Collection 7 - The Northern Lights Affair Page 16

  Illya shrugged but didn't look up. "Just curious. Consider it a failing of mine."

  "Roz's funeral was on Thursday." It was Napoleon's turn to shrug. "I was busy. The last case. And I thought it would be awkward, me being there."

  "Are you going to call them? Your aunt and uncle?" The Russian adjusted his glasses and opened another file.

  Napoleon looked at the clock. "It's still morning. They'd be at mass. Besides, I don't have time to visit them. It's a couple hours drive from here to Montreal."

  "Oh." Illya turned his attention back to the file he was reading, and the room stayed in silence for another five minutes, until he asked, "What about Dan Shifrin?"

  Napoleon closed his report and got up from the hotel room's desk. "Dan Shifrin? What does he have to do with anything?" It was hard not to sound annoyed.

  "I was just wondering if you're going to contact him. He's in Ottawa today, isn't he?"

  Again, Illya wasn't looking at him, but Napoleon still felt as though he were being carefully scrutinized. "How do you know he's here?"

  "I saw the message he left for you at the front desk yesterday." Illya's face was buried in the file, his voice muffled.

  Napoleon stared at him for several minutes, trying to think of some snappy come-back, but none came to mind. "Well, since we can't speak to anyone at First North Air until tomorrow at the earliest, I might just call him."

  "What does he want? How did he know you were here?"

  "I don't know." Napoleon brought the note from his jacket pocket. "I don't know how much I want to know about all this." He leaned over to the telephone, pulling it closer and then dialing the number. It was a neighboring hotel. He requested the local and soon Shifrin's voice was on the line.

  "Napoleon—good to hear from you."

  "What would you like?"

  "After speaking with you a few weeks ago, I thought I'd like to visit with your father again. I know he lives in Toronto, but I've lost the phone number he gave me. Could I get it from you? Or his address? "

  "Why?"

  "I told you, I'd like to see him again. See what he 's up to lately. Even old war criminals have to surface eventually," Shifrin added with a deep laugh.

  Solo looked across the room to see his partner's eyes fixed on him. He pursed his lips, trying to think this through quickly. "Uh, Dan, why don't you come on over here and we'll talk."

  "I'm heading out soon, Napoleon. Can I just get his phone number and I'll leave you alone?"

  "Well, Dan... It's a funny quirk of mine, but I don't give out phone numbers, except in person."

  There was a long pause, then Shifrin's voice again, "How about I stop by your lobby in fifteen minutes?"

  Solo glanced at his watch. "I'll be there." He put down the phone and stared at Kuryakin. "Lobby in fifteen minutes."

  Kuryakin grinned—rather maniacally, Solo thought—and reached for his suitcase.

  He paused in the lobby, keeping the entrance in full view. At the newsstand behind him, a man with bright red curly hair and a bushy red moustache was crouched down reading a sports magazine. Only the blue eyes remained the same, as his partner waited, equally alert.

  Shifrin came in the front entrance a few minutes later, his hand outstretched. "Napoleon," he said, glancing around the lobby with a practiced eye, but the red-haired man was arguing about the last Toronto/Montreal hockey game with a man next to him in a Toronto Maple Leaf s jersey. "My cab is waiting— Do you have the phone number?"

  "No." Solo watched the dark eyes harden.

  "I thought you—"

  "I don't give out his phone number."

  Shifrin grabbed his arm. Solo signaled to his partner to stay in place, and the argument behind him switched to how poorly the Toronto goalie had been playing. Considering, to Napoleon's knowledge, that Illya had never watched an NHL hockey game played in his life, he was bluffing his way through the conversation beautifully. It was easy, actually. Just disagree with whatever the other man was saying.

  "Why did you bother telling me to come here then?" Shifrin was saying.

  Solo decided to employ Kuryakin's tactics. "Why not?"

  "I'm a busy man—"

  "So am I."

  "I need this number, damn it!" Shifrin's hands opened and closed into fists.

  "Why?" Solo grabbed the man's suit jacket as Shifrin turned to leave. "Why is this number so important? Who wants it?"

  Shifrin had a bull-in-a-china-shop look about him, unable to respond the way he'd like to, considering their location. He was also a very exasperated man. "If you must know, my boss asked me to get it for him."

  "And who might that be?"

  "The Assistant Head of the RCMP Security Intelligence."

  "Does he have a name?"

  "Jacques-Yves Galland."

  The way Shifrin said it, Solo thought he should recognize the name. But he didn't. "Am I supposed to know who that is?"

  Shifrin was silent, staring at him coldly. "I guess not. Better be careful, Solo. Galland is after your old man and your boss, and when he gets them, he'll have them locked up securely for the rest of their lives. Traitors like Waverly and him deserve nothing else, so don't get in our way."

  Solo watched him stalk out of the lobby, then turned to Kuryakin who had materialized at his elbow. "This gets stranger all the time."

  "Do you want me to go after him?"

  "No. I'm going to call this in to our boss, though."

  * * * * * * *

  Monday, November 1, 1965

  Ottawa, Ontario

  8:00 a.m.

  The following morning, Illya Kuryakin opened his hotel room door at the persistent knock. "It's for you, Napoleon."

  April Dancer lounged in the doorway. "Thought you were going to take all day. What—no gun drawn, Illya?"

  "The door has a handy little viewhole," Illya said dryly, as April looked past him to Napoleon.

  "Oh, good, you're both here. And look who else I brought..." She stood aside, and Mark Slate poked his head around the door jamb and smiled sheepishly.

  Napoleon came up behind his partner, doing up his tie, his hair still damp from his shower. "Good to see you, Mark. What happened to you? Did you get away from Thrush or did they throw you out?"

  The British agent shrugged as he followed April into the hotel room. "Got a bit closer than I had planned. Was never actually caught, just stuck in place—couldn't leave without them seeing me. Overheard a bit though. Illya, it should have been you in there; you would have known what they were talking about—most of it went way over my head."

  "Illya was busy about then—you were trying to convince a tribe that you were the son of Lawrence of Arabia, weren't you? Or was that when you were trying to woo the heart of the chiefs daughter?"

  Kuryakin glowered at him but did not choose to respond.

  Dancer went over to the blond agent and tilted his chin to face her. "Oooh... The son of Lawrence of Arabia? Oh, this sounds good. Tell me more, Illya."

  "It's classified," Kuryakin said coldly, pulling out of her reach and moving across the room.

  "Leave him alone, April." Slate's tone was light, but the warning was clear, and fortunately, Dancer shrugged and let the issue go, although a meaningful glance at Solo was clearly saying, I want to hear all about it later.

  There was a sudden tension in the room that Slate stepped in to fix. "April and I are heading to Thule in Greenland. There's a flight in two hours, but since we had a three hour layover here in Ottawa, we thought we'd pop by rather than just hang about the airport. Actually, it was Mr. Waverly's suggestion that we check in with you."

  "Thule U.S. Air Base?" Solo asked. "What for?"

  "They've had some strange radar readings lately," Slate said, with a shrug. "We decided to check it out. Mr. Waverly said to investigate anything unusual in the area. The U.S. Air Force offered the information when the U.N.C.L.E. bulletin went out."

  "They offered the information?" Kuryakin asked, skeptically, from across the
room where he had taken refuge near the window.

  "They're just trying to get more coverage and funding for the Ballistic Missile Early Warning System set up there a few years ago. This way, they are proving its worth." Solo glanced at his watch.

  "Why don't you both sit down? We've got at least an hour before we have to leave for our flight. What all did you overhear, Mark? Anything else we could use?"

  "They were talking about the cold weather. Shorter days now." Slate looked over to Dancer. "What else did I tell you about, love?"

  "That place on Baffin Island."

  "Right. Pond Inlet was mentioned. They said that the two men, Linden and Bradley, had gone up to Pond Inlet and had 'made the transfer aboard safely'."

  "Sounds like there's a ship up there of some kind." Solo pulled his map out and looked at the northeast coast of Baffin Island. "Late in the year for maneuvering in that area though. The ice floes are pretty dense."

  "Oh, Illya," Mark snapped his fingers as he remembered something else. "They mentioned a Soviet physicist who's been working with them. Name of Makhov or something like that. Ring a bell for you?"

  Illya was just in the process of settling back on top of his bed when Mark said the name. At the speed with which his head snapped up, Napoleon felt the familiar, 'Oh-oh' registering.

  "I take it that's a 'yes'," the senior agent said.

  The Russian said nothing for a moment, but his eyes had a distant glaze as the analytical brain retrieved whatever information he was after. "In what capacity did they mention Makhov?" he asked, finally.

  Mark perched on the side of the bed, carefully trying to recall the conversation as he saw its importance. "Let's see. They said he had supervised something being realigned. Uh... his order had been delivered, then something about uranium."

  "Who is he, Illya?" Napoleon asked. When you get that worried, little crease in your forehead, my friend, it 's time to prepare for the worst.

  Kuryakin glanced up to his partner, as though acknowledging the thought, then a little shrug to discredit it. "It is, perhaps, nothing... Before I came to America, I was once assigned to accompany a nuclear physicist—Ivan Ivanovich Makhov—to a series of lectures in Moscow and Leningrad. I was actually there to watch for someone else, but the lecture series was interesting and I spent more time listening to what was being said than looking for my target. The topic was Ballistic Missiles In The Nuclear Age... I heard a few years ago that Makhov had disappeared—I had assumed he had simply fallen out of favor, but perhaps his disappearance was of his own choice."

  "A nuclear scientist?" Napoleon grimaced. "Well, Thrush seems to kidnap scientists on a regular basis. Now if you had told me one of the Soviet Union's nuclear submarines was missing—then I'd really worry," he said with a laugh that choked off when he saw the color drain from his partner's face. "Illya? Don't tell me..."

  "March 1961," Kuryakin whispered, his eyes closed. "One of the Leninskii Komsomol class nuclear submarines disappeared from radar several hours after leaving the Soviet dock. She was presumed lost at sea." The blue eyes opened. "She had a full armament. Makhov was involved with the project."

  "Are you saying there is even the remotest possibility that Thrush has a nuclear submarine? An armed nuclear submarine?"

  "Maybe armed, Napoleon. But the Leninskii Komsomol class did not carry ballistic missiles."

  "That was four years ago. A lot can happen in four years," Solo argued. "They would have had to find more fuel—hence the uranium."

  Kuryakin shook his head silently, wanting to refute what his partner was saying, but not able to find the words—or arguments—to do so.

  Dancer jumped up, restlessly pacing the room. "How could they get around the U.N.C.L.E. satellite system, as well as NORAD's?"

  "They could. Radar doesn't pick up submarines very well." Solo moved to the desk, rapidly sketching a diagram. "Illya, the USS Nautilus and Sea Wolf experimented with piggyback pods carrying up to four ballistic missiles on the decks behind the conning tower. Could the—?"

  "I don't know—Napoleon, this is ridiculous. The submarine sank. It— it—" Kuryakin stuttered.

  "Let's just for the moment assume that Thrush does have the submarine... Could they possibly attach a pod on that particular submarine? The Germans were experimenting with launching V-2's from pods towed by U-boats." He held up his sketch.

  "Theoretically, I suppose—"

  "Close enough. How would it handle in a polar ocean?"

  Illya rubbed at his eyes. "One of the Leninskii Komsomol subs crossed under the North Polar ice cap two years ago, but that doesn't mean—"

  Napoleon interrupted him again. "But you can't rule it out?"

  The Russian agent glanced up at his partner who was waiting impatiently for an answer from him, Mark and April watching him just as closely. "No. No, I can't rule it out. But, Napoleon, those tests were conducted in the mid-1950's and those pods were abandoned because they were too cumbersome and time intensive to prepare. They would have to come to the surface before firing them."

  "All they would need is ten minutes free. Imagine the Leninskii Komsomol sub, probably with a more streamlined and efficient missile pod on the back of it, coming within, say, 500 miles of New York City harbor."

  "No, thank you," April said loudly. "I have no desire to imagine anything of the sort."

  "Napoleon, this is a big jump from my hearing Makhov's name to Thrush having a bloody nuclear sub with ballistic missiles," Mark added. "Aren't you getting a mite carried away?"

  "The Arctic would be perfect to hide a sub in. Lots of unexplored space. Isolated research stations that nobody watches. Not much traffic. No shipping lanes."

  The room was silent for several heartbeats. April pulled her notebook out of her handbag and turned to a clear sheet. "What fits then?" The four agents quickly hashed over the different scenarios, finally settling on continuing with the same paths they were on—Mark and April heading to Thule Air Base in Greenland, and Napoleon and Illya going to Froebisher Bay on Baffin Island, then chartering a flight north to Pond Inlet to trace the Thrush agents seen in the area.

  * * * * *

  Claude Renault met them at the Ottawa airport and took them aside. "Alexander asked me to speak with you, Napoleon. I've arranged for your plane to wait a few minutes." He gestured for Solo to step into a small VIP room. "We won't be long," Renault said to Kuryakin.

  "Uh, he stays with me," Solo said instantly.

  "This is personal, Napoleon. It's not U.N.C.L.E. business." Renault seemed to think that settled the issue, but Solo kept the door from closing with one hand.

  "I said, he stays with me, personal or not, unless it is his choice not to." Solo smiled as his partner stepped into the room with them. "Now what is this about?" he asked as they sat across from the head of U.N.C.L.E. Canada.

  Renault took a deep breath, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clenched. "I'm not sure how much of this you know, or you have guessed, so I'll be brief. During the war, Alexander and I—and one other man—worked with your father and mother in France. They were deep cover spies for Canada and Britain—had been since the late 1920's when they were posted in Cannes, France, to watch for Italian fascists coming into the country. They provided invaluable intelligence material to the Foreign Department in London for fifteen years. Your father received a George Cross medal after the war, given to him by King George VI in recognition of extraordinary acts of bravery by him in non-combat situations. Both your parents received other medals for their service to the Commonwealth. France awarded your father the Legion of Honor for his work after the war among concentration camp refugees, as well as the Croix de Guerre." Renault looked up at Solo, as though trying to get an indication of how much of this he knew already.

  "Go on." Solo was mentally taking down the details, treating this as any other briefing, distancing himself emotionally from what was being said.

  "Once the war started, your parents turned their apartment i
n Marseilles into a Safe House. Because of their work, hundreds of soldiers made it to safety through the underground. Alexander was our supervisor for the area. He monitored the numbers coming through our associate's underground line, I got them into Safe Houses, and then Alexander, along with your father, worked on getting them out of the country."

  Renault straightened his back, glancing to Kuryakin quickly before focusing his attention back on Solo. "During that time, some art work was moved through your parents' Safe House. These were priceless paintings by da Vinci, Michelangelo, Rubens, Rembrandt. They were hidden in between the walls of the apartment. Somebody was supposed to have come and collected them, but no one did. We thought at the time that maybe they had been killed or had been caught by the Nazis.

  "Almost two years later, your parents were arrested and charged with hiding criminals and enemies of the people. They were taken away and the apartment was thoroughly trashed. The art—which we had seen there a few days before—was never found, and it appeared the Nazis knew about it and were looking for it, as all the walls in the apartment had been axed open. Our third coworker believed that your father was able to get the artwork out and had hidden it somewhere. He is attempting to blackmail your father—who has gone into hiding to protect you."

  "To protect me? Why bother now after all these years?" Solo asked, his voice calm.

  Kuryakin ignored his partner's questions and asked his own. "Your coworker... Was his name Galland?"

  Renault seemed surprised, but nodded. "How do you know?"

  "Shifrin told me," Solo said. "I think he was tired of being used by his superior."

  "Galland's motives are not clear at this point. We don't know what his next step will be. He has been hinting at having your father declared a war criminal, and he has made similar threats to Alexander and myself. If either or both of us had to go through an extensive trial at this point, U.N.C.L.E. would be severely crippled during that time, due to our positions. It would discredit both organizations. Alexander feels Galland's motives are personal. With us, he can use our reputations with U.N.C.L.E., but the only thing he can use against your father now, is the threat that he will harm you. Galland feels he is owed something by your father, Napoleon."