Collection 5 - My Brother's Keeper

by LRH Balzer

  McGuire nodded, a slightly fanatical look in his eye. "He was probably already receiving death threats or knew someone was after him. He said nothing of this Russian? Of a plot against him?"

  "No. I was just there for a visit. He was busy most of the time. He didn't confide in me."

  "Thank you. Perhaps if you think of something..." With an air of dismissal, McGuire drew his hands behind his back and stood up at attention. "I will be here until two o'clock Sunday afternoon, and then I must return to my base. I ask you to check in with me before you leave and let me know how you can assist. We will need everyone's participation. Make absolutely no attempt to contact anyone, at this point, as to what we have discussed tonight. It is most urgent that we formulate a positive plan to avenge Colonel Morgan's murder. If you are able to assist me, please let me know privately, and I will assure your confidentiality. Whichever of you has provided me with anonymous information already, I would like to speak with you in person. I thank you for bringing this matter to my attention and would like to hear your theories about this atrocity. This memorial service—and the reunion organized by Lt. Laurier—has been a timely reminder of the good Colonel Morgan has done over the years. I was honored to be asked to do one of the eulogies.

  "Company dismissed." He retrieved the photograph from the last man, then held the door as they filed out.

  *****

  "Again: Where did Solo put the scepter?" Carter towered over the tightly-bound man lying on the hotel room bed.

  Illya rolled with the blow, then turned his face back to Carter, his cut lips trying to calmly form the answer, "As I have already said, he gave it back to its rightful owners." Kuryakin braced himself as another fist came toward him, wincing as it connected with the side of his head.

  "WHERE IS IT?" Carter growled, drawing his arm back once more.

  This time the fist landed on his stomach and it took Illya a moment before he could gasp out, "He returned it. He returned it."

  Carter paced the room, icy and furious, his gloved fist smacking repeatedly against his own palm as repeated his theory. "Solo convinced Morgan to take the scepter to Marseilles instead of Geneva where we had arranged––"

  "Then why would Solo give it back to the Premier?" Illya asked wearily. He had been trying to reason with the man for the past fifteen minutes and had gotten nowhere.

  "I have only your word that he did."

  "You must have some way of verifying—" he bit off his next words as Carter rushed at him, and this time he closed his eyes, no longer caring where he was going to be hit. He hurt just about everywhere. Carter struck his chest, and if the bed had not absorbed most of the double-fisted blow, the force would have broken Illya's ribs. When he could pull enough air into his straining lungs to form an answer, he repeated in his calmest voice, "Morgan stole the scepter and Solo gave it back. He had no intention of keeping it. Face it, Carter, you aren't going to get it. I don't have the scepter, and Solo doesn't have it. And your Alan Morgan obviously had no intention of keeping your agreement. He was double-crossing you."

  "You're lying, you mother flicking Communist." The low hiss should have been warning enough, but Illya was too tired to hear it.

  Instead, he responded, "And you're a fucking idiot."

  *****

  In the quiet of the hotel's piano lounge, Solo and Robinson sat at a table overlooking the small deserted dance floor and talked. The pianist was taking a break, the piped-in music replacing him as bland as he had been. They had come straight from McGuire's room to get a drink, both men, usually calm in the tightest circumstances, were shaking with the intensity of the memories evoked. They had slipped into the private curved booth, absently ordered their drinks, then called the cocktail waitress back and ordered coffee as well. The evening was going to need both. Lots of both.

  Kelly shook his head in disbelief, wiping sweaty palms on his uniform pants. Lee Solo had surprised him a few times over the years—but this? "This Zadkine––Kuryakin––is your partner? Your partner, Lee? You with a Russian? You were the most adamant of all of us on your opinions of Russians."

  Napoleon rubbed his forehead, as though he were trying to erase the memory of his own words. "I was a frightened kid when I said that. I grew up. I recall you saying a lot of things back then that I'm sure you no longer believe." He stared around the room restlessly, then across to his companion. "Kell, we were living proof of the effects of American Cold War propaganda—just spouting off what we were told to believe. Illya Kuryakin is a good agent and partner, but most of all, he's become my friend. The only reason he was there in France with Morgan was because he somehow knew I needed him along for moral support. And the only reason he shot Morgan was to save my life. Morgan pulled a gun on me."

  "Why?"

  "Because I wouldn't go along with his plan. I wouldn't look the other way. What I still can't figure out, is why he thought I would." Solo drummed the tablecloth, agitated by the events of the evening.

  "He thought of you as someone he could manipulate easily."

  "Why, dammit? He knew I worked for U.N.C.L.E." He said it louder than he had intended and drowned his next words in a cup of coffee that did little to settle his anger. "Why did Morgan seek me out?"

  Kelly, slouched down in his chair, stared up at the ceiling. The tape kept running through his head, hearing his words repeated. It sounded like someone else, not him. Not his throat and lips that uttered those words. "Maybe he was already losing it; he figured you were a yes-man and would do whatever he asked. And that's probably what McGuire is angling for now, that all the nice little Rangers will run to help avenge their master's untimely death."

  "I hardly had anything to do with McGuire then; Morgan personally taught me the ropes... Kelly, McGuire talked about some CIA files. Know anything about them?"

  Robinson sat upright and glanced around the lounge, wondering how much to say in an unprotected area. One look at Solo's face and he decided to say whatever was needed. Let the chips fall where they may. He leaned forward, his voice low, his hands moving in short jabs as he talked. "Okay, he's obviously got his hands on a couple of Company files, but only the nonrestricted ones. In Zadkine's case––sorry, Kuryakin's case, those files would not only be skimpy, but mighty confusing. Even the high-level ones that Scotty and I read didn't list Kuryakin as the gunman, but Zadkine, which is how he officially appears in our computer system. Intelligence Department tends to classify by first alias given."

  "Yet you said it does cross-reference him as Kuryakin, with an U.N.C.L.E. seal on the file."

  "Our files don't always match with our computer system. With the computers, if you ask for information on Kuryakin, it would tell you to look under 'Zadkine', as that is where the information in stored. Once in, there is a nonrestricted area and a restricted, classified area. The nonrestricted area is probably where they got their information. They punched in the name Kuryakin because that's what appeared on the French police report. The computer told them that was an alias and to check under 'Zadkine'. As they start reading, they see that Zadkine defected from the Soviet Union in 1961. That already sets him up in their closed little minds, as anyone who is a defector must be a traitor and no better than slime."

  "In Illya's case, there were––"

  Robinson cut him off not wanting to know details. "There are always 'extenuating circumstances'. I just want you to know what their low-level flunky would be reading. So he studies the dates of the defection and then sees that the actual interrogations are classified. The file doesn't have much else, other than that U.N.C.L.E. has taken over the case."

  "So now what?"

  "Well, I don't know how McGuire came across the Soviet newspaper photo. It sounds like someone sent it to him, which means––what? Another player in the game? Anyway, McGuire now has the name. He runs the name 'Zadkine' through his own system—be it Army or his own personal network. And he eventually finds a cross-reference to the name Zadkine in several places. Probably discovers the stepb
rother you just told me about, Grigory Zadkine, as defecting in 1964. That hit the newspapers in D.C. and in New York The name Zadkine would also show up in the dance section, the incident with Kennedy and Khrushchev at the Soviet Ballet in D.C., when Illya was gunned down. Illya Zadkine was listed as critically injured and then a few days later, it was announced he was dead. That would have had some mention in the press, at least in the gossip-conscious arts section."

  "And then there's the Soviet newspaper photo he showed us. It was accompanied by an article about their 'lost spy' who had been relocated and was welcomed back to the fold. Even the Times carried a small version of that; Petrov had set it all up last December as blackmail, trying to get Illya boxed in. Did McGuire actually see the whole article, or are all he has the photo and the CIA files?... How much does he know about me? He said he looked into our occupations."

  "Low-level? Not a whole lot. CIA would list you as a computer salesman. A higher level access would have an U.N.C.L.E. seal on the file, restricting the rest to the highest level viewing only, and that would clue in most people that you either work for U.N.C.L.E., or they totally control you, or whatever devious things you are doing, U.N.C.L.E. has taken responsibility for your capture. Since the seal goes back to 1957––and you have obviously been free all this time––it makes sense that you work for U.N.C.L.E., especially when you look at the bits and pieces that are in your short file. But remember, I told you the CIA already asked me to check McGuire out as being unbalanced. If he is, he is going to interpret anything he reads in whatever light he wants."

  "What does it say about you, then?"

  "I check out clean as a humble tennis bum––who often seems to get in a great deal of trouble, but since I'm also very cooperative with the authorities, they should go easy on me. In other words, 'try not to kill him'."

  "It doesn't say you're higher level?"

  "Nope. The desk jockeys that need to know that, already do. The rest don't need to know. We're in there, but under code names... So what do we do, Jack?" He slouched back in the chair, playing with the spoon from his coffee, his other hand wrapped around the liquor glass. "Which direction do we go? Kuryakin's been implicated, which may mean he's in danger. If any of these guys are the least bit trigger happy or out for revenge, well, you should be prepared."

  "I have no idea what to suggest," Napoleon admitted. "I radioed into my office in New York, but they haven't seen him since we left for London. They haven't missed him; he is on vacation. I spoke with an agent I know and Heather said she would contact the building supervisor and have someone go by the apartment building. There's a flu bug making the rounds on Section Four, so Security is short-staffed, but they have checked the security footage from the hallways and that shows clear. I've tried phoning his place, but there's no answer."

  "What about those radio gizmos that you guys carry around?"

  "I've tried. There's no reply on Illya's transceiver, but he could be out of range. Or if he's working on a science experiment, he'll sometimes turn his transceiver off."

  "Look, tomorrow we'll scout around and see what we can find. Maybe talk with a few of the guys we knew. You'll have time to warn off your partner. When Scotty gets here, he'll be able to help figure out something. I always give him the hotel room number since he finds it easier to come up the back way and avoid the front desk altogether."

  "Do you still have problems with that?"

  "It's not as bad as it used to be, but we don't like to take any chances." Robinson shrugged, passing it off. Prejudice against Negroes, or Russians—or anyone, for that matter––was something that infuriated the CIA agent. The world was a crazy place. Scotty and Kelly just did what they had to; it wasn't something they spent any time crying over.

  Napoleon nodded, understanding. "In the meantime, what do we do?" he asked. "Join the rest of the men in the bar and see what we can find?"

  "Sounds fine by me. It's not McGuire I'm primarily worried about. It's whomever is passing him the information. And why." Kelly downed his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Flashback images kept interrupting his thoughts, pictures of Korea, of the first time he had met the man sitting across from him. Of the nightmare that time had been. Damn that tape. Why did Tomahawk make it? Maybe McGuire got off on hearing that stuff. Maybe he and Morgan sat around during slow times, during lulls in the battle, and played the tapes so their bloodlust wouldn't die. There had been other tape sessions, one in particular that Kelly remembered after a raid that had seen them kill forty or more gooks.

  I can't believe I just thought that. Gooks... Koreans.

  Robinson felt his leg nervously twitching, bouncing like a scared schoolboy under the table, and he stilled it. I haven't done that in ten years. This is getting to me. I can't let it get to me. He glanced across the table at Solo, noting the distant look on the other man's face. It's got to him, too. I haven't seen that look on his face since Korea. He's actually scared. Hell, I'm just as bad; my hands are still sweating... McGuire said someone was passing him information. Who? Who was there then? McCall was, but he's clean. I think. At least, he works for us and I don't think there's been any real problems. Banacek? No one seems to know where he landed. The rest of us are here... and that in itself is weird. Why are we all here?

  Scotty... you would probably say 'we have been drawn together because of some unfinished business.' If you worked with a partner long enough, you could hear their advice without them being there. Hear them play Devil's advocate in your brain. See them frown when you drink more than you should. We're drinking just like we did in Korea. Getting plastered. Trying to forget. Dammit, Scotty, you better get here quick before something happens.

  The silence had gone on for too long. Napoleon was still staring at the bottom of his empty glass, his face hard, jaw clenched. Dangerous with that much alcohol. Kelly cleared his throat. "How far do you want to go with this? Do you want to tell them about Morgan's activities?"

  The glass was pushed aside. "Right now, all I want to do is find a way to clear my partner and go home. If that means I have to tell them the truth about Morgan, I'd be happy to, at this point. Why protect his reputation? And if it means I have to make mincemeat out of some middle-aged ex-heroes, then I'll do it. We're professionals, Kelly, these guys aren't."

  The CIA agent frowned. "I don't think they're improvising. Someone, maybe McGuire, maybe not, is serious about this. Somebody has set this up for a reason––I'd like to know who asked McGuire to do the eulogy."

  "Well, Bob Laurier asked me. From what I understand, he planned the whole thing."

  "We'll have to find out if he asked McGuire. Tomahawk certainly has made it seem as if the memorial service was all his idea. Or did he just shove his way into Laurier's plans? You know, what took real planning was to find that particular tape. I wonder why he kept it all these years... I remember the tape recorder from Korea; McGuire owned it, always hooking it up to the generator and playing those experimental, motivational army tapes of his. I wonder how many subliminal messages were there, even then. We're the best country in the world. We're right, we're always right. We're doing this to help these poor heathens. We're noble and pure and the best damned army in the world.'... McGuire's either crazier than he appears, or is more dangerous. When you think about it, he convinced us all to come up to his suite and listen as he played that damned tape. He knew exactly what hearing that tape would do to us; hell, not only do I feel what I did then––all the hate and revenge––but it has me all charged up to go out and bash a few heads." He drained his glass, grinning weakly across the table to Solo.

  Napoleon seemed to have the air knocked out of him. He stared out over the room, frozen for a moment, then shook his head as though trying to clear his thoughts. Finally, he nodded and rubbed at his temples, pushing back the tightness. "I'm sorry I'm such bad company. But I'm bushed, my arm hurts, and I'm really not up to bashing heads. I'd go back to New York on the next flight but I want to get a few answers first. An
d I'd also like to see Scotty tomorrow night—three years is a long time. A lot has happened." His voice trailed off for a moment, but he pulled himself back quickly. "But before anything else, what I would like to do is get out of this uniform."

  "Good plan. How about I meet you in the bar in twenty minutes and I'll change, too. I feel conspicuous wearing U.S. Army." Kelly flashed his smile, but it had little effect. Napoleon wasn't paying much attention. Bad news. "Hey. Maybe some of the old gang will be there and we can get a reading on the opinions about McGuire's little meeting."

  "Sure. What the hell––I've only had ten drinks. What's another couple going to hurt?"

  *****

  Carter took the tape, carefully winding the end around the reel.

  "What do you want it for?" McGuire asked, from his armchair, eyes blurry from the alcohol.

  "It brought back some memories. I didn't know it still existed." It had startled him. He couldn't have planned such a perfect catalyst for Solo. It set his schedule back a day, but it was worth the look on Napoleon Solo's face as he heard it.

  McGuire stared at him with an intensity that bordered on maniacal. "When you knocked just now, I thought that you had some information for me."

  "No, nothing like that. I just want to hear the tape again. I'll return it in the morning."

  "What's your angle, Jud? You never seemed concerned about anything but yourself before. Why so interested in the tape now?"

  "Maybe I'm turning over a new leaf" Carter headed for the door, stopping, hand on the doorknob, as McGuire's voice cut through the room.

  "Were you the one who sent me the file copies?"

  Carter smiled briefly, then turned. "What do you mean?"