Collection 5 - My Brother's Keeper Page 22

  Two files on top of one pile caught his eye. They were tagged for Solo's attention and marked private. Did that mean they were private for him as Section Two Number One, or private for him personally? He hit the intercom button, hoping Kuryakin was still around. Waverly was still being strict with Security ferrying the Russian to and from the office, and Dr. Lawrence was equally insistent that working hours be adhered to.

  "Kuryakin."

  "Illya, it's Paddy. Can you stop by here on your way out? I'm in the office."

  "Certainly. I'll call Security and tell them I'll be a few minutes late."

  "Thanks." He put the two files on the desk, then added to the pile a list of the other questions he had. Most were cases that were finished, or needed some additional information he didn't have. Kuryakin would know which ones could be put aside for Solo to look at when he returned, and which ones were urgent enough to warrant his attention now. With any luck, Kuryakin would offer to take them off his hands.

  The clump-clump of the crutches signaled Kuryakin's arrival and Dunn made sure to not offer him a hand with the chair. The blond agent was fiercely independent these days, and only went along with the Security treatment because Waverly had decreed it. From the size of the briefcase he was carting around with him, he was taking home enough work to keep him going until the early hours of the morning.

  Kuryakin eased his slight body into the chair opposite Dunn's desk and let the crutches balance against the second chair. His face was gradually losing the bruises from his last ordeal, but he still looked under the weather. When they had had lunch together that day in the commissary, Dunn had noticed that Kuryakin ate a full hot meal––meatloaf, potatoes and gravy, a mixture of watery vegetables––and had topped it off with apple pie a la mode. He wasn't starving himself, yet he still managed to have an underfed look about him, though.

  "What can I do for you, Paddy?" Kuryakin asked dryly. He knew he was being observed.

  "Actually, I need your help. I've got a stack of files here that I don't know what to do with." They spent twenty minutes going through the top files, Paddy marking notes in pencil on the outside of each. When he finally got to the last two files, he handed them to Illya. "So what do I do with these?" He explained the situation, pointing to the "Private" stamps, then looked across the desk at his companion.

  Illya was silent, staring at the names on the outside the sealed folders. Jud Wilcox Carter. Sty Jackson.

  "Do you know which cases these go with? I couldn't find their names cross-linked with any of Napoleon's cases."

  "These are personal files," Illya said quickly. "They are the two men who held me hostage."

  "So what should I do with them? Why don't you take them? There may be important information you need."

  "They are marked personal."

  "You are equally involved in this. After all, you were the one who was kidnapped."

  Kuryakin got to his feet, reaching for his briefcase and crutches. "They are marked personal. It was not an assignment. I have no authority to tamper with Napoleon's private mail."

  Dunn stared at him. "Do you think Napoleon would really mind if you opened them? He probably just requested they be marked personal because they're not from an actual case you were working on."

  "He didn't tell me that."

  "Then what should I do with them?"

  Kuryakin made his way to the door. "Leave them on his desk. If Napoleon returns, he can look at them then." He left the room, his crutches pounding against the floor in his hurry to escape the office.

  If Napoleon returns? Dunn sat at his desk for a while longer, then went back to Waverly's office.

  *****

  11:00 p.m. Los Angeles

  Napoleon was roused from his sleep by a distant grating sound. It took him a moment to identify the noise as the loading door being pulled up. He was about to have visitors. The room was dark, lit only by an outside spotlight that shone into the compound. He had yet to find an interior light switch that worked.

  He sat up slowly, irritated to find his he had only gotten worse. The nausea had eased for the time being, but he could feel it hovering in the background. The door to the office opened, revealing the silhouette of a drawn gun and two men. "Welcome. Sit down, gentlemen. Sorry I can't offer you some refreshments, but my maid is off today," he said lightly.

  A light bulb was inserted into an empty lamp socket and the room sprang into existence. "We brought you some dinner." The younger of the two men, a gawky-looking man in his twenties, handed him a bag of takeout food from a chicken place.

  The other man looked around the room, as if to see if anything had been damaged while they were gone, then he turned to Solo. "I've put a call through to Carter. He'll get back to me soon." This had to be Sty Jackson. Solo had not gotten a good look at him in the corridor outside his apartment, but the voice was clearly recognizable.

  "Why did he ask for me to come then, if he's not here?" Solo asked casually, reaching for the food. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, and then only toast and coffee, so the smell coming from the bag was inviting, even if the french fries were cold already and his stomach was still unsettled. "Do you mind if I go ahead and eat?"

  "Sure thing," the younger man nodded.

  "Shut up, Clay. Go unload the shipment. I'll talk to our guest."

  "Yes, Sty." Hands in his pockets, Clay strode out of the office, disappearing into the darkness of the warehouse.

  "I have only one thing to say to you, Solo." The balding giant looked down at him as though he were something a truck had run over. "Carter is working very hard to make this deal work. If he can't find a way to swing it, we're in a lot of trouble, which means, of course, that you're in a lot of trouble. He has been able to get a ten-day extension on delivery, providing he supply some additional artifacts that he is securing now from the Orient. When he gets them, he'll be taking the next flight to Los Angeles. Our buyer lives in the area." Sty looked out the open door, monitoring the younger man's progress. "I told Jud that you were willing to work out some deal with him concerning the goods. I don't know what Morgan promised you, or how he convinced you to help him out with this one, but our buyer gets first look at the scepter. Remember that."

  "Why are you holding me here? Obviously I want to deal with Carter. Why lock me up?"

  "Let's just say that I feel a mite more comfortable knowing exactly where you are. We're still watching your partner in New York. My man there says that he was half an hour late getting home from work today. He really works too hard."

  Solo could feel the tension in his body and worked to get it under control before replying. "He's a very dedicated employee."

  Sty turned to leave. "So am I, Solo."

  *****

  11:45 p.m. New York City Headquarters

  It was almost midnight before Alexander Waverly again considered the two files Paddy Dunn had left with him. Unusual circumstances, these. Damned awkward. Earlier in the evening, Waverly had spoken with Pete Tyler, the Head of the Research section, who had provided the information. Tyler had assured him that the files contained no confidential material, only the dossiers of two men that Solo had requested from him when he had time. Tyler had seen no reason to deny Solo the files, even though it was a little unusual not to quote a case number with the request After all, Solo was the Head of Section Two.

  Waverly paged through the skimpy sheets of paper in each folder, taking a few mental notes, and adding it to the rest of what he had gleaned from Solo before he had left. He made a further call to Tyler's department, requesting additional information. Something was piecing together in the old man's mind.

  Morgan's name kept coming up. And an army colonel, Thomas McGuire, was missing after attending the same memorial service that Solo had gone to. Morgan. McGuire. Korea.

  Korea. Napoleon Solo in Korea.

  Waverly unlocked his private filing cabinet and withdrew one of four bulky folders occupying the top drawer. There were no names inscribed on the outside
of any of the files; since they were for his eyes only, no names were necessary. He paged through the early sheets, glancing at names and dates and comparing them with what he had already gathered.

  It was one in the morning before he made his way down to the garage where a driver whisked him the few blocks to his penthouse apartment and his waiting wife.

  Chapter 9

  Late October 1950

  Seoul, South Korea

  "Dr. Kim? I was told to report to you. Do you remember me? Sub-Lieutenant Lee Solo."

  "Ah, come in. They promised me that you would come to help me." The man spoke with a soft British lilt to his voice.

  "I'm not sure what I can do, sir."

  "Sit down at my desk and we will talk about it. You told me you were familiar with packaging artifacts?"

  "Yes, sir. I helped my grandmother on many occasions."

  "This war," the old man said, his voice quavering, "this war is destroying my country's history. I need to explain to someone where our antiquities are, and for that information to be passed on to the United Nations Task Force. Whenever possible, before an area is overrun with tanks and bombings, I would like to have these items removed and taken to a place of safety. The Republic of Korea has approved this, but with the demands of the war and the lives of our people placed on their hands, there is little they can do. I have five men from the ROK army who will help me. I need someone who understands what we are doing, and who is able to translate our requests into something the United Nations understands."

  "I'll do my best, sir. Where do we start?"

  "I am traveling to Kyongju."

  "But that's occupied territory."

  "Not anymore. The United Nations has already liberated it. It is an historical site of great importance. I must see what has happened to it."

  "Do you want me to go with you?"

  "I may send for you, but for now, my assistant will explain what we are currently working on." The old man's eyes looked fondly at the young foreign man seated before him. "Thank you, Solo Lee, for your help."

  Saturday morning, May 22

  New York

  Dr. Samuel Lawrence poured himself a cup of coffee and sat across the table from Alexander Waverly, taking in the haggard appearance with a careful eye. So what are you mulling over that requires my input? We had our weekly meeting yesterday. Waverly seemed to be shuffling papers from one side of his desk to the other, as though reluctant to broach his concerns.

  He cleared his throat. "Alexander? I've got things to do. How can I help you?"

  "Oh. Oh, yes, yes." Waverly shut the last file, carefully placing it to one side. "It's Mr. Kuryakin I am inquiring about. How is the young man? When can I expect his full services?"

  "It depends what you mean by full services. As I mentioned yesterday, he has been putting in long days, in spite of my requests for him to get extra rest. I think you've received your money's worth."

  "How long before he's in the field, though? I can have any number of young men fill in the duties Mr. Kuryakin is now employed in. Mr. Dunn is also capable of handling the Section Two Chief Enforcement Agent position and does not require assistance. How long before Mr. Kuryakin is field certified?"

  "As I put in my report, and we discussed yesterday," Lawrence repeated, "not for a few weeks."

  "I can't have both my top Section Two agents gone for that period of time."

  "Illya is here. Just because Napoleon is on personal leave––" The doctor stopped himself; eyes locked with Waverly's. "We went over all this already. What's on your mind, Alexander? What's this about?"

  "Mr. Kuryakin is not himself" The words fell on the quiet office, lingering in the air long after they left Waverly's mouth.

  So you've noticed. Lawrence sipped at his coffee, trying to arrange his thoughts. He knew they weren't discussing Kuryakin's physical state. But how much had Waverly noticed, and why had he noticed. "Not himself? How so?"

  Waverly seemed at odds with himself, but pressed onward. "The situation existing presently is most unlike them. Mr. Solo requested time off to solve the matter of this kidnapping and the threats made against him. Yet, in the last five days, Mr. Kuryakin has made no attempt to follow him, to investigate the matter from this end, or to contact him. While I would normally find this encouraging, illustrating their primary focus on U.N.C.L.E., I find it is overshadowed by a more urgent development: namely, Mr. Kuryakin speaks of Mr. Solo in the past tense." Waverly straightened the pens on his desk. "I need to know why. For what reason does Mr. Kuryakin believe Mr. Solo will not be returning? If Mr. Kuryakin is holding back information that substantiates his belief, I need to be advised. I would prefer to make arrangements now for a replacement, rather than being informed at a more inconvenient time."

  Illya's English was so precise that the subtle phrasing was noticeable. If Napoleon returns... Providing Mr. Solo is able to return on schedule... Perhaps that should not wait for Mr. Solo. Please forward the papers to Mr. Dunn.... Next month it will be ready? Just send it to the Chief Enforcement Agent's attention...

  "To be honest, Alexander, I haven't discussed it with him."

  "Do so. It falls within your jurisdiction."

  "Only marginally. I think it's in your quarter as well. Have you asked him?"

  A look of irritation crossed the craggy features. "I wanted to discuss the situation with you first. If it was a physical problem, preventing his involvement, I would not pursue it. Neither would I if this were a personal issue between them, not affecting their roles here in this organization."

  "I think it's more likely that Napoleon ordered him to stay out of it, and Illya believes he is unable to proceed further. I agree with you that from his conversation, Illya appears to be convinced that Napoleon is not returning. And I certainly did not get that impression from Napoleon before he left."

  "Neither did I. I have been looking into the matter, and it does appear to be more complicated than I was led to believe."

  You've been snooping? You are worried.

  "Illya has an appointment scheduled later this morning. I'll speak with him," Lawrence said, rising.

  "I'll expect your recommendation concerning this in the afternoon then." Waverly nodded to himself, as though the matter had been addressed and taken from his hands. Without further word, he reopened the file he had been working on when the doctor entered, and continued his notes.

  *****

  Dr. Samuel Lawrence watched the proceedings from the closed-circuit screen in his office, gauging when he would make his appearance. Napoleon Solo had been gone for five days already, without a word, but there was nothing the doctor could do about that. Solo's partner, however, now sat in one of the examination rooms, reporting in for his daily checkup. Illya Kuryakin was his usual efficient capable distant self. Not becoming a hermit, but yet not letting anyone close enough to connect with him on anything other than a business level.

  Strange that Alexander Waverly would notice. Or that he would act on his observations. But then, Illya's welfare had landed in Waverly's hands many times through the years. The level of investment was high. And while Lawrence would like to think Alexander was also worried about Napoleon, he realized it was more likely the possible loss of a highly skilled agent, one next in line to the throne, that was irritating his boss. A needless loss. Not in the line of duty, but some personal problem.

  On the screen, Lawrence watched as the U.N.C.L.E. physiotherapist who specialized in leg injuries was trying to examine his patient. "Does this hurt?" John Linden glanced up at Kuryakin, but the agent was being less than helpful.

  So far, a shrug was the only answer from the Russian, which meant nothing when Linden was trying to get some indication of the condition of the man's feet. Lawrence felt sorry for the physiotherapist, knowing what he was up against. It was hard to judge whether Kuryakin's blank face was accurately displaying little discomfort, or was just expert in hiding physical pain. In Lawrence's considerable experience with Section Two, it was usuall
y the latter and he was convinced it was a masochist tendency that Enforcement Agents shared. Or the desire to get back into the field at all costs. Or the belief that they were somehow less of a man if they showed any sign of an injury crippling them.

  But since this man would be facing a real possibility of walking impairment unless he was treated correctly, Linden was persistent enough to ask again, "What about here? Does this hurt at all?"

  When Lawrence came around the corner, Illya was sitting back against the padded bench, still ignoring the questions. Kuryakin knew he was required to be there, that he was required to let them poke and prod, but he obviously had no desire to volunteer anything other than a basic, "It's fine."

  "Do whatever it is you must," Illya was saying now, impatiently. "I have a meeting with Mr. Waverly and the head of Section Three in half an hour and I need to pick up some information from Legal."

  Both men swiveled at the new voice. "Let Legal deliver. That's why we have telephones." Lawrence crouched down beside the physiotherapist and ran one finger over the new layer of skin that covered Kuryakin's left foot. "It looks good. How does it feel?"

  "I have been careful," Kuryakin said, his distaste for the whole procedure obviously conflicting with his sense of responsibility to be honest with Lawrence.

  "Oh, I'm sure you have been. You want to get back to the field... don't you?"

  Angry blue eyes surfaced, then opaqued. There were others in the room. He would not lose his cool with strangers present. Kuryakin turned to Linden. "My right foot feels much better. My left has been throbbing in the afternoon. I use the lotions as directed and have taken the pills on two occasions." Kuryakin caught Lawrence's attention. "Mr. Waverly expects me at ten o'clock."

  "I canceled your appointment. You'll see him at two o'clock." Lawrence stared the young agent down, then smiled and waved Linden away. "I'll talk with Illya, John. Thank you. Oh, wait... Illya has another session added just after lunch––Can you fit him in or should Brenda do it?"