Free Get Smart 7 - Max Smart - The Spy Who Went Out to the Cold by William Johnston Page B

light moved from Max to 99. “Don’t worry, lady,” the rough voice said. “You’re being kidnapped by river pirates, that’s all. If you’re rich, or if you have rich friends, and they’re willing to pay a king’s ransom to get you back, you have no problems.”
    “We’re not rich,” Max said gruffly. “And we don’t have any rich friends.”
    “Oy!—do you have problems!” the voice groaned.
    The second voice spoke up again. “On the contrary, Chief,” it said. “If they’re not rich, then that’s our problem. We can’t get a ransom for them. Let’s just raid the ice box and leave it at that.”
    “Yeah, box,” a third voice said.
    “But can we trust them?” the first voice asked. “Under normal conditions, they might be honest as the day is long. But this is an extreme circumstance. They could be lying, saying they’re not rich.”
    “Chief, look at it logically,” the second voice said. “If they were rich, what would they be doing on this ratty old houseboat, floating idly up the Nile? Only rich Americans do that.”
    “And that’s another thing,” Max said. “We’re American citizens!”
    “Bring ’em along,” the first voice said.
    “Yeah, bring,” the third voice said.
    The pirates hustled Max and 99 off the houseboat and took them through the darkness to their hideout, which, from the outside, looked like a huge pile of rocks, and, from the inside, looked like the interior of a tomb. In the beam of light, Max caught a glimpse of a number of mummy cases.
    “It’s not your conventional hideout,” the first voice said. “But, in our business, it saves time. After we rub out our victims, we don’t have the bother of carting the bodies out to the cemetery. We just stuff them into these mummy cases. Then, in time, an archeologist comes along and discovers them and ships them off to a museum in New York or London or Paris or somewhere.”
    “You mean they think they’re mummies?” Max said incredulously.
    “You know the mummy of King Akim-Tut-Amen at the Metropolitan in New York?” the first voice replied. “Actually, that’s a Mr. Hiram Overholt, late of Omaha, Nebraska.”
    “That’s terrible!” Max said.
    “As a matter of fact, it was a break for old Overholt,” the voice replied. “He and his wife didn’t get along too well. And now she’s in London.”
    “A mummy?”
    “I doubt it,” the voice replied. “At least, she was childless when she left here. But now,” he said, “let’s talk about you. To whom shall we send the ransom telegram? Your bank? Your stock broker? Your lawyer? The Diners Club?”
    “Yeah, Club?” the third voice said.
    “You’re wasting your time,” 99 said. “We’re not—”
    “Uh . . . 99, just a minute,” Max interrupted. “I think we would be wise to cooperate with these gentlemen.” He addressed the bandits. “You can send the telegram to The Chief at Control in Washington, D.C.,” he said. “I’m sure he’ll take immediate action.”
    “Doesn’t he have a name?” the first voice said. “Isn’t that a little odd?”
    “What’s so odd about that?” 99 asked.
    “Yes, Chief, what’s so odd about that?” the second voice asked.
    “Yeah, what’s?” the third voice asked.
    “Sorry I brought it up,” the first voice said. “Tie these two up with tape and stuff them into a couple of mummy cases,” he commanded his followers. “Then we’ll get that telegram off to what’s-his-name.”
    Max and 99 were bound hand and foot with tape and then placed in a pair of empty cases. After that, the lids were closed.
    “We’ll be back to rub you out as soon as we get an answer to the telegram,” the bandit leader advised them. “In the meantime, try to relax.”
    “You fiends!” 99 cried.
    “What kind of gratitude is that?” the second voice said, hurt. “Your body will probably get a free trip to New York, Paris or London out of this.”
    “Let’s get going,” the leader said. “That telegram to