Collection 7 - The Northern Lights Affair

by LRH Balzer

  "An old friend...?" Illya's eyes bugged open. Not Angelique again... No, another memory from a previous conversation hit him. A beautiful, over-developed woman entered the room. "Not—"

  "Illya Kuryakin, meet—"

  "Louise," he groaned, pulling the sheet up to his neck. "Thank you, but, 'no'. Mark, please deal with this—somewhere far away and out of my hearing." He was vaguely aware of Mark's explanation to the woman, and then he was left alone in drugged peace.

  * * * * *

  Napoleon eased his feet to the floor, slowly straightened his spine and rubbed the back of his head. His fingers explored the bandage on his forehead, and he cast back in time to find his last conscious memory

  ...Beautiful brown eyes... He had briefly awoken in the van on the way to Radium Hot Springs, surprised to find April Dancer applying a dressing to his wound. He couldn't remember much about the conversation that followed—only that Illya was alive and had saved his life, Sinclair had betrayed them, and that Sinclair and an accomplice had gotten away.

  Now—he glanced at his watch, surprised that it was almost midnight—now, he was awake and he wanted to know what had happened, what exactly had gone wrong. He found his footing with difficulty, holding on to a chair until the dizziness eased. A bathrobe was draped over the arm of the chair, slippers beneath it, and once dressed, Napoleon shuffled into the hallway of the converted motel. He opened the door next to his, confirming that Illya was there, sleeping soundly. The Russian lay on his back, his left shoulder and arm supported by several pillows. His breathing was even and regular, and since no one was hovering around watching him, Napoleon was confident that his partner was not in any danger.

  The other eight rooms on the floor were locked, so Napoleon made his way downstairs into the lobby/reception room of the building. Mark Slate sat hunched over the shortwave radio, reading a report to whomever was at the other end. Slate looked up as he entered, gave a surprised smile, then went back to his reading, waving a free hand in the general direction of the coffee pot.

  Napoleon helped himself, then refilled Mark's cup. By the time he finished, the activity had drained him, and he sat next to the British agent, happy to be off his feet. Mark signed off from his transmission, and without asking, got Napoleon some painkillers.

  "Bet your head hurts," he said with a sympathetic grimace.

  "Good bet," Napoleon admitted. "So what's been going on while I've been sleeping the day away? I saw Illya's resting upstairs, looking a little worse for the wear."

  "Saved your life, he did."

  "What happened?"

  Mark outlined the events of the day as best he could, smiling as Napoleon's eyes widened when he heard how Illya had managed to grab hold of his collar and support him, against the odds. "You'll have to fmd out the rest from him. Your partner is one sturdy little bugger. No wonder he dislocated his shoulder."

  "Oh, is that what happened to him? I thought maybe he had been shot."

  "No, although that might take less time to heal."

  "Did you tell Sam Lawrence?"

  "I didn't, but April spoke with him earlier, passing on the medic's information on both of you. Rest was what he prescribed and medication. So we doped him up, quite against his will. And I thought I was bad about taking pain tablets." Mark reached back and grabbed the report he had open on the desk. "I was just updating the latest information we have on Sinclair to New York. I spent most of the evening on the telephone with Calgary, trying to sort out just how Sinclair got into his current position. Brian Beckett, who you met at the Windermere sub-station just south of here, said he was contacted by Calgary early in the summer. They had passed on the information that Sinclair was operating undercover in the area and sent on photographs of him, so that the local agents would know who he was, in case trouble erupted and Sinclair had to make a dash in."

  "Where was he before Calgary got him?"

  "Edmonton, and then before that further up north, working as one of our couriers along the DEW line."

  "That's interesting. The DEW line connection came up at the Montreal conference." Solo read the report over a few times before handing it back. "You've passed this all on to Mr. Waverly?"

  "Well, I passed it on to New York office. It is three in the morning there." Mark yawned. "I'm heading to bed; April packed it in half an hour ago. We're to head out to Calgary first thing tomorrow."

  "Did Mr. Waverly pass on any instructions for us?"

  "Just to keep investigating this. Apparently there's another agent out there undercover, a mole, and the Old Man is worried that he might be a double-agent as well. He was reporting only to Waverly, who's had no contact from him in a month."

  "Did Sinclair know about him?"

  Mark shook his head as he got to his feet. "Waverly passed the information to April and me, and instructed us to pass it on to you. Aside from the five of us, no one else is to know."

  "Where is he operating?" Napoleon followed Mark from the room and up the stairs. "Do we have any other information on him?"

  "Not even his name. Waverly asked for you to contact him in the morning, so he might be passing on more details." Mark yawned again and opened his room, glancing around quickly. "Well, I'm done in. If we don't see you in the morning, we'll meet up in Calgary, I suspect."

  Napoleon checked on Illya again, then returned to his own room and was asleep within minutes.

  Chapter Six

  January 1943

  England

  Waverly heard the news and retreated to his office. It had been confirmed. Elise St. Laurent had been taken to Germany and had not been heard from since. If she had survived the interrogation the Gestapo would surely put her through, it was likely she would be sent to one of the prison camps. Antoine St. Laurent had been moved from Fresnes prison in Paris and transferred to Buchenwald Concentration Camp. He was not in good health, reported the soldier who had recognized him, reduced to a skeleton of hanging flesh and bones.

  "Damn," Waverly whispered, staring at the report. He had on his desk, beneath his blotter, the names of the airmen he had personally helped to escape from France. Three hundred names. Two hundred soldiers, most who were not French, had stayed at the St. Laurents ' home, sheltered and hidden during the two years they had used their home as a safe house.

  Their home had been anything but safe. Here, in England, even with the threat of Nazi bombers, he was safer than they ever had been.

  Waverly was now in charge of SOE operations in the Netherlands, but his thoughts strayed often to France. Claude Renault had been injured a month before, and had returned to Montreal to recuperate. Jacques-Yves Galland was still in Marseilles, still running his line of escaped prisoners of war.

  And the St. Laurents?

  He harbored the small hope that he would see them again one day.

  Sunday, October 24, 1965

  Radium Hot Springs

  "Good morning. How's your shoulder?" Solo asked, reaching for another slice of toast in the small private dining room of the Radium Hot Springs motel. The mid-morning sun had finally cleared one section of the mountain and was shining warmly through the window.

  "Fine. How is your head?" Kuryakin slid along the vinyl bench seat opposite his partner, nodding at the waitress to fill his coffee cup. He stared at the menu on the chalkboard and held up three fingers for the third breakfast special.

  "Besides a small persistent jack-hammer on my temple, my head is fine, thank you." Solo lightly touched the small bandage that had replaced the bulkier dressing. "I mean that. Thank you." He layered the toast with butter and jam, glancing back to Kuryakin to make sure he understood.

  "I suppose the correct response is: You are welcome." The Russian withdrew several maps from his jacket pocket and dumped them on the table. He awkwardly unfolded one, nodding his acceptance of Solo's assistance.

  "What are you looking for?" Napoleon asked.

  "I overheard Sinclair conveying to his accomplice that they would be rendezvousing with their co
ntact at Big Bear tomorrow. I am attempting to ascertain the locale of Big Bear, but we cannot detect anything germane on these maps. It is conceivable that I failed to comprehend the intent of the aforementioned disclosure, but I am reasonably indubitable it was not contrived to be a— a—red herring."

  Napoleon stared blankly at his partner as Illya paused to sip at his coffee. "Swallow any dictionaries lately?"

  The younger man's face reddened slightly. "I cannot find Big Bear."

  "Oh." Napoleon grinned at the solemn face opposite him, until he pulled a smile from his friend.

  "A little uptight, aren't you?"

  "Perhaps." He slipped his glasses on as his fingers traced the place-names on the index of yet another map, gritting his teeth as he jostled his elbow. "I have been up since five this morning looking for it."

  "Tell me what Sinclair said," Napoleon said, biting into the cooling toast.

  "I already did."

  "In the man's own words."

  Kuryakin paused to replay the conversation. "He said, 'Friday at Big Bear.'"

  "At Big Bear?"

  "Yes." The ordered breakfast was placed before Kuryakin and he enthusiastically dug in. A minute later, he stopped long enough to mumble, "Actually, he said at the Big Bear."

  "Oh, the one at Jasper probably. It's a couple hours drive from here."

  Illya's fork clanged to the table. "What?" he asked, choking on his mouthful, his glasses sliding from his nose to land on the table.

  "There's a big bear statue in the town there. It's a standard meeting place. When we used to go skiing out this way, the whole group of us college kids used to meet under it when we arrived in Jasper."

  "A statue?"

  "Yeah, big black and white thing, about nine or ten feet high, as I remember. I think he's called 'Jasper' after the town, but I'm not sure. Maybe the town is called 'Jasper' after him. Anyway, Mark went back for our car yesterday, so we can leave as soon as you finish eating." Solo stood up and stretched leisurely, brushing an infinitesimal piece of lint off his pressed lapel. "Let me know when you're ready. I'll advise Mr. Waverly of our plans. Don't be long." With a kiss on the waitress's cheek as he passed her, Napoleon was out the door, whistling.

  Dazed, Illya stared after him, absently chewing the food still in his mouth. He looked down at the pile of wrongly-folded maps in front of him, his reading glasses slipping off one side of the stack. His suit was rumpled and shredded in places, and he had not packed a spare one, as his partner had obviously done. His shoulder, though braced with the bandages and arm sling, sent sharp stabs of pain through his torso at each movement and throbbed from fingertips to neck persistently. He ached all over, from his bruised purple cheek, to the cracked and sore fingers of his right hand, to the tender muscles across his abdomen, to the cuts on his knee.

  And now, thanks to Napoleon, he also had a headache.

  "Sometimes I really hate him."

  * * * * *

  Kuryakin drove, insisting he could manage better with one arm than Solo could with his admittedly still-double vision. Technically, neither should have left the facilities, both were on the injured list, but Solo out-ranked everyone present and no one else seemed inclined to call Waverly and protest. The two agents had changed clothes, gratefully putting on the heavy sweaters, warm boots, scarves, bulky jackets, hats, and gloves that the Radium Hot Springs U.N.C.L.E. facilities provided.

  The Russian sat behind the wheel, thin-lipped, his distant eyes never straying from the road before him. There was none of the previous day's conversation or awesome wonder at the glorious scenery.

  Instead, they sat in uncomfortable silence, ears popping as they ascended higher into the pass. The roads were mercifully clear, snow-plowed walls to each side, framed above by a heavy gray sky foreboding of a coming snowfall.

  Napoleon sat back and watched the scenery pass. The bump on the back of his head had gone down, but he had to be careful how he rested his head as the spot was still painful. His forehead felt like someone wearing very big boxing gloves had taken a good swipe at him. And hadn't missed.

  An hour down the road, they drove through the tunnel where they had met with Sinclair and Solo glanced at his partner. There was no emotion on the stony face other than the cold blue eyes dropping another degree. "What happened down there?" he ventured casually, trying to stretch his legs a little in the tight space. "I've heard bits from Mark, but we weren't able to piece together what went on between the time I was shot and they showed up. About five minutes or so."

  Staring straight ahead, Kuryakin swallowed, licked suddenly dry lips, and, if possible, went a shade paler. "I haven't written up the report yet."

  "I know. I'd like to know what happened, though. We are on our way to intercept these men. It is customary to fill your partner"—and the section head, he purposefully implied, with a pause— "in on what transpired. Why don't you pull over at the next rest stop? We could both use a break, and I'd like to stretch my legs properly."

  There was no immediate response. Kuryakin's face was almost unreadable, but faint flashes of emotion could be detected in the clenched jaw and furrowed brow. He nodded in resignation and Solo directed the car over to the side of the road as they approached the next tourist vantage point.

  Kuryakin got out quickly, as though the car had suddenly become suffocating, and stood at the edge of the embankment, staring down along the glacier-carved valley. It took him a few minutes, in silence, to put together what he wanted to say, but when he did speak, he gave as complete an account as he could remember about the missing minutes. Although his words were calm enough, his tense body seemed to radiate an uneasy blend of anger, embarrassment, and horror at what had happened.

  Solo stood slightly behind him and to one side, leaning against the car and giving Kuryakin the physical space he required. He glanced from the captivating view to Illya as his partner spoke quietly, the senior agent appreciating the difficulty the younger man was having and the effort he was making to be as accurate and precise as possible. "Do you remember Mark and April arriving?" he asked finally.

  The blond agent shook his head, his eyes closing. "No." Air escaped his lips in a long hiss. "I cannot believe that I lost consciousness. I could have dropped you."

  So that 's the problem. "They didn't say you lost consciousness, Illya. Your eyes were open. You responded to their questions. It wasn't until they had me secure and were trying to pry your hand from my coat that you blacked out."

  "I could have dropped you," Kuryakin repeated.

  Napoleon chuckled softly. "No, you're too stubborn. And I still owe you five bucks from our bet last week."

  Illya whirled to stare at him. "Why can't you take this seriously?"

  Still smiling, Napoleon answered, "I take it very seriously, partner. And I appreciate each and every super-human thing you do. You do realize that it was virtually impossible for you to hold me as long as you did?"

  Kuryakin's eyes, startling intense blue, pierced him, for an instant showing all the pain—physical and mental—he held tight inside. Then he blinked and it was gone, replaced by coldness that was even more revealing. "I want to kill Sinclair, Napoleon. I didn't care about the information he had, or capturing him to interrogate him and find out what is happening with Thrush or how long he had been working against us. I didn't care about any of that. I just wanted to kill him for some petty taunts he made while I was lying on the track. I can't stop thinking about it." He turned away from his partner, moving closer to the edge of the embankment.

  Solo was silent for a moment. Illya had opened up at least. Had talked to him honestly and, from what he could tell, hadn't held back anything this time. Solo knew that he needed to be equally as forthright. "And what will you do when we find him?" he asked, quietly.

  He saw Kuryakin draw a long breath and exhale slowly, nodding to himself finally as he understood the other's question. "I am an U.N.C.L.E. agent first. If Mr. Waverly wants them both alive, I'll bring them in alive." The
resigned words were edged in bitterness, but Kuryakin had obviously worked through most of his animosity. Feelings were real and had to be acknowledged, but both knew it was his actions, not his feelings, that he would be held accountable for.

  "What did Sinclair say to you?"

  Kuryakin shook his head. "It's not really important, is it? He is no longer a colleague. His words were meant to hurt. To humiliate." Illya turned toward him, a smile finally coming to his eyes at least.

  "And you are alive. He failed."

  "True. Let's get back in the car. It's cold out here." The pain lines had become visible on his partner's face, so Solo slipped behind the wheel this time, pulling back onto the highway. "What do you remember about the other man?"

  "Not much," Kuryakin admitted. "He was in a hurry. Cold-blooded bastard." He thought for a moment. "I think they knew each other. There was a rapport between them that showed they worked together well. The other man was the one in charge, though... Napoleon, what do we know about Mr. Waverly's mole?"

  "Before we left Radium, I reported in to Mr. Waverly and he finally agreed to disclose the name of the second undercover agent in the unlikely event that we come across him. Giles Nedstrom. Name ring a bell?"

  Kuryakin gave a visible start. "Nedstrom?"

  "Something?" Solo asked quickly.

  "Uh... Yes... Give me a second." Kuryakin's eyes blinked rapidly as he sorted out the indistinct memories. "Uh, Sinclair said you were shot dead and I think he said who shot you. Nedstrom would fit. Oh... something else. Giles is a French name, isn't it?"

  "He's probably part French. He's from the Maritimes in Eastern Canada where there is a large French-speaking population."

  "I thought the man's accent was Quebecois, because it definitely wasn't Parisian or continental French."

  "Damn," Solo said, softly. "That means both undercover agents turned. This case is not going well." He sighed. "When we're through this range and get a clear reception in Jasper, we'll call the information in to Mr. Waverly and see if we can get a picture of Nedstrom sent out. I've already contacted U.N.C.L.E. Edmonton and made arrangements to meet my cousin Roz for a drink tonight in Jasper. He's agreed to update us on the situation in Edmonton, and give us background material on Sinclair. The man was briefly posted there before Calgary. Mr. Waverly can telex Nedstrom's photograph to Edmonton, and Roz can bring it along."