Collection 5 - My Brother's Keeper Read online

  From the depths of the stuffed armchair, McGuire stared across at him. "Somebody's been feeding me information about what happened to Alan. The official French documents. The Soviet newspaper photo. The CIA files. Was it you?"

  "Where would I get records like that? There's not much call for it in my line of work. I'm in the––"

  "I know. The import/export business. My own investigation pulled up that. All clean and above board."

  "I've tried." Carter turned back to the door.

  McGuire grunted in answer, then said quietly, "I suppose you don't want to tell me why you've got blood on your sleeve."

  Carter looked down at his white shirt cuff, surprised at the small crimson stain at his right inner wrist. McGuire might be crazy, but he had good eyes. He would have to be watched. "I'll bring the tape back tomorrow morning."

  "I'll be here."

  *****

  His arms bound behind him, Illya curled his body on the bed, drawing his legs up to his chest and pressing his forehead against his knees, trying to breathe regularly enough through the gag to prevent passing out. The fire of pain was overwhelming; he could feel the moan bunching in his throat, choking him.

  He should have kept his mouth shut. What would it have mattered in the long run? But the insult had slid out.

  Carter's reaction was unexpected and intense. With his stomach twisted in knots, Illya wondered fleetingly if there was any skin left on his feet. Carter had been thorough, the leather strap falling endlessly on his bare soles, sharp lashes of pain that sliced against his raw flesh and nerves until numbed to a brutal throbbing.

  He should have kept his mouth shut. Wasn't he always counseling Napoleon to not provoke an enemy's wrath? For twenty-six years, he had known to stay silent with captors and superiors alike, to not say or do anything that could be used against him. To be invisible.

  A wave of nausea threatened.

  And passed.

  He felt the first shivers of shock and, rather than give in to it, he focused his attention on the voices from the tape recorder that droned in the corner of the room. Carter had come in with it a short time before, hardly able to keep the smile off his face. He fussed with the tape, cranked the volume, and left. Kuryakin was aware that it was being played for his benefit but he had yet to figure out why.

  Or care why, for that matter. He adjusted his position on the bed, irritated that despite the pain flooding his body, his right arm was completely asleep. His ears were ringing, not loud enough to drown out the tape, but with a slight buzzing that made him feel distinctly nauseous.

  "I'm gonna kill them, one by one by one, until there are no Russians left to disgrace the earth."

  He froze, taken by surprise. It had almost sounded like Napoleon. The familiar voice continued to speak with frightening conviction. If it was Napoleon, was it an act?... Carter had said that it was an old recording. Maybe the voice was Napoleon's. From before. Was that how he had felt? That vehement? Napoleon?

  The belief solidified as the tape went on. He listened, not breathing, as the man who was now his partner went into precise detail of the great delight he would have in slowly killing his enemies. I was right. He was interrogated by Russians, or at least the interrogation was instigated or supervised by Russians. Illya tried to pull together all the half-truths and rumors he had heard of the Soviet involvement in the Korean War, the double-talk and the lies. The voices continued, new voices he didn't know. That he didn't want to know. Could Napoleon really feel that way beneath his cool exterior? Had he just learned to hide it? All that hate... Illya felt like he was drowning in it.

  He tried to catch his breath as he drifted, the gag they had replaced cutting into the side of his mouth.

  He shifted, trying to move away, then moaned before he was aware of it, the sound shaking him back into wakefulness. He wanted to stay awake, knew he should stay awake with a concussion, but it was a losing battle.

  A blanket was finally tossed over him, the young guard's uncomfortable guilty conscience working in the U.N.C.L.E. agent's favor.

  When the tape finally ran out, the second man––Clay?––turned it off; both guards content to leave Illya shivering in fevered dreams while they watched a movie on the television. Illya awoke once, but the movie had ended and after a few feeble attempts to move, he gave up and sank back into the pain and the darkness.

  It was still dark when he was suddenly yanked upright and deposited on a chair. His head reeled with the unexpected movement; he couldn't breathe. His eyes wouldn't focus, rolling back behind his eyelids. The hood of the lamp was taken off and the base held in front so the bulb shone directly into his eyes, effectively blinding him.

  "Listen to me, Mr. KGB agent. I just had a nightcap with your partner." Carter's voice was low, the intoxication evident even without the odor. But the hand gripping the light didn't waver. Neither did the hand wrapped in Illya's hair, holding his head in place.

  "He's here, in the hotel, you know. So close, and yet so far, nyet? I could let you talk to him on the phone, if you want. Would you like that? I could let you. Are you ready to talk to him?" The soft coaxing tone was almost mesmerizing as it repeated the question over and over.

  "Does the light hurt your eyes? That's really too bad. I was there, you know. I saw what happened to Tommy. Did your partner ever mention Tommy? Did you know what they did to him? How they hurt him? I saw it," the voice purred in his ear. "Solo remembers. Your feet are beginning to look like Tommy's now. I'm trying to remember if it was his left leg or his right leg that was broken. I want to be authentic. Maybe Lee can tell me. We're going golfing tomorrow. He's not playing, of course. His arm is sore. Bob Laurier and I are teaming against Kelly Robinson and Karl Opperdorff. Then we're having dinner at the country club. So chummy. Are you hungry, Russkie? U.N.C.L.E. agents get hungry, nyet?"

  The grip tightened, pulling his hair, and Illya's head felt ready to explode. His eyes burned, his neck ached from the angle Carter had it arched in. The voice continued, repeating its questions. "When it time, you will tell him to bring me the scepter and this will all be over. I will get the scepter. It belongs to me. I have a buyer for it and I must have it. My buyer, you see, will not be happy if I don't present it soon. He gave me the money in January and he is very impatient. So, if you won't tell me, I'll have to go ask Napoleon. His arm is hurting him tonight––he said so." The threat was left hanging.

  Illya listened carefully, trying not to move, trying to remain conscious. His body had staved off shock thus far, but he had no guarantee how long his strength would last, or what Carter had in mind next. The man was not a trained interrogator. He was desperate, though, and he knew what he wanted, determined to get the scepter, no matter what the cost. Carter's very life probably depended on it. But it was hard to predict what he would do next. It was hard to concentrate... So hard...

  A searing pain jolted the Russian upward. The light had been placed on the floor and his bound arms were being pulled upward behind his back. He had passed out. The voice was back and, while no louder, was insistent. The same questions. Illya could feel the intense pressure at his shoulders, the hint of tearing at the muscles. It was simple, but it was effective. His bruised or cracked ribs sent sharp stabs of pain through his chest each time he tried to take a breath through the suffocating gag.

  Then it was over. Carter was gone. He could hear the man washing his hands in the bathroom. Another set of hands clumsily lifted him from the chair and settled him on the bed. Then Carter was talking with the guard, calmly giving instructions on where he could be reached, his words only slightly slurred from the alcohol. The door opened and closed and Illya gave way to the blackness again.

  *****

  Saturday, May 8

  Napoleon Solo lit another cigarette and glanced around the restaurant, catching and holding Kelly's eyes for a moment. The afternoon so far had been a waste of time in his opinion. The golf game had been primarily a social time. They had learned nothing.

&
nbsp; Jud Carter nodded his satisfaction at the dinner wine, then motioned for the steward to fill the glasses of the others gathered around the table. When the last goblet was filled, he raised his glass in toast, his movement copied by the five men.

  "To Alan Morgan. May he rest in peace," Laurier murmured.

  "To Alan," Solo responded, with the rest. He studied the others over the rim of his glass. In all likelihood, one of them had sent the telegram about Tommy. Kelly had agreed with him when he had shown him the terse message; of all the men at the reunion, only these had been at the same POW holding area and had known who Tommy was. Unfortunately, each of the names Solo had called into the New York office had come up clean. There was still no answer from Illya, but there could be several reasons for that. None that made any sense or were very reassuring. It wasn't like his partner to neglect to change the frequency of his transceiver if he had gone to DC or elsewhere. And an experiment only lasted so long. Maybe Illya was working on modifications; he had been itching to take the transceiver apart and work on it. But he would have used the labs at Headquarters for an experiment or to do electronics.

  The same voice that had proclaimed "It's a lie. It's a lie. It's a lie," the day before, now chanted, Not again. Not again. Not again. Between the alcohol, the uneasiness, and the lack of sleep, Napoleon knew his nerves were stretching thin.

  It was happening again. He swore it would never happen again. He would never get close enough to another agent to let it affect him, not after what happened with Jim.

  Hank Daniels, a senior agent and Solo's first partner with U.N.C.L.E., had warned him to keep at arms' length from his associates. Never ask personal questions, never ask how a weekend went, never offer information on how your weekend went. And when Hank had died, Napoleon had felt nothing. He had been surprised to find out at the funeral that Hank had been married, had two children, and collected baseball caps.

  Jim Brown had come next, and they had hit the streets together, two young cougars on the prowl for action. They had been an explosion destined to blow up, but they had accomplished a lot in their few years of partnership. But the tension had been there, the competition. They were too much alike. They were always together. It was a case of overkill. Of the boundaries blurring until one day Jim acted on his own and disobeyed an order. And died.

  And then no one. Not for a year. Waverly had let him break the rules and work alone as section chief, as though the old man were waiting for something. Or someone. Maybe he had been. Waverly seldom did anything spur of the moment.

  Illya Kuryakin had come from nowhere, it seemed. Fully trained. Capable. They didn't blend, they fit. It had worked well with Illya from the first. Napoleon had kept a professional distance, and Illya stayed on his side of the line, did as he was told, and made no effort to crowd him or compete with him. It was easy being with the younger agent, smiling or joking if he wanted to, teasing or ignoring him as it suited his fancy. Napoleon Solo was in control of the partnership and Illya seemed to want it that way, taking nothing for himself. Illya had learned how to be with him: occasional forays into sarcasm and wit, light banter to ease a tense moment, and a remarkable intelligence and range of abilities placed solely at his disposal. Even with all the turmoil in the Russian's life over the past year, Illya had rarely asked for help, never pressured him with his problems.

  Yet, somewhere along the line, he had begun to care. Illya had disappeared and Napoleon found a part of himself gone. For whatever reasons, call it friendship or partnership or ownership, he was angry––furious––that Illya had been taken. And furious that he had let it affect him. It was too dangerous. It made him vulnerable. And it made Illya vulnerable, a hostage that could potentially be used against him.

  And now Illya was missing again.

  McGuire had been making the rounds that morning, knocking on doors, trying to generate some interest in his "Morgan was murdered by the U.S. Government" theory. Napoleon was certain the colonel had not located or apprehended Illya yet, which made his partner's disappearance doubly confusing. And brought him back to the second telegram.

  As the glasses were returned to the table, Solo tried to spur on the conversation. "In all honesty, I will miss Alan Morgan."

  "As will we all," Bob Laurier put it. "He was a great man."

  Robinson smiled, but his eyes remained cold as they glanced around the Atlanta Golf and Country Club's private restaurant. "So, why did you decide on this reunion, Bob?" he asked, fishing a cigarette pack out of his jacket pocket The only tie Kelly had brought with him was the gray one from his uniform and it looked strange with the dark suit coat. And yellow shirt.

  Laurier shrugged, "I didn't hear about Alan's death until mid-March. As a tax accountant, I didn't have much time to phone around and see what had already been done."

  "When did McGuire become involved?" Solo's attention focused on Laurier, but his peripheral vision now monitored Opperdorff. "Did you call him?"

  Laurier shook his head. "No. Now who called him? You, Karl?"

  Opperdorff shrugged. "You called me. I called Jud and Dick." He indicated Carter and Powhatan. "Nothing like having a Private Eye rustle up some addresses for you. For free," he said, as an aside to the others.

  Grinning, Powhatan reached for his glass and drained it. "Wait till you get my bill. I sent Jud, Karl, and Bob my list of addresses, and we divided it in four. Each of us was then responsible to contact twenty names on the list and convince you guys that this would be a great reunion." He nodded as the steward refilled his glass. "Other than that little scene in Tomahawk's room last night, I've had a great time."

  Robinson laughed. "It was pretty wild. What do you think, Karl? Does the Hawk's theory pan out?" He leaned back, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air, his eyes briefly connecting with Solo's. They had agreed he would try and ask some leading questions, being an "uninvolved" party.

  Opperdorff stroked his mustache, looking up at each man individually. "I find it a mite unlikely. I looked into it a bit when I first heard his theory a week ago, and I couldn't find anything that Alan Morgan was doing that would possibly interest the U.S. government. I think they stuck him in that post and forgot about him."

  "Typical," Carter agreed, sipping at his wine.

  "What about you, Jud?" Robinson's direct gaze burrowed into the dark-haired man's brown eyes. "Do you think Morgan was a loser?"

  "I think," Carter said after a moment's reflection, "that I maybe didn't know the man as well as I thought."

  "My sentiments exactly," Powhatan asserted. "I was glad to see so many out at the service. I didn't shed any tears over Morgan, but I found a lump in my throat thinking about what happened back then. I'd forgotten a lot of it. Kept thinking about Philip Koch and how he didn't make it out with us. Same as your friend, Lee. What was his name? Tommy? Timmy? Something like that."

  "Tommy." Napoleon couldn't bring himself to look at them, the memory overwhelmingly clear. His hand clutched the wine goblet, the dark burgundy sliding down his suddenly dry throat.

  Carter leaned over with the wine bottle and refilled their glasses. "A toast, then, for Philip Koch and Tommy," he said, softly. "God have mercy on their souls."

  Six glasses clinked one against the other, sounding like the dampened clanging of a church bell.

  *****

  Carter glanced at the huddled figure on the bed, noting the sheen of sweat over the bare chest and arms. "Freddy, pull that blanket over his shoulders. Make sure he's covered up. If we can't keep him alive, he's no good to us. Between the gag and his arms drawn back like that, he can hardly breathe." He held up two photographs. "You remember what to do with these, Sty?" he asked, smiling widely.

  The man he spoke to, Sty Jackson, was tall, his hair a deep wavy brown, balding on the crown of his head, his eyes showing intelligence and a false ease that made him dangerous. He had been the one behind the abduction, the one who had made sure Illya was taken from the car to use a rest room, and the one who had made the arrangements
for the service elevator at the hotel. When Carter spoke with him, his tone changed, no longer condescending or peremptory. Jackson was his assistant, but he was more than that; he was a trusted confidant. And they were related somehow.

  Jackson nodded curtly, "While you're in the bar tonight, Clay puts the pictures under Solo's door, drops a second set at the front desk, then he leaves the hotel and gets lost until tomorrow."

  "Good. Freddy, you'll stay here and keep an eye on our shivery guest. Sty, what about you?"

  "I'm going back to my hotel down the street and get some shut-eye. Where will you be if I want to contact you later?"

  "I'll stay in the bar until eleven, for appearances, and so I can see Solo's face. Then I'll be in my room. I think I'll turn in early; tomorrow will be busy. I'll stop by here later and see how everything is. Freddy, the Commie's all yours." With a flourish and a satisfied smile, he left.

  *****

  Not now, Kelly.

  Solo pulled Robinson from a potential fight and knocked him into a chair at a suddenly unoccupied table. The other man, part of the group who had been in McGuire's room and one of the few who was becoming caught up in the government plot speculation, was dragged to the far end of the busy establishment by several patrons and was leaning against the counter, eyeing Kelly and swearing.

  "What happened?" Solo asked, tightly, his knees buckling to drop him into a chair. For a moment, they were in Korea, in Seoul, at the International Club, and Robinson was once again the hot-tempered brash soldier he had been then. Just for a moment. Then Solo blinked and the world almost righted itself.

  Robinson cursed and fussed for several moments before he calmed down and waved the incident off. "Nothing happened. Nerves are just a little tense around here. Hawk McGuire's off his rocker. He's getting the fringe element all worked up."

  "Has Scotty arrived yet?"

  Robinson shook his head, taking a swig of the beer that had immediately appeared on the table. "Nab, but he's got to be here soon. I left a note for him to call down."