Collection 3 - Year One Page 5

  Heather McNabb, Waverly's assistant, stormed into Solo's office later that evening. "Where have you been?"

  "Excuse me?" Solo looked up from his desk. "I didn't hear you knock."

  McNabb crossed the room, fists clenched, and leaned over his desk. "You made arrangements for Illya to call you at four o'clock this afternoon and you weren't here!"

  "I did what? How do you know?"

  "I ended up taking the call from Illya. He said you had said he should phone in at four, before he traveled the last few miles into Strastown. When you weren't here, I checked with Mr. Waverly and he said you would be back here at 6:00, so I told Illya to phone back at 6:15. He did. And you still weren't here! He couldn't wait any longer to confirm the rest of the case with you. He was supposed to be picked up for drunk driving before 7:00 so he could be booked during Fedorov's shift. Why weren't you here? Illya sounded really nervous about the setup."

  "Slow down, Heather. Take a seat and give me a minute to find his case." Did I tell Illya four o'clock? He glanced down, rifling through his papers to find the schedule of Kuryakin's undercover assignment in Strastown. He stared at his own handwriting. FOUR O'CLOCK K CHECK-IN, the note read. HAVE WIND-DOWN PROCEDURE ESTABLISHED WITH XG PRIOR. Damn.

  "Heather, have you seen Xavier Garcia?"

  "He left at three o'clock to return to Nicaragua," she said. "You told me this morning to book his flight."

  "Oh."

  Eyes closed, Solo rubbed at his forehead, trying to concentrate on amending the details of the case. Illya was supposed to be arrested and then bailed out later after he had a chance to check out the internal functions of the police station. They had to determine the degree of Thrush's involvement with the local setup. Drunk driving -- how long would they keep him on those charges? Maybe one day, until he dried out. Two or three at the longest. No danger there. I'll just let it ride. "Okay, Heather. This should be no problem."

  He glanced at his watch. "It's seven-thirty. Illya should be arrested by now, if all went well. Give him until the day after tomorrow -- Sunday afternoon -- then drive out to Strastown with... Lazarev, I guess, and tell them you are Illya's sister or something. Pay the bail or fine or whatever they want. If Illya is on to something, he'll refuse to go with you, but we have at least established a route out for him later. When he is ready to leave, he could simply say to the authorities that he has changed his mind and wants out and they would call you."

  "But Illya thinks Garcia is supposed to get him out. Won't he be suspicious if I show up?"

  "Illya knows there was a problem with his check-in procedure this afternoon. He'll improvise. He always lands on his feet. We've got it under control, Heather. We've worked together long enough to be able to throw together a second plan of action."

  McNabb smiled reluctantly and got to her feet, sufficiently calmed down. "I'm sorry, Napoleon. It's just... well... he seemed so quiet on the end of the phone. Then when he phoned back for you the second time -- well, I guess he'd been drinking already, trying to get his alcohol level up. He sounded a bit confused, that's all," she finished with a little shrug, walking out of the office.

  Solo took the note he had written to himself earlier, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. Damn.

  He walked out of Headquarters that night, hidden in a black trench coat, feeling black. It was quiet -- unusual for a Friday night. He crossed the street to his car, sliding into the front seat, and started the motor.

  He felt numb. And angry. And uneasy. It irked him that he had forgotten about Illya's four o'clock check-in when he had booked the afternoon off.

  Ten days ago he wouldn't have done that.

  She wasn't here ten days ago.

  As the car warmed up, he stared ahead out the fogging window wondering where he was going to drive to -- knowing where he should drive to and knowing where he should stay far away from.

  It was late and it had been a long day. It was fifteen minutes short of midnight. Straight home, a shower, and sleep. She said she would have dinner ready at the stroke of twelve. He had to be at his desk at seven in the morning to brief two agents on another assignment. Relaxing music on the phonograph, laden table before the fireplace, a bottle of Italian red wine. His empty apartment had no dinner waiting, a cold shower, and a cold bed. Serena, a bubble bath, and a warm bed. He would have to leave for Headquarters by six-thirty.

  I'll call the hotel's front desk and arrange for a wake-up call.

  * * *

  Saturday it rained.

  Poured, actually. Solo sat alone in his office, apart from the rest of the Enforcement Officers, and diligently did paperwork, catching up on the backlog that always accumulated.

  He detested paperwork -- in fact, he usually conned Illya into doing it for him -- but over the last few days, he had found escape in the mindless reviews, reports, and case summaries. He even found time to examine the sheets of statistics, the section bulletins, and departmental circulars that were routinely abandoned on his desk and that usually found their way into the trash, unread.

  Agents drifted in and out all morning reports from Central America, reports from the Miami problem, reports from the construction companies that had been hired to do renovations in Strastown, estimates from Accounting, cautions from the Legal Department.

  Lazarev called in from his home confirming that Illya had been arrested on schedule Friday night, looking hammered to the gills, and at present was supposedly sleeping it off in the small town jail cell. Lazarev agreed to return to Strastown with Heather McNabb the next morning to attempt to retrieve Kuryakin. Solo ticked the item off the list at his elbow.

  Waverly called him in at eleven in the morning; they exchanged notes on the Strastown situation and laid the groundwork for the next stage of the investigation. Once Kuryakin's information and Lazarev's comments and photographs were combined with Garcia's intelligence data at his end of the case, the next steps would be laid out.

  MONDAY, he wrote, when back in his office, MEETING WITH K, L, AND XG: 9:00 A.M. MEETING WITH WAVERLY ET AL: 10:00 A.M.

  He called down to the receptionist, verified Garcia's scheduled return at 8:00 Monday morning, and had her make a note to confirm the appointments with all involved. He ticked the item off the list.

  He skipped lunch. He had a headache from the wine the night before.

  The afternoon dragged on. The rain didn't ease, drowning the city in a gray murky coldness. He drank too much coffee. There was a restless push as he tried to finish the files that had piled up on his desk. It became an obsession; he wanted to leave the office at six with a clear mind that he had accomplished all his work, that no forgotten details could be held over his head.

  The list grew slowly. Don't forget about... he said to himself a hundred times. Then, as evening approached, the tick marks matched the items and he smiled, pleased with his day's achievements. He paused at Waverly's office and waved good-night, but the old man only looked up from his desk, one ear pressed against a telephone receiver, and nodded absently.

  Solo grabbed his coat and headed out into the dark city, walking quickly down the wet, slick sidewalk. The top item on his list had been to call for a dozen roses and he went quickly to pick them up before the florist closed.

  * * *

  She was waiting for him, flinging open the door at his footsteps like a young bride, delighted at the flowers, eyes sparkling as she looked up at him. The apartment smelled of the antipasto already on the table and the meat-stuffed canneloni with becchianella in the oven. And apple pie for his American heritage.

  She rose on tip toes to chastely kiss his cheek. Her soft perfume prompted him to passionately draw her into his arms and kiss her, heedless of his wet overcoat.

  Then she reset the security alarms behind him with a memorized drill he never taught her and he remembered who and what she was.

  For a moment.

  * * *

  He rolled over and reached across the bed, grabbing the phone on
the fifth ring. "What?"

  "Napoleon? It's Heather."

  "What do you want?" he asked more harshly than he had intended.

  Silence, then she pushed on. "I was just wondering if you've heard from Illya?"

  "No. Why should I have heard from him?" He's undercover, Heather.

  "He's supposed to be in jail in Strastown--"

  "I know that, Heather. .."

  "Well, we called there and he's been transferred."

  Serena shifted in his arms and Solo moved the phone to his other ear, hoping she wouldn't awaken. "To where?"

  "We don't know yet."

  "Isn't Waverly looking into it?"

  "Yes, but--"

  "Did he ask you to call me?"

  "No... But Illya's your partner, Napoleon."

  "He's undercover, Heather," he whispered into the receiver, glancing down at Serena. "He's bound to disappear if he's on the track of something. Don't worry about it; I'll look into it tomorrow. Who was supposed to be his backup?" He couldn't think clearly.

  "Lazarev. You assigned Lazarev, remember? We were supposed to go down tomorrow afternoon and get Illya, but when he phoned down tonight to find out how much Illya's bail was set at, they told him Illya had been transferred."

  Napoleon sat up, tucking the covers around Serena so she wouldn't get a draft. He spoke softly into the phone, trying to keep his words calm and not let the anger he felt show. "Illya has probably wangled the transfer to stay with his investigation. Don't tip his hand. Now listen carefully, Heather: if Waverly wants me in on this, let him call me and I'll come in gladly. If not, I'm busy!"

  She understood now, too well. "Sorry to bother you. Have fun, Mr. Solo."

  "I will if you quit phoning me," he responded in a singsong voice too hard-edged to be teasing and hung up.

  An hour later, the phone rang again.

  After the fourth ring, Serena murmured sleepily in Napoleon's ear, "If you don't get it, darling, I'll have to."

  "It's just the office. If it was important, they'd use the transceiver."

  "What if it's for me? I left this number at my exchange for emergencies."

  "You left my telephone number with Thrush??"

  "Believe me, darling, they already had it."

  He sighed and reached for it. "Yes?"

  "Napoleon?" Illya's voice. "This is Anton Dombrovsky."

  "Where are you, Anton Dombrovsky? What do you want, Anton Dombrovsky? Don't you know what time it is?" Napoleon asked, stopping to brush his lips against Serena's neck, feeling the sensuous body wrap around him.

  "I seem to be at Omegar State Prison."

  "Omegar?"

  "Yes, and they have allowed me one phone call to call my lawyer." Serena's hands caressing his back waylaid Napoleon's attention. "Napoleon?"

  "Hmm? What do you want me to do, Anton?"

  A slight pause. "Can you come and get me?"

  "Now? That's a couple hours from here." He glanced at the clock, trying to keep his irritation in check. "It's almost ten."

  "Since when has ten o'clock been late for you?"

  "Why don't you call my office and ask them to send someone around?"

  "Because... " Illya said, between clenched teeth.

  Napoleon sighed deeply. Because the line Illya was on was not secure and U.N.C.L.E. answering the phone would blow his cover. "You sure this can't wait until morning?"

  There was a long drawn-out pause. "Morning is fine. Say hello to Serena for me."

  "I'll be there mid-morning."

  "Sure." The line went dead.

  "Illya says hi." Napoleon hung up the phone and returned his attention to the situation at hand.

  * * *

  He woke up alone in the morning and stretched lazily, surprised to find her missing from his bed. Listening, he heard the shower running and leaned back, smiling. It was still early. The sun coming through the window promised a drier day. Only eight o'clock, the clock said. He had time for a leisurely breakfast, the morning newspaper, and... Oh, right. A peaceful Sunday drive to Omegar State Prison.

  He sighed and glanced at the clock again. It was at least two hours to the penitentiary. He would have to get up, get dressed, and get on the road right away if he wanted to spend any of the day with Serena.

  Or... he could call the U.N.C.L.E. office and have them send someone for Illya. Lazarev was supposed to go anyway.

  He paused, one hand resting on the phone. Think with your head, Solo, not your crotch.

  Illya would be tired and grouchy, his conversation acid; no need to pass that experience on to anyone else. And as Heather had reminded him last night, they were partners, after all. The time with Kuryakin in the car could be spent debriefing him, Solo rationalized, freeing up time later for other things. He hadn't seen much of the Russian over the past week. A certain Italian had occupied most of his thoughts and all of his free time.

  He smiled at the memory of that Italian, the grin spreading further as she walked into his bedroom, a towel wrapped around her, chestnut hair hanging in wet ringlets to her shoulders.

  It was nine-thirty before he actually made it out the door and into his car. As he drove, his thoughts were occupied with trying to figure a way of convincing that incredible woman to switch sides, to join up with U.N.C.L.E. He spent an additional half hour lost because he had left the directions to the prison in his apartment on top of his briefcase and as a result, missed his turnoff.

  His U.N.C.L.E. papers got him through the penitentiary gates and into the parking lot. As he climbed from his car, he noticed it had rained recently but, instead of it freshening the air, there was a musty dank odor permeating the walled-in prison grounds. He bounded up the well-worn stairs, nose crinkling further at the unpleasant smell inside the building.

  "You're here for who?" The prison administrator, Al Lexam, glanced through his records, shaking his head at the request.

  "Illya Kuryakin," Solo answered, impatiently. "He called me yesterday evening. Said he had been transferred from Strastown by mistake."

  "From Strastown, you say?" Again the papers were rearranged. "No Kuryakin was transferred from Strastown yesterday. Would he have come in by another name?"

  "No. Oh, right, he did... umm... Dombrovsky. Anton Dombrovsky."

  "Little blond fellow?" Lexam looked up slowly.

  "That's him. If I could have him released to me, we'll take care of him at the U.N.C.L.E. Detention Center. With his kind, it's safer. I'm in a bit of a hurry," he added. This was taking too long already. He had promised Serena he'd be back by dinner and it was almost noon. This was supposed to be a day off. A day of brunching at Alfredo's, then walking through Central Park with the winter wind whistling around them. A day of hot pretzels, roasted chestnuts, and no responsibilities.

  "This guy -- what's he in for?" Lexam asked.

  "What? I don't know. Horse theft," he answered, irritated, and glanced down at his watch. What was it?... Drunk driving.

  Lexam reached for his keys. "He's down this way."

  As they stepped out into the corridor, alarms rang, propelling the administrator back into his office and across the room to his intercom. After a short exchange, he signed off and hit the desk with a massive fist. "There's a riot in cell block B. That's where your Dombrovsky is. Is he some kind of troublemaker?"

  Solo smirked. Figures Illya would be in the middle of a fight. Anything to screw up his day with Serena. First last night, now this. "He thrives on trouble," he said, shaking his head. "I'll wait."

  From the outside, apart from the high fence surrounding it, Omegar Prison looked like an ancient, three-storey, private college that was a bit too security conscious and had been a little lacking for funds of late. It wasn't until Solo saw the disturbing film captured by the security monitors of the inside of the detention building and the violence in Block B that he snapped out of his preoccupation with the Thrush beauty waiting in his apartment and realized the very real danger his partner was in.

  By two o'clock
the revolt was full blown; it had spread to Cell Block C and the security cameras had been taken out. At least one guard had been killed and another taken hostage. Solo paced the hallways, questioned the guards, and stared at blueprints of the building. He called Waverly.

  At five o'clock, the toll was higher: two guards and three prisoners dead, numerous wounded, and no sign of Illya Kuryakin. The National Guard was summoned. Solo was on the phone to Waverly every half hour, updating him on the current situation. The U.N.C.L.E. Chief sent his own reinforcements.

  Seven in the evening. The first soldiers arrived by helicopter. There were no demands from the rioters, no clue as to what had set them off. As long as they had hostages, it was decided to put off the use of tear gas or other measures that could aggravate the situation and cause further fatalities.

  Illya... hang in there, man. Solo couldn't think. The words came fluently when he reported to Waverly or spoke with Lexam, but when left alone, there was nothing. Just a beating heart and shortness of breath.

  By eight o'clock, things were winding down in Block C and it was soon under the control of the National Guard. The long hours of the night were spent trying to reach the rioters and communicate with them, but Block B was effectively stockaded and the prisoners seemed more interested in destruction than negotiation.

  The hours of waiting -- and not being able to do anything -- were grating. It was like being trapped under the casino in the time-locked room with Rudolph[2] all over again, watching the seconds tick away and waiting for the explosion that would signal Illya's death. That had been a nightmare unto itself. Don't you dare die on me, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin.

  This was worse. He knew there was nothing he could have done to help Illya last time. Assignments were dangerous; death was always a possibility. As it turned out at the casino, they had gambled and won. Illya hadn't died.

  But this time? It could have been different from the start. It should have been different from the start.

  Whatever is happening to him, I did it. I pulled the trigger or planted the knife or broke his arm or his neck or --

  Illya.. . Hang in there, man.

  Solo stood alone outside with a cup of coffee and let the cold air refresh him. I'll get him out. He'll be okay. I'll get him out.