by LRH Balzer
MY BROTHER'S KEEPER
May - June 1965
by
L.R.H. Balzer
artwork by Warren Oddsson
Background Notes
My Brother's Keeper is based on the television episode "The Secret Scepter Affair", Episode 19, that aired in February 1965. Warren Oddsson put together this synopsis of the story, which should help those of you who missed this episode to put it in context, and also remind those who haven't seen it for a while what happened:
Solo has been contacted by Colonel Alan Morgan, a U.S. Army commander who Solo met "when I, uh, joined his outfit in Korea." Morgan needs Solo's help to divert an apparent coup attempt in a middle eastern country (probably Iran). Solo is given personal leave to go by U.N.C.L.E., even though they can find no evidence of a conspiracy. Illya tags along on his own. When asked by Morgan why, he answers rather cryptically, "It is inevitable. A man must die a little every day."
Despite some misgivings, the agents agree to assist in the removal of a sacred object, the golden scepter, from the National Armory treasury. The scepter has tremendous political and religious significance. During the raid, Illya is taken prisoner, and Morgan insists Napoleon leave him behind. Solo and Morgan return to the base, where Morgan instructs Zia, his personal aide, to help Solo get the scepter out of the country and to rendezvous in France. As they leave, Morgan is killed in a helicopter crash.
After shifting plans, Solo decides he can't leave without his partner. Zia is uncertain he is still alive, but agrees to help Solo get into the palace through a secret entrance. Solo threatens Premier Karim (sp?) and frees Kuryakin. The suspected plotter, Karim, makes plans to find Napoleon and the others, but it becomes apparent that other parties of different aims are also involved. Napoleon, Illya, and Zia leave on the next leg of their journey, but are betrayed to the Chief of the Secret Police. Now we find that the coup was planned by the premier's mother. After a futile attempt at securing the scepter's location, by using a wild bear, the agents and Zia escape their prison and the Chief of the Secret Police and the premier's mother are killed.
Improvising, the three make it across the border and journey to France. They go to the rendezvous place, and Solo and Zia enter the building, not surprised to find Morgan there. Solo had discovered earlier that the scepter was filled with millions of dollars worth of jewels. Morgan had planned to use them for a comfortable retirement, and he threatens Napoleon when the jewels are no longer in the scepter. Kuryakin comes from behind, and after attempting to force Morgan's surrender, ends up killing him in self-defense. Solo and Zia prepare to return the scepter to Premier Karim, devising what will hopefully be a convincing apology along the way. With Illya taking the wheel, the three drive off as the credits roll...
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Collection Series
written by L.R.H. Balzer & illustrated by Warren Oddsson
Book One: The Dutch Blitz Affair
Book Two: The Defector From Leningrad Affair
Book Three: Collection: Year One anthology
Book Four: Kolya's Son (Patricia Foley, co-author)
Book Five: My Brother's Keeper
Book Six: Collection: Summer of '65 anthology (with Patricia Foley)
Chapter One
February 1965. Marseilles, France.
Blue eyes looked up from their cursory inspection of the body and fixed on his, calm and defiant. Silent. Offering neither condolence nor explanation.
Napoleon found himself nodding mutely in response, staring at the still form of his long-ago mentor, not yet feeling, not yet caring. "Damn him."
The other's jaw tightened, lifting without apology. "Morgan would have killed you," he said flatly.
"Yes, he would have." Napoleon turned away, staring now at the door to the far room, the woman's sobs faintly heard within. He had to deal with this. He had to deal with Zia. With her grief. He would deal with her first, for he was not yet ready to deal with the two sets of eyes, wide and unblinking, behind him. One alive, one dead.
It could have easily been otherwise, and the brief thought clutched at his heart, pushing his emotions further into limbo. Had fate played a different hand, Illya would be the one staring sightlessly at the ceiling, a bullet through his temple.
He looked back Illya had moved away from the body and stood motionless by the stairs, fading out of the picture, as was his custom, allowing his partner the time he needed to pull himself together.
But now was not the time to put together these pieces. He needed more answers. He needed to find the right questions to put to this... he needed to figure out why this had happened at all.
And when it had started.
Thursday, May 6, 1965. New York.
Jud Wilcox Carter smiled. The waiting had paid off. They were here.
He watched with cold interest as Lee Solo emerged from the taxi across the rain-slickened street. He looked much the same as Carter remembered him: lean build, average height, confident bearing, dark intense eyes—narrowed now as he automatically checked out his surroundings. The navy overcoat was belted around what Carter knew would be a strong athletic body. Deadly. Although Solo was wearing a sling, Carter also knew he would be armed, the shoulder harness concealed beneath the overcoat as if the U.N.C.L.E. agent would not be anticipating the use of his weapon outside his own apartment building. Solo was not so naive as to be unsuspecting. The doorman's weapon was in plain sight and other precautions had been taken to make the building as safe as possible, considering the occupations of at least a quarter of the residents. Solo lived in the U.N.C.L.E.-owned building, one of several in the city, occupying a luxury suite on the top floor. From his balcony, one could see to the river and beyond.
Once Carter had discovered where Solo lived, he had then found a way into the building. He had become quite familiar with it over the past week. As with his other endeavors, he had found that if you hired the right people, and you were determined enough, you could ultimately get your hands on whatever it was you were after. He had almost drained his bank accounts to pay them off, but there were no alternatives, except maybe death. This had to succeed. It would succeed.
Another man slid out of the taxi behind Solo, pocketing his wallet, and Carter took special care to check him out He had heard of the Russian, read of him in the files, studied the surveillance shots, but had never seen him before in person. The slender build––also hidden in an overcoat––moved smoothly, with only the slightest trace of a limp to show there had been some action seen recently. The square-jawed face was pensive, eyes darting first to their surroundings, then to Solo, then away again when there was no response. This was the partner, all right. He also lived in the building, in a simple bachelor apartment on the fourth floor, facing the alley. There was no view from his suite, no leather furniture or antiques or carpeted floors. A large cabinet, scarred and in need of painting, pushed back against the bare wall, held clothes, books, dishes, and papers. No bedroom with heavy brocade drapes; he had a mattress on the floor, carefully covered by an old quilt. Nothing decorated or matching or coordinating.
The second man, Kuryakin as he was now called, went around to the trunk of the cab and removed a suitcase. He placed it on the sidewalk, then withdrew a second case, got a good grip on it, and bent to retrieve the first one.
Good. The younger one was aware of his place. Or was he merely assisting the senior agent by carrying the injured man's luggage? Either way, it didn't matter.
The traffic blocked his view momentarily, and
Carter leaned forward, trying to see what was happening on the sidewalk across the street. There appeared to be a brief argument as Solo insisted on taking the case from the Russian. Whatever words said between them were short and abrupt. And one-sided. Solo brushed him off then, turning away and walking up the stairs to where the doorman waited. With the telegrams.
The partner stared up after him, then shrugged the tension from his shoulders, picked up his own suitcase again, and followed Solo up the stairs to the entrance. So, he was also subservient to his superior. It stood to reason. Soviet trained.
There. Carter nodded to himself as Solo unfolded the first telegram and disappeared into the shadows of the foyer reading the brief message. The partner trailed behind him, his face somber as his eyes scanned the lobby. He nodded to the doorman curtly, then walked back toward the elevator out of sight.
And he was as blond as Tommy had been.
*****
From his perch atop the dining room table, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin watched his partner slam down the telephone and retreat into the bedroom. Anger and frustration radiated through the apartment, not directed at the Russian agent, but nevertheless dragging him along in its wake. He was powerless against it and he hated the feeling; he had no tools with which to stop the pain emanating from the other man. Illya stretched his arms, trying to undo some of the tightness across his own chest, the pounding of his heart. His hands were sweaty and he wiped them on his jeans.
Friendship was never easy, especially with Napoleon Solo. And especially if one did not know how to do it.
It made for a lousy beginning to a week off. Since their return from London forty-five minutes previous, the atmosphere between them had been dark and tense, distinctly uncomfortable. Illya had found it difficult not to retreat to the sanctuary of his own apartment, but it was equally difficult to ignore the alarms sounding in his head, the premonitions he had no words for that made him stay.
He couldn't leave... but yet he wasn't wanted. It was obvious Napoleon felt his partner was not a part of this problem. None of it was Kuryakin's fault––Illya knew that —but the guilt hung over him as clearly as it had the moment the bullet left his gun three months before. The night he had shot Morgan.[1] The night he became part of the problem.
No, it was not his fault. That rested with a dead man, still causing trouble from the grave, still manipulating his friendship with Napoleon. Now, as then, Illya found himself pushed aside, as though he had not been figured into the original plan and there was no place for him.
He wanted a place.
Kuryakin glared at one of the telegrams, lying now in a crumpled ball across the room. The wired messages had been handed to Solo shortly after their arrival at the apartment building. Because of them, what little was left of the easy rapport established on the last few assignments had evaporated by the time Napoleon had finished reading the first page-long message. The second telegram had been shorter and was now equally crumpled in Napoleon's pocket.
Solo had not discussed the telegrams with him, but he had surmised their contents by shamelessly eavesdropping on Napoleon's side of the subsequent phone conversations with an unknown caller. The telephone had been busy. A call out for more information. A call in: from someone Napoleon knew who wanted him to go—insisted that he go—to Georgia. Two calls out: one to the airport to see if there were flights available, one to a hotel in Atlanta to see if there were rooms free. Another call in just now that had consisted of one brusque sentence on Napoleon's side before he had hung up. "I have not decided."
All of the above unraveled without a single word of explanation to his partner. It was as though Solo had wiped him from the picture, as though he viewed his presence there as insignificant and any opinions he might offer as negligible. He had not even considered him a possible listening ear or sounding board...
…because this was a personal problem and Napoleon Solo did not divulge personal information, not even to his partner. Especially not to his partner.
And yet he has accepted me, despite his knowledge of my past and the things I had done before coming to UN.C.L.E. He has accepted me... but only as his partner.
Anger crested and broke over the Russian, and on a wave of frayed nerves and not enough sleep, bitterness clamped hold. Once more, he was trusted for what he could do, not for who he was. The old pattern. A friend, perhaps, but only in the loosest sense of the word. A convenience. In the Soviet Union, there were many whom he had called friend, but with them it was enough to eat a meal, or share a bottle, or discuss a female. It would push the limits to criticize supervisors or talk of disillusionments or confide fears. That crossed the line. That put them in a position to betray you. That gave them knowledge they neither wanted nor sought.
There had only been two or three there that he could trust with his secrets and his dreams. His older foster brother, Grisha[2], had taught him there was more to life than war, but he knew Grisha only listened to him because he felt he had to, because Illya was useful to him on occasion. Rodya, in the Bolshoi, had been different. He had looked out for Illya and got him drunk and became his friend even though the tall athletic dancer knew he was a barely-tolerated KGB informant. And Sasha, Grisha's friend: Over the years, from age ten to twenty one, Sasha had become a big brother to him as Grisha never could. To Sasha he could bare his soul.
But... life changed. Grisha was dead. Rodya was far away in Moscow, living out what was left of the dream, before the years caught up with him. And though Sasha lived in America, in New York, it was no longer safe to tell him his problems. To be a friend to Sasha, he now had to smile, drain his glass, and talk of the weather. U.N.C.L.E. secrets stayed locked inside.
He had hoped that it would be different with Napoleon, that the playful smile that hinted of friendship was sincere. That the helpful arm that steadied Illya when he was injured would in turn accept help when needed. That the secrets he knew of Kuryakin's life would be reciprocated. But Napoleon talked only of work and women.
So, when it came down to it, was Napoleon really any different from anyone else?
Kuryakin was accepted––but not. Despite what his passport said, or his U.N.C.L.E. position, or the letters and phone calls in his defense made by state senators, freedom had its levels, as did coercion. He was sanctioned as an agent, respected for his knowledge and skills and willingness to die. But while he was allowed in the club, free to use the facilities and mingle with the members, he was not yet an equal there. He was still a guest On probation.
And Solo was suddenly a stranger walking around in a familiar body, and there was something in the eyes, something that warned Kuryakin from asking questions. And pressured him to stay, determinedly rooted in place. Something was wrong.
And Illya had no idea what to do about it.
He watched the half-open bedroom door, listening to the sounds within, wincing as Solo cursed. The senior agent had been wounded during their last assignment in England, shot in the shoulder, lying pale and bleeding in the aisle of the London trolley car. A minor injury. He is out of the hospital already. It could have been worse, Kuryakin told himself firmly. It was the first time he had seen his partner shot; to continue the chase and leave him had been hard. Only Napoleon's smile and reassurance––and subsequent order––had refocused him on the case and sent him from his partner's side, down the steps of the trolley bus and after Sully[3].
The timing for this is just bad. Napoleon is not himself. The assignment, to investigate the actions of the leader of an international crime syndicate, had not gone as Solo had planned. Certainly getting shot was not part of the carefully laid-out scheme. The wound was healing, but it had only been two days and the chief enforcement agent was further irritated by the handicap, refusing any offer of assistance.
He had even carried his own luggage at the airport and coming in from the cab.
Napoleon Solo never carried his own luggage if he could possibly help it. With a talent Illya admired through clenched teeth, Napol
eon always seemed to be busy at the precise moment the suitcases arrived and his gullible partner would dutifully pick them up. Or do the paperwork. Or run a message to another department. Or any of a thousand other little things Napoleon foisted off on him.
The case had been completed, but Illya had come away bruised and weary. He was tired now. His muscles ached. He wanted to soak in a hot bath and try to sort out what was happening. Straightening his shoulders, he pushed the other thoughts from his mind; they would serve no purpose now. He would only end up saying something he would regret later. Tonight, with a bottle...
A loud noise came from the other room as a drawer was ripped out of the bureau. Illya sat on his hands, trying not to offer his help again. The previous offer, to help prepare some lunch, had been rather rudely refused, only emphasizing the pressure the other agent was under. Napoleon Solo was rarely uncouth, not unless he had a reason.
Say something. You can say something, even if you are just his partner.
"You do not have to go, Napoleon." He waited for an answer, watching his legs swing restlessly back and forth over the table's edge. He stopped them abruptly, embarrassed, glad his partner had not seen the childish action. "There is no one making you go," he added, louder. He could hear the frustration in his voice.
Solo's voice was muffled but audible. "They want me to give one of the damned eulogies."
"So? Let someone else do it." Fifteen seconds passed with no reply. "Napoleon?"
Solo strode back into the room, dropping a clean armful of clothes onto the couch. "I'm going. Get off my table." The hall closet reluctantly parted with a suitcase, the resulting crash contained quickly behind the firmly-shut door. One-armed, Solo wrestled with the case's latch, swearing as it clicked open. A few personal items were quickly transferred from the small suitcase he had taken to England, into the larger Pullman. He disappeared back into the bedroom, speaking without looking back. "Quit hovering; you're making me damned nervous. I'm fine. I'll be fine. It's just something I have to do. Why don't you go get some lunch for yourself and I'll call you when I get back?" Sounds of drawers opening and closing.