Pulp Fiction | The Copenhagen Affair by John Oram Read online

  The Copenhagen Affair

  By John Oram

  The photos had already cost one life...

  ...and as the men from U.N.C.L.E. saw them projected on a screen in Alexander Waverly's office, they realized they were seeing a new weapon which could mean the deaths of billions more. For those secret photos showed an awesome new THRUSH weapon in action—huge, silent aircraft so incredibly swift and maneuverable that no nation's defense system could intercept them!

  THRUSH was already at work building a fleet of them—and U.N.C.L.E. knew the work had to be stopped.

  THE COPENHAGEN AFFAIR

  PROLOGUE

  There is a row of buildings in New York City, a few blocks from the United Nations Building. It consists, starting from the south end, of a three-storied whitestone which appears fairly new in contrast with the series of brownstones which make up most of the row, and at the north end a busy public garage. The brownstones are occupied by a few lower-income families living above the decrepit shops and business premises at street level. Del Floria's tailor shop occupies the street level space in a brownstone near the middle of the block. The first and second floors of the whitestone are taken up by an exclusive "key club" restaurant named The Mask Club, which features fine food served by waitresses wearing masks (and very little else) to patrons who don masks covering nostrils to brow as they enter.

  On the third floor of the whitestone is a sedate suite of offices, the entrance to which bears the engraved letters U.N.C.L.E. And in the suite of offices a rather ordinary group of people handle mail, meet and do business with visitors, and in general give the impression of some normal organization engaged in a special charity project or a fund foundation headquarters.

  All these buildings are owned by U.N.C.L.E. All the people involved in the activities of the garage and the key club are in the employ of U.N.C.L.E.; many of the patrons of The Mask Club are affiliated with U.N.C.L.E.; and even the frowsy tenants of the brownstones, including old Del Floria, the tailor, are members of the organization.

  Behind the outer, crumbling skin of the four old brownstone buildings in the middle of the row is one large edifice comprising three floors of a modern, complex office building...a steel maze of corridors and suites containing brisk, alert young people of many races, creeds, colors and national origins...as well as complex masses of modern machinery for business and communications.

  There are no staircases. Four elevators handle traffic vertically. Below basement level an underground channel has been cut through from the East River, and several cruisers (the largest sixty feet long) are bobbing at the underground wharf beneath the brownstone complex. If you could ascend to the roof and examine the huge neon advertising sign there, you might detect that its supporting pillars concealed a high-powered short-wave aerial and elaborate electronic receiving and transmitting equipment.

  This is the heart, brain and body of the organization known as U.N.C.L.E. (United Network Command of Law and Enforcement). Its staff is multi-national. Its work crosses national boundaries with such nonchalance that a daily short-wave message from the remote Himalayas fails to flutter any eyebrows—even though there is no recorded wireless station in the Himalayan area according to the printed international codebooks.

  The range of problems tackled by U.N.C.L.E. is immense and catholic. There usually will be a sense of something international in the wind. But just as some of the smaller nations call on the United Nations organization for certain domestic problems beyond their own abilities (usually problems of a humanitarian, medical or technical nature), so U.N.C.L.E. may find itself called into local situations.

  Anything which might affect large masses of people, or which might set up a general reaction affecting several countries or several forces, is a job for U.N.C.L.E. It could be the attempt by an organization to cause the accidental firing of a missile from the territory of one friendly power into another in order to create complications within the alliance. It could be the wanderings of a tube of germ bacilli "lost" from an experimental station. It could be an attempt to manipulate the currency of a nation.

  Whatever the situation, certain it is that from his office on the third floor of the brownstone enclave a shabby, gray-haired man will send one or more of his tough young men and women to cope before all hell breaks loose. He will not hesitate to send them against seemingly impossible odds. If an agent is lost, his one concern will be who is to be sent to replace the casualty and salvage the operation.

  And the man who so often draws the short straw is Napoleon Solo, Chief Enforcement Agent for U.N.C.L.E.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Somehow, near Christmas, even the sleek SAS Convair Coronado 990, fastest airliner in the world, seems to take on some of the season's magic.

  Cheerful Danish expatriates, arms laden with bright-wrapped packages, crowd aboard, heading home from London for the Juleaften feast. There's an extra-welcoming smile on the face of the pretty stewardess and an extra warmth in the cabin after the raw air on the tarmac. Nobody would be much surprised if Santa himself came beaming through the pilot's hatch to greet the hundred passengers.

  Christmas spirit? If you are not on the best of terms with your next-seat neighbor by the time you have eaten your smorrebrod and drunk your first glass of Tuborg you must be a Scrooge indeed. The Danes are always friendly, but there's something about a December flight that breaks down the last barriers.

  Mike Stanning hoped the girl beside him would get the message.

  He had noticed her first in the departure lounge at the airport. She was sitting alone—a slim, trim figure in neat, expensive tweeds. She wore no hat. Black, shoulder-length hair framed her oval face like a glossy helmet. The hand turning and re-turning the untasted glass on the table before her was brown, well-shaped, with long, sensitive fingers. When she stood up at the loudspeaker's summons Mike had seen that she was not more than five feet two but built with the grace of a ballet dancer. He'd taken particular pains to get the seat beside her in the aircraft.

  As soon as they had unfastened their seat belts he offered her a cigarette. She shook her head.

  He tried her with his inexpert Danish. She said: "I'm sorry. I don't understand." Her voice was low and musical.

  Mike said, "Don't worry. The Danes don't understand it, either. But I'm working on it. This your first time for Copenhagen?"

  "Yes."

  "Visiting friends?"

  "Not exactly."

  "Business?" Mike tried again. "I'm in engineering, myself. Salesman, you know. Boost the exports, and all that jazz."

  "Yes," she said slowly. "I suppose you could say I was on business." There was a curious expression in her brown eyes. Her tone forbade further questioning. She took up a magazine and began to read.

  Mike called the stewardess and ordered a large Scotch. The girl refused a drink. Through the rest of the hour-long flight he tried to interest himself in a paperback novel.

  Mike always enjoyed the moment of arrival at Kastrup, surely the friendliest airport anywhere—the waving and smiling of the "reception committees" beyond the barrier as the passengers filed through passport inspection; the hugging and hand-shaking, the kissing, laughter (and not a few tears) as families were reunited.

  There was nobody to meet the girl, he noticed. Carrying only a sling-bag of the type they sell in airport gift shops, she pushed quickly through the crowd around the barrier. She did not reappear on the bus for the short trip to the city terminal. Sharing vicariously the excitement around him, Mike forgot about her. He walked out into the bustle of Vesterbrogade, Copenhagen's main street, with a sense of homecoming.

  He checked in at the Excelsior on the corner of Colbjorensensgade, a modest hotel where the food is excellent even by Copenhagen's exacting standards and the rooms both comfortable and quiet.

  "You will be with us for Christmas, Mr. Stanning?" the desk clerk asked.

  "No, worse luck. I'll make it someday, but this time it's just a quick trip. I have to be in London in three days' time."

  "A pity," the clerk smiled. "There is so little to do here out of season."

  "Oh, I don't know," Mike said. "You can usually find a little action around if you care to look for it."

  It turned out to be the understatement of his life.

  * * *

  It was while walking through Stroget late the following afternoon that he saw the girl again.

  You won't find Stroget on any Copenhagen street map. It is not one street but five—Ostergade, Amagertorv, Vimmelskatet, Nygade and Frederiksberggade—winding from Kongens Nytorv to the Town Hall Square, where in December the seventy-foot Christmas tree from Grib Skov towers like the presiding genius of the festival.

  Think of Piccadilly, Bond Street, and Fifth Avenue rolled into one. That's Stroget. You can buy anything along its winding length: furs, trinkets, porcelain, gold and silver, furniture, pictures, antiques, or just a simple toy for a couple of kroner. And in December the sellers of Christmas trees and the Jul straw goats are out in force on the sidewalks, their colorful stalls adding to the general gaiety.

  There is no traffic problem in Stroget. It has long been closed to all traffic on wheels except baby carriages. So you can stroll along at leisure, crossing from side to side of the street without risk to life or limb. Oddly, this security takes some getting used to. You can always pick out an Englishman or an American by the way he stays grimly on the sidewalk while the Danes p
arade happily along the middle of the road.

  The girl was no exception. She was walking slowly, stopping every now and then to look at the superb window displays.

  "Good evening," Mike greeted her. "Just sight-seeing, or is there something you want to buy? I know all the right places."

  She smiled up at him. "I'm just idling," she admitted, "and I was getting a little bored with my own company. Would you like to buy me a coffee somewhere?"

  "I'll do better," Mike said. "Ever tasted Yule punch? No? Then your education is going to start right now. It's a hot, spiced nectar that every good Dane drinks at Christmas, and I know a little bar that's got the recipe dead to rights." He grinned. "By the way, do you realize I don't even know your name?"

  "I'm sorry. It's Bland. Norah Bland."

  "Nice! And I'm Stanning. Mike Stanning. Like the song says: Lovely to know you."

  The next few hours were to live long in Mike's memory.

  * * *

  They were lingering over coffee after a long, late dinner in the Japanese room at The Seven Nations when Norah said suddenly, "Will you take me to a place called The Linden Tree?"

  He looked at her, astonished. "The Linden? I thought you said you didn't know Copenhagen."

  "I don't."

  "Then how do you know about the Linden? It's not the sort of joint that attracts the tourist trade."

  "It doesn't matter how I know. I just want to go there—now."

  He sighed. "Sweetheart," he said, "it's time you heard some of the facts of life. The Linden is a rough, tough joint in the heart of Nyhavn, and Nyhavn is the roughest, toughest part of Copenhagen. It's the seamen's quarter, and at this time of night—in case you're not aware of the fact, it's pushing midnight—it's liable to be really jumping. Not that the Linden is a spot for well-brought-up young women at any time of day. So let's forget it. We'll go to Vingaarden and hear some good jazz."

  She said: "Please, Mike—the Linden Tree. Now."

  He signaled to the waiter. "All right, if you're set on it. But don't blame me if you get your bag snatched—or," he added thoughtfully, "if I get my skull cracked and you have to walk home."

  * * *

  The glaring neons over the bars along Nyhavn were reflected in the black water of the harbor like blood. A party of carousing Swedes stumbled unsteadily along the sidewalk, arguing loudly. Somewhere away in the shadows a woman was shouting a stream of drunken abuse. As Mike paid off the taxi a sudden gust of cold wind made Norah shiver and pull her coat closer around her.

  Mike said, "You're sure you want to go through with it?"

  "Yes."

  "All right. Then stick close. The boys may get wrong ideas."

  He pushed open the swing doors of The Linden Tree and led the way down a flight of uncarpeted stairs. At the bottom a man sat wedged between the wall and a small table. His waistline must have been all of sixty inches and his moon face fell to his shabby shirt collar in a succession of flabby wattles. He tore two paper tickets from a roll and wheezed, "Four kroner."

  Norah said, "Let me pay, Mike. You've been shelling out for everything so far."

  In her haste to forestall him her fingers slipped and her handbag fell to the floor. Lipstick, compact, and a dozen and one things women carry, burst out like a shower. Mike knelt to retrieve them. "That Yule punch!" he said. "I warned you it was potent."

  They were turning from the table when the fat man called, "Miss, I think you forget something." He held out a small, flat packet.

  "Oh! Thanks," Norah said. "I thought we had picked up everything. You are very kind."

  He grunted "Velkom!" uninterestedly and returned to his study of the evening paper.

  They went on into the club. Surprisingly, it was half empty. Four seamen stood talking over their drinks at the small bar counter. A few couples were dancing to the music of the three-piece combo. In a far corner of the long room a boy and girl who looked like students were being uninhibitedly romantic.

  Mike chose a table. A waiter came over and lit the inevitable candle of welcome. Mike ordered two lagers.

  Norah looked around. "I thought you said this was a rough place," she said. "It looks pretty harmless to me."

  "It warms up," he told her. "It's still fairly early for Nyhavn."

  A girl came into the room alone. She wore a black, high-necked sweater and tight black trousers. She was tall and thin, with a pale face that looked undernourished. Her thick hair was blazing red. She walked across to their table and put a hand tentatively on the back of a chair. "May I sit?"

  "Help yourself," Mike said. "Would you like a drink?"

  "Thank you, no. I buy my own."

  She fumbled in a shabby purse and produced three kroner. Without being told, the waiter brought her a Carlsburg. She poured it expertly in the Danish fashion, dropping the beer almost vertically into the glass. She raised the glass, nodded, stared at them with vivid blue eyes, said "Skaal!" then nodded again and drank.

  After a few minutes she got up and went over to join the seamen at the bar. Curiously, Mike could have sworn that she gave Norah a glance of understanding as she left the table.

  "Want to dance?" Mike suggested.

  Norah shook her head. "No," she said. "You were right. This place bores me, and I think I'm tired. Would you mind taking me home?"

  "Of course. The only thing is, I don't know where you live."

  "I've got an apartment in Marievej, out in Hellerup. A— a friend lent it to me."

  He said nothing, and she smiled. "That's what I like about you, Mike," she said. "You're not the inquisitive type."

  Suddenly, in the taxi, she was in his arms. She kissed him almost desperately. "We have so little time," she whispered.

  He could feel wetness on his cheek and knew she was crying. He said awkwardly, trying to make light of it, "Oh, come on, now. We've got a couple of days together yet. There's nothing to be upset about."

  She drew away. "You don't understand. How could you?"

  He said, "I'm beginning to understand that you're in some kind of trouble. What is it? The law?"

  "No." She seemed to make up her mind. "Mike, I've got to trust you. Please keep this with you until you get back to London. I'll contact you there—at your office."

  She opened her bag and brought out the small oblong package the doorman at The Linden Tree had given her. In the intermittent light of the street lights he could see that it was wrapped in white paper and that the ends were sealed with wax.

  He grinned. "What is it? Purple hearts?"

  Her voice was somber. "It's dynamite."

  "As long as it doesn't blow up on me, I'll look after it," he answered, stuffing the package in his pocket. Then took her in his arms again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A business deal kept Mike occupied throughout the morning of the next day. It was past 1:00 P.M. when he returned to the hotel for lunch.

  The desk clerk handed him a written message: "Please ring Trorod 53945."

  He looked at it, puzzled. Trorod was the exchange for Holte, a village some miles outside Copenhagen. He knew no one there. He went to his room and called the number.

  A cultivated voice answered. It said, "Garbridge here."

  It rang no bell. Mike said, "Stanning. You want me?"

  "Ah, yes, Mr. Stanning." The voice was almost purring. "My name is Garbridge...Major Garbridge. We haven't met, but I have a little proposition which I think would interest you. Could you come out here? I am at the Rodehus, Gammel Holte, you know."

  "When?" Mike asked.

  "At once, if you can spare the time. It would be worth your while."

  Mike looked at his watch. "I could be with you at about four o'clock. But I'm not sure of the way."

  Garbridge said, "Take the S-train to Jaegersborg, and get the silver bus there. The driver will drop you off on the main road near the house, and I'll be waiting for you."

  "Fine," Mike said. "I'm on my way."

  * * *

  The journey was shorter than he had anticipated. It was still broad daylight when the bus deposited him in what appeared to be a completely deserted stretch of countryside. The road was flanked by flat pastures where red cattle grazed amicably, and beyond, forests of beech. There was not a house in sight. It was with some relief that Mike saw a tall figure striding toward him.