by LRH Balzer
Illya was alive.
You never knew how a day would unravel.
Paddy nudged him and whispered, "Does Waverly do this story routine often?"
"Never."
The fans were loud. The day had reached and surpassed the expected temperature and the humidity was approaching one hundred percent. It was late afternoon now; rush hour traffic was building, the sounding seeping into the building. Napoleon idly watched Waverly's hand moving from button to button on the console as he smoothly handled the crisis.
His head hurt. He did not even try to think about what a stowaway on a freighter sixteen years ago had to do with Illya lying unconscious in the infirmary.
It was hard to believe Illya was alive.
His head still throbbed. "Sir?"
Waverly had finished his calls and was staring out the window, lost in thought. "Hmm? Yes, Mr. Solo?"
"Your story, sir?"
"Oh, yes. Where was I?"
Dunn leaned forward and rested his elbows on the round desk as the Dutch agents rejoined them. "I take it Van de Laar checked out okay and you handed the boy over to his father in New York."
"Van de Laar was -- as you put it -- checked out and turned out to be a member of an underground movement in Holland. On my recommendation, he was hired by our new Netherlands office in Amsterdam and worked with them for some years before he was killed in the line of duty.
"But to continue my narrative: Upon docking in New York, I followed the boy down the gangplank to where the welcoming crowds had gathered. A tall young man in the crowd waved in our direction and Nico waved back, quite excited and cried out a greeting to his father. Before we could reach him, the man was shot. Assassinated. Two of our agents were there to meet me and I had them locate the killer. His name was Lubinich."
"The name is not familiar, sir. Should it be?" Dunn was scribbling notes on the pad in front of him. Solo had succeeded only in breaking his pencil.
"He was relatively unknown in the North America. We brought him to our old Headquarters and questioned him before handing him over to the police. Lubinich was a hired assassin, a Nazi sniper in the war, and would tell us only that he was employed by the Zekering -- a group later affiliated with the organization calling itself THRUSH.
"Van de Laar and I brought the boy back to the freighter before anything could happen to him. He was returned to Holland and then smuggled back into his homeland. Except for a cousin whom he was sent to live with, his entire family had now been obliterated. A colleague of his father's saw to his safety and arranged for him to be educated with his own son.
"Before I left the freighter that day, I gave Nico a card in my alias "Virtanen" that listed the phone number to my private line.
"I didn't see or hear from him for seven years."
***
Spring 1955
Alexander Waverly moved among the carpenters and painters and dug the ringing green phone out from under the layers of plastic sheets covering his desk and new office. The room was in a state of bedlam. Files and dossiers were scattered between the old building and this new one still in the finishing stages. The final move wasn't scheduled for three days, but the phone lines bad been transferred early and Waverly had to be near the phones. Too many lives depended on it.
It was the first time the green phone had rung in months. He was thinking of having it disconnected, but it had been routinely rerouted with the rest of the lines and he had decided to wait.
"Hello."
A voice spoke on the other end, but the whine of a drill drowned it out.
"Quiet!" Waverly thundered and the sound ground to a halt. "Out!" The workers fled. "I apologize for the noise," he said into the receiver. "Please repeat your message."
"Virtanen?" The quiet voice sounded strained.
"Yes
"Zwerver. Nico. Pier 63. Six in evening." The line went dead.
Zwerver. It took Waverly several minutes to figure out the word. He had used the alias Virtanen during the Second World War and only a few times in the years immediately following. It had been five years since the code name had been deleted from his file and the green phone only rang if old contacts wanted him.
Zwerver. He reached for a file that wasn't there and called up his old office. His secretary answered and found the Lougheed file for him. His hunch was correct. Zwerver was the name Captain Lougheed's crew used to refer to their freighter. The Wanderer.
With the name came the memory of the skinny, pale, blue eyed, black-haired little boy. Nico.
Waverly was at Pier 63 at 5:55 p.m. and casually examined his surroundings. No freighter was docked at that pier but the two on either side were teaming with activity. He watched as equipment was hoisted off a French freighter.
"Mr. Virtanen?"
"Hey!" Waverly spun. He hadn't heard the boy approach. "Nico?" He wasn't sure; there were certainly similarities between the nine year old and this young teenager, but seven years makes a great difference at that age. He, on the other hand, had changed little during the years.
Still slight in build, the pale young man before him had a heavy woolen cap drawn down over his head and wore the rough clothes of a European seaman. "Yes, I am he. I need help," Nico spoke in thickly accented English.
"How may I help you? What is wrong?"
"I am part of group brought to New York City. We establish a base for our counterparts in Soviet. Another group come, try to control us. We do not know them." The boy fumbled in his pocket for a moment, then tossed away an empty cigarette package, swearing. "Have you... papirosa?"
Waverly pulled out his cigarette case and offered one to the boy.
"Spasiba. Ach. Thank you."
The Russian words surprised Waverly. He stared hard at the boy watching him fight to light his cigarette, sheltering it from the breeze coming up from the harbor. "Nico, what are they called? This other group?"
"Man name: DeWeese. And bird name: THRUSH."
Waverly groaned and looked out across the city. THRUSH again. They had grown quickly in the last few years, largely by absorbing smaller groups and changing their focus while honing the rebellious or fanatical drive that fuelled the organizations. And now he had to tell Nico this group was linked to the one that killed his father. "I know the name." He stared at the skyline again as he began to explain their objectives. "Come back with me, Nico. I want you to see where I work and look at some pictures. If you can identify the people that are infiltrating your --"
"Nyet!" The boy spun and raced away among the cargo and dock workers.
***
1964
Waverly stopped speaking and opened a file on his desk. He took out a photo and spun them around to the agents. "This is Pol DeWeese, a leader in THRUSH."
Vandermeer took one look at the photograph, whistled in surprise, and pulled a file from his briefcase. "Here is our connection, Waverly. This is the same man from our surveillance photographs." He pointed to shots of DeWeese entering and exiting a large city bank. "You say his name is DeWeese?"
"Yes, Pol DeWeese. When was this taken?"
"Two weeks ago…" Vandermeer glanced over to De Witt. "You are right. Okay, I'll show him." He pulled out a series of three photographs and handed one of them to each man. "These were taken the same day as the other. The image is blurry, but it could be your man, which is why we brought them."
The black and white photos, enlarged to 11 x 14, showed several men walking in the finance area of Rotterdam. Although taken with a long-range camera, the rather haggard young man in the middle of the group appeared to be Illya Kuryakin wearing a dark suit and sunglasses, DeWeese at his side.
Solo stared at the photograph, trying to make some sense out of the picture. Although he was thin and looked tired, Illya did not appear to be a prisoner, but many things could account for that: drugs, hypnosis, threats.
Waverly nodded as though the photographs merely confirmed his own suspicions. "Let me continue my story."
"How does Illya connect
with Nico?" Napoleon's headache was ebbing, replaced by a dull fatigue.
"I'm getting to that, Mr. Solo."
***
September 1955
It had been a long summer. Waverly hurried down the busy street, several newspapers under his arm, his head bent down against the cool wind sweeping through the buildings and skyscrapers of downtown Manhattan. He gradually made his way into the older section of the city, through the nighttime crowds walking dogs, passing time, and conducting illegal and questionable business.
The poking in his side remained constant as his companion urged him into another left-hand turn. The building they entered was old and the elevator creaked to the basement. He was led down dark hallways, then down another flight of stairs into a sub-basement.
The room stank; it was the first thing he noticed. He was roughly forced into a chair and his hands tied securely behind him. Thirty men crowded into the dark room, lit only by one feeble light bulb hanging from a low ceiling.
A strange mixture. The ten men gathered around the table in the center of the room were all middle-aged and well dressed. He caught glimpses of expensive watches and jewelry; they smiled unceasingly.
The rest were men of the street. Their ages varied from late teens to men his age, but the dress was the same -- dark clothes, heavy work boots, and well-worn jackets. Angry, bitter faces glaring.
A man sitting at the table spoke to him. "You have been asking about us. We want to know why."
Waverly cleared his throat, his thick, busy eyebrows dancing as he frowned. "I was curious as to why a Russian Patriot group would consider merging with you."
The man laughed and called to one of the men standing apart from the others. "Vladimir, he is curious."
The dark haired man shook his head. "I have never seen him before, DeWeese." He looked around the room and asked, in Russian. "Has anyone seem him before?"
Waverly moved his head slightly, memorizing faces as his gaze swept the room.
DeWeese tossed Waverly's U.N.C.L.E. identification on the table. "Alexander Waverly, United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. What do you want with us, Waverly? The patriots are not breaking laws... at least not in this country." This was followed by the man's deep chortling laugh, joined by the rest of the THRUSH members.
The other men stood silent. Vladimir ignored DeWeese and moved in front of Waverly. "I, too, wish to know why you are interested in us."
"Po-ruski." Waverly indicated he spoke Russian, then continued on in the language, "I know a member of your group and that member approached me, asking for information on these men. I now have the information."
"Who do you know? We are all gathered here and no one claims to know you."
"Nico knows me."
Vladimir turned away. "Nico is dead. I am the leader now. My name is Vladimir Ivanovich Repin. What do you know of these men?"
Waverly blinked back his surprise and looked around the room once more. "Dead? How did Nico die? When?"
"He was shot."
"Just like his father," Waverly muttered, then sat straighter in his chair. "For Nico, I will tell you what I know." There was a commotion in the open doorway behind him and the group's attention left him for a moment. Waverly twisted in his chair as Vladimir strode over to the young boy who entered the room.
A quiet, intense conversation followed in a Slavic language Waverly was unable to follow. From the confused, half-amused looks on the THRUSH members' faces, they couldn't understand it either.
The boy apparently won the discussion and turned to face the group. He was no higher than Vladimir's shoulder and looked as though he had been ill. He stood barefoot on the cold, cement floor, a heavy blanket draped around his thin body. The blond, almost white hair was clipped close to his head and beneath the wide brow, serious blue eyes stared coldly at the men at the table. He addressed Waverly in English. "Hello, Mr. Virtanen."
The THRUSH men laughed again and Vladimir quickly explained, "This man is Alexander Waverly. He is a member of the UN.C.L.E. group. We have discussed them before."
"I remember." The boy moved slowly around the table until he was looking directly at Waverly. "Your name is Waverly, not Virtanen?" he continued, in much-improved English. "For comrades, we showed little trust.!
"I am sorry, Nico. It was necessary at that time for me to use that cover. It had nothing to do with you."
"I, too, am sorry. I am not Nico."
Waverly glanced over at the other Russian men, noting how intently they watched this boy. The THRUSH agents were getting restless, but also seemed unwilling to interrupt the dialogue. "Did you call me a few months ago?" he asked the boy.
"Yes. My name is Illya Nikolayovetch. My father was Nico -- Nikolai Kuryakin." A faint smile rippled across the stony face. "I.. borrowed ... the name, yet it is my own. You may use it." To Vladimir, he said, "Untie him."
Waverly spoke quickly in Russian, uncertain of the limits of the boy's English. "Nico, you asked me who these men are. They are members of an organization known as THRUSH. I assume they approached your group offering financial support in return for helping your cause. That is their usual pattern. What they really want is your European Network, your contacts, your methods of smuggling people in and out of Russia.'
DeWeese leaned forward. "Vladimir, while it is true that THRUSH --"
He was interrupted by the boy. "We have not asked you to talk."
It should have sounded impertinent coming from a sixteen-year-old. It didn't.
The room fell silent. Vladimir and the boy were locked in eye contact, stubbornly testing each other. When the boy spoke again, it was in Russian, and he spat out the words. "This is not what my father worked for! This is not what my father died for!" The icy eyes tore away from Vladimir and sought out the other men in the room. "Have you forgotten why we are here? Have you forgotten the dead rotting in our streets? Where is your brother, Ivan? In prison. Your father, Igor Isayevich? Banished. You have his name, but you have forgotten him."
He paced the room, the blanket clutched around him like a robe. As he peered into their faces, the men's eyes dropped. "Mikhail? Vsevolod? Ivan Stepanovich? Mischa? Sergei?" At last he returned to Vladimir and stood silently before him until Vladimir dropped his gaze as well. "I will leave with this Mr. Waverly. Do what you wish. I will fight my cause elsewhere. I will not come back."
Waverly got to his feet quickly, reclaiming his hat and newspapers. The boy moved with him to the door, then stopped and turned to the THRUSH men at the table, addressing them in English.
"You have destroyed my father's work. I will find out who you are and I will kill you one day for what you have done. Ten years, twenty years, or fifty years -- it does not matter. I will remember. I will see you on the street and follow you to your homes and I will murder you as you sleep in your filthy beds. I will remember your faces. Remember mine."
Chapter Four: "Are you sure this isn't paranoid?"
4:40 p.m.
A dark chill ran down Napoleon Solo's spine as the words echoed through the office. "I will remember your faces. Remember mine," he repeated. He looked across the room to Waverly standing near the window. "Someone saw him first."
"Perhaps. However, Mr. Kuryakin was quite young when he said those words; it is doubtful they would have watched for ten years on account of a child's threat." Waverly returned to his desk. "Go home, gentlemen. I have other assignments for you, but they can wait until morning. I regret the delay in our conference," he said to the Dutch agents. "If you can remain a few more minutes, we will go through these papers."
Dunn flipped through his notes. "I have a few questions for you first, sir. There were some gaps in your story. In regard to --"
"Tomorrow, gentlemen." Waverly picked up a file from the Netherlands' office and opened it, pointedly ignoring them.
"It'll just take a minute, sir."
Napoleon got to his feet and tugged at Dunn's tuxedo jacket. "We've been dismissed," he whispered. "Outside."
<
br /> "But –"
"Outside." Napoleon waited impatiently until Paddy joined him in the hall. "Listen, Dunn. When Waverly says wait until morning, we wait. Ask your questions later. I've got a few things to do before we go. Can I meet you outside in half an hour?"
"Sure. Whatever you say." Dunn watched him stride down the corridor and slammed shut his notebook. Hell of a day.
***
Erasmus stood tall above him in the sunshine, reading the same page forever.
Solo took a deep breath and entered the infirmary, walking down the corridor, not pausing until he came to his friend's room. Nurse Johnston had pushed up the oxygen tent and was taking Kuryakin's pulse when she saw him. She quickly excused herself and left.
He felt awkward. He wanted to talk, to slap this man on the shoulder and tell him how glad he was that he was alive. To tell him he had been missed. To ask him what had happened. And now to ask him about the incriminating Rotterdam photographs.
Instead, he walked to the bed and studied the chirping monitors, the clipboard with the doctor's scribbled notes, and the paraphernalia attached to the unconscious patient.
Only then could he look at Illya. Kuryakin lay motionless on the bed, his bandages and blond hair fading into the spotless sheets. The room was darkened, Illya's face lit by the luminous dials and equipment glowing at the head of the bed. The blue and orange lights painted a deadly hue on his pale features, for apart from the bruises, his sunken face lacked even the faintest hint of color. Both hands were taped to prevent him from escaping, an intravenous hookup on his right arm. A tube came out of his mouth.
Illya alive.
Napoleon sat down beside the bed, his legs suddenly feeling weak. He watched the I.V. fluid drip silently through the tubing and into the Russian's arm. His eyes followed a thin white scar running from Illya's wrist halfway up his arm to where it disappeared beneath the infirmary gown. Nico. Illya. Funny he'd never noticed the scar before.
Even unconscious, Illya's features were marked with pain, his brow furrowed and breathing labored. Caught in another nightmare that refused to release him.