Solo snorted again. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Irish mothers must give their boy-babies a shotgun in the cradle instead of a rattle.”
“How many would there be in the crew?” Kuryakin asked Sarah.
“Only two—helmsman and deckhand. I’ve an idea. You two have done all the clever things so far—now it’s my turn.” She unfolded her plan, and they didn’t care for it at all, but they had nothing better to offer, so she won out. “Don’t be too far away, now,” she warned, and set off to swim towards the idling craft with much unnecessary splashing and agitation. The two men watched anxiously, then set off in very quiet pursuit. They saw a brawny figure lean over the stern and take aim. At the very last moment, when they were both expecting to hear the sound of the shot, she lifted her head and began to yell.
“Help! Help! It’s me—Sarah! They’re after me!”
The man in the stem hesitated, leaned forward to peer. Solo muttered, “She’s made it. It’s up to us now.”
He inhaled an enormous breath, set his aim on the midships ladder, and went under, swimming strongly in that direction, keeping on until he felt certain the top of his head was coming off. And then, thankfully, he could make out the wavering black bulk of the cruiser just ahead. He surfaced, blowing hugely and ready for anything, just in time to see Sarah approaching the ladder, and a man on board turning to lower himself a step or two, and to crouch, to extend a hand to help her out. A wave lifted itself between them, went on to hoist her up. She reached for that helping hand, clung to it, struggled on to the bottom rung, then the next, got a good grab on the side-rope, and then, bracing her feet against the side of the cruiser, she surged back and out, heaving with all her weight.
The helpful one yelled as his one-handed grip tore loose, hampered as it was by his ardent desire to hold the shotgun in that same hand. The scene seemed to hang for a moment in slow motion, the helmsman describing an arc over her head, her hand wrenching free of his, then darting out to catch the falling weapon. As he struck the water with a mighty splash, she went up the rest of the ladder like a cat and threw herself flat on the deck.
Solo made for the ladder hurriedly, glanced up to see a familiar double-muzzle aimed at him from over the bows, and dived fast. He came up in time to hear Sarah’s weapon speak loudly, saw that the menace from the bows no longer threatened, grabbed the ladder and went up as fast as he could, across the narrow deck and into the cover of the wheelhouse, where Sarah was busily stuffing fresh shells into the captured weapon.
“You won’t need that,” he panted. “Let me keep him busy with mine.”
“It’ll take the pair of us,” she argued. “He’s got plenty of cover up forward, and we’ve got to keep him busy, to give Illya a chance.”
“All right, you take that side, I’ll take this.”
He went down flat once more and edged until he could peer around the wheelhouse superstructure and along the deck. Nothing moved. All at once he heard her let fly thunderously, and two sea-booted feet dropped urgently to the deck up there on his side. He snapped a shot and rolled back hurriedly as a blast of small lead wailed by, bouncing from the woodwork. He waited for the second barrel, and cursed as it failed to come. This fellow was too crafty to fire both barrels at once.
Sarah stood up abruptly and fired blind, over the top of the wheelhouse, and then down. This time there was an immediate reply and Solo chanced his eye around the edge, pistol ready—and then halted, as he saw a wet blond head come up over the bows and grin. Two eager arms reached, there came a wild and despairing yell, and then a splash.
“And that’s it!” Solo straightened up and sighed, feeling suddenly old and tired. “Talk turkey to those two, will you, while I look for some rope to tie them with.”
Not too long later, with the prisoners safely tied and the engines growling out their powerful song, Sarah took the wheel. “Going home,” she said. “And I do have a home, now. Won’t you come and stay a while?”
“That depends.” Solo smiled, as Kuryakin operated the transmitter.
“Volga to Shamrock.”
“Shamrock here. Hold it.”
A click, then Waverly’s voice. “Mr. Kuryakin?”
“Yes, sir. Mission accomplished, ferment destroyed, Royalty and Thrush won’t be troubling us any longer. Prisoners taken; no damage to us, threat eliminated. I’m afraid we lost the launch, sir, but we are returning in the cruiser. I would like to suggest some kind of commendation to Miss Sarah O’Rourke, sir. She has been most helpful.”
“I would agree. She seems to be a most intelligent young woman. Let me speak to Mr. Solo, please.”
Illya passed the set across to his companion. “Solo speaking, sir.”
“Mr. Solo. I have been having a long and very interesting talk with Miss Bridget O’Rourke. She too has proved most helpful. I get the impression that Dr. O’Rourke has been a bad influence in her life.”
“I’m glad you see it that way, sir. I had the same impression.”
“Yes. She tells me you saved her life. Is that so?”
“Well—” Solo hesitated. “I happened to be handy, that’s all.”
“I see. I get the impression that your action has made a great impact on her outlook, that she wishes to reform. I’d no idea you had such a salutary influence on young women.” A pause, during which Solo frowned, wondering what was coming next. Then: “She’s very intelligent. See what you can do with her, will you?”
Solo stared in amazement at the instrument in his hand. “What? You mean—?”
“There are a number of loose ends to clear up. Damage to the castle will have to be made good, for one thing. And the illegal processes in the brewery must be eliminated and all information impounded. A lot to do, and those two girls are the legal inheritors. They stand in need of help, advice and guidance. I’m leaving you in charge for a while. Use your influence!”
“Yes, sir!” Solo vowed heartily, and winked at Illya. “On my own?”
“Mr. Kuryakin will assist you with the technical side. I estimate it will take you at least two weeks to settle everything. I think Miss O’Rourke wishes to speak to you now. Go ahead, my dear.”
“Hello, Napoleon.” Her voice sounded uncertain and timid. “Did you hear that? Mr. Waverly says you’re to stay on a bit and take care of things!”
“That’s right.” He deliberately kept his tone casual. “Help you to make a new, clean start. You are clean, I hope?”
“Oh yes.” She managed a laugh. “I’ve had a bath. Will you be coming back to the castle right away?”
“Right away.” He glanced at his watch, exchanged a grin with Sarah at the wheel, and added, “We should be in time for early lunch. Can you cook?”
“Not very well. I suppose I shall have to start learning all the dull things now. No more excitement.”
“Well now,” he said, and raised a brow at Illya’s faint grin, “excitement comes in several different forms. I wouldn’t say the prospect is exactly dull, somehow!”
Sarah laughed, and turned to Illya. “Dull, he says! Illya—” And she paused as if tasting the sound. “That’s a strange name. Have you another one?”
Solo grinned broadly and opened his mouth to say it, but Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, seeing the terrible prospect of being called “Nicky” for the next two weeks, leveled his chill gray eyes at his friend and reached for the instrument.
“Napoleon!” he said warningly. “You too have another name. Would you want me to whisper it to Miss Bridget, right now?”
Napoleon Solo caught himself, closed his mouth hurriedly and smiled. “I guess you’re right, Illya. U.N.C.L.E. agents must preserve some secrets!”