Collection 7 - The Northern Lights Affair

by LRH Balzer

So much for making the afternoon meeting. He dropped his head to the pillow and closed his eyes. Dengue fever. A gunshot wound he could understand as being debilitating, but not a mosquito bite. There was too much to do.

  Napoleon had come up half an hour previously, during the break, and brought him the news of the U.N.C.L.E. troubles in the Western provinces. His partner had seemed disappointed that his cousin had not made the conference as scheduled, but the man was on the sick list, afflicted by a local variety of influenza. Welcome to the club.

  But it was the radar system that was ringing bells for him. Something about the Arctic Circle . . . the northern part of Canada.. .. The radar system there. . . No. It was gone again. He would check his desk when he got back to U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters.

  Illya hovered on the edge of sleep for another half an hour until he gave up with a sigh and pushed himself upright, muscles protesting the movement. Maybe a bath would help, after all. He filled the bathtub as full as he could get it, then eased himself into the steaming water, letting it soothe his aching muscles. He dozed for a while until the water cooled, then pulled himself from the bathtub, toweled himself off, and fell back into bed, finally drifting into sleep.

  The clock clicked on 3:00 p.m. and two seconds later an explosion rocked the suite, knocking the Russian agent right out of his bed. Even as he fell, his hand reached for his U.N.C.L.E. Special, dragging it with him as he hit the floor, the blanket tangled around his waist as he scrambled to kick himself free. He could feel the vibration as another explosion elsewhere on the floor shuddered through carpet. The bedroom door had been blown open and Kuryakin came through it, barefoot, clad only in his pajama bottoms. He moved low, gun held tight before him, trying to see. Flames crackling, the heavy drapes dissolved before his eyes, the room filling with thick, choking smoke. He coughed, dropping to his hands and knees, watering eyes trying to see through the smoke to where the outer door was. Fire alarms were ringing above the other noises. There was heat on his bare chest, the chain and medallion around his neck already growing uncomfortably hot. Billowing smoke pushed down on him as it sought for more space in the confining walls.

  Illya scrambled back into the bedroom, grabbed a towel from the bathroom and dumped it quickly in the abandoned bath water. Wrapping the wet terry cloth around his shoulders, he took a deep breath and pressed his face into one comer, then ventured back into the inflamed room. There was only one way out, and he had to pass through the suite to get to the door. The initial explosion had been by the window, and the door was at the opposite end of the room from it. There still existed, or course, the difficulty of opening the door without a backlash of flames coming at him.

  That problem was soon secondary as he became disoriented in the spacious, smoke-filled room, unable to get his bearings. He banged into the couch finally, and turned himself around, trying to crawl in the opposite direction. His ears were ringing, the fire alarms screaming around him. He felt rather than heard the doors of the suite breaking open and blindly moved in that direction. Hands pulled him out into the corridor, where the alarms rang louder, coupled now with voices yelling and the roar of the fire behind him. His legs felt rubbery and when the guard let go of his arm, he collapsed to the carpeted floor, still coughing, trying to catch his breath.

  He'd had enough fires this year already to last for the rest of his life. Napoleon had almost burned alive in Professor Amadeus' lab the previous October. Then there had been the Thrush clinic fire in March he had barely escaped from, and the Soviet Nuclear Plant fire in August that had almost claimed both of them. His lungs had been severely compromised on the last one, taking almost a month before he was officially back on duty.

  The towel sat heavily on his shoulders and he pulled it off, then clambered to his feet and out of the way as U.N.C.L.E. guards ran by him with a fire hose. Another grabbed a fire extinguisher and was entering the second burning suite—Renault's—in an attempt to control the flames there. From what he gathered, two bombs had gone off almost simultaneously.

  A familiar face appeared; Slate drew him further down the hall, yelling into his ear over the ruckus, "Can you watch the stairwell?"

  Kuryakin nodded, not risking his voice lest he start coughing again. He crouched along the wall, gun trained on the doorway while Slate joined the others in fighting the fire. His eyes were still streaming tears. The top third of the hallway was already full of the deadly smoke, swirling down the corridor like a ghostly serpent.

  April Dancer came through the stairwell doorway at a run, her gun drawn. Illya waved her away impatiently as she paused in front of him before joining her partner, disappearing in the smoke and confusion of bodies in the hallway. Another guard appeared, yelled he was taking over, then set up his position nearby. Kuryakin lowered his gun and closed his burning eyes, concentrating on breathing. His head was buzzing, and he slipped further down the wall.

  He thought he heard his name called through the noise. Hands touched his face, a cloth wiping dry his streaming eyes and nose. Kuryakin forced his eyes open and saw his own partner crouched before him.

  "What happened?" Solo demanded.

  "Fire?" he responded, sarcastically.

  "Funny..." Solo pulled him to his feet, bracing him for a moment until he stood unaided. "Stay here. I want to get the files if there is time." Napoleon disappeared into the chaos around them.

  Kuryakin leaned back against the wall, trying to stay out of the way of those rushing back and forth in the hallway, conscious of his bare feet in a corridor crammed with work boots stomping inches from his toes as they passed him.

  "Illya?" April Dancer's voice brought his head up. "Did Napoleon come by here? I told him where you were."

  Kuryakin nodded and pointed to the suite, a shiver breaking through his control.

  "You cold?" she asked, glancing at his bare chest.

  What happened over the next two minutes became muddied in his mind. Dancer's gun came up, jabbing into his throat below the jaw line, cutting off his oxygen. She was screaming something that he couldn't make out, couldn't understand. He started to move his hands up to shove the gun away, but the increased pressure against his Adam's apple made him disregard that idea. Mark Slate appeared at Dancer's side, knocking the Special from Illya's limp hand. They exchanged words, Dancer yelling over the sirens and alarms. Slate shoved him back hard against the wall, an elbow pressed against his chest. Then he was roughly turned around, his face compacting against the wall, his hands locked behind his back in handcuffs. Around again before he could think, and Dancer's gun resumed its place, bruising his throat.

  Guards surrounded him now, guns pointed at him. He tried not to imagine how ridiculous he looked, standing in the corridor wearing only paisley pajama bottoms, his exposed face and chest covered in sweat and soot, and now blood, it seemed, since his nose had been bumped hard enough to start it bleeding.

  As for why this was happening, he couldn't quite wrap his mind around it. Breathing seemed to be the first, utmost concern. Napoleon would have to figure out the rest of it.

  "What the hell is going on?"

  A smile came to Illya's lips at the outrage in Napoleon's voice. He still couldn't breathe, the darkness starting to lap at his consciousness.

  Solo's gray suit shimmered before him. "April—Mark—Back off. What are you doing? That's my partner!"

  Dancer's face was tight with a dangerous cross of panic and terror. "This isn't Illya!" she yelled back at Solo, her eyes wide. "Look at him! That's not him!"

  "Of course it is! I know my own partner." Napoleon took a step closer, but the two agents only tightened their weapons.

  Illya stood very still, his face and chest bathed in sweat, his eyes opening to look over at Napoleon, puzzled and weary. His partner's face was lost as black spots expanded.

  Dancer's voice lowered, trying to sound reasonable, but whatever it was she was upset about had shaken her. "Look at him, Napoleon. This isn't Illya. Illya has scars on his chest. I've seen them, remembe
r?—Think about it! Where are his scars?"

  Napoleon's groan was audible even in the noise of the corridor, and Illya almost sagged in relief, trying not to laugh. "Tell them—" Kuryakin's words were cut off as her pistol pressed against his Adam's apple enough for him to gag in response.

  Solo raised both hands, in cautionary control. "April, listen carefully. Illya had his scars removed for an assignment. A special process, still highly experimental. If you'll just relax your grip here..." He gingerly moved the gun from his partner's throat. Slate stayed in place, his weapon trained on Illya's forehead, still not convinced. "See here," Napoleon pointed to a faint scar along Illya's lower rib, "This one is beginning to show again. The treatment didn't take—or didn't work one hundred percent. You can see where he got sunburned. The scars are visible as white. The exit wound scar is also visible; it's faint, but visible." Napoleon eased Illya away from the wall, turning him enough so Dancer could see whatever it was he was pointing to. It was all Kuryakin could do to get oxygen into his lungs.

  Slate stepped back, his eyes flickering from Dancer, to Napoleon, to Illya. "April, darling... I think we owe Illya here an apology."

  "Perfectly... understand..." Illya's mouth wouldn't form the words and he toppled over in the general direction of his partner.

  * * * * *

  Napoleon caught the blond agent and struggled to keep him on his feet. "Where can we take him? The elevators are not working."

  "The stairwell is the safest place right now, unless he can make it down the stairs. At least he'll be out of this smoke." Mark Slate pulled off his security jacket and between the two men they managed to get it on Illya, still drifting in and out of awareness. They steered him out of the corridor into the stairwell, and lowered him to the top stair.

  April Dancer appeared with a blanket, and Napoleon draped it around his partner's shoulders. The shivering hadn't stopped, had in fact worsened; Illya sat leaning against the railing, coughing roughly, huddled beneath the jacket and blanket, his thin pajama bottoms inadequate on the cold cement. Solo pulled off his own jacket and, despite his partner's objections, insisted that the Russian sit on it. A medic paused on his way up the stairs and fastened an oxygen mask over Kuryakin's face for several minutes until his breathing eased, then removed it and took it elsewhere.

  The fires were out. Parking April where she could watch Illya from just inside the doorway, Napoleon did a quick tour of the upper floor, checking on the initial suspicions of cause. The smoke smell was still strong, and within a few minutes he returned to the stairwell, resisting the urge to cough himself, when that seemed to trigger an automatic reaction in his partner, one that took several minutes to calm each time.

  "Can you make it down the stairs?"

  Illya dragged himself to his feet. "Yes, I can make it down the stairs," he responded, irritated. A few steps later, he added, "Actually, my head feels a lot clearer now that April isn't strangling me."

  Walking in front of him to buffer Illya if he stumbled, they made their way down the flights until they reached the lobby. By that time, Illya's teeth were chattering with cold. Dr. Debois met him and steered him over to an U.N.C.L.E. ambulance that was standing by.

  Ten minutes later, Napoleon was able to break away from the crowd and, stepping over the fire engine hoses, he approached the ambulance. He poked his head in the back to see his partner resting on a stretcher, covered in blankets. "Will you live?"

  "Apparently." Illya didn't bother opening his eyes.

  Debois didn't seem concerned. "We'll take him to our infirmary. There's still no need for him to go to a hospital. Before we leave, I'm going to go check and make sure he's our only passenger." Debois left them, disappearing back into the hotel.

  "Quit staring at me," Illya said, after a moment.

  "Are you sure you're okay?"

  "I don't have dengue fever. My temperature is normal. I'm just tired," Illya said softly. He shifted under the heavy blanket over him on the ambulance stretcher. "Any word on what caused the explosions?"

  "It looks like the bomb was around the dining table or liquor cabinet. Did the server who brought up the room service cart go near them?"

  Illya thought for a moment. "No. Not him." His eyes opened, glanced to his partner, then closed.

  Napoleon frowned, watching him. "Illya?"

  "Hmm?"

  "Did someone go near that area?"

  "You did. Last night. And Mark." Illya's eyes reopened. "Mark looked at the bottles. April put the newspaper and puzzle book on the table. She sat there and smoked."

  "What are you suggesting?" Solo asked, his voice tight.

  "Nothing."

  * * * * *

  4:00 p.m.

  Claude Renault sat at his table, looking like a mafia kingpin with his drug lords surrounding him. They were angry, furious at the situation and upset with their own staff who had missed two bombs. It didn't matter that the bombs had been set for three in the afternoon—a time when all participants would have been at the conference. It had been meant to be a warning, but it came close to killing one of Alexander Waverly's top men.

  Solo rejoined them, carefully tooling his own anger from his face as he took his place. "The medics have checked my partner out and he's fine. He's just resting now."

  "I wasn't aware Mr. Kuryakin was even here," Renault said tersely. "Yesterday afternoon, Alexander telephoned to say he would not be attending and mentioned that upon your imminent return to New York, if the debriefing went quickly, he would be sending you both in his place. When Mr. Kuryakin did not attend the meeting last night, I assumed that he did not accompany you. His name was not on the guest list this morning."

  "My partner acquired a fever on his last assignment, one that did not crop up until we were landing in Montreal. He visited your infirmary and Dr. Debois suggested bed rest." Solo waved off the rest of their comments. "I spoke with Mr. Waverly. He is quite willing for the Montreal office to investigate this. It is not necessary for a team from New York to come in."

  Renault pounded the table. "It should never have happened! We had no fewer than four guards patrolling that floor at any given time. All suites were checked and double-checked by our own people and the RCMP for explosives. We were far more vulnerable here in this hall than we would ever be in our rooms. This was not an attack— it was a stab at our security precautions. They are telling us that they can take us out at any time. We can do nothing to stop it." He leaned forward. "Someone, gentlemen, is playing with us. Taunting us. And it is someone on the inside—someone with information."

  "If they were not attempting to kill anyone, that means they were not aware that Illya Kuryakin was in the suite. That leads me to believe that the bomb may have been planted days ago."

  "Then why didn't we find it, Napoleon?" Renault looked disgusted. "We're not amateurs here. If this is Thrush—why are they being so careful? Why only inflict our agents in Saskatoon with minor bullet wounds? Why bomb our Calgary sub-station at a time when no one was supposed to have been in the agents' office? Thrush has never shown a distaste for violence and killing—why start now?"

  "Maybe whoever is in charge of this operation is a little squeamish," Fortier said. "Maybe they just don't like to kill."

  "Or maybe it isn't Thrush," Solo added. "What if it is an inside job?"

  "One of our own people gone bad?"

  "Yes, or maybe Thrush has infiltrated U.N.C.L.E. Canada."

  Renault closed his eyes, his face drained of color. "Mon dieu."

  Chapter Three

  October 1940

  France

  Alexander Waverly slipped through the streets of Marseilles in unoccupied France. Rather than ask for help with directions—and have his English accent easily identified—he scoured the area until he found the street he was looking for, then another hour passed until he found the address. The elderly concierge watched as he entered the front archway, passing through to the entrance's double door. He detoured by the lift, as he had been d
irected, and headed up the staircase to the second floor, as though he had been to the doctor's office on many occasions. He held his left hand carefully, simulating a sprained wrist.

  Waverly sat down in the waiting room, glancing at the others already there. To his shock, sitting across from him in the waiting room, was a colleague, a man he had not seen in almost one year. Claude Renault was bent over as if his stomach were causing him great pain; Renault shifted in his seat, then looked over at Waverly without the slightest trace of recognition.

  "Au suivant s'il vous plait. "A middle-aged woman wearing a white apron appeared in the doorway, and a couple rose and moved past him, the woman, nearing the end of her pregnancy appearing to find difficulty walking. The man caught his eye as they passed, and Waverly held his breath until they had cleared the room. It had been Antoine St. Laurent and his wife Elise, another Canadian couple brought in years before to work with the Secret Intelligence Service.

  "Au suivant s'il vous plait," came the call again. This time, a young woman with two small children was ushered into the doctor's office. Probably a legitimate case, for Alexander suspected that Elise was not pregnant.

  Twenty minutes passed. Two others entered and took seats in the small waiting area, but they appeared to be a mother and her young son. Waverly noted that the patients exited directly from the doctor's office into the hallway and down the stairs or the lift. Those waiting were not aware of who had exited.

  "Au suivant s'il vous plait."

  Renault stood this time, coughed once or twice, then made his way into the doctor's consulting room. Five minutes later, it was his turn, and Waverly met the doctor for the first time. Claude Renault and the St. Laurents were also there.

  "You are all friends." The doctor stood aside and let them talk among themselves, their voices almost silent in the small consulting room.

  "Alexander—Are you looking for a Safe House? You must come to ours. Claude is going to." Antoine St. Laurent was readjusting his wife's 'pregnant' stomach, now filling the pillow's interior with vitamins and other medicines.