15 - The Utopia Affair Read Online Free PDF Page B

job, and he rose from his bed to hoist his bulky suitcase up onto it. He unlocked the latches and did certain other things to make it safe to open. He had been fairly sure the Security people would not search his bag without formally asking permission, and he had been right. He rummaged around among the contents until he found what he was looking for and came up with a box containing four light bulbs.
    They were descendants of light bulbs Illya himself had used many years before joining U.N.C.L.E., but with all the flaws designed away. The old ones would only function when the light was on, and had no storage capability. Each of these little hundred-watt beauties, fresh from the laboratory of Mr. Simpson of Section Eight, contained a carrier-current transmitter, a voice-triggered recording device with twelve hours capacity, and nickel-cadmium batteries capable of carrying on continuous operation for four hours after the light had been on for ten minutes. Best of all, it wouldn't need constant monitoring and would be impossible to detect, since it would transmit only when he signaled it, by carrier-current as well, and then it would transmit in a one-minute squirt everything it had heard since it had last been listened to. This he could record on a similar machine and play back at normal speed.
    His time was his own, and he was expected to use it to discover his way around. Very well. He punched up the number he found listed for the directory service. Idly he scanned through the staff roster, noting department titles and positions, pausing once to observe with interest that far down under Kitchen Staff was listed one Rademeyer, Klaus, and his room number. That was interesting. Utopia was remarkably efficient indeed. He set part of his mind considering problems of learning all the security routines and getting around them to plant and monitor his bugs. He switched to the guest list, where each name was listed with a vague indication of occupation, and found his quarry—Dodgson, Leon: #35. Executive.
    Somehow he would have to watch him every moment without being noticed himself. He remembered Section Six's final briefing, and his special adjuration on the maintenance of security. "Above all," he had been told, "you must do nothing that could attract attention to yourself, and especially avoid upsetting the resort's routines. Don't leave bodies lying around—it's unsanitary and reflects badly on our organization. Some of the most important people in the world are there, and you know how Mr. Waverly feels about discretion. Your motto at all times should be, Don't Make Waves ."
    Illya flicked the control knob until the soft floating sound of a recorded trumpet filled the speakers with Miles Davis' Sketches of Spain , and started looking through his collections of papers for a map. Number 35 was about half a mile from the Main Lodge... but where was that from where he was now? He found another map with an overlay showing the employee residences and office complex—a subterranean area centered on the Main Lodge but easily four times as large. Its major exits and entrances were screened from the guest's area by hills, stands of trees and other apparently natural obstacles. Illya smiled slightly. The entire operation was basically an expensive, adult Disneyland; and he was now one of the merry elves that scampered around keeping it all running. His smile turned wry and faded as he sank into his studies.
     
    By Sunday morning he could find his way around, and had his mental compass locked on South. He had looked over the security personnel, from a respectful distance, and found them of the finest quality for dealing with guests. This meant they were generally polite and a little cautious, and therefore slightly easier to get by than rude and precipitous guards. He also observed them to use hand transceivers from time to time despite the all-frequency jamming, and resolved to look into the techniques they used, on behalf of Mr.