"Illya, it'll be perfectly safe. Probably. Depending on how severe the storm is."
"How can we tell when we start out how bad the storm will get? We would be swamped, capsized and sunk unless we had a very strong-hulled boat with sealed flotation chambers."
Escott leaned back in his old wing-chair and watched smiling as the two younger men thrashed out the solution to their own problem. This method had become more and more natural to him in later years, and he liked it. When his mind occasionally clouded, he could still guide others to the logical conclusions in their ways.
"All our gear could be packed in watertight compartments, and the sailors said there was a floating dock there left out in all weathers. We could even come in there."
Illya nodded, and Napoleon rose, saying, "Think it over for a minute while I get a drink of water."
As he left Escott leaned forward, a look of intense curiosity on his face. "Mr. Kuryakin, if it would not be betraying a confidence, could you tell me - did Mr. Solo lie about his marriage?"
Illya glanced at the closed kitchen door, thou quickly, and decided the truth was deserved. "Yes, did. It's not a confidence, but he doesn't like to be reminded of it. Married at nineteen, wife was killed in an automobile accident a year later. Sometimes I think he's never gotten over it. He probably denied it a moment ago through shock reaction."
Escott nodded. "I quite understand," he said. "Sorry to have intruded."
"I won't mention it."
Napoleon popped through the kitchen door again, asking, "Are you willing?" and Illya, caught slightly by surprise, said "Of course," before he had fully grasped the question.
"Fine," said Solo. "Tomorrow we will return to Baycombe and see about reserving an appropriate vessel for the next good storm."
"That should be in a few days. A low-pressure area was reported moving down from the Norwegian Sea, and within three days you will have all the storm you could desire," Escott said with a smile. "Today is Friday… that gives you the whole weekend to make your preparations. You may spend the night here if you wish, and take a main-line train tomorrow morning towards Baycombe."
"Well, it's a fair walk back to town…" Napoleon admitted.
"There will be my own honey with breakfast - the finest honey produced in this whole Kingdom," said Escott.
"Quite a temptation," Illya said, glancing at Napoleon, who nodded agreement. "Thank you. We accept both invitations."
Chapter 12
How Illya Discovered the Pleasures of Seafaring, and Napoleon Solo Sought a Rainbow in the Midst of a Storm.
SATURDAY THEY returned to Baycombe, and with help from their friends there, found a satisfactory boat. Sunday was beautiful again, with a light breeze from the north hinting of the storm to come. Napoleon and Illya attended Father John's mass in the morning, and went with Joey and Aunt Jane for a picnic in the afternoon. They sat in the grass atop a low cliff overlooking the sea and talked of inconsequentials.
Joey showed them what looked like a military Pill box - the remains of a Coastal Defense Station better than fifty years old. "It looks as if someone tried to convert it into a cottage," Joey said. "I can't think why."
"I can," said Napoleon. "This would be a nice place to get utterly away from the world. Just the wind and the sea, and a safe solid place to hide from the weather. If it's still around when I retire, maybe I'll see about buying it. That's probably what the previous inhabitant did."
"Oh no," Aunt Jane said. "This was the residence of a young man - about six feet tall and quite athletic. He had an older man with him, and was quite well off."
Illya sighed. "You were taught that trick by Mr. Escott, weren't you. Go ahead. How can you tell?"
"There are holes in the wall above the sink where a mirror was mounted. Its height indicated the height of its user. The older man had the second room back; he was in the position of a servant, because the younger man had the larger bedroom with the window."
Napoleon and Illya examined the areas she indicated, and Illya looked up first. "He must have either been well off or subject to fluctuations in fortune," he said. "There was no difference at all in the color or texture of the paper where nailholes indicate something was hanging, like a picture."
"Therefore," continued Napoleon without a pause, "he spent all sorts of money making the place livable and then moved out very shortly."
Aunt Jane nodded proudly. "That was quite good. I hadn't noticed that myself - my statement was based on other evidence. You see how your association with him has sharpened your eyes."
Napoleon and Illya looked at each other. Perhaps it was so - they hoped it was.
Monday blew up cloudy and cold. It started to rain around noon, while Napoleon and Illya were down at the dock making sure all their gear was safely stowed. They sealed the last box and hurried back up the street to Joey's house. There they had a hearty lunch and lay down for a few more hours' sleep before the long night ahead.
It was dark when they awoke, and Joey had supper ready for them. The storm was higher, and wind muttering around the house like an animal. They ate again, light, rich food which would keep them going through the cold without overloading their stomachs.
They spent nearly half an hour getting dressed for the excursion, from warm undergarments out through several layers to the waterproofs they slipped on over the entire ensemble. A last steaming cup of tea, and they were ready to go.
Two electric torches lighted their way down to the sheltered harbor, where the waves, even with force abated, tossed their craft from side to side, bouncing against the pilings and tugging at her moorings.
Illya looked at his partner and shook his head. "The storm is getting worse," he said. "Only an idiot would go out in an open boat on a night like this."
"I know," said Napoleon. "You ready?"
"Of course."
The waterfront was deserted in the storm, and alone the U.N.C.L.E. agents rigged the boat and cast off. Napoleon pushed the dock away with a small spar at the crest of one wave, and hauled up the single jib sail they would use. Illya hung on the rudder as he had been instructed, and the wind caught them up and hurled them from the shore.
It took some work to keep them from the end of the breakwater, but shouted instruction and bruised hands brought them clearly past the rain-dimmed lighthouse into the sweep of the open sea.
The wind was steady, here, and in a matter of minutes Napoleon had them so rigged that it bore them along, heading crabwise towards a particular compass setting. Rain slashed at the deck and tore at their foul-weather gear, which was earning its name. The tiller had been lashed, and Illya had nothing to do but hold on, and adjust the lines from time to time. Holding on still took most of his attention.
Napoleon was up at the prow where the jib was belayed, one hand on a cleat and the other on the rope, keeping the sail trimmed as the slamming waves against her hull tried to force her to fall away from her true course. He was really at home on a somewhat smaller boat, but he adjusted his touch and had the craft under good control for all her bucking. Boiling waves swept up around him and tore at his legs as they raced across the deck. The salt spray stung his eyes and chilled his exposed face, and the sharp tang of it tasted in the back of his mouth. He leaned back on a fixed line and looked for Illya.