by LRH Balzer
- 7 -
Solo groaned, doubled over in the garishly painted outer office of the head of the Thrush satrap. The pain had been slowly building since their four hours ended, until now it was difficult for him to think. At least the arrogant bastard who was running the Vermont Thrush base had left the mustard-colored room, giving Solo at last the opportunity to give in to his desire to swear at the pain that he knew would only get worse as time progressed.
Footsteps heralded the man’s return, so he straightened up and used his handkerchief to dab at the sweat on his brow.
"My apologies," the Thrush boss said, once again sitting down behind the ridiculously massive, dark-stained, mahogany desk. Not a piece of paper was to be seen in the entire office. Aside from the telephone, the desk was bare, making Solo wonder what it was the man actually did. No windows. No filing cabinets.
No adding machines. No security monitors, not even a camera trained on the room, at least as far as Solo could tell. Just a credenza with a crystal pitcher of water and several glasses. So who exactly was this joker?
"I'm sure whatever it was that called you away, it was important," Solo said with false courtesy dripping from his lips. "It must be a big responsibility, running all this."
"Oh, it is," Garisson Groueler agreed, leaning back in his leather, high-backed chair. "Terribly important stuff, you know." He steepled his fingers and stared across at Solo. "So what am I supposed to do with you? I promised your lady friend that I wouldn't kill you, at least not directly."
Score one for Angelique. "My rented Ford truck is just out in your parking lot; I’d like to get back to it—they needed it returned before dinner. I was following another truck from the lodge and ended up here. Or, would you object if I just asked to be dropped off at the hotel? My weekend vacation is almost up and I need to pack up my things."
"Oh, it would pose a problem, yes," Groueler said, smiling evilly, as all Thrush agents must be taught in summer school. "Had you not decided on the self-guided tour of our facilities, we might have been able to arrange something along those lines, but you invalidated that plan with your rather rash actions."
"Trouble is, I never really saw anything," Solo pointed out. "I got caught, remember? I don't think that should count."
"Yes, that is true. My concern though is what you saw before you got caught. Now you say that you entered from ..." Groueler’s voice trailed off, waiting for him to fill in the blank. "I’m sorry, which entrance was that?"
"Does it matter?"
"Actually, yes, it does," Groueler said, as he stood and walked to the credenza, pouring himself a drink of water, the sound of water felling into the crystal glass activating the glands in Solo's dry mouth.
Solo kept his friendly smile pasted on his face while his mind scrambled to find answers. What exactly would it take for this man to let him go? Groueler was a perfect foil; a man who believed himself so far above the game as to be disdainful for all those still playing. "Well, Garisson—May I call you Garisson?"
"Groueler. Mr. Groueler. Please." His captor turned around, his eyes registering his distaste at being called anything but.
"My apologies, Mr. Groueler. I actually entered the building on the back of one of your service trucks. I'm not sure of the entrance number as there was no designation anywhere around. You really need to keep better watch of the vehicles as they pass through your security system. May I suggest cameras mounted to catch the reverse side of any trucks that enter the building?"
"I'll be sure to bring it up at the next staff meeting."
The Thrush facility was built half into the side of the mountain, and Solo wasn't sure how far deep it went. He had waited for almost an hour, but could see little from his location. Before heading back, he had decided to take a quick look into the main cavern, and had set off a rather well-hidden alarm. A band of sirens had sounded, he had been immediately surrounded, and escorted up a level to this office. Despite being detained, everyone appeared almost bored, so low key and unconcerned that he was beginning to suspect that there was nothing actually at the location. At least, not yet. And Groueler wasn't helping any, seemingly content to wait for his answers.
"Where is Angelique?" Solo asked, finally, when the Thrush agent continued to stare at him. "Has someone called her?"
"She is on the telephone in the next room."
"Talking to her mother?"
"Something like that."
"May I speak with her?"
"When she's done."
"Oh, she's calling the shots? She's your boss?"
"No," Groueler growled with sudden emotion. "She is not my boss." He hissed the last word, like a heat-incensed snake.
"Then why do you defer to her wishes?"
"I do not defer to her wishes. This is my operation, not hers."
"Then why is she here?"
"I suspect you have something to do with that, Mr. Solo."
"Me?"
"Napoleon." Her voice slithered through the room, rolling on the vowels. "Be nice now." Angelique stood in the entrance. Actually, Angelique never really stood anywhere. She posed. She draped herself against the doorjamb. She demanded attention and took it. "You’re being a naughty guest, now aren't you?”
"Is this any way to treat a guest?" Solo asked, with a calculated laugh.
Angelique walked past Groueler without stopping until she reached Solo. She laid a polished fingernail on the side of his jaw, tilting his head up ever so slightly. "Napoleon, darling. Behave yourself. You are fortunate that this is a base in the process of being closed down, but I still had to go to a lot of trouble to arrange for your safe release. The rest, as they say, is up to you."
He held out his handcuffed hands, but she shook her head.
"Not that simple, sorry, darling."
"It rarely is," he responded, with a sigh.
*****
Kuryakin stumbled as he shuffled along the slippery road, dropping to one knee. The pain in his stomach was increasing, causing him to walk slightly hunched over. Something was happening. This route had been fine up to about ten minutes ago, when his stomachache began to intensify with each step.
He shifted back to his feet, grimacing in the frosty air. A glance at his watch said it was almost six o'clock. The last of daylight had faded, until he walked along the road by the light of the moon's reflection on the snow around him, still ample light to see by. No one had contacted him yet, regarding pick up. He wondered if they would.
Another few steps and he stopped, trying to breathe around the sharp pains radiating through his abdomen and intestines. His lips pressed thin, he spun around and walked in the other direction, but there was no let up to the pain. He stepped off the road, heading north up the mountain and within ten steps, he could feel the difference.
Moving around, Solo? Great. Just great.
He stopped in the knee deep drift, trying to catch his breath. Now what to do? Keep going, or sit and wait?
He despised sitting around waiting.
There were really no other options then, and if he didn't keep moving, he was going to be in serious trouble when it got colder. His clothing was adequate for skiing or hiking, but he wasn't decked out, or equipped to camp overnight.
Uphill, it is.
*****
Hie hood over his head was irritating him, making walking through the snow difficult. His hands were still secured in front of him; they hadn't bothered uncuffing him to let him put on his overcoat again, so he was outside in below freezing weather, clad in his suit jacket. It had been cold enough in the truck, but now the wind was whistling through the expensive fabric.
They stopped finally, about 100 paces from the road, and Solo was roughly pulled down to his knees onto a cement ridge of some kind. With the unmistakable feeling of a gun pressed into his neck, his feet were chained together and secured. The cold weapon pressed further, and he stayed motionless while his handcuffs were removed. But rather than the hoped-for winter coat, instead, his suit jacket an
d shirt were removed, and he was handcuffed again.
He heard the brittle laughter of the goons who were fastening the handcuffs to a metal link. Finally, they pushed him over and walked away. He counted to five, then reached up and pulled off the hood from around his head, looking around to see just how bad his situation was. Above him somewhere, on a road invisible from where he was, a truck drove off, leaving him.
This was your compromise, Angelique?
Yes, in one sense, he was free. Yes, he was outside the Thrush facility.
However—and it was a big however—he was chained to the base of what looked to be a ski chair lift tower. In his undershirt. At night, in below freezing weather. With a hell of a stomachache.
He could hear the faint rumble of the lifts as they moved along the track. There was no way anyone could have seen him, even if someone was on the chair lift.
Solo spent the next twenty minutes trying to get the handcuffs off, pushing at the links binding his feet, actually, just trying to keep moving to avoid the bone-chilling cold that would kill him just as certainly as if they had shot him.
But finally, he had to rest. He was exhausted from shivering, from smashing the links against the cement base, trying to find a weakness in them. But the weakness was in himself.
He had gone alone. He had pushed the line and had crossed it. And for what? What had he gained, what had U.N.C.L.E. gained from this? Knowing the Thrush base was there should have been enough. That information should have made its way back to Section One.
With a growl of frustration, he laid his head on his bare arm, feeling the rough surface, the frigid cement leeching the warmth from his body. Anger thrashed within his body, furious for some expression, but he was already too tired to let it expend its energy, so it remained locked up, trapped along with guilt and the faint echo of remorse for not taking another path. His leg kicked out, wanting to vent itself against the base of the metal tower rising up to the chair lift, but the chain prevented even that, biting into his leg.
He noted bitterly that he could hardly feel the pain.
Damn. Damn. Damn. "Damn you, Kuryakin."
The words surprised him, forcing him back to awareness. Why blame the Russian for this? It's not his fault. You did this to yourself. Kuryakin had the brains to know that my plan was skewed, that I hadn't thought it through properly. I took an unnecessary risk—something I would have torn into a junior agent for doing. "There is enough risk in this business, without taking unnecessary, time-wasting chances." How many times have I said that? To how many classes of new agents rising through the ranks?
Why blame Kuryakin?
Why? Napoleon wondered, his eyes closing. Well, the least he could do is try to find me. To rescue me from my own stupidity. Isn't that what partners are for?
It might have been interesting being Kuryakin's partner. Now, he'd never know. He drifted off to sleep, snowflakes gently swirling from the overcast sky to cover over his unprotected body.
*****
The pain was easing, almost non-existent. Kuryakin moved quicker, his eyes squinting in the darkness, his limited vision compromised by the light snow beginning to fall. Either Solo was somewhere nearby, or else the 'proximity factor', as Alexander Waverly referred to it, was fading.
A single beep from his pocket halted his trek. He took the transceiver out and saw that he had lost the signal. With a sigh, he turned around and backtracked along his path, feeling the pain increase with each step.
Once he had a decent signal again, he quickly called into HQ and relayed the situation directly to Alexander Waverly.
"When will you rendezvous with the local office? " Waverly asked.
"They have not yet made contact with me."
"They should have. I gave the order when we last spoke."
Kuryakin shrugged, unconcerned. People were generally untrustworthy, especially when they considered you to be untrustworthy. "Sir, I believe Mr. Solo is close to where I am. I feel not so pain."
"Do you know where you are?"
Kuryakin squinted again, putting together the rumbling sound to what he was seeing. "There is ski lift, a chair lift here. And I am on a road, narrow, not main road."
There was a rustle of a map, then Waverly’s voice again. "There is only one chair lift in the area. There are several service roads crossing beneath it. Mr. Kuryakin, each tower supporting the chair lift should be numbered. If you can find a number on one, we will be able to pinpoint your location."
"First, I will look for Mr. Solo."
"Your safety is our first concern here, Mr. Kuryakin. First let us establish where you are, then we'll worry about where Mr. Solo has gone to."
Kuryakin frowned. "My safety, sir? But I am only—"
"You are an U.N.C.L.E. agent, Mr. Kuryakin. Keep that in mind. You are of value." Waverly disconnected the call.
With an exasperated sigh at the strangeness of this organization, Kuryakin made his way along the road until he was under the lift. It was difficult to tell, but perhaps a vehicle had been along the road recently, to this point only. The deeper grooves looked as though it had sat, then perhaps reversed its route. There was evidence the road he had been walking on was in regular use, but in the half an hour he had walked along it, he had seen no one. He headed to the nearest tower base from the road, about 150 feet downhill and picked up speed as he saw the marks in the snow. More than one person had been down this way recently. Maybe twenty minutes before. The footprints were still visible, even though snow was falling quickly now.
He slid down the steep slope, finding it difficult to walk in the darkness, then lost his balance and rolled to a stop at the cement base. He flung the snow from his face, opened his eyes, and gave a grunt of surprise.
Solo.
But was he alive? And where was his coat? His jacket?
Kuryakin pulled off one mitten, trying to feel the pulse on Solo’s neck. It was there, but weak. He pulled out his transceiver, cursing that it showed no signal. There was an identifying number, as Waverly said there would be, on the tower base. He shrugged off his heavy coat, his other mittened hand brushing the light dusting of snow from Solo's body, then he rolled the agent into it, wrapping it securely around him. He pulled off his fur hat and placed it on Solo's head, tugging it so the agent's cheek rested against it, rather than the cement.
And Solo had laughed before, at his bulky winter coat. The feeble wool coat that Solo had worn may be fine in the city, but the man did not know how to dress for real winter weather. Of which, this was only mild, for one who had been raised as Kuryakin had been.
"Illya?" Solo's eyes had not opened, but Kuryakin was sure he'd heard his name.
"Napoleon? Can you hear me?" He put his face low beside the other's ear, his own ear next to Solo's mouth.
"C-c-cold," came the faint reply.
"I'll warm you. But I must go first for help."
Kuryakin stood. The cold would not bother him for a while yet. The red flannel underwear—what did Solo call it? A union suit?—would keep him warm enough to do what he had to do. Without a look back to the motionless man, he waded up the snowy bank to the road, following back along it until the transceiver showed a signal. Breathless, he gave his message to Waverly, requesting the agents coming to get them also bring a tool to cut off the restraints, then he disconnected the device and returned to Solo. He had not waited for Waverly to say one thing or another. His duty was clear. He would keep the Chief Enforcement Agent alive.
He didn't have much choice how he was going to do that. Both needed warmth. He slid beneath the agent, moving him on top, letting the coat open enough so their chests and torsos met and the coat formed a tent keeping out the wind.
His back ached immediately, pushed against the ice cold cement, the weight of another adding to the discomfort. He worried about Solo's feet, but there was nothing he could do.
At best, it would be twenty minutes before they were found, more likely up to an hour, providing no one tried to stop
the rescuers.
Or maybe this would be his final act for U.N.C.L.E. Not saving a man's life, but making sure he did not die alone.
Unable to sleep, his thoughts flitting around him like the dancing snow, he thought of Pasha. Of holding the little baby against his chest, feeling the feeble warmth of the child. Despite what Norm or Trish said, he carried the guilt for the child dying, for not keeping him alive, somehow, for Norm to hold. Such a tiny baby, with a tiny hole in his heart. A blue baby, they called him. Congenital heart defect.
Even now, two years later, it made his own heart ache and he felt the emptiness in his soul.
He would keep Napoleon Solo alive. And maybe, somehow, he would find something to fill the emptiness in his soul.
- 8 -
Two years later...
January 1966
Green Mountain National Forest, Vermont
January 1966
Screeching through the moonless night, the sedan edged away from its pursuers, flying down the winding mountain highway, faithfully following the gleaming yellow road markers to stay on course. Twice it veered away as gunfire shook the already battered frame, threatening to go off the road into the unknown blackness. Each time, the man at the wheel wrestled it back on track.
His companion sat crouched backwards in the front seat, leaning against the dash, quickly loading the ammunition scattered beside him. That accomplished, he twisted his upper body out the passenger window into the icy air and resumed firing at the two cars behind them. The glove compartment easily held twenty more rounds; they had only used eight bullets in the last hour and the chase would end long before they exhausted their supplies.
They had collected their parcel late in the afternoon and headed southwest through Vermont's Green Mountain National Forest. Fortunately, there was little snow and what minimal accumulation there was had been pushed to the side of the road a few days earlier, leaving the roads clear. They had spotted the Thrush tails half an hour ago, just as the sun had set, and the chase had been on for almost twenty minutes. The waiting U.N.C.L.E. helicopters in Bennington had been contacted and help was expected momentarily. Both agents were calm; the situation was under control and would be resolved shortly. All in a day's work.
