20 - The Corfu Affair Page 5

  "That is Adam, who will wait on us. You still think ordinary humans cannot be perfect?"

  He was still trying to think of a good reply as they settled in their seats. These were huge carved chairs that had obviously come from some cathedral, and he would have wondered at them and all the other magnificent pieces that filled the room, if there had not been so much on his mind that he could only dredge up folly.

  "There's nothing wrong with my liver, Countess!" he protested, and it took her a moment or two to hark back to their previous gambit. Then she laughed again.

  "Your liver? Oh no, M. Summers. I meant your skin. It is a doctor's joke, you see. The skin is the largest organ of the body. You did not know that? It is true. And it is much more important than you think. How much of your skin can breathe? Only your face and hands. That is bad. Look, my garment allows all my skin to breathe. You see?" She struck a pose that made her point strikingly obvious, then gestured to the living statue she had called Adam. The six-foot-three herculean figure was now in cat-like motion, bringing dishes and a salver. Solo looked. The man wore only a loin-cloth in stark white, and his face was absolutely expressionless. "You see my Adam, also, see how perfect he is?" She spoke quite loudly but the servile giant showed not a sign of having heard. The Countess swept the rest of the company with an arrogant eye and proceeded to elaborate.

  "The skin is a remarkable thing, the foundation of all true health. For example, it is the only body tissue that is alive on one side and dead on the other. Think of that!" She stretched a forefinger to prod Adam's arm as he leaned over her with a plate. Then he curled the finger round to touch her own bosom. "A dead outer shell, in both cases. The living tissue is on the other side."

  Solo began to sweat again. This woman was a nut about health and beauty, just as Miss Winter had warned him. He was so engrossed in trying to keep track of everything, listening, watching the other members of the feast, that he missed the first taste of his soup altogether. The second spoonful tickled his attention and the third insisted on it. He tasted, then turned to Miss Winter, who had taken the vacant seat by his left hand.

  "You certainly are a cook. This never came out of a can!"

  "Glad you like it." She smiled shyly. "It's really simple, though. Just green pea, but with added sour cream and wine." He savored the soup again, noting that the others also approved. Adam brought the next dish, and Miss Winter looked a little apprehensive. Solo employed knife and fork, bit, chewed and swallowed, then sighed. "What is it? Or them?"

  "You approve?"

  "I most definitely do. My stomach will think I'm dead at last and in Heaven. Why?"

  "I call them beef-marrow dumplings. Chopped beef marrow bulked out with bread crumbs, spiced with wild thyme and grated lemon rind, bonded with egg and boiled in a strong meat stock. I made quite a lot, if you want more."

  He did. So did the others, in various accents. Then came a salad that was crisper and tastier than he would have believed possible, and a layer-cake so delicious that he felt regret at not having room enough for a third helping. By the time Adam brought the wine and the coffee Solo was sure of two things. One, that he was full and happy; two, that Kate Winter was no crook. Cook, yes. Crook, no. Nobody with a criminal mind could possibly come so close to being divine!

  Then Miss Winter bade everyone goodnight and departed, and the table atmosphere modulated suddenly and subtly. Countess Louise lost her beaming charm and seemed to be engrossed in some rapid chatter with the others, each in his own tongue and in argot, which Solo could follow only with a great deal of difficulty. German, French, Italian or Spanish, those he could manage, provided the speaker spoke slowly and was prepared to be patient with him. But he had no chance at all as these five people plunged into a quick-fire torrent of interchange in slang and cant phrases. In a while he took what he thought was the offered hint and created a yawn, stifling it with a palm. The Countess had her eyes on him in a flash.

  "You are bored, M. Summers?"

  "Call it tired. I've had a big day. And this air. And the food."

  "I see." She eyed him, and there were fires in those eyes. "Would you prefer to retire to your room now?"

  "If that's all right with you, yes."

  "Very well. We have some business to discuss, but it will not take all night. Come..." She rose briskly and led him to the door, summoning the silent Adam with a crook of her finger. Outside, she halted and brought on her dazzling smile. "Business is so boring. Tomorrow will be another day, yes?" Before he could anticipate it, she surged close and put her long arms round his neck, drawing his head down. He would have been less than human if he had not responded in the most natural way. By the time she released him his head was reeling and his breath was coming fast.

  "There!" she whispered. "Dormez bien. Perhaps the talk will be not too long. Maybe I shall see you again, soon?"

  Then she was gone and Adam had his suitcase and was padding impassively on ahead towards a staircase. Solo followed, wondering whether he was on the polished floor or walking in mid-air.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IT was quite a room. In any other circumstances Solo would have been impressed by it. Now he inspected it simply as a routine precaution, touching the wall hangings, trying door, then studying his bemused face in the triple mirrors of a magnificent dressing table by the window. He was not quite conceited enough to believe that Countess Louise was pulling out all the stops on him simply because of his male charm. There had to be a catch somewhere. Something was hatching inside that beautifully decorated skull of hers. But what? He was absolutely certain he was in for trouble, but just as certain that he didn't know what kind. At last he settled on the bed edge and reached for his communicator, feeling relief in being able to call on routine.

  Waverly needed to know about the Thrush gathering, if nothing else. He drew out the extension antenna, thumbed the switch and was about to ask for Overseas Relay, when the words halted on his tongue. The instrument in his hand gave off a steady crackling whine of interference. He glared at it in unbelief, switched off then on again, jarred it with the heel of his hand, but still the smothering crackle persisted. Now the flesh really began to creep on the back of his neck. Either his talker had developed a defect, which was highly unlikely, to say the least, or somebody had rigged this area—this room—with a jammer! And that logical assumption carried with it so many other inferences that he was up off the bed and on his feet before he had added up all of them.

  The communicator went away with a practiced move that drew his pistol on the return. He started for the door, then halted as there came a soft tapping. Crouching a little, he called, "Who is it?"

  The door swung open and the Countess stood there a moment then came in, her eyes widening at sight of his weapon.

  "Why?" she whispered. "You will not need that!"

  "Stop right there. I don't trust you any closer than you are right now. Back up and turn round. You and I are taking a little walk."

  "So unnecessary," she pouted, then turned obediently, but not to go out of the door again. Instead she caught it, pushed it shut, then set her back to it, facing him. "You have nothing to fear," she said, and smiled. "See, I am unarmed." And she did something rapidly to the rear of her dress, spread her arms wide, and the rustling white material fell to the floor.

  She was definitely unarmed, unless one could count the volcanic beauty of her unclad curves. Solo froze for a moment that was his undoing. A large hand swung down and across from his right side, numbing his wrist, to send the pistol skidding across the floor. He ducked and sprang away from the movement, and found himself face to face with Adam.

  Over that muscular shoulder he saw a gaping hole where the dressing-table had swung away from the wail. He caught a glimpse of the Countess as she swooped nakedly to snatch up his gun. Then he went cat-like forward to meet the impassive servant. Adam showed no more expression than a shop-window figure, but waited silently, arms down and out, ready.

  Solo feinted a left,
leaped and chopped down with all his strength and weight in a right-hand neck-breaker. Adam, with perfect anticipation, leaned and tensed his muscles—and the chop bounced, shocking Solo's arm right up to his elbow. Surging in the opposite direction, the statuesque servant swung a haymaking right-hander, low down, that contacted Solo's ribs and bombed him bodily backwards, smashing all the wind out of him. If there was science in this, it was none that Solo had ever met before.

  With that kind of strength, who needed science?

  Fighting off the instinct to curl up, wheezing for breath, he shambled forward again. It was no time for delicacy. He poised himself, then leaned and launched a kick where it would do maximum damage. But Adam had speed out of all reason in a man of his bulk. An arm like a beam swept down and across, smashed into Solo's shin as it came up, knocked it aside so that he spun and almost fell, cringing as his weight came on that leg. It felt broken. Then Adam moved in, taking the offensive. Again that bombing right hand to the body.

  Solo reeled away, slammed into the wall, staggered forward and right into a left fist that came down like a hammer on the top of his head.

  The room grew a big black hole and he fell into it head first. The Countess came to stand and stare down at the ruin.

  "A valiant one. Clever, too. I can use one such." She turned to her servant, who was not even out of breath, and smiled, pointing down. "Bring him!" She moved away to gather up her discarded dress and looped it carelessly over one arm, then she preceded her servant through the secret door and into the passage there. Adam crouched, picked up Solo like a sack, hung him over one shoulder, and followed her, drawing the dressing-table flush to the wall as he went.

  In the tower-room at the other end of the passage, Katherine Winter put down her pen, lit a cigarette and leaned back to let her mind have its own way with the vexing problem of Mr. Nathan Summers. She was in the middle of her weekly letter to Uncle Otto, a rambling and inane epistle, mostly gossip and trivia, but which contained full descriptive details of everyone who had visited the Argyr Palace that week. It was her report, and Uncle Otto was no relative at all, but an elderly, ruddy-faced military gentleman who would skip all the banalities, but who would be very careful to list all the personalities and arrange to have them investigated. So she had been told.

  The gentleman had approached her immediately after she had secured the job with the Countess. He had been very polite and laden with official documents to prove his authority. She believed he was C.I.A. but had not enquired too deeply about this. On his advice, it was better for her to know as little possible, thus making it impossible for her to give anything away, even by accident. All he wanted, and he was careful to stress this, was the name, nationality and time of arrival and departure of any guests. She was to supply these in the weekly letter. And do nothing more. At all.

  From which facts Kate had gathered that she was involved in something very dangerous. She had been unwilling to help, but was at last persuaded because of the thrills involved. And the extra income.

  But thrills had not come. Instead, the chore had grown dull. Guests came, usually by sea. They were odd, often. Usually they stayed overnight. Always they departed secretly, and she never saw them go. But that was all. And when Madame was in Paris, which could have been a bit more lively, the letter wasn't needed. Seemingly, Uncle Otto had other eyes for that period.

  So the task had become dull, until now, with the extraordinary appearance of Mr. Summers, who wasn't a bit like the rest. Kate sighed, reached for her pen again. Mr. Summers was different and, for a while, she had hoped something might come of it. Corfu was a pleasant place, better if you could share it with the right kind of company. But Madame had flaunted her figure, flashed her eyes, turned on the charm, and that was the end of any hope Kate might have of getting to know Mr. Summers any better. Honestly, these French women! No delicacy at all! She sighed again, and began laboriously to write out the details.

  Napoleon Solo struggled back to consciousness under the impression that his head was loose. He shook it to make sure, and the instant agony that came made him decide, firmly, not to do anything like that again for a long time. Levering his eyes open and focusing them against a strong glare, he saw he was looking along the top of a polished table littered with glasses and bottles. Beyond them, gradually hardening into outline and detail, he saw Countess Anne-Marie Louise de St. Denis. She watched him in calm appraisal, almost approval.

  Easing back gingerly, he realized he was sitting in those stall chairs again, but this one had improvements in the shape of a pair of chrome-steel bands that folded out from the armrests to pinion his wrists. He tried to stir his feet and assured himself there were more fetters on his ankles. He was caught. Moving his head carefully, he saw that Thrush was in full attendance, four pairs of eyes being steadily fixed on him.

  He forced his face into a thin smile, looked back to the Countess, and revised his opinion of her. She was still beautiful, but now he saw her beauty as the coiled deadliness of a lethal snake.

  "Welcome, M. Solo," she said, with crisp assurance. The use of his name served to shock some of the fog from his mind.

  "Some mistake," he muttered, after a false start or two. The inside of his mouth had been scrubbed with a coarse brush or wire wool. It took some effort to make it work. He swallowed. "Mistake. My name is Summers."

  "Let us not waste time. I knew you from the first moment I saw you in my telescope. For years I have maintained a comprehensive file, with photographs and descriptions, of all the more active agents of U.N.C.L.E. You are Napoleon Solo, n'est ce pas?" She laughed, cast a flashing eye on her uneasy audience. "I am flattered that U.N.C.L.E. should this time send its best man. For me, M. Stanton was old. Easy. I dealt with him. I shall also deal with you, only better this time."

  "You will kill him," Morales pronounced, with no question in his tone.

  "Oh no, senor. That would be waste. I will use him."

  "Good!" Klasser grunted. "That is the better way. Good specimens are not easy to get. May we observe?"

  "But of course. That is my purpose, as you shall see." She turned her burning stare on Solo again. "You have been disarmed, and all your toys removed. If you try anything foolish one of my friends will kill you, and that would be unfortunate. But, if you are prepared to be sensible, I will free one of your hands, so that you may join us in a glass of this wine—and listen while we talk. Choose!"

  "I could use a drink," he admitted, and she rose, moved away to a far corner where she must have operated a switch of some kind, for the cuff slid back from his left wrist. Then she came near, filled a glass and put it within his reach. Then she went back to her seat, but remained standing.

  Watching her, it took him a moment or two to convince himself that he was not dreaming, that he had not slipped back three thousand years of time. She had caught back her black hair with a white band of silk. Her only clothing was a similar white silk, a simple garment that started from a silver brooch at her right shoulder and hung straight as far as mid-thigh, all in one piece, with just a hole for her arm, on the right side. On the left it swooped away from her shoulder to her left hip, leaving her left shoulder and breast uncovered, and from hip to hem it was loosely laced with a cord that ended in a fringe-tassel. The whole was genuine Ancient Greek, not the modernized compromise, and like the ancients, it was all she wore. Then his eye caught and fixed on the one jarring note, the metal bangle and strange attachments that hung from her right wrist.

  "Now!" she said, in the tone of a queen addressing a cabinet. "You will have heard rumors, stories, hints. On the strength of those you are here, believing or not. Now you will hear, and see, the truth. You have heard me talk about health and beauty. You have seen my statues. You think I am, perhaps, something of a fanatic. Perhaps I am, you shall see. But I ask you to think of this. The glorious Greeks said MENS SANA IN CORPORE SANO. We say that a healthy body and a healthy mind go together. Perhaps it is true. But what is a healthy body, a healthy mind? How
do you define these? Years ago I decided to take a position that no one can argue. A perfect body, this can be defined. A perfect body is a body without flaw, yes? And—a perfect mind is a mind without thought!"

  If she was looking for a reaction from him, Solo thought, she was disappointed. The Thrush quartet was silent for several seconds. Then Vassi stirred.

  "I do not understand. A mind without thought is what? Blank?"

  "Exactly. We spoil white paper when we write on it, but alas, we must write. Children write on slates, and then wipe them clean afterwards. If we could do this with a mind, it would remain perfect, you agree?"

  "And useless," Morales grunted. "Get to your point, Madame."

  "I will. I will show it to you as it came to me. I am a cosmetic surgeon. I spend long hours repairing the deficiencies in people. I know they will go and do the same foolish things again. I despair, sometimes, of humanity. But an idea comes. A question. Why do bodies grow to be imperfect? What is wrong?"

  Klasser snorted. "This is obvious, Baroness. We must live as the circumstances allow, and this is not a perfect world."

  "Quite so." She gave him a white-toothed smile. "So I decided to try and grow a life in perfect circumstances. Without flaw. Adam!" She lifted a finger and the impassive hercules strode forward to stand by her side. She paused for effect, then said, simply, "Here is my first success. My perfect man. I made him."

  Solo stiffened as the idea spread in his mind. Cabari exhaled slowly and said, "You had a good subject for your repair work, Madame."

  "Not repair," she corrected. "Do not try to evade what is obvious. I made this man. I grew him, from an original cell-section. Here, in my laboratory. My first one. It was not easy, the first time, but I have learned much since then. A perfect human and a perfectly empty mind!"