MFU Whitman - The Affair of the Gentle Saboteur by Brandon Keith Page A
Authors: Brandon Keith
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enough to provide you with the finest lawyers. There may be technical loopholes, and you might win at a trial. If you win, you're scot-free; if you lose, you get a jail sentence, but prison isn't death. In time, you're out, you're free. I repeat—please put away the gun and come with me."
"And I repeat—you're insane."
"Would you tell me why you think so, Miss Tudor?"
"Gladly. And then we'll be done with this." She leaned out farther, steadily holding the gun pointed directly at his head. "Mr. Solo—charming, handsome, debonair Mr. Solo—you're a fool! I am Leslie Tudor! I'm not Burrows or Stanley or that little pipsqueak Pamela Hunter. I am Leslie Tudor! Don't you think I anticipated the possibility—this which is happening right now? Why do you think I'm out here in this aircraft?"
"Why, Miss Tudor?"
"Because I touch a button of this machine and it is up and out and over the Atlantic. In moments, literally moments, I am in the air and away, out of the territorial jurisdiction of the United States. What can you do, any of you? Shoot down a British plane in free air over international waters? That is an act of war! You wouldn't dare, any of you! I challenge you! Is UNCLE an outlaw organization? Would it effect an act of war upon a friendly country no matter the alleged—and as yet entirely unproven in any court of law—would it effect an act of war under these alleged circumstances? I ask you, Mr. Solo. Is UNCLE an outlaw organization?"
"No." Perhaps he should have listened to McNabb, wise old McNabb. Perhaps he should have waited and gone in with the others. Then they would have had her, within the territorial United States, a criminal alien bent upon conspiracy within the United States and subject to United States law. But would she have waited? How long would she have waited, her time schedule having lapsed? Had he been right in going in at once, alone? Or should he have waited? It was a question that would remain forever unanswered.
Leaning out through the open window she stared down at him, silently regarding him. He knew of her satisfaction, how much she was enjoying his consternation, how she was savoring at least this crumb of THRUSH's victory. And there was nothing he could do. He could not make a move. He was helpless against the wide round muzzle of the thick black gun unswervingly pointed at his head. Any action on his part, any sudden move, and the gun would spew forth its lethal charge, and death would end all hope.
What hope?
And then, suddenly, there was hope.
She laughed—shrill, tremulous, spiteful—and it gave him hope. She was not done yet.
"Failed in our mission"—the harsh voice rasped in an anger, a futility—"but for me at least, a booby prize."
Solo pulled up the corners of his mouth, forcing a smile.
"What last prize can I give you, Miss Tudor?"
"You're not giving me ! I'm giving you !"
"A prize for me, Miss Tudor?" Hope fluttered. Keep her talking. Let's see what happens. "A prize? A memento, perhaps? A token of our meeting?" He played along with it, played it stupid. "But didn't you say for you—a booby prize for you?"
"A prize for both of us, Mr. Solo."
"Well, thank you, Miss Tudor."
The harsh voice now snapped an order: "Take off your glasses, Mr. Solo!"
And Solo, quite mildly, pretending stupidity, frowning inquiringly, responded, "Beg pardon, ma'am?"
"The great Mr. Solo. The vaunted Mr. Solo. I want to see your eyes, Mr. Solo. Courage or fear? Take off your glasses. You have seen me, you know me, the only one of UNCLE thus far—but not for long. Take off your glasses. Courage or fear in the face of the inevitable? It must happen, sooner or later, to all of us. I'm curious about you. Let me look in your eyes, Mr. Solo, as I present your prize—a prize for both of us. Let me look at your eyes as they look on—death."
His smile, no longer forced, was grave.
"Yes, ma'am," he said.
He opened his arms, bowed politely, straightened, looked up at her, direct, exact,
"And I repeat—you're insane."
"Would you tell me why you think so, Miss Tudor?"
"Gladly. And then we'll be done with this." She leaned out farther, steadily holding the gun pointed directly at his head. "Mr. Solo—charming, handsome, debonair Mr. Solo—you're a fool! I am Leslie Tudor! I'm not Burrows or Stanley or that little pipsqueak Pamela Hunter. I am Leslie Tudor! Don't you think I anticipated the possibility—this which is happening right now? Why do you think I'm out here in this aircraft?"
"Why, Miss Tudor?"
"Because I touch a button of this machine and it is up and out and over the Atlantic. In moments, literally moments, I am in the air and away, out of the territorial jurisdiction of the United States. What can you do, any of you? Shoot down a British plane in free air over international waters? That is an act of war! You wouldn't dare, any of you! I challenge you! Is UNCLE an outlaw organization? Would it effect an act of war upon a friendly country no matter the alleged—and as yet entirely unproven in any court of law—would it effect an act of war under these alleged circumstances? I ask you, Mr. Solo. Is UNCLE an outlaw organization?"
"No." Perhaps he should have listened to McNabb, wise old McNabb. Perhaps he should have waited and gone in with the others. Then they would have had her, within the territorial United States, a criminal alien bent upon conspiracy within the United States and subject to United States law. But would she have waited? How long would she have waited, her time schedule having lapsed? Had he been right in going in at once, alone? Or should he have waited? It was a question that would remain forever unanswered.
Leaning out through the open window she stared down at him, silently regarding him. He knew of her satisfaction, how much she was enjoying his consternation, how she was savoring at least this crumb of THRUSH's victory. And there was nothing he could do. He could not make a move. He was helpless against the wide round muzzle of the thick black gun unswervingly pointed at his head. Any action on his part, any sudden move, and the gun would spew forth its lethal charge, and death would end all hope.
What hope?
And then, suddenly, there was hope.
She laughed—shrill, tremulous, spiteful—and it gave him hope. She was not done yet.
"Failed in our mission"—the harsh voice rasped in an anger, a futility—"but for me at least, a booby prize."
Solo pulled up the corners of his mouth, forcing a smile.
"What last prize can I give you, Miss Tudor?"
"You're not giving me ! I'm giving you !"
"A prize for me, Miss Tudor?" Hope fluttered. Keep her talking. Let's see what happens. "A prize? A memento, perhaps? A token of our meeting?" He played along with it, played it stupid. "But didn't you say for you—a booby prize for you?"
"A prize for both of us, Mr. Solo."
"Well, thank you, Miss Tudor."
The harsh voice now snapped an order: "Take off your glasses, Mr. Solo!"
And Solo, quite mildly, pretending stupidity, frowning inquiringly, responded, "Beg pardon, ma'am?"
"The great Mr. Solo. The vaunted Mr. Solo. I want to see your eyes, Mr. Solo. Courage or fear? Take off your glasses. You have seen me, you know me, the only one of UNCLE thus far—but not for long. Take off your glasses. Courage or fear in the face of the inevitable? It must happen, sooner or later, to all of us. I'm curious about you. Let me look in your eyes, Mr. Solo, as I present your prize—a prize for both of us. Let me look at your eyes as they look on—death."
His smile, no longer forced, was grave.
"Yes, ma'am," he said.
He opened his arms, bowed politely, straightened, looked up at her, direct, exact,
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