Collection 1: The Dutch Blitz Affair Read online

  THE MAN FROM U.N.C.L.E.

  THE DUTCH BLITZ AFFAIR

  by

  L.R.H. Balzer

  Artwork by Warren Oddsson

  "It is terrible outside... Families are torn apart, the men, women, and children all being separated. Children coming home from school find that their parents have disappeared... The children here run about... their tummies are empty... they go from their cold beds out into the cold street... they stop the passers-by and beg for a piece of bread... Children are lost in the smouldering ruins, looking for their parents... Little children break the windows of people's homes and steal whatever they can lay their hands on... I could go on for hours about all the suffering the war has brought, but then I would only make myself more dejected. There is nothing we can do but wait as calmly as we can till the misery comes to an end."

  From "Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl",

  Copyright 1947, by Otto H. Frank.

  ****

  "These underground groups suffered heavy losses. There was no postwar registration of all who had taken part in their operations. My estimation is that they totaled some fifty to sixty thousand people... Of these... more than ten thousand were either shot by the Germans or died in concentration camps. Thousands more were so worn out that they were unable to rebuild their lives after the war ended. And there are other thousands who, although they did rebuild their lives, still suffer from severe depression or from the ordeal of nightmares, all testifying to the tremendous tensions they had to withstand...

  Nations of heroes do not exist. But there were among them tens of thousands of ordinary human beings ... who did save the country's soul."

  From "The Netherlands and Nazi Germany: The Anti-Nazi Resistance"

  Copyright 1990, written by Louis de Jong.

  THE MAN FROM U.N.C.L.E.

  The Dutch Blitz Affair

  by L.R.H. Balzer

  Chapter One: "Parcel for you, Mr. Solo. Postage due."

  At precisely 7:31 a.m., July 6th, 1964, John Ricker pulled out of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters to pick up the mail as he had done every work day for the past twenty years.

  He swung into the congestion of New York City's morning traffic. The sun shone fiercely through the windshield as he pulled the visor into place; he rolled down the window, heedless of the fumes in his desire for a cooler breeze in the van. It was a seventeen minute drive to the main Post Office and Ricker spent the time reflecting on his upcoming retirement, now only a few months away.

  He turned into the post office driveway, casually waving to the security guard before driving to his usual space in the back loading zone area. He got out of the van, opened the rear doors, and entered the building. As usual, the mail bags sat waiting for him and, typical of a Monday morning, there were quite a few.

  Ricker sighed, pulled a trolley over, and began loading. Things would have gone a lot faster if the trolleys had held more than three bags. With this stack, he would have to make three full trips. He loaded the mail bags in the van, then went back into the building for a quick chat with the dispatching clerk, Frieda.

  Five minutes later, he hurried back to the van and peered inside to make sure he had returned the trolley. He stood staring for a moment, frowned, then shrugged and closed the door on the ten bags.

  ***

  8:10 a.m.

  Morning sun slid in through wooden venetian blinds and cast striped shadows across the living room carpet. Louis Armstrong's trumpet wailed softly from the corner phonograph, serenading the designer furniture and brass lamps. The immaculate room smelled of freshly brewed coffee, expensive aftershave, and the new leather couch.

  In an alcove of the apartment, a telephone speaker sat perched on top of the oak stained roll-top desk. Turned up full blast, his answering service duly read off the messages that had piled up in the last few hours, the woman's elderly voice steady.

  "2:32 a.m. No name left. Message: Napoleon, darling, why ever did you leave so early? I came back from the powder room at the club and Paddy told me you had an emergency of some kind and had to go. Call me, sugar.'

  "7:00 a.m. Del Floria Tailors. Message: Mr. Solo, your suits will be ready to pick up this morning at 9:00."

  "7:10 a.m. From the Imperial Rental Agency. Message: Mr. Solo, the bachelor apartment on East 58th should be cleared out by tomorrow morning. We have renters already lined up. You are listed as next-of-kin, so if you could see to this immediately, we'd be most grateful. We understand that you are in the same building, and hope that this will facilitate a speedy clearing of the furniture and other items."

  "7:15 a.m. No name left. Message: Good morning, Nap. Sorry about last night. I'll pick you up at a quarter after eight. Be ready."

  In the bedroom, Napoleon Solo stood at the antique bureau and wrestled with his tie. The face in the mirror remained void of emotion as he struggled to adjust the knot to his satisfaction. As the last message was read, he glanced down at his watch and groaned. He had less than five minutes.

  The answering service hung up and an annoying dial tone echoed through the apartment. There was no time to call his date from the evening before and apologize for ducking out on her. He called the answering service quickly and asked the grandmotherly operator to send some flowers and an appropriate card. He didn't want to think about the Imperial Rental Agency or the empty apartment several floors below him.

  The cryptic message about the suits had been from U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, advising him of a 9:00 meeting with Waverly. He pulled his lightweight suit jacket on over the shoulder harness and tucked the U.N.C.L.E. Special into its slot. Paddy Dunn had no doubt received the same message and would be waiting downstairs in a few minutes.

  He glanced out the window. The man was punctual as usual. It was beginning to irritate him.

  Solo sprinted down the stairs and out into the warm summer day. The temperature was already up to seventy-five and promised to be eighty-seven degrees by mid-afternoon. The gleaming MG convertible had its roof down, and without opening the door, he vaulted into the seat beside Dunn. "Sorry. I had some business to take care of."

  Patrick Aralic Dunn eased the car into the traffic and cast a glance over at the other agent. "You left rather suddenly last night."

  "I had other things on my mind."

  "I covered for you. Drove Betty home after."

  "I see it didn't slow you down at all."

  Paddy grinned and indicated his tuxedo. "I had to take them both home. It takes longer with two."

  "I'm sure it did. You should have changed, though. Waverly doesn't like sloppiness.

  "So who's sloppy? I'm dressed to kill -- or so the saying goes. Not even a wrinkle." The man looked like something out of a bad spy movie; his suit appeared "just pressed" even after a full night on the town and the white rose in his lapel was still dewy fresh. His trademarks were in place: the emerald green silk scarf tied rakishly around his neck and the handkerchief monogrammed P.A.D.

  "What's eating you, Nap?" Paddy's fiery red curls scattered in the breeze as the car changed gears and picked up speed. "The Winthrop Case is finally over after six months. Your strategy in flushing them out worked perfectly. The boss is once more assured that you're a matchless genius. You have the respect of one and all. So what's haunting you? You don't appear to be with us."

  "Like I said, I have other things on my mind." Solo turned and stared intently out the passenger window, feeling Paddy's darting glances at him, but not wanting to talk further.

  Dunn cleared his throat, expertly sliding the MG into the left hand lane and taking the corner as the light switched to red. "We've lost men before. It happens."

  "How I feel is not up for discussion, Dunn.
Have you gone over the final report on the Winthrop case? I wrote it up late yesterday, but I didn't notice if the steno pool had it back yet."

  "I'll look when we get there."

  Dunn was annoyed and it came through clearly in his voice. The Irishman was a good agent, dependable and solid. He'd been virtually faultless as a partner. He deserved an honest answer.

  Solo hit the dashboard with his fist. "I just don't like having a partner written off until I see his body."

  "He's been missing for well over three months. Waverly was just following procedure."

  Solo didn't answer. Dunn was right. When Waverly had assigned Dunn as his partner eight weeks before, he had done exactly what was necessary to keep the operation running smoothly. Napoleon had lost partners before, but there had always been a corpse and a reason, something to finalize the horror so he could focus his attention on exacting justice. Or revenge.

  The announcement had simply been tacked on the bulletin board next to the coffee machine. It was brief and to the point. Illya Kuryakin had left his apartment at 7:35 a.m. on March 20th. He had never shown up at the U.N.C.L.E. buildings. No one had seen him since. There were no letters, no demands, no clues. And no body. Until further notice, his status was missing, presumed dead.

  ***

  8:33 a.m.

  John Ricker turned the corner by the U.N.C.L.E. New York Headquarters and honked at the two agents as they walked down the sidewalk and disappeared into Del Floria's tailor shop. Ricker had been around long enough to have observed most of the agents work their way through the ranks into the higher echelons of the Network. Some ended up in Research or Personnel, others in Communications or Security. The most dashing of the bunch had to be the Enforcement agents, and the two he just passed were no exception.

  Napoleon Solo, of course, was the Chief Enforcement Officer, and he looked every bit the part. Medium height, dark hair, and brown eyes that twinkled mischievously when he tried to sweet-talk Linda down in the mailroom. A real lady's man, that one. And from what Ricker had heard, a darn good agent. With the world the way it was heading, it was nice knowing Solo was on your side.

  But Solo hadn't been around the mailroom lately. Trouble had been brewing on the top floor; Ricker had seen the long faces as he passed from desk to desk collecting the outgoing mail. Business as usual, but the casual banter was gone. No one felt like chatting with him. One of the favorite parts of his job was the twice daily mail rounds throughout the building, stopping to swap a joke or listen to a tall tale. Or, if he was lucky, eavesdrop on a case discussion. Five years ago he had even made a suggestion that led to the arrest of an enemy spy. The Old Man had sent him a note, thanking him. It was framed now and hanging over Ricker's desk.

  But he wasn't blind. He knew what was going on. He'd read the message posted in the office.

  Too bad about that Russian fellow. Never saw him around much in the lower levels; when he was in the building, he usually stuck to his office, or the research labs and libraries. He was kind of a gloomy chap. With his long hair and intense eyes, you could never tell what he was thinking.

  Ricker chuckled and backed the van to the rear delivery door. Agents came and went, but funny how the mail was always there, through rain or snow...

  Now that new guy with Solo -- Paddy Dunn -- he was a character. Always quick with a joke, chomping away on chewing gum, six foot three of lean muscle. A real tough cookie with a heart of gold. It was hard not to like him. The grapevine said he was doing a bang up good job of fitting in with the department and the tension was starting to lift from the agents' faces. He was just what they needed, Ricker decided.

  "Hey! Bobby! Jose! Give me a hand -- and bring our trolley. We have a big load today."

  ***

  8:45 a.m.

  Napoleon Solo stood behind the desk he used in the Enforcement Agents' office and looked around. The room was full; the skeleton crew on at night was just packing up and the day shift was arriving. Paddy lounged at the desk next to his, reading over their typed report, his feet up on Illya's desk, knocking over the nameplate.

  Solo was occupied for five minutes as several Enforcement agents approached to request his approval for a Search and Raid planned that evening. As Chief Enforcement Agent, be was supposed to be available for consultation, endorsing all matters before they were sent to the Legal Department for verification. In reality, he spent most of his time outside of the room, often out of touch for weeks at a time on a case of his own. Routine matters, such as the raid, were then passed on to Waverly, but today he added his signature to the bottom of the request form.

  Another agent handed him a document to initial and he kept his face steady as he saw Kuryakin's name in the text. The massive, new U.N.C.L.E. radar dish facing out to the Atlantic Ocean had been destroyed. It had been effectively camouflaged between two billboard signs, undetectable from the air or from the ground and impossible to find even if you were walking on the roof right next to it. It had been a remarkable design by three members of the New York office -- Kuryakin, Powers, and Garcia -- and was just now being imitated around the globe by U.N.C.L.E. offices.

  Solo assigned the case to two of his agents. He scribbled on the file sheet for them to investigate and report, as well as send out warnings to other offices considering the design.

  As they left, he reached to straighten out the nameplate on Illya's desk.

  It no longer read ILLYA NICKOVETCH KURYAKIN but PATRICK ARALIC DUNN and Illya's belongings were in a cardboard box under Solo's desk in his private office down the hall.

  Paddy's crossed feet moved in beat to the soft music playing over the speakers. Solo stared at the protruding limbs with their glossy black shoes. His reflection stared back, distorted by the leather surface. "Did the steno pool get everything right this time?" he asked.

  "Hmm? Looks like it. Give me a sec, Nap. I'm almost done." Paddy skimmed the last few pages and tossed the document back on Solo's desk.

  "Ready for the Old Man himself. Where are the others?"

  "Reception says they're on their way up," Solo said, referring to the two Dutch agents they were to be meeting that morning. "It's three minutes to nine. We'd better get going."

  "After you, Kimosabe."

  As they entered Waverly's office, several things happened simultaneously. The massive grandfather clock in the corner struck the hour, the security alarm went off, and Waverly's desk lit up with calls.

  "Mr. Waverly?" a voice blared over the intercom. "This is John Ricker in the mailroom. We have a problem here, sir. I signed for nine mailbags from the post office this morning, and when we unloaded them here, I see we have ten bags. Security is scanning them now."

  "Thank you, Mr.... uh... Ricker. Keep me informed." Alexander Waverly, head of the Policy and Operations department -- or Number One of Section One, as he was commonly referred to -- looked up and motioned for the two enforcement agents to sit at the circular desk. "Sit down, please. These gentlemen are the heads of our U.N.C.L.E. offices in Rotterdam and Amsterdam, Mr. Vandermeer and Mr. De Witt. They will be updating us on the current escalation of THRUSH activity in their country. This is Mr. Solo, our Chief Enforcement Officer, and Mr. Dunn, also of Section Two."

  They all shook hands and exchanged quick greetings, Louis De Witt adding quietly to Solo, "Sorry to hear about Kuryakin. I hope --" he stopped himself and then continued on, "I worked with him on an assignment last year. He was a good man."

  Solo nodded politely in response, then placed the file he had brought in on the table and spun the revolving surface toward his boss. "The Winthrop Case, sir."

  "Hmm. Yes. I understand our legal department has cleared up the unfortunate demolition of the bank involved."

  "Yes, sir. It couldn't be avoided. The bank was vacant at the time and no one else was injured."

  "Good, good. Has the case been cryptographed yet?'

  "It has seen coded, sir. The Banana Peel Affair."

  "The Banana Peel Affair?" Waverly reached for
his pipe. "I would like to speak to whoever is involved in attaching code names to our files." The agents exchanged tolerant smiles as Waverly struggled to light his pipe.

  The older man spent several minutes looking over the report, pausing to ask questions and jot down a few indecipherable notes. He had just closed the case file when the security alarms sounded again.

  "Mr. Waverly? Bastion in Security, sir. We have isolated the tenth bag. We have a ticker, sir. Bomb squad is, on its way."

  "Any idea where the bag originated, Mr. Bastion?"

  "No, sir. We have it behind a superglass shield now. Our cameras show it's a standard, large, New York State Mail Bag addressed to Mr. Napoleon Solo, c/o U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, New York City. Insufficient postage. Post Office says we owe them $28.97."

  "Addressed to Mr. Solo, you say? I'll send him down."

  "Thank you, sir. We will let you know of any updates."

  Solo and Dunn stood as Waverly completed the call.

  "Mr. Solo, perhaps you and Mr.... uh... Dunn could make a quick trip down to the mailroom and see to this problem. I will continue with Mr. Vandermeer and Mr. De Witt."

  "Yes, sir." The two agents left quickly as Waverly resumed his conference with the Dutch agents as though bombs in the U.N.C.L.E. building were commonplace.

  The elevator sped them to the bottom floor and they raced down the security-ridden hallway. The offices were being evacuated; they dodged among clerks carrying documents and other irreplaceable items to the explosion-proof Safekeeping room, elsewhere on the floor.

  Bastion met them at the door. "Solo. Dunn. This way, please." They followed him, threading their way past the stationery department and the vaults to the mail room. Security guards were scattered throughout, maintaining a tight professional order within the confusion of machinery, voices, and shouting. Colored lights flashed on the bomb control panel as it was wheeled in and activated. As they watched, a single mechanical arm reached across the superglass barrier to within a yard of the large well-packed mail sack and seconds later, amplified ticking echoed in the mailroom.