The afternoon was spent in study of maps of land and sea. There were a number of islands ranging in size from moderate to infinitesimal, and mostly with some traces of habitation. They picked a radius of twenty miles and made a list of all the islands. Then they made a list of things Johnnie Rainbow's headquarters could be identified by.
First, multiple communications with the land, probably showing radio antennae. Next, privacy for covert comings and goings. Among these would be not only boats but very likely a helicopter landing pad and possibly a space for a small seaplane, though not necessarily. Lastly, all changes would be fairly recent.
It was agreed that the next day Aunt Jane would begin checking on the ownership or occupancy of as many of the islands as possible, and Father John would place the call to London from the Rose and Crown. Napoleon instructed him carefully.
"The number is HOLborn 2600. When the call is connected you will hear a busy signal. Wait for thirty seconds, and then pronounce my name clearly twice. Then someone will come on the line. Tell them where I am and what happened. Tell them my communicator was taken, and I need transportation back. They'll give you a message for me. Oh, and you might ask them to get in touch with the local arm of the law and clear me so I can walk the streets again."
Father John nodded, and departed.
"Now," said Aunt Jane, looking at Napoleon severely, "I see your coat has been a bit ripped at one side. If you will be so good as to take it off, I will mend it for you. Josephine, my sewing basket, please."
"We've found several islands that might interest you, Mr. Solo," Aunt Jane said the next afternoon. "I have a list here of those whose neighbors tend to make comments. My personal favorite is Donzerly, some twelve miles from here, eight from where you were found. There is an unused lighthouse perched on a spur of bare rock, but it has a floating pier and a paved area quite adequate for a small helicopter. The owner is a retired Naval officer, who purchased the light at an auction of Crown property some five years ago. He has maintained the foghorn, and it always sounds on bad nights. But the local fishermen seem to distrust him. He's added radar to the light's array of aerials, and has parties at the oddest times."
"Parties?" said Napoleon uncertainly.
"As far as anyone around here knows. He's antisocial enough to his neighbors, they say, but his friends fly in from the City at all hours."
"How do they know they're from London?"
"By the clothes. Oh yes, he also has two sturdy powerboats which come to our pier for supplies occasionally. Other than that, no one seems to know what goes on out there. Oh yes, there's been some notice of the amount of goods he seemed to be stowing away out there - all sorts of bundles and crates used to arrive on the island."
"The local fisherfolk seem to be immensely observant."
Aunt Jane smiled brightly. "All those who live close to nature are observant. And those who live close to the sea usually have telescopes near at hand."
There was a discreet tap at the front door, and Father John entered. "Your London office wishes me to in form you that Mister Kuryakin is also missing, as of quite early this morning, but, I believe they said, 'Win one, lose one,' or something like that. They will be sending a light plane for you tomorrow morning at ten."
Chapter 8
How Illya Kuryakin Met and Spoke With a Remarkable Individual, and Was Allowed to Escape With His Life.
MONTAGUE STREET WAS nearly deserted in the dimming light following sunset. Illya had spent a pleasant after noon at the British Museum pursuing interests which had no bearing on his current assignment, and had paused for a light meal at a Wimpy shop before walking the half-mile back to the U.N.C.L.E. office. As he stepped out into the dusk, the gaunt silhouettes of the new office buildings along Charing Cross caught his eye, black against the evening sky.
Perhaps he was comparatively lucky to see London two or three times a year - the old City was changing so rapidly now that people who had been away five years felt lost and out of place. The old pubs were being torn down or rebuilt into discotheques; the dark little shops which had carried on the traditions of generations were being replaced by shiny chrome steel and glass marketplaces full of bright trinkets made in Japan; and everywhere great glittering columns rose above the smoke-stained rooftops to catch the sunlight and to house London's millions.
Half lost in thought, he crossed Russell Square and started up Woburn Place. Never so introspective as to lose track of his surroundings, he was fully aware when a taxi came out of Bernard Street and cruised slowly past him. It turned directly in front of him as he reached the entrance to Woburn Mews, and two men stepped out.
Without hesitation, they moved to either side of Illya. The Russian felt a familiar hard pressure against his side, and refrained from objecting - it could be a pipestem but it wasn't worth the risk to find out.
A low voice on the same side said, "Just step right in, please."
It seemed an innocent enough request - hardly worth arguing about. Illya stepped inside, and a moment later was sitting between the two men. A third was driving; he backed neatly out and turned south. As he did so, the man to Illya's right squirmed around in the seat, reaching for an inner pocket, and produced a black silk kerchief. In thirty seconds Illya was quite effectively blindfolded.
The ride lasted about half an hour, with frequent turns, until even Illya's excellent sense of direction was completely confused. At one point, the taxi seemed to be backing up for an indefinite distance, then made a pair of canceling turns. This was followed by a long straight stretch where their speed increased considerably.
When they finally stopped and the noise of the engine died away, Illya could hear crickets. The door was opened and he felt a hand on each elbow guiding him. A voice at his ear said, "This way. The gravel is tricky."
Their feet crunched on the broken rock of possibly a driveway, then sank slightly into a cushion of grass. In another ten paces a concrete walk was beneath them. The voice said, "Easy now. Up four steps," and the hands at his elbows indicated a turn as they mounted.
Up eight more steps and another turn, and Illya could half sense a solid bulk before them. The faint reverberations of their footsteps gave an impression of a wall - probably the front of a house. They stopped, and several seconds later a soft click and a breath of cool air indicated that a door had opened. They stepped into a large silence, cushioned with a deep carpet, and permeated with the sweet dark smell of old elegance and good taste.
But his guides didn't stop to enjoy the atmosphere. They turned him to the left again, off the carpet onto a hardwood floor, through another door, around some corners and down a long echoing corridor. At last they stopped, and one of them knocked - a deep booming note like a log drum. There was a buzz as an electric latch operated, and a slight draught told Illya the door had opened. They stepped forward onto another carpet, and the blindfold was removed.
The room was just as Illya's imagination had pictured it - the walls were paneled and the ceiling was high. Glass-fronted bookcases stood tall and contemplative in corners. Armorial bearings sparkled on the walls, and leaded French doors gave onto a flawless green lawn. Comfortable chairs were set about, with a great solid desk at their focal point.
Behind the desk sat a man. Not a particularly impressive man at first glance, with a receding hairline, a broad open face decorated with a military moustache, and a tendency towards jowliness. Not particularly impressive, that is, unless you considered his eyes, which had the color and quality of fine-grade steel. He sat crisply erect behind the desk, and his gaze was fixed on Illya as the Russian looked around the room, noting and cataloguing. When at last their eyes met, he spoke.