Collection 8 - Haunted Nights Read online

  Haunted Nights

  The Itsy Bitsy Spider Affair

  Collection Volume 8 December 1965

  written by LRH Balzer

  illustrated by Warren Oddsson

  Prologue

  Friday, December 10,1965,3 p.m.

  Figliano, Switzerland

  The train finally left, heading south toward Domodossola, Italy, and he turned away from the noise and rising dust, hardly feeling the sudden cold that swept down on the small Swiss town, pushing out the unseasonably warm weather with winter's proprietary right. It will snow tonight, he thought, absently, walking through the waving, bustling crowd, trailing after Waverly. He was glad Anna Paola and the boy were heading back to Italy. He had no desire to accompany them any further on their journey.

  But he was ready to leave.

  "Illya?"

  He turned at his partner's soft question, his subconscious tuned to that one voice in the surrounding multitude. "Yes?"

  "Are you all right?" Napoleon Solo's dark eyes burrowed into him, as the Chief Enforcement Agent kept step.

  "Yes." He kept walking, aware of Solo's solid presence at his side, matching stride for stride as they approached the car which would return Waverly to the conference at the secured Enciente Lodge site.

  Distorted images shimmered just beyond Illya's vision, the aftermath of a drug given him the day before. He had said nothing of it to Napoleon, letting the senior agent concentrate his concern on the lacerations on Illya's back. They were visible, raw, stinging still despite the numbing salve the U.N.C.L.E. medics had treated him with. The visual impairment was mild in comparison. He had still been able to drive adequately, climb a tree, shoot his gun.

  Except when he had faced Mother Fear. Then the weapon had remained impotent in his hands as he stared at the Thrush agent and asked her to put her gun down in a calm, disconnected voice.

  Part of him had wanted to blow her head off. He was surprised at the violence of what he had felt, and he was shocked at the fear which had frozen him in place.

  For the thought had hit him then, that maybe she had been right.

  They had reached the car. "I will see you in New York the day after tomorrow," the Section One Chief said getting into the waiting limousine. "Be sure to check in with the Geneva office before your flight leaves. There are documents that need to be couriered to our office and I have assured Carlo that you will pick them up. And you, Mr. Kuryakin, get your back looked at."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I'll see to both matters, sir." Napoleon Solo shut the door to the car and they stood silently watching it disappear around the corner. Napoleon turned to him, scrutinizing him with an ability made up of long practice. "I'm cold. Let's get something to eat. Our train doesn't leave for another hour."

  Illya Kuryakin nodded tiredly and followed his partner along the street to the coffee shop, neither glancing toward the window of the Thrush-operated pastry shop as they passed it. U.N.C.L.E. yellow security tape was across the entrance way, sealing the site. From the comer of his eye, Illya saw the Figliano balloon, still in the window.

  The thought of food was both attractive and nauseating. He could not remember the last time he ate, apart from a sandwich given him at the lodge, quickly washed down with a cup of excellent coffee that he had drunk too quickly. He had blamed his shaking hands on hunger at the time. Perhaps it was; he wasn't sure.

  The coffee shop was more for the tourists than the locals, decorated outside with stylized Swiss maids. "We'll be in Geneva for dinner. It's only a two-hour train ride." Napoleon held the door open for him, and went to the front counter and ordered them both coffees, smiling distractedly at the quaintly costumed waitress as they took their seats. "How's your back?" he asked, turning his full attention to his partner.

  "The medic at Enciente bandaged it." Illya shrugged, then wished he hadn't. Fire trailed up and down the muscles of his back; the skin felt on fire. Mother Fear had not only strapped him, but had taken a sick delight in rubbing—stroking—something into the open wounds, knowing the resultant festering pain would eat at his resources and wear him down. She had worked hard at wearing him down. Her words more than her actions.

  Illya sipped at his coffee when it arrived, concentrating on controlling the minute tremble of his hands that resurfaced whenever he thought of her. Time would help, he reasoned silently. Time and a great distance.

  Besides, she was dead now.

  "Why don't you pop in to see the local doctor before we leave?" Napoleon asked, cautiously. "I wouldn't mind him looking at my palms." He held out his hands, showing off the slight reddened burns from when he had slid down the rope in the Enciente Lodge onto the choir director/Ecole Figliano leader, Dennis Jenks.

  Illya smiled, shaking his head. "Go ahead, if you must, but I will wait for Geneva."

  Napoleon shrugged. "I can wait until then." He took a quick sip of the too-hot coffee, then met Illya's eyes. "She was quite the lady."

  "Anna?"

  "No. Mother Fear."

  "She was no lady."

  Napoleon looked up at the coldness in his voice. "I know." His eyes glanced beyond the Russian to the street. "It's getting colder out. The sky is overcast."

  Illya turned carefully and glanced out the window. The warmth of the sun had disappeared, leaving the townspeople and tourists shivering in the onset of winter. He glanced at his watch, then drank his coffee and they left to catch their train to Geneva.

  The trip was without incident. During the brief stopover in Lausanne, he found a public phone and placed a call to the college where Tanya Graham was studying, but she was not in. He didn't leave his name, then thought better of it and redialed the number with a brief message saying only that he had called and would see her at Christmas. He didn't want to speak to her anyway; there was little one could communicate on a telephone. But he had promised her mother, Trish, that he would call since he was to be in Switzerland. When he had spoken with Norm Graham a few hours before, there had been a gentle reminder. But he felt uncomfortable, still unsettled from the mission, unclean, and he did not really want to speak to the young woman.

  He reboarded the train, returning to his seat as though he had come back from the restroom, and Napoleon did not question his absence.

  * * * * *

  Geneva, Switzerland

  Napoleon Solo checked into the hotel down the block from the U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, choosing a double room with two beds rather than two of the smaller single rooms. Tonight he had more need of his partner's company than that of a woman. Margeurita would still be around on his next visit to Geneva. For that matter, so would Sonia and Ming Lee.

  Their plane was scheduled to leave at 11:30 a.m. the next day, which meant they had ample time to relax tonight and sleep in a bit in the morning before heading to the airport. He motioned for the bellboy to set their suitcases down, handed him some Swiss notes, and closed the door after him. A quick check of the U.N.C.L.E.-secured room showed it to be intact and undisturbed, so he opted for a shower before dinner—and a chance to change out of the suit he had worn the day before, slept in overnight, fought in, and traveled to and from Geneva. He still had his navy suit with him in the small weekend suitcase, and an untouched white shirt and one last set of clean underwear. He could travel to New York without looking like something the cat had dragged in.

  He checked Illya's suitcase, took out the dark suit carefully folded at the bottom, and hung it along with his own in the bathroom, hoping the steam from his shower would help take out the wrinkles on both. Illya also had a few clean clothes left, which was just as well, as the shirt he had been wearing was stained and ripped beyond repair.

  Napoleon pulled the rest of his clothe
s off, tossed them along to one side of the bathroom, and he stepped into the shower, letting the heat pound on his aching muscles. He had chosen this hotel, rather than the luxurious guest suite at the Geneva HQ, since he remembered the wonderful amenities the hotel offered—one of which was a superb shower. The old building the U.N.C.L.E. offices were housed in had plumbing from thirty years before. He ducked his head, feeling the heat eat away at his tension as it warmed him. The temperature outside had continued to drop, already below freezing, and Illya's prediction of snow had come to pass. The ground was covered in several inches and Napoleon had slipped on the wet sidewalk coming into the hotel.

  The phone rang fifteen minutes later and he hurried out of the bathroom to grab it. "Solo here," he said, thinking it was his partner.

  "Oh, uh... Hi. Is Illya there?" a soft feminine voice asked.

  Napoleon smiled into the receiver, trying to figure out which of the female Geneva HQ workers or agents had scored their phone number. "No... But I'd be happy to take a message for him... unless, of course, you'd rather talk to me," he added, lowering his voice.

  "Is this Mr. Solo?" the woman asked, making Napoleon wonder why he had the title while Illya got a first name request.

  "Yes, whom may I say called?"

  "Tanya Graham."

  The smile widened. Norm Graham's kid. Well, not so much a kid any longer. Last he had seen her, it was in the summer at the Washington, D.C.,Safe House and he had noted that she had very successfully made the switch from teenager to young woman. Another second passed and the rest of it fell into place. Tanya was in Switzerland at a private college. "How did you know Illya was here?"

  "I called my dad to find out where you were staying. He said Illya might like to talk." There was a pause on the line. "Is he okay? Dad sounded worried."

  Napoleon's eyebrows raised. Illya had talked to Norm at the Enciente Lodge after it was all over. It had been a brief call on the U.N.C.L.E. communications network, but it had seemed strange to Napoleon at the time. Despite Illya's close ties with the Graham family, what had prompted his partner to uncharacteristically call the head of U.N.C.L.E. in Washington, D.C. at that particular moment?

  He cast about for an appropriate answer for the young lady. "Illya'll be fine. We finished the case we were working on and we'll be back in New York tomorrow. Everything's still on schedule for the big bash?"

  "For his birthday? Yes." The nervous worry faded as excitement replaced it, as he had intended. "I'll be home on the 23rd until January 8th. It'll be a blast. Mom's already been baking for it."

  "I'm sure he'll have a good time. You aren't in Geneva, are you?" he asked.

  "No. Lausanne."

  Suddenly the phone call Illya placed when their train was at the station in Lausanne made sense.

  Napoleon had wondered who his partner knew in the city, for the agent had placed a local call from memory. Illya had not volunteered the information, and Napoleon had not asked.

  "He'll be back in an hour or so. Why don't you call back? I'm sure he'd love to talk."

  "Great. I could have screamed when my roommate told me he had called and I had missed him. I'll call later. I've got to go run an errand, but I'll call as soon as I get back. Thanks."

  "Bye, love." Napoleon hung up the phone, then groaned as a key turned in the lock and his partner slipped into the room. "You just missed Tanya. She's calling back in an hour. Grab a shower and we can get room service to bring us something to eat."

  Illya shut the door behind him. "I'm not hungry. Go ahead. I think I'll turn in after she calls." The pale eyes glanced around the room. "Why the double room? You're not entertaining?"

  "No. I thought we could get a head start on the paperwork, but if you're tired—"

  "I agree. It would be wise to complete the reports while we are still in Switzerland. It would save time couriering them back here later. Let me get changed from these clothes; I won't be long." Illya crossed the room to his suitcase, digging through the contents for his pajamas and shaving kit.

  Napoleon watched him for a moment, gauging his partner's actions and movements. "How's your back?"

  "It's been better. The doctor cleaned it thoroughly, put in a few stitches, and rebandaged it. He said it should be fine. I just have to be careful for a few days." Illya turned then and met Napoleon's concerned gaze. "I'll be fine," he said firmly, then turned to walk away as though dismissing the matter.

  Napoleon didn't back down, ready to confront him at least on one or two points. "I'm a little concerned here. When I finally found you in that cell, quite frankly you scared me. I've never heard you in pain like that before. You were in serious agony back there."

  Illya shrugged. "I told you she drugged the tea. It made reality a little different."

  "How different? What did she drug you with?"

  "I don't know." Illya turned again and disappeared into the bathroom. "They took some blood tests at the infirmary and had me describe the symptoms and onset. It's not important."

  The shower coming on stopped any further conversation. Napoleon sat at the small round table in the room and stared at the blank report sheets, feeling the unease slowly settle on him as he wondered what Illya had said to Norm that was so important. He glanced at the phone. It would still be working hours in Washington... but there was nothing really to report to Norm Graham, nor any reason to report to him.

  Illya probably just needed a bit of time to work out the stress of the case.

  * * * * *

  The nightmares began that night.

  New York was on fire.

  The blackness gave way to intense color, two balls of fire streaking through the night to impact against the darkness of the city. The buildings echoed as the blast from the explosions shook the downtown core. Glass shattered, shards flung like daggers to the streets below. Debris and bricks fell to the sidewalks, killing or injuring pedestrians. The streets became full of people, afraid to stay inside, afraid to be outside. Fear grabbed hold of them and none of what they feared was imagined. The end of the world had indeed come.

  Eyes found him and stared at him. Twin eyes of orange fire came through the night sky, swept along Broadway, and barreled him over, the impact sending him rolling head over heels to lay sprawled against an alley door, his body broken and dying.

  Orange dominated his vision, huge flames licking at his consciousness, haunting his sleep. The roar of the fire mixed in with the sounds of air raid sirens and the screams of terror and agony. From where he had fallen on the side of the road, he could see a man run by him, flames igniting on his clothes. The man dropped and rolled in the dirt, screaming in pain as he lost his battle.

  People rushed by where he lay, not stopping, and he was too frightened to want them to stop or want them to keep going. He was too frightened to do anything but press his face against the frozen ground and cry. She had left him there. She had promised she would come back for him. Mitya, too, had promised he would come back. But they went to help grandmother down the stairs.

  And then the building had fallen.

  For it was no longer New York. Kiev was on fire.

  Illya sat up slowly, letting the dream images fall from his vision. It had been a long time since he had dreamed of that night. He doubted his own memories—he had been only two years old when Kiev was besieged. How accurate could his recollections be? And in what context?

  Napoleon was still sleeping in the next bed. His partner had been exhausted. Neither man had slept well in the cell at Ecole Figliano. And while each had described their encounters with Dennis Jenks and Mother Fear, neither had elaborated on the emotional impact or all the unimportant details not found in reports.

  She had forced him to drink the drugged tea. Before it had taken effect, she had begun her questioning, and he had not been able to isolate the reasons behind her questions. He could still hear her sickly-sweet voice. "Illya, dear, when is the last time you told your mother that you loved her? Sent her flowers? Thanked her for all the
little things she's done? Told her how much you care?"

  What does my mother have to do with it? he had wondered, briefly, staring back at her. Then he had replied carefully, "I must warn you—I don't have any guilt feelings for you to prey upon. Or any resentment." How could I? My mother is dead.

  But he kept the words to himself, even when the drugs set in. It was none of her business.

  And afterward, after she was finished with him... he had decided she had lied to him, but he wasn't sure what had been lie and what had been truth. For somewhere among her words was the ring of truth.

  Illya stared at the ceiling, at the pattern the shadows made from the Geneva city lights coming through the draperies. He was tired, but sleep was eluding him. His back throbbed and his muscles ached from when he was thrown back by the explosion. It occurred to him again that Mother Fear could have shot him, had not Anna Paola thrown the cake at her. He could hear her voice, the deadly contempt around her words as she ordered him to move aside.

  She could have shot him. Why did she delay?

  He had stared at her, blinking back the blurring vision of another blonde woman from his earliest memories, and he had done nothing. Strange, now that he thought of it, that Mother Fear had not shot him either. That had both had ample opportunity and motive.

  He knew why he had been slow to move. He'd had his mother's image superimposed on hers, drugged vision toying with his senses. What was her excuse? He would never know. She was dead.

  He closed his eyes and schooled his breathing. Tomorrow they would be back in New York, with other problems. He would let this one vanish as well.

  Act One

  "Itsy-Bitsy Spider went up the water spout..."

  Northern Kenya

  December 11,1965

  The two U.N.C.L.E. KENYA agents sauntered back to Bondolo compound after an enjoyable evening in the neighboring village. Native-born David Kwali had taken the American agent to dinner at his parents', and they were walking back along the dirt road under the light of the moon. It had been a pleasant time at Kwali's home, full of laughter and good food, and the agents were contentedly strolling back in the refreshing evening coolness.