by LRH Balzer
Illya stared back at the other man and said nothing, for the man was right. Despite the brief glimpse he had of Napoleon in Terbuf and a briefer one yet when they had gone to meet Morgan., he knew nothing of his partner. Nothing. It was true, then.
"Another thing, Illya, had you ever seen Napoleon get drunk before when he was faced with a problem?"
The Russian shook his head slowly, reluctantly admitting he hadn't. Napoleon rarely got drunk at all, and he had never seen him lose his temper like that. It was not something Napoleon did himself, and it was not something he tolerated with any agent in his department while on duty. They were not on duty now, but––No, it is not like Napoleon.
Scott read his face easily. "That's because this isn't an assignment. This is personal, which means he has to either deal with it––which he'll do anything in his power to avoid––or he'll find a way to burry it further."
Scotty sounded so positive, so sure of himself, that it hit a wrong nerve with Illya. "How do you know how he will react? What makes you the expert on my partner? If you did not know that Jim Brown was dead, you have not seen Napoleon in years!"
The black man stood slowly and stretched, not at all disturbed by the outburst. He rubbed his forehead as he walked around the room, the weariness of inactivity showing. "Oh, but I'm partnered with a man who is just like him and we've come up against this time and time again. I am an expert in dealing with Berlin Walls."
"Perhaps. But you were wrong about something else the other day. He does trust me."
Scotty stared at him, the dark brows frowning. "You were eavesdropping."
"You were sloppy if the conversation was to be private. For a spy, that can be dangerous... I heard part of what was said."
"Well, I meant it, man. I think he merely trusts the fact that you trust him. He has difficulty trusting anyone."
"Difficulty does not mean impossibility."
Scotty shrugged, not convinced. Any further conversation broke off as their partners returned with two briefcases full of papers. Dr. Mercer came at the same time and escorted Illya back into bed, checking the bandages, checking his eyes and the other lingering effects of concussion, and again instructing him to sleep. When the doctor left, Illya lay awake for a while and through the open door, listened to the voices in the next room, feeling separated by more than distance from the proceedings.
Kelly Robinson sounded tired, a dry edge to his voice. "Thomas McGuire was a colonel in the army, presently assigned to Fort Gordon in Georgia, which was most likely another reason why the reunion was held in Atlanta. His medals were earned, although none were recent. The CIA was monitoring an FBI and US Government inquiry into the man's activities, not expecting illegal activities, but more a pattern of increasing stress and anti-Soviet paranoia. Loose powder-kegs are not considered conducive to good American relations with neighboring countries. McGuire had been previously scheduled for transfer to Guam. If he was going to pose a problem, the Army had wanted to pull him before he left."
Scott broke in. "I heard back from our contact with the Atlanta police. McGuire is currently officially listed as missing. I contacted the hotel, and they say he had not yet checked out, but there was no mention of a body found. Either the local police have hushed the case, and aren't giving out details, or, more likely, Carter had cleaned up after himself before they left town. Did you find out anything more on him?"
There was the sound of files being opened. Napoleon said, "Not much here. It says that Jud Carter had a legitimate business in the import and export trade. He had been recently investigated by the IRS and had come up clean. He traveled around the world, specializing in native crafts and jewelry."
They went on to talk about several of the other men at the reunion. Illya listened to them, hearing what information they were uncovering, but also noting how they all interacted. How Scotty and Kelly teased each other, and argued with each other, and listened to each other. And how Napoleon reacted to them––laughing, joking, or suddenly serious or angry. At ease with these two old friends in a way he had never been with him.
No, it was just different. Napoleon reacted to them differently. He was relaxed around these men... because they were equal with him. Their friendship went back years. They had a history with each other that he did not share. The same night clubs, same books and movies, even the same wars––and on the same side. Like the Bay of Pigs. They would not want to know where he had been then. The CIA and U.N.C.L.E. had teamed together for the rescue of the American soldiers from Cuba and that was when Napoleon had met Scotty for the first time. With Kelly, it went back to Korea and whatever had happened there. Did Kelly know all of it? Kuryakin mused.
With Illya, Napoleon was also relaxed and he joked and talked and listened––and gave orders. Because it was his job to do that. It was how it was. "Clever Russian. Someday you'll make someone a nice little spy," Napoleon had said to him[8].
Not equal. But not supposed to be.
"You should be asleep." Dr. Mercer's appearance in the doorway took him by surprise.
"I'm resting. You said to rest."
"You're listening to a conversation you are not a part of." The door was firmly closed, leaving him alone in a dark room.
*****
Solo finally closed the files and looked across at the other two man. "There's nothing here. Nothing. We have no proof he killed McGuire, and we can't get him for kidnapping Illya." He sat back in the chair and rubbed at his eyes, trying to relieve the piercing ache lodged behind them.
"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but, Kelly, we've got to go, man." Scott gestured to the clock on the wall. "You know he doesn't like to be kept waiting."
"Yeah." Robinson let his fist hit the table. "Damn it, I wish we'd found something to tie it together. If McGuire and Carter had any contact over the years or—"
"We have McGuire and Morgan, and we have Carter and Morgan. Morgan seems to be the only connection. Illya said he got the impression that Carter was somehow controlling McGuire. How? We know Carter knows McGuire, Carter was at the meeting in McGuire's room, he heard the tape like the rest of us, and suddenly two days later McGuire is dead and Carter's missing. We can't even get him pulled in for questioning. There's no evidence." Solo got up from the table and opened the door into the medical room, but his partner was sleeping.
MAKE A MISTAKE AND HE'S DEAD.
Not if you can't find him.
"When are you leaving the city?" Solo asked, turning his attention back to the CIA agents.
"Our meetings don't usually last more than an hour or two." Robinson gathered his papers, locking them away in the briefcases. "If we have time, I'll see if we can convince him to put some pressure on the local police. Hint at whom the murderer is. That sort of thing.— Want to meet us later? Our flight doesn't leave until midnight."
"Sure. Nine-thirty at Mulligan's?" The bar's roomy booths made it a popular place to talk and it had been years since they met there.
"Perfect. It's not far from where our meeting is." Scott came over to where Solo stood and looked into Kuryakin's room. "He's a lot better already. The bruises are fading."
"He'll be fine. He heals quickly." Solo walked with them to the outer foyer. "There's no way Carter can get at him here. I've advised the guards of the situation and if Illya has to go off the grounds, he'll be protected by them."
"You're leaving?" Scott asked, not bothering to keep the disapproval from his voice.
"I'm going back to New York. I'm expected to be back tomorrow. Besides, Carter said there would be another message sent to me."
"And Illya? Is he going with you?"
"Why are you two so worried about him? You've been hovering around him ever since this started," Napoleon said, trying to keep his tone joking. But there was an underlying edge that slipped in. "He's not your concern. He's my partner. I'm not going to risk his life again, not on a personal matter, and I'm not sure how far Carter will go. Kidnapping is one thing. Murder is another. How far w
ill someone go for a scepter worth at least a quarter of a million dollars? I don't know. I'm not willing to gamble that he wouldn't kill Tommy––Illya––in the process."
Kelly rested a hand on his shoulder. "Careful... Keep it straight in your mind. You're still seeing them as one person. You know how dangerous that is. Tommy's dead. It wasn't your fault. And Illya's a trained agent, not a farm kid driving a jeep."
"I know. Don't worry about me. I'll see you at nine-thirty." Solo watched them go, the dark sedan disappearing through the gate.
How far would someone go? It was a good question.
He paced the room, going over the files in his mind. He tried phoning Laurier, hoping to drill him for more information, but the man wasn't in. His wife said he was working late at the office, trying to make up for taking the Friday off. No, there was no way of contacting him. The receptionist went home at five. Would he like to leave a message?
Solo declined and hung up. He could call Laurier from New York.
Waverly's previous comments led him to believe that U.N.C.L.E. would not offer him the use of their resources for this. He could use his position with the Network only up to a point before there would be serious repercussions. Marge in Files would look up a few things for him, as a favor, when she had time. There were others who owed him favors, as well: Donna in Research, for one. Sandra in Licensing.
Long distance calls and wires would have to be made from his apartment. He pulled out a pencil and memo pad and started jotting down a few notes. Uppermost was that Carter was desperate. He had kidnapped one man, killed another man, and was now threatening both U.N.C.L.E. agents. If nothing else, the note left in their car that morning could be used against him. And the telegram Carter had sent could be traced. There were places to start.
Damn Morgan and that scepter. Whose idea was it anyway? Who was the ringleader? Morgan? Did Morgan double-cross Carter, or was he planning on handing him the scepter, collecting his cut, then taking the jewels and leaving?
Which brought Napoleon to the jewels that Zia and he had discovered hidden inside the stolen scepter, worth millions of dollars... Did Carter know about them or not? Was he just trying to unload the scepter, and then sell the jewels bit by bit?
Who the hell had he sold that scepter to? It was a black market item, a stolen artifact, and it was, by itself worth a king's ransom. That narrowed down the list of buyers. If there was a way of determining who had purchased it, maybe they could put pressure on from that end. Carter was obviously convinced that his client would kill him if he couldn't produce it. The fool should have waited until he had it in his hands before taking the money.
Solo glanced down at the paper. Well, if they were able to pin any of this on Carter, the man's legitimate business was over. Maybe Carter figured that even if he lost everything else, at least he would be alive; he was desperate, and desperate men make mistakes.
MAKE A MISTAKE AND HE'S DEAD.
Desperate men also killed without blinking.
"Solo?"
Napoleon glanced up at Mercer, the U.N.C.L.E. Washington Infirmary Chief, standing beside him. "Yes?––I'm sorry, were you speaking to me?"
"You're quite engrossed in something there. I asked you if you were planning on staying for dinner. The cook said she's making some chicken and rice now, and wanted to know if she should include the two of you."
"The two of us?"
"Your partner and you. Will you be staying for dinner?" Solo stared at him. "Illya's well enough to leave?"
"Concussion has cleared up. There's no real reason why he needs to remain here. Sam Lawrence can take care of him. The Grahams aren't here."
And you obviously don't want him around. Whether Illya acknowledged it or not, Jack Mercer was a regular thorn in the side. Napoleon had yet to figure out why the sometimes-outspoken, anticommunist agent was allowed to stay with U.N.C.L.E.. Maybe Waverly and Graham just wanted him where they could see him. Alter all, he was an excellent doctor with twenty-five years of experience, most of it with the CIA. Another case of 'Know thy enemies.'
"I'll speak with Mr. Waverly. Meanwhile, tell the cook that my partner and I would be happy to stay for dinner." Solo watched Mercer leave, then reached for the telephone. In a minute he was connected with his superior.
"I am calling to confirm my arrival in New York, sir. I should be into the office by ten a.m. tomorrow, if my flight leaves on time."
"Miss McNabb could have taken this information, Mr. Solo. It is what she is paid for." Waverly was still not in a good mood. "I have far more important matters to deal with then who will be sent to retrieve you from the airport. Has Dr. Mercer been able to give you some indication of when our Mr. Kuryakin is expected back to work?"
"One week at the earliest."
"Have Dr. Mercer contact Dr. Lawrence with the necessary information."
"Yes, sir. I think it best, though, that Mr. Kuryakin remain here for the time being. He has to stay completely off his feet for the next few days."
"Hmpf. Well, he no good to me here. Notify Dr. Lawrence right away. There are hospitals and specialists that Mr. Kuryakin should be taken to while he is there. I have a case I need him for in six weeks, a science symposium in Oslo, and I expect him to be on his feet and fully able to move." Waverly put Solo on hold without a word of explanation, then came back on the line a moment later. "Report to my office when you arrive tomorrow." The dial tone signaled the end of the call.
8:30 p.m.
"You're quiet tonight." Napoleon stood at the railing that evening, drink in hand, and stared out at the Potomac River. "What gives?"
"Your suitcase is by the front door," Illya said calmly from his lounging chair on the Safe House sundeck, his right foot lightly bandaged and the more seriously injured left foot open to the healing evening breeze. "I take it you're leaving. Without me. When were you planning on telling me?" There was a seldom-voiced anger in his words, but he was too tired to care.
"How do you know my suitcase is packed?" Napoleon didn't turn around.
"Are you telling me it's not?"
"Okay. Yes, my luggage is ready to go. I'm catching the first plane out in the morning."
"To?"
"New York. Kelly and Scotty are leaving on their assignment tonight and they'll be gone for a week or two. There's no reason why I can't report in to work."
"What about your arm?"
"Dr. Mercer checked it. It's healing nicely."
"I can't go back yet. I suddenly have a specialist appointment at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore tomorrow afternoon and another one on Friday.––Why here and not New York, Napoleon?"
"Sam Lawrence made the arrangements."
"You could have said something."
"You'll be fine here." Solo's voice said not to argue about it. This was a decision that was made already.
Is it just because it is convenient for you? Because you think I am safe and protected? I don't want to be here.
"It won't be for long. Someone from the local office can drive you to your appointments," Napoleon added, still barely paying attention to his words, his thoughts elsewhere, his gaze still focused on the river.
Illya allowed the silence to pass for several minutes, then broke it abruptly. "So when were you going to tell me? Tomorrow morning at breakfast?––Is this somehow related to an assignment of ours? Is there some reason I am being left here? I'm not this Tommy who needs protecting." I cannot read what you are thinking in your eyes.
"You're here because this is the best place for you to be. I apologize if I haven't had time to talk; I've been busy. And you've been sleeping and getting some much needed rest."
"I'm well enough––"
"You are not well enough. Waverly won't sanction your return to Headquarters until you can at least walk with crutches."
"But why here? I could recuperate just as easily in New York. Why the Safe House?"
"There's no point in moving you, since you're already here. You can't even walk yet."
"I'll see you when you get back to New York. I've got work to do. I can imagine it all stacking up on my desk. I'm––restless here. There is no reason for me to stay. This is your home away from home. For me, it is a stopover."
"Norm and Trish are not here. It is not the building that makes it home."
"When are they due back?"
"Not until next month."
"Oh. I guess you can just enjoy the peace and quiet."
"I, too, have had my fill of peace and quiet."
Napoleon moved away, ignoring the comment, if he'd ever heard it. "You'll be safer here."
"So you admit that."
The dark eyes flashed at him. "I'll call you tomorrow night and brief you on the cases that are waiting. Waverly is getting irritated over our absence. And there are other things I have to do in New York."
"Like waiting for the message from Carter. The man has the potential to be dangerous." Here it goes again. That sense of foreboding, Illya thought staring across the river. Something is going to happen.
"Nothing is going to happen to me. I'll be careful," Napoleon said, smiling at him somewhat reassuringly and acknowledging the thought. "We've dealt with crazier men than Carter, and I will take appropriate precautions. This is an obvious place for you to recuperate, especially with the specialists at Johns Hopkins. I'm just ready to go back to work." He pushed away from the balcony. "I'm going to borrow a car and pop into town."