by LRH Balzer
Which meant he would be back late. "Say goodbye to them for me."
"Will do."
Illya watched him disappear into the house, then stared back at the river, the last fleeting rays of sunlight catching on the waves as the river raced by. The situation was not over. Aside from the information Illya had overheard that afternoon, Napoleon had not volunteered any further details, nor had anyone asked the Russian what he wanted to do about the kidnapping, how he felt, nor explained to him what was going on.
Something had happened during the Korean War. Robinson's questions about Morgan's actions in Korea had been briefly discussed, but skillfully put aside by Napoleon. Names like Tommy Sorgensen fell from the air, but Napoleon snatched them away without comment before they had time to settle. I look like him. And that makes you feel guilty because he's dead and you couldn't stop it.
But it was more than just that. It was more than what had happened to Tommy. That had been addressed at least. Something else had happened in Korea twelve years ago, something Napoleon was not talking about. He could hear it in his partner's voice.
Napoleon was wrong. Illya shivered and wrapped the afghan around his shoulders. Napoleon was seldom wrong, but this time, he was wrong. Something was definitely going to happen.
The sun was gone, the cold white moon slowly rising beyond the edge of the trees bordering the property.
The temperature dropped. A nurse came from the Safe House and rewrapped his bandages, but he scarcely noticed her. There was a strange tightness across his chest and he wondered briefly if he should mention it to her. He felt numb. It is the drugs, he told himself, even though he had taken none.
It was almost midnight before he identified the persistent feeling, the old fear that was buried in his bones. The fear that ran beneath his intellect and his reasoning ability. The fear of being abandoned.
Ridiculous. He was sitting on the deck of what was essentially his home.
But no one was here. And he was alone.
The thought made him feel light-headed and he swore and awkwardly transferred himself into the wheelchair. He was not a child to feel this way. The sensation didn't fade, however, following him into the Safe House and into the sterile room he would be sleeping in. Why are you not sleeping in your own room on the other side of the building? It is accessible. But he had no answer for himself, except that he didn't want to be alone in the empty Graham house. It was not the answer he wanted. He had not felt abandoned for many years, not since coming to America, not since being a part of the Graham family, not since joining U.N.C.L.E. Not since being partnered.
It was a childish fear, really, built upon the bombs and dirt and fires of his childhood. Carved into a toddler's mind, wandering dazed through the streets of a city aflame, pulled along by an older brother who later lay in the ruins of a park in Kiev and didn't move, red trickling down the side of his face.
It was built upon the hours of shivering, concealed by his father beneath damp musty rags in the bombed-out skeleton of a house in Rotterdam, waiting for Kolya to come back for him when the attack was over. Or two weeks waiting for Kolya to retrieve him from where he had been deposited in a crowded underground room filled with men in hiding from the Nazis, while his father directed a series of raids elsewhere. Or months living on the rubbled streets waiting for his father to return from America. Left to wait for Kolya to come back from so many places.
Napoleon is not Mitya or Kolya. And I am not a child. I am twenty-six. I am an adult. He is my partner, not my brother nor my father. It is not the same.
But the fear was still there. It was the same. Some irrational part of his mind insisted that he had just seen Napoleon for the last time.
Chapter 7
August 1962
New York City
He was back in the city finally.
Napoleon walked into Alexander Waverly's office, then stiffly took the indicated chair. He knew how tight he was, every muscle geared and set, ready for the words from Waverly's mouth to shatter the fugue he had lived in for the past forty-eight hours.
"Mr. Brown's funeral has been set for this Friday. You will, of course, be given the day off."
No! his mind shrieked "Thank you, sir. I appreciate the gesture," he said, still in control. "I have the report on the mission here." He calmly handed over the binder, willing his hand not to shake, not to betray him. It didn't.
The only one you can really count on is you. That's what his first partner, Hank Daniels, had taught him. Don't go depending on the other guy. You don't know what's going through his head You don't know when he'll trip you up.
Jim Brown had disobeyed orders. If it wasn't for the fact that Waverly already knew it—that everyone in the Belgium office knew it—it wouldn't have gone in the man's file. But Brown had disobeyed Solo's orders. There was a time for heroics, but that hadn't been it. Damn him.
Two agents came in and joined them at the table. Napoleon nodded in their direction. Section Two, Number 1 & 2. The heads of his department. They laid a roster on the table and opened it.
His head started whirling.
They wanted to choose a new partner for him. Already. They had several choices, and, in front of him, they discussed the merits of each with Waverly. They were sorry, they said, this had to be done, but U.N.C.LE desperately needed a team to go into Turkey next week They wanted him to go, and he needed a partner. He needed backup.
"Thank you, "he heard himself say, "but I will not be taking another partner. I appreciate the effort you have gone through, but I wish I had been advised prior to the decision as it would have saved the department several man-hours. With all respect, Mr. Waverly, I will take someone to Turkey with me, if that is what you require, but they will be backup only. Not as a partner. I prefer to work alone now."
Waverly exchanged looks with the two men heading Section Two, then motioned for them to leave. "You may work alone, for now. But this will not be a permanent situation. Adjust yourself to the fact that you will be working with a partner. We will take this on a case to case basis. For now, we will team you with rookies coming into the department. You will assess their strengths and weaknesses and report to your section head. Temporarily. You will have to take another partner eventually if you are to remain in Section Two. Is that clear?"
Friday, May 14, 1965
New York City
"Yes, sir. It's clear."
Napoleon Solo looked up from his desk, his eyes meeting those of the fresh-faced young agent standing before him. "Good. If Tomo is in the infirmary, take another backup with you, Carl. It won't hurt you, working with someone else. And wear your flak vests––both of you. Don't take any chances. I need you back, with the report, tomorrow morning."
"Yes, sir." The neophyte Section Two agent gathered his paperwork, relieved to be dismissed, half bowing as he left the room.
The intercom sounded, detouring Solo from any depressing thoughts about his age. "Yes?"
"It's Heather, Napoleon. Overseas call for you."
"Do you know who it is? I've got to be at the Polytechnic University for a meeting in an hour."
"The Simpson case?"
"In a way. Yesterday, I found some schematics hidden on a Thrush agent. It turns out they're of a rocket missile engine."
"You make it sound so easy. The schematics that you found yesterday—after a four-hour stakeout and a gun battle. I hear Simpson's sitting down in the holding tank now with his face slightly rearranged and his arm barely attached. You really wrenched it when you cornered him."
"The guy had it coming. I had to explain to Mr. Waverly how I ruined another suit jacket... There's something strange about those diagrams and Professor Hyams said he would look at them for me."
"Too bad Illya's not around. He'd probably figure it out. It would have saved you a trip."
"Yeah, well, he's not here. Who did you say was on the line?"
"She said her name was Zia. Do you want me to take a message?"
"No... No, I
'll take it." He broke the connection, then paused before picking up the receiver. "Solo here."
"Hello, Napoleon. It's Zia." She sounded nervous. Edgy.
"What's wrong?"
"Jud Carter—he called an hour ago."
"What did he want?"
"He asked if I knew an U.N.C.LE. agent by the name of Napoleon Solo. I did like you said, and told him I knew you, but you weren't an U.N.C.L.E. agent; you were a computer salesman. He called me a liar. He said I had plotted to steal my country's treasured scepter with Colonel Morgan and then I had betrayed the colonel and sided with you. He said I hadn't really returned it." She was close to breaking, probably had been crying before she called him.
"Did he say anything else, Zia? Did he threaten you at all?" Napoleon asked, gentling his tone. This was not a woman who scared easily. For her to sound this distraught...
"He said I should talk to you, that I should convince you to hand the scepter to him. That—that it would be best for me if I did." Her voice raised slightly, fear coloring the words. "I don't know what to do."
Her anchor was gone. Colonel Morgan had been a pseudo-father to her, taking her in as a young child and seeing to her education and training. In her country, there were few women who could read and write, let alone drive a jeep and fire a weapon. And, unfortunately, there were few men who would want a woman with those skills. Zia's future effectively ended when Morgan stole the scepter. She had probably spent the last three months discovering that.
"Is there somewhere safe where you can hide, Zia? Can you find a place to stay for a while, out of sight? I can't get you out right now—but I am trying to trace Carter from my end."
"Napoleon, there's more. I asked around about the scepter when you phoned last time, and I found out that it's not in the treasury. We returned it to the premier—Why isn't it there? Carter knows it's not there."
"Maybe the premier put it elsewhere for safekeeping. I'll look into it, I promise. Will you promise me that you'll go stay with some friends? Somewhere where Carter can't find you? Let me know where you end up, and I'll try to get you out of the country, if you want."
"Thanks. I might as well. I know a family near—"
"Don't tell me now — the telephone line may not be secured from your end. Just get to safety. And take care of yourself" He replaced the receiver, letting the frustration momentarily overwhelm him before shutting it off. So Carter was still out there. He had begun to wonder.
For the last five days, Solo's life was split between the office and home. As Chief Enforcement Agent, when U.N.C.L.E. required his services, he was there. He was staying focused. He had cracked two cases this week that had been plaguing the local office for months. Even without Illya's considerable help, paperwork was handed in and research was investigated. He had personally interrogated the Thrush agent, Simpson, and broken him, in more than one way, within half an hour.
Off duty, he was even busier. During the first forty-eight hours after his return to New York, he had been on the phone for several hours each night. Now he was waiting for the results of those calls. He had put together files on Carter's business, Carter's flights around the world, Carter's employees. More files on McGuire's disappearance, Morgan's service reports dating back to World War II, missing artifacts.
He studied them, learned them inside out. He was ready.
But Carter had not made contact, which left Napoleon rather nonplussed about the situation. Was it or was it not a life-threatening proposition for the importer? The silence now, when Solo was so accessible, was puzzling, to say the least. Especially if Carter considered the scepter to be still in the U.N.C.L.E. agent's possession.
Napoleon allowed himself a moment more to consider the problem, then pushed it aside. With a glance at his watch, he reached for the rocket missile schematics, tucked them into his briefcase, and left for his appointment.
*****
9:00 p.m.
It was later than Solo had planned when he stepped into the elevator in his apartment building. The ride up went at its usual grinding pace, and he took the opportunity to organize his evening. There were still a few business items he wanted to complete before heading into the office the next day, and Powhatan was supposed to have called him back with some information an hour previous. With any luck, the man would try again.
And food. He needed to eat something.
The elevator doors opened with a slow creak when it reached his floor, but even as Solo began to react to the figure standing before him, the dark-clothed man reached in, grabbed his arm, and flung him around to hit the wall. He moved with surprising quickness for a man of his size and build.
What the—? Solo twisted to see who it was, but a familiar poke in his ribs made him freeze. There was the unmistakable sound of a hammer falling into place.
"I have a message from Carter," came a whisper, close to his ear.
"It's about time. I've been waiting for it." Solo could see the surveillance camera at the end of the hallway swivel to focus on the confrontation, and he knew that the doorman would be already calling for reinforcements. The enforcement agent shook his head slightly, hoping the former British Grenadier would have the sense to stay out of this and wait for the backups. "Why can't Carter see me face to face? What's he afraid of? Why does he send the hired help to deliver his messages?"
"I'm not the hired help. We are both busy men, Solo. Why don't you just pass over the scepter and we can call it an evening?" The man behind him was strong, well able to hold him immobile and trapped against the wood paneling. Solo tried to shift his weight to the other foot, only to find his previously injured arm twisted behind his back now, further strained by the effort. A trained fighter obviously, with a subtle knowledge of pressure points and wrestling holds. From what he could see, his assailant was wearing a midnight-black overcoat and hat, his face effectively half-hidden in the muted light of the corridor. He was tall and broad-shouldered, enough so that it brought forth a memory Solo had of Illya's description of his captors.
"Is that Carter's entire message, Sty?" Solo was rewarded by a sudden intake of air and an earful of colorful language. An envelope was thrust in his pocket. Solo was yanked away from the wall about a foot and then forcibly slammed back into it, momentarily stunning him.
"Don't move till I'm gone," a faraway voice trickled into his consciousness.
Solo let his body weight slump onto the wall, then used the same motion to push himself away from it. He half-staggered down the hallway after his assailant, but the man was already down several flights by the time he got the stairwell door open.
He reached into his pocket, moving aside the envelope to grasp his keys. He would get into his apartment and call downstairs; it was possible they were able to apprehend the man on his way down. That was, after all, why Waverly insisted his top agents live in U.N.C.L.E. secured buildings.
As he reached his apartment, he slowed. His door was ajar. There was no way Sty could have heard the elevator from his apartment. Either he had finished what he came to do, and was in the corridor when the elevator came up, or else he had an accomplice listening for him. Solo sidled up beside the door, then pushed it slowly open with one arm, the other holding his gun ready.
There was no movement within. The lights were out. He could see the city lights shining through the drapery, the shadows long across the floor. But he could hear breathing, loud and gasping. "Should I come in shooting, or are you going to come out quietly?" he called. Whoever this was, they were not a professional.
"I'll––I'll come. Don't shoot me!" came the immediate response, and a young man, barely in his twenties, tumbled out of the apartment, his raised hands and weak-kneed balance barely able to keep him upright.
"Lenny?"
The building superintendent's son stood shakily before him, his eyes locked onto the carpet, his thin body trembling, but not so much with fear as with anger. There was a dejected glance at the security camera that said he was guilty of something.
<
br /> "Lenny, is anyone else in my apartment right now?"
"No. It was just me in there. I heard the voices in the hallway and I was scared to come out." He didn't sound afraid. He sounded hopeless.
"Let's go inside then. I think we'd better talk." Napoleon glanced wearily at the surveillance monitor, knowing what was probably happening in the lobby at that moment." He reached around the corner and flicked on his apartment light, groaning at the revealed paper-strewn floor. The files he had put together on Carter were lying in ripped shreds on the dining room table where he had left them. In the living area, the desk drawers were half-open, and the bookshelves had been cleared, the contents lying in unorganized piles on the floor. The leather couch cushions were dislodged, but, mercifully, not slit.
"He had a metal detector of some kind," Lenny said, not moving to help Solo. "He ran it over the whole place. He was looking for something. He never told me what."
Solo dropped into the restored couch and gestured to the chair opposite him. "Sit." He waited until Lenny was seated before continuing, "It is vevy important that I find out what happened here. First, why do you have the key to my apartment?"
"Pa has the keys to all the apartments."
That was true enough. "What about the security code?"
"It's on record as well. There's a clause in your rental agreement that says the building superintendent must be able to access all apartments––in case of fire or other emergency." The certainty in the boy's voice led Solo to believe he was probably telling the truth.
"So, he threatened you, and you opened the door for him. Or did he pay you?"
"He paid me. I needed the money."
"Why?"
Lenny rolled up a sleeve and showed Solo the needle tracks.
