by LRH Balzer
Solo had lived his own nightmare for four months, waking up at night sweating and yelling, then pulling himself out of bed in the morning, exhausted. Their work brought them in contact with men who brought new meaning to the word evil, who had a debased, perverted psyche, and whose creativity at torturing their prisoners was endless. At night, his mind presented the possibilities in vivid detail. During the day, he would privately hope Illya was dead -- safe -- not suffering the agony he had dreamed the night before.
Illya groaned.
"What the hell happened to you?"
Solo hadn't intended to say it aloud, but Illya turned his head toward him and moaned in his sleep. For a brief second, one eye flickered open, then closed as a gasp of frustration escaped the chapped lips.
Napoleon waited a few more minutes but Illya didn't stir again. He tentatively touched his former partner's forehead, tracing the faint burn marks on his temples.
"I mentioned them before."
Solo drew his hand back quickly, his head snapping to see Dr. Lawrence in the doorway.
The doctor continued, leaning against the doorframe, "The scars are worse across his chest, but they look like they were done with the same instrument. Napoleon, I was hoping to catch you before you came by here and saw him -- he's asleep now, by the way. More or less in satisfactory condition. I see no need to transfer him to a hospital; we can care for him here just the same. -- What I would like from you, Napoleon, is some personal information. You know this man, can he handle the news of the Inrhysec?"
Solo shrugged. "We can't keep it from him. There are too many ramifications."
"I've asked Waverly to wait a day or two before the interrogation, but he hasn't given me a definite answer yet. I've already had Bulldog Watson in here several times checking to see if Kuryakin was awake." Watson was in charge of internal security. "I told him to try again tomorrow; I hope to have some sort of answer from Waverly by then."
"I would like to speak with Illya before Watson gets to him."
"I know. Come by first thing tomorrow. I expect Kuryakin will be awake or waking up around then." He smiled. "I'll make sure he stays under until that time."
The doctor disappeared back into the corridor, leaving Solo alone once more. He watched Illya sleeping, shaking his head in wonderment that the young Russian had survived his ordeal. Or was alive, at least.
After a time, he glanced at his watch and left the room.
He circled the statue, stepping carefully over the rubble that still lay about after four years. Erasmus didn't look at him, but kept reading the same page over and over.
***
5:30 p.m.
Paddy Dunn waited, double-parked, outside of Del Floria's. Napoleon said be would be on the sidewalk by this time. Dunn had pulled the car out of the garage but as yet there was no sign of him.
A taxi moved out of a space a few lengths ahead and Dunn quickly swung into the spot. Before be could turn off the motor, he glimpsed Solo in the rearview mirror, emerging from the tailor shop. He gave a loud whistle that brought the agent's attention to the MG. "What kept you? Traffic's heavy out here."
Napoleon deposited his heavy briefcase into the narrow space behind his seat. "I wanted to check a few things first. Let's go back to my place." He said nothing more during the twenty minute drive through rush hour traffic to his apartment.
Once inside, Dunn watched as Solo gave a quick security check to his place. It was something he would have to start doing in his own small suite, Paddy realized. Their business was dangerous; it was too easy to let your guard down at home, thinking you were isolated from the craziness. "Do you do this every day?"
Napoleon glanced up from the window he was closing. "Do what?"
"This check every time you come back?"
"Even if I'm out five minutes for a loaf of bread." Solo replaced his bug detectors and reactivated the security system. "It has to be automatic or you don't last very long. Contact our security section and they'll set up a program for you. If someone breaks in here, the alarms go off at HQ."
"Are you sure this isn't a bit paranoid?"
"Twenty percent of agents' deaths occur in their own homes. In eight out of ten cases, a security system would have saved them." Solo sat at his dining room table and opened the bulging briefcase, setting its contents out in piles on the table. "I've got our current assignments as well as a thick dossier on DeWeese, and a bit of information on the Russian and Dutch resistance groups Illya was affiliated with and some sketchy background on the men involved. I'll read through the resistance groups. You handle DeWeese's."
"How do you know Waverly wants us to look into this? He said to wait until morning, as you clearly pointed out."
"The files were already pulled and on my desk." Solo leafed through the folder on the groups and started scribbling in his notebook. He stopped for a moment when he realized Dunn was still staring at him. "Get this though your head now, Paddy. When Waverly gives an assignment, he expects you to already know about it. When files appear on your desk, memorize them. When he mentions a name, remember it and find out everything you can before you see the Old Man next. We already know about three assignments: the radar dish, the Mooney assassination threat, and next week's arms conference in Athens. Along with that we have these files about Illya and the results of the Inrhysec tests. Start reading."
***
7:00 am. July 7
Napoleon Solo woke early, showered, and was dressed before his alarm clock went off. He passed through the living room on the way to this kitchen and tossed a pillow at Paddy Dunn, still snoring on the couch. Dunn woke with a gasp, clutching his head.
Yes, the day had possibilities.
No messages from the answering service, except for confirmation from the rental agency that Illya's suite, several floors below his, would be held. Illya was alive -- there had been no phone call saying otherwise -- and Napoleon was more than ready to play the avenger and get some answers to the questions that had haunted him all these weeks.
He filled the coffee percolator with water and began grinding the coffee beans in his new electric grinder that brought Dunn staggering to the kitchen door.
"What is that racket?"
Napoleon stopped the machine and dumped its contents into the top of the percolator. "Go home, Paddy. Have a shower and get changed. I'll drive myself this morning. We're supposed to see Waverly at nine o'clock. You best hurry; you're running out of time."
"I've got two hours," Dunn retorted. "I have plenty of time and I'm never late, remember? I'll wash and change into something the Old Man will adore." His tuxedo was beginning to show signs of being worn for over thirty-six hours and the rose had been tossed the afternoon before. "I guess I fell asleep in the middle of a file last night. Did you find out anything?"
"I'll tell you at the meeting. Better get going." The percolator starting hiccupping.
Paddy watched the coffee perking for several minutes while Napoleon buzzed around the kitchen preparing a rather large breakfast. "Why can't you tell me now?"
Solo pulled a plate out of the cupboard. "Later."
Dunn was not so easily placated and not a morning person. "Okay, so I'm not Illya. I'm still your partner and I deserve to be let in on whatever's happening."
"Never said you weren't." Solo sat down at the small kitchen table, ready to eat. He looked up at Dunn expectantly.
"Waverly's office at nine, then. I'll be there. The thought of watching you eat all that at this time of day sickens me." Dunn saw himself out.
***
8:15 a.m.
He sat beneath the statue with his textbooks, trying to read a language he only knew orally. The words slowly took on meaning as he sounded them out. Sometimes he asked Pieter what a word meant, but even though the other boy was ten, he just shrugged. Science words, he said.
Erasmus kept on reading, but the church had been bombed and he couldn't turn the page.
"Sorry, Napoleon, you can see him if you want, bu
t he slipped back into unconsciousness early this morning. Just as well, it keeps Watson away from him and his body will have more time to heal." Dr. Lawrence -- who, like Waverly, never seemed to go home or sleep -- had intercepted Solo on his way through the ward.
"He's worse?" The day, which had started so well, was beginning to turn. Napoleon could feel the color draining from his face.
Lawrence frowned. "Did you expect him to be off running around the globe with you today? He was dead yesterday for a few minutes. Give him time."
"I need to talk to him." Solo tried to keep his voice level but he could hear it rise in agitation.
"Go ahead, talk to him," Lawrence said, his own volume rising, "but don't expect a lot of response. I've told Watson, and I'll tell you, I will not give him any drugs to wake him up. He's got too much in his system as it is."
"Okay. Okay." Solo raised his hands in defeat. "I understand. I'm going." He continued down the corridor and stopped in Kuryakin's room for a few minutes, but he found his anger not ebbing and Illya's raspy breathing only fuelled his aggravation level. "I need you on your feet and talking. Don't take too long," he said finally and walked out.
The wind whistled through the dust and empty buildings. He was bored. Hyper. There was a raid that night. The men had been in the meeting all morning, inside, and his father had given him ration coupons and sent him out to buy some bread and cheese for the men.
He stopped by the statue, the sun high in the sky. He turned around and looked at the shell remaining of St. Laurence Church. No more bells. He wondered if it was midday yet, but he didn't have a watch today. Someone else had needed it.
One last look at Erasmus, holding his book, waiting. Then he turned and ran.
***
9:00 a.m.
The Dutch agents, and Paddy Dunn, were already in Waverly's office when Solo arrived. Waverly emerged from the back room shortly after and took his place at the table.
"Good morning, gentlemen," he began, opening a file labeled Urgent, Top Secret. "First we will deal with Mr. Kuryakin's situation. We are beginning to get a sense of where this case is heading, and unfortunately, are presently faced with more questions than answers. Mr. Vandermeer, would you kindly begin filling in Mr. Solo and Mr. Dunn on the current situation in Rotterdam as we discussed yesterday."
"Certainly." Vandermeer stood and moved over to the slide projector, Dunn jumping up to dim the lights. "I have here a series of slides that should explain where we are at right now." There was a blank white light, replaced by the face of a young blond man, probably in his late twenties. "This is Pieter Eijkmann. Four months ago he was reported missing by his wife in Amsterdam, where he had lived for the past fourteen years. His body was identified two months ago washed up on the shores of the Maas River, several kilometers east of Rotterdam."
The picture changed to that of another man, approximately the same age. "This is Jan Hoorn, of Alkmaar, in North Holland. He is the son of a cheese merchant and was being groomed to take over the family business when he was reported missing three months ago. Last week his body was recovered from the waters at a shipbuilding yard on the south bank of the Maas River at Rotterdam."
Another slide. "This is Frans Hoffman. Born and raised in the Amsterdam area, he relocated to Montreal, Canada, in the late fifties to attend university there. He was working as a translator for a publishing company when he was also reported missing five months ago. Although no body has been found, last week a wallet bearing his identification was turned in to the Rotterdam police."
The slide changed to a group of men standing in a city square. "This was taken two weeks ago, a few hours after the photograph we showed you yesterday. They are in the new financial district in Rotterdam. We have now established the identities of most of these men. The man on the left, you have recognized as Pol DeWeese, a THRUSH leader. On the far right, Claude Voorne, age 55. Originally from the Utrecht Province in the Netherlands, he emigrated to the United States in 1954. He is, according to our files, the current leader of a group affiliated with THRUSH in the Netherlands and calling themselves the Zekering, which translates Fuse Box.
"Behind them are two top leaders of THRUSH NETHERLANDS, which is based in Amsterdam, the capital city. They are well known to us.
"The two men in the center of the group are of particular interest to us at this time: Frans Hoffman, of Montreal, and Illya Kuryakin, of New York City. As you can see, Kuryakin is still wearing the sunglasses and is leaning against a lamppost as they are standing waiting for the traffic light.
"These six men, and the four others hovering around them -- bodyguards, most likely -- spent the day wandering through the streets of Rotterdam, stopping at various buildings. It appeared Hoffman and Kuryakin were asked questions by the THRUSH agents but were unable to provide the wanted information, then the group would move on."
The slides ended and Dunn turned the lights back on while Vandermeer returned to his chair. "As we have already told Mr. Waverly, the only correlation we have found between these four men -- whose ages range from 25 to 28 -- is that they all worked for the same Resistance Underground group in the last year of World War II."
Solo blinked. "Illya would have only been... six years old then."
"Correct, Mr. Solo. They were the children of Resistance workers, used by the Underground to run messages, sneak into buildings, some were trained as snipers, or taught to throw grenades into trucks, or plant bombs in German units."
"At age six?" Solo asked. "That sounds a bit unreasonable. They were only little children."
"Tell that to the children murdered in the Ukraine, or gassed at Auschwitz, or starved during the later years of the war. No one said they were too young to die." Vandermeer stopped to glance at his notes. "From the sketchy information we have, Nikolai Andreiovetch Kuryakin appeared in Holland in November 1943, with his son who was referred in our files only as Nico or Nickovetch. Nikolai Kuryakin was from the Kiev, Ukraine area of the Soviet Union, an area particularly devastated by the war. His wife and other child were killed in the first sweep of the Germany army through the area in the summer of 1941. Skilled in working with the Russian Patriots, and highly placed in ComIntern, Kuryakin trained his Dutch workers in underground strategies -- liberally dosed with Communist policies -- and in early 1944 was able to help them regain contact with the Dutch and British Intelligence Services. He was known at that time only by the codename Nico."
He passed around a small, badly creased photograph that looked like it had been carried around in someone's wallet for years. Four very young boys were crouched down hiding, staring up at the sky. "Pieter Eijkmann, Jan Hoorn, Frans Hoffman, and Illya Kuryakin were four of the boys whose fathers were in the underground and who were trained as sabotage combatants. It is interesting to note that following the war, these four boys were, for various reasons, in the Rotterdam area for several years."
"Where were the other men at that time? DeWeese? Voorne?" Dunn asked, flipping through their files.
"Claude Voorne was hidden by the underground to avoid being sent as a laborer to Germany. By the end of the war over 300,000 Dutchmen were in hiding. He spent the last two years of the war in various places in the Rotterdam area."
Solo studied the small photograph again, trying to match up the pint-sized scruffy little blond boy with Illya. He reached over and picked up the larger picture. "So you suspect they want some information, that they think one of these boys saw or heard something twenty years ago."
"Exactly. But we have no idea what they're looking for."
"According to you, Mr. Waverly," Dunn put in, "Illya Kuryakin saw DeWeese in New York nine years ago."
"True." Waverly fumbled with a match, lighting the ever-present pipe. "There is no record of DeWeese in Holland during World War Two. He was based in New York at that time. Now, if THRUSH or the Zekering are looking for information regarding Rotterdam in the mid-forties, Voorne may be the one for us to investigate. He was involved then and now; he may be the lin
k to the abduction."
"Would DeWeese have had other dealings with Kuryakin besides the one incident in '55?"
"Not that I am aware of. Kuryakin was sent immediately to stay with an older cousin in Kiev." Waverly harrumphed. "Twice he was sent there and twice he ended up elsewhere."
Solo smiled at the older man's irritation. "Where did he go?"
"The first time, when he was nine, he slipped away from his cousin's home hours after arriving there and joined up with an old colleague of his father's who ended up adopting the boy, I believe. The second time, he bypassed Kiev altogether and went straight to Leningrad. From his university records, he spent most of his time working his way through several degrees, changing campuses and cities frequently and forging identification papers for himself. Few of his degrees are listed under his actual name, but since the work he did was documented, we had him reevaluated by several college boards. We then allowed them to stand on his U.N.C.L.E. resume. There are several years entirely unaccounted for, but it is apparent that he was employed by the KGB in Foreign affairs, working on both sides of the law, as suited his cause. But I digress." Waverly paused as he gathered up the files and photographs.
"Mr. Vandermeer and Mr. De Witt will be returning to Holland to continue their investigation and search for Frans Hoffman, Voorne, and DeWeese. Mr. Solo and Mr. Dunn, you will remain here for the time being and concentrate on the case from this end: Mr. Kuryakin's story and any indication as to what THRUSH or this Zekering group are looking for.
"Now, as for our other cases..."
Reluctantly, Solo closed the files before him and listened half-heartedly to their other assignments.
Chapter Five: "The land of the living"
9:30 a.m. three days later
He walked out into the sunshine and felt the dust settle around him. He closed his eyes to the world and looked up at the sun, seeing the light through closed lids, then moved into the street, trying to picture how it was before. He tripped, falling to the ground and cutting open his palms. His eyes opened, the bombed city a reality. Bombs and death were real.