Collection 5 - My Brother's Keeper

by LRH Balzer

  Solo glanced around at the men filling the bar, smiling almost patiently and waving away several other groups who indicated that they should join them. Working to keep the edge from his voice and his face neutral, he spoke quickly. "We have to talk, Kelly. I've got a bigger problem than McGuire. When we got back from the country club, I went to my room, and this was waiting for me."

  Robinson took the Polaroids from the envelope, matching the face to the one seen in McGuire's suite the previous evening. The man was tied to a chair, wearing only a pair of dark suit pants, his eyes half-open but glaring at whomever was taking the picture, and looking like a few guys with a major grievance had taken it out on him. "Your partner?"

  "Yes." Dammit, Illya, what happened? Napoleon thought drunkenly, for a moment giving in to the alcohol. I sent you away. You weren't supposed to be involved with this. This wasn't supposed to happen.

  Robinson opened the note attached and read aloud, "LEE SOLO. WHERE DID YOU STASH THE ITEM? IT BELONGS TO ME. I'VE GOT YOUR LI1TLE COMMIE FRIEND. REMEMBER TOMMY? THE SAME COULD HAPPEN TO ZADKINE. WE NEED TO TALK. THESE FIRST PICTURES WERE TAKEN AT 3:00 YESTERDAY AFTERNOON. THE ONES AT THE FRONT DESK WERE TAKEN AT 11:00 LAST NIGHT AND THE REST, THIS AFTERNOON. WHEN YOU ARE READY TO TALK, LEAVE A MESSAGE FOR GEORGE AT THE FRONT DESK AND I'LL CALL YOU BACK."

  Kelly looked up. "There it is again. Just like the other telegram you showed me. Tommy. You're right. Did you notice how easily his name came up at dinner tonight?" He put the picture aside and reached for the second envelope. "Are these the other pictures?"

  Napoleon nodded wordlessly. These were worse. Illya was on the bed now, in obvious pain, blood soaking the gag around his mouth. One picture showed a closeup of his face, the other showed bruising ribs and bleeding feet. The pint of draft slid down Napoleon's throat, blurring his own pain, washing it in rivulets down his memories. He closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of Illya in Omegar Prison, the strong body beaten and blood-streaked, the trembling shock-filled form that huddled against him. Tommy had done that. Tommy had collapsed against him, no longer able to cry from the pain, caught in some in-between place, neither truly dead, nor truly alive. Illya had lain on the stage in Washington, D.C., open eyes sightless, as the blood spread over his chest. Tommy had bled from the knife wounds, from the burns inflicted on his body.

  "It's hard to see a partner like this, isn't it?" Kelly's voice broke, filled with quiet sorrow, reminding Napoleon of another time the Californian had been beside him, offering support.

  Too many things were reminding him of Korea and he gripped the table edge to steady himself. The reunion. The tape. The beer. Kelly. Tommy. Remember Tommy? Hell, how could I forget?

  Solo drained half the mug before he could trust his voice. "I'm tired of seeing him hurt. Illya, I mean. Seeing Illya hurt. Lately, it seems every assignment he is knocked out, drugged, he's been in a couple of car accidents..." He couldn't continue, feeling the frustration end up in a string of curses.

  Robinson waved to the waitress, miming a pitcher, before turning back to his friend, nudging his arm and trying to get a response. "Hey, why should your job be any safer than mine? Looking at my last two weeks, I have two cracked ribs that are still healing from a fight in Hong Kong, and from Tokyo I came away with a massive purple bruise on my thigh that makes the young women moan and pamper me. The hospital shaved Scotty's head down one side to bandage a conk on his skull. He had to wear a hat for three weeks until his hair grew back, man. He was madder than a hornet. You should talk, anyway––you have your arm in a sling and half-healed scars on your wrists, so you aren't immune either. Whatever happened to the Solo luck?... Which reminds me––you'd better be careful. McGuire was eyeing your wrists at the meeting up in his room. He's sharp, despite his obsessions. He always noticed little details. Liked things neatly packaged. That's why he always had the tapes, so he could comb through information looking for more than what was said. Those burns would be difficult for you to explain as a computer salesman."

  Solo tugged absently at the sleeves on his cardigan, covering the still-red scars from the Brother Love case. "Well, it's not McGuire I'm worried about right now. It's how he got his damned information... and how this George has gotten his information. Which 'item' is he looking for? He doesn't say––I'm expected to already know."

  "He calls your partner Zadkine, not Kuryakin."

  "So what does that mean? He's working with McGuire?"

  "Maybe. Or maybe he's also investigating Morgan's death and has come up with the same information. Or maybe he's the one providing McGuire with the information."

  "In which case, the only item of any value that was there at the time of Morgan's death would be the scepter Morgan stole." With my help. He looked across the table at Robinson, letting the loud noises in the bar fade out "Damn," Solo whispered. The scepter was invaluable. But the jewels inside... Over a million dollars worth. How far would someone go for a million dollars?

  Kelly was still trying to figure it out, his eyes blinking, trying to stay focused on his task as a wave of dizziness hit him. "So is George really McGuire?"

  "Possibly... McGuire has a vengeful streak—No. No, I don't think so. It doesn't fit." McGuire? Why would he say someone else gave him the information? McGuire would have taken credit himself... What if Illya is nearby? He glanced at the pictures, trying to see the background, to get some indication of where they were taken. But he couldn't pull his attention past the pained face. Illya would know the picture would go to Napoleon... Tommy would try to act brave, but he was terrified. He was beyond terrified... The note had said the pictures were taken that evening... Where was McGuire? No one had seen him that evening... Was he watching Illya? Was Illya in Atlanta somewhere?

  "With McGuire, it could be an act," Robinson volunteered, slouched in his chair, staring across the room at the dancers. "It's hard to tell."

  "Yeah. It could be... Is this George working with McGuire? Was he a third party involved with Morgan? Uh... maybe a fence to sell the goods to? McGuire would have––no, sorry, uh, Morgan––Morgan would have had some buyer for the scepter or it wouldn't have done him any good."

  "Georgie Porridgie could just as easily be someone else trying to deal themselves into this."

  "Well, I've left a message at the front desk saying I'm here and I want to talk. I don't know what else I can do. This shouldn't be that hard; only four men here, other than ourselves, knew who Tommy was. Laurier, Carter, Powhatan, and Opperdorff. Any one of them, or any combination of them, could be holding Illya."

  "And they're all in the bar tonight." Kelly rubbed his forehead wearily, then sat up and leaned his forearms on the table, letting his weight rest on them. "For lack of a plan guaranteed to succeed, Lee, why don't you just shrug, put the photos in your back pocket, and let's just sit here and pretend you don't really care. See what happens. I can see Powhatan and Opperdorff from where I'm sitting."

  "Carter's at a table to my right. Laurier––he was here when I came in, but I don't see him now."

  "So we play the waiting game." They sat in silence for a few minutes, Kelly nodding absently at the waitress as she refilled their mugs while Napoleon scarcely registered her presence. The Californian tapped the table, securing the other's attention. "Lee, I've been thinking––no rude comments, please––I'd like to ask you a few questions... What happened with Morgan in Korea? I was never too sure why you stayed on with our unit and, at the time, never thought to ask. You were Canadian Navy, so what were you doing with an American Army outfit for the remainder of the war?"

  "Morgan requested I stay. I guess he knew people." Wait, was it Morgan or McGuire who put the request in? No, it was Morgan. Solo couldn't really remember ever speaking to McGuire.

  "Sounds like Morgan pulled more than a few strings."

  The U.N.C.L.E. agent rubbed his arm and shrugged. "I suppose so."

  "No offense, Lee, but why? Why did Morgan want you in our––in his––unit? What happened?"

&nb
sp; It was an effort to think. Solo had spent too many years trying to forget that time; his memories were unclear. Added to a headache that was somewhere in the middle of his skull. "I don't know... We had a talk while I was convalescing and a few days later he said I could stay if I wanted and told me he would personally train me in stratagem and tactical war maneuvers, as well as make sure I learned the ropes with demolitions."

  "Seems like an extravagant move for him. Why would he do that? Why would he want a Canadian Naval Junior Officer assigned to his American Army Unit? It doesn't make any sense, man.––What did you guys talk about?"

  "Nothing significant. He just asked how I came to be captured, what I was doing in Seoul, what my role was in the Navy. Uh... General questions. Nothing confidential."

  "To you, then, they were general questions. But knowing what we do now about Morgan, can you think of anything unusual he talked about or asked you about?"

  "That conversation happened over twelve years ago, Kelly! How am I supposed to remember? I don't have my partner's eidetic memory."

  "Okay... Since we have nothing else on our agenda at the moment––by the way, Laurier is heading this way... He sat down at the table directly behind you—Anyway, let me ask you a few questions, as if I were him." Kelly mock-saluted. "Lee Solo, what is your current rank?"

  "Uh, at that time I was a Sub-Lieutenant." He was too tired to play games.

  "Position?"

  "Officially?" What did they call him? "Liaison attaché between the Commander of the Pacific Fleet and the United Nations Command Center in Seoul."

  "Oh––Really? Huh!... So what did you do in this position?"

  "I made regular runs between the office in Seoul and the Canadian Navy Commander, taking classified documents, maps, and getting various signatures on agreements."

  "Okay, let's stop there." Kelly stopped his arm from raising the glass to his mouth. "Now what could Morgan do with that?––Or better yet, what could he accomplish with you not doing that?"

  "I have no idea. Anyone could have done the job I was doing." Napoleon stared at his empty glass, feeling much the same.

  "So why were you doing it? Certainly with your skills you would be a little more active then working as a delivery boy?"

  "There was more to it than that. My job description changed over the course of the war. There were other reasons, anyway."

  "Such as, perhaps, the 'unofficially' part?"

  Napoleon glanced up, frowning. "What do you mean?"

  "You've stated what you did 'officially'––and that implies an 'unofficially'." Kelly was obviously trying to keep his expression light, unthreatening, but for some reason, Napoleon felt threatened.

  He shrugged again. "Let's just say I got drafted into helping out there more than was originally planned. The city was a bombed-out wreck... and I came to like Seoul. I think I told him that."

  "That you liked––what?––the workload, the demolished buildings, the starving orphans, the endless receptions, or maybe evenings at the Foreign Club, or the nightclubs and the girls? Something like that?"

  "Something like that," he muttered, noncommittally.

  "Did you talk about it with Morgan?" Robinson asked after another long silent period.

  "I don't know. Probably. A bit, anyway."

  "So... so... There it is.––My good man, Lee Solo, the question of the hour is: why would Morgan want you away from whatever he thought drew you to Seoul?"

  "What?"

  Kelly gave up and poured himself another drink from the pitcher. "If it wasn't your official position, it was something else. You must have said something to him that made him want to keep you away from Seoul and close to him where he could keep an eye on you."

  It took Solo a minute to catch his breath. "It's too long ago. I have no idea what I told him."

  "Well, think about it. He had to have a reason. Morgan did nothing without a reason. He plotted everything out to the second. And he liked things tidy; he always had at least three purposes to every action."

  Solo watched the barmaid walk from table to table, taking her orders, smiling flirtatiously with the men, then disappearing behind the counter. There had been many Enlisted Men's Bars in Seoul serving cheap booze, places where drugs were available, and many other locations in the city where prostitutes of both sexes were cheaper yet, but he had never gone to them.

  There was only one place he went to when he stayed in Seoul, the home of Dr. C.S. Kim. Did he mentioned that to Morgan when he first arrived? Did he tell him? Or was that not until later? After.

  Chapter 4

  December 1952,

  Korea

  "I'm Kelly Robinson, from California. Can you hear me? What is your name?"

  The voice came to him from a long distance. He reached inside himself for strength, and looked up, staring at the man with sunken eyes. He could find no words to answer him. Shivering, he pulled the battered body he held closer. At least Tommy was with him; the others wouldn't hurt him anymore. They had gone away, chattering among themselves, not caring what they had left behind But there were new soldiers now, the ones who had come an hour ago. And though they were on the same side, he could feel the mounting panic that these Americans would try to take Tommy away from him, too.

  "What's your name?" the young man asked, softly, persistently, sitting beside him and resting a hand on his shoulder.

  There were still no words. He could find no energy to answer or to fight the rising fear. He took a deep breath, almost choking on the noxious smell of the shed they were in,— but there was no food left in his stomach to bring up. An icy wind blew through the thin walls and his bones rattled

  The hand moved to his back, gently patting the tremors. "What was his name?"

  "Tommy. Tommy Sorgensen." He surprised himself by answering. Why did those words come so easily? "He was my driver. We were heading to Inchon from Seoul." He heard himself talking, telling about the attack

  "What's your name?" Kelly asked again.

  He trusted the gentle smile. "Lee Solo," he whispered.

  The arm rested now on his shoulder and the soft voice asked one more question. "Lee, you do know Tommy's dead, don't you?"

  Saturday night, May 8, 1965

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Carter was in the room again, animatedly talking to Freddy in a too-fast, excited tone that made Kuryakin's head buzz. "I'm going back to my suite now. Everything's going great; the plan is going fine. You should have seen Solo in the bar—he can barely hold his head straight he's had so much to drink. He'll be ready to talk by morning. Pay attention, Freddy, I don't want to repeat this. Clay will check at the front desk for the message—you don't have to. All you have to do is make sure he doesn't go anywhere. Not that he can walk very far on those feet," he said, with a nervous laugh, gesturing to Kuryakin, still curled on the bed, hands tied behind his back "Don't take off his gag; we don't want him making any noise. I'll come back by nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Sty will be back by then, as well." He got his briefcase, fixed his tie in the mirror, and left without even glancing at his prisoner.

  Well, I won't be here. Kuryakin twisted, throwing his legs over so he was lying on his left side and could view the man watching him. Freddy was no professional guard. He looked like a very nervous kid who was trying to impress his boss. Carter obviously trusted him, which again strengthened Illya's opinion that the man in charge was new at the game. Well informed? Yes. Desperate? Doubly so. But his very mixture of experience and inexperience could be used against him. He was confident now, and confident unseasoned men made mistakes and didn't even know it. For example, taking into consideration the amount of coffee Freddy was drinking, he was going to have to visit the bathroom at some point and that eventuality had not been discussed.

  So, until then, Illya pretended to sleep, resting, conserving his strength. The muscles across his stomach were aching fiercely now, the bruises on his chest beginning to show. The shock had worn off midmorning and all day his hea
d had throbbed in counterpoint with his feet. Still, despite the damage, he wasn't bad off, he told himself. He was conscious and stable. His legs weren't tied and the pain was working to his advantage––it was clearing his thinking. If he waited patiently for the right time, it would no doubt come.

  He tried to concentrate on other things, but Carter's words had been disturbing. Why was Napoleon getting drunk? It didn't sound like something Napoleon would do. He had vague memories of his partner's anger about his own drinking one night when he'd had more than Solo considered safe, even if they were off duty. It was something rarely mentioned between them, but Illya had noticed it, just the same. Napoleon was not someone you sat around with after a hard case and finished off a bottle of the strongest stuff you could find. It wasn't his style. Napoleon drank occasionally, yes, but he never had more than two drinks in an evening. He was always "on," always ready for the unexpected. It made him good at what he did and kept him alive. No, alcohol was not a problem for Napoleon Solo... Beautiful women were a problem for him. One day a beautiful woman would kill him.

  Kuryakin had heard about enough targets during his years with the KGB, the men laughing about the diplomats and generals running down the hotel corridors with their trousers around their ankles. He had seen one face of a startled corpse that had been in the throws of orgasm when a small but deadly bullet went through his skull. It was the same reason Kuryakin refused to use the lavatory in an airplane unless it was an absolute emergency. Getting caught with your pants down was not how Illya intended to die.

  An hour later, Freddy went into the bathroom and shut the door partway. As soon as the guard had his pants half-down, Kuryakin moved silently, rolling so his feet hit the floor with a fiery jolt. Six steps and his chin soundlessly knocked the bolt free; he spun around, almost losing his balance, his bound hands twisting the door handle.

  He was in the corridor, running for the stairs when he realized he was leaving a clear trail of blood. Elevator. Pounding down one flight, the pain blinding his vision, he listened for the inevitable sounds of pursuit, surprised it had already taken this long for Freddy to discover he was gone. If he could get to the elevators, he had a chance of escape. Perhaps stop it between floors, work out of the restraints, and...