Collection 5 - My Brother's Keeper Page 4

  The words came unbidden to his lips, the result of endless debating team speeches in high school and philosophy classes in college. He spoke more in generalities than specifics, skirting the dicey questions and centering on the well-documented accomplishments of the man. Hours later he would not remember the actual content of the remainder of the eulogy, other than the persistent voice that ran through his head insisting, "It's a lie. It's a lie. It's a lie."

  He fled the building during the last hymn, not wanting to speak to any of the men, some red-eyed, some angry, most indifferent. He headed out into the moist spring air, opting to walk the seven blocks to the hotel and banquet hall despite the threat of rain lurking over the city. Dogwood trees lined the street, their white blossoms scattered on the sidewalk, crushed and muddied. Hurried steps behind him caused him to turn, but he already knew whom it would be.

  "You did okay." Robinson's boyish grin put him at ease.

  "It was difficult," he admitted.

  "The guy was a bastard."

  "You seemed to like him well enough then."

  "Yeah, well... Things change. In light of what I know now, there are question marks all over his operations during the war. It makes me wonder about some of the ambushes and raids he sent us on... Was he the real thing, a guy serving his country to the best of his ability, or was the officer I knew just a cardboard cutout?"

  Behind them, the doors to the church opened and they moved quickly down the sidewalk to get out of sight before anyone else spied them. They paused for a street light, and Robinson glanced over to Solo, then cleared his throat. "I read the top-level CIA report on his death. Do you know what really happened?"

  The light changed and Solo stepped out onto the road giving a neutral shrug. It had never occurred to him to check what the "official" report to the CIA stated. He had signed the report Illya had drawn up for U.N.C.L.E., then signed the version destined for the CIA, MI5, and the rest. He hadn't cared. There were enough other problems going on at the time; the whole incident with Morgan was something he wanted to sweep under the rug and forget about.

  Robinson fell into step beside him, but didn't wait for an answer. "Someone shot him. Self-defense the file said. Morgan was suspected of being involved in some illegal activities, but there was never enough proof to convict him. Other than that, it said the United Network Command had silenced the case."

  And you're curious, but know better than to ask me for information I am probably unable to give out.

  "That about says it all," Solo offered noncommittally.

  "Interesting, though, that the man our files say shot him is already dead." Robinson looked over at him slyly.

  "What do you mean?" Now he knew he should have checked the formal report.

  Robinson's voice was speculative. "The man who the files say shot Morgan in February, supposedly died in 1961, and also supposedly died again in December of last year. I know. I was there." Robinson darted another quick look at him, then glanced away.

  "You were there?" Solo was startled at that. He hadn't seen Kelly in the crowd. But then, the place had been packed with U.N.C.L.E. agents, CIA, FBI, KGB, GRU, and everyone else, and his mind had been on other problems. Like keeping his partner alive. Illya had taken two bullets, one through his lung and one clipping the back of his skull, and the pandemonium on the stage of the auditorium had been centered around finding the gunman responsible, each agency pointing the finger at the other[6].

  Robinson continued when he realized Solo wasn't going to offer any information. "Interesting fellow. Zadkine, his name was. Is. Was.—Whatever.––I remembered him distinctly because Scotty and I had bumped into him twice before in unusual circumstances, the first time in 1959 in Paris."

  Solo smiled, feeling some of the day's stress lift. This should be good. In 1959, Illya would have still have been under his "adopted" father Mikhail Zadkine's name and working for the KGB. It wasn't until his move to America a few years later that he switched back to his actual surname, Kuryakin. Although the basic framework of what he did during those years had been established, his actual activities for the KGB had remained somewhat vague. Illya seemed to be willing to provide only the information that was absolutely needed, preferring to keep the rest locked away with his other nightmares. And I have added to his nightmare repertoire. I'm glad he stayed in New York. Maybe he'll get some rest.

  "What was he doing in Paris?" Solo asked innocently.

  "Painting. He was just a kid apparently traveling with a group of Scandinavian painters on a holiday excursion; didn't look more than fifteen or sixteen, but he could have been older. He was standing at the side of the Seine, painting a sailboat in the harbor. Scotty and I weren't made official partners until, oh, three or four years ago, but we did work together occasionally. I was playing a lot of tennis, trying to get into the international circuit, and Scotty was finishing some degree or other, so they put us together in the summers if something came up. Anyway, since we were supposed to be watching for activity on the same boat, it was a good cover to talk to the artist and stare long and hard at the object he was painting."

  Solo had seen a few of Illya's hasty drawings before; usually they consisted of floor plans, the layout of the building they were about to enter, or else a brief vague sketch of what someone looked like, often as not done on the back of a napkin or on a scrap of paper. The rough drawings were always enough to go on, but there was no aesthetic care put into their creation. "Was he any good?"

  Robinson considered the question for a moment, then shrugged characteristically as if admitting he was not a reliable judge of such things. "A bit before his time, I think. Probably couldn't have made a living at it, but there was a definite artistic flair about him. When you looked at the picture carefully, you could see he had superimposed an upside-down nine-millimeter Makarov onto the canvas in the shape and colors of the yacht. Everything else looked perfectly normal. The sky and the waves had almost a Van Gogh energy, movement. Scotty loved it and bought it from him. The kid was shocked, man. He had a sign offering it for sale––everyone else had one and it would have looked strange for him not to––but I don't think he had imagined in his wildest dreams that someone would actually buy it. That's when we got his name. I. M. Zadkine. It was written along the bottom as neat as could be. I. M. Zadkine."

  "What was he like?" Solo asked, shivering. His arm ached. The late afternoon air was cooling, the strong, too-sweet scent of magnolia blossoms tossed about in the breeze. When the gray sky overhead gave way to the first droplets of rain, it splattered the clay soil turning it an uncomfortable blood-red. Solo accepted Robinson's help in getting into the lightweight raincoat he had grabbed on his way out the door of the chapel and they quickened their pace.

  "What was he like? The kid was as calm as a rock and scared silly at the same time. Worldly-wise, yet naive as a schoolboy and not too familiar with free enterprise. I think Zadkine sold the picture before he realized what he had done. Scotty shook his hand and he gaped at it, stammering in perfect French and cramming the money in his pocket."

  Solo smiled, easily seeing a younger version of his thrifty partner overwhelmed by a sudden cash windfall.

  Robinson didn't notice, engrossed once more in the precision folds of the airplane he was fashioning from another program, but he rambled on comfortably in one of his "story-telling" modes. "Well, we forgot all about him until about a year later when we saw him at a party in Belgrad. This time he was apparently the son of the Soviet Communist party leader, representing his government at a science exhibition. His eyes fell on us and I thought he was going to choke on his drink. He was a cool one, though. Came right up to us, shook our hands, and quietly asked Scotty and I not to mention the painting incident to any of the guests or it might get back to his father, who didn't approve of his hobby. Now Scotty and I agreed, but we also knew ol' Bronskiy didn't have a son, so the kid was obviously lying. Now, Bronskiy––there's a strange old bird––"

  "And last December?" Sol
o interrupted, trying to keep his old friend on course in the conversation.

  "Oh, we were in D.C. to be debriefed on a case and we get virtually ordered to this Soviet ballet––I forget whom we were watching for––and here's the same kid in the show's finale dance thing––it looked like a cross between a gymnastic routine at the Olympics and a ballet. To top it off, the kid almost got his head blown off as the curtain closed."

  "He was working for the KGB––"

  "Well, it doesn't take one of Scotty's degrees to figure that out, Jack. I haven't figured out the Morgan murder yet but––"

  "I can fill you in––"

  "Scotty has a theory. He thinks the kid is working under another name now. We've come across a cross-indexed closed file under the name of Kuryakin, but it has an U.N.C.L.E. seal on it so we couldn't get into it. You can ask Scotty about it tomorrow night."

  "It's not quite the way it looks––"

  "What is?" Robinson interrupted again, laughing. He threw the folded airplane off into the traffic, hardly pausing in his soliloquy. "We work with these Cold War types all the time and most of them just play the game. We all know the rules. We try and stop them. They try and stop us. They kill their own guys but they don't kill our guys if they can help it. We don't kill theirs if we can help it." He frowned a car ran over the paper plane. "So we're left wondering why Zadkine's alias was on the police report... Why did U.N.C.L.E. hush it up? Why would Zadkine be after Morgan? There was no Soviet connection that we––"

  The CIA agent clammed up as they entered the lobby of the hotel where the reception was being held. "Later," he whispered to Solo, his arm already extended to greet an old colleague.

  *****

  Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin sat slouched on the chair he had been left in, his hands tied securely, professionally, behind his back. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes, surprised he was awake—surprised actually that he had fallen asleep. He shrugged it off to accumulated jet lag and carbon monoxide fumes. The gag was uncomfortable and tight; he moved his split lip gingerly, but there seemed to be no real damage, besides a dizziness that hadn't passed yet. All in all, he was in good shape. He had taken a few punches to the abdomen; one guy had landed a good one across his face and now his eye was probably black, but other than that, they had left him alone.

  They had driven all night and most of the day. The three men had kept him in the trunk of the Lincoln except for two brief intermissions when they pulled into a mechanic's garage and let him out to use the rest room; he figured they didn't want him messing up the trunk of the rented car.

  Then it was back in for another few hours until they arrived at the hotel. The rear loading dock was deserted when the Lincoln backed up and they lifted him out of the vehicle and into the service elevator, then up to this hotel room.

  It was a spacious suite on the top floor, corner. He was in a bedroom, sitting on a chair at the foot of one of the beds. Doors led to a bathroom, to the hotel corridor, and to the rest of the suite. They had brought him in from the hallway, so he had no idea what was in the other rooms and they didn't seem interested in giving him a tour. Near the window, there was a small round table and two more chairs. A television sat on a long cabinet; the two younger guards had been fiddling with it, trying to get some sports show clearer. The other man, older and serious, ignored them and spent his time pacing slowly, following a soon-recognizable pattern. The window, a glance at his watch, disappearing into the other room, returning, checking the corridor door, stopping by Illya's chair and testing the security of his ropes, then back to the window for a few minutes. On the fifth round, there was a sound in the other room, a key turning in the lock, and he had moved swiftly to the connecting doorway and looked around the corner, nodding to himself as he recognized the newcomer.

  A smartly-dressed man entered the room, the one the other three had been waiting for. He was tall, well over six feet in height, and dark-haired and handsome in an American way. His movements were smooth, urbane and charismatic, with a bounce in his step that said he was always in a hurry to get somewhere. Confident and proud, his appearance meticulous, yet his intelligent eyes held a glint of something not quite right.

  There was no denying his grim authority in this room as he stormed in, barely deigning to glance at his prisoner. "Have you followed the instructions?" he asked one of the men, dropping his briefcase onto the bed.

  "Exactly as you said, sir. We had no problems. No one saw us there, on route, or getting into the room here," one of his kidnappers announced, looking pleased with himself.

  Rank amateurs, Kuryakin thought with disdain, then remembered how easily they had captured him and transported him here. They were afraid of him, had half-stripped him and bundled him up so tightly he had little feeling left in his hands. They sat with their guns and silencers facing him, scared enough to shoot him if he moved in their direction.

  "Are the pictures ready?" the man asked. Demanded.

  "Yes, Mr. Carter." A man Illya had identified as Clay handed Carter a couple of Polaroids that had been taken as soon as they had brought him up to the room and worked him over a bit. Clay was as nondescript as a man could become: brown average-length hair, average height, average weight, average intelligence. Average. Common. Pedestrian.

  "They'll do," Carter said. "You got these before the bruise on his cheek came up. His eye is closing nicely — not that it could have ruined using these as identification. I'm sure Solo will recognize who it's supposed to be." Carter studied Kuryakin, then suddenly reached out and backhanded Illya across the face, sharp rings tearing his cheek. "That looks better."

  He grabbed Kuryakin's chin and wrenched his face up to stare at him. With a surprisingly strong hold, Carter grabbed a fistful of Illya's hair and lifted him from the chair. "So, our Soviet guest needs to be fixed up a bit for his partner. Would you care to do the honors, Clay? I bet you'd like another go at him. Or are you going to talk to me, Russkie? Did Solo plan the operation there? Did he blackmail Alan? Where is the scepter? How much do you actually know, Zadkine?"

  Zadkine? Stunned, Illya gasped as he was thrown to the bed.

  Carter laughed at his shocked look. The man leaned over him, smelling of expensive aftershave, and talking slowly as though his captive understood little English. "You didn't think I knew who you were, did you, Illya Mikhaylovich Zadkine? I saw your picture in the Soviet paper with your KGB superior, Petrov, last December, and made a note of it. I have business contacts all over the world. Surprised, are you? Besides, Russian spies like you who die in December, but who are identified as killing my business partner in February, have my complete attention. I know who you are. But I also know that you are nothing. U.N.C.L.E. owns you and Solo orders you. Have you switched masters from Petrov to Solo? Later, you and I will talk about what you already know, how much Solo knows, and why you were used to kill off Morgan. You had better hope he values your life, Zadkine-Kuryakin. You're my ace in the hole."

  Zadkine... No. Kuryakin shut his eyes, blocking out the face that was inches from his own. Carter hit him again, the blow crashing into the side of his skull; then the man walked away laughing, his actions showing how little he valued the Russian's life. Carter moved across to the others, talking to them, still laughing. Illya groaned silently and rolled away. Was he never going to get away from the name Zadkine and the life that had gone with it? He tried to grasp what else Carter was saying but nothing made any sense without a proper context to put it in. The door opened and he peered through half-slits to watch the man leave the room.

  Kuryakin let his eyes close again and went over his predicament step by step. There was still a man sitting behind him, a gun at his back. He was still gagged and his arms were bound. From his body's reaction to the brief movement a moment before, he was uncomfortably aware that he was suffering from some kind of concussion, although probably not serious. At least he was horizontal now; sitting up had been increasingly dangerous, since it made him feel distinctly sick to his stomac
h and he was wearing a gag.

  More important was the single thought that hammered through his consciousness, repeating with every painful throb of his head: Carter knew about his involvement in Morgan's death, and he knew about Napoleon's. From the sound of things, Carter was going to use him as leverage against Napoleon. For what? The scepter?

  Where was Napoleon?

  Chapter Three

  1952, Korea.

  "Don't move. Lie still." Solo wiped the cold sweat from the young man's forehead, trying not to look at the battered body. "it's over."

  Tommy coughed, blood bubbling from his mouth and dribbling down his chin. "Why, Lee? Why are— they— doing— this?" he choked out, clawed hands grabbing at the other's torn shirt.

  Lee Solo felt his eyes cloud over with tears. What could he say? 'Tommy, I suspect they're beating you to a pulp for practice?' Or maybe 'to show the rest of us what we can expect?' Or maybe 'for no particular reason, except they were bored?'

  "I don't know. I'm sorry, Tommy. I'm so sorry."

  "Not–– your—fault—I heard—you yelling—asking them—to take you—instead—Why? You hardly—even know—me." The panted words came out in a rush, as though the speaker knew his time was limited

  "Don't talk. Don't move."

  "Sally's my gal—Sally—back home—Tell her I love her, Lee. Tell her—" Tommy Sorgensen faded for a few minutes and Solo watched the thin chest rise and collapse with each tortured breath. "And my parents—love them, too—And Johnny—my baby brother."

  "You can tell them yourself when you get out, "he lied. It couldn't be happening. He wasn't really holding a man who was about to die. This didn't happen to his friends. This wasn't supposed to be a war, not like the war he had grown up with. Nobody was supposed to die. They had said it was a police action. They hadn't prepared him for this. None of them were prepared for this.