13 - The Rainbow Affair (6 page)

From time to time a small transceiver would hiss to life as one or another of the concealed cordon of watchers reported someone entering the controlled area; pedestrians and vehicles were under almost constant surveillance from one point or another as long as they remained in the four-block area under study.

It was about two-fifteen when an unmarked motor truck purred into their view and stopped next to the target shop. A moment later the front door of the shop opened and three men carrying large flat cases and a couple of sacks hurried out. The head of the stake-out party swore under his breath.

"Death and destruction! They must have been in there all along, working happily on the alarm system and cracking the box while we sat out here waiting for them to show up."

He gripped the talk-switch on the transmitter micro phone and spoke quietly into it. "Border posts - establish blocks. Let no one in or out. Observation posts - converge on the shop. Remember, these men may be armed. They've never used firearms on a job before, but there can always be a first time. Maintain security; don't let them know we're coming."

He ceased transmission, and Napoleon reported from the observation slit, "The three men are going back for another load. How much evidence do you need?"

"A single handful will be quite sufficient. Let's move in."

"Shouldn't you address them through a loud-hailer and offer them a chance to surrender peacefully?" asked Illya.

"Perhaps. But we would greatly prefer not to disturb the sleep of honest residents of the area with bullhorns and shouted threats. They should realize they are severely outnumbered as soon as the officers begin to show themselves from all the streets."

He half rose from his crouch and opened the back double doors of the van. Moments later all four of them stood in the shadows, watching the three robbers emerge once again from the shop with armloads of loot. The Scotland Yard man said, in an even voice pitched just loud enough to carry clearly across the silent street, "I think that will be enough, gentlemen."

The effect was all that could be desired. Two of the three men dropped their bundles and jumped for the truck; the third, apparently confused, stepped back, seeking the safety of the shop entrance.

Walking steadily towards them, flanked by Napoleon, Illya, and his aide, the Yarder continued to address the robbers. "I hereby place you all under arrest in the name of the Queen, and advise you that anything you say may he taken down and used in evidence against you. I further advise you that this entire area is surrounded by policemen, and you haven't a chance of escape. So you'd best come along quietly."

Constables in uniform were beginning to emerge from various hiding places, converging on the truck. More than fifteen officers were now around the truck, including the two U.N.C.L.E. agents. Its back doors were tightly closed, and the motor was ticking over slowly, but no attempt had been made to start it moving.

The nearest policeman threw an order towards the cab: "Stop your engine and dismount with your hands up.

Suddenly all hell seemed to break loose. The back doors of the truck burst open, and at least forty men came leaping out, armed with truncheons and various similar forms of life-preservers. They took on the representatives of the law in groups of three, and in a matter of seconds a fierce and desperate melee had begun.

Napoleon and Illya were far enough from the truck to react to the sudden attack. Solo whipped out his gun and shouted, "Stand clear or I'll shoot!" Even he himself, looking back on it later, admitted that it sounded rather foolish, but with only the standard eight-round clip against some two score men, all he could do was attempt a threat.

It proved to be no more than that, as an accurately thrown tire iron cracked him viciously across the wrist and his U.N.C.L.E. Special Hew from his hand. Before he could even draw breath, four toughs were swarming over him. With his right wrist severely bruised and possibly broken, he was in less than perfect defensive shape. He called Illya's name once as he went down, but the Russian had his attention fully occupied.

Four more unshaven mugs were moving in on him, exhibiting iron bars and self-confidence. Illya fell back a couple of steps, his glance flicking from one face to another. He heard his partner's call without turning his head, and just at that moment all four charged him.

He leaped forward with a lightning-swift double kick that left one man writhing on the ground and another clutching at his shin and hopping about swearing profanely. The other two swung their iron bars at a sturdy figure that seemed to pass between them like a ghost, and struck only the uncomplaining air.

In the same fraction of time, Napoleon was struggling in the grip of eight strong arms. He had been unable to inflict any damage on his assailants, who had not given him the moment which Illya had taken to assess the situation, but had simply laid into him without pausing for formalities.

He managed to wrench his left arm loose, and delivered an adrenalin-charged chop to the first available neck. The grip on his left leg loosened, and he kicked, feeling something soft collapse before his toe. This entire operation took something under two-thirds of a second, and before the thin hand of a hypothetical stopwatch could have finished marking off another full division his left hand had done something indescribable to the closest ear of the brute who was treating his damaged right wrist with much less than the respect it deserved.

A ham-like fist rebounded off the side of his head and his back slammed against the ground as flecks of light sparkled momentarily in his vision. Then, bracing his elbows against the pavement, he flipped sideways and I locked his legs around the neck of the fourth man. At the same time, his good hand was flailing about trying to connect with the man whose ear he had just mistreated.

While a scissors-hold is a convenient way of immobilizing an opponent, it also renders oneself relatively immobile. It was with a surge of relief that Napoleon saw his second attacker suddenly fold over himself and spread his unlovely features on the inoffensive cement. Illya was standing behind him, someone's crowbar in his hand, looking down disapprovingly.

"Shall I clip the other one for you, or are you having fun?"

"You seem to wear out your playmates fast; you can have him if you like," said Solo from the ground.

Admittedly there wasn't much left for Illya to do; he took careful aim and tapped the last of the four on the side of the head with the rounded end of the bar. Napoleon unwound his legs and got unsteadily to his feet.

He was almost there when something came sailing through space at Illya. Solo's free arm - his right - swung around to catch his partner behind the knees, and Illya dropped like an acrobat as another iron rod whipped through the space his head had occupied. Napoleon could hardly control a groan as pain lanced through his wrist again.

Illya was on his feet in an instant, taking off from a sprinter's crouch in the direction of the main fight. The small force of police appeared outnumbered and several uniformed figures were stretched senseless on the pavement. In the distance, whistles and the distinctive two tone sirens could be heard heralding reinforcements, still a vital minute or two away.

Napoleon was hardly in a condition to rejoin the fight, but a momentary investigation of his right wrist revealed that it was in fact not quite broken after all. It also revealed that he could hold nothing heavy in his right hand. He picked up one of the opposition's crowbars in his left and waded back into the melee.

Illya, plunging into the thick of the struggle, found more targets than he expected. Oddly enough, he seemed to attract more attention than the uniformed officers, and within thirty seconds he found himself forced into strategic retreat in the face of overwhelming force. He fell back until the rough brick of a building front pressed against his spine, and then, as the semicircle of men appeared to close about him, he feinted right, then left, then ducked suddenly and decisively to his right, leaving another of the apparently inexhaustible army of bad guys gasping on the pavement.

Napoleon, regretfully, did not get nearly as far. Accepting the limitation of his injured arm, he would have felt satisfied to remain on the fringes of the battle, denting any skulls that came within his range. And, in fact, he left perhaps half a dozen heads so dented. There was the beginning of a respectable pile of victims growing around his feet when he became the focus of interest for several of the gang who seemed to have nothing better to do, having filled their individual quotas of incapacitated policemen.

They circled warily in front of him as he retired slowly, a step at a time, to make sure the solid side of the van was behind him. With a wall at his back and almost three feet of steel in his fist, he could stand them off for the seconds that remained before the fresh force of police would arrive and restore order. He heard the approaching sounds and took heart; not quite the U.S. Cavalry, but certainly the next best thing to relieve a beleaguered and outnumbered force.

The sound of sirens covered the soft shuffle of booted feet on the pavement behind him. As a result, it came as something of a surprise when the back of his head exploded with pain and a flash of colorless light, and he fell forward into blackness.

At the same time, Illya, untouched but harried along, found a narrow alleyway opening behind him. He rejected the obvious trap, and continued following the shop fronts. The moment he had a few feet to spare, he broke to the freedom of the street and began a dash backwards the center of the fighting.

Even as he did so, the engine of the large van could be heard to rev up, and a quick tattoo of the horn apparently summoned the small army of toughs to return to their transport.

Just as the horn sounded, a flung crowbar caught Illya across the heels as he ran, and he sprawled face down towards the pavement. He rolled as he hit, feet together, ready to catch the first attacker as the four of them charged him.

Then one of them stumbled and fell, scrabbling helplessly. Another turned and yelled wordlessly to his companions as he saw a figure in the shadows of the alley. A second later his cry died in a gurgle as he staggered backward, clutching frantically at the slender hilt of a knife which had appeared suddenly springing from his chest.

Illya was on his feet again before the second man hit the ground. As he blocked the kick of one of the survivors, the figure detached itself from the shadows and drifted lazily forward towards the other one.

In five seconds of block and swing, block, kick and chop, Illya's opponent was out for the count. Breathing heavily, he turned around.

His rescuer was leaning over two of the bodies, extracting a matched pair of beautifully delicate throwing knives, one from a chest, one from a back. Carefully he wiped each blade clean on the clothing of its victim, and with a flick of each wrist the knives seemed to vanish - probably into forearm sheaths, Illya decided.

He was tall and elegantly slim, as well as impeccably dressed. It almost seemed as if he must have passed by on pure chance, on his way home from the theater. The third thug resting on the pavement bore witness to his ability at hand-to-hand combat, but not a strand of his perfectly parted hair appeared to have been disturbed. As he straightened, he glanced at Illya with an almost foolishly innocent smile.

Then a suddenly rising roar of engines and screech of brakes announced the arrival of the rest of the police force. As Illya looked in doubt at his impeccable rescuer, the latter spoke, and his voice was a regretful drawl. "So much for the evening's entertainment. And it was just promising to become interesting, too." He flashed a dazzling smile at Illya. "I hope you don't mind my cutting into your fight, but I was beginning to feel rather left out of things, and I hate the thought of being a wallflower."

He glanced down the street, to where half a dozen police cars were disgorging the reinforcements. "I see the groundskeepers have arrived. They will doubtless want to tidy up now, so there won't be much left for us to do. Of course you will accept a ride back to your hotel. My car is just around the corner."

Before he knew quite what was happening Illya found himself following a friendly pressure on his elbow away from the approaching police and down the alley. He cast a final look around the street, and observed that somehow the truck had disappeared with those of the gang who were still able to navigate. He took a quiet pleasure in the knowledge that several of the remainder were awaiting the cleanup squad through his own personal courtesies. As for Solo, he could always take care of himself, and this gentleman had several questions to answer.

The questions were still unformed when Illya found himself sitting in the lefthand seat of a long sleek Hirondel, of a design that had practically disappeared from the highways of Europe more than twenty years ago. The engine purred to life at the touch of its master, and the great car moved silently off through the streets of London.

Illya glanced sideways at the keen profile of the driver. A cigarette was canted carelessly between his lips, and the regular flash of streetlights cast his face into sharp outline. The Russian cleared his throat and started to ask the identity of his chauffeur.

Before he spoke, he was anticipated. "Actually," the other said, "I can't tell you very much. You're after Johnnie Rainbow, of course. By this time, practically everyone knows that much. So am I. He must have an awful lot of loot stowed away from his unholy labors, and as an ardent Socialist I feel it should be redistributed. The most beautiful bundle of boodle in the civilized world is waiting to be put to charitable purposes, and I am heeding its call," he added simply.

"For such a kind-hearted and thoughtful man, you wield a wicked knife," Illya commented dryly.

"My only protection in a wicked world. And it's knives, not knife. I can impale a flying champagne cork at twenty paces. It's one of my celebrated party tricks. Actually it stems from a dislike of guns. Nasty, noisy, barbarous inventions of the devil."