by LRH Balzer
"I want the scepter." Carter gestured for Jackson to release Kuryakin.
There was a strange baffle of wills going on here and Napoleon wasn't sure what his next move should be. Illya was definitely telegraphing some message to him. This was not Illya's usual style, almost engulfed with fear. Unless Carter had frightened him badly enough before––what else had Carter done to him? He felt the anger move into his jaws.
Then Kuryakin was on his feet, but he'd only gone a few steps before he was caught again by Jackson—too easily––and set roughly on the chair.
"Let him go, Carter." Solo let the anger show now.
Jud Carter laughed, leaning jauntily against the door, shaking his head. "What do you do, Solo? Go around collecting little blond-haired soldiers to protect? Does it make you feel important? A hero?"
Something twigged, then disappeared. "Let him go. It's me you deal with, not him. I'm the one you need to get the scepter. Don't hurt him." You better be right about this, Illya. Because if you're wrong...
"So you're ready to hand it over?"
"Possibly. What's my guarantee that we'll get out alive?"
"About the same as my guarantee this isn't a trap." Carter glanced from Solo to Kuryakin. "How are your feet, Tommy?" He laughed again as Illya shivered and tucked his bare feet under the chair, still not meeting his captor's eyes.
"What isn't a trap?" Napoleon pressured, trying to take the attention from his partner. Letting Illya play his own card in this strange poker game. Trusting him to— He had to halt the smile from reaching his face and focus back on the game. "What are you talking about? I haven't given you any details yet." Keep the anger level up.
Carter shrugged. "Your little buddy here isn't as careful as you are, Lee. He missed the microphone when he cleaned up in here."
Illya's eyes rose then, widening as Jackson reached to the bottom of one cupboard and pulled out the bug. Then his face reddened, big eyes looking to Napoleon and then away, as if humiliated by his failure. He was looking younger by the minute. It was quite the ruse, and obviously working on Carter, who was falling into the Russian's trap. Underestimate your enemy. Carter was seeing what he wanted to see, a mixture of an inferior communist buckling under the will of a superior American, and Tommy, in effect, reincarnated. A scared, frightened young man in way over his depth.
"Lee, if you want to keep him alive and teach him the ropes, then you're going to have to play the game my way."
"Okay. Just leave him alone."
Carter nodded to Jackson, who moved again to stand next to Illya. The Russian stiffened, and then there was just the slightest shift made away from him. Enough to be seen but not overplayed. The chin raised, defiant. Carter nodded, satisfied. "Explain the meeting tomorrow."
"I thought you heard it all," Napoleon responded sarcastically, trying to edge his voice in bitterness.
"Repeat it."
"Is that really necessary?"
A brief gesture, and Jackson's fist caught Illya across the cheek, knocking him to the ground again as the agent rolled with it, sprawling on the floor, arms covering his head.
"Okay. Don't hit him again. Stay still, Illya.—Uh, Kelly Robinson will be bringing the box with the scepter in it to my fence—to my, uh, friend's place of business at four in the afternoon tomorrow. Kelly thinks it's a payoff of some kind, that I'm being blackmailed because of some story I made up," Napoleon said quickly, as though anxious to avoid any more blows to his friend. Think what you must, Carter, just buy into this.
"I heard about the story, you forcing yourself on my sister. I think Sty here would be happy to reply to any allegations against his wife, who is my only sister. If her reputation is at stake, he has that right, doesn't he?"
Before Solo could respond, Jackson's heavy boot crashed into Illya's head and shoulder, then a second kick lower on his ribs. This time, Napoleon could tell that Illya was dazed even though he had tried to shield himself as best he could.
"There are jewels, too," Napoleon added quickly, as though trying to bargain.
"Alan had said there were a few. How many?" Carter asked. "You said millions of dollars worth."
"The scepter was full of them. I tried to fence them, but I've got to be careful. They're big stones, uncut, and not too many people will touch them."
"And this Black Irish has them?"
"Yes."
"Tomorrow, then, we'll go get the scepter. And you will make arrangements to get the jewels."
"Our deal ends with the scepter," Napoleon said, firmly.
"The scepter buys your life. The jewels buy his." Carter looked down to Kuryakin, who was staring up at him blearily.
Solo glanced to his partner, as though considering, then back at Carter. "Ten million dollars is a lot to trade for one person's life, no matter how valuable he is to me. I'll give you 25%––his share. If you want to deal, I'll even go one further: we have other items, but we got them stashed all over the world. We could make good business associates, the four of us. Go easy on him, and I may consider it when this is over. Without Alan Morgan, you don't have a supply like we could get for you. But I need him to steal them, and he needs me in my role of Chief Enforcement Agent to get us out of whatever country we're in. He is, after all, Soviet," he added with disdain.
Carter looked down at Kuryakin, disgust on his face. "I suppose your KGB agent has all kinds of hidden talents. I've heard they train them well. To top it off you can say 'fetch me something priceless, boy.' What does he require, the odd pat on the head and a bone, and he's happy?" Carter started to walk to the door, shaking his head as Napoleon glanced down to his partner. "He stays locked up here tomorrow. If everything goes smoothly, we'll come back here and talk about the future."
We got him. "I understand," Solo said, stepping protectively between Illya and Carter, who seemed far more confident now that the scepter was almost in his grasp. And two and a half million in his pocket.
"We'll go now and let you two comfort each other in privacy." The men left, microphone in hand, shaking their heads and laughing, and the door was locked.
Only then did Napoleon sink wearily to the floor. "You're nuts, Illya. They could have killed you." He pulled Kuryakin upright, letting the blond head fall against his shoulder.
"I'm insurance," Illya mumbled, wincing as Napoleon's fingers probed the new bruises. His head was still reeling from the blow, and a trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.
"Best insurance plan I've ever had," Solo smiled. "But I'm not sure if I like the penalty clause."
"Hmm." Kuryakin slumped, barely holding on to consciousness. "It's got quite a kick to it," he murmured, then gave in to the darkness.
"So I've seen." Napoleon eased him down to lay curled on the floor, covering him with one of the blankets. He then lay down on the couch himself, dizzy from the pressure of the past half hour. He pulled the blanket over his shoulders and settled down to keep an eye on his motionless friend. And wait.
Chapter 12
January 1953
South Korea
Kelly Robinson watched him step from the jeep and wave the driver goodbye, and Napoleon could feel his friend's eyes searching his face. He knew he looked different. Older than when he had left. He certainly felt older.
Kelly stood outside the mess tent, trying not to hover, but not knowing what to say. "Hi. Welcome back, Lee." They shook hands awkwardly, then turned it into a clumsy embrace.
'Thanks." He could feel his jaw tremble and stiffened it. They stood back and stared at each other. "Thanks, "he repeated.
"You okay?" Robinson said, finally.
Solo shrugged. "I guess. I don't know."
"Why the RCN duds? Are you going?" The Royal Canadian Navy uniform was hard to hide in the midst of American army colors.
Napoleon nodded, not meeting Kelly's eyes. "I talked to my superiors and they want me back. There's work for me on board ship, stuff I was trained to do. I'm going tomorrow. I have to get my papers signed by Morgan."
Solo dropped his duffel bag and looked at his friend "I'm going to miss you. I sound like a sentimental old fool," he added with a weak laugh, "but it's true. You've made it possible for me to make it through these last two weeks especially."
Three deaths in one month. First, Tommy. Then, a phone call from Ottawa that his grandfather had died. Then, a day later, the telegram from Seoul that his wife, his wife of barely a year, had been tragically killed in a car accident. It seemed too much. Part of him wanted to sit down and bawl like a baby, and he knew if he spoke with Kelly much longer, he would do just that. "I have to go talk to Morgan."
Kelly nodded, walking beside him silently as they crossed the compound to the tent that served as the major's office. "I'll wait out here."
"I'll be right back" He stepped into the darkened office, turning as Morgan rose out of the shadows to his left.
"Hello, Napoleon. They told me you would be transferring." The major looked at him, eyes hidden in the dimness of the tent.
"Yes, sir. I want to thank you for your support, sir. And for everything you've taught me. I've learned a lot here."
The major was silent. He moved out from behind the desk, cold winter sunlight falling on his face, but even with the light, his eyes remained shaded "We are all deeply sorry for what happened to Soon Hee. The fortunes of war."
"Fortunes, sir?" Solo looked up at the face of the man who had become his mentor these past two months. The man who had personally taken him under his wing and taught him what war meant and how it could be won.
"A figure of speech, son. Other than giving men like me a fitting occupation, I guess there really isn't much a war can offer." Morgan smiled
Friday, May 28
Los Angeles
From his place on the couch, Illya sat passively peering up through his bangs, nervously biting at his thumbnail as he watched them take Napoleon away. The door was fastened, secured, and the padlock put in place. Only then did he let the wide-eyed apprehension fade from his face. Stupid fools. They hadn't even left anyone to guard him. He rubbed his palms on dusty pants, absently tucking in the black T-shirt, although it was bound to come untucked in the next few minutes. One ear listened to the retreating voices at the door. Satisfied no one was returning shortly, he climbed vertically up the wall, moving from chair to doorknob to the door frame, and then pulled himself up to peer through the window, twelve feet up. His sneaker toes rested on the top edge of the door frame, relying on the half inch of space to balance him. Fortunately, he'd done this before.
There wasn't much to see. Napoleon was being ushered, at gunpoint, into a dark sedan; Carter and Jackson followed him in, one on each side, trapping him between them. The car started, headed out the gate, up the hill, and disappeared over the top of the rolling brown hills.
Napoleon didn't look much better today; he was still shaky. They had brought him clean clothes again, waiting while he changed into them. A dark pair of pants and a white shirt. Napoleon had automatically done up the buttons, but there was no tie, and he had self-consciously undone the top button. He must feel naked without a tie and his cologne. The cough wasn't as bad and he had more color in his face, but he was weak and tired. The sickness had not yet let go. He needed a warm comfortable bed; a couch wasn't the best place to sleep.
Neither was the floor, Illya thought as a muscle in his shoulder spasmed.
He studied the scene outside, the hot sun beating down on the dry ground. There were few trees sticking up among the long, brown grass and weeds on the hillside, and no other signs of life that he could see. Where was Clay? He wasn't the driver. Maybe they had left him behind. No problem. Illya stretched his neck to see what else was visible. Almost out of sight, there was a second car. A new two-door coupe sitting in the fenced yard. The gate was still unlocked. Maybe if he moved quickly, Clay wouldn't think to lock it yet.
The glass pane pulled away easily, prepared the night before, and he secured it from falling with the cord from the percolator. He slid out the window, hanging on to the frame with one towel-wrapped hand, the other reaching for the cord. One tug and the glass fell through down to the office below, crashing into a hundred pieces. Illya heard Clay's startled yell inside the warehouse, and he dropped the dozen feet to the ground while Clay would be fumbling for the key to the lock. He landed and rolled, biting back a cry of pain at the jarring. Oh, well, he had a podiatrist appointment in a week. Let them sort it out.
He got to his feet, fell over, and tried again. His left ankle wasn't too happy. Using a clutch was going to be really fun. Illya tried to straighten up but the kick to his kidneys the day before had hurt and had left behind a lingering ache that didn't bode well, either. He hobbled to the car, bent half double, and had begun to hot wire it when he noticed the keys in the ignition. And it was an automatic. He sighed. With any luck, and with this type of help from his opponents, he'd make it on time to join in. Nice of them to provide transportation.
He roared through the gate in the little rental, smiling at Clay's shaking fist in the rear view mirror. The car raced over the dirt road, spinning as he turned sharply to follow the winding path up the barren hill, a cloud of dust obscuring his view. Illya crested, got his bearings, then made his way to join the unpaved side road that would eventually let him on to the interstate highway, if his memory served him correctly. Driving the car at full speed seemed to calm him after days of being cooped up. He figured he was no more than five minutes behind them.
There was nothing Clay could do back there. The telephone at the warehouse no longer worked, thanks to a midnight outing Illya had made. It would only ring busy on incoming calls and would not give a dial tone on outgoing calls. If Clay had brains at all, he would start running now, because Carter and Jackson were not going to be too pleased with a second successful escape.
The smile began to fade from his face. Illya clung to the steering wheel, trying to move his left ankle. Something was seriously wrong. It was already swelling; he could feel his sneaker becoming tighter, the throbbing more pronounced. There were shooting pains working up his ca1f even if he held the foot immobile. The tendency to clutch from too many years of driving a standard transmission, found him involuntarily moving his foot, pounding it on to the empty floor mat when the car reached the stop-and-go traffic of the city.
He pulled over once he left the highway and made a call to the pawnshop, using a coin he found on the floor of the coupe. Kelly and Scotty were there already and Illya described the car Napoleon was in, and filled them in on the rest of the details. Kelly told him that Black Magnum, the name Alexander Scott's cousin was known by, had been briefed on what was happening and would cause them no problems––"Anything to eliminate the competition," he had said.
It shouldn't be that difficult. Not if everything went as smoothly as it had started. Which was just as well, as his stamina was fading and Napoleon had next to none to start with.
Black Magnum came on the line and gave him directions on a short cut to the pawnshop, and he limped back to the car. Even his right leg was hurting now. It was a toss of a coin to figure out which leg hurt the most. His shoulders were stiff. His left arm ached to move it. He slid behind the wheel, blinking the sweat from his eyes. His stomach growled. Give me an hour, he promised it. He had to slam on the brakes several times as cars changed direction suddenly without the use of their signals, and each movement seemed to move him up the pain ladder.
He found one street he was watching for, followed it to the crossroad, and slowed down. Then he saw it. "Magnum's Pawnshop" the ten-foot-long sign read, hanging precariously along one side of the single storey building. The sign had been there for some time, the once-white background dirty and rain-streaked, and the once-red letters weathered to a dull orange-gray. The letter P was set on edge, resembling a handgun, but the details had faded, leaving doubt as to which model the artist had intended. Barred windows were jammed with guitars, toasters, and televisions. Signs covered the outside, promising sale items, excellent prices, a
nd the best deal in town. Speakers blared something that sounded suspiciously like, "Do Wah Diddy Diddy," but the real words were probably distorted by the crackling volume. The double doors were both open to the warm May afternoon sunshine. Two teens loitered outside, smoking; their eyes narrowing in suspicion as the car slowed and stopped.
No sign of the sedan yet. Kuryakin drove the rental around to the back and parked it a few stores down. There was no answer when he knocked on the rear entrance, so he quickly hobbled to the front of the store, past the two youths, and into the welcome smile of Kelly Robinson. "Is everything ready?" he asked, pushing into the crowded pawnshop.
"Piece of cake," the CIA agent said, slapping him warmly on the back.
"No, thank you. Maybe later." Illya spared a small glance at the interior of the store, more to get a good look at the layout. His stomach growled again from the promise of cake. The place was dim, the lighting coming from the front windows and from four bare bulbs high in the ceiling. Illya checked the long, narrow box Kelly had brought, triggered the small explosive, then handed it back. Napoleon knew to hold it away from himself if he were the one opening the box. Most likely it would be Carter, though. All they needed was a diversion, something to make Carter and Jackson lose their focus for a few seconds. "Okay, when Napoleon comes in, try to tell him you lost your match six-three in the final set. Then he'll know I'm here. The plan was that I would phone when I got out safely and you would pass on that score. He's not expecting me to be here already; he was going to stall until I called, to make sure I was clear. We weren't sure what backup arrangements Carter would use or who would be left to guard me."
Alexander Scott moved from the back office followed by a three hundred and fifty pound black man wearing a simple red T-shirt that said "Magnum's Pawnshop" on it, promptly introduced to Illya as Black Magnum.
"Show's starting," one of the boys at the door called out.
