Collection 3 - Year One

by LRH Balzer

  Actually, three assignments completed. Thrush had not been alerted to the attack or to their suspicions. Since Waverly had not mentioned her name during the debriefing, Serena Malipiero was no longer under suspicion. For the moment, anyway.

  Solo walked into his apartment, dropped his backpack on the floor, and reset the security system. Crossing to the telephone, he saw the roses on his dining table and froze. The satisfied smile fell from his face as he recognized the handwriting on the envelope beside them. He tore it open and read the words.

  My darling,

  I must leave now. My holiday is over and I have been recalled. Two weeks go quickly when it is a lifetime.

  I heard about what happened at Strastown this afternoon, and your involvement, and I know they suspect that I told you the location.

  I didn't tell them anything, Napoleon, and don't worry, I won't. What happened with us was private. It probably shouldn't have happened at all, because it could never remain private. We are too much a part of our work.

  As we discussed, Thrush has a different way of handling things than U.N.C.L.E., but know always that I love you and would stay if I could find a way.

  I thought about your partner last night. How strange it must be to have someone to work with, to talk with, to trust the way you trust him and he trusts you. To have a friend like that.

  It is impossible for me to have that here. It's not the way we work. Would you be surprised if I told you that you are the only friend I have known?

  It figures, doesn't it? My only friend has been designated my foe. My only real love is called my enemy.

  Do you think we could have made it work? I honestly don't know. It was too complicated. I do love you, though. Remember that.

  Take care of your partner. And take care of yourself, my darling.

  Who knows? Maybe one day...

  * * *

  It was Waverly who told him, one week later. Blunt, as usual, handing him a report.

  She was dead.

  Shot through the head, execution style. It was a fluke the body was found at all, but it had been caught in some fishing line off the coast, he said.

  In a sudden need to escape the building, Napoleon walked alone through the park in the brisk winter air, hands in his pockets, his coat lapels turned up. He walked silently down the path they had taken, past the street musician they had stopped and listened to, past the pretzel stalls, the chestnut wagon, and the street vendors. He stopped at the bench they had laughed on and sat down for a few minutes, listening to the music in the distance and staring at the early buds on a tree across the path.

  Then he turned and walked back.

  Epilogue

  He loved it. The intoxicating atmosphere of wealth and culture and ease that he had been born into. The tuxedos and evening gowns and elbow length gloves. The endless talk of stocks and philosophy and yachts. The fine music and the fine, fine ladies. No better way to spend an evening.

  No finer people to share it with.

  It was the final intermission at the opera and Napoleon Solo stood in the dress circle foyer, a brandy in one hand and Barbara at his side, her hand resting comfortably on his arm. Napoleon smiled down at his partner, sitting in front of him on a bench, in full tuxedo, laughing and reading a Superman comic to Heather McNabb, unaware of the condescending stares of the upper-class snobs around him.

  Napoleon loved it.

  Author's postscript

  The previous story was supposed to just be about a prison riot, but as I worked my research I was appalled at what most likely would have happened in those circumstances. I copped out and tried to write it the 'safe' way, then slowly realized I had no choice but to be fair with the subject.

  The statistics of prison rape in the sixties and seventies are difficult to grasp. If you were male, white, and under the age of twenty-five, the chance of you being raped within the first few days after your arrival at many state prisons was almost 100%. (I'm not sure what the statistics are for prison rape in the nineties.)

  According to some current nationwide statistics, it is believed males make up 25% of all out-of-prison rape victims, though only 10% of those who seek help and counseling after a rape are male. Male victims are usually gang raped, brutalized more, and held captive longer. While society is 'comfortable' talking about females who are raped, the male who is raped has less outlet for understanding and compassion. The major aspects of manhood are strength and sexuality; when a man has been raped, he feels he's lost both.

  If you, or someone you know, have been raped, make sure you both get some counseling, no matter how long ago it was. You'll both heal faster with a friend to take you through it.

  The Pelyonki Affair

  Day One - Wednesday: Escape and Cable

  A friend must not be hurt, even in jest.

  Syrus

  March 1965

  On the coast of Maine

  3:00 a.m.

  "Die, damn you!" The words tore from Illya Kuryakin's mouth. He gasped for oxygen, tears streaming from gray-blue eyes already aching from the toxic gas permeating the building.

  But the Thrush guard had no intention of dying. His orders had been clear: retrieve the last experiment and kill the U.N.C.L.E. agent. He had not expected the man to attack him as he entered the room; the prisoner Kuryakin should have been unconscious from the gas, not hiding behind the door. With a bellow for help, he threw off the slight captive, reached for his gun, and straightened the breathing mask with his free hand.

  The U.N.C.L.E. agent lunged up at the guard again, knocking off the mask a second time and locking his hands around the man's neck. Illya's arms shook with the exertion of his fight for survival, knowing too well that only one of them could leave the room alive. Dauntless, he clung to his hold on the man, fingers and thumbs around the other's windpipe, pressing, choking him, trying to asphyxiate him before the struggling guard regained control. He felt something give finally and with a ragged gasp, he crumpled onto the lifeless body that fell from his hands.

  Two seconds later, Illya was on his feet again. He scooped up his bundle and hurled himself through the doorway, out of the room where he had been held for three weeks. An explosion elsewhere in the building echoed through the walls, the poisoned air gradually replaced with the reek of burning gasoline. He stumbled blindly into the hallway, waving his arm through the smoke in a wild attempt to see a path to safety. He knew his only hope lay in finding a way out of the maze before the roaring heat engulfed him. Another explosion, behind him now, hurried him down the corridor to collapse at a latched door. His hands trembled as he grappled with it, the sensation of a throat crushing beneath his fingers a too-vivid memory, quickly shoved now to the back of his mind.

  The door opened; dark smoke filled the next corridor. He dropped to his knees, crawling over demolished furniture and discarded files meant to disappear in the inferno Thrush had ignited. The operation was obviously over and, if this followed the usual pattern, they had torched the clinic rather than risk any valuable material falling into the wrong hands.

  Not me. Not this time. I'm not going to be swept away with the other mistakes you've made.

  With the gun he had wrestled from the dead guard, he shot his way through a third door, urgently trying to remember the layout of the building from his brief self-guided tour weeks before. Left, then right. The gun held out before him wavered as he staggered along the Thrush clinic's corridors. Right again? No, straight ahead.

  So close he could see outside... but the entranceway was in flames, impossible to pass through. Sweat poured from his face as he paused, his watery eyes trying to see through the fire and deadly smoke. His hand slid back through greasy hair, pushing it off his forehead as alternative directions slid into his memory and set his feet moving. Side exit. Yes. Into the alley. The way I came in -- What?

  A high-pitched cry startled him, a piercing scream from another part of the clinic. No. He shifted the bundle he carried to his other shoulder and stopped, uncer
tain of what to do and knowing the absolute exigency of vacating the structure before it collapsed on him.

  Swearing, he spun and traced his steps back through the burning building.

  * * * * *

  New York

  Same time

  Napoleon Solo turned over in bed, caught in the now-familiar dream. They were in Paris on assignment. The case was over and he had called Waverly to give the preliminary report.[3]

  *

  There still remains the situation in Amsterdam, Mr. Solo. There is nothing in your report to indicate how the diamonds were stolen. (Waverly's displeasure had come through the telephone line clearly.)

  Shall I check into it, sir? I could take a morning flight…

  No. Send Mr. Kuryakin. He is better suited for this. He speaks the language fluently and is an expert in the vault mechanism and security system. You would only get in his way. (The line had abruptly gone dead.)

  *

  So why hadn't he told Illya that?

  Napoleon turned over again, trying to escape the rest of the dream memory as it shifted back to the floor-side table at the nightclub.

  *

  Well, what did he say? (His partner's eyes were calm; he was beginning to relax again.)

  Mr. Waverly said he wants you to go to Amsterdam tomorrow and see if you can find out how Max and Joseph pulled off the robbery in the first place.

  (Silence for a beat.) But why me? Wasn't our report satisfactory?

  Well, there are one or two details he couldn't understand -- how you managed to search the place without finding the diamonds in the furniture.

  (Confusion.) And you told him?

  Well, what could I say, Illya? I told him you forgot.

  (Stunned.) You what?

  Well, Illya, you wouldn't want me to lie to Mr. Waverly, would you?

  (Flustered now, how rare.) You -- you blockhead!

  Well, Illya, you should have told me.

  Napoleon! (The eyes had looked desperate. Unbelieving.)

  Hey, pussycat. Dance with the lady. Hmmm? Oui?

  *

  Solo woke up cursing, still hearing the dying echo of his own laughter three weeks before as he had left his partner and swept Mary onto the Parisian nightclub dance floor feeling very pleased with himself. The woman was beautiful, intelligent, and felt indebted to him -- overall, his favorite combination of attributes. It had felt good to unwind from the threat of kidnapping and death and the previous day's crazy chase from car to train to helicopter.

  He had initially shrugged off Kuryakin's disappearance from the nightclub. The Russian usually preferred solitude after an assignment and would not have been interested in amusing Mary's elderly voice coach. A good night's sleep would be more to his liking after the bizarre week of twists and setbacks.

  Aside from entertaining Mary -- and one cops-and-robbers routine with Illya that had the two partners roaring with laughter afterwards -- the case had been frustrating. On the last day, Illya had been attacked in a phone booth, his condition unknown, his communicator silent for four long hours as Napoleon raced across the French countryside after Mary and the diamonds. Even after they were reunited, Illya's tension was noticeable, despite Napoleon's efforts to get his partner to relax.

  So Napoleon danced away the evening, assured his partner was taking it easy and resting up, but the hotel room was empty when he returned and Illya was gone. A note left at the front desk stated he was on his way to Amsterdam as ordered.

  And now, three weeks had gone by and there was still no sign of him.

  Napoleon swung his legs over the edge of the bed and glanced at the clock hands eerily glowing in the darkness, cursing the dream, the assignment, and especially the clock. Three in the morning.

  The unspeakable had happened. You, Napoleon, old man, have been woken up in the middle of the night with a guilty conscience. How about that?

  At least he still had one. Sometimes he wasn't sure. It was often easier in their business to dispense with consciences and such things. Ethics, morals, scruples -- all had a nasty habit of interfering with an assignment.

  As the mantel clock in his living room quietly chimed the early morning hour, Napoleon Solo paced his apartment. He finally dropped to a table in the small kitchen, brooding over a too-strong cup of tea.

  For a man who seemed to understand intuitively what Solo wanted while in the midst of battle, Kuryakin was clueless when it came to everyday ribbing and good old-fashioned American teasing --

  -- that the Russian couldn't begin to understand, of course.

  How could he? What existed in Illya's stormy background to prepare him for the callous wit of Napoleon Solo?

  Certainly not the threat of death for failing a job assignment that the GRU[4] held over his head. Or the KGB[5] fear of being banished to God-knows-where if he didn't perform as expected. Or even the CIA jumping at any indication that he was not the top-rated expert U.N.C.L.E. claimed he was.

  Napoleon Solo, in your great wisdom as Chief Enforcement Officer, you attacked where he was most vulnerable and your best agent left for Amsterdam in disgrace, feeling humiliated and ashamed for not measuring up to Waverly's -- or your -- expectations.

  Funny. Very funny. He slammed his fist on the table surface, wondering again if he would ever have a chance to undo the damage he had done and pass the message from Waverly on accurately. It probably wouldn't have changed the events of the past few weeks, but at least, wherever he was, Illya would know they trusted him.

  Where did you disappear to, Illya? Don't you know yet that you don't have to prove anything to me?

  Solo pushed himself up from the table and headed back to bed. In less than four hours he was off on a new assignment, this time to Philadelphia to investigate a series of grisly murders attributed to Thrush in the City of Brotherly Love.

  The way his luck was running, he'd be fortunate if he didn't start a civil war in the state.

  * * * * *

  New York Headquarters

  2:00 p.m.

  Alexander Waverly frowned at the file on his desk, flipping it open for the third time that hour.

  The Amsterdam, Netherlands, office had made it clear that Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin had endured a severe headache while on assignment there. The report, dated March 1st, noted it in detail and attributed it to the minor head injury Kuryakin had suffered two days previous in Paris, France. On the admonishment of the senior medical staff member at the Amsterdam U.N.C.L.E. office, Kuryakin had reluctantly left to return to his hotel room to rest.

  A few hours later, the report continued, there had been a call from Kuryakin over the local channel requesting information on a Dr. Weller, a deceased geneticist. He had checked in again within a short time to collect the findings, politely thanked the staff for their help, and advised them he would be leaving the city. He couriered his completed report on the diamond robbery to them and dropped out of sight.

  It wasn't until the New York airport called saying Kuryakin's luggage had not been claimed that Waverly had known something was wrong. Solo was sent to retrieve the cases and found the brief coded message within from his partner: Kuryakin was checking out a Thrush agent and would report when he had more information.

  That it was urgent went without saying. Kuryakin would not have followed someone without authorization from U.N.C.L.E. if it had been anything less than critical.

  He was missing, yet not missing.

  Messages filtered in during the first two days, both addressed to Alexander Waverly and Napoleon Solo. The initial one from Kuryakin, relayed from an U.N.C.L.E. way station in Portland, Maine, repeated that he was investigating something and would report in soon. The next day, a cablegram from a small town just north of Portland was handed to Waverly by the receptionist. The message was short, laboriously coded, and contained one phrase that Waverly noticed made Solo distinctly uncomfortable, although the agent's poker face never changed. "I will be sure to check the furniture carefully this time, Solo."


  Two silent weeks became three weeks.

  And now a third message, of sorts. An anonymous cablegram undecipherable to the communications section. But it was from Maine, like the others.

  Alexander Waverly picked up the telephone and started making calls, then put out a summons for Napoleon Solo to return to Headquarters.

  * * * * *

  South Brasteon, Maine

  evening

  Kuryakin drew the gray blanket closer around his body and tried to block the wind as best he could. Night would fall soon and he had yet to find some sort of shelter. In a town this size, his options were not only limited, they were almost non-existent, but camping out along the rugged shoreline at this time of year would be suicidal.

  He needed money. The Thrush security guard he had attacked when he made his escape had carried only twelve dollars, which barely covered the cost of the cablegram, a half dollar pair of Salvation Army shoes for his bare feet, and a few necessary grocery items. Even a cheap hotel was out of the question. So was the police station.

  He had already walked many miles that day and his legs ached after the weeks of non-exercise. He stopped in a doorway to rest for a moment and caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the store front window. It would be a wonder if they didn't pick him up for vagrancy. He had crudely fashioned a poncho from the blanket on his cot in the Thrush clinic and it at least hid the out-of-season lightweight slacks and T-shirt from curious eyes. His voice was raspy from the smoke he had inhaled on his way out of the burning building, his throat sore. The attempt to get the soot off his face had met with limited success and he had no comb or brush to bring his hair under some control. He didn't exactly look like an outstanding citizen.

  Bracing himself, he walked with his head down and ignored the stares of passersby as he trudged the small town's main street. Most of the snow had melted, leaving water-clogged sidewalks and muddy alleys. The shoes were a size too big, but they offered some protection providing he stepped carefully.

  It was almost seven; the stores were closed but the neon lights of the row of taverns advertised the presence of a thriving nightlife in a few hours. The town was at the hub of several branching roadways and probably provided the locals with their regular entertainment. He went by the bars and by the enticing aromas from a busy restaurant, then paused before a movie theater marquee. After a brief hesitation, he joined the end of the dwindling lineup; the coins left in his pocket wouldn't buy much, but two hours of warmth were welcome, despite the ridiculous comedy advertised.