Collection 9 - The Changeling

by LRH Balzer

  "Perhaps it is trap."

  "Perhaps."

  "I do not trust her."

  "Neither do I."

  Kuryakin let out another quiet noise that this time sounded suspiciously like a growl. "I do not understand. Then why is it you spend time flirting with her? What is point?"

  It took Solo a moment to realize that what he was seeing was a man who was as close to livid as he had ever encountered. All carefully contained, of course, but still livid. Cold and angry in a room of soft sunshine.

  "The point is that I know what I'm doing, so does she, and we pussyfoot around the borders of our jobs. Whereas I'm convinced of U.N.C.L.E.'s noble role in the world, she is not so convinced by Thrush's. But she plays the game, because it's the only one of any use to her at this time."

  "She will betray you."

  "Not yet. The stakes aren't high enough. Now, this plan is simple enough. I'm just going to have lunch with her, see what more I can get from her, or from the area. All you have to do is sleep for a few hours so I can go do my job, then I'll come get you and we'll return to New York."

  "I am fully capable of assisting you. What use am I sleeping when I could be watching your back?"

  "I didn't ask for your opinion. Listen, you're just here because we're still attached at the hip. I usually work alone, just like my name. Solo. Unaccompanied. Now eat your breakfast. I'd like to leave once we're through eating." He returned to his meal, ignoring the Russian, making a personal note to make sure he never worked with him again. So much for being partners.

  But Kuryakin had to get in one more nearly-inaudible word, this one the same in Russian as it was in English. "Idiot."

  Well, at least the man didn’t mince words.

  The temperature in the sunny room dropped several degrees.

  *****

  Solo resolutely turned away from the blanket-shrouded body of Illya Kuryakin, lying curiously in state on the carved oak bed, and walked toward the door of the one-roomed cabin. The Russian was breathing, barely. His chest hardly registered the faint intake and release of air. Kuryakin's face, crowned by a shock of blond hair, was pale against the white pillowcase, intense blue eyes shuttered closed.

  He would be warm enough, for the four hours. No chance of hypothermia setting in. The fireplace had heated the cabin nicely, and even though the fire had died, the cabin would take several hours to fully cool down. Kuryakin would be fine. The odds of someone entering the cabin were slim. Two U.N.C.L.E. agents had rented it for them a week previous, the men setting a pattern of skiing each day. No one had disturbed the cabin thus far, nothing suspicious. No reason to think there would be a problem.

  And, if worse came to worse, the two agents would return at the end of the day and deal with Kuryakin, in whatever state he was in.

  Solo refastened his snow boots, then donned the heavy winter coat as he promised himself that he would be back before anything happened. Four hours. Yes, a lot could happen in four hours, but he would be careful. He checked his weapon, then slipped it in one pocket where he could reach it easily. A glance at the monitor which registered the information from the sensors outside, and he could see there was no one in the vicinity of the cabin. It was safe to leave.

  Yet he paused again at the doorway, looking back. It irked him to leave a fellow agent lying helpless like that. Kuryakin could be a pain in the neck, but there was a keen intelligence about the man that was intriguing, added to his physical skills. Both were now impotent, robbed by the drug coursing through Kuryakin's veins, rendering him close to lifeless, all so Napoleon Solo could walk around a free man.

  Kuryakin's rally complaint through it all had been a steady belief that he was of more value awake and helping Solo, than shut away.

  Mildred, one of the nurse's in the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary, had made an interesting comment earlier in the week, while they watched the drug take hold of the Russian during tests for its potency. She had said that the drug restored Kuryakin’s innocence. When Solo had asked her what she meant, she simply pointed to the unconscious man. It took a moment, but he had understood her, and had seen the peaceful countenance, as though a thousand burdens had been lifted from the Section Eight agent.

  Solo moved outside the door, out into the midday sun, and firmly closed the door behind him, locking in, locking away, the man who was not his partner. He turned and moved down the shoveled path, back down to the road which would take him across the mountain to his destination. It wasn't far. The Porsche had been left at the hotel, passed up for an old Ford truck, one that was equipped with chains for the snow-bound off roads.

  Just as it had the night before, it felt strange being apart from Kuryakin. Two weeks of constant 'exposure' to the Russian had made an impact on his life, his expectations.

  Solo opened the truck door and climbed in, feeling very much as though he was leaving something valuable behind, as though he was walking out of his apartment without his weapon or leaving on a journey without a map or directions.

  Even in the truck the cold air nipped at his nose, irritated his eyes and throat. Solo pulled his overcoat closer, taking shelter in its warmth.

  He drove back the way he had come, watching for other tire tracks on the road, but his seemed to be the only vehicle besides the other tracks belonging to the agents renting the cabin. A good sign.

  He made it back to the main road, turning toward the Thrush lodge, the place where Angelique was staying. It was nowhere near as opulent as the hotel he was booked in, but it had a strong degree of privacy about it, and a large number of cars parked in the lot, considering the total rooms that must be available, unless Thrush was booking all their minions four to a room.

  Solo pulled into a spot, and made his way to the entrance.

  The doorman had a rifle across his arm, watching him as he mounted the short staircase to the front doors. "Your business?" he asked, as Solo approached.

  "I would like to speak with—" The U.N.C.L.E. agent's voice trailed off as the man put his hand to one ear, covering an earpiece that was undoubtedly giving him instructions.

  "This way. Sir." The last was added, as though it pained the man to be polite.

  He followed the doorman through the entrance to the lobby where the hotel manager came to meet him. "Please have a seat. Mademoiselle Angelique will be with you soon."

  "Thank you." He took off his coat, draping it over his arm as sat down on one of the many padded leather couches in the lobby. It was interesting to see different Thrush officials come in from the elevator, take a few steps, see him, then stop, blinking as the they couldn't quite believe what they were seeing. The hotel manager would catch their eye, waving them away, and almost reluctantly they would continue with their business.

  Solo was fairly certain he had recognized one or two, but it was rather strange to realize a great many of them recognized him.

  Angelique came down after ten minutes, motioning for him to join her as she wait into the lounge.

  "Drink, darling?" The room was tastefully decorated, small and intimate, the dark furnishings rich and textured, seating no more than 20 or 30 guests.

  "Thank you.” He ordered his usual, then turned to her. "Nice place. Do you have to be a club member to join?”

  "Completely. Unless, of course, you come with a member. Then you can find out about our membership plan.”

  Solo laughed. "I don't know. My uncle hates these places."

  "Really, Napoleon, you’ve got to cut the apron ties to that old man."

  The hour passed quickly, talking about a vacation in Paris the year before when they had, quite literally, bumped into each other in a crowded restaurant. Their reminiscences came to a halt when a waiter came over, informing Angelique that she had a telephone call, and could take it at the bar.

  She came back to the table a few minutes later. "Napoleon, darling, I hate to drink and run, but there are some people I have to meet. We'll see each other again, I'm sure. Call me next week; I'll be back in New York."

/>   He rose and kissed her hand. "Do you mind if I finish my drink first?" he asked.

  "Be my guest. I'll let the manager know you'll be leaving soon." With a peck on his cheek, she hurried off in a breathless wave of perfume.

  Solo took his time getting his coat on, carefully studying the area, knowing he would have to reproduce the layout as soon as he had the opportunity. The doorman saw him almost to the door of the truck, walking briskly behind him as though making sure he really did leave. Solo started the truck, letting it sit a good while to warm up. It was only 1:30 in the afternoon. He still had some time to poke around. He waited until after six men came out and piled into two pickup trucks, gave them a minute or two to pull out ahead of him, then drove out of the lot.

  As he approached the main road from the turn off, there was no sign of the other trucks. Even if they had been speeding, the view was clear enough, and there should have been some glimpse of them. Somewhere along the line, they had turned off. Solo pulled over and looked again at his map. No other roads showed from the lodge to the main road, but he was fairly certain he had passed one a short ways back. Putting the truck in reverse, he drove backwards for an eighth of a mile, paused at the turnoff, then went left onto the narrow road. He could always claim he was lost. Just following the car in front of him and mistook that road for the main road.

  At least, that was going to be his story.

  Less than ten minutes later, he turned directly into another smaller parking lot, where spaces seemed to be at a premium. The lot had room for twenty cars, of which he was number nineteen. No one else seemed to be around, so he parked in the first available spot—where better to hide a dirty pickup truck, but in a parking lot filled with dirty pickup trucks?

  The lot was the only thing in sight, parked at the base of the mountain which rose up sharply behind it. Without getting out of his vehicle, he waited for almost twenty minutes and had just left the Ford when a large delivery truck angled up the narrow road. He ducked out of sight behind another vehicle, and watched as it approached a stand of trees. The sole occupant got out and pressed a series of buttons on a low post. The row of evergreens smartly slid to one side along unseen tracks, revealing an entrance to the mountain.

  Smiling in appreciation, Solo waited until the driver had returned to his truck and had started through, then quickly hitched a ride on the back as it passed through, pulling himself inside the heavy tarp that covered the back of the truck.

  Once inside, the driver stopped again, leaning out of his vehicle to push a button that activated the row of trees, sliding them back into place. The truck rumbled on down a dark corridor; Solo dropped from the back when the driver slowed down to turn a comer. The delivery truck had contained what appeared to be normal food supplies, suggesting a regular run of coffee, milk, bread, and other staples.

  The U.N.C.L.E. agent was just about to follow it down one corridor, when a green shaft of light caught his attention from the second corridor. As quickly as it had sparked, it disappeared, amid a round of cheering off in the distance. Its similarity was too close to the green snaking light they had seen at the Thrush warehouse a few weeks before, and Solo wanted another look at what it was, or what had caused the light. Grateful for the crates that lined one side of the tunnel, Solo headed toward the commotion, keeping close to the shadows.

  *****

  The afternoon sun was fading, the fragile warmth of the day absent in the cabin, the feeble rays blocked from touching where he lay unaware, alone, wrapped like a mummy in protective emergency blankets.

  With a ragged shudder, he awoke at last, painfully dragged awake as he blinked his eyes quickly, trying to focus in the strange surroundings, forcing the panic down and away until he was able to make sense of where he was and why he was so cold. It still took a minute or two to figure out why he was there, much longer than was normal, but his mind put together the fractured memory that he had been drugged long before he remembered the actual details of why or by whose hand.

  But even when he had put some of the pieces together, it didn't explain the agony in his gut.

  Or maybe it did.

  Solo wasn't there.

  Damn him.

  Panic flickered to life, only to die as hope began to stir. Solo wasn't there, but Illya, although he was in pain, was not incapacitated. That meant that either Napoleon was close by, or else the Thrush tampering was wearing off. More likely the latter.

  So, first, where was Napoleon Solo?

  And second, he thought, pulling himself back to the mission, what should he do next? Stay where he was and wait for the agent to return? Go look for Solo? Or neither... Assume Solo was dead and attempt to continue the mission without him.

  It wasn't really a difficult decision. He would continue the mission. And keep an eye out for Solo.

  But first, he would have to move. He raised his head as soon as he was physically able to do so. His stomach hurt; it felt like he had been repeatedly, viciously, punched in the abdomen. Unfortunately, he knew that particular feeling from experience, and so could ignore his present condition for now.

  Pulling one arm from under the blanket, he looked at his watch. It had been four hours and twenty minutes since Solo had administered the drug. It was only expected to work for four hours, and it was now twenty minutes longer than they had anticipated. Despite that, even with another dose in the first aid kit, it would still be another five hours and forty minutes before he could safely take another shot.

  Or ... he looked down to the white first aid kit, set waiting on the night table next to the bed where he lay. Or, he could give himself another shot, anyway. Forget the safety measures. Solo would be angry, yes, but he would be alive and Illya would be dead and wouldn't have to listen to the lecture.

  He toyed with the idea, turning over the possibility. It would be such blessed relief to just end this now, before it got any worse. Die helping U.N.C.L.E., a noble gesture, one of significance, even if no one remembered him in a day's time. Seductively alluring.

  The only drawback to his plan was: what if Solo was in danger now? There had to be some reason why he hadn't returned to the cabin to deal with Kuryakin. Even that woman, Angelique, would not be enough of a draw to keep him from returning. Napoleon Solo was a man who liked his comfort, and even though the fire in his gut now was no way near the excruciating pain of the previous week, it was still enough to be reckoned with.

  Kuryakin pushed off the thermal emergency blankets he was wrapped in and clamored out of the bed, shivering from weakness as much as from the cold weather. He stumbled several steps through the icy cabin, trying to get his bearing and trying to judge his current condition. Straightening up was uncomfortable, but not impossible. He could do it.

  It was late afternoon, four o'clock by his watch, and Solo should have been back to get him an hour previous. So, no Solo, and no idea where to look for him on the mountain. For that matter, the enforcement agent could already be back in New York City.

  With weak hands, he pulled out his transceiver and set the dial for New York. "It is Kuryakin."

  "Code"

  "Lifesavers. The green ones only." He paused, then added, "Mr. Waverly's office."

  "One moment." There was a slight delay, then the voice of the Head of Section One came over the tinny speaker.

  "Mr. Kuryakin. Report please."

  "I am now awake in cabin. Agent Solo is not present."

  "Any sign that he has been there and left again?"

  "No, sir."

  "Are you fit to travel?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "The proximity factor is not a problem, then?"

  "Not serious at this time."

  There was a pause as Waverly seemed to consider his options. " We will contact our agents and they should be in touch with you to arrange a pick up. Keep your channel open. ”

  "May I begin a search for Agent Solo?"

  "If you feel you are able to, yes, please do so. Report in if you have any findings."
>
  Kuryakin glanced at the security monitors as he closed down his transceiver and tucked it in his pocket. He shrugged into the heavy coat, adjusted his scarf and hat, pulled on the thick mittens, then staggered outside. Two steps down the mountain brought distinct pain flickering across Kuryakin’s stomach muscles. Two steps in the opposite direction stopped it. He repeated the pattern, with the same results, although he wasn’t sure what it meant. It should have been easier going down hill than up, but since he knew there was another road up above, Kuryakin gathered his things into a backpack, and headed up the mountain. The pack was uncomfortable, and after journeying only a short way, he decided to lighten it, and turned around to go back to the cabin. Each step brought a new level of pain as he journeyed back to the rustic building.

  He bent over, resting his hands against his knees and bracing himself while he took in a few deep breaths. An idea hovered in the back of his mind, and in his shady past, he’d learned to listen to his gut reactions, even if no one else did.

  Taking another long breath, he walked the rest of the way to the cabin, ignoring the growing discomfort, what felt like his intestines twisting. He left the extra items inside the doorway, then fixed the pack, hoisting it once again on his back and returned outside. He took a step east. Nothing. The same feeling, no better no worse. He took five more, with no change. From there, he tried to go south, down the mountain, but the pain intensified dramatically. Heading west eased it slightly, but when he began to go uphill, north, it noticeably lessened. Smiling grimly, he went north.

  Half an hour later, he reached a road cut along the side of the mountain. If he went east, he was fairly certain it would lead to the Thrush base. West would take him to the resort. In the dying light of day, he had no idea which way to go. Cautiously, he turned around and took several steps south. The pain brought him up short. Okay, so that was still out. West? Still some discomfort. East was a little better, gradually feeling easier as he continued and the road began to wind north.

  Well, Napoleon Solo, I hope this is guiding me to you. I’d hate to be killed because of listening to a stomachache.