Collection 1: The Dutch Blitz Affair

by LRH Balzer

  "Yes."

  She nodded, "I can see his father in him, though Nikolai was much darker." Her voice tightened. "We were to be married later that year. They killed him."

  "The Zekering."

  "Yes."

  "Was Voorne with the Zekering, then?"

  "His brother was, I believe. They were trying to get the group here to join. I think perhaps this man was, as well."

  "Do you know DeWeese, the man on the left?"

  She shook her head, no.

  "Where can I find Voorne?"

  "I don't know, Heer Solo. I wish I could help you."

  "Anything you could tell me would be helpful. The name of anyone else involved then? Where they had their meetings?"

  She looked at the picture for a long time. "I don't know if it is still there, but during the war, we hid men in an underground room in a warehouse near the waterfront. Afterwards, they used it to meet in sometimes. Perhaps it is a start." She took out some paper from her desk drawer and sketched a rough map of the area. "If I think of anything else, please tell me how to get in touch with you."

  Solo wrote down the U.N.C.L.E. telephone number in Amsterdam. "Leave a message for me and it will be put through. Thank you very much for your time."

  "Just find your friend, Heer Solo. I would like to meet him again. He was almost my son."

  Chapter Eight: "Mysteriouser and Mysteriouser"

  Rotterdam waterfront, 10:00 p.m.

  Once full darkness had settled in on the city, Solo and Dunn circled the warehouse. It was in desperate need of repair, hastily constructed in 1940 from substandard materials to meet the demand after the aerial bombardment of Rotterdam. The entire area had now been slated for rezoning and reconstruction as the work on the growing new harbor continued.

  Several cars were parked outside and as Solo and Dunn joined the other Dutch agents already in place, a call came through on the U.N.C.L.E. radio transceiver giving the identity of three of the owners. Two were known THRUSH agents from Amsterdam. The third belonged to a suspected Rotterdam THRUSH agent. The remaining vehicle was rented and that information was slower coming but they still managed to get a name within five minutes. It was signed out to one Frans Hoffman.

  "Hoffman? So he's more involved than we thought." Dunn's U.N.C.L.E. shotgun was out and he fed two rounds into the bottom. He took his time, scarcely glancing up as two men exited the warehouse and left in their cars.

  Solo's own automatic was ready for action, the safety on, and crammed into his belt. His U.N.C.L.E. special lay tucked in its customary holster waiting, the rifle attachment in his pack. He concentrated on blanking his mind to everything but the coming attack.

  De Jong had already checked his weapons and was talking quietly over his radio transceiver to Vandermeer, who was monitoring the raid from the local U.N.C.L.E. office and coordinating the other agents they had in place in vehicles surrounding the area. Vandermeer had set up an impressive surveillance network over city. The cars, with the tracers Brekker had attached to their bumpers, could be tracked anywhere in the Rotterdam city limits and a few kilometers outside of it. Several U.N.C.L.E. vehicles had already pulled out, tailing the two suspect cars.

  Brekker emerged from the shadows surrounding the warehouse and came toward them. He had a vast amount of equipment hanging around him, including a camera and high powered binoculars. Although Solo had known he had been there in the dark observing the proceedings in the warehouse, it had been virtually impossible to see him.

  A man of few words, he waited patiently for them to get comfortable before speaking. "Here's how it is. The inside is basically empty. A desk and filing cabinet are along the south wall, by the main door. The only light source is a hanging fluorescent panel above where your man Kuryakin is lying on an old sorting table in the middle of the warehouse. He's not tied down but is offering no resistance."

  "Alive?' Dunn asked, so Solo wouldn't have to.

  "He's moving a bit; probably drugged."

  "How many others inside?" De Jong had already sketched the layout as Brekker spoke.

  Brekker took the pencil and added additional details. "Three men: here, here, and here. One female against the east wall, rope tied wrists only, conscious, appears tired and terrified. Voorne is no longer there; he left with the Amsterdam THRUSH leader shortly before you arrived. The other Amsterdam THRUSH agents appeared to get a call on their transceivers and left a few minutes ago. At that point, two of the men who were in the background before began to question your man."

  "Threatening?"

  "No, just persistent. Trying to wear him down probably."

  "Where did Voorne go?"

  "According to our tail, Voorne and the Amsterdam THRUSH boss met DeWeese and a woman at a local restaurant for dinner."

  "DeWeese? So he's popped up again?" Solo processed the report slowly, trying to get a grasp of the situation. "What weapons are inside?"

  "The man by the south door has an automatic rifle, but he's holding it stiffly. He's not comfortable with it. The two men at the table have their jackets off and shoulder holsters are visible and they are concentrating on what they are doing right now."

  "How do you suggest we go in?" De Jong asked.

  Brekker didn't pause. "There are four of us and three of them. Good odds right now. I suggest walking up to the front door and knocking. The roof skylight is slightly ajar to let some air in; I could get up there and as soon as the door opens, take out the gunman at the door and one of the interrogators. The third man would probably give up, or one of us could take him down."

  De Jong looked across the circle to Solo. "Well, Napoleon. You call it. Do we go in now or wait until Voorne returns and take him at the same time?"

  Solo shook his head. "Paddy? Suggestions?"

  Dunn fingered the safety on his gun, crouching and leaning back against the neighboring warehouse. He exhaled slowly before speaking. "First someone snatches Kuryakin, they drag him around Rotterdam, then they give him back. Why? We've figured it's because they were looking for information and couldn't find it. Send him home and let us try and find out what they are looking for. It didn't seem like a THRUSH operation, so we wonder who these guys are.

  "We come to Rotterdam and bad guys steal him again. This time we know it was a THRUSH operation. They come in with big guns and worked professionally. And we have bodies of their known agents. So what do they want? If they're after the same information, why attack us before we're even settled? Why not just follow us while we're here in town and see what we're after? But no, they make a strike for him. Kuryakin gets away from them again and is caught again. Both abductions are sloppy, with too many witnesses. Not like THRUSH. And Voorne's involved again so we know it's the Zekering group."

  Dunn glanced up at them to see if they were following what he was trying to say. "Brekker says that they've been questioning Kuryakin ever since he started watching them, for hours now. These guys have had him for almost thirty-six hours, this round. What do they want? I keep asking myself that. What do they want? Voorne takes the THRUSH bigwig away, the other Rotterdam THRUSH agents leave, and the questioning starts again, but with new questioners and new procedures. Two local guys -- one of them Frans Hoffman. Now what does he want?" Dunn looked across at the warehouse. "I think we have two groups operating here. Possibly after two pieces of information. We assume Voorne and his guys want the mysterious piece of paper Illya stole when he was a kid. But THRUSH? More of the Inrhysec formula? I don't know. They seem to have gotten a lot out of him the last time... I haven't figured that out yet."

  "Did Kuryakin ever recall their questions?" Vandermeer's voice asked over the transceiver link.

  "Just that he thought someone wanted to know about something that happened when he was a child." Solo stared across the empty lot to the warehouse beyond. "Two different groups?"

  "Right."

  "What do you suggest, then?"

  "I say we move in there now quietly, then wait for Voorne and company to retu
rn and get them as well."

  ***

  10:33 p.m.

  Pinpoints of pain rippled over his shin and sent fire tendrils through his eyelids. Concentrate on the pain. Concentrate. The faces hovering above him now were burnt into his memory. Concentrate on the pain.

  Time passed slowly. Pain. Question. Pain. Don't answer them. Concentrate on the pain.

  An explosion collided against his senses.

  Thunder crashed and lightning swept his world. He held his breath, clinging to the shifting raft beneath him.

  Erasmus appeared suddenly, bending over him, talking in Latin. He felt himself floating among the lightning and clouds and knew he was safe.

  "I didn't tell them, Erasmus," he told the statue. "I didn't tell them about it."

  The statue touched his face, staring into his soul, then picked him up and carried him away from the storm into the darkness. For a moment there was peace and he sighed, relaxing into the quiescent shelter. The murmur of voices lulled him, and he knew he was lifted and carried, then other hands reached for him, pulling him down in a black sea and he screamed for Erasmus not to leave him. The world was spinning as he was passed lower and lower into the moonlit darkness and the flowering snakes of fluorescent blue.

  Then Erasmus came again and held him until the shaking stopped and the colors stopped whirling and the moon stopped shining in his face and the light went out.

  He woke slowly in inky darkness, eyes fluttering, trying to open. At the motion of his eyelashes, a hand that had been resting lightly over his forehead and eyes moved down to his lips, one finger placed vertically over them in the universal gesture of silence.

  He nodded and the hand left his face. He could see nothing. Other senses slowly kicked in and he could hear footsteps creaking above him.

  Through the floor came the sounds of angry voices talking, but the words were blurred.

  He had been in this place before. The faint septic-tank, earthy smell. The floor boards above his head. As more awareness returned, he could feel a pounding heart against his back and an arm circling his chest. Below him, cool dampness. He was half-sitting, half-lying on the dirt floor, caught securely by the unseen person behind him.

  More noise from above, and beside his ear the safety catch coming off an automatic. He shivered and the body behind him felt it and the arm squeezed reassuringly. A faint, "Lie still, Illya," came to his ear, and with a ragged sigh of relief he realized it was Napoleon. Now what had happened?

  The question released another flood of memories that set him trembling and the arm tightened across his chest again. The warehouse. They were in the hidden room of the warehouse. Where his father had lived. They had brought him here and... they had brought Hennie with him. He tried to lift his head to look around him but the room had no light.

  Questions. They had asked him questions. First about the paper they said be had stolen. Stupid little piece of nothing paper that made his head hurt to think about. Why were they so convinced he knew about it? The questions had lasted a long time, several hours at least. Over and over. The same stupid questions. Frans had been there. And Voorne. And someone else he knew but the face wouldn't focus now.

  His body involuntarily shuddered, reliving the souvenirs they had left on his upper chest. His right hand shakily moved to touch the burns, but they had already been bandaged. Napoleon.

  Then the other men had come. THRUSH. None of the other drugs this time, they had said. It has been over six months; his U.N.C.L.E. conditioning is gone. With a flood of dread he realized they were right. Six months of his life.

  They started to inject him with Pentothal, but someone reminded them he reacted to that and couldn't be questioned properly. They had argued about a new drug called Pentothal Plus, but had given up the idea since it was a moot point -- it was not available to them yet. So they had given him a pill and made him swallow it or they threatened to hurt the girl.

  Then the questions had begun again but they had been different. Intense. Specific. The formula. Inrhysec. Inrhysec. Inrhysec. He was fairly sure he had told them nothing.

  But the pill had made his world tumble out of order.

  A woman's voice from above now. Hennie? he thought at first, but this was an older voice. Authoritative. She had asked him questions before. Hssss. Question. Question. Hssss.

  Where was Hennie? He tried to remember if she had been upstairs where they had been questioning him. Sometimes they put her down here.

  Promise not to tell, Nico.

  He tried to sit up but Napoleon's arm held him firmly in place. It took a moment to figure out why. If there was shooting in the dark, Solo wanted to know exactly where he was.

  Promise not to tell, Nico.

  Gunfire. Footsteps running. People yelling. The door slamming. More gunfire.

  He felt his body jerk in response to the noise, his right hand reaching for his holster, but there was nothing there. The arm about his chest tightened again and he tried to relax and not distract Solo. A car pulled away. Then they could hear the table being pushed aside and he froze. He could feel Solo's silent growl behind him. Napoleon shifted him, pushing him back behind him out of the way; his gun would be trained on the trapdoor.

  A light came into the room and a woman peered down at them. "Hello? Heer Solo?"

  Solo caught his breath and took his finger off the trigger. "It 's okay," the woman said, peering down into the darkness. "It's safe now. They've gone. I shot two of them and the others ran."

  Dunn moved to the center of the small carved-out room and pulled the light cord. A dull bulb bathed the room in yellow light. Hennie was over by Dunn and another man. She looked awful.

  They brought him upstairs. There had been a battle here. Dead men. Five dead men, Solo said. He said he recognized Frans, but not the others.

  Illya leaned heavily against Solo's arm, dizzy. Something was wrong here.

  Promise not to tell, Nico.

  Solo steered him to a chair and had him sit down, then turned to the Dutch woman. "Miss Van Daan, thank you. Your timing was perfect. You shouldn't have gotten involved though. It's too dangerous."

  She smiled ruefully at Solo, gesturing at the two new bodies. "I'm a good shot. And I was saving my own neck. I wasn't even sure you were here." She looked over at Kuryakin. "Is this --?"

  Solo clapped a hand on Illya's shoulder. "This is Nikolai Kuryakin's son, Illya. Illya, this is Miss Miep Van Daan."

  Her face swam unrecognized before his eyes. As she approached him, still smiling, Illya felt the uneasiness spread swiftly throughout his body. His hands trembled and he closed his eyes to stop the reeling, one hand over his mouth as the retching sensation threatened.

  Solo noticed instantly and stepped between them, motioning Miep to stay back. "Uh, I guess this is all a bit much for him. He's only been awake for a few minutes, so we better give him a chance to get his bearings. They drugged him with some sort of hallucinogenic," he added, in way of explanation for Miep, but also directed at him for his benefit. It explained the color swirls as he tried to look around.

  Dunn came over quickly, blocking Miep's view. In a low voice he said to Solo, "Are we still waiting for Voorne and the THRUSH leader? If so, why don't we put the two women and Illya back downstairs out of the line of fire. I want to go outside. I can't raise De Jong on the U.N.C.L.E. transceiver."

  Illya looked up, trying to see Napoleon through the foggy haze. "No."

  Solo bent over. "No? You'll be safer down there, my sleepy friend." He tried to smile reassuringly, but he knew this man well enough to see past the drugged stupor. "What's wrong, Illya? Someone here?" he asked, quietly.

  Promise not to tell, Nico.

  Illya blocked one hand over his mouth again, trying to stop the growing nauseous feeling. He could feel himself being lifted again. He didn't want to be downstairs in the little room, yet he couldn't find the words to tell Solo that.

  His former partner seemed to know and carried him to a corner of the warehouse,
placing him on some discarded cardboard on the floor. Solo slipped the leather bag off his shoulder and withdrew a small jacket, making a pillow out of it. "I'm listening to you, buddy. I need to talk with you, so as soon as you can manage, let me know." Solo checked his small handgun and made sure the safety was on, then put it out of sight beneath the makeshift pillow.

  Illya twisted onto his side and stared at the jacket, eyes traveling back to Solo. "Mine?"

  Solo nodded. "Waverly gave it to me to bring along. Do you remember it?

  He sat up and took the jacket, fingering the cloth, then smiled his first smile in many weeks. "Want a cigarette?" he asked, pulling a crumpled cigarette from the cord lining. "Hid them from father." He sat a moment longer, his hands feeling icy. He handed the jacket to Solo and lay back, curled up on his side as his stomach cramped. "Look... in lining. More... stuff... maybe.

  Solo took the jacket and wiggled out another cigarette and then a third. He stopped, glancing back at the white roll realizing that it wasn't a cigarette, but a tightly rolled piece of paper. "What is this, Illya?"

  "My paper... Erasmus..." he said, then groaned softly, feeling worse. Solo unrolled it and looked at the creased, wrinkled paper. It could have been a pencil rubbing, but it wasn't done well and the letters had smudged beyond reading. What he could see was that there was no other writing on the paper, on the front or on the back. No reason to try to kill a little boy. He folded the paper again. "We're expecting the rest of the bad guys soon. I'm going to go talk to Miep and Hennie to see if I can get some more information out of them."

  Promise not to tell, Nico.

  "I didn't tell anyone, Erasmus," Illya whispered.

  Solo heard him and bent over, frowning. "I know. You told me already," he said quietly to him.

  "Erasmus...? Napoleon...?" The face wavered in and out of focus. "I don't like her," he said, gripping Solo's arm.

  "Who don't you like -- Illya?"

  ***

  Dunn joined Solo, shrugging. "There is still no answer on the transceiver." He glanced down at Kuryakin, but the Russian had slid out of consciousness.