MFU Whitman - The Affair of the Gentle Saboteur (2 page)

"You're losing me, pal."

"Waverly's not due back till one o'clock tomorrow. Right?"

"Right."

"So if it should happen our friend shows his hand today, then we take him in, and we're off till one o'clock tomorrow. Like that, the pressure's off. I can go home, relax, take a tub, get a good, long, wonderful night's sleep. We haven't had much of that since Tuesday, have we, Napoleon?"

"You've got a point there," Solo said.

Stanley mingled with the crowds. Many went up into the Statue; Stanley did not. The day was hot; the sky was blue; there were no clouds. Stanley sunned himself. He mingled with the crowds, as did Solo and Kuryakin. And now as they moved with a crowd toward the elevator, Stanley was in a shadowed, isolated area. Suddenly Illya grasped Solo's wrist, his nails digging in, his mouth at Solo's ear. "Look!"

Stanley had wedged the radio into an aperture behind a granite slab. Now he strolled away, slight, casual, a harmless little man, strolling out of the shadow and into the sunshine toward the returning ferry out of New York Harbor.

"Go with him," Illya said.

"There's time for the ferry."

"Go with him!"

The elevator opened. The crowd was swallowed. Solo made the turn behind Stanley. Illya was alone, moving out of the hot sunshine into the shadowy area. He knew what he was doing. He knew the risk. Waverly had briefed them well. He pulled the radio from behind the granite slab. He set it down on the ground, went to his knees, covering it with his body. Gingerly he turned it over. It was heavy. He released the snaps of the back cover, opening it. He heard the thin whine of the batteries coursing the current through the fuse. He plucked at the mesh of wires, carefully disconnecting them. The whine ceased. The triggering apparatus was dead. He sighed on his knees, a long, deep sigh. He snapped the back cover shut. He stood up, lifting the heavy portable radio by its leather strap.

He walked swiftly, made the turn, saw Solo quite near to the right side of Stanley waiting for the ferry. He moved to the other side and took hold of Stanley's left arm.

"Albert Stanley?"

"I beg your pardon?" But Stanley's brown eyes were riveted to the radio hanging from Illya's hand.

"How do you want it, Mr. Stanley?" Illya said. "Rough or peaceful?"

"I beg your pardon?" Stanley said again.

Solo, smiling, took the other arm. Stanley's head oscillated between them. "Like the man said, rough or peaceful?" Solo repeated. "Either way, we can oblige you."

"I'm a peaceful man," Stanley said.

"Of course you are," Solo said. "Thus we would prefer you to come with us, Mr. Stanley. Peaceably."

He agreed to the preference. He went with them, all the way, peaceably.

2. Dinner With the Old Man

WASHINGTON THIS Thursday was dreadfully hot, but it was cool in the King George Tobacco Emporium, a vast, quiet, clean store with long flat counters and shiny showcases. The clerks wore rubber-soled shoes and gray linen jackets and spoke with English accents, which was perfectly natural, as Alexander Waverly knew, since the King George Tobacco Emporium was a subsidiary of a British firm and all the salesmen were Englishmen.

Waverly, patting his forehead with a folded handkerchief, entered from the steaming street and was instantly recognized by one of the clerks.

"Mr. Cunningham," the clerk said. "So good to see you. Visiting our Washington again?"

"Hot," Waverly said grumpily. "Beastly hot, this town."

"Awfully hot, sir. This isn't our best season of the year in Washington, is it?"

"July—definitely not. Quite an inferno out side."

"Yes, so the customers tell us. What with the air conditioning in here, we don't feel it. How've you been, sir?"

"Fine, thank you. Would you please tell Mr. Montgomery I'm here?" H. Douglas Montgomery was the proprietor of the King George Tobacco Emporium.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cunningham, he's not in right now."

Waverly patted his forehead again and put away the handkerchief. "He'll be back, I take it?"

"Oh, of course, sir."

"When?"

"I don't rightly know, sir. He's out on some errands. I can take your order, if you wish."

"I want five pounds of my pipe mixture—my special mixture. But nobody mixes my special mixture except Mr. Montgomery himself."

The clerk inclined his head, smiled. "Oh, I know that, sir. Of course, Mr. Cunningham. It shall be prepared for you by Mr. Montgomery himself. And where would you like it delivered? Where are you stopping this trip, Mr. Cunningham?"

"Hotel Vesey. Suite eight-oh-three. I'll be there the rest of the day."

"Very good, sir." The clerk made his notations on a pad. "Is there anything else?"

"That's about it," Waverly said.

"Thank you then, Mr. Cunningham."

"Thank
you
," Waverly said and went out into the humid heat and got a cab and settled himself, beginning to perspire again.

"Hotel Vesey," he said to the cab driver and lit his pipe and puffed slowly as the taxi moved into the traffic toward Hotel Vesey where Alexander Waverly was registered as Dale Cunningham.

"Hot," the cab driver said.

"Yes," Waverly said.

"July in Washington—but the hottest," the cab driver said.

"Hot," Waverly said, puffing contentedly. Just as soon as H. Douglas Montgomery returned to the King George Tobacco Emporium, just that soon would Mr. Alexander Waverly be rewarded with action. Five pounds of the special mixture was the code combination for one word—
urgent
.

And H. Douglas Montgomery would himself deliver the can of tobacco because H. Douglas Montgomery was chief of the American Division of British Intelligence, Special Services.

When the phone rang in Suite 803 of Hotel Vesey, Alexander Waverly had just completed a cool shower. "Yes?" he said into the telephone.

"Mr. Cunningham?" the voice said.

"This is he."

"Mr. Montgomery here."

"Ah, yes."

"I have your tobacco, sir. When would you like it delivered?"

"Six o'clock?" Waverly said.

"Six o'clock. Excellent, sir."

"I'll be hungry then."

A chuckle came over the wire. "So will I."

"Good. See you at six."

"Good-bye, Mr. Cunningham."

"Good-bye, Mr. Montgomery."

Waverly hung up and then called downstairs to the restaurant, reserving his favorite table for six o'clock.

H. Douglas Montgomery was very tall, very thin, smiling and courteous. Waverly stood up when the maitre d' escorted Montgomery to the table. Montgomery first bowed, a correct military bow, then shook hands; then the two of them sat down.

"How are you, Mr. Cunningham?"

"Very well, thank you, Mr. Montgomery."

"Gentlemen?" the maitre d' said, holding a pencil over his pad as the men looked at the menus. "Something to drink?"

"Nothing here," Montgomery said.

"Nothing to drink," Waverly said.

They gave their order for food and the maitre d' went away and then, for the first time, quietly, Montgomery addressed Waverly by his true name. "Rather a surprise, Alexander. To what do I owe the extreme pleasure of your company this warm day in our fair city?" He had a lean, smooth face, ruddy with high color; his eyes and hair were jet black.

"I'm wondering," Waverly said, "whether to tell you before dinner or after."

"I don't quite understand," Montgomery said.

"Hate to spoil your dinner." Their table was in an alcove, secluded from the other diners and out of earshot.

"Nothing spoils my dinner when I'm hungry. And I'm hungry. By the way, I left the five-pound tin of your special mixture at the desk. All right now"—he laughed—"spoil my dinner. I challenge you."

"Albert Stanley's in New York."

The laughter ceased abruptly. The color fell away from his face like a dropped mask. From pale caverns his startled black eyes gleamed brilliantly. "No!"

"Yes," Waverly said.

Montgomery smiled sheepishly. "You win. I lose. Appetite's gone. Dinner's spoiled."

"You asked for it, my friend."

"That I did. Now please tell me about it, Alex."

Now it was Waverly who was smiling. "I may be able to return some of that appetite to you, Doug. We've got him."

"Pardon?"

"My office called me here at the hotel. Right after you called me, as a matter of fact. My secretary, of course, couldn't give me all the details, not on an open-wire call to Dale Cunningham at Hotel Vesey. I got the facts in a kind of semi-code. Point is, we've got him—he's out of circulation. Solo and Kuryakin picked him up—at work, as it were—planting a nice neat bundle of explosives at the base of the Statue on Liberty Island. Caught him red-handed."

"Albert Stanley," Montgomery mused, "the gentle saboteur." Then his brows knitted. "Did they get Burrows?"

"Burrows?"

Montgomery leaned forward. "Do tell me, Alex. All of it, if you please."

Waverly recited the facts beginning with McNabb's sighting of Stanley at the airport. "I'll do the interrogation myself when I return tomorrow. Neither Solo nor Kuryakin knows yet that I know—nobody in my office does except my secretary—and I'll keep it that way. I'll start fresh, from scratch."

"But—but why did you come here?" Montgomery asked.

"He was still footloose. We had a large operation around him—but he was still footloose. You're British Intelligence. Certainly you would know more about him than I. I wanted all the information I could put together—in advance. I still do. Now what's this about Burrows?"

"Eric Burrows."

"What
about
Eric Burrows?"

"If Albert Stanley's near, Eric Burrows can't be far behind. They work as a team. And, in my humble opinion, Burrows is far more deadly than Stanley. You know about the recent reorganization of the British Sector of THRUSH, don't you?"

"I do."

"Eric Burrows is now Number Two. Directly under the Chief. Second in command. The new Chief is Leslie Tudor. Burrows was entitled—"

"Tell me about Tudor."

"Burrows was entitled to the top slot. In the regular order of things—in the normal order of importance, growth, escalation—Eric Burrows was entitled to be and fully expected to be the new Chief of the British Sector of THRUSH. Any idea why he didn't get it?"

"No," Waverly said.

"Because he's a psychopath. He's deadly. He's like a venomous snake—a killer. A cold-blooded, sadistic killer. They simply wouldn't take a chance putting a killer like that on top of the heap. That much we know."

"What do you know about the one who is on top of the heap now?"

"Tudor?"

"Tudor."

"Not a great deal, I'm afraid."

"Tell me, Doug."

"We know Tudor's a skillful organizer, a planner, a schemer. A killer, perhaps—but not a cruel, vicious killer like Burrows."

"Do you have a photo of Leslie Tudor?"

"No."

"Can you procure one?"

"Tudor?" Montgomery's brief laugh was grim. "Not Tudor"

"What's he look like?"

"We don't know."

"
Any
description?"

"Nothing at all, Alex. But nothing. Be sure to pump Stanley on Tudor—as thoroughly as possible. Any bit we can glean, we'd appreciate. This new Chief has been a thorn—for that very reason. We know nothing, nothing visual; whatever we know, we've heard through roundabout methods or hearsay."

"And what have you heard?"

"That whoever he is, he's careful and clever. That whoever he is, a shadowy figure with a passion for anonymity, he's gained the respect of all the THRUSH chieftains, worked his way up, without exposure to us, to the very pinnacle of the British Sector." Montgomery sighed. "Congratulations on Stanley." It had no ring of enthusiasm.

Waverly's eyes were wistful. "You don't sound overly optimistic."

"Pessimistic would be a more precise word."

"Doug, my boys had specific orders. If they've got Stanley, they've got him dead to rights, believe me. They weren't to pick him up on suspicion. Nothing like that—no possibility that he could be taken away from us by tricky lawyers with legal technicalities. Red-handed—or not at all. Those were the orders."

"Not that," Montgomery said.

"What, then?"

"If they've got Albert Stanley without Eric Burrows, then they've only got one end of the stick, and the small end at that. Like having a bull by the horns—there's a lot of powerful animal left over, enough of the animal to do tremendous damage. Quite simply, I'm worried, and I won't pretend I'm not. Ridiculous, isn't it? You people have accomplished quite a catch and here I am being pessimistic about it. Please, let me try again, more heartily." He smiled. "Congratulations on Albert Stanley."

"Thank you," Waverly said.

At that point their dinner arrived. They ate, but neither of them with appetite.

3. A Morning Stroll

FRIDAY MORNING at ten o'clock Steven Winfield came down from the duplex on the eighteenth floor of the apartment building on Fifth Avenue and 76th Street. The doorman smiled at the quick striding, buoyant young man.

"Morning, Mr. Winfield."

"Morning, Patrick."

"We sure have us a beautiful day this day."

The towheaded young man nodded. "That we have."

"And how are Sir William and Lady Winfield this beautiful day?"

"Fine, thank you, Patrick."

"Shall I get you a cab?"

"No, I'm going to walk a bit."

"This sure is the day for that." The doorman opened the door.

Steve crossed to the park side and strolled southward, breathing deeply of the clear air. Central Park was in full bloom, and there was a morning fragrance. The sun was already high, but it was a dry day, and there was a cooling little breeze from the east. It was July 12 and an important day for the Winfield family. It was a day of celebration: July 12 was Steve's birthday and his father's birthday. He was seventeen, his father fifty-two, and this evening—as always on the evening of July 12—there would be the double birthday party. Steve was on his way down to Abercrombie and Fitch.