Collection 1: The Dutch Blitz Affair
Page 7
"Anything?" Solo asked from the dining area, not bothering to look up from the reports he had returned to.
"Nothing."
"What about the telephone --"
"Nothing."
"Did Holtz find anything at --"
"Nothing."
Solo looked up then. "Nothing?" He sighed and reached for another report. "Tea's brewed and waiting for you. Help yourself."
Paddy walked into the kitchen and poured a steaming cup of tea. Even on a day as hot as this one, the drink was refreshing. Calming. He moved aimlessly through the apartment, past Solo buried in documents at the dining table, past the leather couches and new color television, past the alcove office laden with files. The once spotless rooms now looked cluttered and the plants needed watering, he noted absently.
He paused at the door to the bedroom, looking in at Kuryakin sleeping, sprawled across the width of the large bed. The Russian was making progress; when he first was allowed out of the infirmary, he slept curled up tightly, fists clenched, as though trying to shut out the world. It was just in the last week that he had unwound, stretching out full length on the bed like a cat. Lawrence was still worried about his lack of sleep at night, though; the main reason he had allowed him to leave the infirmary was Solo's promise that he would see to it that Illya rested.
Paddy leaned against the doorframe, sipping the tea, his mind darting from detail to detail in the reports he had examined that day. It would be so easy to miss an important clue in the vast amount of paperwork, to pass over a name or an address, to discount a rumor or shaky source.
He was halfway back to the dining table when he heard a low moan from the bedroom. Solo's head shot up; the dark eyes met his. The sound came again and Dunn automatically reached for the small tape recorder in his pocket, then dove for the couch where his jacket and holster lay.
Solo beat him to the room, already on the edge of the bed. They had been waiting for a nightmare, hoping to catch Kuryakin in the middle of one, record it, talk to him during it, and question him immediately following.
Illya had curled around a pillow, clenching it with a murderous grip, his head snapping back and forth as he tossed in the dream. The guttural words he muttered were Slavic sounding to Dunn's ear. He cried out in defiance at some unseen assailant. Solo's voice rose above Illya's, taunting him, trying to take on the role of antagonist, to draw out the scene playing in the Russian's mind. Tell us what we want to know, Napoleon demanded as Kuryakin struggled on the bed. At least tell us what we already know. What can be the harm in that? Where are you? What is it we are asking you for? Where did you see us? What do we want?
Dunn felt his own hand tremble. He hated this. The interrogation of the innocent. They had attacked Watson for doing the same thing.
Illya sat up suddenly, gasping, eyes wide as he fought his way out of the nightmare, drenched in sweat, half sobbing. Solo cursed and dropped the act, offering a shoulder for him to collapse against. Illya fought him for a moment until he understood he was safe. Chest heaving, fighting for oxygen, he began shivering uncontrollably as the room's fan cooled the perspiration covering his body and chilled him. With his free arm, Solo pulled the bedspread loose and draped it around his friend, still questioning him but getting no answers from the dazed man.
Finally, Dunn flicked off the recorder and helped Solo settle Kuryakin back on the bed where he drifted back into an unrestful sleep. Solo radiated anger as he returned to the dining table, silently flipping open a new file and stabbing his pen against the paper. Dunn retrieved his teacup and joined him, pulling a folder from the top of the pile.
Thirty minutes later, Kuryakin walked unsteadily into the room, barefoot, moving past them into the kitchen without a word. He was too thin, the white sleeveless undershirt hanging from bony shoulders over worn Levi's.
(Dismayed that the agent's clothes no longer fit, one of the nurses had brought in a pair of her brother's jeans for him to wear. Napoleon had remarked that it was amazing Kuryakin slept at all with the number of female nurses and office personnel that were always stopping by 'checking in on him'.)
Dunn glanced at Solo, but the Chief Enforcement Officer had not bothered to look up, still writing, his face an emotionless hard mask. Dunn studied him then for a few minutes, noticing how tired the other man looked, wasted here among the books and reports and silence. A dark lock of hair had fallen forward on his forehead as he wrote. The ever present gun lay on the table, within easy reach, serving double-duty holding down the loose sheets of paper from blowing away in the fan's path.
Sounds from the kitchen. A plate dropped, spun loudly, then stopped. A soft curse. Silence.
Illya reentered the room and Dunn saw Solo pause for a moment without looking up, catching the movement out of the corner of his eye, then resume writing while the Russian sat alone in the living room, cradling a cup of coffee between his hands.
There was no verbal communication between the former partners, but Dunn felt like an outsider in the middle of a private conversation.
After a few minutes, Kuryakin placed his cup on the coffee table before him and sat with his face buried in his hands. Solo finished the line he was writing and looked across at him, then met Dunn's questioning eyes.
Fill me in, Napoleon, Paddy wanted to ask. What's happening? Instead he tossed the cold tea remaining in his cup into a nearby plant and went to boil another pot.
When he returned, Solo was sitting across from Illya in one of the wingback chairs facing the couch. The U.N.C.L.E. special now rested next to the tape recorder on the coffee table. Illya hadn't moved.
Solo motioned for him to take the chair beside him. "What's wrong? Did you remember something?"
Illya nodded, then shrugged. "But it is of no importance. It is an old memory, not a recent one. I don't know why it comes before the nightmares."
Napoleon leaned forward, switching on the recorder. "Then it could be important. Tell me."
Illya eyed the slowly spinning tape. "Is this necessary?"
It was Napoleon's turn to shrug. "We can always erase it later. You said it was an old memory?"
"A childhood memory. I remember a statue near where I once lived. Of Erasmus."
"A statue? Where?"
Kuryakin stood up quickly. "Excuse me." He half-ran to the washroom, slamming the door behind him. They could hear him retching, sick.
Solo leaned forward and switched off the recorder. Dunn watched wordlessly as Solo returned to the table and his paperwork, then joined him, choosing the next report on the pile and flipping it open.
A warehouse connected with Voorne and another Dutch import company had been investigated. It appeared legitimate, the two agents submitting the report felt. They had gone in as customs investigators and spent two days checking invoices to goods and everything appeared in order.
Paddy closed the report and initialed the cover. Another dead end.
Across from him, Napoleon sighed, shut the report he had been scanning, scribbled his initials on it, and tossed it on the pile of reports.
Still Illya had not returned. Paddy glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes had gone by. He stood up. "I'll check on him."
"I will." Napoleon crossed to the washroom door and knocked quietly, then opened the door.
Illya sat on the floor in a corner, his face resting against the wall's cool tiled surface, his legs drawn up to his chest.
"You look terrible," Napoleon said with a smile.
"It's passed for now. But I will stay here for a while longer, thank you."
"Want to continue your report?" Napoleon asked, then motioned for Paddy to go get the small reel-to-reel.
When he returned, Solo was crouched down talking to Kuryakin, his back to the door, partly blocking Illya from Dunn's sight. Paddy could hear snatches of their conversation, in a quiet shorthand speech common to people who worked together for years, not the short time these men had. A flash of jealousy crept over him. There was a strange bond between these two
men that had been cemented firmly in the few months they had worked together. He had worked with Solo for a longer period of time than Kuryakin had, and though they worked well together, they did not have that extraordinary link of many partners.
Napoleon was concerned. Illya insisted he would be fine and added something in another language. Solo understood and nodded. Illya went on sipping water from a glass. Solo asked him why he had been sick. Kuryakin didn't know. Solo asked something about the dream about the statue and the nightmares. Kuryakin said nothing for a while, then nodded and said, yes, he usually got sick after a dream about the statue. He seemed embarrassed, speaking in a whisper that he was becoming
Napoleon turned. "Oh, you're back. Okay. To the point now, Illya. The rest we can get later. Tell me about the statue. Every dream you can remember. Every other memory you have connected to it."
For half an hour Illya spoke crisply, fluently, his voice a sharp contrast to the pale speaker sitting half-dressed on a bathroom floor clutching a towel and a glass of water.
Finally Napoleon shut off the recorder and slipped the tape off the spool. Handing it to Paddy, he said, "Get this to Waverly." He glanced at his watch. "It's almost 7:30. Tell him we'll in his office by 8:15, 8:30 at the latest."
As Dunn slipped his jacket on and left the apartment he could hear Kuryakin sick again. Get it out of your system, Illya, he whispered. Tonight's gonna be hell.
Chapter Six: "The luggage was drugged..."
10:00 p.m.
His stomach growled, but he ignored it. A waste of time. Instead, he sipped at the cup of tea Waverly had made for him and listened absently as they discussed his life. Occasionally they stopped and asked him a question, but he was tired now and they let him drift. It became more and more difficult to follow the conversation. Waverly leaned over and whispered to him. He felt unfocused.
"Illya?" Napoleon's voice. A tap on his arm.
"Ja... Napoleon, ik voel me duizelig."
Napoleon looked at him strangely. "What?"
He started to repeat it, but Paddy Dunn interrupted him. "He said he feels dizzy."
"I understood what he said," Napoleon snapped. "I just don't know why he said it in Dutch." Napoleon stared at him, his image gradually blurring in Illya's eyes.
Waverly said something to them and when Napoleon replied he sounded irritated. The other man tugged on Solo's jacket and they both got to their feet and headed for the door.
Illya was having trouble following what was happening. When Solo stood to leave, he got to his feet to follow them, but Waverly told him to wait where he was. Reluctantly, he watched them leave the room and then turned to face Waverly as the outer door hissed shut behind him.
"Sit down, Nico," Waverly said, in Dutch.
His knees trembling, Illya slid into the chair, his dizziness getting worse. He was surprised how anxious he felt. His teacup was empty and Waverly refilled it, motioning for him to drink it. It was the first time he had been alone with Waverly since... coming back. He wondered what the older man wanted because he just filled his pipe slowly, methodically, as though the younger man wasn't in the room.
Illya shivered. A faint memory of interrogation and sweat and singed flesh. His hands left a moist imprint on the slick table surface and he stared at his reflection. Wispy blond hair growing back. He pushed the uneven fringe from his eyes. His eyes scared him in the reflection, dark rimmed and empty. He looked like a Holocaust survivor. He remembered them coming back to Rotterdam. He felt sick.
Rotterdam. Nico.
The pipe was full and Waverly/Virtanen was looking at him carefully. Scrutinizing. Weighing. When the first question came, it was not what he had been expecting.
"Tell me about the scar on your right arm"
Illya glanced down at the still pink scars on his wrists. He didn't remember how he got them. He remembered the smell, though. They were asking questions. Constantly. But he couldn't remember who they were or what questions they asked.
Virtanen cleared his throat as though hearing his thoughts. "Not your wrist, Nico. Your arm. How did you get it? Tell me."
His vision clouded.
I am running. I am late now and they do not like for me to be late. Why are they yelling? I run into the room. They are fighting. They see me and yell. Frans says I took it. Took what? I didn't! No! A big man I don't know comes up to me. Give it to me, he says. I don't know what he means. What do you want? He is angry and picks me up by my coat. Shakes me. I don't want to cry but the tears come anyway. I kick him. Hard. He drops me and I pull out my knife, holding it in front of me. Now he is very angry. He pulls a big knife from his boot. Ooch… My arm... I throw my knife at him and it hits his throat. He falls and the knife slices across and there is much blood. He flops around like a fish on the floor and the blood squirts out of him. The room is quiet now. One Eye picks me up and says it is time for me to go to my father. He says I am too wild for them and a boy needs his father.
He closed his eyes, his head swimming. Alexis Virtanen waited patiently across the table from him.
"What did they think you had taken?"
"An important paper. But I didn't."
"Why did Frans say you took it?"
"Because we were there before the meeting and I took a piece of paper from De Groot's pocket. He always told me I could have paper from his pocket. Sometimes I needed to figure things so he always had paper and a pencil in his pocket for me. His jacket was hung by the lunch table and he was having his pipe, so I took the paper. It was in the left pocket where he always left me pieces of paper." Nico wanted to be sure Virtanen understood.
"Was there writing on the paper, Nico?"
"I don't know. There was usually something already on the paper, or it would be too good to waste on a boy like me."
"What did you do with the paper?"
The question was repeated several times until he found the memory.
Hey, Nico. Where are you going? The meeting is going to start soon.
I will be back quick. I have to do something. I know they want to send me to my father soon.
I run into the street and run and run to Erasmus. He is very tall so I will be careful. I put the pencil and paper into my mouth and climb the statue. I have done this before, but not carrying things. I put my paper down over the strange words on the book he is reading, and scribble my pencil until the words come through. Father will tell me what they mean.
Virtanen smiled and puffed on his pipe. "Did you show them the paper?"
Nico shook his head. "No, they would laugh at me."
"If you had showed them the rubbing you had made then they would not have suspected you of taking the important paper."
Nico was quiet. He was very tired and his head hurt. The questions were difficult to answer. The words twisted around and went sideways in his head. He put his head down on the table. Virtanen was talking but it was too hard to listen any more. He wanted to sleep.
The dark-haired man came back into the room and stared at him. He was displeased. He talked with Virtanen for awhile and then came over and put a hand on his shoulder.
Virtanen called out quietly, "Nico? Look at me. Go with this man. He is a friend. He will take care of you, take you somewhere to sleep. Do you understand?"
"Ja. Bent u amerikaan?" he asked the man, lifting his head from the table. The room was swimming in and out of focus.
The man did not answer him, but Nico could feel his anger and it frightened him. The man helped him stand up. His touch was not anger. The man asked Virtanen something and Virtanen answered.
"Hoe heet u?" Nico asked, leaning against the man.
Virtanen said something softly and the man replied, in a perturbed voice, "I am Napoleon Solo."
***
11:30 p.m.
Solo paused outside the office, pulling himself together and ru
nning a comb through his hair.
He had just spent half an hour in the infirmary observing as the physician took some blood tests from Illya, checked the results, then stuck two more needles in Illya's arm, trying to nullify the drugs Waverly had slipped to him. The young Russian had dozed through most of it, his face finally clear of pain and tension lines and vulnerable in sleep.
Only when Waverly's call came through for him to rejoin them did Solo tear himself away from the ward's bustle and hurried up to the upper floor.
Dunn was already there and the three men listened to the tape recording of the previous conversation between Waverly and the drug-induced Nico. The recording presented possible explanations as to why Kuryakin had been abducted, but offered no solutions.
Waverly stopped abruptly in mid-sentence, his hand raised as though to make a point. "Hmpf." He flipped through the files on his desk, then called down to safekeeping and requested a box by number. He made a few additional phone calls while they waited. The guard who brought it up must have ran the whole way since he arrived within four minutes, breathless and smiling at the opportunity to visit the office of the Head of U.N.C.L.E. North America.
Waverly glanced up and ended his telephone call as Solo deposited the box on his desk. "Oh, it's here. Good. Now, Mr. Solo, Mr. Dunn, I have made arrangements for you to fly to Rotterdam tomorrow morning. I want you to assist our office there in tracking down who is responsible for these murders, one of which was the mayor of a large city. See if you can determine why THRUSH is massing in the Netherlands at this time. In our experience, they can be up to no good." Before Solo could say anything, he added, "Mr. Kuryakin will be accompanying you." Waverly opened the box and pulled out a child's heavy quilted winter jacket, one sleeve mended. "You might pass this on to Mr. Kuryakin when he awakens. I had taken the jacket to have it cleaned and repaired, but in the confusion of the subsequent events, it was left with my luggage. Tell him it is a souvenir from his past."