Collection 7 - The Northern Lights Affair

by LRH Balzer

  "Elise?" Waverly didn't know how else to ask if she were alive.

  St. Laurent shrugged. "I have not given up my search. After the war, I was released from Buchenwald, but we could not find her. She had been taken to Germany—but then the records are not clear. I have been looking..." He took a deep breath. "There was a group of survivors here that I have come to interview. Perhaps they know something."

  The Rotterdam police officer tugged on Waverly 's coat. "Mr. Virtanen, we must leave now."

  Waverly nodded and turned back to St. Laurent. He reached deep into his pocket and took a business card out. "Call me. I'm in New York. If there is anything I can do—? I will look for her as well."

  "Thank you, my friend."

  "I must go. A freighter has been held off-schedule to wait for my arrival."

  "I understand. Thank you again."

  Waverly turned away reluctantly, releasing St. Laurent 's hand and running for the car.

 

  Saturday, October 30, 1965

  New York City

  11:30 a.m.

  Alexander Waverly picked up his private line, the older one that seldom rang. "Virtanen."

  "Alexander? It is Antoine."

  Waverly's hand moved to a toggle on his desk, alerting his secretary that his calls were to be held and he was not to be disturbed. "Are you safe?" he asked, without preamble.

  "For the time. He has threatened him again unless I provide what they're looking for—or unless I provide them a payoff."

  "Galland has called Claude and me as well. Claude has moved his family into protective custody."

  "And your wife? Your daughter?"

  "U.N.C.L.E. already watches them. It goes with the job."

  "And Napoleon?"

  "My Chief Enforcement Agent is able to care for himself. And his safety is also the responsibility of his partner."

  "1 understand... I did not think it would come to this—did you? One favor has cost us so very much. And it is not our enemies who hunt us down, but those who were our allies." A long sigh followed. "Claude said that you had a lead on the paintings?"

  "It is gone. So far, the works were not among those located."

  "Galland continues to believe that we stole them. Hid them. Probably sold them—Therefore we should have either the paintings or the money." St. Laurent laughed. "If I had had them, I would have sold them, just to try to find her."

  "Did you tell him that?"

  "No."

  "Galland seems to feel that if we do not have the paintings, that he is still in a position to blackmail us for keeping them at all."

  "The man is a fool. We were trying to save the paintings for the Paris museum—not steal them."

  "They were never returned."

  "They were in the apartment the day Elise and I were taken away. I swear it."

  "They were no longer there when we slipped into the flat a few days later." Waverly shrugged. "Police, the SS men—There were many who could have taken them."

  "But that isn't really the point now, is it?"

  * * * * *

  1:00 p.m.

  "Gentlemen," Waverly acknowledged from his desk, as Solo and Kuryakin entered the office. Busy with a phone conversation, Waverly waved them in the general direction of his round conference table where three maps had been spread out obviously waiting for their arrival.

  Solo glanced at them quickly. "North Atlantic Ocean, Northwest Territories, and Greenland. Looks like we're back on the Northern Lights case. Nothing like traveling directly from Arabia to the Arctic... Maybe we can wrangle a few days here before heading out. To rest up."

  "I'm fine," Illya said absently, then suddenly looked up from his study of the Greenland map, brows furrowed. "Uh... If you're concerned about my leg, I'm sure it will not be a problem," he said softly.

  "You're limping when you think no one is watching," Napoleon responded equally as quietly, picking up the map of Canada's Northwest Territories and folding it to show only the eastern section. "Have you seen Sam yet?"

  A silence followed. "No, not yet. I'll go see him now though. I suppose it would be prudent to have it checked before our assignment."

  "Good idea. We can make whatever adjustments are necessary then."

  Illya pushed back the map and stood up. "One day I would like to know why this happens to me, far more than to you, my friend. Explain my absence, please. I'll return as quickly as possible."

  Despite his partner's care to walk normally, Solo's practiced eye was still able to see the limp. The Russian had taken a knife injury to his upper left thigh during a fight several days before. Sam Lawrence would check out the wound and would decide if Illya was able to return to full field duty yet, or what, if any, restrictions should be placed on him. Waverly needed to know as soon as possible what Illya's status was, as that might well affect their upcoming mission.

  Waverly finally ended his call and joined Solo at the conference table. Whether or not he noticed Kuryakin's absence, he made no comment on it. "Thrush appeared to have a laboratory of some kind set up in Mountainside Lodge. They were working with heavy equipment from the marks on the flooring, and from the sizeable trucks which were brought in to convey the goods elsewhere. Mr. Solo, I would like you and Mr. Kuryakin to go to Ottawa and pick up any information you can find on where Thrush is sending its agents in the north of Canada. The only airline that has regular scheduled flights to that area is First North Air out of both Ottawa and Montreal. First North Air also has a charter service that you may wish to investigate."

  "Is this based on the information we received from Giles Nedstrom?"

  "Yes. Mr. Nedstrom was aware of certain materials—especially made-to-order steel parts—being shipped from the mines in western Canada, along the Canadian National Railroad lines at least as far as Winnipeg, in Manitoba. From there, it appeared they were going north by rail to Churchill on Hudson Bay, then being taken by boat. Mr. Nedstrom also reported that there was a rush to accomplish all this before the beginning of October, as travel would prove more difficult in the north after that time."

  "Do we have agents in Churchill?"

  "No. Miss Dancer and Mr. Slate were there two days ago interviewing the local RCMP officers, and the railroad and dock workers. Any identified Thrush agents left the area over a month ago."

  "Where to, did they find out?"

  "Most by boat, heading north into the Hudson Bay."

  "North?" Solo looked at the maps again. "What would be the draw at this time of year? What is Thrush doing up there?"

  "That's what I'd like you and Mr. Kuryakin to find out."

  "Certainly," Solo said with a smile. "I assume Miss Dancer and Mr. Slate will be assisting us?"

  "Miss Dancer will be. Mr. Slate is unaccounted for at the moment—has been for two days now. Went missing Wednesday evening—last heard from in Greenwich Village on the lower west side."

  "Thrush?"

  "Undoubtedly so." Waverly seemed to dismiss the topic and redirected the conversation to a fourth map displayed on the wall showing the northern hemisphere from the 55° latitude up. Bright colored lights indicated several towns and hamlets across the surface. "This area here, in the vicinity surrounding Baffin Bay, between 50° and 80° degrees longitude, is where I believe our search should be concentrated."

  "Our original message this summer, picked up from the Thrush Computer tapping, mentioned Baffin Bay."

  "Something about a summit meeting, yes..." Waverly stared at the map thoughtfully, his unlit pipe cradled in his hand. "The intent of the message may have been lost. Mr. Solo, you and Mr. Kuryakin have been investigating the location of Thrush's experimental labs, such as the one in Arabia which you have just destroyed. To your knowledge, is there a lab in the northern Arctic area?"

  "No, sir. Not one that we have located." Solo looked away from the map, back to Waverly. "Do you have reason to suspect one is there?"

  "Our agent in Froebisher Bay has, over the past mon
th, reported the comings and goings of several known Thrush scientists, especially a few involved with the study of nuclear energy and nuclear payloads."

  Solo's attention focused back on the map. "Nuclear energy? What are we talking about here? A ship? A submarine? A base? They could be anywhere—on any one of these islands. If we are expecting them to launch a missile— well, there are already some safeguards. We aren't entirely defenseless."

  Waverly ran a finger along the bottom of the map. "There are three early-warning radar lines to the north of the continent. The Pinetree Line, the Mid-Canada Line along the 55° latitude which is in the process of being phased out, and the DEW Line along the Arctic circle from Alaska to Baffin Island. Our allies at the North American Air Defense Command are responsible for maintaining these lines. And you are aware of their current dilemma, I'm sure."

  "Yes, sir. I've visited one of the NORAD sites in Alaska earlier this year. And I've read the report to U.N.C.L.E. on NORAD's Bomarc antiaircraft missiles in northern Canada already in place."

  "With nuclear warheads," Waverly added gruffly. "I have no interest in employing nuclear weapons."

  Suddenly glad that Kuryakin wasn't present, Solo continued, "While the danger from Soviet manned bombers has decreased substantially, from what I understand, the problem facing NORAD now is from Soviet intercontinental and submarine-launched missiles. If Thrush does have a base in the Arctic, NORAD should be alerted."

  "I have already done so."

  Solo kept his gaze locked on his superior. "Sir, I am aware of the ongoing dispute regarding nuclear weapons, but would we have access to the Bomarc antiaircraft missiles if they were absolutely needed?" he persisted.

  The U.N.C.L.E. Head returned to the desk, sitting down in his chair heavily as though the whole discussion were extremely painful. "And who decides if we have reached the stage of absolute necessity?" He withdrew a file from a locked drawer and nodded, more to himself than to his Chief Enforcement Agent. "I'll contact the Canadian government and NORAD and see what options are at our disposal. I will also warn them that Thrush may have access to nuclear powered missiles, but we are uncertain as yet as to their method of guidance and control. The area we are discussing is so vast, that the danger could come from anywhere within thousands of square miles, land, sea, or air. You, Mr. Solo, will find out what the power source is of any guided missiles that Thrush may or may not be assembling, what type of guidance and control system they may be using, what their targeted area is, and, most importantly, what the payload is that they intend to deliver."

  "Anything else, sir?"

  Waverly looked up, his eyebrows drawn together, but there was no insolence in Solo's tone. The CEA had been asked to do the impossible before for Waverly. "Not at present. Oh, there is one thing: I noticed Mr. Kuryakin had an injury to his left leg, upper thigh, I believe. I'll need a report from Dr. Lawrence before you two gentlemen leave for Ottawa tonight."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And..." Waverly looked up suddenly, his eyes focused sharply on the CEA. "Be careful, Mr. Solo."

  "Yes, sir."

  * * * * *

  Illya Kuryakin winced as the doctor's hands gently probed the knife wound.

  "How long ago did you get this?" Sam Lawrence asked.

  Kuryakin shrugged. "The exact date? It's in my report."

  "Give me a hint, okay? I haven't read your report."

  The Russian agent sighed. "I'll have to figure it out then... Tuesday, I flew from Edmonton to New York, then on to Arabia to look for Thrush's experimental lab near the Gulf of Aqaba. Slept on the plane. Wednesday morning I arrived... I guess Wednesday, late afternoon I was injured." He briefly described his time with the Arabian chief and his people.

  "Did the wound bleed heavily?" Lawrence asked.

  "I suppose so. I don't remember much until Thursday morning. Thursday night was the fight with the chief... On midday Friday, yesterday, we attacked the lab, then late in the day, Napoleon and I started our flight back here. So I was off my leg for the entire flight," Kuryakin added. "It's not bothering me now."

  "It's healing nicely," Lawrence agreed. "It was a clean cut." He finished rebandaging the wound and turned his attention upward, checking his patient's lungs, checking his blood pressure, then shining a penlight in Kuryakin's eyes. "What I'm more concerned with is the amount of concussions you've had over the last few years. Thick-skulled though you may be, there is a limit on how much you can take." He covered Illya's left eye and moved the light to the right, watching the reaction. "You mentioned that you were unconscious for several hours after you were injured."

  "That wasn't a concussion, though," the Russian was quick to point out.

  "What about the fight in the Thrush building? How long were you unconscious then?"

  Kuryakin pushed the penlight away from his face. "He hit me on my leg first, then chopped the back of my neck. I think I passed out from the pain, not because I was knocked out."

  "Maybe. How long were you unconscious, though?"

  "Not long. No more than a minute or two."

  Lawrence checked his blood pressure. "Everything looks fine. Your lungs are clear. No sign of infection in the wound. Okay, what's your current assignment?"

  "I don't know. Napoleon is being briefed on it now."

  "Well, I'm going to talk to Alexander and see what it is." Lawrence smiled down at his patient. "Considering he declared you dead on Thursday morning, you are in remarkably good health."

  "What?" Kuryakin blinked, startled. "What's this about me being dead?"

  "Didn't you know? Alexander sent word to Personnel that you'd been missing for forty-eight hours and to not expect you to come back. Fortunately, no one passed word on to Napoleon. He was only told that you hadn't called in yet."

  Illya reached for his shirt. "What about Norm and Trish? Were they told? I should phone them—"

  "Personnel hadn't made any calls yet. Napoleon advised Alexander that he was heading to that area, so everything was put on hold hoping Napoleon could verify it one way or the other." Lawrence cleaned up his instruments. "Now while I go talk to your boss, I have a job for you to do."

  "Which is?" Kuryakin asked, cautiously.

  "Go talk to April. Alexander just listed her partner as M.I.A. He's been gone forty-eight hours, as well."

  "What happened?"

  "They were looking for a Thrush scientist who had been spotted in Froebisher Bay. The man had booked a flight to Montreal, then to New York, and they followed him from the airport here to Greenwich Village. April was driving, Mark jumped out to follow the man while April parked the car, and Mark hasn't been seen since and doesn't answer his communicator."

  "What am I supposed to say to her, Sam?" Kuryakin looked uncomfortable.

  "Just find a way to connect to her. This is the first time her partner has gone missing. Do you remember how you felt the first time your partner disappeared or was abducted?"

  Kuryakin nodded faintly. "I suppose." Guilty. Edgy. Alone. "Where is she?"

  "In the Enforcement Agents' Office. Go buy her a coffee and offer a little encouragement. After all, Alexander declared you dead and you are back more or less in one piece. Offer her that little bit of hope that Mark will show up as well. And try to stay off that leg as much as possible."

  Kuryakin hopped from the table, landing more on his right leg than the left, but Lawrence was convinced he was on the mend. Despite the Russian's bad luck at injuries and illnesses, he seemed to escape the worst of any of them. Dengue fever without the rash or high, lingering temperature. His dislocated shoulder had mended more or less within days, causing him little mobility problems—Lawrence had known cases that permanently sidelined an agent. And now a deep knife wound that was already well on the way to being healed.

  If the rest of his patients would only convalesce as quickly as this one did...

  * * * * *

  Sunday, October 31,1965

  Ottawa, Canada

  11:00 a.m.

&nb
sp; Kuryakin was cleared for light duty and by Saturday evening, the two agents were in Ottawa. Their flight came in too late to do much else than retire to their hotel, but the vast amount of files and reports they had brought with them—together with the box of files delivered to them from the Canadian U.N.C.L.E. office—kept them both reading until late in the evening.

  The next morning brought much of the same. They had divided the reports, Napoleon taking the debriefing from Giles Nedstrom and related files, while Illya handled the rest, concentrating on any Thrush sightings in the Arctic region.

  "They're not here, Napoleon."

  "What isn't here?"

  "The reports I read in New York. Even if they are missing from Headquarters, there still should be a copy of them here. There isn't."

  "Are you sure you read them in New York?" Napoleon asked, immediately regretting the words as Illya stared across the room at him. "Okay, you read them. But who would take them? And if they were on security paper, it would have been impossible for anyone to take them out of the building, or to destroy them."

  Illya continued to stare at him, eyes narrowing. "That's true, isn't it?" he said finally. "Napoleon, I know I read at least two reports that aren't here. One of them was about the FLQ... and there were pictures. The other was... something about the Arctic Circle..." He scrunched up his face, trying to reclaim the memory. "No... But it was specifically about Greenland and Ellesmere Island. Something about..."

  Napoleon waited, but Illya didn't seem to have anything else to offer. He listened as his partner called into New York and requested a search for hidden security documents. A thorough search of the building would uncover any reports which were in places they shouldn't be. Still thinking about the coincidence of the same documents being missing from both New York and Montreal, he wasn't prepared for Illya's next question.

  "When was the funeral?"

  Napoleon glanced across the hotel room at his partner who was stretched out on top of his bed, leaning back against the headboard, surrounded by files. "Why do you ask?"