The Man From Uncle 02 - The Doomsday Affair - Whittington Harry - Страница 22

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He released the bamboo railing long enough to paw at the sweat on his face, at the pressure behind his eyeballs. He almost fell. He clutched out wildly, grabbing the rickety railing, clinging to it, while the round hole of light bounced like the white ball in a beer commercial.

He jerked open his collar and loosened his tie, feeling suffocated and as if he were enclosed in a debilitating heat compartment. He didn't know where he was, and he tried to think how he had got here.

He stumbled. The attempt to think only started the wild little man with his sledge hammer again banging at the backs of his eyeballs. He gave up trying to think, and concentrated on climbing. It was so far upward to that lighted round hole, and yet somehow he had to make it before he strangled in the heat, or suffocated from lack of oxygen.

He breathed through his mouth, gasping, his head tilted back and his gaze fixed on that ragged opening with the wan moonlight beyond it. It looked wonderfully cool up there in the open, if he could only make it before he fell again or drowned in his own sweat.

Solo gave an agonizing yawn, stunned with fatigue. He didn't see how he could take one more step upward, and yet the alternative was to tumble back into the bottomless dark. He shuddered, clinging to the railing that swayed precariously. Suddenly he heard something that made his heart miss a beat. He stiffened, listening.

There was a faint whispering laugh from the light above him. A man's voice said, "Welcome back to life, Mr. Solo. And welcome, also, to Broadmoor Rest."

II

Solo's eyes jerked open. The movement almost took Off his skull.

Solo turned his head, and the pain washed down through him. He saw that he was on a round, king-sized bed in a beige-tinted room with doors opening off into other rooms of a suite, uniformly decorated and painted.

There was movement behind him. He jerked his head around, instinctively tensing his body. His instincts brought him only searing pain, and a red haze that danced before his eyes like fireflies. The haze faded, cleared, and behind it he saw Samuel Su Yan. The Chinese-American, smiling faintly with that mismatched face that looked as if it had been designed by a committee, sat casually on a chair next to the bed. He had a small brown box in his lap.

Solo pressed the heels of his hands against his temples, trying to subdue the agony of his drug-hangover headache. Staring with hatred at Su Yan, he said slowly, "If this is a rest home, it's not a very good one. I don't seem to have had a good night's sleep."

"Broadmoor Rest is a singularly fine refuge from the world," Su Yan said. "Most singular indeed, as you shall discover in time. As for the pain, I'll have a nurse bring you sedation if you wish. You may as well live your final hours in comfort. A man deserves peace and comfort at the end of his life."

Solo grimaced. "I hardly expected to hear words of compassion from you. A man who would blow a young girl's face away—with a device inside a lei of flowers."

Su Yan's face remained flatly expressionless for a moment. Then he shrugged. "A mistake of Americans," he said. "Our allies are angels, our enemies are all soulless butchers. You would improve your relations with the rest of the world if you realized your enemies are human beings—with simply opposing ideology motivating them. We too are working for a better world, Mr. Solo—our idea of a better world. That's all. Too bad you Americans won't have time to learn this now."

Solo's smile was cold. "What did you do with that part of you that is one-half American?"

"What I am going to do to the rest of America, my dear Solo… I destroyed it."

Solo shrugged. "Then you'll forgive me if I continue to have doubts about how genuine your compassion is. To me, Su Yan old enemy, you are a soulless butcher."

Su Yan's face remained expressionless. "Don't make the mistake of underestimating men, no matter how much you hate them. Do you think I want to be doing what I am? I know that a great deal of the earth's surface may be rendered unlivable for vegetation for centuries. But it so happens that I believe with all my soul that the two great powers exploit and misrule this world through the applied philosophy of might and threat."

"Your soul?" Solo asked ironically.

"My soul," Su Yan replied coldly. "Yes. I admit to you, I killed that young woman. I used flowers as a vehicle of death. I've killed others. I will kill again. The sacrifices are for the greater good, and I do not pretend they always make me happy or pleased with what must be done. I'd far rather be alone in my study. I am involved in a modern translation, from its original Vedic-Sanskrit, of the most ancient sacred literature of the Hindus, the Veda. There are more than one hundred extant books, in addition to the four Sanhitos, hymns, prayers, the liturgical formulae that are the foundation of the Vedic religion which dates back at least to 1100 B.C., possibly to 1500 B.C. The Rig-Veda, hymns of the oldest religion on earth. This is what I would love to do. But this must wait—for the better day we shall bring to this world."

Solo was sitting up on the bed now, swaying a bit as vertigo and pain battered at his senses. But he brought himself under control and said bitterly, "You don't convince me, Su Yan. Your pious scholasticism is just a cover for what you really feel. I don't know if you're trying to fool the rest of the world or yourself, but I do know that underneath the sophisticated scholar you're just an animal. A mindless animal with no more sense than to try to start a war that could destroy the world."

Su Yan's eyes narrowed for an instant; Solo heard a quick breath. Then the imperturbable mask returned, and he said, "Insult me if you wish, Solo. Perhaps it makes you feel better, like an aspirin to alleviate the pain of your failure against me. I have no objection to your being as comfortable and happy as possible. Look about you. Look at the elegance of this suite, the fine appointments. Nothing has been spared for creature comfort. You see, Mr. Solo, you may not be here very long actually, but it may seem long as the time drags past. That's why I'd like you comfortable—and occupied." With a faint smile, he upturned the cardboard box, spilling out Solo's U.N.C.L.E. attache case. Its component parts had been carefully dismantled so that the cleverly rigged bag of electronic communication and survival gimmicks, as well as those of attack and demolition, were so much useless wire, plastic, copper, wool, welding, chemicals and miscellaneous metal.

Solo stared at the complete ruin, expertly accomplished.

"We turned it over to our chemists and engineers for dismantling, Solo. They were very amused by it. They found it in part ingenious, and other parts completely naive, almost backward. As compared to our best efforts, of course."

"Of course," Solo said.

"I have returned your dismantled toys, in all their childlike splendor, to help you pass your time while you are our guest. It will help you pass the hours, and can do no harm, unless you happen to blow off your hand, or explode an eye." He gazed at Solo. "You will play carefully with your toys, won't you?"

"Does it please you to display your contempt, Su Yan?"

"We all have our different manners of achieving pleasure, eh?"

"If you say so."

"Have fun, Solo. I am afraid, however, that no matter in what manner you assemble all these component parts, they will avail you nothing in this place. The room is solid concrete, and completely sound proof. You'll disturb no one. But I'm sure you will enjoy trying."

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