Collection 5 - My Brother's Keeper Page 18

"Was this the first time you helped him?"

  "No."

  Napoleon sighed. "Last week, too?"

  The red-freckled face went a shade paler. "Yes, sir." Lenny closed his eyes, regret showing for the first time. "I didn't mean for Kuryakin to get hurt, he's not a bad guy. He's friendly to me. They said they just wanted to talk to him. I asked Kuryakin to hold the stairwell door open for me, and they hit him from behind, then took him down the stairs and out the side way. I––I turned the alarms off."

  Solo reached for the phone with his left hand and as he moved to dial, only then realized he still held his U.N.C.L.E. Special. He slipped it into his holster, then called the lobby.

  The old grenadier picked up the phone on the first ring. "Sorry, Mr. Solo, we couldn't get him. As near as we can tell, he took the service elevator down at the second floor, straight to the basement, then out the back I hate to say it, but Lenny must have handed him the keys. We've got the bloke on film, but it's hard to make out. Should I run him through our files?"

  "Thanks. His first name is Sty. I'm not sure of his last. He's also involved in the black market trade, artifacts mainly."

  "I'll pass that on, Mr. Solo. Should I send someone up for Lenny?"

  "Yes, thank you. Oh, wait just a minute." Solo placed his hand over the receiver at Lenny's wave. "What?"

  "His last name is Jackson, I think. There was a guy with him last time who called him that."

  Solo passed the information on, then waited until Lenny had left with a security guard before taking his outer coat off. As he hung it up, and replaced the contents of his closet, he remembered the envelope and retrieved it, dropping it on his table on the way to the kitchen. His apartment was cold, the heat already turned off for the summer. The temperature had dipped today, and now there was a cold dampness about it that was uncomfortable. The scattered papers and general disorder made him feel distinctly out-of-sorts.

  He made a cup of tea and put on a pot of soup, the envelope resting unopened on the kitchen table. He took off his suit jacket, inspected the repair job that Del Floria had done to the breast pocket, and hung it carefully in the bedroom, relieved to see that room had been spared. Maybe they didn't get this far. By the time the soup had heated, he was ready to open the envelope.

  There was no return address, but the stationery was monogrammed with the logo of the Hilton Hotel of Los Angeles. Written with a black fountain pen, were four lines of text.

  TOMMY IS DEAD BUT HIS GHOST WON'T REST

  ALAN WAS SHOT DOWN BY ILLYA

  YOU IN THE EAST WHEN YOU SHOULD BE WEST

  BRING ME THE STUFF OR I'LL KILL YA.

  If it wasn't so deadly, it would be ludicrous. This was the all-important message he had been waiting for, a few lines of badly written verse. He read it over several times, then dismissed the first two lines. It was the third line that was important. YOU IN THE EAST WHEN YOU SHOULD BE WEST. From his research, Napoleon knew that Carter rarely went to the west coast, but yet that appeared to be where he was being summoned to.

  Well, tomorrow he would make arrangements. The Simpson case was the only big file he had unfinished at the moment, and much of the actual leg work could be done by junior agents, or Section Three for that matter. With luck, he could finish it by Monday at the latest.

  He reached for his phone, then remembered Illya wasn't in town.

  No, he would do this himself It was his problem. Rationally, there was no reason in the world he should go to Los Angeles. He had no scepter to hand over. No workable plan to capture Carter and Jackson.

  He smiled grimly. But then, he wouldn't use the word rational to describe his thoughts right now.

  *****

  Sunday, May 16, 1965

  Two days later, Solo worked his way through the smoke-filled midday crowd at the Manhattan restaurant and slid into the booth. "How did it go on the Riviera?" he asked, smiling at his friend's sunburned nose.

  "We did what we were supposed to, and in less time than I thought." Kelly Robinson's voice was edgy, his hand running nervously across his face. "Scotty's getting his wrist checked out. Some goon almost ripped his hand off."

  "Is he okay?"

  "Yeah... Yeah, he's fine. Just our usual complaint––tired. He's lying down at the office for an hour or two before our flight. What about your partner? Is he back in the city yet?"

  "If the doctor okays him to use crutches in the morning, he'll be heading back tomorrow night."

  "He must be going stir-crazy there."

  "Yeah, well, he was safe there."

  Kelly looked as though he was going to comment further, then changed his mind, then changed his mind again. "Wouldn't he have been just as safe in the infirmary at your Headquarters here in New York?"

  "Maybe. I wanted him out of the city, though––as long as Carter was a threat."

  "Why? So if he's killed in Washington, you don't have to feel as guilty? He was someone else's responsibility there?"

  Solo's temper flared briefly, but he brought it under control before he said anything that would permanently damage his friendship with the other man. "Kelly, Illya is my partner and my responsibility. Maybe I'm acting out of hindsight, but this time I can keep him safe. I have the authority. It was out of my hands before."

  "Before? Are we really talking about Illya here, or are you back on Tommy? Or is this Jim Brown? Who exactly are you protecting, Lee? Illya from Carter? Tommy, who wanted to go back to the ship the day you were both caught, but you didn't have the authority to change the plans? Or Jim, who disobeyed your orders and came after you anyway, because he didn't understand why you were 'protecting' him and was concerned for your safety? Illya is not a Tommy or a Jim Brown—he's not going to want to hide from trouble and he's not going to disobey your orders. Quit treating him like them."

  When the urge to punch Robinson in the face died down, Solo nodded. "Maybe you're right. But hindsight works both ways. I don't want to make the same mistakes that killed Tommy and Jim."

  Kelly glared at him. "You won't. You will, however, make different ones until you get a handle on this. Come on, Schweitzer, drop the act." When Napoleon refused to look up from his study of the table cloth to meet Kelly's eyes, the CIA agent continued, "So what is happening with Carter and this whole mess? Did he ever contact you?"

  "This arrived by special courier on Friday." Solo pulled the envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Robinson.

  Kelly opened it and pulled out the single folded piece of paper. He read it out loud: "Tommy is dead but his ghost won't rest; Alan was shot down by Illya You're in the east when you should be west; Bring me the stuff or I'll kill ya.'––Cute. Keats, he ain't." Robinson glanced across the table at Solo. "He writes an asinine poem on L.A. Hilton stationery in a strong meticulous hand. I don't think this guy is entirely dealing with a full deck."

  "Brilliant but just a little mad––That's how Illya described him."

  "The message is clear enough, though: Here I am; come and get me."

  "Step into my parlor."

  "Exactly." Kelly carefully replaced the note in the envelope.

  "Carter was registered at the Hilton on Wednesday and Thursday. He's not there now and there's no forwarding address for him. From what I've uncovered, he did fly to the west coast several times a year, according to the charge card his flights were billed to. He may have just been using it as a stopover to the Philippines and Japan, though."

  "His buyer must be on the west coast..."

  "That's what I figured. And he wants me out there."

  "So his message is, 'go to the Hilton in Los Angeles and I'll contact you.'" Kelly handed the envelope back. "He seems to have eased off on the threats against Illya. You appear to be the focus now."

  "I removed Illya from the picture. Carter had no choice."

  Robinson nodded, acknowledging the point. "Have you explained your reasoning to Illya? Doesn't he have the right to know why he's been banished?"

  "Okay, okay. I'll tell him.
Now can we get on with why we are meeting?––How long do you have?"

  Robinson shrugged and glanced at his watch. "Half an hour." He reached into the briefcase at his side and pulled out two files. "I need time to return these to the office here before I go. Our flight out is at 2:30." There was a heaviness to his voice that did not bode well.

  "Have you had a chance to look at the files?" Napoleon asked, accepting a cup of coffee from the waiter but waving away the menus.

  "Yeah. This traces Morgan's steps from Korea to Iran during the counterrevolution there in '53 and '54, then on to Ethiopia, then back to the Middle East. There were a few other stops, but those were the three places he was stationed at the longest."

  "Any hint of problems?"

  "None that I could find. Clean record."

  "That's that I came up with. U.N.C.L.E. had him checked out back in February when he'd asked us for help. The only thing added to it since was Illya's report on his death." Solo paged through the files, made a few notes, and reluctantly handed them back. "You're right. Nothing. What about Carter?"

  "The well is still dry on that one. The Atlanta police have made note of Carter being a possible witness or suspect, and they have contacted his home address in Miami. There has been no warrant put out yet, to my knowledge. And no report on McGuire's body turning up; he's still considered AWOL. No foul play was suggested in the document I saw.––What are you looking for, Lee? It would help if I knew what you were thinking. You say that Carter and Morgan have been in touch since the war. It sounds like Carter expected to sell the scepter, but Morgan double-crossed him. Or maybe Morgan was going to contact him after he received the scepter back from you and continue with their scheme; we really have no way of knowing."

  "That reminds me: Remember Zia, the female soldier I told you about? She worked for Morgan and he sent her with me as a decoy in February. I don't know if he was protecting her then, or just using her. She called me on Friday, said Carter had called her and threatened that she better get me to hand over the scepter or her life might be in danger."

  "I don't get it. Why is Carter so positive you have the scepter? Illya told him you gave it back, right?"

  "Apparently it's not in the treasury. I contacted the premier, but he hasn't returned my call. There was an internal battle going on for control of the country between the premier and his mother, and I have a feeling he has hidden the scepter so if she's still alive, she can't get at it. Or if she's dead, so her followers won't grab it. Whoever has the scepter traditionally is the rightful ruler."

  "Hence its value. What a piece for someone's private estate... Carter and Morgan: do you think this was a one time shot or do you think they have been stealing and selling artifacts all these years?" They both lit up cigarettes, letting the smoke mingle with the other clouds in the restaurant

  Solo leaned back against the padded booth bench. "Coincidences have always bothered me... Here's a coincidence for you. When I was in Korea, I spent a few months at the end of 1950 helping out the director of the National Museum. We drove all over South Korea checking on artifacts and shrines, noting damage and taking pictures, removing what we could."

  "With Dr. Kim? I remember you telling me about it. Were you working with him when you were captured?"

  "No. I had been back on the Cayuga for almost a year. I was heading back from leave when that happened."

  "I thought the Navy took leave all at once. They'd go to Hong Kong or to Japan."

  "Usually, yes. I was a liaison officer, so much of my time was spent off-ship."

  "So are you trying to connect Morgan stealing a scepter in 1965 with what you did in 1950? That's a long stretch, Lee, with not a shred of proof that there was anything happening then, man. I was there, remember? I was in the unit and I saw nothing."

  Napoleon shrugged, rubbing at his jaw. "Well, I don't think I saw anything then, but I also wasn't looking. Were you? I don't know... Do you ever get a strong sense about something? Something you've got no proof for? My brain is trying to connect different events... yet I wonder if I'm just angry and want to find more crimes to blame on Morgan. A vindication of sorts." He looked up at his companion and grinned. "I've never spent much time figuring out my motive for doing things. It's usually the other guy I'm trying to anticipate."

  "There's a first time for everything, my friend."

  Napoleon's smile stretched. "Now you're sounding like my partner." My friend.

  They sat in silence, fingers drumming the table top, until Kelly changed the topic. "Listen, I've got to get going in a few minutes. Is there anything else I can do?" He stuffed the CIA files back in his case, snapping the locks closed. "I wish I could do more, but Scotty and I are going to be undercover for the next ten days. Can it wait that long? Before you head off to Los Angeles?"

  "I want to get this over with. I've got to find out what happened then." Napoleon pushed aside his untouched cup of coffee. "When Illya gets back, I'm taking a couple of weeks off."

  "U.N.C.L.E. will let you both off at the same time?"

  "I'm going alone."

  "Why?"

  "It's my problem—"

  "He's your partner, man––"

  "I don't want to worry about him getting tossed in another prison or being injured on my account. In the line of work is one thing. This is none of his business." When Kelly remained silent, Napoleon glanced up. "Okay, we've had this argument before and you don't agree. I just don't want another death on my hands. Illya's better off here. Waverly will need him, if I'm gone. It will be easier on my own."

  "Do you really believe that?" Kelly slid out of the booth, standing by the table and staring grimly at his friend. "And what if you need some help? What if the great Solo can't do it alone? What then? It's too late to ask for assistance by that time."

  "I'll make some arrangements––"

  "Or––Napoleon––what if you discover Morgan was responsible for everything that happened back then? What will you do? Kill Carter? Will it change anything? You can't undo what happened, man. You can't hunt Morgan down and kill him. He's dead already. What more can you do?"

  Napoleon looked away for a moment, then met his friend's smile. "Then at least I'll know. I can't stand not knowing. A couple of months ago, it was a closed issue. I had dealt with it. It was behind me." Napoleon stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray and pocketed his lighter. "But since coming back from Atlanta, it's all I can think about. Besides, if Carter was involved with him on one deal, maybe there were other deals. When does it stop being a coincidence and start being a good lead? With U.N.C.L.E., I'm trained to look the other way much of the time, ignore the petty illegal activities for the sake of the world's safety, but that doesn't mean I can't see what's happening."

  "So what are you following up on now? McGuire and his revenge campaign? Carter and his threats? Or what happened to Napoleon Solo in Korea twelve years ago?"

  "They're all connected, aren't they? McGuire is easy enough to dismiss as psycho, but he's dead. Carter felt he was a threat for some reason. And Carter's no psycho. He's no fool. This message from him is dangerous—I don't deny that, especially since I have no scepter to give him. But he has information that I want. He knew Alan Morgan then. He has been connected with Alan Morgan for twelve years, and they weren't talking over old times."

  Robinson ran his hand over his face, then glanced at his watch, groaning. "I hate to say it, but I've got to go. One more question though. Does Illya––your friend––know about the note?"

  Solo shrugged. "I talked to him on the phone last night and told him about the scepter not being in the treasury and that Carter had contacted me. I didn't offer any more information and he didn't ask. I found out our building superintendent's son, Lenny, was the one responsible for letting Sty Jackson into our apartments and he was responsible for Illya's capture. I told Illya about it, just so he'd know, and said he should continue to be careful."

  Kelly reluctantly stood, obviously uncomfortable about leaving. "You
be careful, Lee." They shook hands and he left, disappearing into the room's smoky fog.

  Napoleon glanced down at the small slip of paper that had been transferred to his palm, memorized the phone number, and destroyed it.

  *****

  "Not at this time."

  Solo stood before his superior later that day, not giving in. "A leave of absence, then? Or––" The CEA stopped short of voicing his next few words, but Waverly was well aware of what he almost said. What he was thinking.

  Would Solo quit over this? No. But this is important to him, or he would not consider using the threat. "Not at this time." Waverly pushed aside some papers, reached for the pipe, then let his hand detour to the right and pulled a cigarette from his desk drawer. It was not a vice he indulged in often. "Mr. Kuryakin is not here," he said, lighting it and catching his top agent's attempt to hide his surprise at the departure from the customary pipe.

  But Solo replied, calmly enough, "Even if Mr. Kuryakin were here, he would not be cleared to run the section, due to his physical injuries. If you give the word, Paddy Dunn can be here by Tuesday afternoon. I've contacted him and he feels it would be a good opportunity to let the Rotterdam office run itself for a short time. They are to be weaned off his support by the end of September, anyway."

  Waverly let him stand while he processed the information. Solo had––on his own initiative––made arrangements. He was becoming entirely too presumptuous. Taking advantage of his position for personal concerns for the third time since Christmas. First in Terbuf with an old girlfriend[9], then the fiasco with Colonel Morgan in the Middle East, and now this.

  Three times in ten years.

  He had never... Well, there had been, of course, the incident with his own cousin's death that he had requested help on, shortly after Solo and Kuryakin had returned from the Middle East[10]. Kuryakin had ended up handling most of it, even though he was barely off the injured list from the Omegar Prison riot[11]. And Waverly had sent him without a second thought. Only one time... His brother-in-law, Hemingway, causing a commotion didn't count, did it? Or the problems caused, however indirectly, from his desire for a specific brand of tobacco for his pipe?[12]