Collection 7 - The Northern Lights Affair

by LRH Balzer

  The northern lights twisted into a shimmering curtain of fluorescent reds and greens, waving and swirling into multiple patterns—then disappearing altogether for a few seconds before another ghostly glow appeared on the horizon, only to explode into a fiery, pulsing flame of energy.

  The helicopter landed, bright searchlights illuminating the area as it settled on the upper bank where the four U.N.C.L.E. agents were. Five soldiers, all with weapons ready, jumped from the helicopter as soon as it touched down, and moved to join the exhausted New York agents. Mark took over, pointing and explaining the situation while April and Illya continued to watch for the Thrush divers. Gradually Illya was aware of soldiers beside him, shooting, and Mark was tugging him away from the battle.

  "Come on, sunshine. Got to go in the helicopter and get Napoleon to the hospital. He lost a lot of blood."

  "We aren't finished here. They can take Napoleon, but I should stay."

  "Why? April and I are going to go pack up the thermotent and get everything ready to be airlifted. These men can handle whatever is left. All that's remaining on board that bloody sub now is a skeleton crew and a few scientists. They don't need us to get in their way. We did our part."

  "When are you leaving, then?"

  "Believe me, as soon as we can! There's another helicopter coming in an hour. We'll catch a ride back with them. Go on. They've got Napoleon patched up and into some dry clothes, and now they're waiting for you."

  Illya nodded, then allowed himself to be bundled into the helicopter with his partner and whisked away. The flight was almost four hours to the hospital at Froebisher Bay, most of it spent strapped into the seat next to his partner, trying to keep him warm with only a thin blanket wrapped around them. When they arrived, Napoleon was taken in immediately to have his eye checked out. A doctor came and examined Illya thoroughly when the helicopter pilot passed on the information that Illya had fallen into the water the day before and had been hypothermic.

  Presented with a clean bill of health, Illya settled into a chair outside the emergency room and looked at his watch. After everything they had done that day, it wasn't even noon yet.

  * * * * *

  Despite the doctor in Froebisher Bay's objections, the two U.N.C.L.E. agents caught the last flight of the day to Montreal, arriving in the Quebec city after dark.

  Kuryakin stepped carefully onto the airfield's tarmac, guiding his partner with a light touch to his elbow. "Are you sure we should have left the hospital?" Napoleon had attracted his usual amount of attention from the stewardess, but this time it had been because of a circle of bandages around the CEA's head, holding a bandage in place over his left eye.

  Solo made a non-committal noise. "I didn't want to stay. There was no point in staying there. We accomplished what we set out to do and the U.S. Navy has taken over the submarine recovery operation. Mr. Waverly has removed us from the rest of the case, and I think I know why. I want to find out what information Claude Renault has for us. He said he had something and he would meet us here at the airport."

  "It would still be here tomorrow. I don't know why this rush is necessary. You look like you're going to pass out any second."

  "Well, we're here now." Solo stopped and turned, letting the other passengers go around them. "Illya, about what Claude said to me at the airport in Ottawa..."

  "You want to find out about your father. I understand that. But you don't want to collapse before you even get that far. You lost a lot of blood."

  "If we had stayed in that plane one more minute, I was going to lose my dinner. My head hurts— Do you still have those pills the doctor gave you?"

  Kuryakin nodded and handed over two tablets. "Is the freezing coming out?"

  "From the stitches... Yes." Solo turned back to the terminal building. "Do you see Renault at all?" he asked, peering at the windows overlooking the tarmac.

  "He is not outside here. Let's get inside, then you can sit down and I'll look for him."

  Solo agreed, but took his time walking the rest of the way to the terminal from where the plane had stopped. The cool fresh air was doing just as much to calm his stomach and clear his head as the pills were.

  Claude Renault was waiting just inside the terminal and steered them to where the U.N.C.L.E. limousine waited for them. "Illya, when you said Napoleon had banged his head, I was expecting maybe a bad bruise... What exactly happened to you, Napoleon?" he asked, as the limo pulled away from the airport terminal.

  In the rear seat, Solo shrugged, awkwardly trying to turn and look at him out of his right eye. "You've read the report? Well, I set my two limpets by the rudder shaft and I then tried to get back to the surface. I guess I became a little disoriented down there and bumped my head on something, which didn't make the situation any better. My headlamps were knocked off, and my mask started letting in water. Mark Slate showed up and then I don't remember anything until Illya and April pulled me onto the boat. It's not too serious, though."

  "The doctor said they had to put in fifteen stitches to the side of your head," Kuryakin offered, and Renault turned around to take another look at the bandages. "It just missed his eye."

  "What information do you have for us?" Solo asked, changing the topic.

  Renault smiled. "Well, thanks to your partner here, and his insistence that he had read reports that had since disappeared, both our office and New York office instituted Class One searches. And, what a catch we made!"

  "Yes?" Kuryakin leaned forward and took the file that Renault held out.

  "What is it?" Solo asked.

  "We found the missing documents. Quite enlightening, I must admit. There is an English saying, that a picture paints a thousand words. Well, in this case, one photograph solves two mysteries."

  Kuryakin withdrew the photograph and held it up to Renault. "Is that who I think it is?"

  "Most certainly," Renault answered.

  Solo turned to his partner to appropriate the picture, but the smile spreading across Kuryakin's features was unusual enough to halt him. "What? Who is it?"

  "Galland," Kuryakin whispered gleefully, with all the remorse of a cat who has caught an elusive mouse.

  * * * * *

  Thursday, November 4, 1965

  9:00 a.m.

  Ottawa, Ontario

  Napoleon Solo strode up the front stairs of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Headquarters in Ottawa, a thin valise tucked under one arm. He was moving slower than he would have liked, but Sam Lawrence had insisted that his swollen left eye remain bandaged for another two days, to give it a chance to heal. Kuryakin walked beside him, at his left, providing him with a sense of 'coverage' for his blind side.

  "Jacques-Yves Galland, please. I have an appointment." Solo presented his U.N.C.L.E. credentials, gratified to see the eyes of the uniformed officer at the Reception Desk widen when he realized that the man before him with a black 'pirate' patch over one eye was Section Two, Number One for North America.

  "Yes, sir. I'll let him know you're here, sir." The constable gave a similar reaction when Kuryakin produced his identification. "Follow me, please, sir."

  They were led directly to Galland's office and before the man could stand, Kuryakin nodded once to Solo, who then marched directly to his desk, while Kuryakin stayed blocking the doorway. "No, don't get up. Just listen to me."

  "Why should I—?" Galland began.

  "Because I said so. I want you to listen to what I have to say, because I have neither the time nor the inclination to repeat myself. I just had an interesting phone conversation with one of our agents in New York. Last month, when we were in Montreal for the Canadian U.N.C.L.E. office's annual meeting, my partner made the comment that several documents that should have been in our briefings were missing. Someone had gone to great lengths to have them removed from our files. In both cases, the documents were removed prior to be sent to Alexander Waverly for review. Now, the reason my partner even knew they were missing is that he keeps tabs on all incoming information coming t
o us from Canada and the west coast of the United States, while I handle the east coast and Mexico."

  "That is very interesting, Mr. Solo, but what does it have to do with me?" Galland sat stiffly, his hands folded neatly over the blotter of his desk.

  "My partner, Mr. Kuryakin here, was bothered by the disappearance of papers that he had seen, but that Mr. Waverly had not seen, documents and photographs that no longer existed in the U.N.C.L.E. files. " Solo opened the valise and placed on the counter several coded U.N.C.L.E. reports. "These papers,

  Mr. Galland, were found locked in the desk of one of our clerks. You see, because we print these on special paper, alarms would have gone off if she had attempted to destroy them or to remove them from the building, so instead, she chose to hide them. You may be interested in seeing the photocopies we've taken of them."

  Solo pointed to the first one. "This is a detailed description of the activities around French Canadian nationalism and the Front de liberation du Quebec. The FLQ, according to these papers, is also being promoted and funded by unknown sources within the Canadian government. It may interest you to know, Mr. Galland, that our undercover agent lists your name in his report as a possible supporter of the FLQ."

  "That's ridiculous. I consider that to be a slanderous remark—" Galland exclaimed starting to rise from his chair.

  "Quiet!" Solo raised a finger at the man, motioning him back down. "Perhaps, but, as Claude Renault said, a picture paints a thousand words. Here we have several photographs of you having what appears to be a quiet dinner in a Quebec City restaurant with two of the leaders of the FLQ, and Pierre Vallieres, a Montreal journalist who is a known member of the Front de Liberation du Quebec."

  Galland glanced down at the pictures, then back to Solo.

  "The clerk talked. She said she was given good references by the RCMP to get into U.N.C.L.E. in New York as the Canadian research advisor, and was told, by you personally, to make sure all documents referring to the FLQ be sent to you for approval and validation, before they were to be given to Alexander Waverly. You told her that it would not be favorable for the RCMP if certain undercover operations were threatened by premature actions by U.N.C.L.E. What you really wanted, was to make sure that Alexander Waverly didn't see anything to do with your involvement in the FLQ. Claude Renault checked the Head Office in Montreal, and he came up with the same documents hidden away, as well as a few additional pieces. And the head of the Files section previously worked for the RCMP in your department—Pierre Duquesen, his name is. You must know him. He certainly mentioned your name during his interrogation."

  "I believe I would like my attorney present before anything else is said."

  "That might be a wise move."

  "Yes, Jacques-Yves." Waverly's voice was clearly heard through Kuryakin's open transceiver. "I suggest you get all the help you can in the coming weeks. Claude and I have no intention of blackmailing you as you attempted to do with us and Antonio Solo. We are pressing charges to the fullest extent of the law... What you were after all along was our jobs. Get us out of the picture, and we would be unable to identify you. I must say, I trained you well in the espionage trade. The bombs in the hotel rooms and in Antonio's office were a nice touch. Unfortunately for you, I now have men working for me, such as Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin, who operate at a level well beyond the meager skills you acquired."

  The sound of a pleased laugh came through the transceiver as Waverly continued, "And now, Jacques-Yves, if you would please accompany these two men, I believe this is check—and checkmate."

  Epilogue

  Thursday, November 4, 1965

  4:30 p.m.

  Ward's Island, Toronto, Ontario

  The eye patch was a nuisance. Napoleon leaned down carefully, robbed of his depth vision, and opened the gate of the beach-side cottage. A white picket fence ran along the street front and bordered the sides of the dwelling, but didn't stretch the length of the narrow property that extended all the way to the lake. Illya trailed after him, pausing to study the pale yellow Citroen DS-19 sedan parked in front of the cottage.

  "Bit cliché, isn't it?" Napoleon said quietly, turning to watch his partner circle the new vehicle.

  "That he owns a French-made car?" Illya asked, a small smile teasing the comer of his mouth as he peered at the dashboard display. "Maybe he just likes how it handles."

  Behind him, the door to the cottage opened. At the Citroen, Illya straightened, his attention focused on whoever had opened it. "Hello."

  "Hello. Come in, please." The voice was rich, cultured, traces of accents all mixed in the smooth delivery.

  Napoleon hadn't moved. Hadn't turned around to look at the man. Instead he rubbed at his forehead around the eye patch as though it was the cause of his inability to greet his father.

  Illya stepped into the yard, his face mercifully blank, and as he approached, muttered almost inaudibly, "Don't be a jackass, Napoleon."

  An easy smile pasted on his face, Napoleon turned. "Hello, sir." Unable to move, he stared at the man who was his father.

  Taller than he by a few inches, the man stood alone in the doorway, and a memory flooded back to Napoleon of this same man standing in another doorway, a hesitant smile on his face, arms reached out to a child who refused to go to him. The hair had thinned on top—no longer the thick dark hair of his youth. He wore a black suit jacket over a white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, and dark gray trousers. He was fit, tanned.

  But it was the face that drew Napoleon's attention. Dark, intelligent eyes that were guarded, but transparently so, as if Antonio Solo were preparing himself for yet another disappointment in his life.

  "Napoleon." Antonio looked over to Illya, then back again to his son.

  "Ah, yes... This is my partner, Illya Kuryakin. I asked him to come along with me." Napoleon still stood rooted to the middle of the path.

  Head down, Illya took over. "Perhaps we could go inside. Napoleon was injured slightly while on assignment yesterday, and he would be more comfortable seated." He appeared at Solo's elbow, urging his partner onward.

  The man in the doorway had stepped inside and Napoleon, his headache growing by the second, walked carefully down the hallway that led to a large room at the back of the house. The cottage was small, two bedrooms at the front, bathroom and kitchen in the middle, then the living/dining area at the rear. Large windows let in the light, dimmed by gray clouds that hung over the area. The view was Lake Ontario, wind-tossed and icy. Trees bordered the property in the back, stripped of their leaves, shivering in the cold November air.

  Napoleon sat next to his partner on the long couch while Antonio prepared coffee in the kitchen adjacent. The fireplace crackled with a warmth that invaded the room, but did not seem to touch the U.N.C.L.E. agent. He felt icy, cold with a dread that went back twenty-six years. He knew if there were some excuse he could have found to stand up and walk out, he would.

  Beside him, Illya sat silently and waited, leaning sideways against the couch so that the Russian agent stared out the south window at the lake. When Antonio brought him the cup of coffee, he murmured his thanks, then gestured out the window. "I like this place."

  "I do, too. It is a rental, but I've been here for a few years now. It can be noisy in the summer," Antonio said, his attention on Illya.

  "You are close to the city, yet apart from it." Illya seemed to be computing something. "The ferry must be expensive to cross back and forth each day."

  "It's an expense I'm willing to pay."

  Kuryakin pointed to the boat tied at the rear of the property along a wharf shared with his neighbors on the east. "Do you sail?"

  "When I have the chance. I find it therapeutic."

  "Napoleon has a sailboat."

  Illya's words stabbed into him, forcing him into the conversation as his father turned and stared at him.

  "Is that so? What kind?"

  Napoleon couldn't think of what it was, and again Illya's voice answered for him. "As I said, my friend
was injured only yesterday, and we have driven this morning from Ottawa. I believe the trip here has tired him. Napoleon, what is your boat called? A slope?"

  "A sloop," he corrected automatically, even as he realized that Illya knew well what it was called. "Thirty-footer."

  "Where do you harbor it?" his father asked him.

  "Long Island." Other questions came them, all about the sloop and how it handled, and Napoleon began to relax in Antonio's knowledge of the sport, and in the comfort of talking about his pet hobby. Illya withdrew from the conversation, now that there was one, and a few minutes later, slipped out the back door to take a look at that wharf and the beach.

  "I owe you my thanks," Antonio said suddenly. "What you did for me—with Galland. Confronting him like that."

  "It wasn't just for you," he heard himself answer quickly. "Alexander Waverly and Claude Renault were faced with the same situation. It could have been disastrous for our organization, if it had continued. I had little to do with it, actually. Illya was the one who discovered the leak," he added, wondering why he was trying to refuse any credit.

  Antonio nodded, and looked away.

  "What happened to my mother?" Napoleon asked, before he lost the courage to do so.

  "As far as I have been able to tell, she died in a concentration camp in Europe during World War Two. I left my findings for you with my lawyer—He was supposed to send you a copy. I didn't realize that—"

  "I—uh—didn't open the letter. My mistake," Napoleon said, his eyes fixed on the carpet. "I couldn't bring myself to..."

  "I understand."

  "Do you?" Napoleon jerked his head up, staring at the older man intensely. "Do you understand? Because I the hell sure don't. I don't understand any of this. Why you made the decisions you made, why you left me with my grandparents, why you didn't come back after the war. Where the hell have you been all these years?"