by LRH Balzer
Scared? Napoleon Arturio John-Patrick Solo?
Try terrified.
Sunday, May 23, 1965, 9:00 a.m.
Los Angeles
"I just got to sleep! Do you have any idea what time it is here? What's gone wrong now?" Carter's voice crackled over the long-distance telephone line.
Sty Jackson glanced at his watch and subtracted eight hours; it would be one in the morning in Manila. Big deal. "Solo's sick. I'm starting to get worried."
"Sick? What do you mean? What's wrong with him? Are you still feeding him those herbs?"
"I did on the first two days, just to keep him disoriented, but I stopped on Saturday. It should be out of his system by now, but the guy's getting worse, not better. I'm not a doctor––how should I know what's wrong with him?" Jackson tapped his pencil on the edge of the telephone. He was tired. He hated waiting. And he hated being saddled with all this while Carter was off in the Philippines, but what choice did they have? "Solo's no good to us dead."
"He's not dead yet. Get that doctor we've used before—What's his name? Hodges?—on the phone—I don't care f it's Sunday; the number is in my address book on the desk—He'll give you something for Solo. Tell Hodges what you gave him—"
"Tell him? About the herbs?"
"Hodges is in so deep already, nothing will faze him. This guy owes me big; he'll come through for you. He has his own set of connections. You'll have the stuff in two hours. Tell him you need it in one hour, though. He works best under pressure."
"Okay." Jackson pulled down the address book and paged through to the "H's".
"The statue is arriving tomorrow and I should be able to get at it either Monday or Tuesday, then make arrangements for it to be flown out of here. I anticipate being back by Thursday. Your number one concern is Solo. Get him functional. If he can't get us the scepter on time—"
"I know. I know.—Dr. Bernard Hodges? Okay, I've got his number. I'll call him."
"Sty?"
Jackson straightened up at the change of tone in Carter's voice. "I'll take care of it."
"If not––You'll have to kill him, make the body disappear, and we'll just do what we can. Cut our losses."
"Yeah. I already figured that. I told Katie that I might be out of sight for a while." Jackson couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice. The deal had backfired. They had lost everything.
"Don't give up yet. We have Solo—make sure you keep the doors locked and bolted. And we've got the Russian under surveillance; we could take him out if we need to, use him as leverage. We have until sunrise next Saturday. Keep calm. A lot can happen between now and then."
"Yeah. Right. A lot can happen."
*****
1:00 p.m.
Napoleon hunched over the cracked toilet bowl, hands gripping the dirty porcelain sides. He had nothing left to bring up, but still his body struggled to purge itself. When the attack finally eased, he dropped back to the floor, one hand shaking as it wiped the sweat from his brow, the other supporting bruised stomach muscles that were screaming from the abuse he was putting them through.
The last few days had passed in a muddled haze. He couldn't think. He couldn't do much more than he was doing now, lie on the davenport and shiver.
There was a noise at the door and he shifted on the couch to stare at Jackson. "What did you give me?"
Jackson sat down at the table, dropping a box of supplies on the floor in front of him. "I talked to a doctor. He said you have the flu."
"You drugged me."
"At first, yes. All day Friday and on Saturday morning. Not now. The only reaction you should have had to the herbs would be to sleep."
"The gas on Thursday... What about the gas?"
"Any aftereffects from the gas should have cleared out of your system in the first six to eight hours. There's also the possibility of food poisoning, but we've eaten the same stuff you have and we're not sick. Maybe it's the water. I brought an electric coffee percolator. Boil your water first. There's a bag here of medication the doctor sent, and some antibiotics. Help yourself." He kicked the box in Solo's direction and lit a cigarette.
"Has anyone ever told you that you make a lousy Florence Nightingale? Why don't you give me a hand getting out of here?" Truth be told, he couldn't walk twenty feet on his own.
Jackson got up and headed for the door. "Solo, you've got four days to get better or I'll have to put you out of your misery."
"A real incentive to getting well."
"Whatever works." Jackson blew a cloud of smoke his way, ignoring his patient's coughs. "There's food in the box. Some bread and cheese."
When Napoleon stopped coughing, Jackson had left, the door locking him in. Ridiculous really, Solo thought, peering into the box. I have a button compass on my jacket, three explosive buttons on my shirt, detonators and a garrote on my belt, two lock picks, and some other odds and ends, and I couldn't escape from here even if I wanted to; I'd pass out before I got out of the compound.
Trust something as innocuous as the current flu bug to interfere with his plans... Napoleon had been spared for years––in fact, he couldn't recall the last time he had been sick, watching as his colleagues came down with each season's variation of cold and flu, taking great delight in lecturing them on vitamins and proper care. Even Waverly had finally succumbed to one virulent strain a few weeks previous, probably exposed to it during his stay in the hospital during the Dr. Dabree case.[15]
Solo fumbled with the pill container and swallowed the medication dry before sinking back to the couch. He wrapped the wadded-up blanket around his shoulders, shivering under its meager protection. His clothing stank after three days of imprisonment in this room and were filthy from his bouts of vomiting and diarrhea. He was hot. He was cold.
Miserable didn't quite cover it.
He drifted for a while, sleeping and waking every twenty minutes. The room smelled like the shack they had been held in as POWs, but it was doubtful that Carter or Jackson had planned that. Blood, urine, infection. Like the cell in Omegar Prison where he had found Illya's beaten, unconscious, blood-smeared body a few months previous. The memory was too close, too painful, so he retreated further back.
To Tommy's body, beaten and abused.
Groaning, he rolled from the couch and crawled back into the tiny lavatory.
*****
New York City
6:00 p.m.
The U.N.C.L.E. cab returned Kuryakin to his apartment and he struggled up the front stairs with his briefcase and cane, stubbornly refusing the assistance of the doorman.
The old grenadier handed Kuryakin a sealed envelope. "A kid delivered this for you. Said a man gave him a dollar. The kid couldn't describe him at all, seemed more concerned that I would try and cheat him out of his bloody dollar. I had it checked; no explosives are evident." Security had been increased in the last week. Everyone seemed to know that Kuryakin was a possible target.
"Thank you. I'll open it in private." For a moment, Illya thought it might be a letter from Napoleon, but he didn't recognize the handwriting. The brief surge of hope only crashed his spirits further. He entered the elevator gloomily, pressed his floor button, and opened the envelope.
WE HAVE SOLO. BRING THE SCEPTRE.
Six words he could do nothing about. Even if he had the scepter, he wouldn't know where to take it. The writer of the note had assumed that he knew where his partner had gone. That Napoleon would have told him.
He made some dinner but ended up feeding it to the cats outside. For almost an hour he sat at the table and tried to figure out what had happened. What options he had left. What he could do next. And what he wanted to do next. Alexander Waverly had taken away all his options... yet the U.N.C.L.E. chief had given him more, however unintentionally.
He stood in the corridor outside Napoleon's apartment, keys in hand, and stared at the closed door. He didn't have to look at his watch to know he'd been there five minutes already.
So why haven't I gone in?
> He had plenty of reasons: Because he had no idea what he was looking for. Because he had no idea what he would find. Because he wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do. Because he wasn't sure what Napoleon would do if their situations were reversed.
Because this will effectively end our partnership.
Illya closed his eyes, unable to believe he was going to break the most important rule he had established in his life. He was going to break a promise, go back on his word, disobey the order of a superior. He was going to throw away any trust built between them.
Well, if he was going to do it, then do it. Enough of this irresolution.
He punched the code in. The key rattled in the lock, sticking at first, but it was only his hands shaking. It was ridiculous how nervous he was. The door opened, swinging silently inward, and he stepped inside. Like a thief in the night.
Perhaps not a great comparison, considering what he was planning on doing.
The apartment was the same as he had left it the previous Tuesday. Dark and empty. His cane thumped on the carpet almost soundlessly as he limped through the living room, not sure of where to look.
The sounds were all wrong. They weren't the sounds he associated with Napoleon's apartment. They were too loud. The battery clock on the wall by the entrance ticked frantically as the spidery red second hand traveled in a circle around and around. The hourglass clock on the mantel tock-tocked as the pendulum bounced back and forth. A grandfather clock bonged quietly, towering in the corner by Napoleon's desk. From the kitchen, he could hear the refrigerator humming and the low whine of the electric clock on the wall there.
Napoleon has a lot of clocks. He hadn't noticed that before. There were a lot of things about the apartment that he hadn't noticed before.
He lay the cane down on the coffee table and glanced around. What exactly was he looking for? He hobbled over to the desk, tripping the lock and sliding open the middle drawer. The Special was gone, of course. But not the attachments. Or the extra rounds. In fact, the drawer had hardly been touched. It was possible Napoleon had taken a few of the smaller devices, but Illya had no way of telling if any were missing.
What was Napoleon planning on tackling?
Illya crossed to the hall closet and opened the door. Only one suitcase was missing. The Navy uniform was there, pushed against the far side, behind the winter coats. What would Napoleon put in one large suitcase? It would depend on where he was going. Back to Atlanta? To see Zia? To Korea?
How many clothes had Napoleon actually taken? What type of clothes: outdoor, evening wear, cold weather, hot weather? Easy enough to find out. The Russian moved to the bedroom and stepped into it slowly, staring at the bed. At the clips of ammunition left there on top of it. At the lone bullet cleared from the Walther's chamber. Sleep darts, then. Napoleon had taken only the darts, standard procedure in these circumstances, but never a comfortable decision, especially when you were up against men with the real thing.
He saw the imprint of the suitcase on the bedspread and wondered how long Napoleon had stood there before he made the decision to leave the bullets behind.
What are you expecting to find?
Illya opened the closet, always amazed at the long row of suits. Black, brown, gray, navy, checked, patterned, and tweed. He tried hard to imagine what suits Napoleon had been wearing lately, but for all his trained observational skills, it wasn't something he had taken time to notice. Suffice it to say there were three hangers empty in the middle. Probably, in all of this, three lightweight suits were missing.
He started to close the door when he saw the box.
Illya, come here for a minute. I should show you where my papers are, should anything happen to me.
If something happens, to you, Napoleon, it has probably happened to me first.
Maybe. But just in case... I keep the box on the shelf in my closet. It's fireproof so it should withstand pretty well anything.
The closet?
The box, blockhead
Blockhead? What does that mean? Oh, never mind. I don't want to know.
Well, that figures. It's an expression for someone who is a little thickheaded. Now, pay attention. Here's the box. The combination to open it is 9-14-11, the same as your initials, I-N-K
My initials? Why my initials?
So that you remember the combination easily.
I'm not going to need them, Napoleon.
I certainly have no plans for you to need them, but I want you to know where this is, just in case you do.
Why me? Why not your lawyer or a relative? We've only been working together a few months.
It's easier this way. Besides, there are things in here that mean a lot to me and I don't want a stranger to go nosing through them.
Why? What's in the box that's so valuable? Your medals?
Yes, and my birth certificate, citizenship documents, service papers, my college diplomas, a few stocks simmering, my lawyer's name. A list of people that would need to be called. My will. Some letters. A few other things. In case you need them. In case of emergency. Okay?
Okay. I'll remember.
Thanks.
Thank me later.
The point of all this is that I won't be here.
Oh.
Illya? You okay? Illya... want a drink?
My head hurts. I want a lot of drinks.
Illya lifted the box down and placed it on the bed. It sat there, black metal against the white coverlet. In case of emergency, Napoleon had said. In case I need it.
Napoleon was either dead already, or he would be dead soon. There was no leeway for doubt in Illya's mind. There was a certainty about it that had been eating at him for almost two weeks. Since the last time he had seen Napoleon on the deck at the Safe House in Washington. And especially since returning to New York to find his partner gone.
Well, if U.N.C.L.E. did not want his services now, maybe Napoleon could use him. Now all I have to do is find him and ask.
And so he had broken into his partner's apartment and was looking for clues to his whereabouts.
If he is dead, I'm just following his instructions.
If he is not dead... Does this constitute an emergency? I have no proof except the ice in my veins.
Before he could change his mind, Illya thumbed the combination lock, his fingers twisting the numbers until, with a loud click, it opened. Step one. Step two was lifting the lid and that was more difficult.
He carried the box to the dining room table and carefully set it on the high gloss surface. The thought skimmed over his mind long enough to leave a wry smile on his face: I wonder if it's booby-trapped?
He lifted the lid. It was only half full. He dumped the contents on the table. What had previously been on the bottom, now at the top of the pile, were the Canadian birth certificate and the U.S. citizenship papers, giving Napoleon equal status in either country. Several photographs: A picture of a young couple, his parents probably, with a baby in their arms. There was no inscription on the back. A picture of a white haired couple on the deck of a yacht; the back read "Nonno e Nonna Solo"––his grandparents. Some letters bundled together with several pictures of Napoleon at various ages with another older couple, most likely his maternal grandparents, the ones he had lived with.
Kuryakin smiled thoughtfully. There was now a box on his shelf pushed to the back. There wasn't much in it: His Soviet birth papers, two old photographs (one of his family, taken in Kiev, in early 1941, and one of four little boys, taken in Holland a few years later), a leather-bound photo album that Trish Graham had given him of pictures of his father, one thin Russian Bible, and his United States Citizenship papers. An old necklace passed down from father to son, the icon medallion rare and precious. And a ring. Illya had worn his father's ring for years, but now, more often than not, it sat in the little metal box wrapped in a tissue. On an assignment once, he had been captured and the ring had been taken off. He did not want that to happen again.
He turned back to Napoleo
n's box, going through the papers methodically. There was a photograph signed to Nappy with love from someone named Betty. Some letters from her, dated September to December 1950.
Service papers. He tried to sort his way through the documents. Copies of transfers and commendations. Induction papers. Termination papers. The Cayuga was mentioned, the vessel Napoleon had talked about. There was another multi-page document that listed Solo's comings and goings during his service; Illya flipped through it until he came to the part in Korea. The dates were all there. The time granted to Alan Morgan––Unspecified Duty with the United States Army. The unit was listed.
Another bundle. Illya undid the string tying it together carefully, as the paper seemed thinner, worn. He recognized the writing on the top paper as Korean, but it was a language he didn't know and he tried to puzzle out its purpose. It was a legal paper of some sort, with Napoleon's name on it and his signature. And another name, Korean, and signature. And a date: December 15, 1951.
The paper beneath it, stapled to it, was a handwritten marriage certificate on the personal stationery of a UN chaplain. Napoleon "Lee" Solo and Soon Hee Kim. Married December 15, 1951.
Married.
Married? Napoleon was married?
Illya blinked and read the documents again, but it was quite clear that this was a legal marriage certificate. Napoleon had, at age nineteen, in a foreign country, in the middle of a war, married.
The next paper was even more startling. Napoleon was also widowed. The telegram, dated January 19, 1953, advised Sub-Lieutenant Napoleon Solo that his wife had been killed in a car accident in Seoul, outside of the National Museum where she worked. Attached to it was another legal Korean paper, probably the death certificate. There were only two words he recognized in Roman letters: Solo Soon Hee. A dried chrysanthemum fell from an old yellowed envelope, its pieces fluttering around the table.
With a start, Illya gathered up the rest of the papers and stuffed them back into the box, shutting the lid and walking into the kitchen, away from it all. He sank down to the small table. It had been a mistake. He shouldn't have done it. The box had been private. He had violated Napoleon's privacy.
