Collection 7 - The Northern Lights Affair

by LRH Balzer

  Elise agreed, giving the address and explaining how Alexander was to get there. "We are well established here. The cover has proven successful, especially as a man we knew in Cannes, Antoine's boss there, relocated here to Marseille and offered him a job. He does not suspect us, or he would not put himself so at risk."

  "And my ability to speak English has given me a new position with the port authorities, and access to ship schedules and cargo information. I'm sure that will be of interest to you, Alexander..."

  Waverly nodded, the possibilities presenting themselves. He was still in France by choice, working on ways of evacuating British soldiers, tens of thousands who had been left behind at Dunkirk, across escape lines and home to England. At present, he was living in a maison de rendezvous, a lodging that was both a hotel and a brothel, and an ideal place to stay temporarily, as the police were reluctant to raid it—they never knew which of their own officials they might find there. Two of the women who frequented the maison de rendezvous were actually local 'helpers', residents of Marseilles, such as the St. Laurents, who were assisting in the hiding of soldiers and others.

  Claude Renault laughed softly as the couple hurried back out, Elise once again looking the nervous mother-to-be, and Antoine hovering by her side anxiously. "With people like them here, we might get out of this alive, Alexander."

  Saturday, October 2, 1965

  Montreal, Quebec

  6:30 p.m.

  Illya Kuryakin took the thermometer from his mouth, stared at it, then triumphantly handed it to the doctor. "No fever. No spots. No coughing." He hopped down from the examining table and looked around for something to wear besides the pajama bottoms. "Therefore, no patient."

  "I would prefer you stay in the infirmary overnight, Monsieur Kuryakin."

  "No reason. Is there a wardrobe section I could avail myself of?" he asked, appropriating the doctor's white lab coat from the back of his chair.

  Dr. Debois nodded reluctantly and called for a Section Three agent to escort the New York visitor around the building. Once suitably attired—the suit, shirt, and underclothes were not what he would have chosen for himself, but they certainly were functional—Kuryakin worked his way through ten pairs of shoes before he could find a pair that permitted him easy movement while still appearing formal enough to wear to the evening session of the conference. Brown loafers with a black suit... Napoleon will be appalled, Illya smiled.

  A cab returned him to the hotel, still in a state of chaos after the mid-afternoon bombing and fire. The top two floors had been evacuated, but the fire department had given permission for the rest of the building to return to normal. Elevators were not working yet, but service was promised to be restored before midnight.

  Kuryakin cut through the traffic in the lobby, heading towards the conference area and the Oval Room. His temporary I.D. was examined at the door, and he was admitted into the large banquet hall. A buffet dinner was just finishing, servers beginning to remove the heated trays of food; Illya pushed his way through and scrambled to help himself to roast beef and ham and scalloped potatoes before it disappeared altogether. His plate heaping, he wound his way through the crowd, frowning at the post-dinner cigar and cigarette smoke already filling the room. If he started coughing now, he'd have a difficult time convincing his partner he was healthy.

  Napoleon Solo appeared at his side and steered him to a table near the front of the hall. Chairs were quickly rearranged by the hotel staff, an additional one placed at Solo's right for the newcomer. Kuryakin put his plate down and seated himself, wasting no time before he started eating.

  "What are you doing here?" Napoleon asked.

  "I'm healthy," Illya said between mouthfuls.

  "And hungry, I see." He gave his usual disgusted smirk that Illya ignored.

  "Very." Kuryakin sat up straighter and peered back at the side tables near the buffet. "Any chance you'd get me some dessert and coffee before they disappear?"

  "You're just lucky you caught me on a good day." Solo headed to the dessert table and Kuryakin concentrated on his dinner, trying to tune into the conversations around him.

  By the time his partner had arrived with his coffee and pie a la mode, he had heard enough to remind him of one of the reports he had read in New York, one that was missing from the file that Alexander Waverly had provided. "Thank you," he said, swallowing, and reaching for the coffee.

  "Napoleon—You told me something of the problems in our offices in Western Canada. I recall reading a report by an agent in Calgary concerning a possible mole in the Alberta office. The agent's name was Arthur Hanlon, and it was a report about—"

  "Hanlon was the agent killed in Calgary."

  Kuryakin froze, considering the statement, then pushed his empty dinner plate back, eyebrows rising. "Oh. Hanlon?... Interesting, is it not?"

  Solo shrugged. "The Calgary office believes his death was unintentional, and certainly the bombing this afternoon suggests that whoever is responsible did not expect anyone to be in the hotel suite. Hanson wasn't scheduled to have been at the office that night; those investigating believe the bomb had to have been planted at least one week before. The security tapes are recycled every seven days, and the area the detonation occurred in was clearly visible on the tapes they had."

  "What have they found out about the bomb itself?"

  "They know where it was placed, in one of the desk drawers of an agent who had been off duty due to illness. They know the triggering device was a common one manufactured in the United States and Canada, readily available at any supplier of dynamite and explosives. The explosive itself is proving harder to identify; its signature chemical makeup has been impossible to trace which suggests the batch was made outside of the local area. The technician from Calgary's Crime-Laboratory has made a few guesses as to where it might have come from, but that's still being investigated."

  "Was the bomb on a timer, or was it remote controlled?"

  "They don't know. The investigators have been unable to locate either device."

  "That is impossible. The control must have been deliberately removed. There would be some trace."

  "I realize that." Solo placed one closed fist on top of the other, lightly tapping his bottom hand. "So... Hanlon reported the possibility of a mole to Mr. Waverly and was accidentally killed a short time later. The report—which you say you read in New York—was not there when the file was copied for our briefing."

  "True. And before coming here tonight, I called our Files section in New York, and it is still missing."

  "So what was Hanlon working on at three in the morning?" Solo glanced around the room, then leaned closer to Kuryakin, his voice lowering. "Hanson was scheduled to be off-duty at that time and had left the building at 6:30 that evening, saying that he was heading home."

  "Do you think we should look into it ourselves?" Kuryakin asked, his voice equally low.

  "Well, someone should. Someone, perhaps, who is not a part of the Calgary office."

  Kuryakin thought a moment, then added, "Someone who is not a part of the Western Canadian offices." He drained his coffee cup as a server came by, and nodded for it to be refilled. "Any further word on the bombing here?"

  "It's not Mark," Solo said shortly.

  "I never said it was."

  "You implied—"

  "You asked me who was by the liquor cabinet in the hotel room. I said you had been there and Mark had been there."

  "It's not Mark," Napoleon repeated. "Besides, the bombs in each room were identical, enclosed in fake brandy bottles, set to go off at the same time."

  "That does not rule him out. He had access to both rooms." Kuryakin raised his hands as though warding off a blow. "I am not accusing him. But the questions must be raised. Others will ask, if I do not."

  "I'll ask him."

  "I do not mind—"

  "No. I'll ask Mark," Solo said firmly.

  "Ask me what?" The British agent came up behind them, April Dancer in tow. "Sounds serious
whatever it is," Slate said, hands resting on the back of Kuryakin's chair.

  "Next they'll be asking what you were doing by the liquor cabinet," Dancer drawled, moving to sit in the vacant chair on Napoleon's left. She leaned on the table and stared expectantly at Solo and Kuryakin. "Well, which of you is going to ask?"

  "I'll save you the trouble." Mark Slate bent over and said quietly, "One of the guards suggested I take a look at how well-stocked the liquor cabinet was. I said it was the standard wet bar of the hotel, and he disagreed and said it had been specially stocked for Alexander Waverly. He told me to take a look at the scotch especially."

  "So you were set up?"

  "Possibly."

  "And the guard?"

  "Disappeared during the fire. I'm not saying he set the bomb, but those are interesting coincidences. He's involved somehow."

  "We don't like coincidences." Kuryakin looked to his partner, received a nod, then proceeded to relay to Dancer and Slate what they knew of Hanson while Solo put a call in to Waverly.

  "So what do we do?" Dancer asked, looking to Solo expectantly when he put the transceiver away.

  "How would you two like to take a little trip out west? Visit some of our offices. Get an idea of what's happening."

  She cocked an eyebrow to Slate, who shrugged in answer. "Sounds okay. What does Mr. Waverly say?"

  "He agreed. He said for Illya to head back to New York as soon as he is able. Maybe you could check the files and investigate any other things that might tie in. I'm going to stay around here for a few days, officially on leave, but there are some things I want to look into."

  Kuryakin stared at him, the beginnings of a retort dying on his lips before he even gave utterance. He suddenly had an idea of what things his partner might want to inquire into while in Montreal and the area.

  "We'll go back to the Head Office here and make some travel arrangements then. Any particular order you want us to visit the sub-branches?"

  "Winnipeg, Regina, Saskatoon, Edmonton, and then Calgary last. I'll talk with you later tonight on what to watch for."

  Claude Renault was heading back their way, so April Dancer vacated the chair, tugging on her partner's arm.

  "Come on, Mark. Let's get out of here before the meeting starts and they make us stay."

  Illya watched them leave, then suddenly wanted to join them as he stared down at the agenda for the evening discussion.

  * * * * *

  "Alexander. Claude ici..."

  "Napoleon told me of the bombings."

  "Yes—I do not know who was behind them. I thought you should know—Shifrin was here last night. Napoleon mentioned they had talked briefly, but not what they had discussed."

  "It didn't take Galland long to find someone. Shifrin, though, has been checked many times. I'm surprised he used him."

  "It may have been an innocent coincidence, but I am not prepared to accept that in light of other things. We both were contacted by Galland. We know he is trying to find Antoine. Can Galland really press the charges against us that he has threatened?"

  "It's certainly within his job mandate. But, Claude, it is not yet time to be contacting our lawyers. I have a lead I am considering, one that may solve our problem once and for all."

  "Should I say something to Napoleon?"

  "No, not yet. We have sworn to keep this silent. I am not prepared to break my oath."

  "Or I, mine. What should I do about Shifrin?"

  "Tell Napoleon to be careful. He will relate it to the bombings."

  * * * * *

 

 

  Two weeks later

  Tuesday, October 20, 1965

  Rome, Italy

  "How's your arm?"

  "Functional." Solo tossed his suitcase into the bottom of the closet, and turned to watch his partner unpack. "It's still sore," he admitted. "I admit to being... surprised that Sam Lawrence cut the cast off."

  "It wasn't broken."

  "He told me it was broken."

  "If he told you it wasn't broken you would have not taken care of it and it would have required more rest." Kuryakin shrugged his shoulders, as though this was none of his concern.

  "Did you know?" Solo asked. "Illya?" He rounded the bed as Kuryakin exited the room, heading unerringly toward the kitchen of the villa. His voice lowered. "Kuryakin? Did you know my arm wasn't broken?"

  Illya shrugged again, gazing into the icebox. "I suspected it wasn't. You're too lucky to break your arm. But you did bruise it badly." He pulled out a bottle of milk and poured himself a glass. "You need to go soon to pick up the mail. You should eat something first."

  The local U.N.C.L.E. office had made arrangements for the villa, and for the shelves to be stocked with suitable food. Napoleon cut himself some bread, added some cheese, then joined his partner in the living room.

  Illya was thoughtfully staring at the fireplace. "I've been thinking... Isn't it rather strange for us to be on this case?"

  "Mr. Waverly assigned it—"

  "Yes, I was there, remember? Despite being virtually ignored. Regardless... The Recollectors. A group that resells art which was stolen during World War II back to the original owners. What does this have to do with U.N.C.L.E.?"

  Napoleon chewed thoughtfully on the bread and cheese. "Nothing."

  Illya blinked at him from behind the dark-rimmed glasses. "I agree." He held up one hand in correction. "Or should we say, nothing apparent. He settled back on the couch. "I must be honest, Napoleon. I do not like this assignment."

  "Fair enough. Will you—?"

  "Follow my orders? Of course. I will be a good little puppet and do my master's bidding."

  "You're sounding very cynical today."

  "Perhaps. Perhaps I would just like to understand why this artwork is so important to command our attention."

  "We're talking about works by Rembrandt, Velazquez, Caravaggio, Perugino and others."

  "Yes, I understand that," Illya said, impatiently. "It's a fine and noble cause. But why were we reassigned from the Prague movie studio assignment? Mr. Waverly sent Dancer and Slate instead of us."

  "Is that what you're fretting about? That we didn't get to see the pretty starlets?"

  "I am not fretting." Kuryakin said nothing for a moment, then tried again. "Something's not right about this. From the moment Mr. Waverly told us of the assignment, I have felt there is something he is not telling us. For example, did you notice his use of the word 'we', as in 'We have been looking for these Nazis for twenty years now.' Not 'U.N.C.L.E.' has been looking, but 'we' have been looking."

  "He often uses 'we' to refer to U.N.C.L.E. in general."

  "But not this time. His phrasing was off."

  Solo glanced at the clock. "We've got to go. Listen, I'm not sure if I agree with you on this, but we will discuss it again, if you feel your suspicions haven't changed."

  Kuryakin rose in one fluid motion, pulled on his black suit jacket, tucked the stack of decoy mail into his pocket, and headed out the rear door. "I'll see you there."

  During the briefing in New York, as the agent who was to use an assumed identity, Solo had been concentrating on the information coming his way about the assignment and the character he was to play, and had not considered the value of the assignment itself. Yet, his partner's tension was something Napoleon had learned not to ignore. If Illya was uncomfortable with the assignment, it was worth examining more closely. Illya may not agree, but he was definitely fretting.

  The cab ride to the Italian post office was long, and after reviewing his planned actions, Solo sat back and stared out the window at the passing sights. Something about the brick buildings reminded him of Montreal, and his thoughts segued to his brief vacation there two weeks before.

  On the Monday after the conference, Illya had returned to New York on the first flight out, but Napoleon had stayed, taking a few days for himself. He had walked down St. Catherine Street, his coat gather
ed tight around him against the cold wind. Of all places to take a holiday, this was not what he would normally have planned, but there had been sudden inspiration to revisit some places he had not been in some time. Maybe see if his aunt and uncle were still around.

  Waverly had agreed immediately, saying there was an assignment in France that did not require both agents. He would send Kuryakin, and Solo was to be back in New York by Wednesday afternoon.

  April Dancer and Mark Slate had left when Illya had, on their way for a quick tour of the Western Canadian offices, supposedly representing the New York Headquarters in offering moral support to the struggling U.N.C.L.E. branch offices.

  Solo had stood outside the brick building at 4095 St. Catherine Street West and had shaken his head at the shabby appearance of the place. It looked more like a heavy equipment factory than a law enforcement building. Gendarmerie royale du Canada, the sign had read. Below it, the words, The Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

  He had taken the ancient stone-cut stairs two at a time, trying not to think about why exactly he was doing this. What did it matter if a man knew his parents during World War II? From what he had pieced together, his father was an athlete, probably traveling around much as Kelly Robinson did, drifting from country to country. One uncle had mentioned golf once. Another had said tennis. On one of the few letters he had received from his father, there was vague mention of a yacht race or a boat race of some kind. The idea of his father at the controls of a yacht on a round-the-world race captured his ten-year-old imagination for several weeks, and he had read everything on the topic that he could get.

  We took a wild boat ride. Dan Shifrin had mentioned a boat ride, and Napoleon had grabbed onto the thought, trying to add it to what he already knew.

  The guard at reception looked at Solo's identification, then made a phone call to authenticate it, before the U.N.C.L.E. agent was allowed to go further into the building. He was escorted upstairs to a tiny cubicle of an office and left to wait for almost twenty minutes before someone came to help him.