by LRH Balzer
Cold. Impersonal. Dedicated. Totally focused on his assignments.
A highly efficient operative, Waverly thought briefly. It will do him good to be on his own for a while, and not under Napoleon Solo's shadow. To reestablish his perspective. To shake off some of Solo's influence.
Yet, when Waverly considered it, the overall impression of the young man who had just been in his office was one of regression, not progression. After many steps forward––mentally, physically, emotionally, and socially—Kuryakin appeared to be firmly back at square one, the same computerized robot he had started with.
If he had wanted only that––unthinking obedience and intelligence––there was a wealth of agents in Section Three that fit the bill. But Waverly wanted someone capable of reasoning for himself, of taking charge. He knew Illya Kuryakin could be that person, that backup for Section Two Number One, but it was still early for that. A sculpture was not made overnight.
The comparison made him frown, but he wasn't sure what it was that was unsettling.
Well, Solo would be back eventually and it would sort itself out.
Chapter 8
October 1950
Just off Inchon, South Korea
Captain Brock looked up as the sub-lieutenant entered the room. "Yes, Solo?"
"I'm ready to go ashore, sir."
"The first officer has the courier package. Pick it up from him before you go."
"Yes, sir."
Brock studied the young man. "This Operation Outreach was a good idea of yours. I don't know how much it will help, but it's a start. The supplies we're shipping to the refugees will save some lives, and in a war, that's a rare privilege. It's been good for the men, too, to feel they are doing something."
"Thank you for the opportunity, sir."
"I have a further directive here concerning you, Solo."
The hazel eyes looked curious. "About me, sir?"
"Seems you made quite an impression at the reception in Seoul last month. Were you speaking with a Dr. C.S. Kim? The head of the National Museum?"
The young man nodded blankly. "Yes, sir. I told him that my grandmother was in charge of Archives at the National Museum of Canada in Ottawa, and that I spent many evenings there with her, helping with shipments in. They had to be specially wrapped..." His voice trailed off aware he was perhaps saying too much.
"Well, this Dr. Kim has gone to the United Nations and requested YOUR assistance with his attempts to preserve the country's artifacts. The UN has granted it. When you finish delivering the documents about Operation Outreach, you are to report to the UN office in Seoul and they'll put you in touch with Dr. Kim. They need a liaison between the National Museum and the UN office, one who is able to speak a variety of languages. I hear you are learning Korean now."
"Yes, sir. I have a good ear for languages. But—that would mean leaving the Cayuga."
"Only temporarily. We're heading over to Hong Kong soon for repairs, in any case. We'll meet up with you later. This is only temporary. It'll be an interesting experience for you, I'm sure."
Sub-Lieutenant Solo nodded slowly, wondering what he had gotten himself into by making polite conversation with an old man.
Tuesday, May 18, 1965
Los Angeles, California
The gate slid open noiselessly. Jud Wilcox Carter waved politely at the entrance guard as he passed, ignoring the blank stare that answered him. As his car headed up the driveway, he glanced into his rear view mirror, watching the gate close behind his car and the guard move back to his post.
The private lot was impeccably landscaped, the flowers and trees that bordered the winding road to Chan Chung-Wei's mansion suggested an oriental location, rather than one perched on the edge of Beverly Hills. Carter geared down as the steep grade taxed the rental sedan. Terraced balconies and picture windows looked down onto a view of the city and valley that was spectacular, but then the multimillionaire who owned the property, also owned much of what he surveyed.
And for all intents and purposes, he owns me. Carter parked his car and got out, wiping his forehead with a silk handkerchief before tucking it back in the pocket of his cream-colored suit. He reached into the back seat and, with utmost care, lifted the carefully-packed, extremely heavy box.
Chan had not taken the news of the scepter's disappearance well. He had paid for it in February and he had expected immediately delivery. The volcanic eruption that had ensued when Chan was told of its delay had left one thought abundantly clear: Either the scepter was produced shortly––and that had been later extended to a four month period—or Carter was dead. And Chan demanded progress reports. For the last three and a half months, Carter had been staying alive by offering different trinkets to the man, feeling like something out of Arabian Nights, keeping Chan's hunger for new exhibits satisfied. The four-month deadline was approaching, and soon Carter's time would have run out.
Well, little cat, I hope your purr will keep me alive another week. The antiquities dealer lifted the statue from the box and began the long trek up the front stairs. Chan insisted he come in the long way, up the one hundred and eighty-eight stairs. Carter hated the obvious control tactic, but he had learned how to behave in Chan's presence. Above all else, be needed to be calm and in control of his emotions or he would say something that would get himself killed. And the arsenal of weapons on the property would rival any SWAT team. He was well aware of the security cameras and guards scattered around the premises. Considering what Chan had inside that house, the precautions were prudent.
Actually, the value of the Han Dynasty gilded bronze leopard he carried more than warranted such security, from theft as well as from public sight. The leopard statue was inlaid with silver spots and orange gemstone eyes, its collar of jade and emeralds. It was quite illegal to possess the artifact, removed from the preliminary excavation of the recent Manch'eng dig. The official excavation of the tombs was not slated for another year, but this piece was discovered in the initial survey. Its existence had never been recorded, lifted from the site and cleaned, then packed and shipped to Manila, where Carter had bid on it, then claimed it two days before.
According to the archeologists he had conferred with, the statue was a symbol of military valor and Carter had known instantly who his buyer would be. Chan craved power and prestige, his superstitious beliefs—a strange blend of Buddhism and his own ideas––feeding his need for symbols of his control over everything and everyone around him. The leopard would make an excellent addition to Chan's collection. It had not been difficult to convince the man of his need for this particular piece. Anything to take his mind off the scepter.
In February, when Alan Morgan had telephoned long distance to say he and Solo had successfully stolen the gilded scepter, Carter had gone to Chan immediately and described it to him. Chan had bought it outright, sending one of his minions to his own treasury for the payment in cash. Unfortunately, the bulk of the money for the scepter had been used to pay for other items, including the leopard. There was no money to return to Chan.
And the scepter was still missing. Any further extension of time by Chan was unlikely, regardless of whether the artifact would be permanently lost to him or not; Chan had his own strict ideas about power and its use. To give in on this point would be a great show of weakness he would not consider.
If he had to, Carter could offer a second leopard, the mate to the one he now held, at no extra charge, even if it meant another trip to Manila. He had purchased it for someone else, but––
Damn. There must be some way to get Solo to give up the scepter. The U.N.C.L.E. agent had simply gotten greedy, trying to compete in an area he knew nothing about. Napoleon Solo would soon realize that it was one thing to steal an artifact, but if you didn't have a buyer for it, what value did it really have?
Time was running out, and with it, Carter's confidence. He had been in tight situations before, but this one was by far the most serious. And without Jackson, Carter knew he was doomed. While he was
busy trying to keep them alive, flying back and forth from Manila, Sty Jackson was occupied with luring Solo to the west coast, hopefully with the scepter. Jackson was trustworthy; he would have no desire for his brother-in-law to end up the victim of some hideous ritual execution. Carter was his meal ticket, his way of affording the luxury cars and the fur coats his wife loved. Yes, Carter reflected, Jackson would be equally determined to secure the scepter.
How it would be done was the problem. Solo's cooperation was essential, not only to keep Carter alive, but to keep their business viable. If word got out that Carter couldn't deliver the goods as promised, his clientele would dry up quickly. Kuryakin was out of the picture, probably still locked up in that government facility, with no way to get at him or use him as hostage, as was their original plan. Solo had to be convinced somehow to voluntarily provide the scepter. If they killed him, there was no chance of recovering it And he was a damned U.N.C.L.E. agent––How do you break a spy? They were trained against such things, weren't they?
Mind you, Solo hadn't looked much like an indestructible secret agent when they were listening to the tape in McGuire's room. He had been as horrified as the rest of them. Korea had been hell, but for Solo, it had been worse. Men killed themselves for less. Men had changed sides for less.
Carter smiled wryly, counting up the number of sanctimonious Rangers they had enticed to join their smuggling ring in Korea. Money was always a great motivator. That, added with a little greed, a lot of skill, and a lust for adventure, and you had yourself one great smuggler.
He paused for a moment before beginning the last thirty stairs. There was a bit of a breeze blowing now, and Carter closed his eyes and took some deep breaths. He was going to have to put Solo out of his thoughts for the next half hour. He had some serious negotiations to attend to. His business and future depended on it
His life didn't; if he couldn't get the scepter by the deadline, he would disappear. Carter had made his escape route years before and seeded safety deposit vaults around the country and in major centers in the world. He would make it, but he would never be able to surface publicly again. He had enough to live on, but he would have to change his name, his appearance, and his occupation. Chan didn't know about Sty, but if he found out, Sty, with his wife and family, would be easy enough to locate and probably wouldn't survive. It was too bad, but the number one rule had always been 'protect yourself first'.
The front door opened, probably to see what was keeping him, and Carter moved up the stairs and was escorted into cool air-conditioned marble and jade interior, the cat clutched against his chest.
*****
Wednesday, May 19, 1965
Los Angeles, California
Shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, Napoleon Solo leaned out onto the balcony, watching the early morning sunshine settle over the city. The day promised to be hot, the humidity was high, and whatever breeze often swept the city was conspicuously absent. On the table, behind him, his breakfast lay untouched; he had no appetite. Only the coffee cup was drained.
Another night without sleep. He had arrived in Los Angeles shortly after midnight, making his way by cab through the dark, restless city to the Hilton Hotel. He checked his room reservations and fell asleep within minutes of closing the door to his suite. Then he had dreamed again of the North Korean soldier dying.
Tuesday morning––which arrived a few hours after his New York internal clock––he had scouted around and made a few phone calls, ate in his hotel room, and waited. There had been no contact. Not a note, nor a call, nor a visit. When night came, he had lain in the massive bed and tossed, finally falling into a fitful sleep. And dreamed the same dream. He had almost phoned Illya, to make sure that at least his partner was safe. For the rest of them, it was too late.
Up since dawn, his second morning, still on Eastern time, he was now edgy, ready for this to begin, for someone to approach him. He debated whether or not to leave the suite and venture out into the city, but he had nowhere to start and he wasn't about to stand on a street corner and yell for Carter.
He wanted to. He certainly wanted to. But this already felt like a modern day shootout between a gunslinger and a gambler and he no real desire to add to the feeling. However, if it worked––that was another thing altogether. One on one. Just the two of them. Five minutes alone, that's all he needed.
High noon came and went, and Napoleon took a cab to the local U.N.C.L.E. office and set up his transceiver to relay their signals. Their files revealed little information on Jud Wilcox Carter, other than he was a rare antiquities dealer who routinely worked the upper crust. He had no office or store location, and seemed to operate mainly on a word-of-mouth basis. While he was considered legitimate, his clientele certainly weren't, which cast him in a rather suspicious light.
The receptionist at the Los Angeles U.N.C.L.E. office seemed to be an endless stream of local information. Solo was an agent on vacation, as far as she was concerned, and she was used to visitors in the office. She gave him maps to Disneyland and the beaches and told him where the best restaurants were. He went to a nearby one for lunch and forced himself to eat a substantial meal, then returned to the hotel.
His room had been cleaned by the hotel staff, his suitcase moved from the bed to the luggage caddy. It had obviously been gone through by what was either a sloppy professional or a talented amateur. It could simply have been someone on the cleaning staff. Solo called down to the front desk, reminding them that he had left specific instructions when he had registered that his room was to be left alone; he had followed up on that by placing the plastic indicator on the door to read "DO NOT DISTURB." The staff at the front desk were apologetic and sent him up a bottle of champagne and a fruit basket.
He toyed with the idea of calling Zia to make sure she had gone, or the number Kelly had given him, or even the New York office, but he watched cartoons on the television instead.
"Come on, Carter. What are you waiting for? You said to come, so I'm here."
******
New York
Kuryakin looked up as Patrick Dunn entered the armory range, then, with obvious disinterest, returned his attention to the weapon he was examining The tall red-haired agent paused at the doorway, uncertain of how to take this greeting.
"Hello, Illya." Dunn moved to stand by Kuryakin's elbow, peering over his shoulder to see what it was that captivated the Russian's attention. "Sorry to disturb you."
There was no response. Or, to be blunt, Kuryakin's response consisted of totally ignoring him. Interesting. There was no sense of hostility aimed at him, and certainly none had been there in the past. Just indifference now.
"I thought I would check with you straight off." Dunn kept his tone light, uncertain of how to break the tension festering the room. "I've just had a briefing with Waverly and––"
"Mr. Waverly."
He nodded, accepting the correction. "With Mr. Waverly, I apologize." He waited until Kuryakin glanced up at him momentarily, but the impassive face revealed nothing, except perhaps apathy.
The silence extended for a few minutes, broken only by the sounds of the weapon under Kuryakin's intense scrutiny being reassembled. It was a new design or, more likely, a redesign of an older model, but it was unfamiliar to Dunn, and he took advantage of the situation to broach his question. "What've you got there?"
Again Kuryakin met his eyes, then looked back to what he was doing.
"Looks like a scaled down M61 Vulcan cannon," Dunn added casually.
The Russian exhaled loudly through his nose, but finally answered the Rotterdam U.NC.L.E. agent. "It's an M134 Minigun. We have been asked to consider it for use in our helicopters."
"What do you think of it?"
There was a noticeable wait of fifteen seconds, but Kuryakin apparently decided a reply was required.
He spoke quickly, his weariness for the conversation evident, as was his obvious belief that the other man wouldn't understand him anyway. "It is a full automatic wit
h a 1500 round belt feed. Because of its high rate of fire, it consumes too much ammunition. A normal helicopter load of 4,000 rounds would be consumed in forty seconds of flying."
"What is its rate of fire?"
"On full automatic, 400 rpm."
"Cyclic rate?"
"Six thousand rpm."
Dunn whistled. "Six thousand?" He stared at the weapon with respect. "It would certainly saturate a target area."
"So would an atom bomb." Kuryakin placed the machinegun back in its crate and turned his back on Dunn to write up the report.
"Have you used an RPK or a PKM?" Dunn ignored the previous sarcastic comment, and brought up the Russian machineguns that had first made their appearance a year or so earlier.
Kuryakin shook his head, but didn't look up. "I've seen the Stankovy, but did not have opportunity to test it." He paused long enough to turn in his chair, peer back into the crate, and record a number off the weapon. Then, once more, he sat hunched over the desk, scribbling his report, ignoring the other man.
Dunn leaned forward and deftly spun the chair back to face him. "Let's start again, shall we? Hello, Illya. It's good to see you. It's been almost––what?––ten months. Rotterdam is doing fine, thank you. Hennie sends her best. Anton Appel––One Eye, as you knew him––has retrained the agents and our efficiency rating is up 85 percent. He sends his greetings as well. On this continent, Mr. Waverly tells me that Nappy has taken a vacation and the old man would like me to work with you for a while until he comes back. I was looking forward to it since it's been awhile since we chatted and I certainly heard a lot about your abilities when I was previously assigned as Napoleon's partner."