Collection 5 - My Brother's Keeper Page 19

  Was it really so much, three times in ten years? If he were to clear up this mess, Solo would once again be focused on the job. It was quiet right now; this lull might not happen again for weeks or months or years.

  Solo was still not certified for field duty. Sam Lawrence said it would be another two weeks before he would sign the papers. With Paddy Dunn, he had a worker who was one hundred percent.

  And Kuryakin would be here, although in a limited capacity. His injuries were the primary problem, even more than his inexperience with leadership. The young man was proficient, but presently lacked the necessary drive to command the section for more than a few days. When Kuryakin took charge, it was as part of a role he had outlined for himself, one of his many personas. 'Now I will take charge and act the part of a leader.' His soul wasn't part of the deal. Until he integrated his skills in leadership and administration, accepting them as part of himself, it was not a duty Waverly would ask him to perform. Kuryakin was too entrenched in the Network's hierarchy of command, it matched too closely with that of his KGB/GRU training. He simply did not have Solo's ego. Or, fortunately, the problems that went with it.

  Solo had been careful with this request. It was planned and calculated. He was not asking for leave for both of them, just one. Dunn could be brought in; he was familiar with the office and New York procedures. He had the same security rating as Solo. Section Head, Section Two.

  A year before, Illya Kuryakin had been held prisoner for several months by a Thrush group in Rotterdam. Patrick Dunn had been imported from the London office to cover for him, and later, when it was assumed Kuryakin would not be returning, Dunn was made Solo's permanent partner. When Kuryakin was returned to New York, and the case was completed, Dunn elected to transfer to Rotterdam to build up the U.N.C.L.E. office there which had been virtually wiped-out by the confrontation.[13]

  "Sir?" Solo prompted.

  Waverly nodded, making his decision. "When Mr. Kuryakin is back in New York, you have two weeks."

  Solo cleared his throat. "Ah, I would like a month, sir. It's going to take awhile to gather the information I need. I have to do some traveling, as well. Across the country, maybe further."

  "Two weeks should be sufficient for a man of your experience, Mr. Solo."

  "If I am to work alone, without Mr. Kuryakin's assistance, I will require more time."

  "Three weeks, then. I expect to see you back here in three weeks. Should there be an emergency––"

  "I will, of course, return at once. I'll keep my transceiver on me at all times."

  "See that you do. The usual restrictions apply to you, of course. I see no need to go over standard protocol. Remember that you are acting as a private citizen, and not as a member of this organization. You are subject to the laws of the state or country you are in. U.N.C.L.E. will not come to your assistance if you find yourself in trouble. You must still, at all times, behave as behooves a Section Two agent and do not endanger the reputation of this Network." Waverly dismissed him with a wave of his hand, the ashes from the cigarette littering his desk.

  *****

  Monday, May 17

  He was dreaming.

  He was running. He could hear nothing—nothing except for the sound of his feet pounding over the dirt roads flattened by the neverending stream of army trucks.

  Morgan was ahead of him. Leading the raid. Ordering his men left or right in the main streets of the village they were fighting for. He couldn't hear what Morgan was saying, only the sound of footsteps.

  Why this village? Why had they gone so far across so many miles, just to fight for this one village?

  What made this village so special?

  He ran around the corner, gun held out before him. A gun was pointed at him. A frightened North Korean soldier, several years younger than he, trapped against the broken wall surrounding a home, holding a gun.

  They stared at each other. Each afraid to move.

  Neither wanting to shoot.

  He held our his hand, speaking Korean. Come peacefully. I won't hurt you. You don't have a chance.

  Nostrils flared. Sweat poured down the other's face. How can I trust you? You will kill me if I put the gun down.

  He tried to talk to the soldier, but before he could say more than a few words, it no longer mattered. The boy was dead

  Alan Morgan had again saved his life. The major said the soldier would have killed him any second. Alan Morgan had saved his life and the lifeless body slid down the wall, eyes open, still full of pain and betrayal, even in death.

  The eyes stared at him. Wide, black, terrified, almond-shaped eyes lying in the street. Betrayed

  Other eyes stared at him. Wide, blue, terrified, round eyes at the prison camp. Abandoned.

  Wide, black, terrified, eyes in Seoul. Abandoned—And betrayed?

  Wide, blue, terrified eyes in Omegar Prison. Betrayed—And abandoned?

  Black eyes. Blue eyes. Black eyes. Blue eyes. Black Blue. BlackBlueBlackBlue

  Suddenly, through the silence, he heard the shot ring out and saw the body fall. It repeated: the sound and the body falling. It happened again.

  Again.

  Again.

  The body kept falling, the eyes staring at him, changing color.

  The soldier. Tommy. The soldier. Illya.

  Her.

  Red. Red filled his eyes, staining his sight. Red flags. Red blood. Covering his feet, his legs, his body, drowning him. His blood. Her blood. Illya 's blood. Red blood. Hot, sticky blood he couldn't wash off. Pouring down his hands, running down his legs

  He clawed his way out of the dream, stifling a scream before it split the night.

  Three-thirty in the morning. The clock by his bed announced the time, the hands glowing in the darkness. Napoleon rolled over, burying his face in the pillow, shifting in the covers. It had been the same dream all week.

  The same dream since he had left Washington. The same memory merging into nightmare.

  What was it about that North Korean's death? Or was it that Morgan had saved Napoleon's life when it was not in danger. That he had killed an innocent man, and shifted the guilt to Napoleon? Why were they even in that deserted village, so far from the battle?

  Carter would know. And Carter wanted to talk to him? Well, he certainly wanted to talk to Carter. He could hardly wait to talk to him.

  The trouble was, he wasn't sure what he could offer Carter in exchange for the information; that was the primary problem. He certainly didn't have the scepter, and he strongly suspected nothing else would have any value to the man. He had to do something, though. If Carter had killed McGuire, or had him killed, that made him a murderer and it made the threats against Illya more dangerous. Thrush they were somewhat prepared for, but Carter was different. He had to be stopped. They couldn't be in the middle of an assignment and have Carter show up and throw a wrench into it all.

  Napoleon turned onto his back staring up at the ceiling. He wanted to talk to Illya about this. Just like they did with a problem on a case. Talk about it, throwing ideas back and forth until suddenly the answer came and they plucked it out of the conversation and ran with it.

  No. He always came up against the same block. This was personal. But he was there in Terbuf… because he wanted to be... No... Only because we met Clara by chance. But he went with me to the Middle East to help Alan Morgan. Why? He still wasn't sure why Illya had suddenly decided to go with him. He had just been there at the airport with his bag in hand, falling into step behind Napoleon.

  Heather once told Illya he was a puppy dog, faithfully following his master anywhere. It was an embarrassing thing to say to an agent and Napoleon had been about to reprove her when Illya spoke up. Illya's reply, if he remembered correctly, had been: "Woof." Then he had wandered out of the office, looking for food.

  No, not a puppy dog. More like a deadly wolf. And usually hungry.

  Unable to sleep, Napoleon got out of bed and began to pack, trying to decide what to take, making a list of
things that had to be done before he left, both in the office and in his apartment. He wrote a letter, finishing a pot of coffee before it was completed to his satisfaction. Kelly had been right. It was quite possible he couldn't do this alone. But he had to try.

  When it was finally eight o'clock; he picked up the telephone and dialed the Washington Safe House and asked to be put through to his partner.

  "Hello?"

  "It's Napoleon. I hear you're coming back tonight."

  "Yes. My flight arrives in the early evening. Ten past seven." Illya sounded happy to hear from him. Happy to be coming back."

  "I'll have someone meet you there."

  "Thank you. Has it been busy? I haven't heard much from you."

  "Actually, things have been slow. I'm just leaving for the office in a few minutes. The mid-month reports were due on Saturday and I should have them ready to hand in. They're almost done."

  "I can help with them, if you wish. Have you discovered anything more about McGuire? Or Carter?"

  "Just bits and pieces. When I've had time."

  "Anything?"

  "Nothing concrete. How are you recuperating? How are your feet?"

  "I have been cleared for crutches. Awkward things. Especially with stairs. How did you manage when you hurt your leg a few months ago?"

  "You'll get the hang of it."

  "Perhaps. Do you know I've never had to use them before? Dr. Mercer was surprised. He said I'd probably be able to use a cane by the end of the week."

  "Good." He wasn't sure what else to say.

  "It has been too quiet." A short laugh. "I suppose I am not happy in the quiet life. I dream too much."

  "You, too? Well, why not? It goes with the business."

  "You sound cynical. Has something happened? How is your arm?"

  "Stitches are out and I've been out of physiotherapy for a few days now. It's healing with no problem. Listen, Illya. I have to run. Remember to take extra precautions. Carter's still on the loose."

  "I will be careful. Anything further on that message he sent?"

  There it was. The question Napoleon was hoping to avoid. "It was just a brief note, a general threat. He still wants the scepter. He mentioned you again, so I'm serious about taking special care. I've arranged for an U.N.C.L.E. cab to take you to and from the office. Standard procedure."

  "Certainly." There was a quiet sigh at the inconvenience. "I will be glad to see you. I trust you are also taking adequate precautions?"

  "Yes. I wouldn't want you to have to dig out my will just yet. If I get a chance, I'll drop by your place later tonight" He hung up the phone and knew he had lied. He had no intention of stopping by Illya's place. He had just wanted to hear Illya's voice again. To reassure himself that his partner was okay.

  *****

  Tuesday, May 18

  Illya wandered around his small apartment, opening blinds and enjoying the freedom of being alone. It was good to be back in New York after the last twelve-day absence. And before that, he had been gone for several weeks, from England to the Riviera, then to Paris, then to London. His apartment had smelled musty, unused.

  The morning sun streamed through one dirt-encrusted window, catching the dust in mid-flight as the Russian made his way to the kitchenette and the coffeepot. Wrenching open the apartment's only other window, a one foot by two feet square opening in the kitchen by the sink, he stuck his head out, the crutches crashing to the floor beside him, unheeded. He could hear the traffic on the busy streets below already building to a rush-hour panic, but four stories up, and facing the alley, it was peaceful. A cat, one he had never met before, stared back at him glumly from the fire escape. Illya dutifully filled the cracked bowl with water and reset it on the landing. The sound brought his usual friends, surprised to see him back, and wanting more than just water.

  "I don't have any food for me yet. Tonight I will bring home something for you." The cats in the neighborhood were fluent in English, Spanish, German, Italian, Finnish, and now, Russian. Fish—whether it was called pescado, Fisch, pesce, kalaa, or riboo—all tasted the same to them. They, of course, refused to speak anything but their own language.

  Except that one night, several months previous, when Illya had finished off a bottle––or two––and had stuck his head out the window to get some fresh air. He was sure they were talking Greek, but he didn't mention it to anyone and he had never caught them at it again.

  With his morning coffee precariously balanced in one hand, Kuryakin retrieved one crutch and slowly made his way over to the couch, trying not to spill the hot drink on his hand with each hop. He was just about to sit, when he caught sight of a note tucked under his door. Abandoning the crutch against the wall, Illya awkwardly crouched down to retrieve the folded paper, holding it away from his body and flicking it open with a practiced respect for micro-explosives. He had determined to be more careful at home and avoid being another statistic in the U.N.C.L.E. Security Section's notebook. (He still had not forgiven himself for being captured in the stairwell, regardless of Lenny's involvement in it all. He did have a hazy memory of Lenny being there, once Napoleon had mentioned it.) Regardless, if he had been more alert, the whole mess could have been averted––or at least his involvement in it.

  But he was back from Washington, his feet were healing, and later today he would be going in to the office. He felt better than he had in weeks, content and ready for whatever Waverly threw at them. He had talked briefly to Napoleon the previous morning, confirming his return to work. All was well. Despite his nightmares to the contrary, Napoleon was not dead, unless telephones had a much wider range than previously thought. It was time to put the superstitions and tension––and nightmares––behind him.

  Maybe not.

  He frowned, recognizing Napoleon's handwriting on the paper.

  I.K. GLA.D TO SEE YOU'RE BACK.

  NOW THAT YOU'RE HERE, I'M TAKING A COUPLE WEEKS OFF. PERSONAL BUSINESS.

  TAKE CARE OF THE SHOP FOR ME. SEE YOU WHEN I RETURN.

  DON'T TAKE ANY WOODEN NICKELS. N.S.

  No! The mug rattled on the end table as Illya dropped it, splashing coffee into a murky puddle. Crutches forgotten and with the note clenched in one hand, he sprinted four flights up the stairs, ignoring his feet screaming at him, and banged loudly on his partner's door. No answer. He stabbed the code into the security pad, rammed his key into Solo's lock, and entered the apartment, running from room to room, kicking open interior doors, and letting them crash against the walls and vibrate into silence. The place was empty, the curtains drawn.

  Five seconds evaporated. He stood locked in place, willing his body not to give in to the overwhelming rage. There was a sense of panic, that he had not anticipated this, that Napoleon had said nothing to him, and that there was nothing he could do to bring Solo back. He should have known this would happen. His limbs shook as he crested the edge of fury. He stood panting, fists clenched, staring blindly around the immaculate apartment.

  It had been a long time since he had felt such devastating anger. And the wealth of destructive feelings that went with it. The smothered emotions. The memories of being trapped. Unable to move. Frustrated. Restricted. Isolated. Confined. Unable to breathe properly. Unable to do one single thing to stop the chain of events from happening.

  Illya slowly dropped to the carpet and breathed carefully until his hands no longer shook. The control had returned, self-preservation sliding into place. But his feet sent lancing ribbons of pain up his legs and he was reluctant to walk on them just yet.

  Napoleon was a fool. Napoleon had gone after them alone. No backup. No help. No discussion. Just a damned note under the door. Illya's place and duty had been clearly laid out.

  There was nothing to be done about it. And there was work to do.

  He watered the plants, not realizing they were fake, and locked up the apartment.

  *****

  "Sit down, Mr. Kuryakin." Waverly indicated the usual chair, his eyes quickly assessing the young ma
n's cool exterior. He was not entirely certain of how much information Solo had passed on to his partner, or whether Kuryakin would be demanding the same tune off to follow him, as was irritatingly becoming their custom. "I assume Mr. Solo has notified you of his leave of absence?"

  "Yes, sir. He left a series of reports for me to finalize." Kuryakin rested his crutches on the floor next to his chair, placed his current report on the desk, and spun the top around to his superior. Instead of his usual attire, Kuryakin was dressed in a black suit, crisp white shirt, dark tie. The young professional, complete with glasses perched on the edge of his nose. "Here is the Brighton case, sir. I also have an update to the Albert Sully file. I can leave for London at once if you wish a more detailed account on what has subsequently transpired with the Sully impersonation."

  Waverly glanced over the report, hearing more what Kuryakin was not saying, than what he was saying. It had been months since the Russian's voice had been so flat, so precise. "Dr. Lawrence's report on your left foot indicates you are restricted to desk duty for another two to three weeks at the very least."

  "Yes, sir." Again the blue eyes stared back at him, but there was no life behind them.

  "Patrick Dunn, our Section 2 Chief in Rotterdam, will be covering for Mr. Solo during his absence. I believe you met Mr. Dunn last summer?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "He will be arriving tomorrow at noon. I would like you to brief him on the cases Mr. Solo was working on, and I will meet with you both at three o'clock."

  "Yes, sir. Here are the rest of the reports Mr. Solo requested be delivered to you. I am free, of course, to discuss them with you, at your convenience. I have a scheduled meeting with the new Section Three agents at one o'clock I have included their dossiers with these files and will forward my report of their initial interview. Until such time as you need me, I shall be examining the new shipment of weapons from the Rome office. I can have a preliminary report for you at five o'clock this evening, and an in-depth one tomorrow, once the tests have been run. I'll be in the labs for the remainder of the afternoon, if you wish to contact me." Kuryakin retrieved his crutches and swiftly made his way out the door.