Collection 8 - Haunted Nights

by LRH Balzer

  "So the Peter Kawali who my partner met as a scientist specializing in spiders, and who later shot Illya with a weapon utilizing spider venom, was a pseudo gang member who helped with the Mau Mau rebellion," Solo summarized.

  "Or, one could also say that," Kuryakin said quietly, "that Peter Kawali became a damn good terrorist and when the war ended had nothing left to do."

  "Exactly, Mr. Kuryakin," Muliro said, sadly. "Many of these pseudo gang members remain unaccounted for. They had a taste of terrorism and excitement and investigations also report that many of the pseudo gang members showed great brutality and excessive cruelty in dealing with the Mau Mau they captured, equal or greater than the horror stories which circulated about the actions of the Mau Mau themselves."

  "Perfect for Thrush to step in and offer them a place of employment." Norm Graham referred to the letter again. "Mr. Achieng is suggesting this very thing. I have already showed Napoleon the picture of Robert Pemberton posted here, and he has tentatively identified him as the man who was accompanying the Kenyans who attacked him."

  "He could easily have been the man who was with Kawali and shot the experimental dart weapon at me. My memories of the group are somewhat vague, due to the attack." Kuryakin looked across to his partner, then over to the map. "So, are we working under the assumption that a group of ex-pseudo gang members have joined up with Thrush and are putting together an army of some sort—whether for their own purposes or Thrush's or some combination thereof—and are currently holed up not too far from this compound?"

  "That's right," Graham said. "Mr. Achieng is aware of the actions we wish to take, and has presented the scenario to President Kenyatta. Mr. Waverly has also been in communication with President Kenyatta and he has been made aware of the additional U.N.C.L.E. agents brought into the country as we speak, for we will be flying them directly to this base without going through customs."

  "Won't the Thrush nest be aware of the air activity?" a Kenyan agent asked.

  "That isn't likely. We will be flying in from the north, away from their camp. We are set to attack thirty minutes after their arrival, so it is unlikely they would have time to pull out during that interval."

  "Do we know any more about Pemberton?" Solo asked. "Who are we up against here? Is he the leader or is Kawali?"

  "Pemberton is a known Thrush agent, seen on several occasions in England and in South Africa." Graham rifled through his notes, coming up with the man's biography. "He is a Kenyan-born, former landowner who had his property taken away from him about two years ago during the Africization process of returning the land to the native people. His father, Preston Pemberton, came to Kenya following World War Two, and was the youngest son of an upper class English family who bought land in Kenya cheaply and placed young Preston there to get him out of the way of inheritance issues. He could live somewhat in the manner he was used to, without causing problems with the elder son's claim to the family estate in England, an estate it would have been almost impossible to divide. Robert Pemberton was educated in London, then returned to Kenya during the Mau Mau emergency, linking up with the pseudo gangs shortly thereafter."

  "Is there any history of Kawali working with Pemberton during the pseudo gang war?"

  "Both worked with a group calling itself the 'Land Freedom Army', men armed with weapons they had been accumulating by theft or purchase, or weapons they had made themselves. Kawali taught sessions on how to turn out 'guns' made from odd scraps of iron piping, door bolts, rubber bands and bits of wire. Sometimes these guns would injure the shooter rather than the target, but Kawali seemed to delight in finding alternate material for weaponry."

  Napoleon grinned and several men glanced his way, including his partner.

  "What?" Illya asked.

  Napoleon shrugged. "Well, I can safely say we've got the 'who' and 'how' of this figured. We've quite probably have the 'where' and the 'why'. Let's decide on a 'when' and close this base down. I personally want to stop this guy before he starts using more than just spider venom in his weapons."

  "I think it was more than effective," Illya said, patting at his itchy wounds that were begging to be scratched. "Just not practical in the long term."

  "So for the 'when'—we leave at sunset." Norm Graham looked around the room and saw agreement between all the various factions of the Kenyan U.N.C.L.E. group, as well as the representatives from other African territories.

  The group broke up, and Norm watched Illya and Napoleon slowly get to their feet, stiff from sitting at the meeting. "You two are not convincing me you're ready for this."

  "We'll catch some sleep and be dressed and ready," Napoleon retorted. "You worry about your end of the assignment, and let us worry about ours. Coming?" he asked, turning to Illya.

  "After you." Illya looked at Norm gravely. "Believe me," he said, pausing before Graham as he went to leave the room, "this is exactly what I need right now."

  Norm watched him go, shaking his head slightly. "The assignment or the nap, Ilyusha?"

  * * * * *

  The lion roared, the sound echoing through the night. His growl reverberated through the quiet streets, shaking the ash from the trees to fall like gentle snowflakes on the pavement. The air stank of smoke, of the fires still burning, lives disappearing in the thick gray/black clouds that hovered over the place where he sat, alone and afraid.

  He saw them, walking together toward him out of the smoldering ruins of his home. His mother, the woman in the photograph, a memory not yet connected. And her, Mother Fear, a memory he would never shake. They walked together toward him, two women, alike and yet not. Physically... almost. The image shimmering on his senses.

  Then, one smiled, and he rose to his feet, expectant, waiting.

  And the other one smiled, and he screamed running into the street.

  Two eyes followed him through the smoke-hazed darkness. He could feel the heat on his back, the force knocking him through the air to fall forever into eternity.

  Napoleon woke him from the dream, pulling him from the nightmare forcibly, holding him for the briefest moment it took him to regain control. He shivered, grateful for the thin cotton blanket pulled into place and resting around his shoulders, more for psychological warmth than physical warmth.

  "Thank you," he mumbled, concentrating on breathing, trying to slow the trip-hammer of his heartbeat, his head still resting on his partner's shoulder.

  "It's okay," Napoleon whispered, one hand still steadying him while the other offered reassuring pats on his back. "Damn it, Illya. What's doing this?"

  He shook his head, reluctant to move until he saw the time and knew he had managed to sleep for a few hours, at least. Longer than he had intended. "We have to go."

  "Yeah. Sorry. I wish we could find—" But Napoleon didn't bother finishing the thought. There was work to do.

  Illya pushed back the blanket and let his feet drop to the bare floor. "We have to go," he repeated. "It's growing dark."

  "We're all ready."

  He almost said 'you could have woken me earlier' but it seemed a waste of time. Both men knew that Napoleon could have—and probably should have—allowed him more time to get ready, but the reprimand fell from his lips as he pushed his feet into boots and laced them. Napoleon stood at one end of their narrow room and stared out the window, hands on his hips, watching the attack force load onto the open-backed trucks.

  "Thirty of them." Solo turned and looked back at him.

  "Two of us," Kuryakin responded. "Shall we go knock on the bad guys' door before the other guests arrive?" he asked, hopefully.

  * * * * *

  As midnight approached, the heat from the day evaporated into an almost chilly temperatures. Solo zipped up his black commando jacket, grateful now for the camouflaged coloring. Much like the pseudo gangs had done in the mid fifties, both he and his partner had darkened their pale skin in an effort to fade into the background.

  Beside him, Kuryakin turned slightly, the faint light from the moon ca
tching the white of his eyes as he looked away from his binoculars. His hair was hidden once again beneath the black wool cap. "It seems quiet there. You don't suppose they've gone to bed already, do you? Maybe we should come back in the morning."

  "Sarcastic tonight, aren't you?" Solo asked, smiling. He took another look at the darkened buildings. "We've come all this way—let's see if they'll come out to play." Solo took out his transceiver and tuned in on Norm Graham's frequency. "Wolf Pups to Daddy Bear."

  "Daddy Bear here," Graham's voice crackled softly. "How are the Big Bad Pigs? They at home? "

  "We could go knock on their door," Solo suggested.

  "Or huff and puff and blow them up," Kuryakin added, leaning toward the microphone. "We're close enough to lob over a few grenades."

  "True."

  "What are the chances that they know you are there?" Graham asked.

  "It's unlikely that they don't," Solo admitted. "I'm actually surprised they let us get this close. If you hear any commotion, move in."

  "We're waiting for your signal."

  Solo closed down the connection. "Any ideas?"

  "Thousands. None any good."

  He looked over at his partner, his voice almost inaudible. "So do we huff and puff or just blow them up? It looks like we're taking the initiative here."

  "Maybe not." Kuryakin stared off into the scrub brush around where they squatted. "Listen."

  Solo tilted his head, his eyes trying to see something in the indistinct light. "What? A trap?"

  "A spider web." Kuryakin stood slowly, arms away from his body. "We've walked into something."

  "Yes, Mr. Johannsen. You have." Peter Kawali's disembodied voice echoed around them as the netting fell over them. Even as they struggled to get free, they traced the source to a speaker set in one of the trees. "Do you wish the web to tighten around you, or will you willingly let yourselves be escorted in?"

  "Step into my parlor, said the spider to the flies," Solo muttered, almost silently, but the sensitive hidden microphones still picked up his words.

  "Well said, Mr. Solo," Kawali laughed. "Please stand, as Mr. Johannsen now is standing—or should I say Mr. Kuryakin—hands away from your body. No sudden moves. It may be dark to you, but we can see quite adequately."

  Solo met Kuryakin's eyes, wordlessly passing instructions and suggestions back and forth. "Let’s see what's for dinner," the chief enforcement agent said as he stood.

  Several dark-clad soldiers appeared, large submachine guns tucked comfortably under their arms and the netting was pulled off them. They were escorted into the compound and over to the larger of the three main buildings. No bright lights lit the area, as in the Bondolo U.N.C.L.E. compound, but the men who resided here seemed to have no need for them, walking effortlessly under the meager light of the moon, their faces as dark as the night around them.

  They were searched quickly, their wrists tied in front. It was fifteen minutes before they were finally left in a small room in the main building, both men prowling the area quickly to see what their options were. The window opened out to the center of the compound, but there was a guard standing in front of it. The door was locked. Furniture in the room consisted of a long, folding boardroom table—which had seen better days—and ten chairs set around it. The chairs seemed to have be brought in from ten different places - no two were the same, and again there was the impression that little finances had been spent on decoration. The floor was dirty, the table laden with ashtrays overflowing with cigarettes. A lightbulb hung from a cord from the ceiling, the only source of power in the room.

  "Is this just a frontier outpost, or are we dealing with Thrush castoffs?" Solo mused softly into his partner's ear, hoping his voice was below the range of any listening devices.

  Kuryakin nodded, studying the ropes which bound his wrists. After a moment, he turned his head and answered, his whisper to Solo equally quiet. "Considering their style, I would say the latter."

  "What about Daddy Bear?"

  Kuryakin shrugged. "I think he will follow the pattern of most fathers."

  Solo nodded that he understood what his partner was saying, that Norm Graham would likely come after them when they didn't signal, but the words still registered on another level, even as his mind flashed through the myriad of possibilities of escape. He checked the window again, watching the guard for a moment to see if there existed a chance of getting out that way.

  The pattern of most fathers. His father, Antonio Solo, had been a mystery all his life, an elusive name who danced around the edges of his memory, a vague picture in an old photograph album. Just a few weeks before, he had met his father for the first time since he was a young child, met him almost reluctantly, as though unwilling to let go of the old pain of abandonment, not wanting to hear if there was a reason offered for his absence, and not wanting to believe it, if there was.

  And there had been a reason. At least, a reason why Antonio and Elizabeth Solo had made the choices they made with their son's future—perhaps offering him the possibility of a future in their very unpredictable and dangerous world.

  Most fathers, Illya had said.

  Solo picked at the rope binding him.

  While Napoleon's father had abandoned him before he was born, Illya's life was a series of abandonments, his father drifting in and out of his life, taking him with him on assignments, then leaving him behind for other assignments. After Kolya's death—shot down before Illya's eyes—his partner was then passed over to a new father who did the same thing, had him around when convenient, then abandoned him to the KGB when times grew a little difficult. It was only since meeting Norm Graham, that Illya had some idea what a real father could be like.

  The rope loosened slightly, and Solo turned to Kuryakin, gesturing for his help in tugging at the binding. If they could get one set of hands free, they could free the other set. He winced as the ropes tightened on his wrists as Illya's fingers twisted in the binding, trying to get his nails around one particular strand.

  But they had gotten where they were without their fathers' help. They had risen through the ranks at U.N.C.L.E. and they had reached a high level of competence without their fathers' intervention. They could get out of this without waiting for Daddy Bear to show up and rescue them.

  With a slight hiss of approval, Kuryakin tugged on the binding again, feeling it shift, and Solo felt the rope pull free enough for him to slip his wrists from the restricting coils. He grabbed hold of Illya's hands, twisting the position until he found a weak spot to work on. A knife would have been helpful, but the metal edge of the folding table was broken at one point, and they sawed through the tough rope fiber and within another minute, Kuryakin's had were also freed.

  "Where to?" his partner mouthed.

  "Window," Solo answered. He picked up the sturdiest of the chairs, hefting it into his hands, then raised it, took his aim and threw it with all his might through the window to crash against the back of the guard's head. Kuryakin had removed a chair leg and used it to clear the glass as they hopped over the ledge, then used it again to connect with the guard's head to keep him down longer.

  Solo's heart was racing, an irritating gauge that showed him that he wasn't working at one hundred percent yet. If Kuryakin's breathing was any indication, he was in much the same situation. Solo scooped up the submachine gun, checking it quickly for ammunition, put on the man's distinctive jacket and beret, then joined his partner at the side of the building. He handed over the beret immediately, as Kuryakin's hair was visible even in the dim lighting.

  The few seconds it took for them to wind their way between two closely set buildings to the edge of the compound gave them enough time to catch their breath. Ten seconds and they were okay again, but the exchanged glances showed each was aware of his own condition and his partner's.

  "I'll take the gate." Solo pointed to the gate to the compound. If they could get that open, the U.N.C.L.E. attack force could just drive in.

  "That would be wher
e the ammunitions are stored, I suspect." Kuryakin gestured to a small building to their right. "I'll take it out and Norm will know to send everyone in. Give me five minutes, then open the gate."

  "Where will I meet you?"

  "I'll try to make it to the gatehouse." Kuryakin waved, then turned and headed out.

  "Good luck," Solo whispered as his partner faded from sight. Already there were soldiers on the other side of the building, probably around the broken window. Solo stepped back further against the building, taking in the gate itself, how it opened and where the guards were. He couldn't see any mechanism to open the gates, so in all likelihood, it was done manually. Take out the guards and open it when our trucks get to the gate. He glanced at his watch. Illya had another two minutes.

  * * * * *

  Kuryakin peered in the window of one of the camouflaged buildings, expecting to see a dormitory by the size and shape. Whatever it was originally intended for, it was no longer a dormitory; his eyes widened when he saw it was a well-stocked laboratory. All the lights were out, except for a few black lights over some of the dry aquariums. Interesting.

  He looked at the time and frowned, moving on to the ammunitions storage shed. A guard stood outside it, but while he watched, another soldier approached, the door was opened, supplies taken, and the door closed tight.

  A grenade would be nice, he thought, then ripped off one of the buttons to his jacket and prepared to make a reasonable facsimile. Hefting the light weapon in his hand, he glanced at his watch, looked over to his target, pulled the thread and tossed the button. A moment later, the resulting explosions knocked him off his feet. The results were instantaneous. Voices flooded the compound, like a nest of wasps disturbed from their slumber.