VI
THE CHANGING of the shift continued. For a long time Solo remained where he was, watching the faces of those men who had sold out to Thrush.
The pattern was clear enough now—as well as the time. Early morning—doomsday!
He stirred, seeing how easily the mission would be accomplished. A plane would land on that strip out there, the bomb brought carefully up by lift—and flown to its target from well within the protective radar and early warning ring!
He slowly made his way back up the narrow shaft. Going up to the next level was a matter of muscle and patience: lift a foot, brace it and lift the other one without slipping or losing balance.
He stopped for a moment, exhausted, bracing himself as comfortably as he could in the dark chimney shaft. He placed the earplug against his ear, turning the barrel of the sound-detector upward in the passage, toward first one, then another branch of the chimney’s interior complex.
He stayed some moments, listening. The aluminum cones picked up the sounds of persistent voices from above him, far to his left. The sounds were faint, but unlike any other throughout the entire complex at this early hour.
He inched toward that sound, using his elbows, his knees, his feet to worm himself forward. The sounds in the earplug increased until he was able to distinguish words, and different male voices speaking.
He hesitated, thinking he could stay where he was in safety and listen. But suddenly this was not good enough. He wanted to see those men engaged in an obviously high-level command meeting. Above him in the branch passage he had followed was a patch of light—another unsealed fireplace.
He squirmed forward, his body aching with the pressures of the narrow confines, the inability to turn his head or tilt it more than a few inches.
The voices were loud now, and he removed the earplug, carefully placing the sound-detector behind him for fear the sound of metal against brick might betray his presence only feet away from these men in what must be, except for the chimney shaft, a soundproofed room.
When he had crawled to the grating, he saw that he was not going to be able to see the men in the room because a heavy mesh grating had been placed in front of the fireplace. He lay still, listening. He could hear what was going on in the room outside—the clash of voices, a glass set down on a tray, a fist slapping a palm—but he could see only dim shadows through the metallic grate.
One man was doing most of the talking.
Solo pressed forward, listening intently. It was a voice familiar to him. He wracked his brain trying to pin down that identity, but it eluded him.
Sam Su Yan’s voice was easily identifiable: “I don’t agree that the plans to bomb Washington should be changed at this hour.”
“I’m sorry you don’t agree, Sam. But you’re going to have to do it my way. The decision is mine. I take every responsibility—”
“I am not interested in responsibility,” Su Yan said. “All that interests me is success. I cannot conceive a greater success than dropping an atomic device on Washington, D.C.—and having the United States blame Russia for it. All diplomatic relations will be broken, and at least limited atomic war will break out, and both Russia and the United States will be seriously weakened. Which will leave the balance of world power solely in the hands of Thrush. This was our plan from the first. We have built toward that moment, and you haven t yet given us a practical reason for altering our plans at this hour.”
“I’ve given you one unalterable reason. U.N.C.L.E. is not only suspicious: they have proof that a U.S. city is to be bombed so that the Russians will be blamed.”
“So, the agency is suspicious of this. What has this to do with our plans? You don’t suggest delay—only a change of target.”
“Yes! I do! Waverly will alert Washington unless he hears from both the agents assigned to this matter. And you have already stated that you have those men detained—until after the delivery of our device—”
“That’s right.”
“Then we cannot deliver it to Washington. The area is too sensitive, and as I say Waverly will alert the command there—he may already have done so.”
“Then what do you suggest?” Su Yan demanded, no suggestion of compromise hinted in his tone.
“The city that is struck is not important! Certainly, Washington, D.C. would be a coup—nothing would please me better. But any important city will do—San Francisco, for instance; and think how easy this could be accomplished from here, and what perfect placement for settling the blame squarely upon the Russians. The U.S. government would see the strike as having somehow been accomplished over the Bering Strait, and no Russian denial would be tolerated!
“Besides, I have another objection to following through with the strike upon Washington. We have aimed toward that for two years—two years involving a great deal of planning, strategy, meetings, and all the work of collecting and smuggling in the components of our device. How many people have been entangled in all this? Whom can we trust? Am I to trust you though I’ve known you from childhood? Do you think I am deceived that you trust me—don’t you know I’m aware that I am shadowed by operatives reporting to you, Su Yan?
“We have used the minds and skills of many engineers and scientists in assembling our device, preparing it for today’s strike. All the more reason why we choose a different city—Chicago, New York, or why not Omaha itself, where the Strategic Air Command headquarters are?”
Su Yan’s voice lowered. “Agreed. I still believe that you’re fretting yourself unnecessarily. You are forgetting our original premise. Civilian Defense warning systems have been blown in so many United States cities on the same day at the same hour for so many years that the people no longer react to them, or even consciously hear them any more. As long as our strike is made during the Civilian Defense warning time—in whatever city—it cannot fail.”
The other man—obviously Su Yan’s superior in this setup and more than faintly contemptuous of the Chinese-American—laughed. “I know that. Even if those warning sirens were for real at that regular practice hour, no one would pay any attention until it was too late. The louder they wailed, the less heard by those sheep and goats. Those stupid creatures of habit would go about their normal lives—maybe complaining a little about the noise!”
“The city can be Washington!” Su Yan said, growing excited in contemplating the triumph, the same deceptive simplicity that had worked in the exploding lei used to kill one person. The same simplicity would be used to kill millions—on a gigantic scale, and using an atomic device.
Solo sweated, knowing that the scheme was so simple that it was foolproof. There was only one hope to counteract the awesome perfection of the simple scheme to use U.S. habit and its own defense warning system against itself. That hope was to alert the Command in time.
He tilted his head, thinking he could follow the chimney shaft to a ground level opening somewhere, and somehow fight his way to freedom. It was all he could do, and there was no time to waste.
The voice of the leader in the room outside stopped him: “I think you could insure the success of this operation, Su Yan, simply by forcing the two agents to make calls to Waverly, assuring him there is no immediate danger and that they have joined forces and are working together.”
“Excellent,” Su Yan said. “The one agent, Kuryakin, will require an injection to restore him to normalcy, but the other man can be handled easily—in fact, we are this moment working on him.”
Solo almost laughed, and then did not. There was a chill in Su Yan’s tone, and he seemed to speak louder, as if he hoped to be overheard: “It never occurred to Solo that we had his room and his suite on closed-circuit television. It seems to me he would have realized that in a place like this, all rooms are kept under surveillance.”