Collection 7 - The Northern Lights Affair Read online

  "He's in our Winnipeg Office."

  Illya shrugged. "Why? Was he at the meeting last night?"

  Napoleon nodded as he spread butter over his toast. "He made a comment about my parents."

  "So... you want to hit him or something?" Illya leaned over and helped himself to one of Napoleon's slices of toast. "Was it along the lines of 'your mother wears army boots' or has this man found some new way to insult your lineage?"

  "No, he actually referred to my parents by name, as if he knew them."

  That grabbed Illya's attention, especially since Napoleon seemed so calm about it. "Oh? What did he say?"

  "He said he knew my parents in the 40's. He referred to my father as being wild, and said that he had never met anyone who took the kind of chances they did. If he hadn't mentioned them by name, I would think he had mistaken me for someone else."

  "Their names are not uncommon, Napoleon. Perhaps it is merely a coincidence."

  "No... I thought that at first, but the whole conversation made me uneasy somehow."

  "Did you question him about how he knew them?"

  "I didn't have a chance. He went to speak with someone else, and then left before I was able to get back to him." Napoleon gave a half-shrug, then concentrated on his meal.

  Illya sat silently for another few minutes, then asked abruptly, "What exactly do you know about your parents?"

  Napoleon almost smiled. He knew if he brought this up, Illya would pounce on it. Not only did his partner love puzzles, but he was also bored stiff. "I actually know very little about them. Just some dry facts. I know that Antonio Solo eloped with Elizabeth McNeely in the fall of 1928. They took off for Europe—"

  "Why?" Illya interrupted. "Why did they elope? I thought Italians had big weddings."

  "I don't know why they eloped," Napoleon admitted. "I assume it was that Grandfather McNeely didn't like Antonio."

  "Where did they elope from?"

  "Ottawa. My grandfather was working at the Naval base there." Napoleon smiled across at his partner. "You have a lot of questions."

  "Since I have nothing else to do, I'm just trying to get an idea of who they were. If it makes you uncomfortable—"

  "No, not at all."

  "How did they meet then?"

  "Antonio and Elizabeth? I don't know, exactly. My grandfather Solo was with the Italian foreign department and spent most of his career in the ambassadorial office. Let's see, he was born in Italy, met my grandmother in New York when he was in university, married her, and returned to Italy. Because he spoke English, he was sent to the United States as an assistant to the ambassador. My father was born in Washington, D.C. in the early 1900's. When he was ten or so, grandfather was assigned to Ottawa as the ambassador. They left about seven years later, but Antonio stayed in Ottawa and finished his education." Napoleon got up and poured himself another cup of coffee. "Actually, I seem to remember one of my aunt's complaining about him once, saying that he met Elizabeth at the university and they only got married so he would be eligible to be a Canadian citizen."

  "Did he ever take out citizenship?"

  Napoleon shrugged. "I don't know. I assume he did."

  "Then why do you have dual citizenship, Canadian and American?" Illya asked, after another few minutes of silence.

  Napoleon glanced over at the clock. "You are a smart little Russian... I guess he never became a Canadian. He was an American citizen by birth, although he also held Italian citizenship, I believe. For some reason they registered me when I was born, so I would have dual citizenship." He stood up. "I've got to get ready for the meeting."

  Illya was still sitting at the table when he returned from the bedroom. "Napoleon, if he didn't marry her to become a Canadian citizen, why did he marry her?"

  Napoleon laughed. "I realize that this might not occur to that logical mind of yours, but maybe he loved her. They certainly spent enough time together. I never heard them referred to except as 'Antonio-and-Elizabeth' as though they were one person." Napoleon paused at the doorway of the suite. "Illya, forget about them. They're not worth it."

  His partner nodded absently, climbing to his feet. "Perhaps. It is something to think about, though. The prospect of an entire day here is not pleasant."

  "Get some sleep then."

  "That will only deal with a few hours. There is nothing to read here."

  "I'll see if there're any more newspapers or books in the shop in the lobby and have them sent up."

  Illya nodded. "Thank you. I'm going to try to shake this fever. I might be able to make it down to the afternoon session." He looked stubbornly determined to not let this beat him.

  "Good idea. There's a half hour break scheduled after lunch, so I'll come up if I get a chance."

  "Leave the briefing notes. I'll go over them again."

  "Notice something?" There had been a tension in his partner's voice that made Napoleon pay attention and he stepped back into the suite.

  It was Illya's turn to shrug as he crossed the room, stopping before he entered the bedroom.

  "Perhaps it is my natural suspicious nature..."

  "But...?"

  "Let me read the information again." He rubbed his forehead, eyes closed against a growing pain, then rested his head against the cool door frame.

  "Anything I should watch for?" Napoleon persisted.

  "It is something that is missing." Illya sighed. "I wish I could remember what was in the files I read in New York. Something about the offices in the western provinces. An agent's report. And something else about the FLQ, I think." He closed the bedroom door.

  Napoleon retrieved the briefing file from his briefcase, paged through it one more time, then left it on the table.

  * * * * *

  "Just one moment, sir."

  Solo paused in the hallway outside the suite. "Yes? What is it?"

  "May I see your identification?" the young man asked. He was wearing a lightweight, black jacket, with U.N.C.L.E. in gold letters across the back. His Section Three badge was in clear sight, clipped to the jacket's collar. Jack Martin.

  Solo carefully removed his wallet and flipped open his credentials. "Is there a problem?"

  "No, sir. Not as such. It's just that I have this listed as Alexander Waverly's suite and I was told not to expect anyone but him this morning."

  "Then I suggest you check with your supervisor. Changes were made as of yesterday afternoon."

  "Yes, sir. If you could just wait a moment, sir, while I verify that." Martin pulled out a rather bulky transceiver and called into his home office.

  The voice on the other end confirmed Solo as the current occupant of Waverly's suite, and the young man was told to double-check with the other guards to make sure they all were aware of the change. "New York has sent their own agents to monitor the security arrangements. They should be there shortly."

  The Section Three agent closed off his transceiver and turned back to Solo. "Thank you, sir. Sorry to detain you."

  "No problem." Solo walked a few yards to the elevator and a second guard dutifully pressed the down button for him as he approached. "Expecting trouble?" he asked.

  "It pays to be ready, sir."

  "Has Monsieur Renault left for the meeting yet?" Solo stepped into the elevator as the doors opened.

  "Yes, sir. He left his suite approximately fifteen minutes ago."

  "What about Mr. Shifrin?"

  "I'm sorry, sir... I don't know that name. Mr.—?"

  "Shifrin. Dan Shifrin." Solo held the elevator door open while the guard pulled out his list of guests.

  After a moment the Montreal security agent shook his head. "I don't have anyone on my list by that name. I'm sorry, sir."

  "It was worth a try. He must be staying elsewhere," Solo said as the elevator door closed.

  * * * * *

  11:00 a.m.

  Kuryakin opened the door to the suite, frowning at the two U.N.C.L.E. agents in the corridor. He blinked twice. "Miss Dancer, Mr. Slate. What can I
do for you?" He wrapped his housecoat more securely around his half-dressed body.

  "Aren't you going to invite us in?" Dancer asked, smiling curiously at him. She was wearing skintight black slacks, and both agents had on the U.N.C.L.E. identifying jackets, picture credentials clipped to their collars. "It's too quiet out here."

  Kuryakin stepped aside, almost reluctantly, and let them into the suite.

  "Heard you were sick," Slate said, a grin spreading over his features, green eyes twinkling in merriment. The English agent looked disgustingly healthy.

  "It is just a mild fever. It was thought best I rest," Kuryakin said, stressing the last word.

  "Napoleon is at the meeting in the Oval Room, if you wish to speak to him," he added, but they didn't seem to take the hint.

  "We saw him in the lobby earlier. He asked us to bring you the New York Times and this word puzzle book." Dancer handed him the two items, crossed the suite to the window to gaze at the view of downtown Montreal, then turned her attention to the rest of the beautifully decorated room. "Nice place you have here."

  Slate opened the liquor cabinet, uninvited, and whistled at the stocked shelves. "Nice is not the word for it, my dear. Why do these two blokes get the royal treatment whilst we are housed in the barracks?"

  "Because we're low-lifes. We've only been partners for a month." Dancer lit a thin cigarette, smiling across at her partner. "We are not Waverly's golden boys, his prized team. Yet." She sat at the table and crossed her long legs.

  "May I ask why you are here?" Still holding the newspaper and book, Kuryakin stood near the doorway, willing them to leave, although neither showed any intention of succumbing to his mental directions.

  "Officially, the New York office sent us to assist with the security. We were in Labrador, investigating the DEW line in Hopedale. We've been across the continent now, and all the stations seem fine."

  "Why the sudden interest in the Distant Early Warning Radar Line? Problems?"

  "Our bird watchers reported Thrush spotted in the area around several of them."

  "Then why have you been recalled? Is there a problem with the local security?"

  Dancer shrugged. "Apparently there was a threat against both Claude Renault and Alexander Waverly's lives, and this conference will be attracting a lot of politicians and leaders who could also come under attack."

  "What April was too polite to mention," Slate spoke up, "was that neither New York nor Montreal wish to have an 'incident' occur that might threaten the relationship between U.N.C.L.E. Canada and the country's current government. It would look bad. We were sent to check over what security was in place and assure Mr. Waverly that all that could be done, was being done." He sighed and replaced the bottle of scotch without helping himself to anything. "Unfortunately, it is too early in the day to have a drink."

  "And you're on duty," Dancer added, the warning liberally dosed with teasing.

  "And I'm on duty," Slate repeated, shutting the cabinet, "for another four hours."

  "And twenty-four minutes."

  "Four hours and twenty-four minutes," he acknowledged sadly, "of guarding this old bloke's bones."

  "And then a hot shower and Jean-Pierre Fortier promised us dinner tonight at the Troika. You should come with us, Illya. It's well known for its Russian dishes." Dancer got up and approached the Soviet agent, her walk sultry as she breathed the words, "They call it the czar's red velvet hideaway... with ancient, polished swords... and shining... silver... samovars."

  Kuryakin kept his gaze straight ahead as she neared him.

  "Chicken Kiev, Illya... Beef Stroganoff..."

  Slate continued, following on her heels, "Zakuska... caviar... iced vodka..."

  They ended up on either side of him, both leaning on his shoulders and whispering into his ears, "Musical entertainment nightly..."

  Kuryakin swallowed quickly, aware of the double effect they were having on his body. While his mind embraced the idea of Russian cuisine wholeheartedly, his stomach wasn't thrilled with the prospect. "Thank you, but no. If you would please excuse me, I need my rest." He walked to the door of the bedroom, trying not to look like he was rushing, and closed the door firmly behind him.

  He lay on top of the bed until he heard them leave, then he removed his housecoat and crawled back beneath the blankets, nursing not only his previous headache, but now a rather nauseous stomach.

  12:30 p.m.

  As a serious connoisseur of the art of gastronomy, Napoleon Solo had to admit that the poached salmon was exceptional, as was the white wine that had been chosen to accompany it and the beautiful young waitress who now wanted to know whether he wanted the tarte tatin or the chocolate mousse cake for dessert.

  The conversation around him was subdued, however. Across from him, the premier of Quebec spoke in quiet tones to his counterpart in Ontario, brows furled as they discussed the morning's concerns. Election campaigns and bilingualism were second to the nation's security.

  Renault seemed equally unsettled. "Do you think it's Thrush?" he asked quietly in French.

  "Showing interest in the radar system?" Solo shrugged. "Possibly. They've been interested in it before. I spoke with the agents investigating, and they reported no security problems anywhere along the DEW line, or the Pinetree line. Those stations are well-guarded by NORAD."

  "True. They are closely monitored. Yet the information leaks are what concerns me. It's our own posts that have been compromised, not NORAD's. Our backup system. Those locations were only known to a few government officials and a handful of our agents involved. If the leaks were from our own people—" Renault put down his fork and knife and pushed his plate aside. "I can't eat this." The head of the Canadian U.N.C.L.E. office shook his head, the anger showing in his face as he continued, "Only half of our offices are represented here today. The rest are just too understaffed to send someone. Edmonton, Calgary, Winnipeg, Saskatoon—not one of the Prairie Provinces was able to send a representative. Vancouver and Victoria managed to send a Section Three agent with their documents, but couldn't spare anyone higher for the conference."

  "Did Dan Shifrin have to return to Winnipeg suddenly? He was at the reception last night."

  "Who?"

  "Dan Shifrin."

  "Shifrin isn't with U.N.C.L.E. I was speaking about our own people. We need more—"

  "Wait a minute," Solo interrupted. "Dan Shifrin isn't with U.N.C.L.E.? Who is he then?"

  "RCMP Security Intelligence. He was in town yesterday and dropped by unexpected last night to see a few of our men that he knew." Renault continued, unaware that Solo was only half-listening, "Calgary is especially vulnerable right now. Both our top workers were killed in an automobile accident last week."

  Solo pulled himself back to the conversation. There had been a moment of silence for the two agents earlier that morning. "Are the police still convinced it was just an accident?"

  "From all appearances, they lost control on an icy patch on the highway between Banff and Calgary. The car checks out fine, it wasn't tampered with at all, and there were witnesses—who also check out—who claim that no other car was involved in the accident. They just hit black ice and—" Renault paused, rubbing at his chin. "I don't know. Something stinks. First the bombing there two weeks ago, then the accident."

  "I didn't know about the bombing; I've been undercover in South America. What happened?"

  "Much of our Calgary' office was destroyed. The bomb had been planted in Section Two."

  "That's a secured area. How did they get in?"

  "We've no idea. It was pinpointed in a desk drawer in the middle of the Enforcement Agents' office area. It destroyed the Section One and Two area, plus much of the files in Information. They had fire proof filing cabinets in the vault for the secured files, but most of the day-to-day work was obliterated. One agent was killed— There would have been more, but it was three in the morning and he was the only one in. Several women employed on the night shift had minor injuries, including the ag
ent at Reception; they were at the far end of the building from the explosion. The receptionist claims no one unusual came in that day, and our security tapes back her up."

  "An inside job then?"

  Renault shook his head, reaching for his wine glass. "I'm not going to speculate at this point, Napoleon. It's not just Calgary; it's much of Western Canada. Within the last month, Saskatoon has been plagued with someone or some group taking potshots at all four of their Section Two agents. Two have received minor wounds. That implies a sight knowledge of who those agents are."

  "Any other offices having problems?" Solo asked. "There was nothing said last night."

  "That was because we had mainly Eastern Canada and the Maritime Provinces represented at the reception. Much of this is minor—not enough to worry about under normal conditions. It's just when you start adding it up that it becomes noticeable. For example, the Regina sub-station and Edmonton office have been fighting the flu, it seems. A lot of illness there. We're checking to make sure it is a natural occurring virus, not something that has been introduced to their environment. Now word has come that the Thrush summit has been moved to northern British Columbia somewhere."

  Renault stood, preparing to go to the podium and call the meeting back to order. He paused, fists leaning on the table as he spoke quietly, "Tell Alexander that it feels like something is chipping away at us, trying to wear us down. Our Western agents are becoming restless, jumping at their own shadows. We don't want to draw attention to the situation; we're trying to absorb the problems as they occur. But if this continues . . . we're going to need help."

  * * * * *

  1:30 p.m.

  Illya pushed the blanket off, trying to get comfortable. He was hot. He knew it was the fever, and he should probably keep the blanket on, but he was hot and he couldn't sleep. Or when he did sleep, he was troubled by bad dreams. Not true nightmares, just jumbled bits of memories from the past two weeks that he hadn't eradicated from his thoughts, emerging in his fevered sleep. Leaning on one elbow to plump the pillows, he glanced at the clock on the nightstand between the two beds, blinking to clear his vision.