by LRH Balzer
Above a cloud curves in soft sky
Like a silver ball; centered
Against the cloud, beating with
Severe, painful clarity,
The wing of a wounded swan;
Below on the old wooden balcony
A young man with white hair,
His face the enigma of time
Like a portrait in an old medallion.
Chapter Eleven
Monday, December 21
Solo climbed down from the F4 Phantom's gunnery cockpit, acutely aware of the temperature change from New York. Reaching Vandenberg Air Force Base, north of Los Angeles, had taken two hours at Mach 2.5, with a refueling and all-too-brief leg-stretching at Ft. Smith AFB in western Arkansas. He rolled his neck after taking off the helmet. Sleep had been impossible despite the pace he had been following; being back in a fighter was always too exhilarating.
The launch he had come to witness was still two hours away. Zadkine's information had pointed to a Thrush mole; the man they had flushed out was based in an Air Force ground station in New Boston, New Hampshire, involved in U.S. signals intelligence. Why he was there, or what he was attempting to do for Thrush, had not yet been established, but he had been working for the Air Force for several years as an assistant technician. The man was definitely Thrush, with a long record, pre-dating his employment with the Air Force, of sabotage activities in the surveillance field.
Solo was not satisfied with the interrogation team's findings; he could not shake the feeling that he was being manipulated to look in the wrong direction. He was positive something else was happening and he wanted to make sure it wasn't happening here. The spy satellite atop the Thor Agena booster rocket carried some new heat-sensing instruments, an experimental infrared scanner, and while it would prove a problem for the Soviets, he could think of no reason for Thrush to be after it, unless they could somehow alter the information it received.
The U.N.C.L.E. Enforcement officer walked stiffly across the field and was met by an Air Force captain who led him through the maze of buildings on the outskirts of the base, into the control tower. There they briefly explained to him the purpose of the launch, as well as clarifying what they hoped to accomplish with the infrared scanners.
He listened with interest, but he came back to the same problem. If the KGB knew of Thrush's intention to sabotage the program, why would they interfere? Surely it would be to their best interest to have the American satellites crippled.
He watched the launching, feeling his frustration grow as the massive booster rocket lifted off. In his mind's eye, he could see the small bazooka firing the missile at the United Nation's building and missing--on purpose, or in error?
The Air Force personnel were satisfied that everything was going smoothly, so Solo thanked them and left quickly. He switched places with his assigned pilot, trying to work off some of his energy, and flew the Phantom back to New York himself. At least the trip wasn't a total failure; he enjoyed the power of the aircraft and was able to get in a few more hours of air time flying the jet. It was one of the few accomplishments he had over his multi-talented partner who had not had the time to undertake the Air Force program. Nor the inclination, Solo admitted.
For a brief moment, he let himself wonder how his partner was, then changed his train of thought, concentrating on the instruments of the Phantom.
***
Travkov was awake when Solo stopped by the New York City hospital that evening. He was pale and the painkillers gave his eyes a slight glaze, but he greeted the U.N.C.L.E. agent with his characteristic broad smile.
"You look a lot better than when I saw you last," Solo said, returning the grin.
"I am told that I will not be able to dance for several weeks." Travkov shrugged, still smiling. "But I am alive and I am glad to be alive."
"Good." Solo pulled up a chair to the bed. "How is your memory of yesterday?"
"I could not forget it if I tried."
"What happened? When did Grigory Zadkine first show up?"
Travkov leaned back against the pillow. "I saw him after my performance in afternoon. He was there with young lady and her parents--showing off his connections to American ballet, I am sure. He came backstage to my dressing room and asked lady to wait outside. Then he ask me to do him favor and keep briefcase for him. He said CIA was looking for him and before he went to talk with them, he wanted to make sure his papers were safe. I asked him what they were, but he said that was not important. He said I owe him this."
"Because you told us about his connection to the KGB?"
"Yes, and because he felt I had taken his place in Ilyusha's mind. He said I had ruined his brother. He was very angry, but I said I would not help him. He said Ilyusha would never see me again. He was being taken care of. Then he left to say goodbye to his guests and find someone else to leave papers with. I did not see him again until Academy Building."
"Why did you go there, Sasha?"
"I hear Ilyusha had been shot and I think it was his doing. But I believe he did not know about shooting until I told him. He rarely listened to radio and he had been looking for place to leave his papers all evening so he had not heard." Travkov glanced out the window at the multi-colored holiday lights showing in the downtown buildings. "I thought he had arranged for someone to kill Ilyusha."
"I suspect Irina Komleva had similar ideas, at least she held him responsible for the mess."
"She was who shot Grisha?" Travkov's eyes showed his disbelief.
"We have it on film. She is there in the room through part of your argument with Zadkine, but it is difficult to see her clearly. We know she had her gun out from the time she entered, so we assume she had intended to kill him anyway. When he shot you, she raised the gun and said something to him. He turned and she fired directly at him before he could aim his own weapon. She started to go towards you, but she must have heard my footsteps and she disappeared back out the side door."
"Did you talk with her?"
"No, we found her dead in her room. She had poisoned herself, but the gun was there, with her fingerprints on it, missing a bullet that matched the one recovered from Zadkine in the autopsy."
Travkov closed his eyes. "Have you told Ilyusha?"
Solo paused, considering how much to say to the Russian dancer. "Illya isn't up to getting such news yet. He is still unconscious."
Travkov shook his head slowly, obviously tiring from the conversation and the medication. "Napoleon, I am happy here in America. There are times I miss my family in Soviet Union, but in all, I am happy. But sometimes I want to go back to security of system there and old way of things. Life would have been simpler had I stayed in Soviet Union. I wonder, would I have stayed if Ilyusha had not been taken from us, if I had not quarreled with Grisha, if... if..." he drifted into sleep.
***
Thursday, December 24th
Napoleon Solo shook himself awake as his plane landed in Washington. There didn't seem to be enough hours in the day to get sleep any more. Waverly didn't place a great deal of importance on rest but there was a limit to what an agent's body and mind could take. It was noon, but the dark sky held the promise of snowfall.
He had spent the last two days traveling around the country. In Chicago on Tuesday morning, he had spoken with the ballet members, but had not found any useful information. They had not seen anyone unusual on the stage. Rodian Voronskiy was sullen, answering few of Solo's questions. He had not danced the Monday performance, and was not expected to dance the Tuesday one.
In Washington, D.C., that afternoon, he had given his report on Grigory Zadkine to the CIA, then spent the rest of Tuesday looking for clues to Raskachevskiy's death and why a man of his importance had not been reported missing yet. Petrov had returned to New York and was closeted away in the Soviet Mission there. His diplomatic status prevented them from questioning him.
On Wednesday, he paid a visit to the Department of Defense in Washington first thing, then traveled to Florida to speak with NASA rep
resentatives. And now he had spent the last few hours traveling from Cape Kennedy to Miami, then flying back to the nation's capital.
While still in flight, Waverly's message had come through that Illya was being removed from the hospital. Illya Zadkine had been declared dead, transferred to the hospital's morgue, and Illya Kuryakin would be smuggled out of the building in an U.N.C.L.E. van.
As the airport taxi was allowed onto the fenced grounds of the Washington Safe house and pulled up the long, snow-rimmed driveway, Napoleon Solo could see that the unmarked van had already arrived safely and was parked in front of the main door. It wasn't until he got out and saw the passenger side that he realized it hadn't actually arrived intact. A deep, blackened indent ran down the side of the van, the panel windows were shot out, and the front hood on the passenger side was crumpled, the headlights gone.
"Napoleon! Come on in, man. Glad you made it back in one piece!" Norman Graham drew Solo into the welcome warmth of the Safe House foyer and waved the taxi away. "The ambulance arrived about ten minutes ago. Don't worry; everyone's fine, although one of the drivers got hit when they were forced off the road." Graham pulled off his guest's heavy coat and hung it in the entrance closet.
"What did they use? A cannon?" Solo asked sarcastically, staring out the front window at the vehicle.
"Some sort of propelled fire bomb actually," Norm answered, smiling at Napoleon's reaction. "Have you been here before? No? I didn't think so. There are four suites upstairs on this wing where we put visiting dignitaries that need extra protection and where we usually put our own men requiring recuperation; guard and personnel quarters are on the main floor. This doorway on the right leads to my home which is attached by a corridor, making up the east wing. Illya's staying with us, of course.
"Dr. Lawrence is setting up some medical equipment in the room we're putting Illya in, so Trish has your partner in the living room until they're finished. Come on through here." Graham opened the oak door and they entered a long hallway with another door at the far end, thirty feet away. Looking at the equipment and cameras mounted on the wall, it was obviously a well-protected building, virtually impossible to get from one wing to the other without being noticed.
"You might as well stay with us, too, Napoleon. Illya's doing great, especially since we virtually brought him straight here from intensive care--we pulled him as soon as we could."
"Is he conscious yet?"
Graham shook his head, opening the door leading into his home. "He still hasn't revived from being sedated for four days, plus we had him drugged so he wouldn't come to while he was supposed to be dead." Graham led Solo down a hallway towards the living room. "By the way, don't worry about the blood on him. He just got a few little nicks from the glass. Nothing serious. They were all lucky."
Graham paused outside a bedroom door and Solo could see Dr. Lawrence and an U.N.C.L.E. orderly--with a bandaged right hand--inside. "Need help, Sam? Hey, Mike, get out of here! I'm sure these men don't want you hanging around. Take Mr. Solo's suitcase downstairs, if you want something to do." He drew a curly blond-haired boy out of the room. "Mr. Solo, this is my son Michael."
"You're Napoleon Solo?" The little boy's eyes widened in awe as he stared at him. "Wow! Staying here?"
"Michael..." Graham said, warningly.
Solo handed his suitcase to the boy who disappeared down the stairs into the basement. "So why did you pull Illya from the hospital if he needs all this medical equipment? Surely it would be easier to keep him where he was."
Graham's face lost its smile for a moment. "There was another attempt on his life last night."
"Another one? And on the way over here as well?" Solo frowned. "Who's still after him? What happened at the hospital? I thought he was guarded."
"The hospital was full, so another patient had been placed in the same Intensive Care room. Just before midnight, this patient had a seizure and the medical staff moved in to help him. After they cleared out, they checked your partner and discovered he was barely breathing. Apparently someone had injected valium in his IV tube; they found the discarded vial shortly thereafter, but they had already given him Narcan to counteract it. It was close." Graham's eyes said just how close it had been. "It must have been someone posing as a hospital employee, but no one remembers seeing anyone unusual. Someone is determined to have Illya dead, and we can't afford to leave him there. We just can't protect him every minute. There are too many people involved with the drugs, the oxygen, the daily care. If we just had to stop guns, we'd be okay. But we can't check everything. Here we can. Waverly has made arrangements for your New York Medical Chief, Sam Lawrence, to be here. He volunteered since he has no family to spend the holidays with anyway and Jack Mercer at our office does." Graham pointed down the corridor. "The living room is at the end of the hall. I'm going to go check on the roast. Tell Trish I have dinner under control."
Solo grinned and followed his host's directions. The living room was huge, meant for entertaining, and in the capital city of the United States, there was ample opportunity for the local U.N.C.L.E. office to entertain. Two couches faced away from him towards a stonework wall and fireplace, on his left a smaller couch and on his right, several armchairs in contrasting fabric. An unusual Persian rug was in the middle of the seating area and he smiled as he recognized the U.N.C.L.E. logo worked into the border design of the carpet.
At his step, the woman sitting on the end of one of the long couches turned around and smiled back at him warmly. "Come in, Mr. Solo. Welcome to our home," she said softly.
He realized he had never met Norm Graham's wife before, a beautiful woman in her late forties with large, expressive dark eyes. She looked comfortable in a Nordic sweater, her grey-flecked brunette hair swept back into a soft chignon.
Solo walked down the two steps into the living room and as he rounded the armchair, he saw his partner lying on the couch, his head and shoulders slightly raised and leaning against Trish Graham, enfolded securely in her arms, a green air mask over his mouth and nose and various tubes extending from his left arm to a portable IV stand. His eyes were shut and she was stroking his forehead.
Solo swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable. He could also see why Graham had warned him about the cuts; there were several small bandages on Illya's left arm and the hospital gown and bathrobe were splattered with flecks of blood. His right arm was half out of sight below the blankets, strapped to his chest to keep him from jarring his right side.
Trish Graham continued quietly, "He is still unsettled. Sit down and wait a moment." Her rich voice held a strong accent and as she turned back to Kuryakin and removed his oxygen mask, she spoke softly to him in Russian. After a moment, Illya mumbled a word or two unintelligibly, still relaxed against her shoulder. His eyes opened slightly and he looked up at her in obvious adoration, his attention fading in and out as he drifted in his drugged stupor.
It was rather embarrassing to sit on the far side of the room and watch the two converse. Illya obviously didn't know he was there and she didn't seem too concerned about it. She was speaking rapidly in Russian and from what little Napoleon could follow, they were obviously well acquainted as she spoke to him in a familiar, half-teasing manner.
Norm Graham walked in and Napoleon jumped nervously, his eyes widening as Graham didn't seem remotely surprised at the scene, but smiled down paternally at Kuryakin as he spoke to his wife. "Trish, the office called and I've got to pop by," Graham said in a whisper, not disturbing them. "I'll be back in two or three hours tops. Sam Lawrence will come get Ilyusha when he's set up there. I'll send one of the guards to see his helper out. And I turned the oven down." He kissed his wife, then kissed Illya's forehead. "Hiya, buddy. We'll talk later, okay? Glad to see you home." Graham disappeared back down the hallway.
Before Solo could say anything, a pretty teenager raced into the room, missed the steps altogether and leaped over to the couch. "Ilyusha!" she squealed softly, adding another kiss on the popular invalid, this time full on
the lips. She pulled back to scrutinize him carefully, her blond ponytail bobbing as she tilted her head. "You're a mess. When was the last time someone washed your hair? It's greasy--yuck! But that's okay, we love you anyway... Now, you must tell me everything that happened."
"Not tonight, he won't," her mother said. "He needs to go back to sleep. Besides, his throat is raw from the tube so he can't talk. You'll have plenty of time tomorrow, dear. They drugged him for the trip, Tanya, and he's a little confused right now. He doesn't understand what you're saying."
"The poor darling." Tanya bit her lip and studied the semi-conscious Russian.
"Have you done your homework? Don't leave it until the end of the holidays."
"I just got back from the library. They closed early tonight. I've got assignments due in January, but I've got the whole holiday to do them, Mother." Tanya took Illya's face in her hands and peered down at him. "We love you, you know, sunshine."
He smiled crookedly in her direction, closed his eyes, and sighed weakly, his head falling back against Trish.
Tanya kissed him again on the lips before turning to her mother. "Dad says dinner won't be until seven now, so I'm going to phone Karen next door and tell her that Ilyusha is home."
"Okay, but come down on time to help me set the table."
"Sure thing." As Tanya turned to stand she saw Solo. "Hi. Who are you?"
Surprised to actually be noticed, Napoleon chuckled softly. "I'm Mr. Solo. Sunshine's partner."
As though an electrical current shocked him, Illya struggled awake gasping, his head turned to Solo's voice, his unfocused eyes trying to find the source. As Trish tried to restrain him, he twisted onto his left side, gasping for breath as he strained his wounds, and Solo moved quickly to help Trish resettle him. "Napoleon?" he croaked, still panting from his exertions, his left hand weakly plucking at Solo's arm.
