Collection 7 - The Northern Lights Affair Read online

  The Northern Lights Affair

  Man From U.N.C.L.E. Fan Fiction

  Collection : Volume Seuen

  October - November 1965

  written by LRH Balzer

  illustrated by Warren Oddsson

  Author's Note

  I am happy to present "Collection: Volume Seven. The Northern Lights Affair". For those of you who have the U.N.C.L.E. fanzines Kuryakin Files #13 and Eyes Only #3, you may recognize sections of this novel as versions of "Incident at Stone Creek Affair" (Kuryakin File #13, © May 1994) and "Fingers and Toes" (Eyes Only #3, © January 1994). These two short stories have been adapted and incorporated into the novel, with scenes added and deleted as needed. My thanks to Lisa Madden, publisher of the Kuryakin Files and Eyes Only series, for originally publishing them a few years ago.

  Of the ten volumes planned for the Collection series, seven of them are now complete. Volume Eight will be a collection of short stories spanning the rest of season two and into season three. Volume Nine: "The Changeling", pops back in time again to pick up a few months after "Kolya's Son" ends and will also have my version of the meeting and first assignments of Napoleon and Illya. Volume Ten: "The TimeBomb Affair" goes from season four to several years after the series ended (ignoring the TV movie-—I planned the series before the movie came out, but I probably would have ignored the movie anyway).

  My heart-felt thanks to each of you who have written letters of comment on the different zines of the Collection series! Your kind words and encouragement have certainly been appreciated. Special thanks to Cathy Mayo, Shane Conley, and Warren Oddsson (my three housemates) for your comments, brutal critiquing, and sinister ideas, and to Marcelle Gibson and Marianne Mendgen for proofing sections even if I keep changing it after you get a copy to work from...

  And, last but not least—my thanks to you, Warren. The artwork, as always, is super!

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  Other zines by LRH Balzer & Warren Oddsson

  Man From U.N.C.L.E.

  Collection Series

  Volume One : The Dutch Blitz Affair (novel)

  Volume Two : The Defector from Leningrad Affair (novel)

  Volume Three : The Collection: Year One (anthology collection)

  Volume Four : Kolya's Son (novel co-written with Pat Foley)

  Volume Five : My Brother's Keeper (novel)

  Volume Six : Collection : Summer of '65 (anthology with Pat Foley)

  Volume Seven : The Northern Lights Affair (novel)

  Prologue

  October 1, 1965

  New York Headquarters

  Wiry brows drew together in anger, furrowing lines into Alexander Waverly's aged face. He brought the pipe to his lips, pulling the smoke deep into his lungs, the telephone receiver held tight in one liver-spotted hand. He exhaled suddenly, smoke swirling around his head.

  "I've heard enough. You will not phone me again. I most certainly will not be blackmailed."

  "Ah, but Alexander, what would Section One think if they knew of your past indiscretions?" the cultured baritone voice continued. The international telephone line crackled, the signal weakening despite U.N.C.L.E.'s sophisticated equipment.

  "I made full disclosure of my war activities. There was nothing to hide from them."

  "Nothing? Are you sure? Or is your memory also failing?"

  "What we did was endorsed by your government and mine. The Official Secrets Act requires such information be kept guarded."

  The man on the other end of the line broke into his argument. "You misunderstand me. Deliberately, I feel. I am referring to only three people, Alexander. What if your Section One should find out about them and your secret agendas? And, of more importance to you, I would think, what if your successor should find out about your 'other' wartime activities?"

  In a rare display of anger, Waverly terminated the call.

  It had been a lifetime ago. Over twenty-five years since they had met. 1 should have hung up when I first heard his voice.

  But why now? Why has he waited this long to move on his suspicions?

  Waverly set the pipe on the ashtray, too aware of the slight tremble of his hand. If Galland was after Solo as well, then to protect the man, he had to betray him. But there were levels of betrayal. Some were redeemable.

  Twenty minutes later, he had decided his next move. And the next. And the next.

  It was just a matter now of getting his players into the correct positions, then he could shift them as he needed. There had to be something else on Galland's agenda and he needed to find out exactly what that was. Regardless, the plan would unfold, all would be revealed, but it would be to his benefit, not anyone else's.

  He touched the intercom. "When are Solo and Kuryakin due back?"

  "The flight from Chacua arrived a short time ago, sir. Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin should be here within the next fifteen or twenty minutes."

  "Book them on a late afternoon flight to Montreal. I have decided not to attend the conference after all."

  "When will they be returning to New York? "

  "Leave the ticket open for now. And put me through to Claude Renault at the Canadian Head Office in Montreal."

  Check. And soon it will be 'checkmate '.

  Alexander Waverly, Head of U.N.C.L.E. North America, would play the game, but it would be played his way. And he had no intention of sacrificing his two best pieces in the process.

  Chapter One

  December 1939

  England

  Alexander Waverly looked over the three Canadian men he was to train, nodding his approval of the choices. They had all passed basic Special Operations Executive and British Military Intelligence preparation for undercover work in France, so they had been turned over to him for the final steps in their education. All were dark-haired and of ordinary coloring and features which made them ideal for such work. They would pass unnoticed and unchallenged in the country by looks alone.

  Only one was actually from France, although he had immigrated to Canada as a young child. Jacques-Yves Galland was born in Beauvais, a city to the north of Paris. He had been recruited while studying at the university in Paris. Waverly knew little of his family or his background, but the degree of determination about him to do whatever he could to save his country was heartening.

  Claude Renault was a French-Canadian policeman, brought over by the British War effort because he spoke French fluently. The accent did not matter, not with the varied dialects within France itself. What mattered was that he spoke the language as a native. Prior to the war, Renault had studied in Paris, knew the city and area intimately, and had traveled extensively throughout France. His knowledge of the country and language granted him the ability to blend in and, with his forged papers, pass himself as a native.

  Waverly had met Renault in September of that year, when the SOE brought their first group of French-Canadians to England to undergo the rigorous training that was necessary before being dropped via parachute into France. Renault had impressed him not only with his keen wit, but also with his comprehension of the war situation and his dedication to fight their cause. As with many of them, Waverly included, Renault's wife and his two sons had been left behind in Montreal while he accepted the posting.

  The third man had no business being the student, Waverly thought when he heard the man's credentials. He should be the teacher. His cover name was such a part of who he was, that he answered to no other. As far as the world was concerned, he was Antoine St. Laurent. He had been among those first recr
uited into the SOE and its forerunners in the years following the First World War. He had also been recruited from Canada, and also because he spoke French fluently. Along with his wife, St. Laurent had been posted in France near the Italian border in 1928, to watch for and monitor any activity of the Italian Fascists who were making headway into France, and now, as Britain had entered the war, he had been brought back for retraining.

  Fully briefed with their assignment, they parted company two weeks later, not to meet again for almost one year.

  October 1, 1965

  Friday

  "Have you been to Montreal before?" Napoleon Solo settled into his seat before glancing at his companion.

  "Once." Illya Kuryakin fastened his seatbelt, then turned and stared out the small window at the darkening airfield. "A very long time ago," he added, half to himself.

  Before he came to U.N.C.L.E., Napoleon interpreted, and wisely left the matter alone. There were few things they could not discuss between them now, but 'before he came to U.N.C.L.E.' was a subject Illya did his best to avoid.

  Montreal was only an hour away, a relatively short flight after a day of long flights. How many international borders had they crossed in the last twenty-four hours? But this one was different—crossing into Canada always would be. Heading home. Napoleon rested back in his seat, stretching his legs in the first class section, and smiled at the stewardess who was making her way down the row checking on the passengers. Well, heading to Canada anyway.

  The whole idea of home was a nebulous area for him. If anything, Ottawa had been home, with the big manor house and long driveway that had been perfect for sledding in the winter. Brick red, solid, rooted. The room on the top floor, far right, had been his, with a closet he had once packed full of boyhood treasures: A bottle cap collection from around the world. Match boxes from restaurants in thirty countries.

  A baseball autographed by his hero. Shells and comics and gum wrappers and a tattered collection of girlie magazines an older cousin had grinningly bequeathed to him. Through the years those mementos had gradually disappeared as their individual significance faded. A few still existed, locked away in a box in an old steamer trunk in a secure storage locker. (It had been impossible to throw away Miss November 1944.)

  Throughout the war, and the confusion that brought to his life—and to everyone else's—when all other stability was gone, the memory of that house endured. During his childhood and teens, no matter where he traveled in the world to stay for summers with his paternal grandparents, it was to that brick house that he had returned by mid-August. Home, with the backyard barbecue, the two German Shepherds, and his maternal grandparents who had taken him in as a baby and raised him as their own son. It was the place he had come back to time after time after time. Italy, home. France, home. England, home. Hong Kong, home. Like a ball strung to a paddle. A fitting description of what he had felt like.

  The airplane roared down the runway, lifting from the ground with one majestic motion, gaining altitude, then leveling. He closed his eyes, picturing the house, the trees dropping leaves on the wide boulevard. The two dogs (mother and son) racing out to meet him on his way back from school, their happy barking as they scrambled out the front door to knock him down as he set foot onto the driveway. They would follow him on his afternoon paper route, and the male, Buster, would proudly carry the folded newspaper to the front steps of each house, knowing there would be a special treat waiting for him when they got home.

  Home? Napoleon frowned slightly, rejecting the thought. Maybe once Ottawa was home, not now. The Rockcliffe house was sold. His grandparents had been dead for ten years. Any other family had drifted away. He'd even lost touch with Roz over the last five years. Second cousins were scattered over Ontario and Quebec, names that came to him infrequently, faces blurred now with time.

  Still that house, though, stood in his mind as home, or the closest thing he had ever known to home.

  Home now was... New York? His penthouse apartment?

  Napoleon Solo glanced at his silent companion, then looked away, smothering an indulgent smile.

  Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin was staring out the side window of the aircraft looking distinctly uncomfortable. His partner had spent the previous week in a penal colony in South America and was still carrying the sunburn and mosquito bites of his time there. Illya's tie was loose around his throat, the top button of his shirt undone. Napoleon could smell the faint odor of the medication the doctor in Chacua had given to ease the more serious sunburned areas of Illya's fair skin.

  Overall, it had been a successful mission, one they had completed despite the dangers involved. They'd been after this 'Ultimate Computer' since they had first heard of it in June. Thrush's New York computer had been leaking information—not a lot, but enough to help them solve several puzzles without alerting the satrapy that they were the cause. Alexander Waverly wasn't ready to let go of the source, especially with the exact location and time of the Thrush summit still undisclosed. Baffin Bay was one possibility, the name clearly mentioned in one transmission, but that involved 689,000 square kilometers riddled with islands and coves. They needed something more precise. And soon.

  Napoleon yawned, glancing over to see his partner drifting off again, eyes at half-mast as he stared out the window. Sleep had been haphazard at best for the past two weeks. Illya had been in the prison barracks, snatching sleep when he could. While Napoleon had the deluxe comfort of the governor's mansion, the Chief Enforcement Agent had also had Salty Oliver to deal with, and he had spent most of his nights trying to scout the grounds undetected. Both agents had slept on the plane on the long flight back to New York—which had turned out to have been fortunate since they had all of an hour to change their clothes and grab a meal before Waverly had sent them out again.

  It was a different kind of assignment this time, one Napoleon had performed only a few times in the past. He was to take Waverly's place at a meeting the Canadian office had requested, and Illya had been sent along to assist him as needed. There were several developments beginning to take shape in the country to the north that U.N.C.L.E. International needed to be kept advised on. While it was not the Network's place to interfere in a country's internal politics, it was its mandate to ensure that no outside groups, such as Thrush, would make use of the discord to push their own agenda. Forewarned is forearmed, or so the Section One Leaders maintained. Besides, Baffin Bay was in Canadian territory.

  Napoleon opened his brief case and removed the file. Illya was asleep, or was at least resting his eyes now, and the senior agent didn't disturb him. The documents in the file were in a mixture of French and English, reflecting Canada's two national languages. Both agents spoke French, although Illya's was the softer Parisian and Napoleon's the distinct dialect of Quebecois. To speak French fluently was a bonus while in Quebec or they would very easily alienate themselves from half the population.

  Another reason why they were being sent to Montreal to visit with the local office and government officials was apparent as soon as Napoleon glanced through the thin files—more information was needed. The notes Waverly had given him were sketchy, little more than topics for the agenda. Included with the first file were a few copies of related documents from U.N.C.L.E.'s Facts File.

  According to the Montreal Head Office, there was a Canadian national election to be held the following month and the English/French debate seemed to dominate much of the news media, especially in the Eastern part of the country. There was a growing discord among Canadians concerning the Royal Commission of Bilingualism and Biculturalism preliminary report which had been tabled in the House of Commons a few months before. From the newspaper clippings and text of speeches that Napoleon looked through, it appeared that one side felt that the report was nothing more than a maneuver to obscure the political issues of the election, and the other side felt it was an attempt to force the French language on an unwilling population. There was much discussion on the place of Quebec and French-speaking Canad
a within the largely English-speaking country, the debates heard across the country in universities, television broadcasts, in churches, and in the local pubs.

  Napoleon flipped to the next group of documents and read a brief treatise on French Canadian nationalism and the Front de liberation du Quebec (FLQ), a revolutionary group utilizing propaganda and terrorism to push for an independent French-speaking Quebec. The FLQ caught his attention immediately; there was a history of bombs being placed in mailboxes of three federal armories and in Westmount, an anglophone area of Montreal. The year before, cash and military equipment had been stolen by FLQ members, and at another holdup at International Firearms, they killed the company's vice-president. The U.N.C.L.E. reporter stated that several Thrush agents had been seen associated with FLQ members, but it had not yet been determined whether Thrush itself was involved with the terrorist group.

  Another grouping of papers outlined the apparent growth of Thrush activity, especially in the far north. Suspected items of interest to Thrush would be the oil fields and the Distant Early Warning Systems set up by NORAD to alert North America of any incoming missiles from the Soviet Union. Canada was a big country, with most of it vastly underpopulated—huge tracts of land, unmonitored and private.

  Napoleon glanced through the rest of the documents and closed the file, returning it to his briefcase. Illya was still asleep, his head resting against the small window. The stewardess brought Napoleon a cup of coffee along with the news that the flight would be landing in another fifteen minutes. He drank it quickly, his thoughts returning to his reunion with cosmopolitan Montreal. Living within a six-hour drive of the Canadian border, it had still been years since he had made the trip.

  The last time he was in Canada? Aside from being ten feet within the border during that business earlier in the year with the baby Illya had found, Napoleon figured he hadn't been in Canada since the late 50's. His second cousin, Francis', wedding. Uncle Frank and Aunt Angeline. The whole clan. Angeline was his mother's cousin, and Roz, Framcois' younger brother, had been Napoleon's boyhood friend. Until Napoleon was twelve, they had lived four blocks apart, close enough for two young boys to get into all the usual adventures. And trouble.