by LRH Balzer
"I know the feeling."
Renault said nothing to the bitter reply, waiting instead for Solo to speak again.
"What do you want from me then?" Napoleon asked finally.
"When your current assignment is over, come with me and meet your father. Find out what happened. Alexander will join us. We'll get to the bottom of what happened."
"I'll think about it. I really have no interest in seeing him. Not after all these years. Why don't you three just sort out your problem together and leave me out of it?"
"Because you are involved. If this goes to trial, Galland will find a way to drag you into it, too. Your career is on the line. Besides, this is your father we are talking about."
"I haven't seen the bastard since I was seven years old, and that was just small talk over pot roast. I don't think I owe him anything."
Kuryakin's hand on his arm halted any further outburst. Illya stood and shook hands with Renault. "Thank you for the information. We will discuss it and get back to you later. Meanwhile, we have a plane to catch and an assignment to deal with. Napoleon—" Kuryakin held the door open and Solo walked through it without looking back.
The Russian nodded again to Renault. "We will be in touch."
Chapter Nine
January 1948
Rotterdam, The Netherlands
Antoine St. Laurent stared at the small velvet box that sat on the dresser of the cramped room he was renting. The George Cross had been given to him only days before, but already an offer had been made to purchase it from him, and he was considering it. He needed the money.
And why not sell it? What value does it have for me? It will not bring her back. It will not restore what we had.
The name on the certificate was one he had not used in over twenty years. He could hardly remember being that person. Antonio Solo. Even having the medal with him was compromising his cover.
What cover? The war is over, you fool
"I've been alone too long," he said aloud, moving to the window and staring across the rubble to where the children played in the dirt. He tried to imagine Napoleon running with these ragamuffins, laughing and scrambling over the dried mortar and bricks, carefree and alive amid the ruins of their city. Seven years old, and already veterans of war. My little soldier is no longer a baby. The last memory he had of his son was the smoldering eyes looking across the table at him, a seven-year-old, bitter child who hated him. Napoleon had left the table before the meal was over, refusing to eat with them, and Elizabeth had cried the rest of the night.
I'd give you the medal, my son, but I doubt if you would take it. And yet, you deserve it more than I. I only lost your mother. You lost both of us before you were a week old. He let the ripped curtain close and sat down on the edge of the narrow cot. He tired easily these days. It had only been a few years since he left the concentration camp, and his health was slow in returning.
Napoleon would be sixteen now. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what his son would look like. His hair was black, like mine was. His eyes were dark, but they flashed like his mother's when she was angry. Will he be as tall as I am? Or smaller-boned like his mother? Through the years, pictures had been sent to them, more or less regularly. The writing on the back always identified him as 'Cousin Frank's son '. Even the grandparents knew the danger of anyone knowing the child they raised was his own.
Antoine wondered what it was they told their friends. He knew Elizabeth and he were said to be 'jet-setters', irresponsible kids who never grew up, off seeing the world. He 'd even heard the lie told once over the phone, as Elizabeth 's mother spoke with someone. "Elizabeth? Oh, she 's off somewhere with that husband of hers—We get postcards occasionally, when they think to remember us." She had winked at him as she said it, including him in the lie, but he had seen the sadness in her eyes at what life had dealt them.
Elizabeth would wake him in the night sometimes, crying into her pillow, trying to muffle the sound, and he would cry with her.
Now he cried alone, his dreams haunted by his last sight of her, and the bitter eyes of a seven-year-old child.
Monday, November 1, 1965
Baffin Island, NWT
Illya Kuryakin burrowed deeper into his parka and tried to wiggle his toes before they threatened to fall asleep on him yet again. The temperature on the small plane felt like it was close to zero, and sitting inactive for almost three hours now was making the U.N.C.L.E. agent stiff. The noise level was so high that it was impossible to talk with his partner, even supposing Napoleon would feel like talking.
He glanced over at Napoleon, but the senior agent hadn't budged since the chartered plane took off from Froebisher Bay. Arms folded across his chest, head down, it appeared Solo was sleeping, or resting, but most likely, Kuryakin figured, he was trying to sort out everything Renault had told him about his parents. It would be quite a blow to discover his 'irresponsible, jet-setting parents', two people he had grown up despising, were actually two of Canada's top undercover spies and had provided valuable information to their superiors in the Foreign Department in London over a period of almost twenty years. Heroes, not cowards hiding from responsibility.
Yet, Napoleon had not talked about it with him since they had left Ottawa. "There is nothing to talk about," had been the only response. Still, it was not the same as it was earlier in the year. Napoleon hadn't closed him out of his thoughts. Napoleon just didn't want to think about it right now at all.
If the sock was on his foot, would he contact Kolya if he found out that his father had been alive all these years and working as a professor in Leningrad? No, but I am more stubborn than Napoleon.
Well, maybe not. There was the matter of the letter in Napoleon's safe box, one that had not been opened in ten years. From a lawyer in Toronto. In the bottom right-hand comer on the envelope were the handwritten words: your father's lawyer.
We are more alike than I realized. Parents involved in espionage. Separated by the war. Raised without them... Although he had his grandparents, and I had Nikosha for at least a little while. He had spent most of his teen years hating Nikolai Kuryakin for going away without him too many times to count. But perhaps his father had done everything he was capable of doing, considering the circumstances of their lives.
I wanted him to come and get me and take me away somewhere where we could live in a little dacha in the country, away from the war and the bombed-out cities, and we would be a family. Kolya had never done that. The only family Illya really acknowledged now were the Grahams. Because they were there. Because he could pick up the phone and call them anytime. Because he could knock on their door at any time of the day or night, and they would welcome him in gladly.
Napoleon says I am his only family... Yes, the similarities were there. Kuryakin had risked much for his partner already, and knew he would do so again, if the situation arose, and he would not begrudge his actions.
Another quick glance at Napoleon's face, and Illya saw the discomfort and tension. He reached across and lightly touched his partner's arm, drawing back when Napoleon's eyes opened instantly, startled. He nodded quickly, a hesitant smile on his face, and Napoleon stared back, but the frown lessened and the CEA responded with a faint smile of his own. Solo looked down to his watch, tapping the crystal and stretching.
It's been a long trip.
Kuryakin nodded. The flight to Ottawa, followed immediately by a three-hour flight from Ottawa to Froebisher Bay. Pacing the small terminal and eating soup at the lunch counter. And now the three-hour flight from Froebisher Bay to Pond Inlet.
The Twin Otter dipped now as it circled a graveled runaway that looked far too short for the plane to land. As if in a race against the dying light, the aircraft put down, the rough surface bouncing them around as the pilot skillfully brought the plane about. They were a kilometer from the small hamlet on the southern shore of Eclipse Sound. The Inuit pilot seemed anxious to be on his way, pausing only long enough to let off his two passengers and pick up a pregnan
t woman due to deliver her child at the hospital back in Froebisher Bay.
Illya stepped out of the plane, trying to coordinate his legs under him after the forced inactivity. Napoleon wasn't much better, he was relieved to see, the older man stretching and twisting to bring some life back into his body. The air was cold, but not unmanageable. The scenery was magnificent, especially as the sun, already going down at one-thirty in the afternoon, was setting in a dazzling array of colors, the snow lighting up into a wealth of oranges and reds as the sun dipped below the horizon behind them.
They were near the shoreline on the northeastern portion of Baffin Island, a coastline riddled with inlets. The map changed in the winter as the small islands dotted off the mainland were joined by ice, connecting them for long months almost until the following summer. It would be August before the sound was littered with the thawing ice. Towering icebergs already sat crowded in Eclipse Sound. Further into Baffin Bay in the north, vessels still made their way through the ice floes and icebergs for another month until that avenue was closed to them. Only the eastern portion of Davis Strait, toward Greenland, had the luxury of ice-free channels year round.
They were met by a local man who turned out to be the U.N.C.L.E. contact at Pond Inlet, an RCMP officer by the name of Tom Pierce, one of two officers stationed at the hamlet. He came with a snowmobile pulling a sled. While Napoleon spoke with Pierce, Illya collected their two suitcases and tied them into the back of the sled, then assisted his partner into the sled as they settled back for the short ride into town.
It was growing darker by the minute. In early November, the daylight was already shortened to hours, the sun soon to disappear altogether until the following February, leaving the area to go about its daytime business in a dreamy twilight. Across the sound, the mile-high glacier mountains of Bylot Island loomed ominously. As they approached the hamlet, they could see a double row of prefabricated houses lining the main street. A government-built school was easily visible, bright red against the gray and white background. The new Canadian flag—red maple leaf on a white background, bordered by red panels—flew from the flag pole on the compact RCMP building.
Pierce, a quiet, straightforward man, went about preparing lunch for his two guests, plying them with coffee and grilled sandwiches before sitting down to listen to their problem. After a few minutes, he gestured for them to stop, "Let me get the others. They need to be here." He disappeared out the door of the station.
Illya drained his coffee cup and went to get more, grabbing a cloth to lift the pot from the stove.
"Do you want some?"
"Hmm?"
He turned to his partner, not surprised to see the absent look on Napoleon's face again. "Do you want some more coffee?"
"Sure."
He poured it carefully, returning the pot to the stove top. "He seems competent."
"Who?" Napoleon asked after a moment.
"Pierce." Illya sat across from Solo, his hands cradled around the mug. "Do you want me to handle the briefing? You seem distracted."
Napoleon sat up, fixing his coffee with cream. "No, I'm fine. It was a long trip."
"Need an aspirin?" Illya reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic dispenser. "It may be wise."
That earned him a smile. "Now who's doctoring whom?"
"I thought we decided we were equal on that front," Illya retorted. "If you need one, take one." He slapped his hand against Napoleon's forehead, a bit harder than was really necessary. "You don't have a fever, do you?" he asked with mock concern.
Napoleon brushed his hand away. "Are you presenting me with a bit of my own medicine?"
It took Illya a moment to get the double entendre, and he responded with a disgusted grimace, tossing the bottle to his partner. "Take one out for me, as well."
"Great pair, aren't we?"
Illya nodded, swallowing the pill with his too-hot coffee. "We need to contact April and Mark."
"I'll call into the Froebisher office and leave a message for them. No need to call if they aren't in a position to answer. Greenland is a big area to check out."
Illya stood and retrieved his transceiver from his coat. "It is. You eat your sandwich. I'll make the call."
"Yes, mother," Napoleon said with a laugh.
The Russian glanced back at his partner, pleased to see some of the worry lines lifted from Napoleon's face as he studied the maps and ate his lunch.
* * * * *
Thule U.S. Air Force Base
Greenland
Standing behind the U.S. Air Force captain, Mark Slate tilted his head to one side in silent warning, and April Dancer changed her tactics from innocent and naive to a more dangerous edge that soon worked better for her with this particular male.
"You do realize that you are required by law to give us the information?" she asked now, her voice 'no-nonsense' as she parked one slim hip on the man's desk. "U.N.C.L.E. does have authorized jurisdiction." Dancer reached for the file on his blotter, and Mark smiled, noting that the captain did nothing to stop her.
"Yes, I'm aware of that. What exactly is it you want to know?"
"The discrepancy on your radar readings..."
The captain looked away from them both, studying the map on the far wall, then sighed and shook his head in resignation. "That information is highly top secret—"
"So are we." Slate moved a step or two closer, narrowing the gap between the three. "We were never here. We are simply interested in artifacts found recently in the area. Remember that."
Their host stood suddenly and walked over to the map. "Whatever source you had—and I would love to find out how you got the information—was correct. The signal we picked up was from west of here, several hundred miles." His finger circled a wide area encompassing Baffin Bay and the surrounding islands.
"As far west as Baffin Island?"
He nodded. "We notified Ottawa, checking to see if they were somehow responsible for it, but from what we've been told, the signal didn't show on their radar."
"Isn't that unusual?"
The captain shrugged. "I'm not prepared to guess—"
"Where," Dancer asked, hopping down from his desk, "would you guess the signal originated from on Baffin Island? Can you pinpoint it at all?"
He pointed directly to one area. "The last signal came from 71°32'N, 73°44'W. It's been gradually moving south."
"That's fairly specific." Slate moved over to the map, staring at the long coastline between Pond Inlet and Clyde River.
The captain cleared his throat, rubbing his forehead. "There's something else you should know. We have... uh... flown over the area and there is absolutely nothing there. Not a sign of human habitation or industry."
"Don't believe it for a minute, Captain," April Dancer said, noting the location on her own map. "Now, sir, we need a way of getting to Baffin Island." She looked up at him expectantly.
* * * * *
Pond Inlet
Baffin Island, NWT
Pierce returned a few minutes later with his RCMP colleague, as well as the manager of the Hudson's Bay Company store, the operator of the electric generating plant, and the government administrative officer in charge of the area.
Again, coffee was made, more food was produced, and after a lengthy delay, the five Pond Inlet residents listened silently as Napoleon Solo outlined what they were looking for.
"Somewhere in the vicinity of Pond Island, is what we believe is a northern headquarters for Thrush," Solo began, after spending his first few minutes defining exactly who Thrush and U.N.C.L.E. were. "Froebisher Bay in the south has had numerous sightings of Thrush agents, but it has been unclear where exactly the agents have been heading. Our initial concern was the DEW line facility on the Davis Strait coast just above the Arctic Circle, but that has been ruled out. There are only two areas on the eastern coast of Baffin Island with settlements, Pond Inlet, of course, and then halfway between the DEW line facility and here, is a place called Clyde."
"C
lyde River? You flew by it when you came up here. It's an hour's flight away. What do you want there?" Pierce asked, surprised. "It's already in its freeze-up."
"We don't know what exactly we are looking for," Kuryakin spoke up. "What we do know is that Thrush agents are leaving Froebisher Bay heading north, then disappearing. Have any of you heard anything unusual over the past several months, or seen an influx of new people to the area?"
They shook their heads, shrugging. "If this group is as organized as you say it is, then it's conceivable that they could be anywhere in four hundred miles along the coast. It's not an area that's been greatly explored."
"What about the Eskimos? Aren't many of them still nomadic? Perhaps they've seen something."
"We'll ask the local priest. If the Inuit people were to talk, they'd talk to him. He makes trips to the smaller settlements constantly."
Before Solo could ask, Pierce put in, "He'll be back tomorrow mid-morning."
"We'll talk to him then. Have you seen anyone around here lately with the last name Linden or Bradley?"
Pierce started to shake his head, but the store owner stopped him. "Linden? Yeah, there was a man in by that name—government man—checking a report of polar bears in the area. Told him we don't see polar bears around here." That brought a good hearty chuckle from the group, and the two U.N.C.L.E. agents understood it had been a lie.
"When was that?"
"Oh, ‘bout a week ago, I guess."
"Is there a record of flights on your landing strip, or boats docking in the harbor?" Kuryakin asked.
"Just First North Air that lands here. They keep their records down at Froebisher Bay. And the boats?" Pierce shrugged and looked over at the government representative, but he had no answer for them either.
Finally, as midnight approached, Solo begged off any more coffee, insisting he and his partner needed to rest before beginning their exploration of the surrounding area the next day. Kuryakin proceeded him into the small room they had been given, glancing to the bunked beds within. He peeled off his layers of clothing and crawled into the upper bunk, shivering for a few minutes until his body warmed the sheets and trapped his own heat within the blankets.