Collection 5 - My Brother's Keeper

by LRH Balzer

  "And?"

  "And... well, you know the Agency's opinion of U.N.C.L.E. The whole idea of an international organization gives them the willies."

  "So... what are you saying? Did you or did you not tell them what was happening?"

  "I started to tell him, but he interrupted and said he wanted us to stop in Durham, North Carolina on the way and deliver the package. The agent can't make it up to D.C."

  "So we have to drive?"

  "Yeah. Hey, it won't kill us."

  "It won't if I'm driving. If you drive..."

  "Who's the one who can't look where he's going? That bruise on your jaw is now more spectacular than it was an hour ago. How come you didn't see his fist coming?"

  "Hey. It was his head! I told you before. My hands were full, trying to carry him and move quickly."

  "It's still swollen." The man gently tilted Scott's chin upward to get a better view. "I'll go find an ice bag for it."

  "You just want to go talk to the nurse," the black man accused.

  "Just because she's my flavor, not yours, is no reason to be jealous. I saw you eyeing the receptionist."

  "Hmm. She was nice. I wonder if she'd consider defecting to our side," Scott said with a wicked smile of his own.

  "Since when is U.N.C.L.E. the other side?"

  "Get out of here, man. Don't take all day, though. If we have to drive, we had better be on the road in a couple of hours."

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah." With a backhanded wave, the man disappeared through the door and Alexander Scott turned slightly, his eyes widening as he saw Kuryakin was awake.

  "Hello, comrade. How are you feeling?"

  "What time is it?" Kuryakin asked, his eyes leaving the man's face to stare at the bright light coming in from the window. "Is my partner back yet?"

  Scott glanced down at his watch. "It's just after ten. And, no, Napoleon is not back yet. Where did he go? He had left before we woke up."

  Kuryakin remained silent, his eyes moving back to the CIA agent.

  "Did Napoleon tell you where he was going?"

  Trust them, Napoleon had said. "He said he was going out."

  "Did he say where? Is he heading out to the meet alone? He was supposed to contact us first. Kelly said they had decided that he shouldn't go."

  "Solo said he was going out," Illya repeated.

  "He didn't say where he was going?"

  Kuryakin shook his head. "He said he was going out."

  "That's all?" Scott looked at him incredulously, as though he was unable to believe the U.N.C.L.E. agent's words.

  Or maybe he thinks I am lying to him. "That is all."

  Scott stared at him in silence, then asked quietly, "Did you ask him where he was going?"

  "No. If I needed to know, he would have told me." Again, Illya shifted under the astonished stare. "He told me that Alexander Scott and Kelly Robinson were in the building and to expect you. And that you are CIA." He tried not to make it sound like an accusation, but didn't quite succeed.

  Scott smiled. "Don't worry. We don't eat the heads off rats for breakfast. What about you? Are you an American now?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "Just curious where your loyalties lie. You are playing with a different team now."

  Typical Agency paranoia. "My loyalties lie with U.N.C.L.E., where they always have."

  "Just U.N.C.L.E.? No other countries? What about your adopted country? Or the Motherland?" Scott waited for an answer, but there was none forthcoming.

  Illya stared back at him. What? Another interrogation session. Here? Napoleon had said they were trustworthy. Trust them—As if he knew I would have difficulty. Perhaps he was reading too much into the man's questions. It was hard to think of what to say. He changed the subject. "I told my partner that a man named Carter was responsible."

  "Carter?" Scott looked up as Robinson returned to the room and tossed him an ice bag. "Illya here says it was Carter."

  "So where is Lee?" the other man asked.

  "All Illya knows is that Napoleon went out."

  "But where to? Didn't he give you more information than that?" Robinson asked with a frown.

  Kuryakin fought back an angry retort. "No. He does not answer to me."

  "But you're his partner. He said you were his partner," Scott persisted.

  What do you want from me? I do not know where he went. "I am his partner," he answered carefully. "But he does not answer to me."

  "Who does he answer to?"

  "Our superior."

  "Who do you answer to?"

  "Our superior. And my partner."

  "You answer to him but he doesn't answer to you? Oh, there's a good system." Scott moved away from the bed.

  "Don't mind him," Kelly said in a conspiratory voice. "You just rest up. I'm sure Lee will be back soon. He's probably gone to the hotel to meet with someone. Why don't you get some more sleep, and we'll let you know when Lee returns?"

  Illya nodded, closing his eyes and letting the drugged heaviness settle back over him, dulling the painful throbbing of his feet. And his head.

  Who is Lee? was his last conscious thought.

  *****

  11:00 a.m.

  Napoleon Solo stopped pacing and stared down at the telephone that had been made available for his use in one of the offices at the Atlanta U.N.C.L.E. branch. Since his return ten minutes previous, he had been trying to figure his next move. How do I do this without scaring Zia half to death?

  Zia had been Alan Morgan's aide for many years, but the colonel had not hesitated to draw her into his plot, knowing she would do whatever he asked without question. She also knew about the scepter, and had been involved in its theft and return, and she needed to be warned.

  Solo frowned down at the piece of paper in his hand. Her reception of his call might be anything but cordial. He had intended to keep in touch with her, but one thing had lead to another and he had made no effort to contact her for the past three months. His affair with Serena had happened shortly after Morgan was killed, and any long distance relationship with the beautiful Middle East soldier had been pushed quickly from his thoughts.

  He finally called the switchboard, gave them the long distance number, and asked for the call to be put through. A few minutes later, his line buzzed and he picked it up.

  "Yes? Hello?"

  He recognized her voice. She sounded wary. Morgan's secured line would seldom ring now, and she would naturally be suspicious. "Zia? It's Napoleon Solo."

  "Napoleon?—Napoleon, where are you? Are you here?"

  "I'm in the United States."

  "I haven't heard from you since... since you were here last. After he died. Is something wrong?" Her voice seemed calm. A trifle cold, but that was to be expected.

  "Zia, I want you to be extra careful for the next little while. Something's up. Some of Alan's old war buddies are out to avenge his murder. And a man by the name of Carter has been asking questions. I thought you should be aware of the situation. We've had... an incident."

  "What happened? Are you okay? Were you injured?"

  "Illya was hurt. They're fixing him up; he'll be okay. Zia, I'm serious. Be careful. Don't mention my involvement with U.N.C.L.E.—or Illya's involvement––if you can. I don't know what the backlash would be on you if they found out."

  "I know, I know. I remember what you told me your cover was. You were simply a computer salesman who stopped by to see Colonel Morgan, at his request. Don't worry. I will make it sound convincing if they come here. You mentioned Jud Carter—Is he okay? I haven't seen him for a while. I was getting worried."

  Solo pulled the phone away and stared at it, then returned the receiver to his ear. He cleared his throat before replying. "I think the appropriate response is: Carter had something that belongs to me, but I have it back now."

  "He's a nice man. Handsome, too." Solo could hear the infatuation in her voice. "Jud always brought gifts when he came to visit Colonel Morgan."

  "I bet he did," he mumbled,
not quite loud enough for her to hear. "Zia, please don't tell Jud I called. If I see him again, I want to surprise him. Oh, and if he asks about the scepter, just tell him that you and I found the scepter after Alan Morgan died and returned it. Don't mention that you know Morgan had stolen it."

  "Oh, I won't say that. I still believe that Colonel Morgan must have been ill those last few days—too many responsibilities placed on his shoulders from helping here, and he just broke down under all the problems. It just wasn't like him to do that. I wouldn't say that to Jud. He and the colonel were so close, like father and son."

  "Did they visit often?"

  "Every few months —for as long as I can remember, actually. Sometimes Colonel Morgan would travel to another country to meet him, and sometimes, a few times a year, Jud would come to our country."

  "Well, just be careful, Zia. Remember what I said."

  "I will, Napoleon. Say hello to Illya for me and tell him to get better soon. And say hello to Jud for me, if you see him."

  Solo said his goodbyes quickly and hung up the phone. So, Zia knew Jud Carter. And Carter regularly visited Morgan.

  What did Hawk McGuire say about Carter's occupation? That he was in the import/export business. It fit then, Carter wanting the scepter.

  The New York agent made several more calls, all requesting information on Alan Morgan, as well as Jud Wilcox Carter and his associates, directing the findings to his office at Headquarters in New York Then he put a call in to Paddy Dunn at the Rotterdam office. And then he called Alexander Waverly.

  The Head of UNCLE North America was not pleased. "Need I repeat that this is a personal matter, Mr. Solo? I have stepped in once and made arrangements for Mr. Kuryakin and Mr. Scott to be transported to our Atlanta office."

  "That went smoothly. My commendations to the Section Two agents involved."

  "And you, Mr. Solo, are expected back in New York on Monday, as previously agreed."

  "I would like another day or two, sir. I would like to try and locate Jud Carter."

  "On what authority? UN.C.L.E. will not backup your personal vendetta. You gentlemen are well aware of our policy—"

  "I realize that, sir." Solo felt his jaw clench as he bit back a further retort. "I would like to go to the local police and press charges—"

  "To what avail? The moment these men transported Mr. Kuryakin over the state line, it became a Federal offense. It is out of the hands of the local police. U.N.C.LE. policy clearly states that we will not step in and assist our agents who have become involved in personal matters in whatever country they find themselves stationed. You are required to conduct yourselves in a manner fitting an agent of the Network at all times. This office has need of your service, Mr. Solo. Since Mr. Kuryakin has been negligent and allowed himself to be kidnapped from his own apartment building, he must face the consequences. It is not your concern. Let him rest at home and come into our offices only when he is prepared to fulfill his obligations."

  "Illya was held hostage because of me––"

  "Thrush could just as easily compromise you, then. Your duty comes first, Mr. Solo. At all times you are first and last an agent of UN.C.L.E. I expect you back in New York Tuesday morning, no later. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, sir. I'll be there."

  *****

  Alexander Scott stared out the window at the warm Atlanta morning. Magnolia trees lined the wide boulevard, their heavy white blossoms faintly waving in the breeze. The U.N.C.L.E. offices were attached to a corner grocery story in an older part of the city, a suburb to the north of the downtown area. On one side of the grocery, facing the residential boulevard, was a laundromat. On the other side, facing the thoroughfare, was a small cafe. All three were agent entrances. U.N.C.L.E. occupied the basement, the stores, and the second and third floor where Scotty now stood. It was a peaceful street, dogs barking, children on bicycles.

  Through the thick glass pane, he could hear church bells ringing. Scott smiled, thinking of his mother at her Sunday service at her Baptist church in Philadelphia, marching up the front stairs with her big Bible under her arm, her welcoming smile ready for whomever needed it.

  The young agent in the infirmary bed stirred, and Scotty glanced over to him, but there was no further movement. He looked back out the window, at the blue sky and streaks of clouds. He was a city kid, used to buildings and busy streets and freeways and airports. This was pleasant. But danger had been brought into this quiet neighborhood, because U.N.C.L.E. was there. Contaminating it even as they strove to protect it.

  A noise at the door, and he spun automatically, relaxing as Solo entered, Kelly Robinson trailing behind him. Both men looked tired. Kelly he could read better: the edgy pacing squinted eyes, hands nervously reaching for the sunglasses hooked on the front of his blue and white striped pullover, then, instead, scratching his elbow. Kelly felt uncomfortable here, just as he did, and wanted to get on the road.

  Solo, on the other hand, was cool, almost detached. Nothing of the angry, drunk, and disoriented man of the previous evening was visible. But his movements were wrong, even to Scotty's eyes. He moved and spoke as though he were experiencing a two or three second delay between thought and action, like a caller on a radio show. He had changed his clothes, again, now wearing a lightweight gray suit and dark tie that he was comfortable in. Professional. A bit stodgy. The office attire in this building was variable, but probably more casual than in New York, and Solo would want to keep appearances.

  Well, Kelly and he were just as professional, Scotty thought smugly, in their white jeans and pullovers and windbreakers. The only time he wore a suit was when they were called into a government office for a meeting and it was required.

  Kelly gestured toward Solo. "I found this guy downstairs."

  "So where's the coffee? You went to get coffee––where is it?" Scotty replied automatically.

  "I didn't find any."

  "And you call yourself a spy? Can't even find a cup of coffee? Not even a vending machine?"

  "If you want to go look for it, go ahead."

  "Well, maybe I will. There's a cafe downstairs––"

  "Not open till noon on Sunday. I checked."

  "Man said there was a cafeteria on the lower level."

  "Bet you five bucks you'll get lost. Remember Taipei?"

  "That's not fair, man. Taipei was––"

  "I'll order you some coffee," Napoleon interrupted. He moved to the wall intercom and made the request, then hung up the receiver and turned. "Has Illya woken up since I left?" he asked, glancing from them to the still figure on the bed.

  "Briefly. Told us about Carter, but he drifted off after a few minutes. They're keeping him high on painkillers." Kelly locked gazes with Napoleon. "You didn't tell him where you went."

  "I went back to the hotel and waited in the restaurant as per the instructions in the note, but Carter didn't show."

  Scott shrugged. "There's no threat for him to use now. His insurance disappeared."

  Kelly turned back to stare out the window. "No sign of him? Did you talk to anyone else?"

  "There were a few men waiting at the front desk to check out, but no one remembered seeing him this morning. They said Hawk McGuire had been asking around for Carter last night. Seems he had lent a tape reel to him and Carter hadn't returned it."

  "A tape reel… Did you talk to McGuire?"

  "Tried to, but he was dead when I got there."

  Scott watched his partner's mouth drop open. It wasn't often Kelly betrayed such obvious shock.

  "Tomahawk McGuire is dead?"

  Solo rubbed at his forehead. "Quite. Single bullet through the brain. From the looks of the scene, it was someone he knew."

  "Carter probably."

  "There were a lot of the Ranger unit heading out around then. It could have been one of them, but I'm sure most of them were just trying to get out of the hotel before they were trapped into McGuire's scheme. The man is––was––dangerous; he knew how to manipulate people." />
  "If anyone was in the business, there is no way they'd give that psycho information. And if they aren't in the spy trade, they're trying hard to stay out of it.––I assume there was no room reserved in Carter's name?"

  Napoleon shook his head, "None. No one there was chummy with him, either. Carter was there on Friday and Saturday, he was at all the functions, pleasant, friendly, he was seen, men had drinks with him, we played golf and had dinner with him, but no one seems to know anything about him. All I've got so far is that he is an import/export dealer. And he apparently remembers Tommy." Napoleon walked over to the bed finally and looked down at his sleeping partner. "How long has he been out?"

  Scotty shrugged again. "Half an hour." He pushed away from the wall he'd been leaning on and came to stand beside Solo, dark eyes unabashedly studying the U.N.C.L.E. agent, trying to decipher what was going through the other's head. "What are you going to do?"

  Aware of the scrutiny, Napoleon looked back at him, a casual smile on his face. "About what?"

  "Carter. McGuire's murder. Illya. The abduction. Tommy."

  "There isn't much I can do."

  Scott heard the tension in the words and kept his own tone light, but refused to back down. "You can press charges, man."

  "No. I've discussed it with Mr. Waverly, but the moment Illya was taken across a state line it became a federal matter, which means the FBI would be involved. Too many questions would be asked. It would put my job, my cover––both our covers––at risk. As an Enforcement Agent with U.N.C.L.E., I don't have the luxury to do that. You've been in the same situation. You know what it's like."

  "Can U.N.C.L.E. have it investigated for you?" Kelly asked.

  "U.N.C.L.E.'s not in the habit of coddling its agents. And this doesn't constitute a world crisis."

  "But one of their own agents was attacked––"

  "A personal matter. Not Thrush, not—"

  "And they don't give a damn," Scott said quietly.

  "In the greater scheme of things, what does it really matter?"

  Scott shook his head, looking from his partner to Solo. "I don't believe you, man. So Carter beats up your partner, tries to blackmail you, and walks away free."

  "I didn't say that."