Collection 6 - The Summer of '65

  The Summer of '65

  Collection : Volume Six

  June to August 1965

  Written by LRH Balzer

  Artwork by Warren Oddsson

  Note: the following stories were removed from the 2008 version:

  Red Retriever Affair and Cost Accounting © May 1995 by Patricia J. Foley

  AUTHOR'S COMMENTS:

  I made the decision some time ago to rework volume six of the Collection Series, The Summer of '65, and remove several stories not written by me since I have been unable to locate the other author—it has been thirteen years! I know the stories have since been republished elsewhere by the other author, so I knew her fans would have access to them.

  Once that was decided, I spent a lot of time thinking about how I wanted to handle the bridge story between the 1995 version of "The Rushin' Fool Affair" and "The Eye of the Hurricane Affair". It took some time to accomplish, as there were several key points I needed to hit upon, to keep up the subsequent tension in "The Eye of the Hurricane", without duplicating the storyline of Illya going undercover to a nuclear facility in Russia playing the role of a teenager as told in 1995's wonderful "The Red Retriever Affair".

  I finally dug out the original idea I had for a story before "The Red Retriever" was offered to me for the series. It was called "The Double Dipping Affair" and existed only as a series of notes as to where I wanted the story to go and how it would connect with the "Eye of the Hurricane Affair" , which was actually the first story written.

  Writing it was a lot of fun—the first Man From U.N.C.L.E. fiction I had written since the "Time Bomb Affair" came out several years ago.

  The other stories in this fan-novel have all been hugely rewritten for this 2008 publication, and I hope you enjoy the results.

  My thanks to my sister Marianne Mendgen and good friend Marcelle Gibson for their editing (yet again!) of this version. Also thanks to Agent With Style for their faithful printing of my fanzines!

  Lois

  November 2008

  Part 1

  The Rushin' Fool

  There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

  than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

  Hamlet, Act 1, Scene V

  Seven days into June. Twelve midnight. And hot.

  With a sigh that took more effort than it was worth, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin leaned out onto the ledge of the narrow window of his bachelor apartment. He balanced his weight on the palms of his hands, his face stretched out to the dark sky, eyes searching. In New York City, there were no stars to mark the passing seasons, only the constant glow of metropolis light. Below him, at either end of the alley, were the never-ending sounds of city life: the constant parade of cars passing on the busy streets merging with the hazy maelstrom of voices and music and television sets bleeding from a hundred apartments, peppered with yowling cats and blaring horns.

  Kuryakin pulled himself back in with another weary sigh. There was no relief in the suffocating humid night air. No refreshing breeze to lift him from this funk. Not even a fellow resident across the alley leaning out of their window to share a complaint. These dead nights were always the hardest, for he felt alone. Too tired to go anywhere. Too bothered to care.

  He reached one hand into the darkened room for his crutch, then returned slowly to the couch, each reluctant hop sending additional waves of pain up his calves to disperse over his sweating body. They had given him pain tablets, but he was reluctant to take them, under the firm conviction that he would recuperate faster without drugging his system. He had grudgingly taken the dose prescribed earlier in the evening and decided the light-headed feeling they left him with was not worth the temporary absence of pain, although the steady throbbing from the cuts on his feet and his sprained ankles was starting to convince him otherwise. Maybe later, he thought, taking another hop, before I try to sleep. He was still off the active list, the injuries in Los Angeles demanding extra time to heal, but at least Sam Lawrence was not forbidding him from going into the office.

  Ten steps and he dropped onto the towel-covered surface of the couch, maneuvering so his bare chest and legs faced the whirring electric fan and the counterfeit draft, scarcely more than heated air, that was propelled toward him. All the lights were off, even their feeble heat unwelcome.

  It would have been cooler at Headquarters; he should have stayed there, slept on the floor in his office, or in the infirmary. Illya entertained the thought of taking another cold shower or perhaps camping out on Napoleon's sofa, taking advantage of the air-conditioned coolness of his partner's top floor suite, but then he dismissed the latter. It was scarcely past midnight and, in all likelihood, Napoleon had visitors.

  Click.

  Apparently, so did he. A soft noise from the kitchenette. Kuryakin smiled, wondering which cat had chosen to enter the tiny window off the fire escape and pay him a visit this time.

  Snick.

  The smile faded before it had time to stay. A sixth sense honed through the years alerted him that whatever sound that had been, it was made by no cat. He froze, holding his breath in the darkness, his hands curled into the worn terry fabric as he braced himself.

  It came again, louder. His refrigerator, around the corner in the small kitchen, had been opened, the light spilling into the room, sending shadows of motion across the floor. Without moving, without shifting his eyes from where they were riveted, he pinpointed his gun's location by memory alone, allowing a silent curse when he concluded that there was no way he could reach it in time.

  The light disappeared. The sound of footsteps, the scent of something like sandalwood, and then a dark shadow silhouetted as it passed before the half-light seeping in through the window. "Ilyusha? Mind if I turn the lamp on?"

  The voice was calm, almost casual, a smooth rich baritone that he had never heard before. Kuryakin's eyes darted to his front door, to the steady green security light that showed the entrance had not been breached. There were only two other ways of accessing his bachelor apartment: the main room's window he had just been at, and a narrow slit of a window in the kitchenette, too small for even him to navigate through.

  So how did he get in here?

  Although the intruder was nowhere near it, the low reading lamp across the room snapped on, casting more shadows than light through the space, and Kuryakin could see the man move toward him. Face hidden, unidentified. Clad in loose fitting dark slacks and a dark T-shirt. And holding two bottles of his beers.

  "Good evening, Ilyusha. May I join you?" The face came into sight then, tanned and broad shouldered, with the rugged handsome features of a Hollywood actor. It was too dark to see the color of his eyes, but he had a disarming smile. His hair was dark, short at the back, slightly longer at the front. He had a short stubble of beard, as though he had not shaved in forty-eight hours. The stranger straddled the chair across from the motionless U.N.C.L.E. agent.

  "How did you get in here?" Kuryakin demanded.

  "It's easy enough if you know how." His wrist moved in the semi-darkness, two cracks of the caps being removed, then the bottle opener was discarded on the table. He leaned forward, reaching out with one beer, and placed it in Kuryakin's hand. "To your health," he nodded, lifting his bottle in toast, the light catching the sparkle in his eye and his amusement at his host's uncomfortable manner.

  "How did you get in here?" The bottle found its way to Illya's mouth, the icy cold drink swallowed automatically, before he even considered the danger. He blinked, focusing his concentration. "Who are you? What do you want?"

  Again the smile. Warm. Relaxed. Seeing a gentle humor in all of this that totally escaped the Section Two agent. "You have a lot of questions, Ilyusha."

/>   "You're trespassing. I'm entitled to questions," Kuryakin pointed out.

  "True enough; I forget myself sometimes. But it has been a long spell for me without conversation, and I apologize if I appear rude, Ilyusha."

  He spoke in Russian, Kuryakin realized with a start. They both did. And the intruder spoke it flawlessly, no accent tripping over the rough consonants or slurring the soft letters of his name. Kuryakin repeated, "What do you want?"

  "A good question—and, before I continue, thanks for the beer. I needed that." He twisted to set the empty bottle down on the table behind him, and then turned his attention suddenly on Kuryakin.

  Illya jumped under the intense security, and then ruthlessly willed his still-recuperating body to behave. He was at a disadvantage at the moment and needed every bit of cooperation he could squeeze from his aching limbs. If he could time it right, he might be able to push off his crippled feet and reach the gun before the stranger had time to react.

  The gaze softened, as though aware of his tension, but the voice remained firm and unyielding. "I have a job I want you to do, Illya Nikolayovetch Kuryakin. It's important."

  The patronymic had changed. Whoever this was also knew his birth name. It was conceivable, though, that Thrush would have that information. The CIA had it, after all. "Who do you work for?" Kuryakin asked, coldly.

  Fathomless eyes glanced down, the smile sliding to one side of the wide mouth. "What happened to 'how did I get into your place'?"

  "Fine. Whichever." Kuryakin swallowed again, willing himself not to choke on the beer or dwell too long on the fact that he was sitting half-naked in his apartment, one ankle taped, the other foot tightly bandaged, and his gun was lying ten feet away on the bureau by the entrance.

  The stranger glanced up, his dark eyes moving to rest on the weapon, even though the light did not penetrate that far. "Would you relax a bit if I got that for you?"

  He stood smoothly, and Illya saw he was tall, well over six feet in height. He sauntered across the room with the grace of a dancer—or perhaps the lethality of a black belt master. Picking up the holster, he withdrew the Walther P38 and handled it with the ease of one well familiar with firearms, looking down the sight. "Good piece. Double action trigger, semiautomatic. Has twice the range, but is a bit heavier than your Makarov, though both have eight-round magazines, if I remember correctly." He returned to the small sitting area, and the weapon was handed over, grip first. "You've made some interesting modifications, I see. But wouldn't the PPK be better for plain-clothes work? It's considerably lighter and less bulky."

  "I like it." Illya checked the U.N.C.L.E. Special and let it rest across his lap, ready. "What do you want?" he asked, while thinking, Where are his weapons? The stranger was too relaxed, too sure of himself not to be carrying. "How did you get into my apartment?" The question shot out of his mouth.

  The man once again straddled the chair, studying him for a few minutes in silence before answering, finally, "My name is Mikhail."

  "How did you get into my apartment?" Kuryakin repeated.

  "I need help, and you're the man to help me, Ilyusha."

  "How did you get into my apartment?"

  "I need a bomb diffused."

  "How did you get into my apartment?"

  "I need it done before two in the morning the day after tomorrow."

  Kuryakin sighed. At least his question was getting answers. Not the answers to the question, mind you, but they would do for a start. "Mikhail who?" He hated that name. His foster father had that name. So did Misha Graham, he reminded himself, but somehow it sat better on the little boy.

  "The bomb is in a Thrush building, in the city. On 52nd. Your partner will plant it tomorrow."

  It was a fight to keep the incredulous look from his face. "My partner will plant it tomorrow? How do you know what my partner will do tomorrow?"

  "My name is Mikhail," the intruder replied, as though that answered the question.

  He pushed up from the chair. "I'm thirsty. Do you mind?" He crossed to the kitchenette and withdrew another beer from an otherwise empty fridge.

  "Who are you with? GRU? U.N.C.L.E.? MI5? KGB? Thrush? CIA?" Kuryakin named off the various organizations as Mikhail returned with his bottle to the backwards chair, dropping comfortably into it with an ease of familiarity, and opening it.

  Ease. Everything the man did was confident and smooth.

  Mikhail took a long swallow, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Napoleon Solo has arranged to destroy the main computer of Thrush Headquarters, New York. He must be stopped."

  Kuryakin's eyes were icy now. "What is your source?" His hands tightened on the grip.

  "My name is Mikhail," the man responded. "Just Mikhail."

  "Is that supposed to mean something to me?" Illya snapped.

  The stranger waited while it slowly registered in Kuryakin's mind what was being said. And the implication of what was being said. The Archangel Michael.

  The Walther was raised now, the hammer audibly cocked and waiting. "I don't believe in angels."

  "Oh? What do you believe in, Ilyusha?"

  "A few things. But not angels."

  A smile flitted across the tanned face opposite him. "Nevertheless." He finished the beer, settling the bottle beside its mate on the table.

  "And I especially do not believe in angels who drink beer in my apartment at midnight."

  "I was thirsty. I told you." Mikhail gave a little laugh, not at all concerned about the weapon aimed at his forehead. "What were you expecting? A long white robe, wings, and a trumpet? I'm a warrior, Ilyusha." The handsome face hardened. "I'm on a mission. And I really don't care if you believe in me or not. Why don't you ask me again how I got into your apartment? Do you really want to know?"

  The retort was on Kuryakin's lips but he stifled it. And said nothing. The weapon remained steady in his hands, the only part of his body not sweating profusely at the moment. The heat seemed to have doubled in the close apartment.

  Mikhail leaned forward. "Listen to me, Illya Nikolayovetch Kuryakin. Tomorrow afternoon, at two o'clock, twelve hours before the timer will go off, your partner Napoleon Solo will plant a bomb in the second level sub-basement of a building on 52nd. He plans to take out the Corporate Computer in the Main Computer Center for Thrush that serves the entire New York State area. He will succeed. And he must be stopped. If you stop him, his life will be saved, for if I try to find another way to stop this later, he will be killed in the process."

  "Why?"

  "Because, unfortunately, Napoleon Solo is not able to see the big picture. If that bomb goes off at two o'clock in the morning the following day, as planned, the entire lower level of the building will be destroyed. Three people will die. Forty-six will be injured. And in four months it will be rebuilt, stronger and more deadly than it was before. The replacements for the dead and injured will prove to be more of a menace than you can presently imagine.—And I know how much you can imagine, Nikosha," Mikhail added softly.

  Kuryakin's heart stopped, then thundered in his chest. This wasn't happening. It was the heat. "What you say means nothing to me. I am not convinced. How do you expect me to believe you? What proof do you have?"

  Mikhail suddenly looked weary, a bone-tiredness that was exhausting even to witness. A sharp glance upward, a drawn out sigh, then his attention went back to his host. "How did I get into your apartment, Ilyusha? Not the door. Not the windows. How did I do it?"

  "I don't know. But you accomplished it, and without a miracle. There is an explanation. There is a logical explanation. I do not believe in angels, or that you are an angel." The words came out quickly, tripping over themselves. "Maybe you—"

  "Put down the gun."

  Kuryakin glanced down at his hands, laying flat on his thighs, and at the weapon that suddenly rested beside him on the couch. He couldn't move. He tried to grab the Special, to move his hands just that short distance but he could no longer control them. He could feel himself growing tir
ed and fought the strong desire to cross the room to his bed and go to sleep. He looked back at Mikhail, swallowing hard, trying not to panic.

  "Are you ready to listen?" the intruder asked, his voice now a low whisper.

  He nodded. What else could he do? Stall until Napoleon left his air-conditioned apartment at seven-thirty the next morning and came down to pick him up for work?

  Mikhail rested his arms on the back of the chair he straddled. "Then hear what I am telling you. If the bomb does not go off, in a short time Thrush New York will collapse from within. The computer has been malfunctioning and as yet, they are too engrossed in their virulent plans to notice. As it feeds them wrong information, they will embark on a task that will end up wiping out their effectiveness and making them little more than jokes in the organization itself. They will serve as a cancer, eating away at the core of Thrush International, until it, too, collapses. All this will happen if the bomb does not go off tomorrow." Mikhail came and crouched before him, the powerful frame meeting his eyes. "You must convince Napoleon Solo to not place the bomb."

  Kuryakin found his voice finally. "If you're an almighty angel, do it yourself."

  Mikhail smiled sadly. "I wish I could, but I'm following my own set of instructions. And they are from someone far higher than your Alexander Waverly." Mikhail glanced upward meaningfully. Then, still crouched at his eye level, the intruder looked across Kuryakin intently. "I speak a truth here: This point of time rests on you and what you do in the next few hours. What choices you decide to make."

  "Why should I believe you?" Illya whispered, still unable to move.

  "Because in the deepest layers of your heart, you do believe in angels."

  In the silence that followed, Kuraykin felt his heart beat wildly. Sweat ran down his face. "Not since I was a foolish child," he said almost sadly.

  "That child still lives within you." Mikhail studied him. "You have scars."

  "You'd have to be blind not to see them," Illya spat out, looking at his bandaged legs and knowing his bare chest and back bore the marks of his childhood and the evidence of wounds from bullets, knives, and whips through the years.