15 - The Utopia Affair Read Online Free PDF Page A

prescription blank, signed by a scribble he did not recognize, saying, Leon Dodgson. Six oz. private blend smoking mixture. Non- refillable.
    He smiled slightly. They would let him taper off as he wished, but there would be no more for the duration. Instead, he replaced the lid and turned to the desk itself. In the top drawer, next to the Gideon Bible, he found the described literature. His cottage was designated 35 on the key, and on the map a path through the woods to the centrally located lodge was clearly indicated. He put the map down and picked up some thing else.
    It was a tastefully done brochure, describing the many forms of entertainment and diversion available to the guests of Utopia. None of them sounded especially interesting, he thought as he leafed through. One caught his eye—a war game of some kind, on a large scale. It looked rather complicated and possibly challenging; perhaps he would look into it tomorrow. His first need was to learn the rules of the comfortably primitive prison he found himself confined in. He set his alarm watch for six o'clock to give himself time to unpack and dress for dinner, if that would be proper, and opened his suitcase.
    A small black box and several coils of wire came out first, and ten minutes passed quickly as he connected the wires to all the windows and plugged in the black box. Since he was American, the bungalow was furnished with 117-volt 60-cycle a.c. and everything would work; a few adjustments on the box and the place was protected. Anyone approaching a window from outside would trigger the alarm. Essentially it was a portable edition of Mr. Solo's capacitance-actuated built-in, and would keep him safe from unauthorized visitation. The precaution was probably unnecessary, but a lifetime of habit dies hard. He turned back to his luggage and shook out a suit. Dinner in a couple hours. Mentally he began to relax a little, looking forward without enthusiasm to six quiet weeks.
     
     
    Chapter 3
    "Don't Make Waves."
     
     
    HIS OWN MOTHER would have been unlikely to recognize Illya Kuryakin when he stepped from the same twin-jet two days later. His hair had been cropped to a severe eighth of an inch, lifts in his shoes added two inches to his height, a stubbly beard lengthened his jaw and an intentionally faulty left shoe gave him a very realistic, though slight limp. Illya was quite aware that Waverly was even more perceptive than his mother, but he felt reasonably confident of passing at least cursory examination. He had taken the false name and imaginary identity of one Klaus Rademeyer, with excellent references from some of the finest hotels in Europe.
    "Klaus" existed only in the minds of a few cooperative clerks, properly placed, and in the files of Section Four of the U.N.C.L.E. He had an irreproachable record and credible background and identifying characteristics which could be adapted to many different agents—as they had been several times in the past. Now he had accepted employment in Utopia, bringing the subtle skills and special talents of Illya Kuryakin within his fierce-looking shell.
    Like Waverly, he had come in alone and was met by the microbus. But he carried his own bag, and the driver shook hands with him. He gave the proper click with his heels as he returned the handshake and accepted the welcome.
    The bus bounced away in a different direction, and shortly brought them up to the side of a hill. The driver touched a button on the dash and the hill split open, revealing an artificially illuminated area of unguessable extent. They drove in, and the doors closed behind them.
    "You'll be going to Park Security first thing," the driver said as he drove slowly through a warren of tunnels. "They'll check you in and pass you along to Personnel, who'll see to your quarters, uniforms, scheduling and so on. Don't worry, it won't take long. We're all computerized here."
    He gestured about them. "All the underground stuff is Security Area—means it's off