by LRH Balzer
The cool blue eyes remained largely hidden behind dark-rimmed glasses as Kuryakin stared back. "I don't need a babysitter."
"Good. Neither do I. Now, suppose you tell me what's eating you and then we can get some work done."
"It has nothing to do with you. If you will follow me, I have already set up Mr. Solo's desk for you."
Kuryakin reached for his crutches and moved quickly down the hallway. He did not look back to see if he was being followed. "We had spent several weeks abroad prior to Mr. Solo leaving and I will handle the paperwork involved on those cases. I have left you the details of the cases that Mr. Solo was investigating privately, as well as a list of all assignments and cases in progress in the Operations and Enforcement Department. Our weekly meeting is tomorrow morning at nine o'clock. There will be representatives from Sections Three and Four at the briefing, so you may wish to reacquaint yourself with them."
Kuryakin paused outside Solo's office for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, then deliberately stepped into the sensor field so the automatic door would open. "If you have any questions, or if I can assist you in any way, I will be in my lab doing some paperwork on the Minigun. My extension is 4121. Unless there is something else you need at this time...?" He let the question trail off, for the first time making eye contact.
"It's almost noon, Illya. May I buy you lunch in the cafeteria?" Dunn asked easily.
"Thank you. But I am not hungry. Perhaps tomorrow."
"How about dinner then? You will have to eat eventually."
"I'm sorry, but I have other plans. Unless you need me for anything specifically, I will be in my lab. I will meet you at Mr. Waverly's office at three o'clock." Kuryakin looked away, then back. "I just don't want to talk right now, Paddy. It's nothing personal. I'm glad you're here. I've just got a lot to do right now."
"That's why I'm here, Illya. To take some of the load. I'm not taking Napoleon's place. I'm just here to help you."
"Thank you. I understand. Maybe tomorrow we can talk about Rotterdam."
"Whenever." Dunn watched the young man move down the hallway, reports tucked under his arm, the crutches propelling him faster than he could have traveled by walking.
*****
Los Angeles
"He's here. Arrived yesterday."
"Dammit... Any chance he has the scepter?"
"He left his hotel room yesterday and we checked it. Nothing. What should I do?"
"He could have left it somewhere... I won't be back for at least a week. The second statue hasn't arrived in the Philippines yet; there was a delay getting it out of China... Let me think... is he alone?"
"Yes. Kuryakin's in New York now, Forster says. He called me last night. We're watching the commie, but U.N.C.L.E. escorted him to and from work yesterday, and we've lost our contact in the apartment building."
"Forget about him for now. Forster can let us know if that routine changes at all. You've got to keep Solo in Los Angeles until I get back... See what you can accomplish by talking with him. If he's out here, maybe he's ready to deal."
"And if he's not?"
"Do what you have to, but remember, we want to walk away from this if we can. They can't pin anything on us yet; there's no evidence. If we can get the scepter, we might be able to get out of this with our heads intact—but not if we damage Solo. He's let someone know where he is. I may not be an expert spy, but I'm not stupid."
"So how do I convince him to stay?? What do you want me to do––take the man sightseeing and to all the fucking museums??"
"Take it easy. Calm down... If worse comes to worse, take him to our warehouse and hold him there. Bring him food and keep him quiet, but don't leave any marks on him. Maybe slip him some tranquillizers, or something to keep him under the weather. Remember those herbs we used on that gate keeper in Cyprus?"
"Sure. I've got some in the warehouse somewhere. Thought they'd come in handy again."
"Good. Call me at the hotel here in Manila if you have a problem."
*****
The telephone rang.
Napoleon turned down the news on the television, and picked up the receiver. "Solo here."
"Did you bring the stuff?" It wasn't Carter's voice, yet it was familiar.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he concentrated on what to say. "I would like to speak with your boss. My dealings are with him, not you."
"Answer the question. Did you bring the stuff?"
Napoleon paused. He had to remain somewhat in control of the conversation. "Sty Jackson, isn't it? Why should I bother telling you anything?"
"I am Carter's partner, if it's any of your business."
"Where is Jud Carter? This is personal. I don't want to speak with a middle man."
There was a noticeable pause, the static on the receiver suggesting the phone at the other end was shifting from one ear to the other. "He's not available at the moment. He requested I contact you when you arrive, and arrange for you to meet him at another location." The response was anticipated, as though Jackson were previously coached. Even the wording was more like Carter's.
"When will I be able to deal with him directly?"
"Soon. Did you bring the item he requested?"
"I would like to speak with him about it first. I've made some arrangements, but I need to talk to Carter before I'll set any of them in motion." Napoleon waited but there was no response, as though he had taken the other speaker off guard. "I need to find out what's in it for me, and for that I want to see Carter face to face. And I want to insure my partner's safety," he added, for good measure.
"I hear Yellow Cab Number 86253 picked him up at 8:00 a.m. and returned to his apartment at 6:25 p.m. for the past two days."
He froze. So they were watching. "Tell Carter I'll deal with him, but only if Kuryakin remains free. If he so much as suspects he's being followed, the deal is off"
"I'll pass the message on. Meanwhile, be ready to leave when you get the call tomorrow morning."
"Leave for where?" Solo asked, but the line was already dead. He slammed the receiver down, then moved out to the balcony, drinking in the night air, trying to stay calm. He wasn't prepared, even remotely. If any of his agents had approached him with a course of action similar to the one he was on, he would have fired them on the spot. His plan was weak, but time was pressing.
He had no confirmation yet, but the odds were the scepter was being hidden by the premier, keeping it from his mother––if she was still alive––or from her faction, if she wasn't. It was too valuable to return to the treasury where it had already been stolen from once before. The premier's welcome had been understandably cool when Zia and Napoleon had returned the artifact, but his gratitude for its safe recovery overcame his initial anger.
Solo's only chance at finesse in this round was if he could question Carter about Morgan and what had happened in Korea, before the scepter was located. And if the stakes went any higher, Solo knew he was out of the game. He had no trump cards left.
Except one. In New York.
*****
Thursday, May 20
The call came at 9:30 the next morning. "There's a Hollywood cab waiting outside. He'll drop you off at an antique store on the Boulevard. Go through to the rear of the store and tell them you know Sty. They'll let you in the back room."
"And?"
"And you can talk to Carter."
Napoleon looked at the receiver as the annoying dial tone rang through the suite. With a last careful check of the various gadgets he had hidden about him, and his cigarette case secure in his jacket pocket, Solo made his way to the lobby and to the waiting cab outside.
The man driving the taxi was intent on the road, as though he was also new to the city, an open map on the seat before him. At least he was a good driver, although a trifle slow. He muttered to himself in Spanish the entire trip, flashing a white-toothed smile as he pulled up at the curb in front of the antique store and put his hand out for his fare. D
ark eyes widened as Solo stepped and placed a bill in his palm, and he nodded happily. The cab signaled and pulled back onto the road, as Napoleon shook his head. "You would last five minutes in New York," he said softly, as the driver stopped to allow a pedestrian to cross the road at the first corner.
The antique store was located in a part of town that was at one time the shopping choice of the upper class. Now it boasted a strip of art galleries and stores selling antiques, Persian rugs, and quality hand-constructed made-to-order furniture. All were businesses that had been around for twenty years or more and had no need to move to a new location; their customers were willing to seek them out here, even though the neighborhood had sadly deteriorated. It added something to the ambience of the purchase.
Solo moved across the litter-strewn sidewalk and into the antique store. A bell fastened to the door chimed as he opened it. An old man––materializing suddenly from the midst of turn-of-the-century, highly- polished bureaus and wardrobes––greeted him and reluctantly directed him to the rear of the store. The proprietor then scurried back to his little nook office, tucked away behind the china cabinets, and buried his face in his waiting ledger books.
The inner door pushed open easily, just enough creaking to fit into its surroundings, and Solo stepped through, his weapon out and ready. Carter was not waiting for him. But the two muscle men on the other side certainly were. The U.N.C.L.E. Special's sleep dart caught the first man, but before he could turn on the second, there was a puff of gas, and Solo felt himself falling down into a kaleidoscopic whirlpool.
Colors tumbled, melting and blending together into nonsense. Voices yelling, the sounds overlapping and distorted.
Napoleon tried to keep his eyes open, but the information being fed to his brain made no sense, the dizziness now overwhelming. He couldn't move, but yet could feel his body moving, struggling; he had no sense of up or down, no bearings of any kind. With his eyes shut, he swore he was plunging end-over-end down a bottomless hole. When his hands found something to hang on to, he clung tight, determined to pull whatever this was down with him. His fingers were pried loose, followed by another brief sensation he identified with no difficulty––his head had been struck.
Solo gasped, fighting to stay conscious and use this new pain to kickstart his brain, but it had already given up trying to catalog the sensations, and shutdown.
*****
New York City
Kuryakin sat up with a gasp, his feet hitting the floor. "Damn." He wiped his face off with the bottom of his T-shirt, feeling the sweat running down his back. He swore again, a long elegantly-crude phrase of his father's that fit the crime.
The crutches were on the floor by the bed and Kuryakin reached for them, trying to balance on one foot as he stood. It was early, he didn't have to get up for another hour, but he had no desire to risk a repeat performance of that nightmare. He ran the bath instead, hobbling to the kitchenette to get some orange juice from the bottle in the fridge. By the time he got there, he almost ripped the door off the freezer––he needed something a little stronger. Orange juice would have to do, however.
The water in the bath was ready. He stripped off his T-shirt, easing his aching body into the soothing water, his feet, red-scarred, crossed over the edge of the tub. He stared at them through the rising steam, not remembering the pain inflicted, but remembering Napoleon's face that morning in the Atlanta infirmary, sitting silently by the bed. The face of a stranger. It had disturbed him, as few things could.
His eyes started to shut as sleep pulled, and after awhile, he shook himself awake and awkwardly clambered from the water. He stood dripping by the tub, blinking back the discomfort. Dizziness passed, and he dried himself off and returned to the main room and pulled on his clothes.
A knock at the door, followed by a recognizable accented, "Room service."
One crutch under his arm, he hopped to the door on his tender right foot and opened it. "You're early."
Dunn grinned, holding up two cups of coffee and a brown paper bag. "I brought breakfast."
"I am so happy," the Russian said dryly. "Do come in."
"Good morning." Dunn grinned again, trying to make it contagious. It wasn't. In fact, Kuryakin's dour expression transferred to the other's face. "Stop perpetuating the myth, Illya."
"What myth?"
"The moody introspective Russian loner, cast adrift in a world that doesn't truly understand him."
Illya scowled and repeated his father's expression, very clearly and precisely.
Unexpectedly, Dunn knew the correct counter rebuttal and said it with a straight face, also very clearly and precisely.
This time, Paddy got a smile. A fleeting, resigned capitulation of a smile, but it counted.
*****
2:00 p.m., Los Angeles
Napoleon opened his eyes long enough to confirm that he was probably alone, before letting the groan escape his lips. Another great plan shot to hell. He rolled over onto his side and tried to force his eyes open again. One eye cooperated, revealing a disheartening view of the uneven cracked floor tiles he lay on. He tilted his head back, letting his depth-deprived vision sweep over the chair and table legs, but there were still no human legs coming into sight, so he took pity on his throbbing head and closed his eye.
Now what?
Good question. I have them exactly where they want me. He laughed at his own joke, then took charge of the situation and sat up, ignoring his body's cry for leniency. One hand went straight to his forehead, bracing himself against a reeling wave of nausea. The other hand grabbed the edge of the table top and he got first to his knees, then he managed to get his feet under him and stand upright. The room swayed like a boat on the high sea. He staggered to one of the chairs and heavily dropped his weight onto the wooden seat.
He was in an office of some kind, but not the one at the back of the antique store, although he had only had a brief glance of that. Trying to coordinate both eyes, he checked out the area. There was a doorway off to one side through which he could see a toilet; it was likely a storage closet of some kind. The toilet was strangely comforting, since his stomach seemed undecided about what it wanted to do.
He continued his survey. Up against the wall, there was a narrow table that doubled as a desk. It was clean, at odds with the room, with neat stacks of invoices and packing slips arranged on its surface. A counter ran along the opposite wall with a small sink. A half size refrigerator sat on the edge of the counter, but since the cord was unplugged, it was unlikely there was anything in it. A coffee percolator, an open bag of coffee, and several very dirty mugs were at the other end of the counter. The third wall had a filing cabinet and a long davenport that had seen better days. In the middle of the room, where he was sitting now, were a table and two chairs. The table had several full ashtrays and the sticky remains of food.
Behind him was the fourth wall and the door leading out of the office. Napoleon stood gingerly and made his way to the door, not surprised to find it bolted shut. A small grated window, about four inches square, was cut into the door at head level and revealed a warehouse of some kind on the other side. A practiced eye, focusing better by the minute, calculated it as approximately twenty-five feet wide by one hundred and fifty long, with a loading door at the far end.
He stumbled back to his chair. A couple of good deep breaths, and Napoleon began to survey the damage. There was little, surprisingly. The gas had done all the work for them; he'd come across it before, but the name escaped him. Illya would know. Napoleon stretched carefully. His muscles hurt all over, but nothing a good hot bath wouldn't fix. A quick glance to the bathroom, but he shook his head. It was too small to house a bathtub or even a shower. Besides, one never knew when company would arrive.
He checked his clothes, but the only things missing was the cigarette case/transceiver from his suit jacket and his shoes. The rest of his gadgets were all intact; the buttons, hidden wires, and such, had all been passed over by whomever had searched h
im. Providing there were no large patrols outside guarding the place, he could walk out of the room any time. He shrugged cautiously, and went into the bathroom to try and clean up.
So where are you, Carter? he thought as he splashed cold water on his face, trying to wash away the lingering effects of the gas. You said you wanted to see me, so what's with the delay? Solo took another tour of the office, checking the cupboards below the counter, but there was nothing but a battered electric flying pan and some garbage bags. Somehow, with all Carter's expensive suits and the thousand dollar wristwatch, Solo had expected a little more class in the warehouse. Maybe this was more Jackson's style. The place looked like it was infrequently used.
He eased his tired body back onto the couch, aching arms wrapping themselves around his stomach. He stretched his legs out, resting his head on one over-cushioned arm of the davenport. On a scale of one to ten, he felt lousy. His head was stuffed, the ache behind his eyes warring with the one on the back of his skull.
This wasn't exactly what he had in mind.
In his imagined version, Carter was supposed to be here. He would push the man against a wall, hold a knife to his throat, and demand his answers. Simple. Easy. No wrinkled suits or bruised knuckles.
He really would have to find out the name of the gas they used on him. Illya would know. It was quite potent, and if these were standard after-effects, it would keep the prisoners subdued and quiet. He certainly had no desire to move very far or make any noise that would add to his headache.
I may need your help after all, my friend. I've botched this already.
*****
6:00 p.m., New York City Headquarters
Paddy Dunn glanced at the wall clock and sighed. It was already time to leave and he had only managed to be at his desk for the last twenty-five minutes. Dunn had been covering for Waverly most of the morning, while the U.N.C.L.E. chief was at a UN conference. The afternoon was spent supervising some rookies from Section Three setting up a stakeout on a possible Thrush-controlled restaurant.
