by LRH Balzer
Napoleon pulled out the map and laid it over the hood of the landrover, holding down the comers. He looked up, squinting against the sun, his eyes picking out the road heading northeast into the arid lands. With a deep sigh, he got behind the wheel and headed out.
* * * * *
Araneiden Research Center
Nairobi, Kenya, 9:45 a.m.
He had waited for over half an hour before the venomologist came in. Peter Kawali stood close to six and a half feet in height, an easy smile on his face. He wore a pristine, white lab coat over his clothing and tilted his head to one side to peer down at Kuryakin with an amused, tolerant look on his face. "What exactly are you looking for, Mr. Johannsen? Why have you chosen this as your topic?"
Kuryakin smiled back at him. "I've always found spiders fascinating, and during some course work I took one semester, the professor teaching the course touched on the chemical and pharmacological properties of spider venom—" he spread his arms wide, "—and I was hooked."
"And what has brought you to Kenya, then? There are no poisonous spiders in our country. It seems an unusual place for you to visit." Kawali walked slowly down the rows of dry aquariums, stopping now and then to peer into the glass boxes with the same curious look on his face that he had previously given Kuryakin.
"Why Kenya? I was speaking with a friend from Tanzania, and he told me of the Araneiden Research Center. I had some time free since the school has taken a winter break, so I came. Besides, I heard there was an expert venomologist here."
Kawali nodded, listening as the U.N.C.L.E. agent spoke, but Kuryakin had the distinct impression that his cover wasn't believed by this man.
"Well, Mr. Johannsen, let's take a look around the lab, I will show you a portion of my research. It may or may not be helpful to you. I warn you now, I must leave in an hour for another appointment. I had only come in today to get some documents."
Kuryakin followed him for thirty minutes, occasionally asking questions, but more and more just listening to the man, one of the first graduates of the Kenya Science Teachers College outside of Nairobi. From there, Kawali had gone to Sweden for further studies—as that country was the sponsor of the college and staffed it—and then Kawali had gone on to Australia for further work. He had been back in Kenya for almost a year, conducting most of his tests at the Araneiden Research Center.
"May I ask what you did prior to attending the science college?" Kuryakin asked. The man was in his early forties and the background he had given the U.N.C.L.E. agent had occupied only the last six years.
The question, however routine, was not well received. "I was not involved in scientific pursuits. Shall we limit our discussion to the matter at hand, Mr. Johannsen?" Kawali asked sharply.
"Certainly. I apologize if my question was inappropriate," Kuryakin said, waving off the segue. "I am merely curious at what led you into this research. As I told you, my field was chemistry and pharmaceuticals, and I now find myself immersed in this subject."
Kawali stared at him for a moment, then smiled abruptly. "No offense taken. You asked to see how the venom is stored—come this way."
So, you won’t tell me about your past... Kuryakin referenced what little information he had, deciding to wait for the time being until a proper check could be run on the man. Men with no pasts—men who for one reason or another wanted to keep their past secret—often were ideal for Thrush to scoop up. And Kawali seemed suspicious of him, something the other researchers at the center had not indicated by their behavior.
Why would someone be suspicious of a college student doing research? It wasn't as if there were military secrets being kept here. Or nuclear stockpile.
Then, again...
There were spiders.
* * * * *
Marsabit District, Kenya
Loyangalani/Marsabit Road
Napoleon Solo pulled slightly off the road and stared at the map. The instructions said the first bodies were found 1.5 kilometers past the last junction, which should be about... here. He looked up and around, seeing nothing beside the semi-parched scrub land and isolated acacia trees. Glancing up at the fierce midday sun, he adjusted the wide hat on his head and stepped out of the landrover, heading to a distant marker, thirty or forty yards off the road. The red flags flickered in the breeze. He carefully walked around the marked area, but it didn't take long for him to see that whatever evidence there had been at one time, was now removed, or scrubbed down by the sand.
He slowly trudged back to the landrover, taking a moment to drink some water and wipe down his face before starting the engine again. Driving a short distance up the road, he paused under the dubious shade of a low spreading tree and once again studied the map.
Part of the problem was the why of the entire situation. Why had Thrush picked this particular country, this particular place, and this strange weapon? Why spider venom? Something else could have been manufactured at a fraction of the cost of finding or cultivating black widow spiders.
Or was it merely the psychological advantage of having the deadly spider venom as a weapon?
Idly he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, still staring at the map. He tried to see the entire picture, to put the Marsabit District and Chalbi Desert on some grander scale. Discarding the local map, he reached behind him into the back seat and opened a larger map of Kenya, showing its relation to the entire East coast of Africa.
Sudan to the northwest. Ethiopia to the north. Somali to the northeast. Uganda to the west. Tanzania to the south. The Indian Ocean to the east. No large cities near the Marsabit District to encourage crime or criminal activity on a larger scale. Although, he had to admit, a relatively short flight of several hours had brought him from Nairobi to Maikona airport.
Rather than accessibility, then, perhaps the inaccessibility of the location? Again, why here, though? There had to be a reason why they were using this particular area.
Or did it have more to do with where the personnel were located, than the area itself?
He was putting the map away, tucking it into his leather backpack, when he heard the low deep laugh from outside the passenger side of the vehicle. His reaction to turn his head was halted by the warm solidness of a gun muzzle at his neck, preventing the movement.
"Ah... Mr. Solo, I presume?"
* * * * *
Araneiden Research Center
"Is there a telephone I could use?" Kuryakin asked suddenly, interrupting the researcher who had taken over the tour when Kawali excused himself to leave. Three men in business suits were meeting with the venomologist in his office/laboratory.
"Sir?" the young scientist asked, confused.
"I need to use the telephone," he repeated, glancing around the laboratory.
The two researchers looked at each other quizzically, then one nodded. "This way, Mr. Johannsen. You do not wish to continue the tour? Most want to see the frozen storage facilities housed in the cellar. Was there something else you wanted to see?"
"I must use your telephone first," Kuryakin said, quite firmly. "Then, as time permits, we will continue the tour." Without being obvious about it, he wiped his palms on his slacks, trying to absorb the sudden sweat that had hit him.
They led him into a small office, and he waited until they had left the room before picking up the receiver. His hand shook, he noted with detached interest. He dialed the number of the local office, breathing out slowly until the call was picked up at the other end. He identified himself and was immediately put through to John Muliro's office. He was in conference, but his assistant took the call.
"Yes, Mr. Kuryakin. It is Mr. Kusini of Section Two. And how are you doing this fine day?"
"Quite well, Mr. Kusini. I am calling to confirm Mr. Solo's arrival in Marsabit District." His tone was level, but he stopped breathing for a moment waiting for the response.
"Mr. Solo confirmed his arrival upon touchdown. The pilot reported seeing him get into his landrover and begin the journey to Bondolo."
Kuryakin exhaled. "I see." Words stalled on his tongue as his mind foraged for a course of action—and a plausible reason for his course of action.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Kuryakin?" Kusini prompted.
"Not that I am aware of, Mr. Kusini." Three heartbeats later, he continued, "I have almost finished my tour of the research center. Is it possible to push up my flight to Marsabit by an hour?"
"I do not see a problem with that, Mr. Kuryakin. I will inform our pilot, and also request a vehicle ready for you at the runway at Maikona in the Marsabit District."
"Thank you. I would like to get airborne as soon as possible. Where at the airport should I direct the cab driver?"
"I perceive you are quite anxious to be off," Kusini said slowly, the rustle of paper clearly heard in the background. "I will have one of our own drivers take you. One moment, please—"
Even with the man's hand over the receiver, Illya could hear him yelling in a loud voice for one of his staff to go pick up the New York agent at the Araneiden Center, and a smile flickered briefly over his face, warring with the growing feeling of apprehension that had crept up on him. Despite Napoleon's assurances the evening before, he did not like them to be separated in so vast an area of land as the northern frontier of Kenya.
"Yes, Mr. Kuryakin. One of our agents is on his way to your area, perhaps in twenty minutes time. His name is David. He will be most happy to take you to the airfield here in Nairobi, and I will have your flight and vehicle confirmed by the time you reach the airport."
"Thank you, most kindly, Mr. Kusini. I will pass on my appreciation of your gracious hospitality to my superior, Mr. Waverly."
"No matter, Mr. Kuryakin. We are happy to be of service."
"One more thing, could you please do a check on a man named Peter Kawali, currently a researcher here. I'd like to know anything of his past activities."
"We will get right on that. Is there anything else?"
"Not at this time. Thank you." Kuryakin hung up the telephone, immediately aware that the feeling that had made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up was gone. Whatever strange sense that had alerted him to danger was quieted now, with the promise of action. He looked back at his watch. There would be time yet to finish the tour. He still had several questions left for the researchers. He rubbed at his arm, irritated that the tiny injection was bothering him.
"Mr. Johannsen? We have the spiders ready, if you would like to examine the venom glands now."
He looked over at the head of the research facility, his mind shifting gears to remember where they had been in the demonstration. "Certainly. May I use your washroom first?" He needed time to wash his hands, and drink some water to calm his nerves. He was reacting to something, and he was fairly certain it had to do with Napoleon.
* * * * *
Loyangalani/Marsabit Road
There had been four men in all. The leader of the group had been white, his accent faintly British. He spoke Swahili fluently—or whatever language it was they spoke among themselves. The other three men were all African, and all four men knew how to fight. Their moves were silent and deadly, trained in unarmed combat in a unique style that was not native to Kenya. Napoleon had seen it before, had seen Thrush operatives the world around use that one particular kick/release that pointed to a common teacher for all.
Had the odds been better, he would have been able to block it, but once they got him down to the ground, he had put up little resistance. By then, he was concentrating on staying alive. Even the little he knew about them might be valuable in the right hands.
He had remained conscious for most of the beating, trying to keep the damage to himself to a minimum. It had been the last blow to his head with the blunt butt of a pistol that had sent him to the ground, unable to offer resistance as they tied and staked him.
He gasped as the rough nylon thongs were tied around his ankles and wrists, his bruised and battered body flinching from the tight binding as his legs and arms were stretched and tied to four stakes.
At least there were no ants around, he hoped.
* * * * *
Airport at Nairobi Kenya
Kuryakin stepped onto the plane and strapped himself into the passenger seat, waving ahead to the pilot that he was ready. They wasted no time, gaining clearance from the control tower and taking off.
The co-pilot on this flight was an U.N.C.L.E. agent from Nairobi. "We still have not been able to make contact with Mr. Solo. It is possible there is a problem with his communication's device," the man called back to him.
He leaned forward. "When was the last time he checked in?"
"Just on his landing. Nothing since then. He was to have called the Bondolo office at around noon today, and he missed that check in."
"I see. How far could he have traveled in that time?"
"From Maikona to Bondolo is about three hours. By noon he should have been around the branch road to North Horr."
"Thank you. That narrows my search margin." He leaned back, staring out the window at Mount Kenya, rising off to his left. The jagged rocks of the mountain still had white snow trapped in its upper ledges, the second highest spot in Africa. When the mountain finally disappeared from his view, he closed his eyes.
Strangely, despite his misgivings and concerns about their inability to raise Napoleon on the transceiver, he slept most of the way to Maikona, his body trying to catch up from the night before. He woke as the pilot began to circle the dirt landing field, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he ran one hand over his face.
A jeep was waiting for him, its color long hidden under layers of dirt and mud. It started smoothly enough, back firing once, then idled restlessly as he reclaimed his bag from the abandoned runway. The plane had dropped him, then left before he could make any further requests of them.
He took out his transceiver, carefully pressing the location beacon that indicated the direction of its mate. The signal was silent. He had to be within twenty-five miles of Napoleon's transceiver before the emergency signal could be picked up. He set the small cigarette box on the dashboard, wedging it along the window, then set off in the direction Napoleon had last been seen heading in.
* * * * *
Napoleon tried to raise his head and squint around him, but the very effort almost caused him to lose consciousness again. His head felt heavy and the movement made his stomach roil. And that was dangerous, considering he was flat on his back, his arms and legs spread-eagled and tightly tied north, south, east, and west. He could hardly turn his head away from the fierce, midday sun.
They didn't shoot him, and he wondered why only briefly, until they told him. It seemed that just over the rise was a water hole, one of the last ones in the area still holding the remaining water from the last rainy season. All sorts of animals were drawn to it, some of which would be pleased to find such a welcome snack as an U.N.C.L.E. agent, his belly bare to the sun.
Actually his shirt hung in ribbons over his chest and stomach, the fabric ripped by the knives that slashed at him, only nicking his skin a few times. The bleeding from the small wounds had stopped quickly, but it would possibly be enough to summon any of the local animals, should he be upwind of them.
Any time now, Illya. He must be in Marsabit District now. In a landrover somewhere, driving this way. Knowing there was a problem because Napoleon had not answered the transceiver. He could hear it chirping in the vehicle, unattended. Illya would know. He would come. He was coming.
Closer by now. He really had no idea how long he had been lying here. The sun had shifted slightly in the sky, but it was still mid-day.
He managed to stay conscious another ten minutes before succumbing to the pain and heat.
* * * * *
"Damn."
Kuryakin had hardly cut the motor before he was out of the jeep and running across the clearing, sliding through the dust the final few feet, his knife drawn. His partner was stretched out tightly, spread-eagled on the parched, wilderness terrain. Al
l four limbs were tied and staked to the hard ground, and the Russian straightaway began sawing at the nylon ropes, trying to cut through the durable fiber and ease the tortured splay of Napoleon's body.
He's breathing. He's breathing. He's breathing. The thought rattled through Illya's brain as he wrestled with the ropes, his eyes darting from what he was doing, over to Napoleon's chest, then back again. Keep breathing, partner. He broke through the left hand tie, breath hissing through pursed lips as he gently eased Napoleon's arm down, only moving it fractionally as the abused muscles were probably spasmed from the brutal stretching.
Sweat dripping from his brow, Illya quickly cut through the right hand thongs, then lay the knife aside. He would leave the ankle ties for now. He studied Napoleon's face, reaching carefully to touch the bristled chin, but the enforcement agent had lost consciousness and there was no response to Illya's tentative contact. Napoleon's battered face was sweating, he had a cut above the left eye, his mouth was half-open. Illya leaned over, listening to the raspy, shallow breathing, his own breathing staggered as he tried to sort out what to do, where to start.
He lifted his head and looked around, standing and checking out their surroundings, but there was nothing to see across the arid plains. They were alone. No discernible danger.
Back to Napoleon, he crouched down, then knelt by his partner’s side. He was unconscious, but why? Head injury? Blood loss? Heat exhaustion? Probably the latter, but he checked the other two possibilities first, before ruling them out. So, heat exhaustion or heat stroke. Solo's tom clothing had offered him some protection from the searing sun, but his exposed face and hands were burning in the mid-afternoon heat. And beneath the burn, his skin was pale, cooler than it should be considering the heat, and damp. The pulse beneath Illya's fingers was weak and rapid.
"Napoleon..." Illya muttered to himself, going back to his fight against the ties. "What have you gotten yourself into now?" It took several more minutes to cut through the ropes but finally he dropped the dulled knife and gently dragged the senior agent into the meager shade of the jeep, moving him carefully, aware of the beating his partner had taken.