizably selfish, and by the time he had finished drawing a breath he was ready to say, "It'll have to be Illya Kuryakin. As you said, Mr. Waverly would recognize any agent he spotted. Kuryakin is also capable of functioning as a one-man assault force. How soon do you think you can get his cover arranged?"

The older man dipped into a manila envelope and spread its contents on the table. "Here is a full set of identification showing him with close-cropped hair and a short beard to disguise the jaw line. His references are excellent—he recently left the Cunard Lines, where he was a cabin steward—and he has been hired by Utopia to begin work for them on the first of November, next Wednesday. This will give him time to fly to Melbourne, become this man, and take the private flight into Utopia the following day. Mr. Waverly will be unguarded only thirty-six hours, and I am more than willing to concede him the ability to take care of himself for that long."

Napoleon looked over the material presented, then glanced up. "You and Mr. Kuryakin have worked together on this. Why didn't you give me a little warning?"

"You were not in charge, and only the acting commander could act to approve our plans."

Napoleon shrugged. "Illya's outside, I suppose," he said towards the intercom. "Send him in too."

The Russian agent, one large suitcase in his hand, came in as Solo said, "There's a communications blanket over everything for the next ten minutes. Are you ready to leave in thirty seconds?"

"I'm ready as I stand."

Solo rose and motioned the head of Section Six towards the door. As it zipped shut behind him, Napoleon addressed his friend. "The radio silence has Thrush on the boil by this time. They'll be ready around every exit, watching like hawks."

Illya nodded and Napoleon continued. "You know that business about being sworn to absolute secrecy?"

"Yes."

"Consider it all said and agreed to. Step outside for a count of twenty and then come back in. Don't say a word to anyone outside."

Illya's eyebrows canted slightly, but he went without a word. Napoleon slipped the electronic lock so he could get back in with the security circuit activated, then stood and spoke as before, in a relaxed conversational tone, the magic words, "Napoleon Solo." The picture opened.

A moment later Illya stepped back into the room, allowing the latch to drop as the door closed. He made no comment, but studied the newly-revealed view intently.

Napoleon spoke briskly. "The elevator will deposit you at the end of a tunnel. Follow it and you'll come out in a subway. Turn right and you'll have a short walk to the station at Fifty-Third and Third. Put on the coveralls you'll find in the elevator, though I doubt you'll meet anyone at ten o'clock on a Sunday morning. Take a taxi up Third to the Pan-Am heliport and you'll be on your way."

"Fine." Illya stepped carefully up onto the couch and squeezed himself and his suitcase into the tiny elevator. "I may even get there ahead of Mr. Waverly. Oh, and Napoleon—good luck."

Solo grinned. "Have fun on your vacation. I'll bet you gain ten pounds."

Illya grimaced. "That's what I'm afraid of. I'll bet you lose ten."

Solo raised his hand in farewell as the picture swung closed, and saw Illya's free hand lift in answer.

For several seconds he studied the line where the picture met the wall, then glanced up at the master clock. Well, at least he could have five minutes and thirty seconds in which to collect his thoughts and prepare to deal with the next six weeks. He crossed the oddly silent room and sat gingerly in the large leather chair, then bounced experimentally a couple of times before reaching for the humidor.

Chapter 2

"Let's Wait And See How You Work Out."

SUNDAY WAS comparatively easy. After handling the flush of calls which followed Waverly's pre-recorded announcement that while he was on vacation everything would be handled by Napoleon Solo, Acting Chief of U.N.C.L.E. North America, there were only a few matters which demanded his attention. During his free minutes Miss Williamson instructed him in several subjects Waverly had passed over. Routine handling of daily reports from dozens of sources would occupy a fair percentage of his time; there were fifty or sixty such, averaging about fifteen hundred words each. Napoleon began to appreciate the benefits of the speed-reading training he had been put through a few years ago; no one who read less than a thousand words a minute could hope to keep up with the constant flow of data through this office.