Collection 3 - Year One Read online

  "I am sorry, Napoleon. I don't understand what you're saying," he admitted, embarrassed and tired.

  "You're a good friend and a good partner, Illya," Napoleon Solo said, releasing his grip. "You did what I ordered; you carried out the task we had started. You also did what you could to help me, and that went beyond my instructions. I didn't want to distract you with my problems. I figured if I rested, the pain would go away and I'd be on my way to Vanderville.

  "You know, ever since we were made partners, I've been after you to think for yourself, to offer suggestions if you see a better alternative instead of always leaping to follow my directions. Well, this time you more than exceeded my expectations. Dr. Henschell told me you saved my life by bringing me into town, although he was glad he was there to take over what you started."

  "I almost killed you, Napoleon. They had to bring you here by ambulance to operate on you. The sheriff told me you would probably die and it would be my fault."

  "How could it be your fault that my appendix decided to rupture? I would have died for sure if you had done nothing. I humbly thank you for coming back for me." Napoleon shook his head, the smile on his pale face trying to reach the Russian. "Illya, I'm not sure why you thought you had the skills to operate on me, but I do thank you for caring enough to try."

  Illya shrugged, a smile finally flickering across his face as he saw the acceptance in his partner's eyes. "I'm not sure why I did it, either, Napoleon. Please believe me when I say that it truly seemed like a good idea at the time."

  The Affair

  1

  Contamination

  He loved it. The intoxicating atmosphere of wealth, culture, and ease that he had been born into. The tuxedos and evening gowns and elbow-length gloves. The endless talk of stocks and philosophy and yachts. The fine music and fine, fine ladies. No better way to spend an evening.

  But still, he turned his head slowly, eyes scanning the crowds over the rim of his brandy, always watching for faces, even here at the Metropolitan Opera. Too many years of unexpected danger had honed his instincts to the level where tonight he was alert, only half-focused on his companion, laughing at her comments but aware of... something else. Someone else. Here.

  Someone had intruded into his evening off. "Napoleon?"

  He didn't answer, shutting her out of his concentration, methodically studying the crowd, searching out the cause of his uneasiness. Somewhere in this gathering was someone who shouldn't be here. "Napoleon?"

  Seconds dragged and the foreboding sensation worsened; he shed his casual theater-goer persona and slid into full agent status. The hackles on the back of his neck were stiff at attention as his right hand rested lightly on his chest. He took a deep breath, feeling the shoulder holster bite into his flesh. The easy smile faded from his face and he turned on his heel, dark eyes on the crowd near the bar.

  He blinked. And saw her.

  She had appeared out of nowhere. Across the room from him, she shimmered in a clinging gown of burnished copper. She stood alone, facing him, her hands relaxed at her curving sides. Her hair, the same shade of fiery auburn, was caught up in soft curls; the gold band that held them in place away from her face gleamed like an angel's halo.

  No. There was nothing angelic about her, nothing innocent in those rich brown eyes that gazed at him steadily, calling to him, catching his breath and sending his heart into syncopated rhythms.

  "Napoleon?" The voice by his ear was curious, questioning.

  As though drunk, he turned to the woman standing next to him, staring at her blankly for a moment before he remembered her name, that he had been seeing her for a month now, and that they were at the opera, standing in the dress circle foyer during intermission. "Yes, Barbara?" Keep focused. Don't look back.

  "You're white as a ghost. Are you okay?" Barbara drew him to a padded bench, taking the drink out of his hand. Her long blonde hair spilled down a shapely back, gleaming against the rich black velvet evening gown that even now flickered invitingly across his dazed attention.

  But his eyes still burned from the fire across the room and he looked back as fatally as Lot's wife had looked back to Sodom.

  The vision had gone.

  "I'm fine," he lied smoothly, forcing his attention on Barbara. The warning bell chimed, signaling the imminent conclusion to intermission and the beginning of the final act. "Let's get back." He took his drink from her and downed it, feeling its potent heat softly burn his throat. He could have used several of them right now.

  The lights dimmed as they took their seats and Napoleon sat woodenly during the conclusion of the opera, only peripherally aware of Barbara's jeweled hand on his leg and the concerned hazel eyes darting looks at him as he stared riveted at the stage, seeing only the image burned onto his retinas.

  Then it was over and he quickly escorted Barbara from the building, weaving his way through the crowd without looking at faces, avoiding further eye contact with anyone. He dropped her off at the door of her apartment, pleading a headache and a full day of work ahead of him. There was a parking spot outside his building and he slid into it gratefully, escaping from the pulsing crazy city into the quiet peacefulness of his home retreat.

  But there was no escape from those mysterious brown eyes that still seared his brain. He vividly remembered holding that body, smelling that hair, feeling the thrill of danger her presence meant, weighing his options as they toyed with each other, each unsure of how far the other would go.

  He had never quite figured that out.

  How far would he go this time?

  What the hell was Serena doing back in New York?

  * * *

  Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin in a good mood was a little too much for Solo on their way to work the next morning. The Russian had discovered American comic books and was gleefully chuckling over the latest battle between Superman and Lex Luthor. "Listen to this, Napoleon," he said, tapping Solo on the right arm just as the dark-haired agent was attempting to shift gears in the busy rush hour. "Superman has--"

  "Shut. Up. Illya." Three little sentences. "Eat your apple." Three words. Great. My head is pounding and I have an emerging ten-year-old on my hands.

  Solo had woken with the headache after a night of tossing restlessly.

  Aspirins seemed to have little effect on it, but Kuryakin's industrious crunching into what was probably his second or third breakfast now had a great deal of effect on it. "Can you keep the noise down?" he snapped.

  Kuryakin glanced sideways at him, eyebrows furrowed in mild amusement as he squinted into the morning sun. "How was the opera?" The Russian's accent stretched the word's syllables out.

  "The op-er-ah was fine," Solo mimicked brusquely, and swerved to avoid a car.

  "Good." Kuryakin folded the comic in quarters and stuffed it into his jacket pocket with a nonchalance that would send collectors instantly into convulsions. "You seem distracted. What is wrong?" he asked, unruffled by his partner's gruff manner.

  Solo considered telling him -- well, almost. For a moment it passed through his mind before he firmly brushed the thought away. Illya, what you don't know won't be continually held over my head for the unforeseeable future.

  There was nothing to tell. There had been no communication between Serena and him, no overt threat made. U.N.C.L.E. had no information about a planned Thrush attack. There was no law saying a Thrush agent couldn't visit the opera while in New York -- maybe it was simply an innocent encounter. Get a grip, old man. Nothing with Serena is ever innocent... NO communication. NO threat. NO information. NO law... Hmm. What is wrong, you ask, Illya?

  Well, perhaps he hadn't really seen her at all. She had been there one minute and not there the next. How could someone wearing a gown like that disappear into a crowd of black and white?

  Solo pulled up at a red light, the car jerking to a stop, and he downed two more aspirins. While he waited for the light to change, he looked across at Kuryakin who was still waiting patiently for his answer. A smile stole acro
ss Solo's face and he felt the headache begin to ebb. You would wait all day, wouldn't you, my friend? I guess you deserve something, even if it isn't the whole truth. "Barbara and I had a 'passing of the ways' last night."

  "Oh." Kuryakin stared at him for a few more seconds, then seeing Solo had nothing more to add, the blond agent looked down and away. He didn't ask again but he also didn't speak for the rest of the commute.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, they sat before the Head of U.N.C.L.E. North America, forming a triangle at the round conference table.

  "Thrush." Alexander Waverly rolled the word distastefully over his tongue. "As usual, our problem is Thrush."

  Solo grimaced. "What is it this time?"

  "One of our Section Two men, Xavier Garcia, was passing through a small town by the name of Strastown two weeks ago. Are you familiar with Strastown, Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly asked casually, already calling up the map on the screen behind them.

  Kuryakin thought for a moment, then nodded. "It is approximately three hours from here. I have not been there personally, sir, but I have heard of it. Originally a Russian-Ukrainian settlement, now it is more of a tourist trap than anything. I have been told it is possible to purchase trinkets, costumes, and souvenirs, and there is ample Soviet food and music available. And the usual Soviet lies," he added calmly, his eyes on his partner.

  Solo glanced at him sharply, wondering if he had accurately interpreted the light stress on the last word. Nose out of joint, is it, Illya? Well, you're gonna have to live with it awhile.

  Waverly flicked the picture on the screen from the map to a small official-looking building that bore several signs at different entrances:

  Strastown City Hall, Strastown Sheriff's Office, Strastown Courthouse, and Strastown Public Library. "This, gentlemen, is believed to be the new location of Thrush America Northeast. Garcia recognized several Thrush agents around the town. They appeared to be residents and all had 'legitimate' jobs in that building." The slide changed to a close-up of the library section. "Garcia's report says the library has been closed for renovations for a few months now. As you can see, the windows are all heavily curtained."

  Another slide, this time of the courthouse/city hail wing. Waverly's voice droned on. "Joseph Fedorov, the sheriff, has checked out. He has worked there for seventeen years and his wife is the owner of a small dress store in Strastown that sells ethnic costumes. His two sons attend the local high school." The picture changed to an official photo of Fedorov, then switched to another man. "This is Manuel de Santos, a mid-level Thrush agent when last we encountered him. He disappeared from Managua two years ago when their independent Nicaraguan satrapy was absorbed into the larger group covering all of Central America."

  "And he has appeared in Strastown?" Solo accepted the file folder Waverly handed him, paging through the documents within it. "He certainly couldn't pass for a Russian or Ukrainian." He glanced over at Kuryakin, but his partner was quiet, lost in thought, his eyes vacant.

  Waverly picked up his phone. "Have Xavier Garcia come to my office." While he waited for the enforcement agent to join them, he went through the rest of the slides quickly. "These are the other photos Garcia took. Most are townspeople with long-standing employment, but a few are men and women who have been identified as Thrush agents. De Santos and these two others in particular have all been missing from the current scene for the past several years.

  "We need to know the extent to which Thrush has worked its way into this small town and what their purpose is. Garcia has suggested that since tourists are plentiful, it would not be unusual to have strangers walking around, registering in the hotel, or visiting the local museum or Police Station. This would provide an excellent cover for Thrush to bring in their agents and others. Its location, just ten miles off a major highway, also makes it uniquely accessible and yet secluded. In all, an ideal Thrush set up.

  "I would like to handle this carefully, gentlemen. If this is the new Thrush Headquarters, our first objective will be to take it intact with as little impact to the legitimate residents of the town as possible. Failing that probability, we will, of course, examine our other options. We will need to send reliable surveillance groups to Strastown before any further decisions are made. No use scaring Thrush off before we are ready to grab the lot of them," Waverly added.

  He placed another file on the table top and sent it around on the revolving surface to the Filipino agent who had joined them, sitting between Solo and Kuryakin. "Mr. Garcia, we have just been discussing the Strastown situation. I've decided I want you in Managua, initially. Check out the relationship between the former Nicaraguan-based Thrush officers and this Strastown group. Take one of our men -- whoever will blend in well with the indigenous people -- and we'll have our Central American office provide a local contact and guide for you."

  "Yes, sir." Garcia flipped open the file and began paging through the documents enclosed.

  Waverly studied the Soviet-born agent on his right, weighing his options. "Mr. Kuryakin, we'll be sending you into Strastown, but not quite yet. Find one of our agents with a Russian background... uh... Mr. Lazarev, I believe, will do. Arrange for him to take a weekend vacation in Strastown as a tourist. Is he married?"

  "I have no idea, sir. I will ask him," Kuryakin replied. "If he is, do you wish her to accompany him?"

  "Yes, if he doesn't object. Our intention is not to put them in any danger. Just have him take pictures and soak up the atmosphere."

  "Yes, sir."

  Waverly looked up from his notes. "I believe that is all -- you two gentlemen are free to go. The rest concerns Mr. Solo."

  As he watched Kuryakin and Garcia leave, Solo shifted uneasily, sipping at his cup of coffee and leafing through the files before him. Waverly had an irritating habit of seeing straight through a person... But I haven't done anything. Why do I feel like a little boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar?

  But the talk was only of cases winding up, reports to be written and rewritten, and upcoming assignments.

  * * *

  That evening, Solo closed the door of his apartment, sighing loudly as he leaned against it and slipped out of his shoes. He had spent most of the day on his feet, wandering the uncarpeted halls of U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, seeking out agents, briefing them on new duties, and checking out the progress of previously assigned tasks. It was routine work he had gladly lost himself in.

  But now he was home with the promise of a long shower, a hot meal, and a televised hockey game. During the drive home, he had timed everything out in his head, coordinating his moves to land him in front of the TV with his feet up on the ottoman at precisely eight o'clock, in time for the opening anthem.

  He had already stripped down for his shower when the phone rang. He grimaced at it, glancing at the time, then reached for the unscheduled interruption. Illya, quit being so suspicious... "Hello?"

  "Napoleon?"

  His mouth went dry. "Serena?"

  "Si, amore."

  "Where are you?"

  "Down the block. May I come see you?"

  "Now?" he asked, stupidly.

  "If it is inconvenient...?"

  "No. No, it's fine. Give me fifteen minutes, Serena. I just got home."

  "I know. I'll be there in twenty minutes, darling."

  In the shower, he decided resolutely to contact Illya and alert him to Serena's visit, but by the time Napoleon was out and dressed, he had changed his mind. Illya probably wasn't even home yet; he had still been locked away in his lab when the senior agent had left the U.N.C.L.E. building.

  Besides…

  The doorbell chimed and he stared at the closed door remembering suddenly that his gun lay in its holster on the dresser in his bedroom. "Just a minute," he called out and returned to the bedroom, trying to find a place to hide it -- and have it handy at the same time.

  The cigarette case/transceiver was placed casually by the ashtray on his night table. His spare was dropped on the dining room table.
He opened his briefcase and scattered file folders on the table, making it look like he was swamped with confidential work in case he wanted an excuse for her to leave.

  What are you doing, old man?

  One last look around and he let her in.

  * * *

  "Garcia left this morning." Kuryakin dropped the file on his partner's cluttered desktop.

  "Good. Did you brief Lazarev?"

  "Yes. He and his wife and young child are leaving Saturday morning. They will be in Strastown over the week end."

  "It's weekend. Not week end. Get it right." Solo dismissed him with a wave.

  Kuryakin stood silently before Solo's desk, not responding to the abrupt criticism or dismissal, and finally the Enforcement Chief looked up from his papers. "Yes? What do you want?"

  "What's wrong? What's happening?" Kuryakin asked quickly, a frown creasing his forehead.

  "Nothing. Nothing's happening. By the way, Waverly needs a courier to go to Washington tonight. I volunteered you; you can visit your family while you're down there."

  Norm Graham, the head of the Washington, D.C., U.N.C.L.E. office, along with his Soviet-born wife, Trish, and their three children, had absorbed Illya into their household. It was customary for an unmarried Russian male who was living away from home to be adopted by a family and it was one of the few traditions Illya gladly embraced. He spent a good portion of his vacation time with them, at ease with the Russian food and atmosphere in the home.

  There was silence and Napoleon looked up again to read 'I don't want to go to Washington' in his partner's narrowed eyes.

  "Do you have a problem with your assignment?"

  "No." Yes, the blue eyes contradicted. What's happening? Why are you sending me away this time?

  Solo closed the report he was working on and reached for another. "I thought Tony Graham was home from Boston University this week? Didn't you say you were hoping to get down there?"