Collection 1: The Dutch Blitz Affair

by LRH Balzer

  Napoleon picked up the discarded needle from the trolley and handed it to Stokly. "I take it he never got the injection."

  The intern shook his head. "I was just turning to do it."

  Nurse Johnston hurried in to offer her apologies, her face white at the trouble she knew they were in. Solo and Dunn left Brilly resting on the bed and headed out of the infirmary.

  "What do you think? As you say, you know him better than I do." Dunn brushed his fingers through his curls and looked across at Solo as they waited for the elevator to take them to Level Two.

  "If Illya is acting on his own, after what he's been through he probably thinks this is a setup and they are trying to trick him with a duplicate U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters. It happened to us once before, a complete floor that looked exactly like level two." The elevator door slid open. They entered and Solo pushed the Sub-level button. "Paddy, I'll meet you in my office in about fifteen minutes. I want to check something out first. Do me a favor and go down to the cafeteria and grab me a sandwich."

  "Sure thing. Any special kind?" Dunn held the door open with his foot when they reached the lower level.

  "Whatever's there." The door slid shut and Solo pushed the elevator Level Two button. When the doors opened, he hurried down the hall, past a guard patrolling the halls searching for the intruder, and into his office.

  He pulled the box of Illya's things out from under his desk, his anger flaring as he examined it. It looked like someone had very carefully gone through everything in it. He opened a small locked box, tucked something in his pocket, and left the room. Down the hall, he slipped silently into the Enforcement offices. As usual during lunch hour, the room was deserted except for John Lagto, who now lay slumped over his desk.

  But Solo's eyes were on the small figure hunched at Paddy's desk. "Illya?"

  The almost-familiar face looked up at him and levelled the gun at Solo's heart. Half of the Slavic features were lost behind bandages that circled the top of his head. The one eye that wasn't swollen shut stared out coldly. In his left hand he held the nameplate which read PATRICK ARALIC DUNN. The contents of the top desk drawer were scattered over the floor. The gun was cocked and read to fire.

  "Illya? You're safe now. Put down the gun." Solo slowly put his own gun on one of the desks beside him. "I know what you're looking for. I have it in my pocket." He held his hands up to show he had no other weapon and reached into his jacket without taking his eyes off the shaking weapon trained on him. He pulled out a thin gold chain and the tiny medal attached to it.

  The man across from him let out a faint sigh, but didn't lower the weapon. His eye was fastened on the object Solo held out before him. The ancient icon was the only item Illya treasured; it had been his father's, and his father's father before him for generations. He kept it inside the desk drawer, taped under the desk top. Of course, it hadn't been there when he checked and the desk had someone else's name on it.

  "You are really here at U.N.C.L.E. I'm really Napoleon. Besides, no one else but me would know about this. Trust me." Solo watched the gun waver, then drop. He moved quickly to the desk and placed the icon in the trembling outstretched hand. "Let's go back to the infirmary, my Russian friend. You can rest there."

  Illya held the chain clutched in his palm. He looked up at Solo, then to Paddy and the security guards standing blocking the doorway, weapons pointed at him. His head tilted back and his bloodshot eye found the hidden surveillance camera and microphone. "Zwerver," he rasped carefully, trying to force dry cracked lips to form the word clearly. "Geld. Zwerver."

  Solo caught him as he collapsed.

  ***

  2:00 p.m.

  "I'll play back the tape for you, sir. I've run the word through the computer name file, but nothing came of it. It is entirely possible he was incoherent." Solo rewound the tiny reel the security guard brought in to Waverly's office.

  Vandermeer and De Witt joined Dunn and Waverly, listening in silence as Illya's voice crackled on the tape. "It could be German," Dunn offered. "Or a mispronounced Russian or English word for that matter."

  Vandermeer shook his head. "It is slurred but it is definitely Dutch. Zwerver means wanderer or wayfarer." He shrugged and sat back in his chair. "Geld means money."

  "Wandering money. Then it doesn't mean anything. Kuryakin was just babbling."

  Waverly stood quite still, lost in thought. "Zwerver... You are quite mistaken, Mr. Dunn. It means a great deal."

  Chapter Three: "Nico is dead."

  January 1948

  Alexander Waverly turned up the collar of his wool winter coat and pulled the fur cap down over his ears. Icy sea wind deposited frozen water droplets on his bare face as he reached for the outstretched hand assisting him from the coast guard cruiser to the gangway up the side of the large freighter. While the smaller craft bobbed on the tossing waves, he nimbly climbed the metal railing and was brought officially aboard by a smart salute from the five officers present. With a wave to the departing craft, he took a last quick look at the scattered evening lights of distant Rotterdam and allowed himself to be led out of the blustery winter air.

  Speech outside was non-existent, but once inside the freighter's lounge, he relaxed and thanked the captain for his kind consideration in holding the ship. "I realize this is not something you normally do. My organization will see that you are properly remunerated."

  "Come now, Alexander. When I heard it was you, what did you expect me to do? Turn down an old friend?" Captain Donald Lougheed handed him a brandy and steered him toward a chair. "You must be frozen."

  "I just want you to know that I am grateful."

  "We all do what we can." Lougheed drained his glass with a gulp. "Now what were you doing in Holland?"

  "Oh, business," Waverly chuckled and sipped the potent drink. "Cognac. My, I haven't had this since -- well, since you last poured me some. When was that, Donald?"

  "Too long. Too long. It must have been in Hong Kong, before the war. Alex, I'd love to stay and chat, but we have to get under way."

  "Yes, yes. Of course. Go ahead. Oh, before I forget -- I'm going by the name of Alexis Virtanen this trip." Waverly stood and walked Lougheed to the door. "United Nations Representative."

  "Good, then I can still call you Alex without blowing your cover. I could never remember all the names you used." The captain stopped before he stepped through the hatch. "My quartermaster will see you to a cabin. Actually, go ahead down to A-5 -- either 5-1 or 5-2. I know they're vacant; we had some V.I.P. cancellations. I'll tell him where you are later. Meal times are posted. I'll see you at breakfast."

  "Certainly. Until then, my thanks again for waiting."

  "Oh, it only held us up half an hour. This storm will set us back more than that. Don't worry about it." The captain and his junior officers left quickly to attend to their duties and left Waverly on his own.

  He scrutinized a diagram on the lounge wall before reclaiming his suitcase and following the directions to section A-5. The first cabin was locked, but the second opened easily. He found the light switch and carefully locked the door after him. The quarters were small and compact, but luxurious enough to suggest they were definitely designed for first class passengers, not crew. A wide bunk bed was on his left, and a small desk, wardrobe and bureau on his right. The cabin even boasted a small adjoining head with toilet, shower, and sink.

  It was only mid-evening, Rotterdam time, but the day had been long and he was not as young as he used to be. The conferences had dragged on and on, the agenda endless. The Netherlands had recently joined the UN Security Council, the Linggadjati Accord had been confirmed aboard the USS Renville the week before, and now the Netherlands, as a member of the Benelux Nations, was about to join the Organization of European Economic Cooperation. His authorized cover had enabled him to put in a word here, change the topic there, and steer the debates away from the past and toward the future.

  He had often come to Rotterdam before the war. But now... much of it lay in ruin,
bombed during the war, 35,000 buildings levelled in a few hours, its massive harbor crippled, thousands killed, deported to Germany as forced laborers, Jews shipped to and incinerated at Auschwitz and other Nazi camps. In the whole country, by the end of the war, almost three quarters of the Jewish population bad been killed: 104,000 men, women, and children. By the time Germany surrendered to the Allies in May, 1945, three years previous, about 270,000 Netherlanders had been killed or starved to death.

  The people were hurting. Many would never recover emotionally, financially, or physically. Families had been separated. Children orphaned. Factories, transportation lines, and shipyards had been destroyed.

  The country was special to Waverly. During the war, he had worked with British Military Intelligence and with the S.O.E., the Special Operations Executive, whose task it was to undermine German morale, to foster widespread sabotage, and to organize underground armies. He had been assigned to the Netherlands. It had been hell.

  Now it was time to pick up the pieces and rebuild. After the war, he had helped form the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement to lay a multi-national groundwork of offices and people so they would be ready for the next war, the next Hitler.

  He set his suitcase on the lower bunk and removed the few clothes and toiletries in it. The spare suit was badly wrinkled; he'd removed it from the hotel closet in a hurry and stuffed it into the suitcase while the Rotterdam Chief of Police waited to whisk him to the harbor. The tiny wardrobe in his cabin held no hangers, so he slipped through the washroom to the empty adjacent cabin and flipped on the bed lamp. The closet was ajar. He reached in for the hangers and jumped back.

  Frowning, he stared down at the sleeping figure curled on the floor of the wardrobe. A stowaway, by his looks, certainly too young to be a sailor catching a few extra winks. The boy looked eight or nine; dark wisps of hair hung below his wool cap and his fair skin was covered with dirt and grime. The boy's right hand was bandaged, and from the look of the dressing, it needed changing.

  Waverly heard a noise in the passageway, switched off the light, and bolted back into the head. With the door closed, he listened as a key turned in Cabin One.

  "Nico? Nico, are you there?" came the hoarse whisper in Dutch.

  The wardrobe door quietly creaked open and the older voice spoke again. "Nico? Wake up, zoon. Hoe gaat het? How are you? I brought you some bread and cheese. And some water." Waverly could hear the tray being set down and the stowaway moving from the closet, but the boy made no sound other than devouring the food.

  "My, you are a hungry one. Didn't they feed you in Rotterdam? No? When was the last time you ate?"

  "Gisterenmorgen," the boy said between bites.

  "Yesterday morning? Dat is niet goed. I'll make sure you are fed while in my care. Do not worry. We will get you to your father in New York City. How are you feeling?"

  "Ik heb pijn aan mijn arm."

  "Let me see it again. Yes, yes. You were very lucky. That knife could have done much worse damage. De Groot's man told me you killed off a man twice your size in that fight. You are indeed your father's son. He will be proud to see you again. Ouch! That is a messy wound. I'll try to get some clean bandages for you, and something to disinfect it. Can you go to sleep? I won't be back until late tomorrow. I've left some more food on the bureau. Remember, you must be very quiet."

  "Ja. Dank u."

  "You are very welcome. Your father is a good man. The Netherlands survived the war because of men like him. Sleep well."

  "Goede nacht."

  The door opened and closed and the key turned in the lock. The boy finished eating and crawled back into the wardrobe and the door creaked shut after him.

  In the middle of the night, Waverly woke abruptly to the howling fury of a storm and the heaving of the freighter on the open sea. At first he thought the wind had awakened him, but then he heard another faint sound through the cabin wall. He threw on a bathrobe, hurried into the connecting washroom, and through to the far cabin.

  Flicking on the bedside lamp, he stared down into the wardrobe. The boy was whimpering softly, obviously frightened and seasick, the bandage around his arm damp with fresh blood.

  "Hallo." Waverly spoke in flawless Dutch and the young face looked up in terror. "I won't hurt you. I'm going to help you" He reached down to assist the boy out of the closet, but a small fist darted out and caught him neatly on the jaw. Waverly responded with a punch of his own that stunned the boy long enough for him to lift him out and deposit him on the bunk.

  "Don't twist. I'm just trying to get your jacket off and look at your arm." Waverly wrestled with the heavy coat until the boy tired and stopped resisting. With a small, terrible sigh, the child lay back against the hard pillow, resigned to his apparent misfortune.

  "That is better." The jacket sleeve was soaked with blood and Waverly discarded it in the shower. He pulled the blankets off the top bunk and ripped the white sheet into strips, using some to wash and clean the wound. Halfway through changing the bandage, he had to haul the boy into the washroom and hold him while he vomited up what little food he had eaten that day. The green tinge to the youngster's face gradually faded and he lay quietly on the bunk watching the older man skillfully wrap his arm and hand.

  "Are you a dokter?" The boy's whisper was so serious that Waverly stopped what he was doing and smiled reassuringly at the child.

  "No, but I have bound up many a wound in my day."

  Again fear showed in the pale face. "Then, you are a soldier?"

  "Of sorts. Don't worry. I won't give you away." He tied off the bandage and stopped to check his work. "That was quite a rip in your arm, but it won't cause any permanent damage. Try not to use it for a few days."

  The boy nodded and lapsed into silence again. Waverly brought a glass of water and helped him drink it. Looking down into the boy's eyes, he saw not the vigor of youth, but a haunting pain and hopelessness. "Are you afraid of the soldiers?"

  The boy shook his head. "Never. They are pigs."

  "Did they hurt you? Did they do this to your arm?"

  "There are many soldiers. Soldiers everywhere. Here and in the other place, before, when the Nazis killed my mother and brother. They burned my house." He turned his head away. "The other men hurt my arm. The new bad men."

  Waverly pulled up a chair and sat by the bunk, covering the boy with a blanket. The new bad men. Unfortunately, the world was full of new bad men. "You don't have to tell me your name, but what shall I call you?"

  "Nico."

  "Hallo, Nico. Ik heet Alexis Virtanen."

  The cold blue eyes widened and turned back to face him. "Are you related to Artturi Virtanen?"

  Waverly smiled again in surprise. "No. Do you know who he is?"

  "Of course. He is a biochemist. Me and my friend in Rotterdam have read some papers of his. He is quite good. He won the Nobel Prize for Chemistry in 1945."

  "Do you like chemistry?"

  "And physics. All of it, really."

  That broke the ice and they discussed the various science fields for over an hour. The boy's enthusiasm for the subject was undeniable and Waverly was intrigued by his wide span of knowledge, rather sophisticated for a nine year old. Whoever had seen to the schooling of this little boy and his friend, had done well, for it was obvious the boy had little formal education but he was up-to-date on the latest developments in several major fields. And, as was the case with most children of the Resistance, he knew about the latest weapons and arsenal.

  The storm slowly petered out and Waverly ended the discussion. He ushered the boy into the shower, scrubbing the oily black hair, more gentle on the scuffed and bruised skin, then brought him to his own cabin. The boy seemed to trust him completely now, viewing him as a fellow scientist no doubt, and settled down on the top bunk.

  Waverly returned to the shower, rinsing out the boy's jacket and dirty clothes and hanging them to dry around the empty cabin. Finally, he returned to his own bed and within moments was asleep
himself.

  After breakfast, and an official tour of the ship, Waverly came back to his cabin to find the boy still asleep in the top bunk, sprawled about the bed and entwined in the blankets. He emptied out his pockets and put the extra orange and bread he had secured on the desk to give the boy later.

  Lougheed had insisted on the tour of the freighter, newly made over from the war and now traveling between Rotterdam and New York City. By listening carefully to the conversations around him, Waverly isolated the voice from the evening before. The man who had brought food to the boy was the ship's quartermaster, Van De Laar, which explained the man's reaction at breakfast when he had told him the cabin number he was staying in. He had obviously settled the boy into the empty cabin, not expecting the ship to stop once it had left the harbor or a visitor to suddenly appear in section A-5.

  Waverly was anticipating the man to make an appearance shortly in Cabin One and only had a short wait before the door key fumbled in the lock and the door opened.

  ***

  1964

  A buzzer rang and jolted Waverly from his narrative. It sounded a second time and he reached for the phone. An agent in Alaska was in trouble -- boxed in an alley in Juneau -- and was unable to get local help. Waverly spent the next five minutes on several lines simultaneously, contacting police authorities and the Alaskan branch of U.N.C.L.E.

  The two Dutch agents drew aside, at first conferring about something, then arguing quietly. Solo and Dunn stretched wearily in their chairs, unable to make out what they were saying.

  As the phone calls continued, Napoleon fished a couple of aspirins from his jacket pocket and crunched them between his teeth absently, reaching to pour himself a glass of water only after he started coughing. His head throbbed. Dr. Lawrence had not reported any change in Illya's condition, which was in some ways a good sign.