Collection 7 - The Northern Lights Affair

by LRH Balzer

  'Listen,' it said, and he backed away from it but tripped, falling through the air. The rain washed over him, a waterfall of icy snow sparkling in the air.

  Then he was in the water. Under the water. Steam rose through him as he lay on the bottom of the pool staring up through the murky water at the reflection of birds on the water surface.

  He floated upward, caught by the mist, higher and higher, his body tumbling weightless until he was over the mountains. The mist disappeared and he fell through the clouds to the ladder of tracks lying on the ground. He tried to climb up the ladder, but it tilted.

  He was on the track holding the ram. The train was coming. The track was vibrating, trembling in anticipation of the impact that was sure to follow. He lifted his head, the single headlamp of the engine burrowing into his skull.

  'LISTEN'!!' the ram screamed.

  The white light hurt his eyes and he let go of the ram to shield his eyes from the beam of the engine. He saw the bighorn sheep fall, its horns spinning.

  'No!'

  He reachedfor it but his arm was gone. He saw it, blood spraying, still attached to the thick fur coat of the ram.

  The train howled. 'Listen! Listen! Listen!' it rumbled at him.

  Brakes screeched, horns blasted, and he heard himself screaming as it came at him.

  'NAPOLEON!'

  * * * * *

  In the distance, a train whistle sounded and Kuryakin gasped, his eyes flying open. "Napoleon?" he whispered, trying to find his voice. He seemed anxious, his head raising off the pillow, his arms fighting with the blankets, and Solo quickly moved to calm him.

  "Napoleon, who's here? You were talking to someone. Who is this?" Kuryakin's bleary eyes followed the stranger in the room, his forehead furrowed in alarm. He sat up and swung his legs to the floor.

  Solo pushed him back to the bed. "Relax, bratik, you're still a little disoriented. Your fever is coming down, though, and Doctor Sam says the double medication won't be a problem. Just let me know if you need anything." He hooked a thumb toward Rostand, keeping his voice easy. "That over there is an old friend of mine, from many years ago. We're second cousins and I've known him most of my life. His last name is Rostand, from the Hull side of the family, but I've always called him Roz, ever since we were teenagers terrorizing the Royal Military College in Kingston, Ontario. I told you about him, remember? He's the Head Enforcement Agent in the Edmonton U.N.C.L.E. office and he kindly flew in some first aid supplies that Sam sent for you, and something to help counter what I so foolishly forced on you. My humble apologies, my friend. It won't happen again."

  "Oh. He's your cousin?" That seemed to reassure Illya and he relaxed. His eyes closed and within moments he was asleep.

  "Bratik?" Rostand asked, peering down at Kuryakin.

  "Russian expression. Means 'little brother' but is more a general catchphrase for a close friend. So how about another drink, Roz? I need one." Napoleon asked, reaching for the phone. "I only had the one bottle with me, and we finished off what was left of it already. So what'll it be? What was it you were so fond of? Whiskey?"

  "Ask for a bottle. And a pot of coffee. We have a lot of catching up to do, Nap."

  Solo ordered the drinks, then looked across the room to Rostand, shaking his head at the wealth of memories he shared with this man. "Did I ever tell you how much I hate to be called Nap?"

  "Did I ever tell you how much I hate to be called Roz?" Rostand countered, laughing. "No one else ever called me that—they wouldn't dare. Well, Napoleon, now that we are responsible adults, I think we can dispense with the nicknames."

  "My sentiments exactly, Ned."

  Chapter Seven

  April 12, 1945

  Buchenwald, Germany

  "I'm told you speak English." A man came and crouched before him. The man had been crying. His eyes were swollen and red. "What 's your name, sir?"

  It took awhile for him to think of it, and even then, for a short time, he wasn't sure how to answer. "Antoine St. Laurent," he said, finally.

  "Sergeant Baker," the man replied. "I'm with the U.S. Army. We liberated this camp earlier today. My commander has asked me to look for people who speak English, and see if they need help. Are you French?"

  "No..." The thought wavered in his mind. He had been French for so long, but there had been a time before that... "From Canada."

  "When were you brought here?"

  A long time ago. A lifetime ago. He had no answer for the young man with the intense eyes.

  "The doctor will be with you shortly. Is there anything else I can do for you? Are there people we can contact for you? The Red Cross will be here later."

  He looked at the sergeant. How strange that tears rolled down the other man 's face when he himself had none.

  St. Laurent had no tears left. He looked down at the mug of soup in his hand. "My wife is missing. Elise. Can you find her? "

  "We'll try, sir. 1 promise you that we'll look for her. Anything else? Anyone in Canada we can get word to? "

  "No... there is no one in Canada to contact until I know if she is alive. They will want to know."

  "Won't they want to know if you're alive, sir?"

  "If she is not alive, they will not want me back."

  After the young man left, St. Laurent wept, silently and without tears. "I will try to bring her to you, little one," he murmured. "She wanted you so very much."

  Monday, October 25, 1965

  Jasper, Alberta

  Kuryakin was quiet the next morning, reading the morning paper as he absently spooned down the hot porridge that had been delivered to their room. Occasionally, he glanced up to look at the two men across the room from him, obviously continuing their reunion from the night before, with one 'remember when' leading into the next.

  He excused himself and shakily headed out into the crisp morning, hoping the cold air would clear the fog from his head. His fever was gone and his shoulder wasn't bothering him much, but the enforced sleep had left him feeling a bit tense. He made his way across the parking lot to warm up the Ford truck that had been left for their use, taking his time to scrape the windows one-armed and check the oil. He drove to the highway and had the four-wheel drive vehicle filled with gas. The attendant confirmed that there had been no new snow for the last two weeks and other than the usual morning iciness, the roads should be clear.

  Back at the lodge parking lot, with a cup of coffee warming his hands, he waited in the truck for Napoleon to come out with Rostand. He had tried to stay away from the two men since something about the Edmonton agent made him edgy. It was probably just the painkiller residue in his system. Napoleon had some strange friends. Like Angelique. The comparison made him distinctly uncomfortable, and he switched on the radio, listening idly to a country and western singer complaining about her two-timing husband.

  His communicator beeped and he drew it out of one pocket and activated it. "Kuryakin here."

  "Illya, it's Sam Lawrence."

  A man not high on his list to speak to. "Is there something I can help you with, Doctor?"

  "That's a little formal, isn't it?"

  "I don't feel like chatting right now, thank you. Is there a problem?"

  "Apparently there is. You realize that what happened last night was an unfortunate—"

  "Yes. Yes, I know. My self-appointed nurse maid, Napoleon Solo, relayed the information. You both assumed that I was incapable of taking care of myself—"

  "Wait just a minute. Hold on there. This is your problem, not Napoleon's. Don't pass it off on him."

  "You two practically kill me, and it's my fault? I had taken the damned medication. It was prescribed, and I took it. I did my share. What more do you want?"

  "Do you want a suggestion?"

  "Not particularly."

  "Well, you get to hear it anyway. This situation between you and Napoleon has gone on far too long, and yes, I think it's your fault. He requires the information and you have not communicated it to him—Think of it th
is way: If your gun wasn't working one hundred percent, you'd tell him, wouldn't you? You'd tell him what kind of use you could hope to get out of it, what the dangers might be, how low you were on ammunition. Well, just treat your body as a weapon. Because it is a weapon—it's what is going to keep you both alive. And I guarantee you, that if you do that, if you communicate to him, this whole problem will disappear."

  "It's not that simple, Sam."

  "Yes, it is. Try it."

  "Perhaps."

  The doctor signed off, and Illya tossed the communicator on the seat beside him. That was one conversation he could have done without. It had only succeeded in bringing back all the tension.

  A car passed by where he sat in the truck and pulled into the spot next to the sedan that he and Napoleon had driven up to Jasper in. A man, well-bundled for the morning frost, got out and came around to stare at the license plate of the vehicle, then peered inside the car.

  Kuryakin ducked down and watched intently as the man got back in his car. He put the coffee down and activated the private channel linking his communicator to his partner's. "Napoleon?"

  "I'll be right down, Illya. Rostand just left."

  "Napoleon, Sinclair is sitting here in the parking lot, about five cars over from me." He took his eyes off the other car for a brief moment to smile down at the silver pen when it remained silent. It was always no small pleasure taking his partner by surprise. "Napoleon?"

  "Uh... Let me check my pocket and see if I have the keys to the sedan." There was a static crackle as the agent moved around the hotel room. "I've got them. I'll come down the side way and head for the sedan and then I'll drive toward town. If he's meeting someone at the statue, he'll be going that way anyway. If not, I assume he'll follow me, so keep close to him."

  "Napoleon, your cousin just came out of the lodge and is heading this way. Does he have a frequency so we can warn him off?"

  "Damn, I didn't check. He said he had some business to take care of in town, so he's probably taking another car."

  Kuryakin's head cleared the windshield long enough to see where Rostand was heading. "I hate to tell you this, my friend, but your cousin just got into the car with Sinclair, and they're pulling out."

  "What? That doesn't make any sense. Last night, Ned said that he had never met Burle Sinclair before."

  Kuryakin shivered.

  Shot in the head. With lead. By Ned.

  "Napoleon, you'll have to trust me on this one, but I think your relative is the one who shot you. They're driving away and I'm going to follow them. You need to call Mr. Waverly and tell him. And since Rostand now knows that Giles Nedstrom is a mole somewhere in the Thrush network out here, I've just put Nedstrom's cover—and life—in danger by fingering him. They'll take him out fast." He closed the pen communicator and kicked the clutch, shoving the gear shift into first.

  Shot in the head. By Ned.— Napoleon, I'm sorry, my friend.

  Sinclair's car slid onto the icy road, taking the comer too fast, but it straightened out and headed toward the two lane highway at a reasonable pace. The truck was awkward to drive with his left shoulder screaming at every jolt, but Kuryakin managed to keep a discreet distance from it without attracting attention. There was a fair amount of traffic on the road, and the small truck he drove was as dirty as every other vehicle at this time of year and would draw no second looks.

  He geared into second, then third, as the car ahead of him suddenly picked up speed when they turned onto the highway. His right hand left the gear shift to open the beeping communicator. "Yes?"

  Solo's voice was cold and harsh. "Illya, Waverly said to stop them at any cost. Nedstrom is too valuable an agent to lose, especially now that he 's so close. His picture isn't here, which means Rostand took it with him. We can't let them get that picture to the rest of the satrapy. Where are you now? I'm just leaving the lodge."

  "Heading southwest down the highway. Wait, they're branching off. The road is marked as 'East Ridge Crossing'. I'm following."

  "East Ridge? Oh, God... I know where they're heading. Stay back out of sight. I'm on my way."

  "I'll lose them if I stay too far behind them." The truck skidded on the road as he tried to turn the comer one-handed. "I can't talk, Napoleon. I need both hands to drive this thing. I'll be careful." He shut down the communicator and dropped the pen onto the passenger side floor as he brought the truck under control and negotiated the bumpy road. The four-wheel drive got him over a few rough spots and it occurred to him that the sedan Napoleon would be driving would have a difficult time of it. He was about to call his partner, when he rounded a curve to see Sinclair's car sideways on the road and the two men beside it, obviously debating how best to get it on track again. He slammed on the brakes, wheels spinning, as he tried to avoid hitting it.

  The men were gone by the time Kuryakin brought the truck to a halt. Cursing, he grabbed the rifle on the seat beside him and followed. It was hard to walk, let alone run, on the snow. The warmer spring weather melted the top layer during the day, but the cold still-wintry nights froze it, leaving a brittle surface that broke with every step. Twenty yards of it and Kuryakin was exhausted, the long night's rest used up.

  He stopped abruptly, cursing the communicator on the floor of the truck and the extra ammunition in the glove compartment.

  He rounded the crest of a hill and dropped as both Rostand and Sinclair fired a few shots in his direction, then worked their way further down the slope. They half-slid, half-floundered, through the snow as the icy crust slowed them down.

  "Stop!" Kuryakin yelled into the morning stillness. The sound carried and echoed twice. He shivered, then wished he hadn't as the pain tore at his shoulder. "Sinclair! Rostand! We've already identified you to Mr. Waverly. If you turn yourselves in now, you might be able to make a deal."

  "Waverly's a long ways away, Kuryakin!" Rostand's voice came from below.

  "What about your cousin? I thought you and he were friends," Illya countered, trying to get his head up high enough to see where they were. A shot scorched the tip of his scarf.

  Sinclair's shout reached him clearly, the familiar voice from the bridge taunting him and causing the hairs on his neck to stand. "I should have killed you on the tracks, Kuryakin. If you mess up our plans, you'll wish you were dead, that a train had knocked you into kingdom come."

  He's facing me, Illya thought as he listened to the voice. He can't be running if he is looking this way and talking. He pushed himself up and fired down toward them, hearing the answering retort of two guns. He grinned. They were both there. At least he knew where they were.

  Here I go again. Stalling for time, waiting for Napoleon to come and rescue me. "I can't let you leave here! Mr. Waverly's given the order!" Kuryakin shouted.

  "Waverly's little agent is so good, isn't he, Burle?" Rostand yelled, the Quebecois accent, of which there was only a trace the night before, stronger again. "The best little agent Solo's ever worked with! What will Nap say when he gets here in time to find his precious partner dead, eh? What do you think? Where was he when I needed him? Busy taking care of you! A Russkie, to boot."

  A few shots came his way from a single rifle and Illya stayed down, trying to figure out what was happening. Where was Sinclair now?

  Rostand knew what he was thinking. "Hey, bratik! Where is Sinclair? He'll be coming over the top any time now. Hey, little brat! Better watch out. Sinclair's mad now that he didn't shoot you when he had the chance the first time. I should have let him."

  Kuryakin rolled in the snow, changing location, then rose and fired down the slope, just missing Sinclair who was only a few yards from where Illya had been laying moments before.

  He fingered the rifle, remembering his own words to Napoleon, but seeing no option. Raising his head so his voice would carry down the hill, Kuryakin yelled again, "These aren't mercy bullets!" The rifle did not have the dual ammunition capacity of the U.N.C.L.E. Special.

  Sinclair kept coming. Kuryakin lifted the rifle
to his shoulder and aimed, the second bullet hitting his surprised target. Sinclair stopped in midstride, dead before he hit the snow.

  Dead, the echo of Sinclair's grainy voice ran in his brain. Shot in the head. With lead.

  The lifeless body fell and rolled down the slope, coming to a stop several feet from the Edmonton agent.

  "Are you next, Rostand?" Kuryakin knelt at the top of the hill, the rifle trained on the second man.

  Rostand raised his hands awkwardly in the air. "Okay, Kuryakin. You win.”

  "Throw away your gun. Down hill." He waited until he saw the weapon sail through the air before relaxing his protesting arm. "Come up here!" he ordered. "Hands on top of your head!" The pain was back with a vengeance.

  Shot in the head. By Ned.

  He blinked and stood to his feet, the rifle in the crook of his right hand, balanced and appearing ready to fire—no use letting Rostand know he was out of ammunition. His throbbing left arm reached into his pocket and withdrew a piece of rope. Short, but enough to tie his captive's hands. He doubted seriously that he would be able to do much else until Napoleon got to him.

  Come on, Napoleon. The danger is passed. You can show up now. I'm tired.

  He forced shaking hands to tie the required knots, securing Rostand to a sturdy leafless tree. At least the man had the sense not to say anything. Even after he finished, there was no sign of Napoleon. And no way to call him with the communicator in the truck. Illya stared up the hill at the battered Ford, sighing. Solo was probably trying to dig out the sedan somewhere. He took a few steps, then used the rifle butt as a brace to balance against as he worked his way up the slope. He leaned against it, feeling it dig into the ground and support his weight.

  He was half way to the top when Rostand screamed. "Kuryakin!"

  Illya whirled at the panic in the man's voice and saw the reason for it. Lumbering across the snow, its dark bulk the size of a small car, was a grizzly. The powerfully built animal, probably not yet ready to take his deep winter sleep and also probably very hungry, moved with little difficulty across the snow straight to where Rostand was tied, drawn by the smell of Sinclair's blood where he lay nearby.