by LRH Balzer
"Not necessary, my boy, but thanks for the invite. Gotta run here, my flight leaves in a few minutes. Say hi to Jim. Later, man."
Napoleon replaced the receiver in its cradle thoughtfully. So, the CIA's Special Security was interested in this reunion... He had no love for the CIA in general, but he did, however, have a grudging respect for a few of their operatives. At least, two of them. He went into the other room and picked up the crumpled telegrams again.
REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED TO TOMMY?
Somebody else wanted him at that reunion and had taken special pains to get him there.
Well, what was the point of having a week's vacation if you wasted it recuperating at home? He could just as easily recuperate in Atlanta. The city was beautiful in May, trees in full blossom.
Say hi to Jim, Kelly had said. Had it been that long since they had spoken? Jim Brown had died in 1962. Three years ago. Initially, it had been difficult to contact Kelly––he and his partner were on a deep extended assignment—and after that, well, he had forgotten. Or maybe he had just wanted to forget. It had become busier at Headquarters, and he had refused to take another partner for months, almost a year.
But time was fluid. For a moment, as he stood in his living room, three years was yesterday and Korea, simply the day before. He shuddered, shaking off the too vivid memories seeping into his consciousness. He would have to find a way of controlling them if he was to go to Atlanta. Once more, he clamped down on the emotion and secured it. He glanced at his watch Only ten minutes before he had to meet the airport cab. He had things to do.
On his way out the door, he noticed Illya's suitcase and coat, still where he had deposited them when they entered the apartment. He quickly called down to Kuryakin's apartment to remind him, but there was no answer. Probably gone to pick up a few groceries. Didn't matter, Illya had a key and could come fetch them later.
Solo turned off the light and locked the door behind him.
*****
Pain slammed him into awareness, jabbing into his chest.
Air. Can't breathe.
Fighting a lack of oxygen, he tried to take a small breath, but coughed abruptly, defeating his next objective to be silent until he figured out where he was. His eyes streamed tears as he successfully bit back any further sound.
What's happening?
He was conscious. Almost. He was curled up on his side. His hands were behind his back, secured somehow so he couldn't move. He was in a dark enclosed space. His head hurt. He couldn't turn his neck. He was gagged, his tongue fighting against the cloth in his mouth. He was inside something that was moving. The speed was regular.
Gas fumes.
He coughed, choking on the material. Shallow breath. More air. His heart was pounding double-time. Shallow breath. In and out. Too much adrenaline. Easy. A familiar ache firmly registered. His lower back still hurt from the fight in London a few days before.
His head. His back. What else?
He shifted carefully, tightening and relaxing each muscle. His gun was gone, as was the holster. And his shirt, he realized with a sigh, shifting to ease the throbbing in his shoulder. Something sharp was digging into his back Resuming the inventory, he noted his pants were still in place, but his shoes were gone and his socks were damp. He wiggled his toes and rotated his ankles as best he could, relieved that they seemed okay.
The sound had changed, picked up an almost metallic ring. A bump. Another. Another. Another. Another. Regular.
A bridge? Which bridge? Slowing down. Stopped. Toll booth, probably. Starting again.
V8 engine. Carpeted trunk I'm in a trunk Expensive car but needs a tuneup. Cigarette smoke tickled the back of his throat. Someone in the back seat was smoking.
He coughed again, cursing this time.
Okay––his last conscious memory? The flight back from London. The airport. Taxicab. The telegram waiting and then an abrupt goodbye.
He had left his partner's apartment, worried. Confused. Walking... down... the stairs...
Did I make it to my floor? I think I did. I spoke with someone... Maybe not.
He coughed, gasping through the gag and the fumes and the fire in his lungs. It must have happened while he was walking down the stairs. He had held a door open for... who?
Stupid. Stupid.
Damn it, I deserved this. I didn't check the stairs. Why didn't I check the stairs? Stupid! I know better. They say the best place to grab someone is in their own building. They get sloppy.
I got sloppy.
Why does this never happen to Napoleon?
Chapter Two
June 1950
"Come in; sit down. I see you are currently in second year at Kingston. Age?"
"Eighteen, sir."
"Humph. Family name?"
"Solo."
"Given name?"
"Lee. Lee Solo."
"L-E-E?"
"Yes... No. Can I change that to Leo?"
"Leo?"
"No? How about Leon?"
"What is your given name, son? On your birth certificate?"
"Napoleon."
"Napoleon... I see your problem. Do you have any middle names? Custer? Hannibal?"
"Arturio John-Patrick"
"Your full name is Napoleon Arturio John-Patrick Solo?"
"Do you want my Catholic name, too?"
"No. I think this is sufficient."
Friday, May 7, 1965. Atlanta
Sitting in a church gave you time to think. And think. And stare off into nothingness.
He'd come to a conclusion.
The foremost trouble with getting shot was––actually, there were many reasons to avoid that little part of life, but the overwhelming nuisance Napoleon Solo could attest to was simple––if your arm wasn't throbbing, stinging, or aching, it was itching, itching, itching.
For example, he knew there were little spiders crawling up and down inside the bandages, tickling the fine dark hairs on his upper arm. It itched. Tiny, wispy feathers were just under his skin, irritating enough to cause a grown man, an experienced agent able to stand the vilest tortures, to whimper with exasperation. It itched. It prickled. It tingled. It itched.
It itched.
Don't scratch it. Stop thinking about it and it will go away, he told himself as he tried to get comfortable in the hard wooden pew.
I can't. It itches, he replied a moment later.
Napoleon shifted and let the injured arm rest back in its sling, looking up at the high ceiling of the church in an attempt not to scratch the offending limb. Come on. Just a few more seconds and the urge will be over. Ten, nine, eight, seven—
The priest had everyone stand for a hymn and Napoleon made certain to accidentally bump his shoulder against the pillar beside him as he did. The blinding jab of pain was far easier to handle than the subtle twirling of each individual arm hair follicle by the army of ants that had taken up permanent residence in the gauze dressing.
You, Napoleon Solo, are a wimp.
He was an uncomfortable, conspicuously-dressed wimp. Only he and the priests were dressed in dark colors. The rest of the men gathered wore the gray uniform of the United States Armed Forces. Most jackets were bulging at the seams as the occupants were no longer the slim young men for whom the uniforms had been tailored. A few hefty men were beyond trying, wearing instead gray suit jackets, with their medals and rank self-consciously pinned on.
His uniform may have been a different color, but at least it still fit him, more or less. While his waist and hip sizes hadn't changed, he had added an extra inch or two across the shoulders, courtesy of U.N.C.L.E.'s gymnasium and a set of weights. His jacket was definitely tighter than twelve years ago, but as long as he didn't hunch forward, it wasn't noticeable.
Standing in the almost-empty church, Solo held open the hymnal with one hand, trying to balance it and make some sense of the words and the faltering music.
"It seems to be do-your-own-thing with the tune," came the irreverent soft voice beside him. "I
t'll never make the top ten. Impossible to dance to."
"Shhh."
"Don't shush me. I'm four months and three days older than you." Kelly Robinson grinned down at him, supplying the old joke between them with a pleased twinkle in his blue eyes. A lock of sun-lightened brown hair fell forward across his forehead and he shook it back, squinting around the room.
"Be serious. This is a memorial service," Solo whispered back.
Robinson snorted––loudly––but he kept his voice low as he muttered, "Yes, of course. In memory of a man who was a traitor and scoundrel. A moment of silence, please. Stone throwing and name calling will be reserved for the dinner festivities."
The hymn was suddenly over, as if everyone had given up, and they sat down, both picking up the program, fingers tracing the list of events in the service. Kelly crossed off the hymn, then fidgeted through another prayer before crossing that off, as well. "You're on after this guy."
"I know."
The man giving the first eulogy had taken the podium looking vaguely familiar. Thick neck, crew cut, Army-type. Eyes cold and determined. Napoleon glanced down at the name. Thomas McGuire.
"Remember Hawk McGuire?" Robinson's voice dripped with disdain. The lanky Californian never wasted energy hiding his emotions when it wasn't necessary. "He was Morgan's second in command. His right-hand man. His shadow until they appeared to part ways several years ago. He's still in Uncle Sam's Army, but CIA thinks he's psycho."
We are gathered here this afternoon to honor the memory of one who is no longer with us. Five months ago, several of us sat with Colonel Alan Morgan in a restaurant in our nation's capital. This afternoon he is with us in memory only and we gather to pay tribute to that memory.
Colonel Alan William Morgan, was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania in April of1912…
"Hey. My partner's from Philadelphia," Robinson whispered again, deftly folding the program into an airplane.
"Quiet. I'm trying to listen to this. Why did you come if you think this is such a joke?"
"Morbid fascination."
"So why did you want me to come? Sadistic thrills?"
"Can we talk about this later?" The quick glance around and raised eyebrows that followed communicated much.
Solo nodded, suppressing a sigh. So there was something more.
Just as he had been picked up by U.N.C.L.E. upon leaving the Navy, Kelly Robinson had been tagged by the CIA as he left Korea, and although he appeared to be nothing more than a hot shot tennis champ and his name did not appear on a CIA personnel list, he was, in fact, a deep cover agent for the organization. They had remained friends over the years, meeting for Easter vacations in Florida while in college in the mid-fifties, treating themselves to a month backpacking across Europe on graduation. As their careers began to dominate their lives, they had seen less and less of each other.
As a young man, Alan spent his summers serving with the army cadets...
"How's Scott?" Napoleon leaned over and asked as the speaker started in on Morgan's teen years and college.
"He was just visiting his mother in the aforementioned city actually. A fine American son. Proud to work with him, I am" Robinson grinned again. "Since I was coming here, he decided to make a quick trip from there to New Orleans for some festival, but he'll be flying in late tomorrow night––we can grab a night cap and you can see him yourself–– then we are in D.C. for a briefing and then off to the Riviera." Eyebrows wiggled gloatingly. "Sunshine and blondes. And you got drafty damp England. Can't your uncle do better than that?"
"My partner and I just came back from Cannes ten days ago," Napoleon countered. "Met some incredible female race car drivers. A little rich-blooded for your taste." The U.N.C.L.E. agent smiled back, miming a tennis racket in his right hand. "I believe that puts the ball back in your court."
"Ouch. You've been around your partner too long. How is old Brownie? As fast as ever with those horrible puns?"
The smile faded abruptly. He felt like he had been punched in the gut. "Jim's dead. Died in Brussels about three years ago." Napoleon turned his attention back to the speaker, pushing that pain back with the rest. It really had been a long time since he had seen Kelly. Over three years since that week the four of them spent in Buenos Aires after bumping into each other while on assignment. A month later, Jim was dead.
Alan graduated top of his class in 1934 and served as a member of the Rangers Unit during World War H, earning him...
Silence from Robinson. He stared out at McGuire, his face suddenly tired and pale as he loosened his tie. "Sorry, man. I didn't know," the CIA agent whispered, his jaw clenched, unable to look at his old friend.
Solo nodded, trying to concentrate on the speech but his thoughts drifted resolutely elsewhere.
A eulogy for the dead. The memorial service, the reunion dinner of the survivors of Morgan's men, the private reception afterwards of the––what did they call themselves––the White Rangers. It was all wasted on Morgan. Jim Brown had deserved a service like this, not Alan Morgan. Philip Koch and Tommy Sorgensen deserved more. So did...
Napoleon took a long deep breath, forcing his hands not to clench. Where was the justice in the world? Had U.N.C.L.E. accomplished anything since its inception—besides chasing mad scientists and screwballs that no one else would handle? How many more innocents would die while he watched, unable to do anything? He had thought it would be different with U.N.C.L.E. since the Network was not bound by the desires of any country in particular, free to do what was best, what saved the most lives. Instead, he found that even as the Chief Enforcement Agent, his hands were still tied in bureaucratic orders, he was powerless to stop destruction, and he still unwillingly sent good men to their deaths.
REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED TO TOMMY.
He let the wave of anger wash over him, then turned his attention to the men scattered about the church, wondering which one of them had sent the second telegram. Most were unrecognizable, but to a few faces he attached uncertain names.
Bob Laurier, already on his way to being bald. Karl Opperdorff, red handlebar mustache half-covering his features, hiding the scars. Was that Paul Coleman, sitting next to Opperdorff? Possibly.
One man, sitting by himself on the far right... A memory stirred, but remained hidden, and Solo frowned. This man had something to do with Morgan. Something unusual. The name escaped him.
On the pretense of examining his program, Solo carefully studied him, trying to picture him twelve years younger. Black hair brushed off his face in a stylish cut, handsome features, tanned skin dark against the white shirt. He wore a plain gray suit with no rank or insignia pinned on the lapel, but Solo's sophisticated eyes recognized the expensive cut and the fabric and he knew how much that suit had cost. The man sat erectly, almost at attention, but with a casual confidence that spoke of breeding and cultural savvy.
He was alone, apart from the others, and was listening to McGuire carefully, intensely, analyzing the meaning behind what was being said, rather than the actual words spoken. There was the slightest shadow of contemptuousness in his eyes as he stared at the man at the podium.
Solo looked back to the speaker, trying to pick up on what was being said. McGuire's prepared words were fervently spoken, but the man looked possessed, a fanatical militant. He was still a soldier, his rank insignias now claiming that he was a colonel in the army. As Solo listened, another memory slowly filtered back that he had been afraid of McGuire those many years ago, yet he no longer remembered why. His time in Korea was a vast fog of physical pain, heartache, and lies.
He looked back to the stranger across the church pews.
He looked back to McGuire.
Solo felt Kelly's eyes on him and he let go of the threads he was trying to draw in. Taking the folded and refolded piece of paper from his uniform pocket, he studied the few lines he had scribbled and again wrestled with how to word his mixed sentiments about Morgan, what to say, what to leave unsaid. He had spent the previous evening grappling
with words and phrases, trying to sort out responsibilities and opinions and feelings. Was it important for them to know Morgan did not die of a heart attack, but was shot to death when he tried to kill the very man they had asked to give a eulogy? On the other hand, was it just one mistake out of a lifetime of heroic actions, the aging soldier jaded by a life of wars, by being passed over for rank and honors, and by the fear of dying with nothing to show for his service?
Damn Morgan for not listening. They could have returned the jewels and the scepter that he had stolen. They could have straightened the whole thing out. But Morgan hadn't backed down; he'd been determined to play out the rest of his plan. Illya had given warning, and then had fired only in self-defense.
Illya... Solo frowned. Morgan had been curious—almost surprised—at the Russian's appearance. The colonel had been polite, cautious. It almost seemed that Morgan had purposefully maneuvered Kuryakin into remaining behind to be caught by the palace guards. But for what purpose? Afraid maybe that Kuryakin would foul up the carefully-laid plan? Morgan had appeared confident that Solo would come through for him in the end. The man knew he worked for U.N.C.L.E., but still felt their old ties would be enough. Why?
Robinson elbowed him as his name was announced and Solo walked to the front to address the forty men gathered to pay their respects to Morgan. As he stared out at the audience, he was strongly aware of the loyalties of the group. Remembering the former things...
He took a deep breath. "I first met Alan Morgan in Korea at the end of 1952. He saved my life on two occasions. I was twenty years old and had spent the previous two years growing up in a world gone mad around me. It was the first time I had faced the death of those I counted as friends and family, and he counseled me and encouraged me. Morgan put the tools in my hand and taught me how to use them. He showed me how the lofty ideas of war were accomplished by blood and sweat and loss of life. The man I knew then was an honorable man who taught me the meaning of courage, discipline, and unwavering belief in a person."
