Collection 5 - My Brother's Keeper Read online

  He shivered suddenly and Napoleon, without missing a beat in the story he was telling, reached for the extra blanket at the end of the bed and passed it to him. Illya sat holding the blanket and watching Kelly and Scotty. They hadn't noticed. They hadn't noticed him shiver, and they hadn't noticed Napoleon handing him the blanket. Yet Napoleon, with everything else going on around him, had reacted instinctively and didn't even seem aware of what he had done.

  There were times... when he knew what Napoleon was thinking by just looking at his eyes. As though he could read the other's thoughts. It happened now and again with him, but it seemed to happen more often with Napoleon hearing, but not necessarily understanding, what was on his mind. Answering the question before it was asked. Because Illya was afraid to ask. It was impossible to tell when it was safe to pose a question, and somehow Napoleon would see it on his face and wouldn't wait for him to clumsily try to form the words. Illya had thought it was because of the language problem that still occasionally plagued him, but maybe it was something more.

  They finished eating and the cartons were swept into the garbage. Sometime while Illya was lost in thought, it had been decided that Napoleon would go with Kelly to make the drop, freeing Scotty to check the bandages on Illya's feet. Scott closed and locked the door behind the two men, then reached into his suitcase and withdrew the supplies the doctor had given him. "I'm tired of Chinese food. At least, the American version of it. What about you?" Scott looked down at him for a brief moment, but didn't wait for an answer. "Let's see those feet. Lie back." The quiet no-nonsense order demanded obedience, yet the accompanying smile softened the impact.

  Illya watched with some trepidation as the blankets were gently lifted from his legs and a pillow placed beneath his ankles. Alexander Scott had a gentle touch, firm and knowledgeable, that finally convinced the Russian agent to lean back against the headboard and concentrate on not flinching. The pain killer was working, and what would have been intolerable an hour previous, was now endurable. Barely.

  This particular ceiling had a crack running diagonally across the room and he spent ten minutes diligently trying to figure it out what could have caused it, while the bandages were unwound, the dressings changed, and then rebound.

  "Thank you," he said, when it was over and he had struggled back to an upright position.

  Scott flashed a white smile at him. "You're a good patient. I wish Kelly would stay that still when I bandage him up. He squirms all over, man. You should see him, wiggling around like a five year old. It's disgusting. A grown adult acting like I'm trying to torture him." He left the room with the soiled dressings, muttering to himself.

  Napoleon called them his friends. It was strange how small the world was. How the days shifted and your enemies became your friends. And your friends became your enemies, he thought, remembering Morgan betraying Napoleon.

  With real friends, shouldn't there be a willingness to die for the other? Morgan hadn't cared whether Napoleon would die or not, only that the scepter and the jewels were in his possession. Napoleon had risked his life for his partner's in the past, just as Illya had risked his life for the same reason.

  And it was why Kelly got the knife wound is stomach, Scott had told him as he changed the dressing. "Stupid fool jumped in front of the blade, before it got to me. Took it full in the gut. I thought he was a goner. Here we were in Hong Kong and I'm running down the street toward the hospital, half-carrying a wounded man, and the citizens are hitting at me, trying to take him away from me, because they think I trying to hurt him."

  Illya watched him come back into the room, holding out a glass of water and a pain tablet. There was no demand made for Illya to take it, but the casual way of handing it to him seemed to supersede any thoughts he had of palming it.

  Scott pulled a chair up close and put his feet on the bed, long legs crossed in easy comfort. "Kelly said Lee told him you have a smattering of degrees."

  Illya nodded, again not sure what to say. He was vaguely aware of what his file said, and while parts of it were true, parts were from Alexander Waverly's imagination only. Illya had asked Norm Graham about it once, but Norm had only typically smiled and said to leave the personnel files to Alexander Waverly and worry about what was really important. Napoleon had never asked about them, but as head of Section Two, he would have seen the file.

  Scott didn't seem to find his silence intimidating. "I got my bachelor degree at Temple University in Philadelphia, but by then I was already picked up by my present employers and the rest of my studies became fragmented, some in England, some in France. Same as you?"

  Illya nodded again. "Sorbonne in Paris. Did you go to Cambridge when you were in England?" he ventured.

  "Oxford University," Scott said with a casual confidence. "Rhodes Scholarship."

  He almost told Scott that he had gone to Cambridge for a while. Strange how the man made him feel relaxed. There was a realness about him that was different, a sense that while the man knew his business, he also knew how to have fun. Illya cast about for a topic, finally deciding on, "I heard you use the word bebop earlier when you were describing how long the waiter spoke without taking a breath. Do you––do you like jazz?"

  Scotty's eyes lit up. "Sure do. Hey, I went with Benny Goodman's tour to the Soviet Union in '62 as a deep CIA observer. Were you there then?"

  Illya shook his head. "No, I came here in 1961. I've seen him perform though. What about Dizzy Gillespie?" The conversation spun off into a serious discussion of New Orleans and Chicago styles, Swing and Bebop, syncopation and scat, until Illya finally bowed out, let himself be helped to the bathroom, then collapsed on the bed, asleep before Scott could put out the light.

  *****

  The evening was clear and cool. The stars were out in full force by the time Robinson and Solo made it back to the motel after confirming the CIA information package had been picked up by the unseen contact. The lights were off in the room Napoleon was sharing with his partner, so they sat outside for a last cigarette before going in.

  Kelly handed the match book to Napoleon and glanced at his watch. "It's getting late. What should we do? Take shifts keeping guard?"

  Napoleon lit the cigarette and nodded. "Like Scotty said, Carter isn't likely to do anything that would risk my life, but we have more than just him to worry about. That red Triumph shadowing us disappeared as we drove into the city. If we were being followed, it could just as easily have been one of McGuire's group, or whoever had him killed. They may not be so careful."

  It was harder to call the shots with two groups hounding them. If there were two groups. But they had to work with that assumption, that since Carter knew about Illya's past and their U.N.C.L.E. affiliation, that other groups had the same information. They had no way of knowing how much had been passed on to McGuire, by whom, and how much he had, in turn, passed on.

  "We'll do what we can while we're in Washington," Kelly promised. "I'll see if our supervisor is willing to hand information directly to you at U.N.C.L.E."

  "You'll be on the Riviera?"

  "There's a tournament there. At this point, I don't know if I'm supposed to play in it to keep the cover, or if they really have something concrete for us. Because of our assignments, I never actually participated in the last two tournaments we were scheduled at, so I think they're getting worried that my cover might get blown. With all these petty injuries, it makes my playing rather tenuous at best."

  Napoleon laughed softly. "Illya said––" He cut himself off, running through his mind how much Kelly actually knew, then remembered they had been at the December performance. "Illya said he was often ineligible for the ballet tours due to some injury or other. It was almost impossible for him to accompany an international tour as anything but a performer, because the governments of the countries they traveled to were cautious of KGB tag-alongs and screened the non-performers carefully."

  "We have a similar problem. A few countries will grant me a visitor's visa because I'm a schedule
d player at a tournament, but it's harder to get Scotty in as my 'trainer' or 'coach.' What about with U.N.C.L.E.?"

  "Hasn't been a problem so far. Most countries we're in are supporters of U.N.C.L.E. and are glad to have us there. That's the difference between working for a single country or a multinational organization."

  "You were multinational even in Korea. Is that why U.N.C.L.E. kept offering you a position? The dual citizenship?"

  Napoleon shrugged, drawing on the cigarette. "I've no idea. Could be, though. They were certainly persistent. Maybe it was the dual citizenship. I grew up spending my school year living with my mother's parents in Ottawa, and the summer months staying with my father's parents wherever they were stationed. My grandfather, Antonio Solo, was an Italian ambassador, so they were in Canada my first few years, then to France for several years during the war. Italy, Greece, Hungary, then back to Italy."

  "Is that where you learned your languages?"

  "Had to. I like to be able to converse with my dates, among other things."

  "And they say hormones are dangerous. Especially in our business."

  "Remind me to introduce you to Angelique sometime."

  "If she's the same Angelique we've encountered, no thanks. So what happened to Gramps and Grandma Solo?"

  "In the mid-fillies, he retired and they moved back to my Grandmother Solo's hometown in Phoenix and both died while I was in training for U.N.C.L.E. My other set of grandparents, the ones I was with more often, died in the early fifties, while I was in Korea."

  "I remember. What about your parents? You've never mentioned them before."

  Solo shrugged. "No idea. Not interested. The closest thing I have to family is sleeping at the top of these stairs."

  They sat in silence for a while, both smoking, both thinking. Kelly looked sideways at him finally. "Brownie and you were close, but it's different with you and Illya. Brownie and you were buddies. I don't get that impression with Illya. I can't picture the two of you on the prowl looking for women and excitement."

  Napoleon shook his head, taking another drag on the cigarette. "No. Illya's too focused on the job for that. He has never been happy with my––" he gave a little laugh, "––extracurricular activities. Too dangerous. Not professional. He's become a balance for me in that."

  "Yeah. Scotty's my balance. Probably the reason I'm still alive in this business." They said nothing for a few minutes, until Kelly ventured, "Have you sorted out this Tommy-thing yet? How much has it affected your partnership?"

  "Obviously more than I thought it had. Maybe Illya's resemblance to Tommy Sorgensen has always been behind... what? My sense of obligation to him? My fear of seeing him injured? I can send him into danger if it's our job and I don't think twice about it. I'm not protective then. But this? This is different. This was because he's my friend. This was because he went with me in February when I went to help Alan Morgan."

  "Friendship costs."

  "Maybe I'm not willing to pay the price."

  "Isn't that Illya's decision to make? Have you considered that he is half of this partnership––and this friendship? Have you communicated this to him? Told him about Tommy and what happened?"

  "How? I haven't figured it out for myself––how am I supposed to explain it to him?"

  "By talking. You may notice that Scotty and I do a lot of that. How is Scotty going to know what is going through my head, if I don't tell him? He's not psychic. He can't read my mind."

  "Illya can," Napoleon said abruptly.

  "Can what? Read your mind?"

  "I don't know. Sometimes he seems able to know what I'm thinking by just looking at me. And yet at other times, there's nothing. I've got no idea what is happening. He closes down. Hides."

  "Why? What's he afraid of?"

  Napoleon sat staring off into the darkness. "I don't know. He's got his own set of demons, I guess. We all do."

  Another minute passed in silence. "So, what are your demons?"

  Napoleon laughed. "That's easy. But not what. Who. Thrush... Myself."

  "Anyone else? Your parents maybe?" Kelly exhaled the smoke from his lungs.

  Solo stopped laughing. "I left them behind a long time ago. I left everyone behind during Korea. Everyone I ever cared about either died then or else I made the decision that I never wanted to see them again. And I haven't. It's not that I didn't care about my grandparents, or that they didn't care about me, but I got tired of bouncing between them when it was really my parents they were fighting about."

  "So what does that mean? You ran from the notion of family because you felt smothered? It reeks of commitment and pain and you've avoided that whole problem by signing your life over to U.N.C.L.E.?"

  "Well, Mr. Pop Psychologist, I don't see you settling down and having a family like some of the guys at the reunion."

  "No. Maybe later. But I'm not ruling it out. Meanwhile, my folks are dead and Scotty's mom has more or less adopted me. Says to her friends that I'm the result of her affair with the milkman. But don't avoid my question: you just called Illya family, but you keep personal stuff with him at a distance. Doesn't make any sense. Why bother then? Why not just be partners and leave it at that?"

  Napoleon glanced at him, then stared at the faint glow of his cigarette in the night, the smoke drifting upward. "You're certainly introspective tonight. You weren't like this when we were on college vacations after the war. The most serious thing you ever wanted to discuss was birth control––and only with the female you were about to bed."

  "Comes from being partnered with a philosophy major.––Don't change the topic."

  "Okay. If I recall, I didn't say Illya was family. I said he was the closest thing I had to family... I read once, you don't choose your family, you choose your friends. I didn't choose Illya for a partner, but they made him my partner and, to be honest, he's by far the best partner I ever had. Then I didn't choose him for a friend, but somehow that happened. Maybe I see him as a brother––I don't know. Never had one." He laughed suddenly, butting the cigarette. "Do you and Scotty babble like this all the time? I find it a higher form of torture. And on that note, I am exhausted. I'm tired of thinking. Enough for one night."

  They moved inside, watched the television's laundered news and turned in early. Kelly took the ten to one shift, then Scott took over until Solo relieved him at four in the morning. The long night passed without interruption.

  In the morning, they found the packet on the front seat of the sedan. An envelope with Solo's name on it. He reached for it, cautiously, scanning the area for' someone watching them.

  Blond hairs fell from the folded note. REMEMBER TOMMY. THEY CAME BACK FOR HIM, DIDN'T THEY? THERE'S NO PLACE TO HIDE. WE'RE WATCHING. YOU WILL RECEIVE A MESSAGE FROM US IN NEW YORK. FOLLOW THE DIRECTIONS ANO TOMMY WILL LIVE. MAKE A MISTAKE, AND HE'S DEAD.

  Napoleon felt Illya's eyes on him. "Who's Tommy?"

  "You are," Alexander Scott said, beside him in the backseat.

  "I am?" Kuryakin stared to his partner, but apart from his hands tightening on the steering wheel, Solo made no reply. "Napoleon? Carter kept referring to this Tommy. Sometimes he called me that. Who is he?"

  Robinson shifted after a moment, passing the note back for Scotty and Illya to read. "Well, my boy, if Lee is going to stay tight-lipped about this, I'll tell you––"

  Solo interrupted him. "Tommy Sorgensen was a young sailor assigned to drive me from Inchon to Seoul while I was serving on the Cayuga. We were captured by some North Korean troops and taken with other prisoners to a holding camp. Tommy died there..." Solo paused, glancing in the rear view mirror, then away. "You look a bit like him."

  "And Carter's using me against you." Illya looked down at the blond hairs. "Those aren't mine," he said, emphatically, "or Tommy's."

  "Doesn't matter. I'll get you to the Safe House in D.C.––Carter won't be able to touch you there." I'm not going to make the same mistake twice. This time, I have the authority to get you to safely. The car, warmed up n
ow, pulled onto the highway.

  "I'm not going to hide."

  He didn't look back at his partner. "You will stay there until this is over."

  "Why?"

  "Because––"

  "I'm not Tommy," Kuryakin said coldly.

  "You will stay there, Illya. Until this is over."

  "I said, I am not Tommy. I should not be shut away because of some old guilt you are carrying around."

  Solo shook his head but didn't answer, leaving Kuryakin to stare at the back of his head. Scott and

  Robinson exchanged long looks, but said nothing as the car sped through Virginia.

  Chapter 6

  August 1962

  Belgium

  D.O.A.

  "No."

  "I'm sorry, son. He was dead when they got him here. There wasn't anything we could do." The white-haired doctor's rich brogue was an oddity in the Belgium hospital. He was a kind man, but busy that evening, and he glanced around, looking for someone to pass the dazed young man standing before him to. "Will someone else be meeting you here?" he asked hopefully.

  "No." Napoleon closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself "No, I'm alone. I––I assume there is paperwork to be done."

  "Yes. One of our staff will take you into an office and will help you fill out the papers. You are American?" The doctor had seen the U.N.C.L.E. identification on the dead man and knew that this was his partner.

  "Yes. Yes, I am. He was American as well."

  "There will be other papers then, in addition. You can let the person assisting you know where the body should be shipped."

  "Pardon me?"

  "His body. Your colleague's body. Where will your friend be buried?"

  "Oh. Yes. I don't know. I guess it's written in his—I can find out. Do 1 have to let them know tonight?"