Read MFU Whitman - The Affair of the Gentle Saboteur Online
Authors: Brandon Keith
MFU Whitman - The Affair of the Gentle Saboteur (11 page)
"I've seen photographs. Stupidly, there are many of them." She had a low-pitched, harsh voice, and spoke clearly, precisely, and with authority. "Where are the others?"
"Tell Leslie Tudor I want to talk to him."
"You are talking to Leslie Tudor."
A woman! Amazement prickled at his scalp!
"Surprised, Mr. Solo?"
He nodded, gulped. "To say the least—yes."
"So much for that, for all the good it will ever do you. Now quickly, please. Where are they?"
"We have them."
"You
what
?"
"We have them, Miss Tudor."
"You haven't!"
"Stanley, Hunter, Burrows."
"The
truth
, Mr. Solo!"
"And Kuryakin and the boy."
"No!"
"But, yes, Miss Tudor."
"You're lying!"
"Gospel truth, Miss Tudor."
"But—but—how?"
The sun was hot on his back, but from the ocean the breeze was cool. The little wavelets swished quietly, musically, at the edge of the beach.
"You put too much pressure on a youngster. You didn't let the wine ferment enough, putrefy to rotten vinegar. You put too much pressure on her too soon; she wasn't spoiled enough yet, rotten enough to join in cold-blooded, useless, evil, multiple murder."
"Incompetent infant!"
"She defected, Miss Tudor, and she brought out young Winfield and Kuryakin with her."
"And Stanley? Burrows?"
"Taken by us. Intercepted by our people."
"Then why you?"
"Pardon, Miss Tudor?"
"Why are you here?"
"To take you out."
"Not on your life!" The gleaming teeth were still exposed, but it was no longer a smile; it was a leer of hatred, bared teeth, a silent snarl, the jaw stiff, the muscles at the corners quivering. "Not ever in your life, Mr. Solo."
"There are many men gathering outside the gates. I came in alone for your safety." It was a reasonable statement. He would use any statement, any ruse, any argument, to accomplish his mission. He wanted her surrender. "Many men, many temperaments," he said. "One of them might have an itchy trigger finger."
"Thank you for nothing, Mr. Solo."
Solo bowed his head as though modestly accepting a compliment.
"Will you put away that gun and please come with me?"
"You're out of your mind!"
"Miss Tudor, you'll get a fair trial. There are always two sides to any question. THRUSH is rich enough to provide you with the finest lawyers. There may be technical loopholes, and you might win at a trial. If you win, you're scot-free; if you lose, you get a jail sentence, but prison isn't death. In time, you're out, you're free. I repeat—please put away the gun and come with me."
"And I repeat—you're insane."
"Would you tell me why you think so, Miss Tudor?"
"Gladly. And then we'll be done with this." She leaned out farther, steadily holding the gun pointed directly at his head. "Mr. Solo—charming, handsome, debonair Mr. Solo—you're a fool!
I am Leslie Tudor!
I'm not Burrows or Stanley or that little pipsqueak Pamela Hunter. I
am Leslie Tudor!
Don't you think I anticipated the possibility—this which is happening right now? Why do you think I'm out here in this aircraft?"
"Why, Miss Tudor?"
"Because I touch a button of this machine and it is up and out and over the Atlantic. In moments, literally moments, I am in the air and away, out of the territorial jurisdiction of the United States. What can you do, any of you? Shoot down a British plane in free air over international waters? That is an act of war! You wouldn't dare, any of you! I challenge you! Is UNCLE an outlaw organization? Would it effect an act of war upon a friendly country no matter the alleged—and as yet entirely unproven in any court of law—would it effect an act of war under these alleged circumstances? I ask you, Mr. Solo. Is UNCLE an outlaw organization?"
"No." Perhaps he should have listened to McNabb, wise old McNabb. Perhaps he should have waited and gone in with the others. Then they would have had her, within the territorial United States, a criminal alien bent upon conspiracy within the United States and subject to United States law. But would she have waited? How long would she have waited, her time schedule having lapsed? Had he been right in going in at once, alone? Or should he have waited? It was a question that would remain forever unanswered.
Leaning out through the open window she stared down at him, silently regarding him. He knew of her satisfaction, how much she was enjoying his consternation, how she was savoring at least this crumb of THRUSH's victory. And there was nothing he could do. He could not make a move. He was helpless against the wide round muzzle of the thick black gun unswervingly pointed at his head. Any action on his part, any sudden move, and the gun would spew forth its lethal charge, and death would end all hope.
What hope?
And then, suddenly, there was hope.
She laughed—shrill, tremulous, spiteful—and it gave him hope. She was not done yet.
"Failed in our mission"—the harsh voice rasped in an anger, a futility—"but for me at least, a booby prize."
Solo pulled up the corners of his mouth, forcing a smile.
"What last prize can I give you, Miss Tudor?"
"You're not giving
me
! I'm giving
you
!"
"A prize for me, Miss Tudor?" Hope fluttered. Keep her talking. Let's see what happens. "A prize? A memento, perhaps? A token of our meeting?" He played along with it, played it stupid. "But didn't you say for you—a booby prize for you?"
"A prize for both of us, Mr. Solo."
"Well, thank you, Miss Tudor."
The harsh voice now snapped an order: "Take off your glasses, Mr. Solo!"
And Solo, quite mildly, pretending stupidity, frowning inquiringly, responded, "Beg pardon, ma'am?"
"The great Mr. Solo. The vaunted Mr. Solo. I want to see your eyes, Mr. Solo. Courage or fear? Take off your glasses. You have seen me, you know me, the only one of UNCLE thus far—but not for long. Take off your glasses. Courage or fear in the face of the inevitable? It must happen, sooner or later, to all of us. I'm curious about you. Let me look in your eyes, Mr. Solo, as I present your prize—a prize for both of us. Let me look at your eyes as they look on—death."
His smile, no longer forced, was grave.
"Yes, ma'am," he said.
He opened his arms, bowed politely, straightened, looked up at her, direct, exact, moving his head slightly, arranging the line of vision.
"I'm waiting, Mr. Solo."
"As you wish."
His right hand came up like a salute to the right temple of the glasses, his index finger pressed to the hidden spring, and a tiny dart was released. A slender streak gleamed in the sunshine. Suddenly she was rigid, her eyes round in wonder; then she hung limp in the window, unconscious. The gun slipped from her hand and soundlessly met the sand.
It was over. It was ended.
Solo sighed and went back through the house and the long way over the pebbled road to McNabb and the many men now gathered.
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