20 - The Corfu Affair Read online

  "You think Frank Stanton turned renegade?"

  "It's a possibility we have to bear in mind. If he did, then he took a lot of very valuable information with him. If, on the other hand, that woman managed to bend him in some way, then we have to know how, and deal with it. Either way, this is an extremely delicate business."

  "That's one assignment I want to volunteer for, sir. Frank taught me a lot." Solo said this very quietly. Kuryakin was just as quiet, and equally emphatic.

  "Tell us what you have in mind," he said. "She won't bend us!"

  "I expected nothing less," Waverly said. "But this is one case in which valor must give way to prudence. Never lose sight of this one fact. That woman is dangerous!"

  CHAPTER TWO

  Now that the bitter truth was out in the open Waverly seemed more like his usual pedantic self. Sitting back in h chair he surveyed his two men.

  "Let me spell out the situation in detail," he said. "As I've already explained, Corfu is difficult. It is small, so that strangers tend to be conspicuous. We cannot possibly undertake an action in force unless and until we are absolutely sure of our ground. And we can hope for nothing from the local authorities. What's needed at the moment is information, a lot more information, before we can take any decisive action of any kind."

  "The time of year is right," Solo offered. "What could be more natural than a tourist wanting to look over a palace?"

  "I imagine that is precisely what Stanton thought," Waverly pointed out. "We can't go at it as easily as that. Above all I must have your assurance that you will not initiate any action until you have obtained sufficient hard data."

  Solo looked pained. "I'm not about to let her take my scalp, sir. It's not the thing for me to say, but I am not exactly strange to the ways of good looking women."

  "This woman is more than just a pretty face, Mr. Solo. She has buried four husbands already." Waverly swung his chair to face the impassive Russian agent.

  "You, Mr. Kuryakin, will approach the other aspect of the business. As you heard, Countess Louise is owner and director of a laboratory in Paris. The laboratory specializes in biochemicals, with special emphasis on cosmetic surgery. You will investigate that end. You will, if possible, get into the business."

  "Any idea how, sir?"

  "Yes. You'll have to look it up, but there is this. Surgery, and particularly orthopedic surgery, is increasingly involving itself with electronic aids. Heart pacemakers, artificial limb control, radar for the blind and so on. Familiarize yourself with the latest matters in that field. You will assume a suitable identity. You will go by a roundabout route into the U.S.S.R. We will have cooperation laid on. From there, after an adequate period to establish a background, you will enter Paris. You will be an undesirable Russian bioelectronics specialist seeking to do a shady deal with the St. Denis laboratories. And so on. We can elaborate that as we go along. For the beginning you need to get into the technicalities of the part. Understood?"

  "If you say so, sir." Kuryakin shrugged and kept his reservations to himself. Studying up on electronic aids to surgery and similar fields would be no more than a chore, and he didn't mind that part. But entering the Soviet Union was something he didn't care for at all. His homeland had memories that he would just as soon have left forgotten.

  Waverly dismissed the two men with a gesture, hardly bothering to watch them go. None knew better than he just what hazards he was sending them into, but he had that faculty indispensable to any commander, of being able to dismiss a problem entirely once it had been dealt with. Almost before they had left the room he was leaning back and reviewing the next stage in his strategy. First there would have to be a stringent check on all U.N.C.L.E. security, to minimize any valuable hints Stanton might have given away. That would have to be done without letting too many people suspect that one of U.N.C.L.E.'s best men had gone sour. Then there was the need to get those sample modules to research, to try and find out what Thrush, and in particular, Countess Louise, could want them for.

  Also, as his insulted digestion complained to him, there was the matter of the canteen to be looked into. Others called it "cafeteria", but he called it "canteen", and either way it left a lot to be desired!

  Outside Waverly's door the two agents paused for a brief word before going their separate ways. Kuryakin was more serious than usual.

  "Take no chances with the black widow, Napoleon," he advised. "She has forgotten more about the battle of the sexes than you'll ever know."

  "I've never been afraid of a woman in my life, Illya, and I'm too old to start now," the other retorted.

  "Corfu is quite a place too. Your titular ancestor fought a battle or two there, and lost. It's a bad place. In Homer's time it was called Phaeacia. Remember, Ulysses was washed ashore there, and got into a lot of trouble with a woman."

  "You should change your name to Cassandra, old man. What can she do, carve me up?"

  "Why not? She's a surgeon, too."

  "All right, save me out a couple of artificial legs, huh? Say, Illya, what do you suppose she wants those modules for?"

  "I've no idea, but I'll wager it's for nothing healthy!"

  As the airport bus trundled him into Corfu City, Solo settled himself diligently into his guise of a typical tourist. His fellow travelers were few and unremarkable and he anticipated no difficulty in slipping away from them. In himself he had made no spectacular changes, apart from wearing a rather louder suit than he really cared for. His real disguise lay in his expression and attitude, in the naive wide-eyed gape and stare. Not that this required any great effort, as the place warranted it.

  There was that peculiar clearness in the air, the purity of color and tint, the freshness of everything, that is to be found nowhere else in the world. Artists have been known to come with the intention of painting such scenery, only to give up in despair because it already looks like a fresh picture. Out there in the bay, beyond the long narrow causeway, were a couple of mysterious islands, where the gaunt ruins of some old buildings lifted the tops of their bones above thick green cypress. And over there, across the sea that was the Ionian Strait, he saw mighty snow-capped mountains, the Epirus mountains. That was Albania, and the stretch of water between had seen its quota of bloody conflict over the centuries. Sea battles of Christian against Turk, Knight versus Infidel... History. The whole place reeked of it.

  The hotel was a pleasant surprise. Not up to Hilton standards, maybe, but the Corfu Palace was reasonably clean, efficient, and the people spoke a kind of English good enough for him to understand. After inspecting and approving his room, and working the tourist image a bit more, he decided to quit wasting time. For all his apparent innocence, he was alert for any sign that anyone was taking more notice of him than was justified. He was not likely to forget what had happened to Frank Stanton, but he thought that if Countess Louise did have some kind of alarm system set for her, he might as well get out into the open and see how it worked. And it would help to do some reconnaissance of the land.

  Accordingly, he slung a camera round his neck—only it wasn't a camera but an extremely powerful and compact telescope—and ventured out to explore the town. As he wandered through the narrow winding streets and pretended to be impressed by the Italian-style architecture, the gaudy shops, the unlovely apartment blocks, he kept alert for any one appearing to be unduly curious in his doings, and at the same time tried to understand Stanton's method of work. The older man had been a quiet and effacing but very thorough worker, the type to take time to blend thoroughly with the scenery as a long-standing local resident. Judging purely by results, the approach had failed. Solo decided it might be just as well to throw away that pattern and try a different one. He would be the brash and obvious type, the man who has never been anywhere or seen anything before.

  He saw no apparent hostility among the dark-tanned Corfiotes as he dutifully strolled the esplanade and admired the many bandstands, the view across the sparkling blue bay, the wealth of statues in the park
, monuments to dead and gone British governors rather than those of the classical Greek kind, and the looming bulk of the old castle, standing up above the east end of the town. Because it was in character, he took time out to cast admiring glances on the many comely young women passing by. Here, as he saw, ancient and modern walked side by side. There were those who favored the traditional, and looked as if they might have just this minute stepped off the musical-comedy stage, with their gold-embroidered jackets in velvet over crisp white linen full-sleeved blouses: while others were as modern as any he might have seen back home, complete with miniskirts and op-art prints.

  It was warm. The constant tight-wound tension of trying to do several things at once while seeming to be doing nothing at all made him even warmer. In a while he selected an open-fronted cafe at random and waited for an attractive dark-eyed waitress to attend to him.

  "Just something long and cool to drink," he told her, as soon as he discovered she could manage rudimentary English.

  "Not food? You want to eat something too?"

  "Not really, not unless it's just a light snack. You understand what I mean by 'nack'?"

  "Oh yes!" she nodded violently. "One little bit to fill the mouth, to keep the stomach quiet until later. I know. I will bring souvlakia."

  "Not until you tell me what it is, you won't!"

  "It is very good!" she assured him. "It is the lumps of lamb-meat on a stick and roasted in the fire."

  "Shiskebab without the flames." He shook his head. "Not for me."

  "No? Perhaps you like dolmadakia better?"

  "What's that, before I get it?"

  "It is lamb-meat again, but this time it is minced up very small and with rice, plenty of spices, very good, and wrapped up in grape-leaves. Very delicious!"

  "I'd hate to sit down to a real meal, in your terms. No, darling, not that. Look, perhaps just a mouthful or two of soup?"

  "Ah! Soupa avgolemonov! I bring!" And before he could halt her she went away, to return rapidly with a generous helping of liquid that his palate deduced was chicken soup flavored with lemon. He consumed it to be sociable, and she made up for this by bringing him a tall glass of orange juice that really was delicious. With the ice thus thoroughly broken, he was able to lead her into casual conversation and prod her, very carefully, into talking about the Argyr Palace and its odd tenant. If there was any reluctance, he failed to spot it. As far as her language would stand the strain he was able to learn that the Countess was locally admired and respected but little known. All anyone ever saw of her was the big black car in which she drove to and from the airport, going or coming back. For the rest she kept to herself, as befitted a lady of title and a widow.

  "How about staff? Does she use any local people?"

  "Not at all. It is believed that her workpeople come by sea, and go the same way, when she goes away, out of the season, but we never see any of them. She is very private. There is one…"

  "Yes?"

  "A young lady, very beautiful, with blue eyes and yellow hair, very agreeable. Often she comes, here, to get food from the market. She is—what do you say?—cook? I have seen her, not spoken. Others say she is friendly but very keen with money, makes a good bargain. Some say she is in charge, is manager-housekeeper and companion. She does not talk much."

  Solo kept the voluble waitress a little longer but there was no more to be had from her. In a while he detached himself and strolled away, heading out of the town. According to his map and information the Palace was no more than five or six miles away, and he fancied the walk. The exercise gave him time to review the possibilities.

  The young blue-eyed blonde cook-housekeeper sounded like his best bet for a contact. Without consciously working it out he had decided that his best play was a frontal attack: he would barge in like the brash tourist he was pretending to be, and trust to his wide-eyed stare to get him through. He was so preoccupied that he completely missed the spread beauty of the scene. Great oaks, walnuts and acacia gave him their shade. In the hedges on either side bloomed hyacinth and honeysuckle, bee-orchis and buttercup. He saw nothing. He was engrossed in other things.

  His mind was so busy that his eyes almost missed the sudden and small side road that went precipitously down to his left. This had to lead him close to the Argyr, by his calculations. Five minutes of following it got him within sight of the sea. He halted between high rocky banks and considered his position, then he tackled the rugged wall on his right, scrambling and struggling his way up through the clutching thorns of wild roses, moving through bright splashes of color from wild anemone. Twenty perspiring minutes later he had his reward. He saw the Palace, recognizing it at once from the picture he had seen at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

  It lay back and away to his right, huddling against the mountain, framed in a fold of rock and backed with the dark green of olive groves. Seen this close it was more Disney-like than ever. The white stone was bright enough to have been freshly laundered and the woodwork of window-frames and shutters was the unlikely pink of candy floss. A powder puff palace for a cosmetic surgeon. Resting here on the rock spur he could see something else, too. The main road went by up there. The little side road he had just quitted went straight on down to the sea, to a derelict landing stage. And this rock spur went straight on down, too, right into the water. So how the devil did you get into the palace grounds?

  He clambered higher and over the spur until he could see down the far side, and the riddle was solved. The palace had an extensive forecourt, with an ornamental garden and a drive that led down to a small plage, a place of tiles and seats and a limpid pool. But the private road led on, swung to the left and seemed to plunge headlong into the rock wall. So there had to be a gate, a way through and out into the road. That much was obvious, and he would have come to the gate had he gone on about ten minutes longer down the road. The implications were disturbing. This place was a fort! Only one way in, if you discounted the sea. And that meant there was also only one way out. A good agent, no matter how valiant, likes to know the way out if he has to run.

  Solo looked again at the palace, and sighed. Hitching round his "camera" he rested it on a rock and ran out the telescopic lens. If this was Thrush it looked less like it than any place he had ever seen. It was like the concretization of somebody's fairy tale whim. Still, it had to be studied and he proceeded to do that. His acquaintance with architectural styles was meager but he knew enough to guess that this edifice was not of any particular style or period but the work of many hands and various whims. Getting a pinpoint focus he began raking the front, floor by floor. Spires, battlements, and then balconies—and not a sign of life anywhere. The light was against him, so that he couldn't have seen into any of the rooms had he wanted to. But all at once he caught a brief flash of movement and trained his lens back to one of the upper balconies.

  There! Something moved, sharpened under his gentle fingers into a slim arm, a hand that moved and clutched something white and fluttering. A sheet, or a towel. In the next moment someone stood up and stretched in a luxurious yawn. He fingered the zoom wheel and the picture ballooned rapidly. A woman, turning now to look down and kick something away clear. She turned again and set her hands on the balcony edge.

  Solo held his breath. He was no voyeur by choice, but this was a picture to be filed in memory for the sake of it. This was Countess Louise herself as few men could have seen her. Off-guard, unaware of observation and totally unclad, she was like some ancient Greek goddess come alive. Midnight-blue hair caught the sun and shone in a halo round her face. The same sun caressed the magnificent swells and curves of her shape, a shape that any model would have traded her soul to own.

  A cynical voice at the back of Solo's mind told him that this woman was a cosmetic surgeon, that the curves were probably artifice, but the part of him that looked through his eyes denied it. This was artless perfection, and innocence. Caution tried to remind him that she was deadly dangerous, but caution was wasting its time. His hand slipped an
d he swore as he gently nursed the lenses back into line. He saw that she had moved a step or two, to stand by a curious dark object on the balcony wall. Just in time he realized what it was and ducked, turning away and sliding his camera around so that it was out of her sight. A telescope! He should have guessed she would have such a thing. Feeling her eyes on him he swung his head and went through the motions of staring at the scenery. In a while he risked a look in that direction again, and she had vanished out of sight.

  He sat and pondered, hard. In the course of a highly exciting life he had learned the virtue of knowing when to run, but he had never learned to like doing it; nor did he now. This place was dangerous. That woman was dangerous. She had just caught him snooping. So his best bet was to depart from there, speedily. But he argued with himself.

  "So I run!" he muttered. "Then what? On an island this size, where is there to go?" Having spiked that argument he went on to justify himself. He was playing the part of an irreverent and hard-necked tourist, wasn't he? All right, then, so he was snooping. What could be more natural? Why not carry it through? After all, nobody had taken a shot at him—not yet!

  He sat still and surveyed the domain he had come to see. His gaze traveled down the front of the building, to the forecourt and grounds, along the path to the plage, and then on to the seafront itself. This was almost directly below him. Here someone had built two pier arms of stone faced with marble out into the sea so that they almost enclosed an area of about an acre of the lazuli-blue water, making it a natural pool. Or a harbor? There was a stone stairway rising out of the water that would be ideal for disembarking from a small boat. Then his eyes found something else.

  One of the walls had been built onto the rock spur where he sat; close to that wall, floating but tethered, was an airbed. On the airbed was stretched a slim shape. Another woman. He didn't need his telescope this time to confirm that he was regarding a delectable picture as different from the first as it was possible to get. Blonde—so it had to be the cook-housekeeper.