Collection 1: The Dutch Blitz Affair

by LRH Balzer

  Solo took the small jacket, curious as to why Waverly had kept it for sixteen years, but reluctant to ask him. It was not wise to accuse Waverly of sentimentality.

  ***

  AMSTERDAM, THRUSH Headquarters

  5:30 a.m.

  The Head of THRUSH BENELUX Satrap (Belgium, Netherlands, and Luxenburg) sat at his desk staring at the telegram before him and lightly tapping it with his gold THRUSH-engraved pen.

  Before him, the Amsterdam Satrap leader waited patiently for instructions, content to tarry for the other's verdict on the telegram he had brought before him.

  "The U.N.C.L.E. agents are coming here," he said at last. "They are bringing Kuryakin with them."

  There was another long pause while the Amsterdam leader waited.

  "Contact Voorne and his little Zekering group. Inform him that Kuryakin is beginning to remember the paper Voorne is looking for and he will be brought to Rotterdam by U.N.C.L.E. to see if they can help him retrieve his memory. If they require our assistance in abducting him, we will be happy to comply."

  The Amsterdam Satrap Chief smiled. "It certainly solves some of our problems, doesn't it? We can just pick up from where we left off. He must have all kinds of new things to tell us."

  The sun rose to their indulgent laughter.

  ***

  The Rotterdam U.N.C.L.E. agents met them at the airport and taxied them to their hotel. It was dusk by the time the ancient cab pulled in to the front doors of the newly renovated building, allowing Solo and Dunn to stretch their legs in the cooling evening air while the Dutch agents checked them in. New York had been hot and muggy when they departed that morning, so the refreshing westerly breeze was welcomed.

  De Jong returned to the car, his handsome face still bearing the casual smile he had worn since greeting them at the airport. "We've made arrangements to bring the luggage up the service entrance," he said without preamble. "Here are the keys to your suite. Dykstra is waiting for you in the lobby and will see you to your room. When he signals all is well, then Van Home and I will come up shortly with the luggage," he said, indicating the back seat.

  De Jong turned to shut the cab door, but Solo stopped him, a wry, rather sarcastic, smile tugging at one side of the American's mouth. "Uh… If you don't mind, Hans, I'll stay with the... uh... luggage, and my partner, Dunn, will check the rooms with your man."

  The smile never wavered. "As you wish, Mr. Solo, but it is unnecessary. We are well trained in handling baggage."

  Dunn stepped in then, his six three frame towering over the other man. "Our travel agent, Mr. Waverly, tells us our insurance policy will be void if our 'luggage' is lost or damaged, so you see, we prefer to deal with it ourselves."

  "Of course." De Jong slid into the front passenger seat. "We'll meet you upstairs then, Mr. Dunn."

  Paddy winked at Solo, then disappeared into the hotel.

  De Jong swiveled in his seat as Solo got back into the cab. "The Russian sleeps soundly."

  Solo stifled a glare, turning instead to check on the 'luggage'. "The Russian was drugged. He should sleep for a few more hours."

  De Jong's smile slipped for a moment. "I did not mean to offend you, Mr. Solo. To be honest, I have no great love for Russians. But he is an U.N.C.L.E. agent, so I can only assume he is safe." He paused. "May I ask why he was drugged?"

  "No."

  Alone in their suite, Solo and Dunn eased Kuryakin out of the wheelchair he had been brought upstairs in and helped him on to one of the twin beds, both agents aware again how thin he still was.

  Waverly had insisted that Illya accompany them on the trans-Atlantic assignment, overruling Dr. Lawrence's recommendations. "U.N.C.L.E. agents do not always have the luxury of recuperation," he had said, dismissing the angry doctor from his office.

  The forced sleep would not go well with Kuryakin, Solo knew. It was one thing to go under in the line of duty. But to be drugged by Waverly unawares and wake up in the Rotterdam Ritz was altogether different.

  Just before the two agents retired for the evening, a call came through from Waverly informing them that the key witness they had in the Winthrop case had been assassinated just days before the trial. It was the witness Illya had found and had secreted away just prior to his disappearance.

  That made six pieces of information probably supplied by Illya Kuryakin to THRUSH. They were faced with no other way to look at it.

  ***

  2:30 a.m.

  Illya Kuryakin woke in the dark to the smell of burning flesh. Eyes wide open, he waited, scarcely breathing, hoping for a sound to betray where he was. His wrists hurt, but as he carefully rubbed them, the pain faded to a throbbing memory.

  He looked around in the faint light coming in from under a door. Not the infirmary. Not any place he knew. He tried to sit up, struggling for a moment to free himself from the bedding.

  His movement triggered a startled reaction near him and someone leaned over to turn on a bed lamp, shielding his eyes from the light. "You okay?"

  Napoleon. The tightness in his stomach began to lessen. "What's happening?" he asked when he found his voice. He glanced around the room, still bewildered as to his location. Paddy Dunn, on a cot at the foot of the beds, raised himself to lean on one elbow, peering sleepily at him.

  "We're at a hotel in Rotterdam." Solo untangled the sheets for him and helped him sit up.

  It took a few seconds for Kuryakin to digest the information. "I was in Waverly's office..."

  "That was more than twenty-four hours ago."

  "I slept for a whole day?"

  "You were drugged."

  "By Waverly?

  "Yes."

  "Why?" Illya swung his feet to the floor, trying to stand, but feeling weak-kneed. "Why?" he hissed through clenched teeth. "Why was I drugged? What did I do?" He felt frustrated and tired to the core of being out of control of his world.

  "He didn't ask my approval. We're here to investigate the murders of some Dutchmen and Waverly wanted you to come along with us." Solo glanced at his watch. "It's 2:30 in the morning here, Illya, and it's been a long day for us. We'll talk about it later." He got out of bed and grabbed a dinner roll from the table, gratified to see the Russian quickly take it. "Hungry? Good. I don't expect you have a lot in your stomach and you'll need your strength. There's more food on the table if you want it. I'm going back to bed. Turn off the light and get to sleep as soon as you can. We've got a lot to do tomorrow." Solo crawled into his bed, rolling on his side and turning away from the light.

  Chewing on the crispy roll and trying to make sense of Solo's words, Illya glanced around at his surroundings. Dunn had gone back to sleep, snoring softly. He crossed to the window and looked out but could not get his bearings. The buildings were not familiar. It didn't look like Rotterdam, but he saw no reason for Napoleon to lie to him. He took a second piece of bread from the table and went back to the window, eating slowly and staring out at the city lights.

  The food seemed to fill him and before long he fumbled with the light switch and fell back asleep.

  ***

  The small clock on the night table showed it to be 3:14 a.m. when there was a series of beeps from the U.N.C.L.E. radio transceiver. Dunn stumbled in the dark and turned on the light, grabbing for his cigarette case, flipping it open, and activating the channel.

  Another Dutch U.N.C.L.E. agent's voice crackled into their suite. "Brekker here. Twelve THRUSH agents have been identified in the area. They may be after you. Be advised. Out." The tone indicated he had closed the signal.

  Dunn reached over and clicked the safety off his U.N.C.L.E. automatic pistol. "I'll go check the hall," he said to Solo, pulling on some clothes and tucking the weapon out of sight in its holster.

  Solo nodded, dressed and quickly crossed the room to the window, carefully studying the street below as inconspicuously as he could, but from their tenth floor room he could make out little detail. He checked his pistol, tucking an extra clip of ammunition in his jacket pocket. A qui
ck tug on Illya's eyelid showed his former partner was once more fast asleep.

  The building trembled. A moment later, the muffled shock blast sounded through the suite. Dunn slipped back into the room. "Bomb?" he queried, his gun pulled out.

  As Solo went to open a channel to the Dutch agents, De Jong's voice came over the transceiver, his voice registering anger. "Our cab was blown up, Solo. A good agent went with it. Your luggage better damn be worth it. Van Home overheard two THRUSH agents talking and they said the suite you are in was all 'prepared.' We don't know what that means, but it's best to move you. Pack your luggage. We'll put you in the sub-basement for now, until we flush out the rest of these guys. Out."

  "I'll deal with Illya. Check the elevator." Solo moved around the suite, gathering supplies as Dunn exited the room.

  Paddy stalked down the hallway, checking the stairwell at the east end, then moving to check the west stairs. Unfortunately, the elevator indicator did not show which floor the elevator was currently on, so there was no way of monitoring it.

  The doors to the service elevator at the west end slid open and Van Home fell lifelessly out, his gun impotent in his hand.

  Dunn flattened himself against a suite doorway, then pulled out and shot down the first THRUSH agent as he exited the elevator. Another quick shot and the man was still. Too late Dunn saw the second man emerge and he felt the blinding jolt clip his left shoulder. He spun, dropped to his knees, and kept firing. Painfully, he got up and stepped over the second man, moving into the elevator cage only to find the terrified operator. He quietly asked the man, in English, then in Dutch, to hold the elevator for a moment.

  The old man bobbed his head in answer, eyes widening further as Dunn pulled out what appeared to be a cigarette case and began speaking into it.

  Solo emerged from the suite, eyed the long hallway, and pulled Illya out after him. The young Russian moved awkwardly, still half asleep, holding a few blankets, a box of ammunition, and a leather bag of supplies. Solo had the special U.N.C.L.E. arsenal and weapons they had brought with them. As he got close enough to see Dunn's blood-stained fingers clamped over his left shoulder, he sprinted back to their room for the first aid case.

  The old man watched wordlessly as they descended and Solo rapidly checked the flesh wound on Dunn's shoulder and bandaged it. They were both ready for action by the time the elevator reached the basement.

  Two more Rotterdam U.N.C.L.E. agents met them there, flashing their identification. They took charge of Kuryakin, one scooping up the blankets and supplies while another herded Kuryakin down the narrow flight of stairs leading to the sub-basement. Dunn and Solo began to follow but sudden gunfire behind them forced the two U.N.C.L.E. agents to turn around and return the fire. Several minutes went by before they had driven off their attackers and could quickly join the others.

  The room they were supposed to be in was empty. Another door led out into an underground parking lot and as Solo and Dunn ran out among the cars they could hear a car screeching up to the upper levels and then disappear from their hearing.

  The blankets, ammunition, and leather bag lay abandoned on the gray concrete, but the two other men, and Illya, were gone.

  Chapter Seven: "A Happening place"

  Within minutes the streets surrounding the hotel were filled with emergency and police vehicles and Napoleon Solo was called upon, as the senior U.N.C.L.E. representative on site, to offer explanations along with Dirk Vandermeer, who was in charge of the local office. As U.N.C.L.E. was relatively new to Rotterdam, the police were uncertain of which procedures to follow, or whether charges should be laid. Three THRUSH agents and four U.N.C.L.E. agents were dead, as well as the front desk clerk from the hotel who had tried to telephone for help. Ambulances were dealing with injured agents from both sides, including Paddy Dunn who was reluctantly taken to a nearby hospital to have the bullet wound in his arm properly cleaned and bandaged.

  Solo stood in the middle of the road as the last emergency vehicle cleared out, staring off into the darkness of the empty street.

  ***

  Halfway across town, Illya Kuryakin turned and stumbled down another narrow alley. He glanced back over his shoulder, wincing as his muscles protested the movement. No pursuit in sight, but he could bear them, the car taking corners on two wheels as they tried to trace him. He wedged his thin body into a space between two buildings and tried to bring his breathing under control as he wiggled through to a stonework wall hiding the passage from the front street. Pressing his back against the cool bricks, he easily wormed his way up between the two buildings, gradually moving forward to the street. When he was even with the second floor, he took a deep breath and hooked one arm over a ledge protruding from one of the buildings, following that with a leg, and then drew himself up until he could look down over the dark street. He crouched on the ledge, waiting.

  It didn't take long. The car chasing him crawled around the corner, headlights out, searching for him.

  To his relief, they did not think to look up and he watched as they slowly moved out of his sight and into the next neighborhood.

  He slid down the awning and dropped to the sidewalk, scraping one bare foot on the cobblestone. Why aren't I wearing shoes? A clock struck the half hour. Four thirty in the morning. Why am I dressed but not wearing shoes? What happened?

  Faint memories of hallways and elevators and running. Paddy was bleeding. A dead man in the elevator. Solo pushing him toward two men.

  He was tired but light-headed. His senses tingled with a life he hadn't felt for months.

  He walked down the street trying to figure out where he was. And where he had been. The car had left the hotel -- which hotel? -- and had been moving for ten minutes before he slowly realized that he was being kidnapped again. He had then suddenly exploded into action, chopping the driver's shoulder with his right hand, then letting the arm continue on to let his elbow smash into the face of the man on his right. He fell against the handle and dropped to the street, rolling to clear the door and the car, then running full blast down the street.

  It had taken him an hour to lose them. They were persistent but not professionals. He spent some time analyzing that fact. From what he could remember of the hotel assault, and the weapon of the dead man he had seen in the elevator, THRUSH was involved. But the men in the car were not THRUSH or he would not have escaped so easily. Maybe working for THRUSH? Or was THRUSH merely allowing them to fulfill some purpose for its own agenda? He ran their faces through his mind, but could not remember having seen them before. But then the four months of his abduction were still blank.

  Meanwhile, he walked down the dark streets of Rotterdam. It had been a long time. He stopped to figure it out -- sixteen years. He had been four or five when they arrived to a city of rubble, largely destroyed by the blitz in the early years of the war. His playground for four years. He hardly remembered it.

  Memories darted at his consciousness, vague faces and disjointed shapes, jumping from one event to the next in no sequential order. One face emerged and smiled at him from the sea of frowns.

  One Eye laughed and tossed him in the air.

  He would close his eyes and fly until the big hands caught him again. The big hands never dropped him. Erasmus believed in peace.

  One Eye taught him to wink at the gun.

  He walked absently, warmed by the memory, trusting his instincts and keeping to the shadows, but the streets were empty. Down two streets, turn left. Nothing looked familiar, but... it was.

  He could hear guitar music up ahead. Another block and on a back street, an open door cast flickering lights into the night, the music louder now. Hungry and tired, he walked into the all night coffeehouse, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the small occupied tables, with their flickering candles and calico tablecloths. He glanced down at his clothes, noticing they were not entirely suitable for a restaurant. Black turtleneck and jeans. No shoes. He checked his pockets. No money, either.

  They didn't seem to
care. They fed him and gave him hot chocolate. They asked his name and without thinking, he said Nico. They talked about love and peace, and sang songs about brotherhood. It was a piece of Greenwich Village.

  The hot chocolate made him sleepy. Part of his mind told him to get out and find Napoleon. Another part reminded him he had no idea where he was, where Solo was, or where U.N.C.L.E. was in this city. His body took over and shut down and the peaceniks carried him to a cot at the back of the coffeehouse and the guitars continued to play.

  ***

  When dawn finally came, Solo and Vandermeer picked Dunn up at the hospital and headed for the U.N.C.L.E. offices.

  Paddy could see Napoleon rubbing his forehead, knowing the man probably had a throbbing headache that matched his own.

  "I'd like to see your investigation reports," Napoleon said. "Have you interviewed anyone else involved with the Resistance group Nikolai Kuryakin headed? Why was he in New York when the group broke up? What about the other men that formed the group -- are any of them still in the city?"

  "You're welcome to whatever we have." Vandermeer stared out his side window for a few blocks before turning back to Solo. "Please do not take this the wrong way, but I must ask it. He may be your friend, but to us, he is a suspect in murder. Are you sure about Illya Kuryakin? They didn't grab him too easily? It was almost as though he was expecting it, waiting for them. Witnesses said he was not putting up a fight in the car."

  Solo counted to ten under his breath. "Yes, I am sure," he said, tightly. "Why should he have fought them? I told him to go with them to safety. He was still half-drugged, disoriented. He trusted me. I signed his death warrant."

  Vandermeer studied the other agent. "Okay. I'll drop it. I had to ask."

  "Yeah."

  Dunn sighed and stared out the window at the wakening city. The case stunk.

  "You okay?" Solo asked, eyeing the bandage and sling.

  The tall Irishman nodded. "It was a clean wound. I was just clipped. They anesthetized it and rewrapped it." He changed the topic. "Did you call Waverly?'