The Moby Dick Affair Read online

  Illya Kuryakin had rolled over onto his face, totally motionless.

  TWO

  MR. ALEXANDER WAVERLY ticked the stem of his pipe against his teeth.

  "Hypnosis, eh? Devilish."

  Slouched deep in one of the leather chairs in the old Victorian headquarters room, his head muffled from the eyebrows up in a bandage, Illya looked disconsolate.

  "Apparently it wasn't so deep that I didn't struggle to break out," he said. "I think I realized it was Napoleon I would be shooting. Otherwise I have no memory of what happened after Miss St. Cloud—that isn't her real name, by the way—began her tender ministrations in Commander Ahab's car.."

  Napoleon Solo had been listening with half an ear. Now he put the telephone back on its cradle, crossed the rug to where an even more fatigued-looking Mr. Waverly leaned against the mantel.

  "We can go up to the computer center any time, sir," Solo said. He grinned at Illya. "Are you up to it, Sleeping Beauty?"

  Illya Kuryakin stood up, swaying a little. He managed a half-way grin. "I find your levity difficult to understand, Napoleon. After all, I very nearly removed any further opportunities for you to go over coat shopping."

  Solo looked serious. "You wouldn't have gone through with it. I still owe you thirty-three dollars from our last gin rummy game."

  The three men left the room. They moved down a stuffy corridor full of upholstered furniture and rubber plants and entered an elevator. It rose swiftly. Mr. Waverly bestirred himself from a rather cross-eyed mood of concentration, cleared his throat.

  "Yes, it was a near thing all around," he said. "But at least it has netted us certain facts."

  Solo nodded. "Commander Ahab is with us, and apparently masterminding a new major operation for THRUSH."

  "And somehow or other, it centers around tidal waves and other oceanographic phenomenon," Waverly continued as the steel cage stopped.

  They moved out into an upper-story corridor which was bare of the Victorian furnishings found on the lower levels. Here, squarely functional lighted panels winked on and off in the ceiling, teleprinters whirred beyond the open door ways of fluorescently bright rooms, and personnel moved briskly back and forth on various errands.

  Mr. Waverly continued in a musing tone: "Since you, Mr. Solo, managed to overcome Mr. Kuryakin before he burned Dr. Shelley's CR-99-2 file, we really owe our opponents thanks. They led us to the key material which Dr. Shelley, due to his unconscious state, could not pinpoint for us. We may now make certain judgments about the current THRUSH activity."

  Mr. Waverly's brow rose inquiringly. Illya Kuryakin picked up the cue.

  "We must assume that the tidal wave which nearly killed us was not an accident," he said. "Newsom Nagelsmith may have summoned it from an unknown source when he realized he was finished." Illya didn't need to elaborate further on the grim threat posed by this kind of scientific manipulation of natural forces.

  Solo pondered a minute, said:

  "From the contents of that file, we also know Dr. Shelley was gathering reports and data on similar tidal waves that have occurred mysteriously at various places around the world during the past year. He may or may not have concluded that THRUSH was perfecting a means to control ocean currents. But THRUSH thought he'd stumble on it sooner or later if he hadn't already. So that was a good enough reason for them wanting both Dr. Shelley and his master file wiped out."

  "Good thinking, Mr. Solo." Waverly rolled back sliding glass doors and stepped into a two-story chamber filled with incredibly big computers all a-dazzle with winking lights.

  A young man with spectacles as thick as safety glass bustled toward them as Waverly finished: "Now we must attempt to make some sense out of that one small hand-scribbled note we discovered in the file. Ah, Boltshot, good morning."

  "Morning, sir, morning," said the computer technician. Noting Illya's bandage-swaddled head, he added, "You visiting firemen must have been spending a bit of time carousing, eh? Well, nothing like a good night on the town away from home."

  "That's right," Solo said sourly. "It's just been one good time after another."

  Mr. Waverly gestured. "Which of these units have you programmed with the problem, Boltshot?"

  Dry-washing his hands, the technician led the way. "Right down here, sir. Supervac twenty-two-Q our latest addition. It's a regular little darling of a unit, sir. The only thing Supervac twenty-two-Q can't do is cook up a nice bowl of red cabbage and if it ever learns to do that, Tessie my dear, I tell my wife, you'll be posting a Situation Wanted in the newspaper."

  The technician whipped a punch card from a slot in the nearest, Eight-flecked monster.

  "As I was given the details, sir, Dr. Shelley's file contained a handwritten excerpt from a news clipping to the effect that some fishermen off the coast of Holland swore one day last month that they saw something like a white whale surfacing. Fantastic, of course. They were probably loaded with schnapps."

  Under Waverly's glare, Boltshot returned his attention to the card, waving it back and forth: "Uh—well, you wish to know whether this whale-like apparition could have been a submarine. Of course Supervac has no way of telling that. Operating upon your second assumption—that the thing was a submarine—what locations might currently be serving as the necessary fuelling station or stations? Supervac has no way of knowing that, either."

  Illya said darkly, "It must be good for something." Two tape drums began to spin with an eerie whine. Napoleon Solo nudged his friend.

  "You've hurt its feelings."

  Boltshot sniffed. "Many lay persons do not understand the computer, gentlemen. It can only perform within certain fixed limits. One thing it can do is report on locations in Europe at which THRUSH operatives have been observed within the last six months. Narrowing the selection to locations in a coastal position—obviously a requirement for a submarine fueling station—Supervac twenty- two-Q has already pinpointed a single current possibility."

  Boltshot thrust another punched card proudly at Mr. Waverly, who scowled.

  "Come, come, man, I can't make out what these holes mean!"

  "The language of logic, sir. This punch stands for Cornwall. This punch, the coast. This punch, Castle Sykedon. That's a small village whose exact location can be found on any map. I went to the trouble of phoning up the Information Center for additional facts. Castle Sykedon, for which the village was named, is an actual feudal castle which has stood in disrepair for many years.

  "Mid-summer of last year, a private syndicate known as Pan-British Tourist Properties, Ltd., bought it up and refurbished it. They opened it in late September as an attraction for visitors. There were workmen of all sorts on the scene for months prior to this time, or so the Center told me. There was a great deal of heavy construction equipment present also. And THRUSH agents were seen in the vicinity at various times."

  Mr. Waverly touched the punch card with his pipe. "This may well be it."

  Frown lines appeared on Solo's forehead. "Refurbishing an entire castle would be a perfect cover for moving in the equipment needed to build a submarine fuelling station. That is, provided the castle itself is actually located on the water."

  Boltshot looked wounded. "We specifically requested Supervac to supply only those locations which are directly on the ocean. Supervac does not make mistakes."

  Mr. Waverly nodded briskly. "Yes, yes, Boltshot, no offense in tended. Thank you very much."

  As they rode downward in the elevator again, Mr. Waverly said, "Gentlemen, I believe we may finally be making some headway to ward uncovering the nature of Project Ahab. The sightings by the Dutch fisherman––Naglesmith's warnings about a white whale—the mysterious reappearance of Commander Ahab—Dr. Shelley's research—it all points to something extremely big and extremely dangerous for U.N.C.L.E. and the world. Mr. Solo, is your Brownie in repair?"

  The elevator stopped. Solo said, "I beg your pardon?"

  "Your Brownie, your Kodak, your camera. All tourists carry cameras."

>   "I have a feeling," Illya said, "we are going to be sent on holiday."

  "All expenses paid," said Mr. Waverly, unsmiling. He waved the punch card. "To Cornwall."

  THREE

  THE ROAD was steep. It wound upward from the tiny village, a gravel thoroughfare so rough that tourists had to take it on foot. The central crown of the roadway stuck up so high that it would have scraped away half the underparts of any taxicab which attempted the trip.

  The air smelled of sea wind. Far below, combers broke on rocks. Solo and Illya had been tramping for perhaps fifteen minutes. The afternoon was bright and sunny.

  Ahead of them the road twisted out of sight behind huge boulders. But their destination loomed against the sky, great stone turrets standing out in sinister relief. Dozens of tourists of every description were going up and down the road to Castle Sykedon.

  Solo and Illya passed a low, flat rock upon which sat two portly American ladies. One had her shoe off.

  She was massaging her toe and bewailing the inavailabiity of Coca-Cola.

  "Personally," Solo said out of the corner of his mouth, "I think we've carried things a little far with this get-up. This idiotic tassel keeps falling in my eyes."

  Illya was attired in a wide-brimmed straw hat and one-way sunglasses with immense lenses. He carried two cameras and a gadget bag strung over his shoulders. He clucked his tongue.

  "It may irritate you, Napoleon, but it's excellent cover. No one will remember our faces, only our paraphernalia. Besides, Americans overseas always go out of their way to look like Americans."

  He was referring to Solo's red fez with black tassel. The fez bore gold embroidery identifying the wearer as a member of the Imperial Order of Pachyderms, Lodge No. 302. Solo also had a camera strung around his neck, and a gadget bag bulging with road maps, tourist folders and several bags of potato chips.

  In a few more moments they reached the summit of the road. Tourists were lined up outside a booth beside a turnstile set in a high outer stone wall. Two men who looked much too burly and scarred to be villagers collected entrance fees, scrutinizing each arrival hard eyes. As they got in line, Illya whispered, "Look at those lads. Do you hear a bird singing?"

  "The yellow-backed thrush, I think it is," Solo answered.

  When their turn came, the guards seemed to inspect them with extra care. Solo felt sweat on his eyelid under his sunglasses. Finally one guard slapped a ticket into Solo's hand. He jerked his thumb at the turnstile. Solo and then Illya passed through.

  As they wandered over to the parapet on the sea side of the castle courtyard, Illya said, "I saw the second guard in the booth turn some sort of switch. Probably a scanner. Lucky we didn't fetch our guns along."

  Solo shrugged. "I suppose. But I don't feel very secure just armed with potato chips."

  Along the parapet tourists leaned over for a dizzying view of the cliffs on which Castle Sykedon was built. Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin joined in the activity. Their interest was more specific. They kept up a running line of inane chatter while their eyes ranged back and forth, hunting for some trace of shadow down at the base of the cliff hundreds of yards down. A brisk sea was running. Waves crashed in and foamed onto big rocks far below.

  "Nothing shows," Illya whispered after a moment.

  "Good old Supervac Twenty-two-Q does it again," Solo said disgustedly.

  Suddenly, though, his attention was caught by a dull metal flash under the surface of the water directly below him. The patch of water in question roiled between two partly submerged boulders which were farther apart than most of the other rocks. By a freak of the tides, the passage was momentarily untroubled by waves. Solo had a chance to take a lightning quick second look.

  Illya watched him intently. Solo whipped his camera from around his neck, pretended to snap a soaring gull. Behind the camera's cover, he said, "I saw it. Some kind of protective wire grill or grating in that channel. Under the surface. Probably electrified, raised and lowered from inside."

  With a fatuous look on his face, he finished fooling with his camera and turned back to the courtyard. Sure enough, one of the uniformed guards in the booth was watching them. Solo gestured at the high stone steps leading up into the castle. Pretending to laugh, he said, "I think we've found our bird's nest. That's a net guarding a sub pen entrance down there. Let's go to work."

  Their feet clacked as they passed into the gloom of Castle Sykedon. A placard near the entrance announced that the castle closed for the day at six. Less than three hours.

  At various points in the corridors and huge, vaulted halls, stiff-backed guards in neat, undistinguished uniforms stood with hands laced at the small of the backs, staring ahead at nothing. Their eyes never seemed to move, but Solo had the uncanny feeling that no visitor went unobserved. From the tough jaw-lines and broken noses of some of these specimens, Solo felt even more sure that they were in a THRUSH installation.

  In the huge main dining hall of the castle, Illya and Solo drew off into a corner and pretended to admire an intricately wrought suit of armor. The light was dim, falling through high open slit windows. Only one THRUSH guard watched this chamber. He was stationed at the entrance.

  Solo took a small sketch pad and charcoal pencil from his gadget bag. He penciled the words Need hide till six on the pad. Then, with bold, quick strokes, he made a sketch of the casque of the armored figure on top of the message, obscuring it. As he and Illya left the chamber Solo noted that the guard's eyes slid around to get a clear look at the sheet of paper on which he was still doing some shading.

  They explored further, moving in and out of the crowds of families, widows, of schoolchildren. In one cobweb-hung cul-de-sac on the main floor, the agents spotted a large, old wooden chest. It looked large enough to accommodate both of them. Illya sat down on it. He complained loudly about smarting bunions.

  By shifting his weight back and forth Illya was able to determine that the lid of the chest was not nailed shut. Solo sat down next to him, made some more corrections on the armor sketch. He used his scribblings to jot some additional code words suggesting his plan of action. Illya nodded. A guard passed by the entrance to the cul-de-sac, pausing to tie his shoe.

  "Well, Wilbur," Solo said in a loud voice, "let's get this show on the road." Settling his fez at jaunty angle, he marched over to the guard. "Is there a pop concession any place around?"

  "No, there isn't." The guard had a rumbling voice and a right ear which bore an ugly scar.

  "Well, guess I'll just have to eat some of my own potato chips." Solo pulled out a cellophane sack. Making a great show, he tore it open. The guard scowled as Solo and Illya began to munch chips by the handful, dribbling a trail of crumbs behind them.

  Up ahead, a number of stout women in floral print dresses and picture hats had stopped before an impressively carved throne chair. One of their number was reading from a guidebook. Solo dug in the bottom of the potato chip bag until he found the pellet he wanted.

  He drifted around to a position on the left side of the many-chinned lady reading from the guidebook. Suddenly from the back of the crowd, Illya said, "Oh, I'm very sorry. Terribly clumsy of me—"

  Several of the ladies moved out of the way. Illya had spilled his potato chips in grand and crumby style. Heads turned front. The portly lady stood on tiptoe and abandoned the guidebook a moment. Solo cracked the pellet with his thumbnail, and tossed it.

  The pellet rolled along the floor, where it lay unobtrusively a few inches behind the lady's right heel. Nothing visible could be seen escaping from the crack in the pellet. But in another moment, the lady began to fan herself with a lace hanky.

  "Girls! Girls!" she called. "Time to move on to the next point of interest, which is King Woglyn's water closet—ahem. I believe that's one point of interest we might pass over. I—"

  The woman's eyes grew glassy. She dropped the guidebook, swaying. "I feel—faint. It must be the sea air doing it. My legs—I can hardly—" Three of her compatriots rushed forwa
rd, luckily catching her bulk before it hit the floor. Consternation gripped the ladies.

  Clutching his fez, Napoleon Solo raced back to the guard stationed at the entrance to the cul-de-sac. "A woman's fainted over there."

  The guard seemed reluctant to leave his post. The flustered outcries of the females changed his mind. Annoyed, he stalked forward and into the group.

  Other guards appeared. Illya Kuryakin had backed away. Solo gave a quick nod and both agents faded quietly down the cul-de-sac. Moments later, they lowered the lid of the huge chest.

  Solo tore the cover of a paper match packet in half, carefully wedged it under the lid. The tiny crack thus produced was enough to enable him to see what was happening outside.

  The lady who had fainted from the fumes of the invisible and relatively harmless nerve gas was carried out of sight. Her cohorts followed. Soon the guard was back on duty at the cul-de-sac's entrance. He glanced around suspiciously. Hardly breathing, Solo and Illya crouched in painfully cramped positions inside the chest.

  Ten minutes passed.

  Fifteen.

  Surreptitiously, the guard got out a cigarette and lit it. Cupping it so that it was hidden in one hand, he walked over to the chest, sat down heavily. Solo's view was cut off as the guard's weight bore down.

  After a seemingly endless time the guard got up again. Voices drifted faintly through the chest walls. Finally, when it seemed as though he couldn't stand the ache of his pretzel-like position any longer, Solo noted that the illuminated hands on his watch stood at a few minutes past six.

  Somewhere heavy doors clanged shut. A mammoth rattle of iron signaled the shooting of a bolt. Footsteps passed the chest. Solo peered out.

  He saw the scar-eared guard reach up and give a tug to the handle of an ancient, rusty battle ax hanging on the wall. There was a whir. The wall at the end of a cul-de-sac swung out, revealing a metal partition. This slid out of the way. The guard stepped into what looked like an elevator. The door closed, but the stone partition remained swung out.