by LRH Balzer
Over the course of the day -- and the dinner -- she found herself impressed by him one moment, irritated by him the next. She knew his reputation with women; as a female employee of U.N.C.L.E., Napoleon Solo was the first thing you were warned about. She saw him often in the halls, in the cafeteria, flirting in the steno pool. Once she watched him in the gymnasium giving a demonstration of self-defense techniques for the female employees; most would probably end up using them on him. He was charming, utterly cool, and knew what most women wanted to hear.
She knew the type. She could see through his act in an instant.
For whatever reasons, he was more careful around her. She sensed it immediately. He treated her politely and distantly, as though determined to keep things only at a business level -- which was fine with her. In fact, during the entire day, the only time she had seen him anything other than mechanically pleasant was when the sheriff had slurred his partner. It had taken him several minutes to work through the rage he professionally kept under control.
He sat across the table from her now, smiling and chatting, eyes occasionally following a beautiful woman walking by or double-taking a suspicious-looking diner. As the Chief Enforcement Officer, she had assumed he could handle anything, but that burst of humanity earlier had been revealing. What it meant was uncertain. He seemed to be a proud man, a bit vain perhaps, and it was unlikely he would take well to one of his co-workers being maligned, even if he was a Russian.
Illya Kuryakin held the key to much of this, she figured. In all truth, she had only seen him in person a few times, just a shadow passing in the U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters corridors. He seldom ventured outside his regular territory: the labs, his office, Waverly's office, the armory. It was well known that he was a man you did not approach unless you had a good reason, had your speech well rehearsed, and were prepared for him to either respond with a caustic observation or totally ignore you, dismissing your presence in the world as irrelevant.
She had seen the U.N.C.L.E. Survival School self-defense films, of course. Few trainees could possibly forget the security camera footage of the slim blond man with the cold eyes rounding a corner and unexpectedly coming upon three Thrush agents who had infiltrated U.N.C.LE. Headquarters -- then neutralizing them with his bare hands. Barely winded, he had continued his way to his office without looking back at the security team that had converged, too late, on the scene.
It was touted as a classic example of an agent in prime condition, able to discern the situation at a glance and then leap into action using whatever means he had available. They had watched as the film was replayed. Kuryakin moved in a blur of motion, no wasted gestures, and they wondered if the entire exercise had been previously choreographed until they heard that one man had died of a crushed windpipe. Their instructor pointed out different moves: karate, judo, hapkido, kick-boxing -- and countless others -- all blended to enable him to beat the three-to-one odds against men much heftier than he.
Then there had been another time, almost eight months ago, when she had seen him, not recognizing the pale wraith who leaned on Solo's arm and walked the hallway outside the infirmary, trying to regain strength lost in some security-censored battle. The man who had been declared dead by Waverly had reappeared, that was all they had been told. After a quick glance at the pain behind the numb eyes, she hadn't wanted to know more.
Now she did.
"When are we finally going after Kuryakin?" she asked, waving her fork at Solo as she enunciated her words. "Mr. Waverly said to look for him first."
"And I've been scouting around the genetics laboratory instead. I know what I'm doing, Dancer." Solo grew quiet, concentrating on the food in front of him. "Thrush knows Kuryakin escaped from their clinic or else Kuryakin would not have used such an elaborate code. He sent a time-delayed cable which gave him a chance to get away before the location could be traced; had he called in by telephone, Thrush would have found him in minutes. To give him more time, it's important for Thrush to think we are investigating Bar Harbor and that Kuryakin is not of great importance. He figured it would take him until tomorrow to reach the rendezvous. He'll be okay on his own and we have more important things to do."
She drained her coffee cup, muttering, "He better be self-sufficient. His partner is such a caring person."
Solo shrugged at her sarcasm. "Dancer, I know where Kuryakin left from and where he is heading to. We'll find him eventually."
"And if Thrush finds him meanwhile and pumps him full of lead, you'll be proud to carry his coffin, right?" When Solo didn't answer her, she dug further, her voice scathing. "I thought you two were such good agents. Mr. Waverly said you were an outstanding example of the symbiotic relationship of partners. The richness of diversity. The blending of two cultures and mindsets. Unless it's not convenient, of course. I'm sure Kuryakin knows by now that he can totally depend on you to help him -- should you feel like it and have nothing else to do at the time."
"That is enough!" Solo snapped. His eyes blazed cold as ice, fists clenching, then slowly straightening to lay flat on the table.
For a brief moment, she thought he was going to hit her.
Then he shook his head and broke the tension, but his voice was raw and angry when he spoke. "That is enough, girl. You have no idea what you're talking about."
Hearing the aggravation in his tone, she backed down. "I'm sorry. I was out of line."
He shrugged and deliberately picked up his fork and continued eating.
April toyed with her food as they sat in silence for several minutes. "May I ask how you knew he had something to do with the fire?" she inquired suddenly. "You said you would tell me later."
Napoleon's fork froze in mid-air, then slowly lowered. "I did, didn't I?... He told me in the cable."
"James Cagney. Cary Grant. Zorba Tonto," she quoted. "Just three names. Where does it say he was in the fire?"
Napoleon raised his wine glass to his lips. "James Cagney."
"Is that a code meaning fire?"
"No, the last movie we saw together with James Cagney in it was 'White Heat'."
"What does Cary Grant mean then? Another movie?"
"North by Northwest."
"Meaning?"
Solo took another sip of the wine. "We saw it at a Hitchcock film festival in Italy in January. We were undercover, posing as vacationers, and Illya kept calling the film 'North by Northeast', by mistake. I teased him about it quite mercilessly in front of the local women we had as dates."
"So, Kuryakin would know that if he said Cary Grant, you would think of 'North by Northwest', remember his mistake, and deduce he had headed north by northeast," April said, biting into the rich cheesecake that had been placed in front of her.
"Exactly. You're catching on. They weren't exactly code words, they were meant to trigger specific memories."
"And Zorba Tonto? Who is he? What does that mean?"
He shrugged. "You figure it out." Napoleon leaned back as the waiter took his plate. "And now, as soon as you finish that, I think we should head back to our motel rooms and get some sleep, because I suspect tomorrow is going to be busy. I have some paperwork I want to finish." He wiped his mouth with the napkin and left to pay the bill.
* * * * *
9:30 p.m.
Illya woke with a start, his body drenched in sweat. He shifted carefully, aware of Pasha sleeping peacefully on his chest like a warm water bottle under the poncho, three of his tiny fingers in his mouth.
From where he lay, Illya could see out the cracked window of the shed. The sky was almost completely dark; he had managed to rest a few hours at least before the nightmare shattered his sleep.
The rain had stopped and it was quiet outside. No voices or footsteps. No car sounds. A dog barked once, but it was far away. He decided he would leave as soon as full darkness fell and he could get out of town without being noticed. He was behind schedule, but if the weather remained clear and he walked all night and the next day, he might make it to the rendezvo
us place on time.
Napoleon would wait for him. Or go looking for him.
Day Three - Friday: Rendezvous at Friendship
The essence of friendship is entireness,
A total magnanimity,
And trust.
Emerson
Friendship, Maine
2:30 p.m.
Napoleon Solo stood near the shore, staring southwest through the islands scattered along the coast. He's not here. Something wrong. He wasn't sure why he felt Illya should have arrived in the small Maine town by noon, but it was now hours past twelve with no sign of his partner and he knew something had gone wrong.
"Where is he?" Dancer stood nearby, shifting from foot to foot in the cold breeze and looking barely out of high school in her jeans, cap, and navy pea jacket. "Why do you think he's coming to this town today?" Her tone said she thought he was crazy.
"Kuryakin said he was coming here today."
"In the cable?" Again, sarcastic and skeptical.
"In the cable." He moved away from her, his eyes still scanning the coast as it wound its way in and out of the numerous inlets. He dug his cigarette case from his jacket pocket and set the transceiver to talk to Waverly. "Open relay channel. Channel D. Solo to Waverly."
The U.N.C.L.E. chiefs voice came over the miniature speaker. "What do you have to report, Mr. Solo? Have you found out anything on Dr. Weller?"
"Nothing new since last night. I had hoped to meet Kuryakin here in Friendship, Maine, sir, but he hasn't shown up yet. I think I'll leave this location and head north to Rockland. I'll leave a message for Kuryakin with the Friendship sheriff in case he does show up."
"Any sign of Thrush activity?"
"Glimpses. They're here, I know that. Two of our U.N.C.L.E. Portland office Enforcement agents have been checking out the area and report numerous sightings."
"Very well. Proceed as you see fit. I'll alert Brunswick Naval Air Station to send a helicopter for you in Rockland."
"Thank you, sir."
The line closed abruptly, as always, and Solo pocketed the small device, already irritated by Dancer's piercing glare.
"Aren't we staying here?" she asked.
"No." Solo turned and strode toward their rented car, not bothering to see if she was following.
"You really don't care, do you?" She caught up to him, grabbing at his arm to stop him. "If you think he's coming here today, why not give him some more time? The day's only half over. Maybe he got delayed."
"Maybe. And maybe he's dead." Solo shrugged out of her grasp and continued to the car. "Get in. We're going to Rockland. We can get a helicopter and check the coast, then swing by the Jackson Laboratory and see if anything new is happening there."
Dancer stood stubbornly outside the car. "I'll wait here."
"Get in." Solo started the motor and then leaned across and opened her door. "Don't make me repeat that order, Dancer."
"Yes, sir." She flung herself into the seat, slamming the door.
Solo counted to ten, paused, and counted again. "If you want to be a Section Two agent, Miss Dancer, you better start convincing me you can do the job. That display of temper does not better you in my sight and, whatever your opinion of me, my opinion of you is what counts. Now we are driving to Rockland and rendezvousing with a helicopter and then I plan to fly down the coast a ways. I believe Kuryakin is somewhere in this area and if we are lucky, we can pick him up. If not, I will keep trying to locate him without giving away his whereabouts to Thrush, and if nothing else works, I will check in at Bar Harbor and then return here to wait for him. Now, Miss Dancer, please refrain from making any further childish remarks and give me a simple answer to this: Are you checked out to fly a Fairchild Hiller FH-1100 helicopter?"
Her face ashen, she nodded mutely, unable to speak.
"Good."
* * * * *
5:00 p.m.
on the coast
Another step. Step. Keep the ocean on the right. Step.
I'm not going to make it, Napoleon.
Step. Step. Step.
It's too far. I thought I could do it. Right foot.
Meet me? Left foot.
I won't make it. Right foot.
There's another bend And another. Left foot.
Meet me?
* * * * *
5:00 p.m.
on the coast
It was late afternoon in another rain storm. With a nervous frown, Solo carefully observed April Dancer beside him at the controls of the helicopter and wondered again how extensive her training was and if U.N.C.L.E. taught more than the current Lycoming model chopper at the new academy.
He saw her glance coolly from the instrument panel out into the darkening landscape, the wipers working double-time to keep the windshield clear. She had scarcely spoken since his harsh words several hours back and the tension between them had not eased. He certainly felt no desire to initiate any conversation; whatever strange idea she had about him was something she would have to sort out for herself. His mind had made a priority list and Dancer's feelings were not high on the list.
He turned back to the window, binoculars scanning the rocky coast. Somewhere out there Illya Kuryakin was probably running for his life and despite Dancer's allegations otherwise, he was worried.
How could he not be? The man was his subordinate, therefore his responsibility -- if nothing else, Omegar Prison had made that clear. And beyond that, they had been partners for over a year, friends for almost that long. There were times he could read the Russian's mind with ease, or discern telegraphed feelings the pale eyes kept well hidden. Zadushevny, Illya called him, a 'behind-the-soul' friend.
Of course he was worried, yet how could he explain to Dancer that he had to prepare himself for the day when he wouldn't get there in the nick of time and would have to carry away a lifeless body. Because it was his job to do it. Because friend or partner, brother or underling, the job came first -- it was the reason they existed.
The rest just made it all bearable.
A rueful grimace crossed Solo's face and he focused the binoculars again, sweeping along the rocks and fields as they approached the edge of a peninsula.
Come on, Illya... You said you would head north by Northeast toward Friendship. You should be here somewhere...
Something down below. Someone down below. Solo adjusted the binoculars, his heartbeat quickening. He could see a gray smudge moving across the uneven plateau near the edge of the rocky cliff and there was no doubt in his mind who it was. He felt the smile spread over his face and gave it free rein for a brief moment, then schooled his features and turned back to the woman piloting the chopper.
"There he is," Solo pointed, and she obligingly veered the craft in that direction. He opened the side window, letting in rain, and leaned out to yell at Kuryakin, but his words were lost in the roar of the wind and the chopper.
"Try and force him toward that open field ahead, Dancer. We could land there." They circled again while he searched the helicopter for a blowhorn or loudspeaker. Nothing.
What kind of helicopter doesn't have --
A series of headlights caught his eye and he jerked his head to the left. Cars were approaching along the side road. They had to be Thrush; why else would a group of four cars move in tandem along the deserted road? They were approaching from ahead, probably drawn to see what the helicopter had found on the rugged Maine coast.
His fist hit the ledge. Illya... it's me! Standstill, damn it!
The man below them was running now. He had obviously seen the helicopter and was trying to get away. There were no markings on the chopper other than the U.S. Navy insignia and Kuryakin would have no way of judging if this was a friend or foe.
Napoleon felt a growl in his throat as he looked to where the Russian was heading. At the edge of the plateau was a field with a heavily treed area beyond it and his partner would be hoping to find a hiding place from his aerial pursuers there.
But the view from the ground was deceiv
ing. There was only a short band of trees, then the parking lot where the Thrush vehicles had stopped. Solo groaned as he realized there were innocents there as well -- a few winter season tourists who had braved the weather to see the spectacular view.
Kuryakin was fast approaching the near edge of the field, racing wildly, his poncho whipping about in the wind as he stumbled over the rocky ground. With a practiced eye, Napoleon registered his partner's loose-limbed frantic gait and knew Illya was moving on sheer adrenaline and instinct. Regardless, in another minute he'd be off the rocky ground and running on the grass and mud of the field, the trees at the far end.
Solo swore and reached behind his seat for his backpack. "He doesn't know it's us," he said aloud. "If he reaches that--" He swore again and made a decision quickly, flipped open a small case, removed a dart, double and triple-checked the potency, then loaded it into the versatile U.N.C.L.E. rifle.
"What are those?" Dancer asked, still fighting to keep the chopper level. "Those aren't sleep darts."
"Look and learn," Solo mumbled. "U-53's."
"Paralyzing darts. You can't use those on him! Aren't they for animals?" She sounded alarmed.
"Very good. Most of the U-50's are designed for animals, but a U-53b will also safely bring down a human" he said and rested the rifle on the open window ledge. "Take me lower, out of their sight -- the trees will block us. The dosage can be tricky, if you don't know what you're doing, but I don't have a choice and I do know what I'm doing. A little closer, Dancer. He's almost there and these don't have a bullet's range." A moment later, a slight ping was followed by, "Got him!"
The shot took Kuryakin on the hip and he slipped from the impact, falling sideways into the sticky clay mud, arms flailing. Then he was back on his feet, but after twenty seconds he stumbled again and dropped to his knees, then toppled back to the muddy field unmoving as they hovered above him.
"Land just east of him, but be ready to lift off when I have him loaded. Watch those trees." Solo was out of the cockpit the instant they touched ground. Head down away from the whirr of the rotor blades, he slid across the slick grass and mud and quickly made his way to his partner.