by LRH Balzer
"Dan Shifrin. I'm based in Winnipeg. How are you? I've wanted to meet you for a few years, ever since I realized that I knew your parents back in the 40's. Your father, Tony, was wild back then. I never met a man who took the kind of chances he did. And Lizzie wasn't much better, if I recall. We took a wild boat ride—Well, I'll have to tell you about it sometime—All you had to do was tell them something couldn't be done and they'd have to prove they could do it. I guess you get your famous luck from them. Have you seen your father lately?"
"Uh ... no. We don't keep in touch much."
"Oh, too bad." Several men entered the room and Shifrin's attention shifted. "We'll talk again later. Look who just came in—Brian Lowry, how are you?"
Shifrin had moved on to another conversation before Napoleon could fully register what he had said, but there seemed no way to interrupt and question the man further. When Solo freed himself from another conversation a few minutes later, Shifrin had left the small group and had disappeared with two others, heading over to the hotel.
My father.
Surely he had heard wrong.
He 's mistaken me for someone else.
How that could be, Solo wasn't sure. The introductions had been very clear. So had Shifrin's identification of him. Yet Solo saw no way that this man could know his father and mother. That would be admitting that they really existed.
Antonio Solo. Elizabeth McNeely. Two names on his birth certificate. Two irresponsible jet-setters who abandoned their only child with Elizabeth's parents for them to raise while they traveled the world in search of adventure. His relationship with them had consisted solely of letters that arrived at odd times. Whether they ever saw his answering letters, or read them, he didn't know, but they certainly didn't take the time to respond to his questions. Gifts appeared, but not at Christmas nor at his birthday; instead the strange presents were awkwardly chosen, either too old or too young for the recipient, and he had never considered them important. They obviously had not considered him important.
He had met them four times, between ages three and seven. Formally dressed and bow-tied, he would wait on the stairs for the big visit. They would come in, shake hands with him, and give him a gift. There would be a sit-down dinner, cooked by grandmere, and stilted conversation that did not include him. When he was seven, he left the table before dessert and went to his room. No one came and asked him to return. He had never seen them again.
The old anger rose again and with a practice born of thirty-three years of living without them, Napoleon Arturio John-Patrick Solo turned his attention elsewhere.
Besides, home had nothing to do with Tony or Lizzie.
Mercifully, the rest of the reception did not last long, and after a quick call to New York—only to discover that Waverly had left for the day—Solo was ready to go to their hotel, have a meal, a quick shower, and sleep. But first he had to collect his partner from the infirmary. Illya had not made an appearance at the meeting; although the Russian did not enjoy such gatherings, he would always do what he considered 'his duty'.
Solo found the medical area by instinct alone—there was a certain 'sameness' about the U.N.C.L.E. offices. At nine at night, there were few staff members on duty. There was no sign of his partner in the darkened waiting area; Napoleon went past to the door of the doctor's office and introduced himself to the young medic who occupied the desk. "Where is Illya Kuryakin?"
"Do you know him?"
"He's my partner. Is there a problem? Where is he?"
"He's just getting dressed. Don't worry; it's nothing serious. There's a strong possibility that he has dengue fever."
Napoleon's eyes widened at the unfamiliar name. "He has what?"
"Dengue fever." Michel Debois picked up a clipboard and glanced at the top paper. "It's not serious. I spoke with Dr. Lawrence at the New York H.Q. He was concerned that the weight I reported for Agent Kuryakin was five pounds under his previous weight, but your partner did not admit to any concerns other than he's been a little hungry lately."
"Due to our last assignment, I don't suppose he's eaten a lot in the last week. That would account for the weight loss."
"Dr. Lawrence felt he might have a minor intestinal infection caused by local microorganisms he wasn't accustomed to. From the water or other bacterium he had come in contact with. So I checked him out and I think he might have dengue fever."
"So you've said. What exactly does that mean?"
"Two to fifteen days after the bite of an infective mosquito, the patient typically suffers a sudden onset of headache, fever, retroorbital pain, backache, bone and joint pain, weakness, depression, and a general feeling of malaise. He seems to exhibit most of those symptoms."
"What's the treatment?"
"Nothing, really. Plenty of fluids. Acetaminophen for the fever—not aspirin. Monitor him and if he gets worse, he should go to a hospital."
"Won't you be watching him?"
"No, he can go to the hotel. The whole thing should pass in three or four days, when his fever breaks. If he does have dengue fever, he'll probably get a rash then, starting on his torso and spreading to his arms and legs. The fever might come back, but that should all clear up in a few more days. A week and it should be over. I suspect any kind of travel should be postponed until he's better."
"If he's to stay at the hotel, can you send someone to keep an eye on him when I'm not there?"
"What for?"
"Well, he's sick. I have business meetings—"
"Nothing's stopping you from being at them. Kuryakin's not at death's door. He's just a little under the weather. For that matter, if he's feeling okay, he can go to the meetings. He's not contagious."
"Well, what do I need to do then?" Napoleon asked, staring over the man's shoulder at the scribbled notes.
"What do you need to do?" the doctor asked, confused.
"Does he need to see a doctor again before we leave? Or take any special precautions? Or take any medication?"
"I told him to check in with Dr. Lawrence when he gets back to New York, but there is nothing you need to be concerned with."
"I'm his partner. I'm paid to be concerned," Napoleon replied, irritated. "What about his sunburn? Do you have something for that, at least? We thought we'd be returning tomorrow and I doubt he has more ointment for the burns. He's going to be uncomfortable if we don't get something for them."
Debois shrugged and reached around to take a tube of salve from a bottom drawer of the cabinet behind him. "After he washes up tonight, he could apply this to the sunburn."
"What is it?"
"A nonprescription ointment."
"Do I use the entire tube?"
"He can use however much he wants to. It'll just help his skin not to itch. I've given him a sedative, so he should sleep well tonight."
Illya walked out of the side room, doing up his cufflinks. "I still think it was not necessary."
"Well, I'm the doctor, not you." Debois handed him the sunburn medication, and Illya palmed it into his suit jacket pocket.
"Is the reception over?"
Napoleon nodded. "More or less. I'm ready to go." He turned to Debois. "Could you please call the reception desk and have them arrange transportation to our hotel?"
"Certainly."
The doctor reached for his phone as Napoleon motioned for Illya to join him. "Come on, let's go. You can sleep back at the hotel."
Illya fell into step next to him, adjusting his tie as they walked. "So, did you talk to him? Did he tell you?"
"Who?" The question took Solo by surprise, Shifrin's comments about his parents coming to mind. "He told you?" he asked, frowning, aware of the sudden acceleration of his heart.
"That he has convinced himself that I have something called dengue fever? Of course he did." Kuryakin appeared more irritated at the diagnosed ailment than actually ill.
Solo grinned, shaking his head at his own mistake. "Where do you catch these things?"
The Russian scowled. "So what h
appens now?"
"Apparently we go to our hotel and wait for you to break out into spots."
Kuryakin strode down the corridor, as though a display of energy and health would stay off the symptoms. Solo followed, quickening his pace to walk alongside his partner.
"How was the reception?" Kuryakin asked, without turning his head. "For some reason, the doctor felt it best I forego it. He insisted on doing a plethora of tests. I was feeling fine before he jabbed a needle in my arm."
"You didn't miss anything," Solo said, pushing Shifrin back out of his thoughts. "Red wine, cheese and crackers, and say nice things. Come on, I'm hungry for real food. The Ritz-Carleton has a wonderful restaurant."
Kuryakin grunted, handed his triangular badge to the receptionist, and hurled himself through the opening door and into the awaiting taxicab.
The ride to the hotel was short and it seemed they had no sooner got into the taxicab, than Napoleon was reaching into it to extract his suddenly-tired partner, Illya blinking to stay focused, the Russian's irritation level up one more notch.
"Porter! Pouvez-vous prendre mes bagages, s'il vous plait? " Napoleon asked, gesturing to the luggage the cab driver had removed from the vehicle.
"Oui, monsieur." The uniformed young man came over immediately and picked up their two suitcases. "Par ici, s'il vous plait."
Whatever medication Illya had been given, the sedative didn't seem to be working one hundred percent, Napoleon noticed. Although half-asleep on his feet, Kuryakin still managed to scowl disarmingly at the porter walking before them as they crossed the elegant lobby.
The desk clerk turned to help them, glancing first at Kuryakin's cold stare and then to Solo's more approachable demeanor. "Oui, monsieur?"
"Je m'appelle Monsieur Solo. Avez-vous fait reserver pour Monsieur Waverly?" The reservation was still in Waverly's name, but Fortier had assured them that hotel had been told to expect them in Waverly's place.
Solo was relieved when it was quickly found. "Merci. C'est bien. Quel est le numero de ma chambre, s'il vous plait? " He collected the room key for one of the penthouse suites, then asked, "Y a-t-il du courrier ou un message pour moi? "
"Non, monsieur."
"Merci beaucoup."
Kuryakin had already turned toward the elevators. "Who are you expecting a message from?"
"No one really. Possibly my cousin," Solo added.
"Oh." The doors slid open and they stepped inside the elevator, Illya moving to the back corner and letting Napoleon push the appropriate button. "Do you have family in the area?"
"Some." Maybe more than 1 thought. Were they still alive? Napoleon tried to figure out how old his father would be. Twenty-seven years older than I am—Antonio would be sixty...
"I think I'll pass on the dinner."
"Pardon?" Napoleon turned to look at his partner, blinking twice before registering on him. "Okay, we can order something in. I'm not that hungry myself anymore."
Illya was studying him carefully. "Is everything okay?" he asked as the door slid open on their floor.
"Just more tired than I thought." Napoleon produced his identification for the guard in the hallway. The entire floor was reserved for the various U.N.C.L.E. guests and there were several agents from the security section patrolling the floor. "Everything quiet here?" he asked one.
"The usual threats, Mr. Solo. We've had someone guarding Mr. Waverly's suite all afternoon and evening, and there's been no sign of trouble. Mr. Fortier notified us earlier that you would be taking Mr. Waverly's place and we've made the necessary arrangements."
"Thank you."
"There will be Section Three agents on duty throughout the night." They were escorted to the suite and allowed to open the door with the key Solo had been given at the front desk. Another guard waited within the suite, nodding as Solo indicated he could leave.
"Everything has been checked already, sir. It's clean," the agent announced as he left them. Kuryakin prowled the ornate suite, viewing first the large bedroom with its two double beds and small but expensively-fixtured bathroom, and then returning to the sitting area. A massive window bordered the far wall, now hidden behind heavy curtains of the same ivory brocade that covered the sofa, settee, and matching armchairs. To one side was an elegant, round mahogany table and four carved chairs, set before a mirrored liquor cabinet that gleamed with a rich dark patina.
The Russian sighed, loudly, and retrieved his suitcase. "I suppose it will have to do. It appears safe, although it is far more than adequate," he said, disappearing inside the bedroom. "Why was this money wasted since Mr. Waverly would not be using it? Surely they could have placed us in less costly accommodations."
"The hotel is full. Don't worry, the room will be changed from Waverly's name to my name tomorrow. No one will accuse you of behaving frivolously." Solo picked up his suitcase and garment bag and followed him into the room, depositing his luggage on the far double bed. He withdrew his dark suit from the garment bag and hung it up in the closet, trying not to notice how slowly his partner was moving. "If you need help—" he said finally, letting the offer trail off.
"I'll let you know." Kuryakin was carefully peeling off his jacket, his limited mobility showing how aching his muscles already were. "I plan on having a shower and then an early night. Feel free to entertain however you wish. I will not be going out into the rest of the suite tonight."
"I'm not— uh—I'll just order some room service. I want to... read the briefing documents again." Solo turned and walked into the sitting area, removing his suit jacket and holster, dropping them on the sofa. The bar drew him over, and he poured himself two fingers of fine whiskey—Waverly's brand he noted. The glass was empty a moment later, and he refilled it halfway.
"Napoleon?" Illya stood in the doorway of the bedroom. "Is everything okay?"
"Yes," he said without turning. "Get some sleep. I'll be retiring early." He could sense no movement behind him, then he saw Kuryakin's faint reflection in the window. His partner shrugged and withdrew into the bedroom, the door left ajar.
Napoleon stared at the alcohol in the tumbler, gently swirling it around a few times, then drank it quickly, abandoning the glass on the table. He moved to the couch, picked up the file from New York, and stared at the names on the top document.
Antonio Solo. Elizabeth McNeely.
The alcohol burned his throat.
The names focussed into two others. He read the reports until his eyes blurred from fatigue, then gave up and went to bed.
Chapter Two
1931
Cannes, France
He stormed to the door of the villa, yelling at her as she fled outside. "Where do you think you are going?" His voice was rough, the words catching in his throat.
"Away from here!" she screamed back, running down the steep stairs, taking them two at a time. "If this is how you treat me, why should I stay? "
"Elise!" He started down the stairs after her, praying she wouldn't fall. Her coat billowed around her, hiding her swelling figure. He raised his voice again, "Stop this instant! You are my wife! You will listen to me! Damn it, woman!"
She had reached the taxi, flinging open the rear door before the driver could even get out of the vehicle. "To the airport. I have a flight to catch!" Her voice was loud enough for all the neighbors to hear.
For half the city to hear, he thought.
"If you leave, you might as well not come back!" He stopped at the edge of their property, watching as the taxi drove away. His face showed his fury, his body language perfectly portraying the outraged husband. He turned and mounted the stairs, the anger with him until he shut the door and blocked the sight of the audience they had played to.
Antoine St. Laurent sank into his chair, his face buried in his hands. Four months, my love. Be well. Come back safely. How am I to live without you?
October 2, 1965
Saturday, 9:30 a.m.
Illya Kuryakin sat hunched over his breakfast—toast and tea—leaning on o
ne elbow, nose buried in the local English-language newspaper. Dark-rimmed reading glasses had crept from the bridge of his nose and he pushed them back into place. He didn't look sick, bathed in the morning sunshine coming in from the eastern window. He was up, showered, and dressed, his suit jacket hooked on the back of his chair.
"Going somewhere?" Napoleon asked, moving over to the breakfast cart room service had brought, and pouring himself some coffee and juice.
"Apparently not. I had been toying with the idea of showing up at the conference, but Dr. Debois stopped by half an hour ago, while you were in the shower. Among other things, he took my temperature. Apparently he feels that 103.5° is too high and he suggested that I stay in the suite for the remainder of the day, or until my temperature drops a few degrees." Illya turned the page of the Gazette, already reading the next page.
"And you went along with that?" Napoleon prompted, setting his plate of scrambled eggs and bacon on the table.
Illya glanced up, a smile flashing across his face. "Of course not. I made a rather defiant call to Sam in New York. Unfortunately, that only backfired, as the good doctor agreed with Debois' diagnosis."
"So you found yourself stuck in this beautiful luxury suite waiting for me to get up so that you would have someone to complain to."
"Precisely." Illya returned his attention to the newspaper while Napoleon finished his breakfast in
silence.
"So how are you feeling?" Solo asked, glancing across the table as the paper was folded and placed alongside two previously read French-language newspapers.
"Apart from a temperature that is considered unacceptable by U.N.C.L.E.'s prestigious medical staff, I feel fine. Not a spot in sight." Illya was leaning on the table, his chin resting on the palm of one hand. He had already exhausted his store of things to do, and the day was looming ahead.
Napoleon took a sip of his coffee, then added a bit of sugar. "Have you ever heard of Dan Shifrin?"
Illya thought for a moment, then shook his head. "The name is not familiar. Where would I know it from?"