by LRH Balzer
The superintendent walked into the room and introduced himself, nodding at Solo's name and U.N.C.L.E. credentials. "And how can I help you, Mr. Solo?"
"I'm looking for a man by the name of Dan Shifrin. I believe he is with your Winnipeg office."
"Dan Shifrin?" The superintendent jotted down the name, then looked over his half-glasses at Solo. "May I ask why you are inquiring?"
"I believe he knew my parents during World War II. I would like to speak with him about them."
"So this is a personal matter?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'll make a few calls and see if I can locate him for you. I don't know the name myself."
The man was back in ten minutes. "Dan Shifrin is on route to Winnipeg just now. I have his telephone number at his office for you, if that helps."
"Thank you—and may I ask where the RCMP archives are housed?"
"Ottawa."
Ottawa. He drove the three hours to Ottawa, but there had been no mention of Antonio Solo or Elizabeth McNeely in the files he had seen. They knew of his grandfather, Admiral McNeely, and there were records of his paternal grandfather from when the man had been the Italian ambassador assigned to Ottawa, but of their children, the slate was clean.
The next day, he returned to Montreal and called his aunt and uncle. The conversation was short; he was invited for lunch and they would 'catch up' then. Uncle Frank and Aunt Angeline lived in the middle of a long rowhouse in Montreal's East Side. There was no front yard, just stairs that came up from the sidewalk to a narrow porch and the door. Napoleon opened the screen and knocked. Angeline came to the door immediately, hugging and kissing him and drawing him into the smells of the house. Cigars, tortiere, coffee, and apple torte, Napoleon identified immediately.
He followed the smoke into the front parlor, where Frank looked up from the television. "Come in, Nap. Sit down."
Napoleon had been all set to apologize for his absence, but that, it appeared, was not allowed. The older couple were just glad he came. There was talk of their elder son, Franfois, in Quebec City, and his success at his job and their daughter-in-law and three grandchildren. Pictures were brought out for him to look at and admire.
There was less talk of the younger son, Napoleon's boyhood friend, Roz.
"U.N.C.L.E. keeps you busy, I guess, doesn't it, Nappy?" Frank said, glancing over to him for confirmation.
"Always," Napoleon answered. "When was the last time you saw Roz?"
"At his uncle Pierre's funeral last December. The whole family went to Edmonton for that."
There had been no added barb to the man's words, but Napoleon said quickly, "I was on assignment. I didn't find out about it until after the fact." Illya had been undercover with the Bolshoi, and Napoleon had been monitoring the situation closely, trying to determine what Thrush and/or the KGB was after, besides his partner's head.
"Well, the whole family was there." Frank frowned then, glancing across at his wife in the doorway.
"Tell him," she said, and then disappeared back into the kitchen.
He knew, then, what Frank would say, or at least what it would concern.
"Your father was there. Walked in at the funeral and sat at the back. We weren't sure at first who it was—none of us had seen him since you were a little child. Francis waited until he signed the guest book, then came and told me that it was Tony."
Napoleon had not been able to think of a single thing to say at first, but the questions had crowded his mind. Are you sure it was him? How was he? What did he look like? Was Elizabeth there? Did he mention her at all? Where the hell has he been for the last twenty-six years?... Did he mention me?
"What did he want?"
"Said he came to pay his respects. He had met your mother through Pierre. I know they were close while in university. He didn't stay for the tea or reception. Just shook hands with everyone, and stared at us as though memorizing our faces, and left."
"Where's he living?"
"No one thought to get his address. It all happened within ten minutes or so, and we were getting in cars to go to the cemetery when we saw him get into an airport cab and leave. We all thought he was going to the cemetery, and there would be time to talk later."
"So he flew out of Edmonton. He wasn't living there."
"Or maybe he just used an airport cab. We don't know. We're sorry, Nappy."
My father is out there somewhere, Napoleon thought now, looking at Rome from his car window. Somewhere in the world.
He carefully grabbed the thought and the emotions with it, and buried it. The cab was stopping at the post office, and his assignment had kicked back in, along with Illya's question. Why are we here?
Chapter Four
Marseilles, France
November, 1940
They sat around the table in the St. Laurents' apartment, their feet wrapped in thick homemade slippers to muffle the sound when they moved from one room to the other. Alexander Waverly had been living therefore one week now, sharing a small room at the back of the apartment with Claude Renault and Jacques-Yves Galland.
Antoine St. Laurent entered the room with mugs full of cafe au lait and the morning newspaper. "Elise has some biscuits she made. She'll be joining us shortly."
"You are sure there is nothing we can do to help?" Renault asked. "I am feeling guilty at your hospitality. My wife did not train me to sit while she did all the work."
"Do you see me sitting around?" Antoine asked with a quiet laugh. But he did not go back into the kitchen this day. "We have some new guests."
Waverly glanced around the cramped bedroom they were housed in. "Here? Where have you room?"
"In the wall space." St. Laurent grinned at the look on their faces. "Not all our guests walk in on two feet. Some are carried in."
"What do you mean? " Galland asked. "They are ill?"
"No, I will show you. I am too excited to keep this to myself." He beckoned and they followed him to the St. Laurents' bedroom. With a practiced tug on the door frame, the wooden piece came off and was gently laid on the floor. In between the wall of the bedroom and the wall of the corridor was a space perhaps four inches in width. Antoine gently pulled out a canvas, and the men crowded around him to stare at it in shock. "It is Michelangelo's. Also here, several paintings by Rubens, a Rembrandt, and one by Leonardo himself. Twelve in all. Someone is coming tomorrow, a 'helper' who will pack them correctly. We are watching for a way to get them out of France before the Nazis get their hands on them. They would kill for these."
"But they are only paintings. Priceless art treasures, I agree," Waverly said, "but are they worth the price of a man's life?"
"I assure you, Alexander," St. Laurent said, replacing the masterpiece and putting the wooden door jamb back in place, "there is a price for everything."
"How did you acquire them? " Renault asked.
"I cannot say. I have promised secrecy."
* * * * *
Friday, October 22, 1965, 1:30 pm
New York
Alexander Waverly reached for his private line. "Yes?"
"Alexander? C'est Claude. I have news."
"What?" Waverly put aside his report on the Recollectors.
"The Ritz-Carleton bombings a few weeks ago? Your suite and mine? Well, there was a third bomb that afternoon. At the university in Toronto. Exactly the same time."
"His office? Was anyone injured?"
"No. He was not there, being a Saturday."
"So, they know where he is."
"They know where he was. I've moved him to a safe house."
"I'm sure he was pleased with that."
"I gave him no choice. Not until we find an answer." Renault paused. "Have you said anything to Napoleon yet?"
"No. I have no plans to. The less he knows at this time, the more he can concentrate on other matters. We will handle this ourselves. We always have."
* * * * *
2:00 pm
Waverly finished rereading the report on the Recollectors, then sent it down for filing. Solo and Kuryakin had dealt with them adequately, several valuable paintings had been recovered, and both agents had escaped the affair without injury. It had not produced the information he was looking for, but the Italian U.N.C.L.E. office had picked up the case and had already located another storage site used by the Recollectors. When he had come across the news item in the Spanish paper a week before, it had tweaked an idea in his mind.
He looked over his two agents, nodding absently as they entered his office and took their customary seats. Solo looked fit, obviously pleased with himself over the assignment. Kuryakin was equally fit, but closed. When the Russian had called him from the villa in Rome, there had been a biting tone in the young man's voice that neither the long distance reception nor the pen transceiver had dissipated. True, Waverly's attention had been focused on Solo over the last few weeks, but Kuryakin's growing remoteness and formality was becoming noticeable. Time to remedy that.
"Since you gentlemen have been looking into the Canadian Thrush situation, I have decided to hand aspects of this case over to you." He spun the folder around to them, watching the interaction between them as Kuryakin moved his chair closer to Solo's to look at the paperwork.
Waverly cradled his pipe in one palm. "Four months ago, one of our Calgary agents, Burle Sinclair, was able to secure employment with a company believed to be Thrush backed. Last month he was moved to a mine near Windermere in British Columbia. His brother, who lives in Calgary, has passed on an urgent message from Sinclair requesting cash—in Canadian and U.S. Funds—to use as bribes. Sinclair is convinced that he is on the edge of something big there, and a little money will turn up some important information. He's requested several thousand dollars in each currency, and has left word that he has film and a microdot to pass to us."
"Did he say what the nature of his information was?" Kuryakin asked.
"No. His message was encrypted within a casual letter to his brother, who knew to forward the correspondence to the Calgary office. A time, date, and location was included for the transfer of funds, including a request that the two of you deliver the money. I will leave you, Mr. Solo, and you, Mr. Kuryakin, to work out the rest of the details." Waverly nodded to each in turn as they looked up. Solo glanced to Kuryakin, and Waverly was secretly please to see a return to the silent language the two agents shared, but had not used in several months, at least in his presence.
"Yes, sir. What is this report from Montana?" Solo had already moved on to the second file.
"One of our Montana U.N.C.L.E. field workers, employed by the Whitefish Mountain Mine Corporation, reported sighting a Thrush agent in the company offices three weeks ago. Our sub-office in Great Falls, Montana, has identified the man in question as Gordon Thomason. His profile is attached. The man is high-enough ranking in Thrush for me to send you gentlemen to investigate, for if you find Gordon Thomason, you may have a chance of finding the Thrush nest in southeastern British Columbia. Together with the information that Burle Sinclair provides us, you may be able to start piecing together what exactly is happening in Canada."
Solo looked over the rest of the document. "It says here that from what the Great Falls office uncovered while checking out the report, the man was from a newly-reactivated Canadian mine to the north of Whitefish, and he had been bargaining for equipment parts. He claimed that the mine he represented was trying to locate second-hand machinery, or else lease some for a short time until they were established enough to purchase new equipment."
Kuryakin reached over and flipped the report back a page, checking something. "According to this map, that area is in line with where Sinclair is."
"Don't you love coincidences?" Solo smiled.
* * * * *
"What does it say?" Illya peered over his partner's shoulder as Napoleon studied the letter.
"I'm not sure." The letter had been one of many envelopes Napoleon had picked up at his apartment mailbox before they headed for the airport. On the cab ride over, he had slowly worked his way through the bundle, and when he reached this last letter, the frown on his face had alerted his partner that something was unusual about it. "It appears to be a long-winded warning of some kind. But it's assuming that I know what they're asking about."
Illya took the letter and read it quickly, then returned it. "To sum it up, they want you to tell your father that they will kill you unless he does what they want."
Napoleon's face was unreadable in the harsh airport light. "That's assuming that I know where my father is."
"But why kill you?"
Solo shrugged and replaced the letter in his jacket pocket. "I've heard and talked more about my father in the last two weeks than I have in over twenty years. And still I know nothing concrete."
They checked their tickets at the airline counter, Kuryakin automatically scanning the crowd for danger. His eyes traveled past, but registered, three possible gunmen in the crowd and he shifted his body slightly so he could watch all three of them without appearing to do so. "Do you think he's in danger?" he asked casually.
"Could be. That's assuming he's alive, of course."
"He was last December," Illya pointed out. Two men had moved on, but the last was trailing after them, apparently intent on studying his boarding pass.
"So where has he been all this time?" Napoleon stepped onto the escalator, which would take them up to the Departures floor.
From the comer of his eye, Kuryakin saw the slight movement he had been waiting for. "Get down, Napoleon!" He leapt over the railing to the descending escalator as the first shot rang out. Not waiting to see if his partner had followed his instructions and was safe, Kuryakin pulled his U.N.C.L.E. identification from his pocket and held it up as he ran. Several security guards ahead of him—assuming that whatever he was holding up was valid—took up the chase and Kuryakin followed until he saw that the gunman had made his escape out a far door.
Solo was sitting up at the top of the escalator, a first-aid attendant placing an icebag on the back of his head. "What was that all about?" he demanded.
"He was following us. I saw him watching you." Kuryakin shifted the medic aside and peered at the bump on his partner's head himself. "I told you to duck," he scolded, replacing the bag.
"I did. Hit my head on the metal stair." Solo grimaced and stood, steadying himself on Illya's arm. "Didn't you get him?"
"No. And he didn't look familiar." Kuryakin glanced at his watch. "We've a flight to catch. Come on."
They pushed their way through the staring crowd, waved off the security guards with instructions to call U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters for instructions on how to write up the incident, and ran for their gate.
After conferring with the Grand Falls sub-station, the two New York agents drove three hours to the Whitefish Mine, where the Thrush agent had been seen, then on to Eureka just before dark. The hotel they were booked at was small, their rooms a far cry from their recent accommodation in Montreal or the villa in Rome. Dinner at the local steak house was uneventful, overpriced, and surprisingly good. Both men slept little; a group of miners on a long weekend were intent on whooping it up and keeping the block awake, which also didn't help Napoleon's headache any.
Morning came finally and they gassed up the rental car and headed to the border. The stillness of the morning was refreshing and they drove in silence. It was overcast, but not snowing, a comfortable drive on roads that were clear and without ice.
Illya stared out his passenger window, at a loss for the sense of overwhelming disaster he felt looming ahead. Everything was in place; Napoleon had woken that morning pain-free and April and Mark had reported in that they would meet them in Windermere at the U.N.C.L.E. office there. Mark had custody of the diplomatic pouch that contained, among other items, the Canadian currency to match the ten thousand dollars in U.S. bills that Illya had tucked in his inside jacket pocket. For Sinclair, besides the money for his expenses, there was also a list
of known Thrush agents seen recently in Calgary, the closest international airport to the site. In turn, Sinclair was to give them a roll of film containing data that could possibly point to the Thrush location in the Rockies. Section One of U.N.C.L.E. believed that twenty thousand dollars was a small investment for the information. But they were concerned as well, concerned enough to send not only Napoleon and Illya, who had been requested, but also April and Mark, who were currently working exclusively on the Canadian situation, now that the disturbance in Prague had been taken care of.
What bothered Illya now was why Sinclair had asked specifically for Solo and himself to deliver the funds. As far as Illya knew, he had never met Sinclair, so why was the man so determined to bring the New York based agents across the continent to deliver what was essentially a small package of money? A million dollars, maybe. Twenty thousand, hardly likely.
There was something about covert meetings that bothered the Russian...
Vladimir Konstantinovich Petrov came to mind, looming in Illya's thoughts, and he sat up straighter in the front seat. How many years and in how many countries had he met with the KGB agent in dark alleys or in crowded market places, passing over information he had gleaned and being handed back ration coupons, or fake identification, or hearing, in terse flat words, what his next assignment would be? With the GRU, with Brigadier General Igor Raskachevskiy, it was different. With them, Illya would be brought into an office, and he would be interrogated for what he knew and then the orders would come, the harsh words more a threat to him than to the deed he was expected to accomplish.
Why do I think of them today ?
There were some mornings that came upon him suddenly, where a joy of life stirred within for no particular reason that he could fathom. He would vault down the stairs and out into the dreariest weather imaginable with a boundless energy that would sustain him throughout the day, no matter what it brought.
Just as suddenly, Illya Kuryakin had discovered, there were mornings that left him feeling dry and worn out, a sadness or pain that hung on every word, every sight, turning the sunniest day into a sea of gray. Memories would assault him, overlaying every word, every gesture, with a dozen subtexts.
