by LRH Balzer
"You sound like a deviant teenager sometimes."
"I guess some things you never grow out of." Napoleon glanced at the odometer. "We're almost there." The car rounded another bend and before them was a tunnel, built into the side of the mountain to protect the roadway from snow or mud avalanches. "According to Sinclair, we go through without slowing down, then pull over once we're out the other side."
"He specified that one of us was to stay in the car and keep watch while the other goes in. We give him the money, get the information—and we leave," Kuryakin recited.
"Well, if all goes as planned, the two Windermere agents with Mark and April pick up the chase if we've been followed, unbeknownst to Sinclair. They should be about fifteen minutes behind us." The car entered the tunnel, headlights catching the sparkles of water dripping down the shed's cement walls from the melting snow. The tunnel was empty.
"He's not here. Now what?" Solo growled, pulling the car over to the side of the road when they had cleared the tunnel.
Kuryakin opened his car door and stepped out. "He said he'd be there." He squinted back toward the snow shed, but there was still no sign of anyone. "I'll check it out."
"Illya?" Solo leaned along the seat, looking up at his partner. Be careful.
Sure. Kuryakin buttoned his suit jacket as the cool air hit, then promptly unbuttoned it. The hairs on the back of his neck were raised; one hand moved to rest on his gun, the other on the quite considerable amount of money they were providing
Kuryakin's smooth leather shoes slipped on the ice at the pavement's edge; the mountain's shadow had kept the sun off this section of the road. His footsteps echoed in the tunnel as he re-entered it and walked along the narrow shoulder next to the outer wall. The snow shed curved, so from the center it was impossible to see out either side. He walked slowly, ears straining for any sound of a man. Or a bear, for that matter. He'd heard about the grizzlies in the area, and while he would like to see one, this was not the time he had in mind.
The thin mountain air was cold. He walked the length of the tunnel and peered out the other side but there was no one there. He retraced his steps through the shed, stepping around the icy patches.
"Stop right there."
Kuryakin spun at the sudden voice, hands away from his body. Now where did you come from? Ah... A door in the outer wall, one probably utilized by repair crews, was ajar. "Sinclair?"
"Keep your hands up. Where's Solo? I asked specifically for him." The man's dark hair was styled in a severe crewcut, a scar—fairly recent—ran down one cheek. Sinclair was dressed for the climate, a heavy plaid jacket, jeans, and work boots. His eyes were narrowed as he scowled at Kuryakin. "Who are you?"
"Napoleon Solo is waiting above. You asked for both of us."
Sinclair seemed to consider that. "Which would make you the Russkie... Do you have the money?" he asked finally.
"First I need to ask for your identification." Kuryakin stared back at him calmly. Aside from the scar, this man certainly appeared to be the same one as in the photograph he had memorized, right down to the thick eyebrows and slightly crooked chin. However, the Calgary agent's Colt Python was still aimed at his chest, unwavering. At ten feet, even in the dim light, it was unlikely Sinclair would miss if he fired, especially if he was anything like the marksman he was described as in his file.
"Identification?" Sinclair laughed, the tunnel echoing the raucous sound. "Do you think I'd be foolish enough to carry my U.N.C.L.E. identity card with me?"
"Perhaps not. But according to Mr. Waverly, Sinclair is undercover using his own name. All I need is to see one piece of identification. A driver's licence maybe?"
"This is the only identification I need," the man replied, the revolver moving from Kuryakin's breastbone to his heart.
A car entered the tunnel, slowing down as it saw them. A man, a woman, and two children, all stared wide-eyed as the station wagon passed and then quickly disappeared around the bend, tires spinning.
"I said to come in here alone!" Sinclair roared, his manner changing from confidence to rage.
"I did. But there are bound to be others using the road," Kuryakin replied, keeping his voice level.
"I don't like it." The man shifted from foot to foot in indecision, his grip tightening on the pistol.
"Neither do I, but you seem to be calling the shots."
"That's true." The Python steadied and Kuryakin was motioned through the access doorway and out into the bright sun. "This way."
He stumbled down the rocky embankment, realizing there was no way his partner could see him from that angle. Since you claim to hear me sometimes: Get out of the car, Napoleon. Get out of the car.
The sound of loose gravel behind him suggested Sinclair was following close on his heels. He turned to verify it just as the man called out, "Straight ahead, to your right. Don't look back, Russkie. Stop when you get to the tracks."
Tracks? Kuryakin's foot went out from under him and he skidded, falling back on his hip and sliding down the steep incline with a shower of dirt, icy snow, and sharp rocks. He plummeted over the short ledge, landing on his hands and knees on railroad tracks seemingly tacked onto the side of the mountain. He started to reach for his Special as Sinclair dropped beside him with his revolver stretched out.
Illya decided against reaching any further and let his hands fall back to his sides as he got to his feet. Napoleon would come. Napoleon always seemed to know when something was wrong; it was just a matter of stalling for time now. Playing the game.
"So what's the story? Are you working both sides, or have you gone into business for yourself?" Kuryakin asked, brushing the embedded gravel from the palms of his hands.
"I'm on my side, if it's any of your concern. Now, listen carefully, Kuryakin." Sinclair's voice was harsh. Dangerous. "With your left hand, reach in with your thumb and little finger and remove your weapon from the holster... I'm a wee bit nervous, so move carefully... Now throw it over the edge."
Kuryakin hesitated and Sinclair's revolver trained on his chest, the safety flicked off. As the Russian continued to stall, the hammer was cocked back. With an irritated growl, Kuryakin tossed the U.N.C.L.E. Special away. There was a long silence before the first clatter as it impacted onto the rocks below. He tried to visualize where it landed so he could retrieve it later. It was likely the fall had ruined the weapon, but Mr. Waverly fundamentally objected to firepower left lying around.
"Turn around and walk down the tracks."
There was nothing else to do, so Kuryakin did as he was told. It was windier on the exposed ledge and difficult to walk on the awkwardly spaced railroad ties. He tried stepping on the ballast, but the sharp broken stones cut into the soles of his shoes. He had walked some distance—his concentration split between the situation and the single-step, double-step, single-step, needed to keep to the pace Sinclair had set—when he saw that the tracks veered away from the mountainside. A deep trestled bridge filled the chasm between one mountain slope and the next, spanning the channel hundreds of feet below. The river passed over massive rocks, crashing and foaming as the water coursed through the narrow passage fighting against it.
At first, as he stepped out onto the slippery path he thought he could feel the spray from the rapids, then he realized, with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, that it was raining. Walking along an open railway bridge over a deep river gorge on a cold, windy, rainy day with a gun at his back was not what he had planned for the afternoon.
Even meeting a grizzly ran a close second to this.
He was halfway over the span before Sinclair yelled at him to stop. "Lie down."
"Here?" Kuryakin glanced around at the exposed tracks.
"In the middle, face down, with both hands ahead of you and your legs spread and hooked over the rails." Sinclair's gun allowed for no discussion.
"Why?" he asked, anyway.
A bullet whizzed by his face and he lay down, hearing his pant leg rip as he did, a spike head cutt
ing into an already bleeding knee.
Sinclair passed directly over him, the close proximity of the weapon convincing the Russian to stay motionless. He looked up cautiously as Sinclair stopped fifteen feet away, close to the far end of the bridge.
"Using your left hand, take the money out of your pocket and place it in front of you," Sinclair shouted over the noise of the canyon. "Do not move your legs or your right hand."
Kuryakin froze. Where exactly are you, Napoleon? Isn't this your cue to come to my rescue? Was his partner observing the situation? Was he close enough to act? "Why don't you come and get it, Sinclair?"
"Because I don't want to waste a bullet by putting it through your skull. I have better use for them." Sinclair had crouched down, still at least ten feet away.
"Such as?" He strained his neck trying to see the rouge agent.
"Kuryakin, perhaps I am not a thrifty man after all. I'm quite willing to use up a bullet."
The New York agent sighed and shifted his weight so he could reach the package with his left hand. He moved slowly, his movements exaggerated, hoping to command all of Sinclair's attention and give Napoleon time to get into position. You are there, aren't you, Napoleon?
A shot sounded, a whispered ping barely heard above the roar below. "Hello, Sinclair." Solo's voice from somewhere behind and above him.
Kuryakin exhaled slowly and raised his head, leaning up on one elbow. Sinclair stood with his arms slightly out to each side, the gun firmly gripped in his right hand, his eyes fastened on Solo.
Napoleon Solo looked as calm as ever, his even steps casually walking the wooden ties toward them. He could have been taking an afternoon stroll in the park for all the tension showing in his almost pompous saunter. He stepped onto the bridge, passed Kuryakin, who was rising to his knees, and stopped a few feet further, shielding his weaponless partner as he stared coldly at the double agent. "Drop it, Sinclair. It's over."
"I think not, Solo. I want that money." Sinclair made no attempt to lower his weapon.
"Drop it." The icy chill in Solo's face was warning enough, but he continued, "You'll leave me no choice—"
"But to what? Shoot me? With mercy bullets? Did you honestly think I would maneuver you here to this isolated spot just to let you shoot me and take me in?"
"You could jump, of course," Solo said smoothly, gesturing over the edge.
Watching the scene, Kuryakin growled softly under his breath, trying not to move or jeopardize his partner's control. Something was wrong. Sinclair was too confident. They were missing something.
He started to rise to his feet when another shot rang out, yet neither weapon in his sight had fired.
In front of him, he saw Napoleon's head jerk as though a bullet had struck his forehead, then the agent's automatic pistol fired involuntarily—wide from its target. Loose-limbed, Napoleon stumbled backwards until his heel struck against the rail. He crumbled to the icy strip of wood outside the track, his feet sliding from under him. He was conscious long enough to grasp once at the rail, slowing his fall for only a second, before his hand refused to cooperate and his eyes rolled back.
When questioned later, Kuryakin would not remember his leap, pushing off from the wooden tie as though it were a starting block. He caught the nape of Solo's jacket as the agent slipped over the edge of the bridge. Illya heard the expensive suit fabric rip as he held on, his own body slamming against the narrow ledge, face down, his right hand and leg frantically gripping the metal rail for support. Napoleon's body jerked to a muscle-ripping stop, the electric pain tearing through Kuryakin's left shoulder. But he held on, in his mind the pain registering only the knowledge that he had his partner. As long as he didn't let go. Don't let go.
His right cheek was pressed into the wooden tie of the bridge, his eyes staring out into the void, the rivets of the metal crosspiece biting into it as his vision faded into a maze of black. Don't let go, he commanded his befuddled mind.
While the impossible order took almost his entire focus, one small portion of his brain instantly began to record the events around him: the drops of rain that spattered against his body, one large icy droplet falling into his eye and momentarily blinding him; the vibration through the metal rails of the river coursing below; the echo of a bird screeching overhead.
He heard footsteps. Sinclair walked up to him and crouched alongside. More footsteps. The second man, the one who had shot his partner. He could not shift his eyes nor turn his head to see who it was.
There was no fear. Fear had no way of breaking into his fierce concentration. Everything else had become peripheral. The situation. The danger. The pain. His own breathing.
Don't let go, he repeated to himself, as the two men began to talk to him. He couldn't make out what they were saying at first.
Sinclair's gravelly voice persisted, finally working its way through his consciousness.
"—stubborn fool. Listen to me! Let go, Kuryakin. Solo's dead. He was shot in the head." Sudden laughter. "He's dead because he was shot in the head. With lead. By Ned." Sinclair laughed hard and it echoed in the rain-drenched canyon.
Illya held on as Sinclair placed his heavy boot on top of the Russian's white-knuckled hand gripping the rail. Don't let go. Don't—Let—Go.
"So this is the end of the line for the great U.N.C.L.E. duo. The perfect record is foiled," Sinclair spouted, bending to effortlessly take the roll of money from Kuryakin's pocket, tossing it to his cohort, and then turning his attention back to the prone man. "This does make it much easier, you just laying here not moving. Thoughtful of you. Did they teach you that in the triple-C. P.? The U-S-S-R?" A boot nudged his rib. "Hey, are you ticklish, I wonder? Probably not; you don't look the type."
A small stone was dropped deliberately on Kuryakin's forehead, and again the disgusting laugh sounded. "I'm not going to shoot you, boy, but you're going to wish I had. You see, you're in a bit of a dilemma there. In a few minutes, there'll be a train coming through here. You'll hear it, of course, chugging around the comer, getting closer and closer and closer." The double agent leaned over, leering at the sweat-drenched face. "Toot-toot-toot. You're going to hear it, all right. It's going to cross this bridge and when it gets to your little hand and foot, it's going to chop them right off."
The steel-toed boot came into his line of vision, held out deliberately for him to see. From a pain-fogged distance, Illya stared at the deep tread and the scuffed leather surface. A moment later, the boot disappeared and then he could feel it pressed down against his fingers on the rail again.
Don't let go. Napoleon is not dead. He's too lucky to be dead.
"I could crush your hand, but that would spoil the fun, wouldn't it? When that train comes—and it will, it's like clockwork—you'll let go of him then," Sinclair continued, standing, "or else he'll pull you right over with him. Or you could let go to save yourself. Better save one than lose two, that's what old Waverly would say. And even if that train never comes, how long do you really think you can hold on to him? A few more minutes, tops. Then he's gone. He's going to drop, drop, drop, till he goes plop, plop, plop on all the rock, rock, rock. It will happen, Kuryakin. Drop. Plop. Rock. Are you listening to me, boy? Drop. Plop. Rock."
The empty plastic bag was tossed on the track in front of Kuryakin's face, discarded after the money had been removed. "Come on, Sinclair, we've got what we needed. Let's go. We have to meet our contact," the second man said.
Sinclair straightened. "They don't want to see us until Friday. We have time."
"Friday? Why the delay?" The rough voice was not familiar, but would be remembered, its slight accent familiar—perhaps the Quebecois accent he had heard in Montreal, or a variation of it—the somewhat drawled vowels catalogued and filed in the Russian's mind.
"I don't know why they delayed," Sinclair responded. "Friday at the Big Bear, the message said. Maybe they're just checking you out still."
"Regardless, let's go. These two may have had backup. Either shoot him or leave hi
m, I don't care anymore, but I'm heading for the truck and you better be there by the time I pull out. It's a long drive." The rails reverberated as he walked away.
Hold on. Kuryakin thought it, then whispered it aloud unknowingly. "Hold on."
Sinclair spat at him, laughing. Cursing at him and laughing. The sound echoed from side to side drowning in the roar of the rocks below. As if in support of the treachery, the sky unleashed a torrent of icy rain that beat against his back, soaking him. Each second stretched painfully. Spit falling in the sudden darkness.
Dimly he heard Sinclair walking away, the deep cackling laugh fading into the storm's thunder.
Drop. Plop. Rock. Dead.
Chapter Five
September, 1942
Marseilles, France
They got within a block of the apartment building and they knew something had happened. People milled across the street from the St. Laurents' home. Waverly and Renault saw Elise, clothed only in a thin house dress, escorted through the front entrance and roughly pushed into a police van.
Renault grabbed his arm and yanked him back out of sight, away from eyes that might see them. "Where is Antoine today?"
"At work," Waverly whispered back. "Do you think they have arrested him as well?"
"Why one without the other? Who is in the house?" Renault asked urgently. "I have not been there in a week."
"Three only: The Polish soldier. Peter Murray. Jan Kebke. They were there yesterday."
"Damn." Renault balled his fists into the deep pockets of his overcoat. "What can we do?"
"Nothing." Waverly stared in horror as the police van moved past them, its wailing siren cutting through the late summer dry air. "Who's in town now? We need to get word back to England."
"Modin is here. He 's got a group to go out soon, but he 's not ready to go."
"What about Galland?"
"Same problem, he 's got several coming in through the underground. We can't pull him." Renault turned to him. "What about you, Alexander? There 's room on the boat for one more."