by LRH Balzer
Scott took over. "Okay, Lee's here. Everyone take your places. Boys," Scott called to the two teens at the entrance, "watch for reinforcements! My cousin's kids," he said, in explanation, to Illya. "Now, you can go in the office at the back. You can see and hear everything from there."
Illya limped quickly down the aisle, passed the floor-to-ceiling rows of musical instruments, small appliances, and leather jackets. Two long counters formed right angles, the chipped and smudged glass surfaces exhibiting guns and jewelry, haphazardly displayed. It was between these two counters that he went, sliding through the narrow opening and wondering how on earth Black Magnum got through there.
The mirror in the shop became a window in the office. There was a rather expensive security system, with multi-viewing surveillance cameras, and flashing sensors. Quite the undertaking for a Watts pawnshop. Well, as Scotty had said in New York, Carter would probably check Black Magnum out and they would discover his cousin was legitimately—or not––in "the business" for years. Small time stuff mainly, but with enough big sales to make him appear a possible contender for the goods.
Between the clear view through the window and the double camera angles, Illya could see perfectly. And he didn't have to stand. He perched on the edge of the desk, trying to take some of the pressure from his feet and his swollen ankles.
On the tiny TV screen, he watched Napoleon getting out of the car. His partner looked worse, slowly straightening up, trying to brace himself for the next few minutes. The strain was wearing on him. Napoleon loved sting operations, but he was still sick and he knew there was too much hinging on this.
Solo entered the store, with Jackson close enough behind him that it was obvious he had a gun trained on Napoleon. Solo nodded in weary greeting to Kelly and Scotty, then stepped aside to let Carter enter.
Robinson, holding the paper-wrapped bundle under his arm, glared at Carter, but spoke to Solo. "Lee, you pick some strange places to meet in, man," he said, just a touch of nervousness in his tone overshadowing the curiosity. "What's happening here? I don't like the feel of this. I get this cryptic phone call from your friend asking me to bring this box with me to Los Angeles, and then meet you both here. Where is he, anyway? And what are you doing with Jud Carter?" The disgust was clear, no need to hide it. Everyone there knew what Carter had done to Kuryakin. Even Black Magnum.
Illya shivered. His body knew it. He could feel the tension escalating from muscle to muscle. It hadn't all been an act the day before. The urge to kill was almost as blinding as the pain he was feeling, and equally exhausting to hold back.
"I know. But Carter is whom I'm dealing with at the moment. I'm just trying to make a business deal." Napoleon's eyes fastened on the bundle.
"A business deal? With him? Why? Where's Illya?"
"He's safe," Carter interrupted. "For now. Shall we continue? Hands on with counter, please. No hidden switches. Don't make me nervous. If I don't step out of this store in two minutes, with the scepter, there will be trouble."
"What scepter? Why no time for small talk?" Robinson grumbled. "Last week, I was in a world class tennis match and no one even asks how I did."
Napoleon's voice was flat. "How did you do, Kelly? Hand it to me."
Robinson shrugged. "I lost the final set six-three. But I was close."
A gun appeared in Carter's hand, this time leveled on Robinson. Carter's head tilted, as he licked his lips. "What was the final?" he asked, a smile pulling at his mouth.
Illya's heart stopped. So much for a smooth ride.
"Six-three." He could hear Robinson's voice, cautious, trying to figure out what had been said.
"Interesting." Carter cocked his head to Jackson. "You know, Sty, Tuesday night, I was listening to the Ali-Liston fight on the radio. When Liston went down in the first round, the game commentators had time to kill, so they recapped what was happening in sports last weekend. I heard the Riviera Tennis Classic mentioned, and, like an old friend should, I checked to see what the U.S. Men's Singles scores were. You lost six-four in the final set, Robinson." The gun remained level.
In the office, Illya groaned soundlessly. Trust Carter to have checked. Amateurs. He hated dealing with amateurs. You couldn't count on them to be consistent. They discount your ability to escape from a well-stocked warehouse, figure you can't find a simple bug that's staring you right in the eye, but then they go and check minute details that shouldn't even enter into the problem.
"So I lied. Big deal," Robinson grinned sheepishly, trying to pass it off.
"You don't take off a point when you lie. You add one on," Carter said, the gun not wavering.
"He never was any good at math," Scott put in.
Robinson snorted. "It has nothing to do with math. It was the score keepers. They're the ones who can't add. We were at deuce in the fourth game, when suddenly on the next point, they said I had lost it."
"You were never at deuce."
"We were too. You weren't paying attention. You were watching that girl."
"What girl? You're crazy, man. I wasn't watching no girl."
"You were too. Don't deny it. That girl paraded in front of you, back and forth, back and forth, flirting and wiggling her hips. I saw her flirting with you, man, and you took off on me. Where was my water when I needed it? My towel? Halfway across the court!" Robinson stuck his finger on Scott's chest and pushed him backwards.
"I was just telling her to move so I could see."
"Yeah, right. I'll believe that when––"
A bullet was fired into the corner of the shop, Jackson's gun also in plain sight now. "Shut up. Both of you," he said. "The next one of you two that make a peep, gets it." Three more men pushed in past the kids at the doorway, and came to stand arms crossed. Magnum's sons vanished.
Black Magnum spoke then, angry with the men at the entrance, obviously hired bodies that he knew. "What you boys doin' here? You know better than to mess with me."
One of the musclemen answered, "We've been paid to make sure the job goes down."
"Don't want no guns in my store," Magnum warned. "I've got a good reputation in the city. No more guns in my store."
"There won't be any guns," Scotty assured him softly, his dark eyes burrowing into Carter's. "It's just a business deal, Lee said. Put the guns away," he said to Carter and Jackson.
"Put the box on the counter and stand back," Carter said.
Kelly pulled the box from the bag and laid it on the counter. It was a clarinet case, the perfect size for a scepter. Or maybe, a clarinet.
"Open it," Carter demanded.
"What about the jewels?" Napoleon asked quickly, reentering the conversation with a monumental effort. He looked ready to drop. "Don't you want them, too?"
"Are they here?" Carter glanced from the box to Black Magnum, sensing bigger game. "Do you have them? They said before that you had them."
The pawnshop owner shook his head. "My cousin, Black Irish––he's got 'em."
"Where is he?" Carter asked.
"Said he wouldn't come here 'less Lee calls him."
Scott cleared his throat "Can Lee use the phone in the office?"
"What? No way. I've got valuable stuff––"
Scott cleared his throat again, staring at his cousin. "I'm sure Lee won't disturb anything in your office. He'll just use the phone."
Carter moved before Black Magnum could respond. "Solo and I will make the call. Sty, check it out." Jackson opened the door to the office and glanced inside. "It's empty." There was nowhere for anyone to hide and no back entrance. "I'll watch from here. Keep your hands on the counter, boys."
Carter motioned for Napoleon to walk into the room, the gun reinforcing the order. Solo hadn't said a word for the past few minutes; he moved slowly, like a zombie, not really part of what was happening. He looked backwards once at Kelly, who shrugged noncommittally. The men at the doorway shifted, muscles rippling across massive forearms.
Carter pushed past Solo into the office, looking for
the telephone and Illya dropped from the door frame straight down on Carter, sending them both sprawling. But Kuryakin was on his feet first, not feeling the pain now, his arm around Carter's neck, twisting the man's arm into a half Nelson with an added bonus of his own. Carter bucked but couldn't shake the grip, the movement only causing him agony. Illya moved them backwards a few steps, one hand reaching for the gun Carter had dropped and bringing it up to the man's temple.
Napoleon stood in the doorway, oblivious to the fights waging in the office in front of him or in the storefront behind him. Illya spared a quick glance to the one-way mirror in time to see Kelly's fist plow directly into Jackson's face, sending him staggering back into the cash register. Black Magnum wrestled the gun from him, one enormous hand holding him in place. The three muscles-for-hire had fled, their money already in their pockets and seeing no need to stick around and face the cops. Already there were sirens in the distance.
Illya knew they were running out of time. The police would come and it would be too late for Napoleon to ask the questions in any way that would be effective. Napoleon needed answers and Carter was about to provide them. If he stayed alive long enough.
If I stay conscious long enough.
He turned his attention back to Napoleon, but his partner was still standing immobile, staring at Carter. "Ask him your questions, Napoleon!" Illya yelled, trying to startle Solo into action. "Ask him now!"
The sirens grew closer and Napoleon's head turned away, listening.
"NOW! ASK HIM!" Illya demanded.
The pain in Napoleon's eyes met his. "I can't." He didn't want to know. He didn't have the energy to know what happened. Not now. Later. Please. He could ask later.
Illya read it all in the lost eyes. "Ask him about Morgan," he prompted. "What Morgan did. About Soon Hee and the museum!"
That worked. The blankness faded, replaced by a hard bitter anger. Solo came back from wherever he'd been, looked at Carter, and barked out, "How long were you dealing with Alan Morgan?"
Illya tightened his grip painfully and Carter cried out, "Since the war."
"During the war?" There was more of the U.N.C.LE. agent in Napoleon now. More control as the CEA wrestled it from Carter.
Again the pressure of gun on temple was necessary, and the words were forced from Carter's mouth. "Yes. Yes, during the war. That's when it started." Illya could feel the fear beginning in Carter. The confidence was gone. The power. The plan. The money. Especially the money. It was all burning before the dealer's greedy eyes.
"What was Morgan doing in Korea?" Napoleon asked, fire in his eyes. "Was he stealing artifacts then?"
"Y––yes."
"Is that why we went to out-of-the-way villages? Is that why the raids didn't make sense?"
Carter didn't seem to know how to answer, his body trembling as he tried to come up with something that would keep him alive. "I don't know. We had a black market going. Often there would be a–– ahh–– easy, easy, I'm talking, I'm talking––there'd be a deserted village that other groups would cache goods and we would clear them out. That's what happened when they found us..."
"What? What are you talking about?"
"What did you think? That Morgan would send out a rescue party for us? We were on our way to collect some items and the North Koreans stumbled upon us." Even the pressure of the weapon at his temple didn't prevent him from sounding condescending. Illya pressed it firmer, his finger steady on the trigger, the hammer pulling back.
Napoleon stood blinking, absorbing the implications of the words, slipping away from Illya again. The fever was back, the fire consuming the man rather than directed outward. He could see it on his friend's sweat-stained face, in the bleariness of his eyes. The answers were not what he wanted to hear and he was withdrawing.
Carter was babbling now, trying to buy his life with information "Morgan was in a big racket then. That's when he was at his peak He tried to set up something on his own in Ethiopia and in Iran, but couldn't get his hands on the right stuff. In Korea, we were part of a bigger organization and it worked."
Illya felt his arm beginning to shake. He couldn't keep this up much longer. He could hardly stand, the pain from his legs close to unbearable; he could no longer sense them beneath him. He knew he was upright, but if he had to shift either way, he would topple. And his head felt clogged, making it hard to breathe.
He let his own rage run through his arms and his grip tightened on Carter's neck. Still, Napoleon said nothing. "Ask him about her! About Soon Hee and Morgan!"
Unlocked, the words exploded from Solo's mouth. "Did Morgan kill my wife?" No answer. Carter shifted, trying to break free again. Trying to avoid the gun.
"DID MORGAN KILL MY WIFE?" Napoleon roared, now only a few feet from Carter. He was wavering from the intensity, staggering forward, sweat running down his face.
"No. No. He didn't kill her. She was in Seoul. He wasn't there."
"DID MORGAN KILL MY WIFE?"
"How could he? You were with him the whole time. He was with you," Carter tried to reason, stumbling over his words. "It was just a car accident. Happens all the time. A car accident."
Napoleon shuddered, his eyes suddenly bloodshot. One hand reached out for Carter's throat, slipping above Illya's grip and squeezing. His face was contorted in anger, promising violence, but the control was still there. Barely. "Who said it was a car accident? I didn't. Illya didn't. You weren't even there when the telegram came. I had to get hitch a ride into Seoul because you weren't there and you had the jeep. Where were you? Were you in Seoul?" he whispered, his voice low and dangerous. "What were you doing there? Arranging a car accident?––Tell me, did you kill my wife?"
Carter's eyes were wild, his head shaking. "No. No," he choked. "Morgan––" the words ended in a strangled gurgle as Solo's hand on his throat tightened.
Illya gasped out, "Napoleon, ease up so he can talk! Let him talk!"
"Morgan WHAT?" The hand choking Carter spasmed briefly, but loosened. "WHAT??"
"He made me. Said I had to or it was all over."
"Why?" The word scraped from Napoleon's throat.
"He said you might have figured out what was happening if you talked to her."
"I MIGHT have figured it out! You killed her because I MIGHT have figured it out? Damn you!" Napoleon's fist slammed into Carter's face, the impact sending both Illya and Carter crashing backwards on the desk. There was a loud crack as a chair splintered into pieces.
Illya fought to stay conscious as Napoleon rushed Carter, the blows raining down on the cowering man. There was a crunch of a nose breaking, blood gushing from Carter's suddenly slack mouth. "Napoleon? Stop it. You're killing him!" There was no pause, just a steady left punch, right punch, left punch. Another bone broke, the cheek probably. With a yell of his own, Illya sat up, rolling from the floor to tackle his partners legs, knocking him down. "It's over, Napoleon! Stop it! Stop it!"
Solo broke away, and reached for a piece of the broken chair; Illya threw himself on his partner's arm and the wooden weapon, using his body weight to trap Napoleon and halt the beating. Waverly would overlook many things, but not a murder. Not for revenge. "Get Carter out of here," he yelled to Scott as the agent appeared in the doorway. Kelly was there suddenly, helping Scotty drag the unconscious body from the room. "Shut the door."
They were alone.
He waited until Napoleon had stopped moving, then sat up, pulling his partner against him, tucking Napoleon's bleeding, scraped hands against his chest, his body automatically rocking. There was no response at first, just the palsied shaking as Napoleon's limbs reacted to the adrenaline. Then a strangled cry, as though hands were around Solo's throat, squeezing the life from him.
"It's okay," Illya whispered. "You know now. It's okay. She'll rest in peace. You got him. It's okay," he mumbled, not knowing what else to say. The man in his grasp was choking, the unearthly sounds frightening. "You cried for Tommy. Now cry for her. While you have a chance. Cry! Get rid of i
t." He felt the shudder, the grief come through. "Cry," he whispered, feeling the tears in his own eyes coursing down his face, dropping one after another onto Napoleon's hot cheek, as though priming him.
Then it happened, almost knocking Illya flat again as Napoleon turned toward him, raw fists clenching the black T-shirt, his face hidden in the ripped fabric. There was almost no sound, not like the racking sobs of the previous day. This was deeper. This was a different kind of hurt. Silent gasping sobs torn from Napoleon's heart and piercing his own. Illya's body ached, pain inside and out threatening to capture him.
They stayed that way, half-sprawled on the floor, wedged between a filing cabinet and the desk, locked in place. Illya wrapped his arms around Napoleon, holding their sanity, burying his face in the other's bent neck, rocking blindly, whispering reassurance, almost losing himself in the process but determined not to lose Napoleon. His friend.
Neither had any recollection of the ambulances nor the police. Bodies moved among them, pushing the desk back, checking pulses and shining lights into their eyes. Voices argued. Then it was quiet and there were just Scotty and Kelly, gently tugging them apart.
Illya felt himself being lifted and carried, then placed on a mattress. He opened his eyes, swollen and sore. He was lying on a stretcher, a cool compress placed on his face. "Hmm?" Pain. He was in pain. And he was cold.
"Hmm," came the response from nearby and somewhere above him.
He turned his head to see Kelly placing Napoleon on another stretcher, and a matching set of bloodshot reddened eyes turned to stare back at him. Feverish eyes. But with a saneness and a stubbornness Illya knew would pull him though. Then Kelly moved away with the stretcher and Napoleon was gone.
"You done okay." Scotty smiled at Illya, sitting by his hip and blocking the sight of other hands removing his socks and cutting his jeans off. "The ambulance attendants are going to pack some ice on your foot. It looks like you sprained it. Actually, it looks like you sprained both of them. They'll take you to the hospital. We've contacted U.N.C.L.E. anonymously, and they'll retrieve you from there."
