by LRH Balzer
But he had done that the moment he entered the apartment.
True, he argued, but this was different. This––
His fist hit the kitchen table, interrupting the thought. He had been right. Something else had happened in Korea. Something had happened, for Napoleon had married and the woman had died.
He returned to the doorway, staring at the dining room table and the closed box and the crumpled bits of chrysanthemum on the table. He knew something now that he hadn't known before. It put a strange power in his hands, a strange responsibility that he didn't want and that scared him. He didn't want this knowledge. This was a personal thing of Napoleon's and he had stolen Napoleon's secret. He had gone in without thinking and searched another man's memories.
This was the reason one didn't ask questions. This was the reason one didn't go snooping about asking for trouble.
Because it didn't answer any questions. It just made new ones.
And no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't undo what you had done.
He turned his back and made a pot of strong bitter tea, sitting again at the kitchen table and resting one leg on the opposite chair. Twenty minutes passed. The tea went from hot to indifferent, but remained untouched. When the clock sounded the hour in the living room, Illya stirred and stared at the counterpart in the kitchen, the ridiculous black and white grinning cat clock whose tail switched from side to side as the eyes followed in syncopated rhythm and on its belly, the little mouse on the second hand forever spun in circles. As the hour chimed in the other room, suddenly the mouth of the cat opened and a tongue darted out, a little mouse hanging on to it, then the mouth closed and the mouse disappeared inside. The cat's eyebrows raised twice.
Illya laughed until tears ran down his face and his body was racked with hiccups.
And he went back into the other room. The box's contents were once again dropped onto the table and he finished what he had started.
There was a will, the same one Napoleon had shown him before. Clipped to it was a business card with Napoleon's legal firm's address and phone number. Illya didn't open it. Now was not the time for such things.
He paused, fingering the envelope. The will... Something Napoleon had said during that last phone call... I wouldn't want you to have to dig out my will just yet.
Illya pushed on. There was information on stocks. A list of bonds to be found in a safety deposit box. The key for the safety deposit box. An unopened sealed letter forwarded to Napoleon from another law firm. A university diploma.
He found the telegram. REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED TO TOMMY? From the date on the top, he knew what Napoleon had read that day that had made him so angry and that had made him decide to go to the reunion. It wasn't Morgan. It was for Tommy, the boy soldier who had died while in Napoleon's charge. And Napoleon had never forgiven himself.
Then there was the envelope with the poem inside, again making use of his name and his resemblance to the unfortunate Tommy. Illya studied it carefully, trying to understand the meaning behind what was being said. To figure what Napoleon would have gleaned from the four lines. He nodded finally. Los Angeles. So, that must be where Napoleon had gone, to the Los Angeles Hilton Hotel to meet with Jud Carter.
Los Angeles?
Illya pulled from his pocket the card with the information about the podiatrist he was to see in two weeks. In Los Angeles.
Why did they make him an appointment in Los Angeles? Illya wandered back to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Could it have been a coincidence? Possibly... Unless they knew... that Napoleon was there. Then why not just tell him where Napoleon was?
Alexander Waverly wanted him to go help Napoleon, but couldn't because it was a personal problem and Alexander Waverly had a policy that he did not involve himself in personal problems. He could not order Kuryakin to go because U.N.C.L.E. could not waste time rescuing their agents from personal problems. But it was obvious the U.N.C.L.E. chief was worried or he would not have done this. Surely there were foot doctors in New York City.
So... had he been ordered there to go help Napoleon, or not?
He stared across the room at the swinging clock pendulum on the mantel and tried to sort it all out. No, he decided finally. He hadn't been ordered there. They had left the decision for him. Alexander Waverly, Samuel Lawrence––and Napoleon Solo––had all left it open for him to go.
Illya looked back at the hotel stationery and the telephone number. He could phone and see if Napoleon was there... or he could phone and make reservations for himself. There was something else on the paper, something at the bottom, in Napoleon's almost-illegible handwriting. "FOR HELP WITH TENNIS LESSONS AFTER MAY 21ST CALL 555-3889. ASK FOR DOMINO," Illya read aloud. Napoleon had made arrangements then, for backup.
Wait. Something didn't seem right.
Who was this note left for? Not for Napoleon; he already knew the number. Not for someone to find after Napoleon was dead. It was now two days past May 21st and he had not heard from Napoleon. Napoleon now needed backup. He had intended to be back here by now. He needed someone to call this number for help.
Napoleon, then,... had left this for him to find. Napoleon had known that if he did not return in a few days, that Illya would open the box. Napoleon had even reminded him about the box when he mentioned the will. Why? To point to Los Angeles?
A chill worked through his body and the paper trembled in his hands. He set it down carefully, placing it back in the box with the rest of the documents.
One paper was left on the table. This would have been the last one Napoleon put in.
His eyes reluctantly focused on it. At his name written across the folded sheet. His first name alone; no other.
It was just a note, carefully written on a piece of paper and simply folded in half.
ILLYA:
I COULDN'T ASK YOU TO COME THIS TIME. I'M NOT SURE IF I AM WALKING INTO MY DEATH, BUT THERE ARE THINGS I HAVE TO FIND OUT. THIS IS MY PROBLEM. IT WON'T MAKE A DIFFERENCE TO THE WORLD'S SAFETY, BUT IT'S SOMETHING I HAVE TO DO. I WANTED TO DO IT ON MY OWN, TO AVENGE THE PAST WITHOUT DESTROYING THE PRESENT. I GUESS I DIDN'T SUCCEED. AND AFTER TALKING WITH KELLY, I'VE COME TO REALIZE THAT NEEDING HELP MIGHT NOT BE SUCH A BAD THING.
I DON'T HAVE THE RIGHT TO ASK YOU TO COME, BUT I ALSO DON'T HAVE THE RIGHT TO ORDER YOU TO STAY AWAY. SO, SHOULD YOU DECIDE TO COME ANYWAY––AND ONLY IF YOU'RE WELL ENOUGH AND WAVERLY LETS YOU, BECAUSE IN THAT I ORDER YOU––THEN COME BECAUSE YOU'RE MY FRIEND. IF WAVERLY WON'T GIVE YOU THE TIME, OR YOU CAN'T WALK YET, I WILL UNDERSTAND.
AND IF YOU'RE READING THIS BECAUSE I'M DEAD AND YOU'RE GOING THROUGH MY THINGS, PLEASE KNOW THAT I HAVE CONSIDERED YOU MY CLOSEST FRIEND.
NAPOLEON
When his heart started beating again normally, Illya reached for the telephone.
*****
Monday, May 24
Los Angeles
It had been a long night. Napoleon pushed himself upright, tugging at the blanket.
There were more items on the table since the last time he had been awake. Great. Someone could come in here and shoot me and I wouldn't even notice. Cough medicine. Aspirins. Kleenex. Stuff in a pink bottle that said it would settle his stomach. Sty Jackson was playing mother hen again. He didn't suit the role.
Napoleon opened the tissue box, blew his nose, then opened the bottle and took a mouthful of the pink stuff. It tasted like chalk. Not that he went around eating chalk, but it left his mouth coated with the stuff. It promised to do the same for his stomach, so he decided to think positively. While he could think at all.
He dropped back to the couch, wondering for the first time in a long while what day it was. Either he was getting better, or this was just a lull before the storm. Jackson said Carter would be back on Thursday and expected Solo to supply the goods by Friday. Or else. Or else I'm dead.
What was my original plan again? Oh, right. Get in contact with Carter, overpower him, and ask if Morgan killed my wife. Then have him arrested.
It sounded so
easy before.
I need a new plan.
He tried to reason it all out, but it was hard to think of anything in particular. His thoughts wandered, touching on ideas or past schemes, hoping that something would ring true here. He was an U.N.C.L.E. agent, after all. And not any run of the mill agent. He was THE U.N.C.L.E. agent. The CEA. Number One, Section Two.
If he could just stay awake long enough.
Would Illya open the box? Maybe not. Maybe he would just lock himself in his lab and work until he dropped, his usual reaction to forced inactivity. I should have talked with him. Why didn't I?
How could I? I had locked him in another box and called it Protection. Precaution.
I mislabeled it. More like Paranoia. Panic. How do I let you out, Illya?
Can you let yourself out?
Napoleon slept, his restless dreams waking him every few minutes. The fever was back. His stomach was heaving. He circled from the couch, to the toilet, to the medicine, and back to the couch. He woke again midafternoon, trying to figure out what had brought him to this place.
Carter––knows––something. He had to.
Do it bit by bit. He had several important pieces to this puzzle, but he had no idea where they fit, or if they even belonged. Napoleon stared at his index finger. First... Morgan had stolen an artifact in 1965 in a country far from Korea. There was enough evidence to suspect that he had not been a novice at this, that he had been stealing artifacts for years. Maybe even in Korea.
Second point. While in Korea, Napoleon had worked for Dr. Kim in 1950 and 1951, helping with the country's artifacts, going to sites and packaging them for shipping. Some could not be moved for traditional reasons he did not always understand, so many of them were hidden. He had helped for a few months, until the United Nations understood the importance of this to the museum and to the country and had offered more assistance, and had allowed Dr. Kim and his crew to go into an area immediately after it was liberated.
Third point. The third side to all of this. The reason not only his body ached, but his heart. His open hand closed into a fist. Soon Hee had also known where a lot of the artifacts had been hidden, and she had been tracking down the ones that had disappeared from those spots. She had people checking the black market for vases or jewelry or any items that looked to be antiquities. She had been angry––dark eyes flashing as she paced the small room that was theirs in her father's home––angry that her own people cared so little and angry that foreigners would have so little respect for another's history and tradition.
Soon Hee was not a traditional Korean woman, she knew that. She had been educated in England, high school and college, but had returned to help her father when the war broke out. Soon Hee wore Western style clothing and read the latest American or British novels. She loved any movie with Katherine Hepburn in it. She thought he looked a little like Cary Grant and loved to tease him about it.
But Soon Hee was also Korean, with an inborn grace and timelessness that she did not learn in the West. And to a young man from Ottawa, she was the crown princess in waiting. She was gentle and patient and her love transcended any boundaries they might have had.
He had loved her.
Napoleon lay back on his couch and inch by inch brought her face into focus. Her hair: worn in a mass of short dark curls that framed her face. The eyes: dark, almost black, pools of midnight, with the stars t through when she looked at him. The slight smile tugging at a corner of her mouth when she looked up at him. The dark brown, tailored business suit she wore to public meetings, with the pale ivory embroidered blouse with all the little pearl buttons that so delighted her young husband. The stockings with the seam up the back and comfortable dark shoes that permitted her to walk the long empty halls of the museum.
Where had she been that last day? He had received a letter from her two weeks after her death. Had she gone to post it then? On her lunch break, had she driven to a post office to mail him a letter? Or had she gone to tell someone of what she suspected? The day after her funeral, Napoleon had sat at her desk, and he had seen one of his letters lying open under a paperweight. Had something in it made her wonder about or suspect someone? Had it answered a question for her, or put a question in her mind. She had been on the phone, her father said, all that morning. Then she had told him she would be right back and had left the building.
And then she had been hit by a car. A hit and run, the driver speeding off and never caught. A terrible accident.
Her father had seen to her burial, because Napoleon couldn't think. He didn't know what to do. Rather than cremation, her father had buried her Western style, but requested that she be dressed in a traditional white Korean costume. There were other things that happened at funerals, rituals and incense, but Napoleon did not remember them, for they were not customs he had learned. He had learned about living in Korea. Now he learned about dying in Korea. Tommy. The boy in the village. And Soon Hee.
Unlike most Korean women, she had taken his last name as her own, to show that she really was his wife, and that she loved him, even though he was a foreigner. The people who worked in the museum referred to him as Soon Hee's husband. SOLO SOON HEE it read on her tombstone.
A terrible accident. She was so young. A terrible accident. He had heard those words repeated at the funeral, by the officials who had come to pay their respect, more for Dr. Kim, than for his beautiful Westernized daughter who had married a foreigner. A terrible accident.
An accident?
Was it an accident? He had thought so then. He no longer thought so.
*****
Illya Kuryakin picked up his small suitcase from the baggage turnstile and secured the cane in his grip. Each step hurt, sending sharp pain up the back of his leg, but he scarcely noticed it. His mind was racing, balancing everything he had planned the previous evening and this morning. The phone calls he had made. What had he forgotten? There was something. Something...
Ah. The foot cream. Of course. Well, if he was captured on schedule, they probably wouldn't let him run back for it anyway. He had reached the main doors when he was approached by an agent from the local U.N.C.L.E. office. The man showed his ID, checked Illya's, then drove him to the Hilton.
Waverly again. Illya had not informed the New York office of his travel plans, yet the driver said a call had come in from the east coast office requesting transportation for an agent from the airport to whatever destination he requested. Kuryakin shook his head wearily as he entered the hotel. For a man who was not involved in any of this, Waverly's touch could still be felt.
He went to the front counter, uncertain of how to go about checking in. Would Napoleon actually be in the hotel? He was still registered there.
"Excuse me. My name is Illya Kuryakin. I would like to—"
The girl at the counter cut him off. "Could you spell your last name please?"
"I don't think that is necessary. I am interested if––"
"Does that begin with a C or a K?"
"It begins with a K. But that doesn't matter—"
"K-O-O––?" she began.
He sighed. "K-U-R-Y-A-K-I-N," he supplied. "I would like to inquire––"
"Here we are," she said with a smile, her finger on the name in the register. "You are listed as being in Room 832. Your key, Mr. Kuryakin." She held out a blue tagged key with a triumphal tilt of her head.
Illya reached out and took it, staring at it for a moment before slipping it in his pocket "Thank you, Miss. May I ask––"
"Your business companion, Mr. Solo, has not been in for a few days, but he reserved the room in both your names. He said you might be along later, and here you are! Welcome to the Hollywood Hilton. Please do not hesitate to let us know how we can assist you in making your stay a rewarding one. Do you require help with your suitcase?"
"No. Thank you. Do you happen to know––"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Kuryakin. Mr. Solo did not leave an itinerary. He has paid in advance until the end of the month, so I expec
t he'll be back shortly. We'll be sure to let you know if he leaves a message."
Illya glanced at the plaque on the wall behind her. Employee of the month: Lynda Bretton. The same name was on her name tag. Figures. "One more thing," he began, wanting to see what she would do.
She was good. "Yes?" she asked, looking earnestly at his face, real sadness etched across the hopelessly innocent features as she realized she didn't know what he was going to ask next.
"Have a good day," Illya said, with a smile of his own, as he turned from her and limped across the slippery floor tiles toward the elevator.
*****
Clay looked up from the newspaper he had been buried behind. Amazing. The commie was still walking. But why would he come back, just asking for more trouble? Didn't the blond guy know what they would do to him? What he would do to the Red if they let him?
Jackson had figured the commie would probably show up. When the guy in New York reported Kuryakin was heading for the airport, Sty had ordered him to wait for Kuryakin at the hotel. And here he was.
Shaking his head, he found some change in his pocket and headed over to the pay phones.
*****
Napoleon curled on the couch, the old gray army blanket twisted around his legs. He knew he was in serious trouble if this fever kept rising and these cramps didn't ease up. To negotiate with Carter, he had to be in top form and this wasn't it. The days were ticking away. It was already night. Sunday night or Monday night?
Between the dreams waking him and the frequent trips to the toilet, he had hardly slept. He was dehydrated, but it was too complicated boiling more water to drink.
Illya will come. He knew it; as surely as he knew his partner, he knew his friend would come.
A strange thing to discover about yourself as you are puking up your guts. That it mattered to him. That Illya mattered to him.
My friend. It had a nice sound to it.
Illya would come.
Be careful, my friend. Come. I need help. But please, don't get killed because of me. I'm not ready to handle that yet.
