Collection 7 - The Northern Lights Affair

by LRH Balzer

  Frank was a retired RCMP officer, and the last Napoleon had heard, they were still living on Montreal's East Side. Their eldest son, Francois, was an official with the RCMP in Quebec City. As for Roz, on Napoleon's recommendation, he had left the RCMP in 1958 and transferred to the Canadian U.N.C.L.E. office, first in Montreal as a Section Three agent, then to Toronto in Section Two. They had gone their own ways, and in the last seven years, he and Roz had exchanged perhaps a half dozen phone calls.

  There was a strong possibility Roz might even be at this meeting, Napoleon realized, trying to remember the last time they had spoken. The thought suddenly cheered him, a blast of energy into an otherwise sombre affair.

  Warning lights flashed silently. The plane was descending, the clear sky showing the sun about to set, with a beautiful view of the Saint Lawrence River and surrounding area. Again Napoleon glanced to Illya, noting that his partner was awake now, his concentrated study of the panoramic sight easing the stress lines of the last few days as he was deep in thought.

  "You've got something on your face," Napoleon said casually.

  "Hmm?" Without turning his head, Illya seemed to pull himself away from whatever he had been mulling over long enough to respond to his partner. "What do you mean?" He ran a hand lightly over his face as he watched the countryside beneath them change. It had snowed that morning, a pre-season taste of what was to come. For the most part, it had already melted, but a few areas were still dusted in white powder.

  "I may be mistaken—heaven knows, I don't see it very often—but that might be a smile on your face." Napoleon grinned and allowed his gaze to dart back to the habitually impassive Russian. "What great thoughts have broken that imperturbable mask?" he asked, handing his empty cup and saucer back to the stewardess.

  Illya shrugged as his fair skin reddened slightly, but the smile determinedly remained. "I was fifteen or sixteen the last time I was in Montreal. I arrived a day earlier than Petrov was expecting me and took myself on a private sightseeing tour of the city. I spoke French, but I wanted to acquire the Quebecois accent."

  "Soaking up the local atmosphere?"

  "Something like that. I lied about my age and spent the night at a bordello."

  Napoleon watched the smile flicker over Illya's face before the Russian turned back to the side window. Rain bounced against the tiny pane for thirty seconds as a cloud passed overhead, then stopped. There would be other snowfalls, it was only October, but the brief glimpse of snow was soothing to the eyes, a promised relief from the oppressive heat of Chacua.

  From the way his partner sat, Napoleon could see Illya's body still ached from the sunburn and the enforced labor of the prison camp. And from slapping hands away from his body. Illya had reluctantly admitted that there had been fights in the barracks at night. The anger washed over Napoleon again, frustration at not being there to help—and yet, Illya rarely required his help, absorbing the punishment dealt to him with no more than a resigned shrug. It was all part of the business.

  Well, perhaps it was, but his partner seemed to take more than his share of bruises.

  "Was Mr. Waverly satisfied with the destruction of the Ultimate Computer?" Illya asked suddenly, knowing the direction in which Napoleon's thoughts were headed. The past was the past, even if it was only a day old.

  "As satisfied as he ever is about an assignment completed. However, we both know it won't be long before they build another computer."

  "And they will hide it better next time." Illya rubbed his forehead, as though trying to ease a tightness that clamped his skull.

  "So we will be even more devious to find it." Napoleon paused, then added, "If you're hurting, take your medication," he said carefully.

  "I'm fine."

  "No, you're not fine. You're in considerable pain and are too stubborn to take the pills the doctor gave you."

  "If I need the pills, I'll take them," Illya said, dismissing the topic with a tone of ice.

  Napoleon nodded, tucking his briefcase under the seat before him. It was obvious that Illya's headache from the morning had returned with a vengeance. If and when it affected his job, then Illya would mention it, or so he had promised. More than likely, a good sleep in a real bed would ease the problem. Montreal HQ had a reputation for treating visitors well, wining and dining them, and putting them up in the best hotel—the legendary Ritz-Carlton, according to the briefing notes. Usually, Illya would brand it all a waste of money, but tonight Napoleon would see to it that he would be a good little capitalist and enjoy it.

  Beside him, Illya slowly exhaled and turned his head back. With a quick gesture to the briefcase, he asked, "When does the conference begin? I have not yet read the background on it."

  "We have a brief meeting scheduled for this evening with the Canadian U.N.C.L.E. chiefs at the Montreal Headquarters—more an opening reception than anything—and then the main conference tomorrow at eleven a.m. in the Oval Room at our hotel."

  "How late is it scheduled to go?"

  "Tonight or tomorrow? Tonight's appears to be only until nine o'clock, but the annual meeting tomorrow incorporates a luncheon and then runs right through until five o'clock."

  "Then we fly back to New York?"

  "Possibly. We may be expected to stay another day or so, though. I noticed that our return flight wasn't booked." He shrugged. "There may be other avenues that need to be explored, once the general meeting has taken place. The agenda was lacking details, but I get the feeling there are a lot of things happening right now."

  "Thrush?"

  "Only brushfires at present, but enough to cause concern. The fires have popped up in unexpected places."

  "Any mention of Baffin Bay?"

  "None that I read. That would be priority, if we find anything."

  "I'll read the file before dinner. There should be time, if they are prompt retrieving us from the airport. Or does our hazard pay include driving through Montreal's notorious traffic?" he added dryly.

  Napoleon smirked, shaking his head. "When Betty gave me our tickets, she said that Jean-Pierre Fortier will pick us up."

  "Good." Illya checked his seatbelt when the light came on, then took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the moisture from his forehead. "They have the heat turned up in here."

  Napoleon put his palm on his partner's forehead. "You're hot."

  "I know. That's why I said they have the heat too high. Get your hand off my forehead."

  "No, I mean you are hot, as in 'feverish'. What else besides the headache? Are you coming down with something?"

  Illya groaned. "Are we going to go through all this again? I am a grown man, perfectly able to take care of myself—"

  "Okay. I'll drop the subject if you promise me one thing."

  "What's that?"

  "That when we get to the Montreal office, you'll let the doctor have a look at you."

  "Napoleon!"

  "I'm quite serious."

  "So am I. If I need—" At Solo's determined stare, Illya shrugged, then nodded as though the matter were of no consequence and not worth arguing over. "Sure. Why not?"

  Which meant Illya really wasn't feeling well. Napoleon put aside his initial impulse to tease him, and kept his mouth shut. Illya had agreed to see an U.N.C.L.E. doctor, and if there was something wrong, Sam Lawrence would be notified. Illya may not listen to the Montreal doctor, but Dr. Lawrence in New York knew well how to threaten the Soviet agent and Illya usually—usually—followed Sam's instructions.

  Jean-Pierre Fortier met them as they walked off the plane, a tall, dark-haired Section Two agent Solo had worked on a few occasions during his first years with the New York office. Fortier ushered them through customs and out toward the waiting chauffeured limousine. "Welcome to our city! I trust your flight was pleasant," Fortier continued, his English improved since his time in New York, Solo noted, although his accent was still heavy.

  However, when in Montreal... "Merci, c'etait tres agreeable. Monsieur Kuryakin et moi avons pens
e avec impatience a notre visite ici."

  "A quelle heure commence la reunion?" Kuryakin added, and Fortier looked surprised at the Russian agent's command of the language.

  "Not until seven o'clock. We have enough time for you both to freshen up before it starts." Fortier opened the car door for them, smiling at Illya's sunburn. "I see you gentlemen have been busy in far warmer climates than our own. Monsieur Kuryakin, a touch of un coup de soleil? "

  "I was simply unfortunate enough to try some of Monsieur Solo's aftershave." Kuryakin delivered the line blandly as he ducked to enter the limousine. "In line with its properties, it appears to be caustic." He settled himself in the luxurious car, ignoring Fortier.

  Solo followed him in, depositing the briefcase between them. "If that's supposed to be humorous, then I insist you see a doctor," he said softly as Fortier shut the car door and got into the front seat with the driver.

  "It is none of his business where I got the burn. We were on a classified assignment." Illya kept his voice equally low as the car pulled away from Dorval Airport and began the thirty minute drive to downtown Montreal. "Hand me the file, Napoleon. I can read while we're in transit."

  He passed the documents over, watching as Illya paged through them, quickly scanning for useful intelligence data. Page after page was read methodically, often accompanied by a sharp nod, as Illya processed the information, and more importantly, its implications. Napoleon noticed his partner spent less time on the FLQ material than on the scanty information available on Thrush's Canadian operations.

  "The FLQ might pose to be a problem," he pointed out, pulling the dossier from the file.

  Kuryakin shrugged. "At present, they are a difficulty only for the local government. I recently read an article forwarded from our Canadian office on Pierre Vallieres, a Montreal journalist who joined the Front de Liberation du Quebec earlier this year. The accompanying file on the FLQ was much more substantial than this. No," he continued after a pause, "it is Thrush I wonder about. Their numbers are growing, yet the Canadian U.N.C.L.E. office has offered little information on their activities."

  "And you see no tie in between the FLQ and Thrush?"

  "Realistically, Napoleon, of what use would the FLQ be to Thrush? Other than taking the focus from their own activities elsewhere."

  "Perhaps. I dislike hearing about arms and ammunition being stolen. Thrush could be using the FLQ as a cover, and confiscating the weapons later."

  Illya looked across at him, then gave a shrug. "I suppose that is always a possibility. I see the agenda tomorrow has someone addressing the FLQ situation. They will, no doubt, be able to offer more information." He paged back through the documents as though looking for something. "Is this it?" he asked finally, handing the closed file back. "That's not much to go on. I am surprised that Mr. Waverly would not send more complete files. I know they exist at the New York office."

  "He had the files clerk copy whatever was in the current folder on Canada."

  "If this is all that was available, then someone else has taken the related paperwork from the file and has not returned it. I know more existed than this. I've seen the documents." The Russian closed his eyes, one hand resting over the top of his face, hiding his eyes from the glare of the city lights as they flicked past.

  The small niggle of worry worked its way into Solo's thoughts as he tried not to watch Kuryakin's discomfort. A few times he initiated conversation, but Illya just shook his head, waving off the concern with a weary flick of his hand.

  "I'm fine. I'm just tired." Kuryakin straightened in his seat as the limousine pulled into an underground parking lot, winding its way to the third level, then through a barred gate that opened as the car approached, clanging shut after them. The Dorchester location was as secure as any U.N.C.L.E. office, this one accessible through the garage, the roofs helipad, and the office tower adjacent to it. The limousine stopped outside a second gate that slid aside as the car door opened. An orange security door swung inward, and Fortier led them inside and up a few stairs to the Reception desk, where a young woman had monitored their approach, visitor badges ready for them.

  "We occupy four floors of the renovated Benoir building, as well as the fifth and sixth floor of the new tower adjoining. The subbasement of the Benoir is also U.N.C.L.E. owned," Fortier said as they walked quickly.through the halls.

  "How many on staff?" Kuryakin asked, all business as his eyes glanced left and right as they walked through the wide hallways. On the surface, Kuryakin seemed his usual abrupt self, but Solo noted the too-bright eyes under pain-heavy lids. It was hard to tell, with the sunburn, if he was paler than usual.

  "In this office? Personnel lists: Section One - Claude Renault, of course. Section Two - twenty-five agents. Section Three - fifty-two agents. The rest of the sections make up the difference, about one eighty one full time, and another hundred or so part time."

  "And this office's responsibility covers—?"

  "Quebec and the Maritime Provinces: Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island, and Newfoundland. Our staff here are all French-speaking, so, in addition, we also deal with other francophone areas across Canada. There are two other main offices, one in Toronto and one Edmonton, as well as smaller offices in Vancouver, Calgary, Winnipeg, and Ottawa."

  "I'd like to see a list of those expected to attend. My agenda only included the names of the non-U.N.C.L.E. guests scheduled for tomorrow."

  "I'll get you a complete list—Your cousin, Napoleon, should be at the meeting today; I read a memo that said he would be representing Edmonton."

  "Edmonton?" Solo looked away from the window into the steno pool and caught up with the tour. "I thought Roz was still in Toronto."

  "No, he transferred almost a year ago. Said he wanted to be further west. I worked with him a few times; he spoke well of you, mentioned you now and again." Fortier paused outside what was clearly an agents' lounge. "Would you care for a drink before the meeting?" he asked, allowing them to precede him into the room, obviously only used by the senior personnel, a bar set in one comer.

  Kuryakin stopped near the door. "Thank you, but no. I have other things to see to before attending the reception." He turned to his partner, meeting the older man's eyes calmly. "Napoleon, I believe this is a good opportunity for me to investigate that matter we discussed earlier." He backed out of the room and disappeared down the corridor.

  "If he wishes to use the phone—" Fortier began.

  Solo cut him off. "We've been traveling much of the day and I suspect he would relish a walk. I can't say I blame him. There are other concerns he needs to inquire into."

  "Why don't we go directly to the conference room then? We can go the long route and I'll show you the offices here. Monsieur Kuryakin can join us when he is free."

  * * * * *

  The crowded room was noisy and smoke-filled, twenty-two men sitting around a conference table designed for sixteen. Solo glanced to the door for the third time in as many minutes, resisting the urge to glance at his watch, but there was still no sign of his partner. The meeting was at last called to order, the time apparently to be spent in introductions and greetings. After an opening welcome by Claude Renault, Solo was called on, representing the Hemispheric Headquarters Office.

  He stood, waiting until the room quietened. "Bonsoir, messieurs. C'est un honneur, et un plaisir, de m 'adresser a vous aujourd'hui. J'ai grandi dans une famille bilingue a Ottawa. Toutefois, ily a deja plusieurs annees depuis que j'ai eu le bonheur deparler le frcmgais dans monpays natal." For the benefit of those in the room who did not speak French, he repeated his greetings in English. "It is an honor and a pleasure to speak to you today. I was raised in a bilingual family in Ottawa; it has been many years since I have had the pleasure of speaking French in the country of my birth."

  Solo continued, the rest of his opening words penned by Waverly in a mixture of French and English, effortlessly gliding from one language to the other. The fact that he was bilingual was not lost
on those from the French-speaking provinces. Kuryakin may scoff at his French accent—and he had on several occasions—but here in Montreal, it was the real thing. Pure Quebecois.

  Less than five minutes later, he was sitting again between Renault and John McGlouster, the Section Two, Number One agent from the Toronto office. The head of U.N.C.L.E. Western Canada, Ian Packard, was expected to arrive the following morning, and McGlouster had taken his place for the evening gathering.

  Once the pleasantries were dispensed with, the dialogue around the table continued in both French and English. Agents had flown in from across Canada, and many were from parts of the country where only English or only French were spoken. A ruling would more than likely be passed the next day that all senior agents must speak both national languages, and many found themselves, at age thirty, forty, or fifty, suddenly studying one language or the other, or risk being transferred elsewhere. A year of grace had been already approved, but the chore of learning another language—added to an already massive workload—would be discouraging to many, especially the older generation. Fortunately, there existed good will between U.N.C.L.E.'s offices and Solo was gratified to see them assisting each other with vocabulary and tenses, and made a note to himself to pass that observance on to Waverly.

  "Have you heard if Roz is coming?" he called to Fortier as the Montreal agent walked by. "I don't see him here."

  "Your cousin wasn't at the airport. He could be coming on a later flight," Fortier said, already turning to answer another question by the delegate from the Maritime Provinces.

  A man appeared in front of Solo, his hand outstretched. "Hello, Napoleon." He was large, broad-shouldered, with a look about him that said he had probably been a deadly fighter in his younger years.