by LRH Balzer
Full darkness had settled when he found himself back on a much colder street. The blanket seemed thinner. He walked to keep warm, blowing on his hands, intent eyes constantly scanning each car that passed. Street lights phased out after he left the main road and he breathed a little easier that his hair and once-white slacks would not set him out as a beacon.
At the far end of the town he came upon a church still open for late evening prayers. He stopped and stood outside, staring up at the entrance. An old woman walked by him, went up the stairs, and disappeared into the soft light beyond the heavy door. He fidgeted uncomfortably, paced in indecision for several minutes, then followed her inside. Perhaps God would not mind his intrusion. It would be warm and Thrush did not usually hang around Catholic churches.
The door, for all its weight, swung open easily and he slipped unnoticed into the shadows. His smoke-irritated, bloodshot eyes scanned the few parishioners present, cataloging and dismissing each. A housewife, tired from her day. The old lady. Two elderly fishermen talking with the priest in the front. He was safe.
The room smelled of sweet incense and old wood and, from its size, he judged it served the entire district. The worn carpet absorbed the faint sound of his steps as he moved along the outer wall trying to find an unobtrusive place to sit without drawing attention to himself or disturbing anything. He rounded a corner into an alcove and immediately leaped back from the flames that flickered in the corner of his eye. He froze, half crouched in the aisle, swallowed carefully, and willed his heart to slow down.
Candles.
Only candles, nothing more. Only candles, he repeated. He glanced around warily, but no one had noticed his sudden movement. He straightened up and stared into the alcove, then moved toward the lights cautiously, his heart still pounding, drawn to the dancing images that swirled in his watery vision.
Almost forgotten memories shimmered in his mind as he approached and touched the table they sat on. They were prayer candles. He had seen them before, in Holland.[6] As a little boy he had gone with the old men to light candles for the lost and he hadn't told his communist father, knowing the lecture that would follow.
Without warning, more recent memories abruptly slammed against his senses. The candles merged once more to form a raging fire that he swiftly backed away from, one arm raised.
Still no one saw him. Illya calmed himself angrily and deliberately went back to the table, ignoring his racing pulse. Shaking hands reached for the holy symbols and with a long taper, he lit four little candles, watching the tiny flames catch and hold. He swallowed, then stared at the statues staring down at him, their kind solemn faces frozen in time. Take care of them, please, if you can. It wasn't their fault, what happened.
Suddenly appalled -- and mystified -- by his own actions, he turned quickly and found a place behind a pillar in the back corner of the church. He closed his eyes, feeling the embarrassed flush on his face and hearing the time worn lecture repeat in his head. The stillness and peace that permeated the building gently worked their magic and his father's admonishing words faded as he dozed off.
He jumped nervously when the elderly priest woke him later, genuinely concerned about Kuryakin's presence there and his condition. The man tried to convince him to sleep the night in the attached rectory, but without speaking, the U.N.C.L.E. agent fled back into the street, unable to face the questions that would undoubtedly arise.
Halfway down the block, he discovered that somehow a five dollar bill had been pressed into his hand and he turned to stare questioningly at the priest, still watching from the doorway of the church. He trembled, the gift nearly dropping from fingers gone numb. He almost returned then, his dilemma aching to be poured out before the kind cleric, but his feet remained rooted on the icy sidewalk, powerless to move toward him.
The priest must have seen the longing in the troubled blue eyes and he waved, beckoning him to return to the warmth. Kuryakin reluctantly shook his head and turned his back, walking quickly down the street into the night, his arms wrapped protectively around the awakening bundle hidden beneath his blanket.
A brief smile grazed his face and he brushed the lone tear away before it froze.
* * * * *
New York
11:00 p.m.
For an U.N.C.L.E. agent, hope was not a professional consideration, yet it was certainly in the forefront of Napoleon Solo's thoughts as he left the airport and made his way to Headquarters. There had been no hint from Waverly as to why he had been recalled so abruptly but either the world was in grave danger -- or there was news concerning his partner. No other options existed in Solo's mind.
Come on, Illya. Enough is enough. We have work to do and I need that meticulous, trivia-packed, encyclopedic brain of yours.
Time had a way of playing tricks, of repeating past memories of finding his partner beaten, shot, or drugged. Or worse. But Illya had disappeared before and returned, walking calmly through the door. He had also been shipped back. Or carried back. Or --
The ordeal at Omegar Prison had happened only five weeks before and those memories were still crystal clear in Solo's mind. Illya had appeared to have dealt with it, but... He really had no idea how his partner was coping -- or whether that, too, was being repeated.
Or... What a frustrating word. The Chief Enforcement Officer paused outside Waverly's office, struggled to regain his equilibrium, then entered. He nodded brusquely to his superior as he slipped into his customary seat at the round conference table.
Across from him, at a chair usually occupied by Illya Kuryakin, sat a young lady he recognized vaguely as being a Section Three, Enforcement and Communications agent, several months out of the new U.N.C.L.E. Academy and a recent graduate of Survival School. She looked young, more like a college co-ed than an agent. Her dark brown hair hung loose to her shoulders, big mascaraed eyes peered at him from beneath long bangs. A bit thin for his taste, she wore a fashionable orange miniskirt and lime-green sweater.
"April Dancer," she said, with a straightforward smile.
"Napoleon Solo," he responded, tilting his head in her direction before focusing his entire attention on the Head of U.N.C.L.E., North America. "You called me in, sir? Is there word on Kuryakin?"
"Perhaps. Does this cable mean anything to you? It was addressed to Del Floria's Tailor shop." Waverly shifted the paper before him and read, "James Cagney. Cary Grant. Zorba Tonto."
Solo reached over and took the single sheet of paper Waverly handed him. So you're still out there, my friend. He read it several times, then nodded slowly as understanding set in and the tightness in his chest vanished. "If you can tell me where this cable originated, sir, and can provide me with a map of the area, I believe I'll be able to locate Kuryakin in the next few days."
The woman's face registered her surprise. "Based on this cable? I worked on the decoding myself; we have nothing like it in our files. It's just a series of names. Is this a private code between the two of you?"
"Let's just say that I comprehend the intent of the message," Solo answered with a cryptic smile. He turned his attention back to Waverly. "Where was this sent from?"
"Early this afternoon it was cabled from a town along the coast of Maine. I have all the information ready for you here, including your flight arrangements to Portland in the morning and then on to Brunswick Naval Air Station. From there you can make your own way."
"I will need a detailed map of the coast."
"One will be ready for you at Brunswick. Miss Dancer is a native of Old Orchard, Maine, a bit south of your location."
"I take it Miss Dancer will be accompanying me?"
"Yes."
"May I ask why?"
"When I had Section Two and Three's records checked to see if any of our agents were from Maine, Miss Dancer's name came up. You may need backup on this assignment."
"No disrespect intended to Miss Dancer, but I already have a partner. And I believe we just established that he is alive and functioning."
&nb
sp; "Perhaps. But besides locating Mr. Kuryakin, there is a secondary assignment that may be linked. Our facilities at Bar Harbor were tampered with." Waverly reached for his pipe now.
"The Jackson Genetics Laboratory?" Solo flipped open the report from Amsterdam. "Wasn't Illya asking for information on Dr. Weller? A geneticist?"
"Yes."
"A Thrush involvement? Soviet?"
"I suspect Mr. Kuryakin holds the answer to that."
"Where was Kuryakin's cable sent from?" Solo asked again, pulling out the dossier on Weller.
"Halfway between Portland and the Jackson Laboratory at Bar Harbor. At a little town called Christmas Cove."
"Did anything unusual happen there today? A fire?" Solo asked wryly.
"Not in Christmas Cove, but in a town about ten miles away. A building exploded and the place burned to the ground around three o'clock this morning. At least one man is dead, possibly others. It was a private medical clinic, or so the local police chief advised me when I contacted him. The owners were fairly new, kept to themselves. He called them 'unfriendly' and said they came in and out by boat and had little contact with anyone in the town."
Solo nodded thoughtfully, then stood and gathered the papers and files on Waverly's desk. "I'll be on my way then. Miss Dancer, it seems we have an assignment. Please be packed for several days. Bring a variety of clothing. Nothing that would draw undue attention to yourself." He looked at the woman intently.
Dancer did not seem embarrassed by his overt stare. "When would you like to leave?" she asked smoothly, rising from the table.
Without a beat, he answered, "Three weeks ago. Get your stuff together; we'll leave at first light."
Waverly called him back before he could follow her from the room. "Have a seat, Mr. Solo."
Once Dancer had left, Waverly steepled his fingers over Kuryakin's file, staring at the modern art painting on the far wall as he spoke. "It is becoming increasingly evident to our organization, and others like it, that times are changing and we will have to bring female agents into the Operations and Enforcement section. By our latest estimates, over a quarter of Thrush's agents are female -- as I believe you are well aware. We must have trained agents ready to meet this new menace.
"Therefore, I am asking you, Mr. Solo, to take Miss Dancer with you on this assignment. She is competent, trained, and willing, but whether she is capable of this degree of espionage work remains to be seen. She has stated emphatically that she would prefer to work alone and sees no need for a partner and up to now, this has been no problem. In Section Three, Enforcement and Communications, it is possible to work alone; their assignments usually involve research and footwork with little or no danger attached."
Waverly seemed uncharacteristically ill at ease with his next few words, stumbling over them as though he had never spoken aloud these particular thoughts before. "However, in the section you head, Operations and Enforcement, the demands on personnel are pushed up. The stakes are higher. Your life -- and the world's safety - may very well depend on the blended knowledge and resources of a diverse group of agents and not just one agent acting independently. U.N.C.L.E. has been described as a 'pack of lone wolves', a fair description of highly skilled, self-reliant agents who have learned to work together for a common goal. I admit that occasionally our agents will do assignments alone, but the mortality rate is high. Statistics show that if they work in pairs, both are apt to return... Most partnerships are not permanent; some become permanent if circumstances warrant it or the combination proves to be greater than the sum of its parts."
Solo smiled slightly, shifting in his seat. Is that how he sees us? Is that what we are -- a combination greater than the sum of its parts? A formula for success he came up with?
Waverly glanced over to Solo, his mouth twitching in mute acknowledgment of the other's thoughts. "I would like her to work with you for a few days. We need to know her strengths and weaknesses in the field so we can begin a search for a suitable partner. We are uncertain of how to place her; she is strong-willed and determined. Our Personnel Section will find your recommendations valuable, as will her witnessing your association with Mr. Kuryakin. Already she is surprised by the cable message and your ability to communicate with undecipherable codes. -- Which reminds me, was there a reason Mr. Kuryakin did not use standard U.N.C.L.E. coding?
"I don't think he trusts anyone at the moment," Solo said, standing to leave.
"Report in as you see fit, then." Waverly looked back to his papers, one hand absently dismissing him.
The realization of his own last words hit Solo as he left the room.
Regardless of whether Illya felt he was trusted, the Russian still trusted him. I'll be there on Friday, Illya. Just live up to your end of the bargain, my friend.
Day Two - Thursday : Travel Companions
The highest compact we can make with our fellow is:
Let there be truth between us two forevermore.
It is sublime to feel and say of another,
I need never meet, or speak, or write to him;
We need not to reinforce ourselves or send tokens of remembrance;
I rely on him as on myself;
If he did thus or thus, I know it was right.
Emerson
5:45 a.m.
Pemaquid, Maine
The sun was rising. Supposedly. Somewhere in the fog.
Illya Kuryakin trudged down the main road. He had walked all night along the roadside, then across a mile of rough land to reach the sleeping town. The rain had died down to a cold drizzle that had permeated its way through to his bones.
Bound to his chest beneath the poncho, the tiny infant fussed and cried. Illya wearily patted its back as he stared through the window of a closed diner. Fifteen minutes until opening, according to the clock on the wall. He walked on down the street numbly, automatically taking in the buildings and roads, planning what route to take later. He stopped and stretched, arching his lower back and massaging his shoulder where the sling rubbed. Pasha only weighed twelve or fifteen pounds, he figured, but after walking for six hours straight it felt more like fifty pounds.
When the diner opened, he was waiting on the front steps, the five dollar bill in plain sight so they would know he wasn't asking for handouts. Fortunately, the middle-aged waitress had a liking for babies and Pasha obliged her with his radiant smiles, something he had only started doing in the last week but had mastered in hours.
That smile was sometimes the only thing that kept the Russian going, exhaustion already taking its toll. He fought to keep his eyes focused as he settled into the booth and filled a bottle with formula for the two-month-old. The waitress offered to heat it for him -- a luxury Pasha had not had for the past thirty hours -- and she brought it to him a few minutes later along with his coffee. A cinnamon danish filled a part of his stomach, but Illya wasn't hungry. A free map of the area and the tourist pamphlets on the sights a few miles away at the archaeological finds at Pemaquid Settlement gave him something to concentrate on, holding at bay the fiery explosions that continued to haunt his mind and keep sleep away.
"So which motel are you staying at?" the waitress asked, drawn back to the odd pair. The baby noticed her and stopped feeding long enough to smile.
"Across the way," Illya answered vaguely. "My wife was up half the night with the twins so when Pasha woke, I decided to give her a chance to sleep. We are driving to Canada to visit her family; her grandmother is ill." The rehearsed lie came easily.
She came back again, refilling the coffee cup and stroking the baby's silk-soft skin. The infant's unruly mass of straight dark hair was impossible to resist and she impulsively tried to smooth it down. "He's beautiful."
Illya glanced at the little one feeding in his arms, startled by her comment. "Yes," he admitted with a nod and an embarrassed smile. "I guess he is. I haven't thought about it much."
"Typical father," she said with a rich laugh.
Seeing her look at his light-colored ha
ir, he added quickly, "He looks like his mother. The twins are blond." The small glass bottle was empty and he set it on the table, trying to find a smile of his own for the waitress when she volunteered to wash it out for him. "Thank you. I must go soon; how much money do I owe you?" He spoke carefully, hiding his accent as best he could. If he stayed much longer, there would be more questions and he would soon run out of plausible answers.
"I'll bring your bill, love. Do you want some more coffee?" She poured him some anyway, then moved to serve the other two early-risers that were in the diner.
He went into the rest room, locked the door, and tried to clean himself up a bit, running his fingers through dirty hair. He knelt on the floor to change Pasha's soiled diaper. There were only four left and he wondered absently how much they cost and how one went about buying them. They were not meant to be discarded, but he had no way of cleaning them.
Satisfied they wouldn't scare the townspeople, he slipped the baby back into the carrier he had contrived from a bedsheet at the clinic, his frayed nerves shuddering at the infant's protesting wail. Pasha had obviously enjoyed his hour of freedom from the confining sling. With an apologetic grimace to the customers and the waitress, he shuffled through the tables and stood at the cash register with his five dollar bill.
The waitress came over and patted the baby's back, peering down into Illya's tired bloodshot eyes. "Listen, love, the food is on the house. Your little one has a lovely smile and you don't look like money is growing on trees." She handed him the clean baby bottle.
He blinked his surprise once again at the native kindness. "Thank you," he said awkwardly, the crumbled bill still in his hand. He walked out into the damp air and drew the blanket poncho over his head, securing it around himself and hiding the baby from sight.