Collection 3 - Year One Page 12

  Half an hour down the road to the next town on his map the rain began in earnest, beating against his head and running down his back. He held a piece of plastic over the child and went south along the inlet, trying to stay to his course. He left the road when it arched away from the shore and walked along the rugged waterline. He had to step carefully in the downpour, fearful of slipping on the rocks and mud.

  He felt safer here than on the road, though. Each car that passed held danger, regardless of whether they were Thrush or not. He was a foreigner, without a passport or visa, dressed like a vagabond, with a sack over one shoulder containing a few baby things. He had five dollars and forty cents in his pocket. He had killed a man the day before and his hair and clothes smelled of smoke. He carried a baby who looked nothing like him and for whom he had no legal papers.

  New York seemed far away. U.N.C.L.E., farther still.

  Slowly, awareness came that he had stopped walking. Instead of following the path, he was standing near the edge of the low cliff, watching the hypnotic crash of waves on the rocks below.

  Keep moving. He's not going to find you here.

  Pasha squirmed against his chest and Illya pulled the neck of the poncho out to look down into bright, dark eyes and a big toothless smile.

  "You're awake, are you? It's still raining, little one. Stay in there where it's dry."

  Pasha's right hand had come free from the sling and tiny pink fingers curled around a fold in his T-shirt. With cold reddened fingers, Illya put the pacifier in the baby's mouth and let the poncho cover him again.

  Three weeks before, the Thrush agents had come into the pitch black room where Kuryakin was tied up, a light was turned on, and they placed the tiny baby and a big cardboard box on the floor near him. They freed the ropes on his hands and legs, put a plate of food inside the door, and left.

  They said nothing to him.

  The light revealed the room to be seven feet square. It had a cement floor, a toilet and sink in one corner, and no windows. A three inch by six inch grill near the high ceiling let air in. A single bulb provided the meager light, but the control switch was outside the room. He opened the box to find a supply of formula, bottles, diapers, and a few infant clothes, blankets, and other items.

  The baby cried, a thin mewing sound, its limbs thrashing wildly.

  At first, he had sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, unable to touch it. He knew who it was. He knew what the scientists were doing in that clinic and why they had brought only this one to him and not the others like it. But he didn't know what they were going to do with it or how he should feel about it.

  The baby cried louder and he touched it reluctantly, watching the uncontrolled shivering and listening to the miserable bleating screams.

  It's not to blame. It's just a baby, he thought finally, and awkwardly picked it up. He hadn't known then how to hold it or feed it or stop the crying or change the wet diaper.

  After a few hours, he named it Pavel, after the only other baby he had known, and called him by the diminutive, Pasha. Twice a day, the door would open, a gun was aimed at the child, and food was brought for him -- not much, but enough -- and the diaper pail by the door was removed, another one placed there. He said he was cold once and they had ignored him, but the next time they came, they left a blanket beside his food.

  If the days were long, the nights were longer. At least during the day they would turn on the dull light for him. At night, he had to feed and change Pasha in the dark.

  The clinic was far behind now, most of its secrets lost in the fire. He could still hear the screams. Illya stumbled, then blinked rapidly, trying to clear his blurring vision and concentrate on the present moment. He took a deep breath of fresh salt air and shifted Pasha as the baby fussed. "You can't be hungry already, little one." Arms beneath the poncho, he patted the infant's back as he walked in the rain, losing himself in the familiar motions.

  When the world had narrowed to placing one foot in front of the other, a steady roar caused his head to jerk up in alarm. Twin helicopters overhead. He froze, his mind spinning. Think, Illya Nikolayovetch. You are an U.N.C.L.E. agent. Think! The two black vultures were aimed at him, swooping down, the pylons reaching for him like sharp talons while he stood rooted. "Move!" he screamed at himself aloud, startling his body into action.

  He bolted for cover beneath a grove of trees, pulling the poncho to protect his head as he ducked into the bushes, branches slapping against his sides. Training and survival school skills took over and his feet pounded a path through the undergrowth until he saw a hiding place in a dense thicket. He crouched within the hedge beneath several low trees, the dripping brush around him poking through the blanket. Gasping for breath, he peered up through the thick leafless branches, one hand trying to soothe the frightened infant. Rain ran down his cheeks and onto the baby's face.

  The choppers passed back and forth above, angry at losing sight of him, then veered south as the sky crackled with lightning. Heart pounding, he waited for them to return, listening to the thunder, the downpour, and the ceaseless drip of water from the branches around him.

  When the rain slackened, he fumbled with a bottle and fed Pasha, gratified at the noisy hungry sucking of the healthy child. He put some bread in his own mouth and tried to eat. His feet were raw where the shoes rubbed and his muscles ached from the cold and rain and dampness. Lack of sleep was taking its toll, for in three days he had slept only once, the forty-five minutes in the church. It was growing difficult to focus his eyes and to concentrate; he feared making a fatal mistake.

  Despite his unorthodox arrival in the world, Pasha had a right to live, that much was certain. And he should be loved and cherished, not raised in a Thrush satrapy. With a trembling hand, he brushed the baby's cheek as it drowsily sucked the bottle. Eyes almost closed, Pasha smiled blissfully at the touch, milk dribbling from the corners of his mouth. Illya wiped the tiny face clean with a corner of his already-stained T-shirt. This was his job now, his assignment, to keep alive this little child who had become his very existence.

  The afternoon was almost gone; he had to keep moving. His intention had been to stay along the coast, but according to the map there was a town inland about two miles and he needed supplies. He had only one can of the milk formula left and despite his own lack of appetite, he knew he needed food to fuel his body. He pulled himself to his feet and resettled the blanket on his shoulders, grateful that the infant had miraculously gone back to sleep.

  I'm tired, Napoleon.

  Did you understand? Will you meet me tomorrow?

  * * * * *

  3:30 p.m.

  Solo walked around the perimeter of the building, shaking his head at the charred remains. So what were you doing here, Illya? Did you cause this?

  The clinic was set at the edge of town, the entrance opening onto the street and a small parking lot. The rear of the building had a stairway leading to a private wharf where most of the patients made their entrances and exits. As far as the locals knew, it was an exclusive treatment center for some disease or other, although they said the people who frequented it seemed healthy enough.

  When the district fire chief arrived and handed him the preliminary report, Solo ducked under April Dancer's umbrella and scanned the handwritten document. "Arson. Deliberately set -- no question," he said finally, passing it to her to read. Again, he peered out from under the rim of the umbrella and shook his head at the twisted, blackened, skeletal frame of the clinic.

  Dancer skimmed the report and nodded in agreement. "Gasoline. If I'm reading this correctly, they think the place had been thoroughly trashed before the fire. Would Kuryakin be responsible for all this?"

  "Could be. I don't think so, though. According to the chief over there, most of the clinic staff pulled out suddenly the evening before the fire. Thrush likes to cover its tracks -- it's hard to get much information out of a pile of ashes."

  "What about the body?"

  "Could be someone they had no f
urther use for. There's not much left to identify. Again, standard Thrush procedure." His eyes swept the surrounding area in the remotest hope that Illya would walk out of the brush toward him.

  The morning had been spent checking the IJ.N.C.L.E. security monitors at the Jackson Genetics Laboratory. Two days before the fire, a few supplies and drugs were stolen at gunpoint as the delivery truck made its way from Bar Harbor to the Laboratory site several miles southeast. No one was injured, although the geneticists were puzzled by the choice of items taken.

  While taking a tour of the facility, Solo and Dancer showed the photo of Dr. Weller to each scientist. No one there knew him personally, though they all were aware of the embryologist's reputation. One scientist had heard him speak at a seminar years before on the topic of identical twins. A few knew that Weller had gone into private research several years before his death. Solo reported to Waverly that unless Kuryakin had some further information, there was no apparent link between Weller and the Jackson Genetics Lab.

  A dejected wet grayness had settled over the "Down East" town. Solo frowned up at the sky and the dark clouds that extended to the horizon. Not a great day to be hiking through this part of the state, Illya. The forecast promised no respite from the rain and drizzle.

  His companion broke into his musings, her words sounding skeptical. "Napoleon, how do you know Kuryakin was actually here? There's no proof of that. The cable wasn't sent from here. There's no evidence that points to him being in this town at all."

  He clamped down on the anger that threatened to surface and, instead, smiled slightly. "He was here. I'll tell you how I know later." At a wave from the sheriff, Solo left the shelter of the brightly colored umbrella and joined the group of local officials huddled under a makeshift cover out of the rain.

  The sheriff addressed the others. "Mr. Solo here is from the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. We have been asked by the government to cooperate with him in supplying whatever information he needs. Now, Mr. Solo, you have seen the initial fire report and the mayor of the town has given you his statement. Unfortunately, the forensic report on the body won't be ready until tomorrow at the earliest. Meanwhile, we can give a copy of these reports to your secretary over there and--"

  "She's an agent with the U.N.C.L.E., not my secretary." Solo glanced over to Dancer, watching her circle a car parked across the street from the burned out building.

  "My mistake. Is there anything else we can do for you?" the sheriff asked with a patronizing smile.

  "Do you have descriptions of any of the staff who were working here? Would anyone recognize this man?" Solo produced the picture of Dr. Weller, then turned his attention back to Dancer, who was peering into the car's dirty front window.

  The husky officer examined the photograph carefully, then passed it to the other three men who all shook their heads negative. "We can ask around. May I keep this? Maybe something will turn up."

  "Of course. Excuse me for a moment." Solo sprinted back across the street and under Dancer's umbrella. "I know that look. What did you find?"

  "This car... what's it doing here?" Head tilted to one side, Dancer studied it and the surrounding area.

  "Maybe it belongs to one of the neighbors." Even as he said it, Solo realized there were no neighbors. The car was a recent model sedan, covered now in ashes and soot from the fire. Taking his handkerchief, he wiped clean a small space on the side window. "Looks like whoever owned this had a baby." There was a travel crib in the back seat, along with a grocer's box holding a supply of diapers and formula.

  The sheriff sauntered over and joined them. "We've been wondering about this vehicle. I've had a man watching it, but so far no one has come by to claim it. We ran a make on the license plate and it belongs to a man, last name of Chilton, in Connecticut. He reported it stolen last week."

  "Did he have a baby?" Dancer asked.

  The Sheriff laughed. "Let me clarify, honey. Father John Chilton of the Hartford, Connecticut, Saint James Cathedral."

  "Hmm. Probably not then. And don't call me honey." She handed her umbrella to Solo and dug a lock pick kit from her purse, carefully opening the car door with an ease that startled the burly sheriff.

  Leaning on the door frame, he frowned as she emptied the glove compartment. "Don't disturb anything there. We may need it for evidence."

  "She's an U.N.C.L.E. agent," Solo reminded him. "She could probably teach your boys a thing or two."

  "Yeah, maybe. Now what about this Russian agent that's running around the countryside loose? I'm thinking of bringing in some more boys on this one. I don't trust Ruskies and I don't like the idea of one of them unaccounted for in this day and age. Just how safe is he?"

  Solo saw Dancer's head pop up on the other side of the car, eyes wide as she waited for his reaction. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled, counting to ten, choosing his words carefully. "Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin is probably one of the most dangerous men I have ever met," he responded evenly, his eyes dark. "Fortunately, he's on our side. And you will say nothing to your men or to the news people. Nothing."

  * * * * *

  5:00 p.m.

  Sandwiched between an ice cream store that was boarded up for the winter and a real estate office with a 'closed' notice in the window, the small laundromat with its faded pink letters sat empty. According to the sign on the door, it was open from seven in the morning until seven in the evening, Tuesday to Saturday.

  Through the window, Illya Kuryakin could see a row of five coin-operated washing machines facing an equal number of dryers. He pushed open the door and slipped inside, feeling almost dizzy with his unexpected find. He pulled off his soaked poncho-blanket and crammed it quickly in one of the dryers, feeding a coin into the slot. Ten minutes of heat for a nickel, the hand-lettered instructions promised. He checked his finances; he still had a few coins left and the five dollar bill.

  He ventured further into the narrow laundromat, cautiously opening a door in the back that turned out to be a rest room. A grin formed on his face when, with a twist on the tap, he felt warm water run from the faucet. Closing the door behind him, he pulled Pasha from the sling, stripped the soiled sleeper and diaper off the infant, and wrapped him in a discarded towel. A glance in the mirror and his own T-shirt was added to the soapy water filling the sink and he scrubbed them clean.

  When he was finished, he poked his head out the bathroom door, made sure he was still alone, then threw his shirt, the baby's clothes, and three diapers into a second dryer. He ducked back into the rest room and stuck his head under the tap, washing the soot and grease from his hair with a bit of caked soap. At his feet, Pasha happily sucked on his pacifier, stopping to smile widely when Illya bent over and talked to him. "Why are you so happy, little one?" he asked, taking one chubby flailing fist in his.

  For the same reason I am. It is dry and warm here. And you are not in your sling.

  He heard the first dryer stop and ran out to feed another coin into each machine. Back in the small rest room, Pasha was carefully bathed in the sink and dried off. Illya rummaged through a lost-and-found box and found a ripped towel and a child's sweatshirt which he fashioned into diaper and nightgown.

  Half an hour went by and time anxiously pressed on him to leave before they were discovered. The helicopters must have landed by now and reinforcements would be on the way.

  A third coin finally succeeded in drying the thin blanket. With a sigh of relief, he pulled his warm T-shirt back on, savoring the feel of something clean against his skin. Pasha, still in his 'new' clothes, was placed in the sling and the toasty poncho covered them both, its shape matted and warped by the heat from the dryer.

  The town's food store was just about to close when he walked in with a confident nod to the grocer. He quickly gathered the few things he needed and handed over the money, reaching back in his pocket for the last of his coins when the total was higher than he anticipated.

  Out on the darkening street with his grocery sack, Kurya
kin glanced at the fork in the road and was debating whether to take the southeast or southwest branch when two cars parked outside the lone diner caught his eye. The conviction came firmly that they didn't belong here in this town. Kuryakin sidled up to the cafe window and discreetly glanced in, then ducked down and fled to the back of the building.

  Thrush agents. He recognized two of them. Suddenly the fleeting peace of the past hour vanished and he found himself running headlong down the alley, desperate for cover, adrenaline pumping through weary limbs. It took five minutes before his sleep-deprived mind sluggishly communicated to his legs that he wasn't being followed; he slowed to a shaking walk, then turned off the lane.

  An abandoned shed at the rear of a hardware store grabbed his attention. He wrestled the unlocked door open and slipped inside, sinking to the straw-covered floor with an exhausted shudder, rocking Pasha's cries silent.

  Long after the infant had gone to sleep, he still sat rocking back and forth, surrounded now by his own nightmares, by the fire's rage, by the throat crushing beneath his hands, and by the screams of the other babies that should have been far away.

  Unable to do anything else, he lay down and slept.

  * * * * *

  Bangor, Maine

  8:00 p.m.

  Dancer looked across the table at Solo and glared quietly at him.

  In one day, they had crossed back and forth through six counties. From Portland, they had gone to Brunswick Naval Air Station where they were flown to a site near the Genetics Laboratory. A few hours later, they were returned to Brunswick and given a car. Solo had driven to the town where the cable had been sent from and they had visited the burned-out clinic in the next town. Heading northeast, they had then taken a long drive along the coast, with a few sightseeing stops, ending up in Bangor for an equally frustrating dinner at a famous seafood place.

  As he ate, the man talked incessantly about nothing: the weather, the coastal attractions, the salt air causing his appetite, the interesting tidbits about lobsters that he had heard.