by LRH Balzer
Solo nodded, but did not relay the conversation.
He didn't have to. Dunn knew that Waverly would not have been pleased with their performance and he couldn't blame him.
They spent the rest of the day in a small, windowless office, stopping only briefly to eat the food placed before them. The Rotterdam U.N.C.L.E. agency was new and unorganized. Vandermeer was an excellent agent and investigator, but neither he nor his partner, De Jong, were desk men. Solo relentlessly drove the secretaries and clerks to catch up with the backlog of filing.
The New York agents worked in silence for hours, only speaking to each other when it directly related to the information they were looking for.
At one point during the day, it occurred to Dunn that he was angry. Furious.
Why?
Because he was shot? Because four U.N.C.L.E. agents and one innocent were killed in a battle that didn't make sense? Because they had not prevented Kuryakin from being abducted again? Because the Dutch agents accused Kuryakin of betrayal? Of incompetence?
He wasn't sure, until several hours later when he realized he was angry with Illya Kuryakin for disappearing again, for from the moment Paddy had punched Watson, he had somehow added Kuryakin to his own small list of individuals he would fight for.
And he wasn't sure the man deserved it.
By Saturday's end, they had unearthed several points of interest. First, since the beginning of August, there had been three other murders of ex-Resistance workers, besides the mayor of a major town in the east. All shot through the head, bodies dumped. Someone was looking for information.
Second, there were no known THRUSH operatives in the city prior to six months ago. There were no possible locations for such an office at this time.
Third, there was no complete list of names of those who had been Resistance Workers during the final years of the war. That information only seemed available through the Obituary Column of the newspapers, the details provided by family members.
In the end, they came up with three leads. Mr. Anton Appel, a leader within the Resistance, seventy-two years old and living in a retirement home outside Rotterdam.
Mr. Willem De Groot, the man who had kept an eye on the young Nico and provided him with writing paper, now in his sixties and living in a small flat in Rotterdam.
And Miss Miep Van Daan. Nikolai Kuryakin's lover.
***
Illya woke late in the afternoon and staggered out of the storeroom into the coffeehouse, blinking at the sea of faces.
"Over here! Come over here."
He turned to see a young woman gesturing to him and gratefully collapsed into the offered chair. "What time is it?" he asked, in Dutch.
"Does it matter, love? It was a beautiful sunny day and you slept it away. Hey, Johan, bring a coffee and pastry!" she called out, closing the paperback novel she had been reading. "He looks wasted."
He felt wasted. His shoulder still hurt from where he had hit the pavement, ached fiercely if he moved it wrong. He was hungry and he consumed the pastry in seconds when it arrived, licking his fingers unabashed. They placed another one before him and he ate it more slowly, sipping on the hot coffee.
"Where are you from, Nico? Around here?" she asked.
He was startled that she knew his name, but on studying her face, he remembered her from the night before. She was smaller than he was by no more than an inch and had beautiful, blonde hair presently caught back from her face with some sort of leather hair ornament. She had been singing on the minuscule stage with the guitar players, Dutch versions of popular American folk protest tunes. The throaty rendition of Dylan's "Blowin' in the Wind" the night before had been memorable. Why had he stayed so long, though? It had been comfortable. Familiar.
Her question registered on his brain finally and he shook his head. "I once lived here, but that was many years ago." He drained the coffee mug.
°Excuse me, miss, but I need to use a telephone. I must call my uncle."
"Are you visiting him?"
"No." He glanced around the coffeehouse, searching for a telephone. He shivered. Something wasn't right. His senses were reeling and he looked around again, seeing it for the first time. "What is this place?"
"It used to be a deli that my uncle Willy ran but he retired a year ago and we turned it into a happening place." She used the English word happening. "It used to be a hangout for old-timers."
His heart was beating rapidly. He knew this place. He knew this place. His mind raced, trying to sort out the tangled memories. There had been a barrel over there.
"Nico... stay away from there."
He had scampered away with a swiped cracker in his hand, retreating to the stairs leading up to De Groot's office. He would sit there and watch them through the smoke down below, listening to their arguments and plans.
They had been fighting. About money again. Some of the men said that the war had ended over two years ago and it was time to stop fighting and get on with rebuilding lives.
But some men had nothing left. No family or business. They wanted to find another way to earn money. Nico has deserted us, they said.
"Hush," De Groot had said. "The little one is listening." They all looked up at him.
But the men were angry. They said his father had sold them out. He had gone to New York to be with the Russian group and had forgotten about them. Deserted his kid and his girl.
Another man came in the room and they got all quiet. He said he had a lot of money for them if they would join his group. They used the codename Zekering, the Fuse Box.
Some of the men wanted to wait for Nikolai Kuryakin to return. He had brought them through the war and helped them bring back the men from Germany. He would know what to do. The rest of the men said why wait? Kuryakin had his own agenda now. He was Russian and not Dutch. Let him take care of himself. Get rid of the kid, send him to America.
The Zekering man scared him. He said they had to decide that night. He waved a piece of paper at them and said the paper had the location of a lot of money. He would give it to them if they would join the Zekering and help them.
De Groot was angry now and said they all had to get out.
There would be a meeting that night. In the old place. They would decide then. Get out. Get out!
"De Groot?" He opened his eyes, then blinked rapidly. He was no longer in the coffeehouse, but back on the cot in the storeroom.
"Hmm?" She was sitting on a stool near him, reading her book, but she put it down and smiled at him. "Are you okay? You faded out on us for awhile. You having drug flashbacks or something?" She reached over and took a cloth off his forehead. "And my last name's De Groot, but most people call me by my first name, Hennie. Why don't you go back to sleep? You look like you could use it."
"Hennie?" He sat up and shook his head, trying to shake the cobwebs from his brain. His stomach was beginning to feel queasy. "Hennie, is your uncle around? Your Uncle Willem? I have to talk to him. It's important."
"Do you know him? Yes? He's out of town visiting my parents tonight but he'll be back tomorrow morning. We can visit him then. Are you okay?" she added, as he began to glance around the room anxiously. "There's a toilet in that little room there."
Damn.
He barely made it on time.
***
Saturday afternoon, a lead came in from De Witt in the U.N.C.L.E. Amsterdam office on Miss Van Daan, a diamond merchant, so Solo and Vandermeer left after dinner to pursue that possibility.
Dunn stayed behind to check on the other two leads. He discovered Willem De Groot was away for the weekend and was expected back in town the next day, according to his landlady.
That left Appel.
Dunn arrived at the retirement home in the late afternoon, as the visiting hours began. Appel was in a wheelchair but still exuded a robust health that made Dunn feel tired in comparison.
"Sir? May I speak with you?" Dunn asked, in flawless Dutch.
"Eh? And who are you?"
Dunn produced the U.N.C.L.E. identification.
Appel nodded, apparently aware of what U.N.C.L.E. stood for. "Make it quick, though. I've got cards at five o'clock."
He showed him the pictures and Appel nodded again. He remembered Nikolai Kuryakin and his son. A good man, Nico. Helped them during the war. A good, fair leader. His death broke up the group completely. They were already splitting up because of the... the Zekering group that wanted control.
"Do you remember a man named Voorne?"
"That's the man from the Zekering group. Little Nico ended up killing him. Just as well, the man was trouble."
The U.N.C.L.E. agent added that to his notes. This was a new connection-- the man Illya had killed was also named Voorne. The man's brother? He chose his next questions carefully. "Do you remember the fight when Voorne was killed?"
"Yes. If you're after the boy, Little Nico killed him in self defense, clear self defense. He was a nice enough little soldier and Voorne had no right to push him like that." Appel paused, in thought, then glanced up at him. "You must understand, we made little soldiers out of the children. It was not a good way to grow up. They grew cold. Sometimes they scared the men because human life had so little meaning for them. Some would calmly shoot a man before breakfast and then skip off to play. But they helped us win a war and won the right to grow up and crawl out from the sewers.
"Voorne tried to attack Little Nico just because the boys had accused Nico of stealing a piece of paper belonging to Voorne, and the kid responded just as we had drilled into him."
"What was on the paper, sir?" Dunn asked.
"Supposedly the location of a large sum of money. I never saw it, but Voorne was absolutely livid that it was gone."
"Did this Voorne have a brother?
"He could have... yes, I think there was a young man around. He had been in hiding in the north and came to Rotterdam after the war."
"Sir, Illya Kuryakin -- Little Nico, you called him -- is missing and we think this other brother may have taken him to some familiar locations to spark his memory and find out what was on the paper."
"Familiar locations... You could talk to De Groot. He may be able to take you to some of the old places. I can't get around much anymore."
***
Sunday morning
Illya had been sick on and off most of the night. Memories that made no sense had marched through his awareness, repeating themselves in odd variations. The deli figured in most of them. Playing, hiding, stealing bits and pieces of food from its empty shelves. Eating potatoes. Stuffing boiled potatoes into his mouth when De Groot would feed them sometimes. Hunger. Watching the men and knowing they were hungry, too. Faces of the men from long ago replaced the faces of the peaceniks looking after him.
The doctors at the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary in New York had said his weak stomach and vomiting was simply a psychogenic or psychoneurotic reaction; his blocked memories were seeking expression in this particular response or symptom. It could have started from the hypnotic drugs his kidnappers had injected him with. Or his allergic reaction to the drugs. Or electric shock. Or maybe because of their continuous questioning. The doctors had said that when he sorted out what his subconscious was trying to say, it would stop.
After a few hours of facing a toilet, he didn't care any more. He couldn't think straight. It hadn't lasted this long before. Was that good? Was he closer now?
Faces from past and present continued to entwine, and finally he let himself be cleaned up and bedded down on the cot by Hennie and her friends.
He woke, mid-morning, feeling dizzy but willing to sip the tea Hennie handed him.
She brushed the hair out of his face, gazing at him with worried eyes. "You sure had a bad case of the flu. Should we take you to a doctor or something? There are a lot of strange viruses going around right now," she added.
"When will your uncle be home?" he asked, sitting up.
"He should be home by now. I'll call him and tell him to come here. You can't go anywhere."
He surprised her by getting off the cot and weaving toward the rest room. "Let me wash up and I will go. I have to talk with him."
Twenty minutes later, Illya followed Hennie up the stairs to her uncle's apartment. She went to knock on the door but it was unlatched and opened at her touch. She seemed surprised and immediately alarms went off for Illya. He heard men arguing inside and he grabbed Hennie's arm, swung her around, and pushed her down the stairs ahead of him. "Run!" he hissed.
He froze on the step as a shot rang inside the apartment, waving at her to keep going. As he went to turn, a gun butt hit him behind the ear and he folded, crumpling against the stairwell.
***
Sunday 1:00 p.m.
In the Amsterdam U.N.C.L.E. office, Napoleon grabbed the phone off the hook. "Solo here."
"It's Paddy. They got De Groot, probably ten minutes before we arrived. Shot in the head."
Solo groaned. "We're running out of leads."
"There's more, Napoleon..." Paddy's tone changed. "From what we have put together over the past two hours, Illya escaped shortly after those goons grabbed him Saturday morning. He showed up at a coffeehouse run by De Groot's niece, Hennie, at approximately five o'clock yesterday morning. The regular patrons of the coffeehouse said he was there until he left with her at about 10:30 this morning.
"Witnesses here confirm that after hearing a series of gunshots, a blond hippie-type couple were apprehended leaving the premises. The witnesses thought they were taken away by unmarked police cars."
Solo swallowed. "Define apprehended."
"Both were already handcuffed when seen by the neighbors. It sounds as though Illya was having difficulty walking and was escorted by two young men and helped into the vehicle."
"Then they still want him alive."
"Yes... What do you want us to do?"
Solo looked across the table to Vandermeer and De Witt, who had appeared from another office when Dunn's call came through. "Keep looking. I'll check out Nikolai's girlfriend and then I'll head back to Rotterdam. We haven't found out much so far, other than she owns a 'small but lucrative' diamond jewelry store in the tourist area here in Amsterdam. Maybe she can tell us something. We don't have a home address for her, but the office here was able to find out where she works. I'll check it out first thing tomorrow. Just do what you can."
***
Amsterdam, 9:00 a.m., Monday
Solo adjusted his tie and entered the jewelry store alone. The display in the window had been impressive, but the woman approaching him was more so. He knew she was in her early forties but she appeared years younger. Her impeccable Chanel suit and regal bearing spoke of wealth. Her blonde hair was swept back into an elegant French roll and her bronzed skin was smooth beneath the costly diamond necklace she wore.
"Goede morgen," she said, smiling.
"Goede morgen. Ik ben Heer Napoleon Solo. Ik heb een afspraak met Mejuffrouw Miep Van Daan." His meager Dutch allowed him to introduce himself and say he had an appointment with the owner.
"Ik ben Mej Van Daan," she replied, graciously holding out her hand to him. "Bent u amerikaan?"
"Yes. Ja. Do you speak English?" he asked, hopefully, as he shook her hand.
"Of course, Heer Solo. How can I help you?" She led him to her desk and indicated for him to sit opposite her.
A glance around the store confirmed it was empty and Solo held out a copy of the photograph taken almost twenty years previously of the four young Resistance fighters, hiding during a bombing.
She took it from him carefully and stared, lost in half-forgotten memories. "My little boys," she whispered softly. "Where on earth did you find this? May I keep it?" Her fingers lightly touched her lips as though to keep them from trembling. Blue eyes darted back to Solo's as he remained silent. "Where did you get this?" she repeated.
"Do you remember their names?"
She held his eyes, questioning for a moment, then dropped her gaze back to the picture. "Jan, Pieter, N
ico, and the dark haired one..." She closed her eyes trying to remember. "Frans," she added, looking down at the picture again.
"Jan Hoorn and Pieter Eijkmann were murdered in the last few months, both shot in the head at close range. Illya Kuryakin and Frans Hoffman are missing."
"Pardon?" Her eyes widened in disbelief. "Why were they killed?"
"I don't know. I was hoping you could help me with some information about their activities at the end of the war. It seems that they are somehow linked together."
"And how are you involved?" she asked, carefully.
"Illya Kuryakin is my friend. I was responsible for him and someone kidnapped him two days ago from a hotel in Rotterdam."
Her eyes lingered on the picture and she touched the faces as he spoke. "I've wondered sometimes whatever happened to them... Illya?" She repeated the name and frowned slightly. "We didn't call him that. His father sometimes referred to him by Ilyusha but usually the patronymic name held. The little one wanted so much to be like his father, so we all called him 'Little Nico.' He would get a hold of black dye and make his hair black so it was like Nikolai's. What a mess he would make! He was a miniature Nikolai, all serious and somber. His father knew how to smile though; he had a..."she searched for a word, "contagious laugh. Little Nico never seemed to master it." She looked back at Solo. "I would like to help you, but remember, I have not seen them since a few years after the war."
Solo put a second photo on top of the one still in her hand. "This was taken about two months ago, in Rotterdam. Do you know any of these men?"
She studied the photograph carefully, then reached into her desk for a magnifying glass and looked again. "This one," she said pointing to Voorne, "yes, he was there then. Younger, of course. He was from an area southeast of Amsterdam. I do not remember his name. His brother was killed during a fight. I don't know all the details, but it was when the group broke up."
"Why did the group break up?"
"Hmm?" She was still staring at the second picture. "Money. Nikolai's murder. Many things. Is this your friend?" she asked, pointing to Illya.