By Bill Koenig
One
November 11
Hotel Pristina,
Pristina, Kosovo
The soup wasn’t much more than gruel while the beef was stringy, better for binding things than for eating. Yet, Illya Kuryakin didn’t mind, slowly but methodically consuming everything on his plate. He had learned long ago not to waste a morsel, no matter how indifferent the taste. The coffee, at least, was hot and satisfying, helping to wash out the aftertaste of the meal.
The hotel’s restaurant was dimly lit, but that had not produced the warm, intimate feeling usually associated with such scenes. This was a darkness full of fear and uncertainty. The restaurant’s mood matched the surrounding city. Nearly every passerby walked with his or her head down, afraid to peer beyond the immediate, afraid to face the impending catastrophe that surely awaited.
Kuryakin put the coffee down. It was best not to think of such things. Such thoughts served only to distract from the task that lay ahead. He glanced around once more. There were no more than a half dozen customers in the eatery, all of them keeping to themselves trying to avoid unwelcome attention.
The Russian sighed. The Balkans were like that. He had been to the region on numerous occasions. Something about this section of Europe seemed to inspire conspiracy and intimidation. Governments may change, but the mood did not. It did not matter whether one was in Albania, or Bulgaria or Terbuf, or, as he was this evening, in Kosovo.
Kuryakin finished the coffee and thought once more of the events of a few days previous which had brought him to this cold, unforgiving place.
***
“You’re familiar with Frommage, the Thrush assassin, Mr. Kuryakin?”
Alexander Waverly, the Number One of Section One, had bore in on Kuryakin from the very beginning of the conference. Not that Waverly was one for sentiment. But there had not been the usually brief formalities.
“Yes sir,” Kuryakin replied. “Unusually proficient, even by Thrush standards. Extremely deadly. Believed responsible for at least 50 kills, including a number of agents from various intelligence services.”
“Precisely,” Waverly said. “Also, extremely hard to find. For someone so notorious, he is extremely adept at keeping his movements a secret. Until now, that is.”
Kuryakin wasn’t surprised by the last statement. He had a feeling that Frommage must have turned up. Why else would the old fox call him into this meeting?
“I see.”
“You’re aware of the current situation in the Balkans?”
“Serbian forces have been fighting a separatist movement in Kosovo, one of their provinces. Or at least the dispute is whether it should be one of their provinces. Part of an old feud, going back centuries.”
“Mr. Frommage is in the middle of it.”
Kuryakin shifted in his seat. “In what capacity?”
“We’re not quite sure. But he has been seen in the company of the Serbs and the separatists.”
Kuryakin calmly searched his memory. It was a familiar Thrush strategy, almost monotonous. The criminal organization was fond of playing two sides against one another, hoping to turn a situation to its advantage. How many lives had ended or been afflicted over the years by the great bird of prey?
“I take it we have confirmation of this.”
“Of his movements, yes. But we need to find out more about what he is doing. If possible, put an end to it. He has been sighted in Pristina, Kosovo. We believe he is still there. Unfortunately, the details are all a bit sketchy,” Waverly said, turning the round conference table so that a file was now in front of the Russian agent. “Nevertheless, we must move quickly. You should leave tonight.”
“Of course, sir,” Kuryakin said, beginning to rise.
“One more thing,” the U.N.C.L.E. chief said. “That region is quite unstable. Things may get a bit nasty. Be on your guard.”
Kuryakin said nothing, only nodding before leaving through the automatic sliding door.
***
The Russian pondered whether to request another cup of coffee but thought better of it. Over the past few days, he had been close to Frommage, catching a glimpse of the assassin at a bazaar. The skinny face, pencil-thin mustache and ruddy complexion matched the dossier picture. But the man had slipped away before Kuryakin could reach him. Since then, the agent had made contact with a variety of slimy characters, the kind who knew where to find vices of all kinds. Nothing.
Before he could rise, the U.N.C.L.E. agent froze for a moment. Erik Frommage entered the restaurant of Kuryakin’s own hotel.
***
November 11
John F. Kennedy International Airport
Napoleon Solo downed the Scotch in a couple of gulps, put the glass down and then looked at his watch again. At least another 15 minutes before the aircraft would start boarding. It was as if time were hardly moving, making him feel trapped.
He had been in a foul mood for weeks, keeping to himself. A few days ago, at the U.N.C.L.E. commissary, George Dennell and Mandy Stevenson asked him if he wanted to join them at their table, but he had waved them off without a word.
“What do you suppose that’s all about?” George said to Mandy. “Guess he’s mad at me about something.”
Mandy, though, saw something different in Solo’s expression. “No, George. That’s not it. But I’m not sure what it is, myself.”
Solo grunted at the memory. They probably didn’t think he had heard them. But he didn’t particularly feel like setting the record straight, either. Even if he had, it wasn’t as if George or Mandy could do anything about it.
It had begun nearly a month earlier, when he realized the anniversary was coming up. One year ago, Clara Richards had died. He had been with her at the end, after the multiple sclerosis had ravaged her body. Of course, he had never really gotten over her, and receiving the summons she was about to die cut into feelings he had tried to keep buried.
Solo looked at the glass for a moment and thought about ordering another drink but decided against it. He then put the glass aside.
When Solo had realized it had been almost a year since Clara’s death, he hurriedly put in for a vacation. Lisa Rogers, Alexander Waverly’s secretary, had hinted Solo might need to change his plans. But the subject never came up again, though Solo noted that Illya had left on an assignment on his own. Had the old fox known? Or was the job something that only needed one man?
None of that mattered now. He glanced at his watch again and began walking toward the gate.
***
November 10
Somewhere in Belgrade, Serbia
When the man finally screamed, his yell reverberated throughout the cell. One long cry bounced around the walls, fading as it echoed. Then, he fell silent, his sobbing the only thing audible.
The questioner withdrew the hot rod from the prisoner’s bare chest, which was red and black from the constant application of burning metal. The prisoner sat in a chair, his arms tied behind him. The interrogator looked to his superior, Colonel Kapstan Milovanich. The officer, however, remained impassive, saying nothing and only reaching for cigarette. It had been a long, hard three days. He had wondered if the man would break, but never let that doubt show on his impassive face.
Milovanich held the cigarette for a moment, gazing upon the prisoner. He waited, then slowly put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it.
“Once again,” the Serbian officer said quietly, “the meeting. We know it is tomorrow. Where?”
The prisoner drew a breath between sobs. “Pristina.”
“Who is representing the separatist?”
The prisoner’s cries intensified for a moment.
“You are broken. You know it.”
“Benedetto.”
Milovanich arched his eyebrows for a second. “The separatist leader himself? He risks coming out into the open? I know your side is desperate for weapons...”
“These weapons are especially powerful,” the prisoner said, starting to regain his composure.
“Who is this supplier?”
“I do not know -- honestly. A name I am not familiar with. He referred to the name, Thrush or some such.”
Milovanich looked at the questioner, who shrugged. Milovanich, though, knew the name. He himself had bought some weapons from a Thrush representative, a slimy man.
“Could the man’s name have been Frommage?”
“Fro--? I suppose. That sounds right.”
The colonel turned away and paced for a minute, then two. A double game, eh? he thought. Milovanich knew the man was untrustworthy -- arms dealing is hardly a business where trust is involved -- but he had come across evidence of the man’s affiliation with Thrush. The reports were all very murky, talk about some kind of long-standing organization. But he put those thoughts aside. Crushing these separatist bastards must be my top aim.
Milovanich looked at the prisoner once more. “One more question,” he said. “The time and the place.”
The prisoner took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. “Hotel Pristina, around nine o’clock tomorrow evening.”
The colonel took a deep drag from his cigarette, then dropped it on the floor and crushed it with his booted foot. “In that event, there is only one more thing to do.”
Milovanich reached for the belt holster and, in one swift motion, extracted the semi-automatic pistol and fired three shots into the prisoner’s head. The interrogator jumped back, his face turning pale.
“Clean up this mess,” Milovanich said as he replaced the gun in his holster. Without a glance in the direction of the corpse, he turned and left the cell.
***
November 11
Pristina, Kosovo
Illya Kuryakin looked down but kept a watch on Frommage with his peripheral vision. The Thrushman sat down at a table and motioned to a waitress, fidgeting in his seat as he did so. He exuded a sense of entitlement, he wanted something and he wanted it now.
Kuryakin looked into his coffee. All of his searching and his target walked here, no more than 30 feet away. His mind raced as he saw a waitress approach Frommage. The Thrushman spat out his order. As the waitress left, Frommage got up and went in the direction of the rest room.
The Russian threw down a handful of notes to pay for his own meal and walked briskly out of the restaurant. It was a short distance to the dank lobby and registration desk. There, a heavy, oily looking man tended to business.
“Pardon me,” Kuryakin said. “A fellow may have checked in a short while ago, about this tall,” he gestured, indicating the man was a few taller than himself, “a bit of a pink complexion, a very thin mustache.”
“Yes, he is a guest. What of it?”
Kuryakin frowned and withdrew a couple of notes. “He is a colleague. He is a bit late for a meeting. I just needed to give him some material. Personally.”
The clerk took the notes. “I can give them to him.”
Kuryakin took out more currency. “Personally, remember?”
The clerk looked at the notes, licked his lips, then took the money. “Room 206.”
A few minutes later, Kuryakin was outside Frommage’s room. The hotel was old and hadn’t updated its room locks. As a result, Kuryakin picked the lock with relative ease and slipped into the room. It was much as his own, the same size, with the same lack of luxuries. He looked around. A suitcase was on the bed, laying open. The man had not yet unpacked. Kuryakin took a quick look, not expecting anything. Thus, he wasn’t disappointed when all he found were a few shirts, socks and an extra pair of trousers. Scanning around, he spotted a case, larger than a briefcase, not as big as a trunk.
Kuryakin hefted it up to the bed, laying it next to the suitcase. He examined the electronic lock. The agent reached into his suitcoat pocket and took out a small, rectangular object. It had a small stud, which he inserted into the lock. The device hummed for a second, followed by a click as the lock gave way.
Illya opened the case. The interior was divided into compartments. Inside the largest was a rifle, evidently a modified version of the Thrush rifle. Other compartments held raw plastique explosive as well as a large, semi-automatic pistol. With the pistol, there were cartridges and Kuryakin picked up one of them. He recognized the design from U.N.C.L.E. briefing papers. This particular cartridge exploded upon striking a target.
“A sample case,” Kuryakin whispered to himself.
It all made sense, of course. And it fit a familiar pattern of Thrush, poised like another type of bird, ready to swoop in to devour the remains. In a country rife with conflict, Frommage was selling weapons. He would catch the eye of one side with offerings of sophisticated weapons that would surely give the client an advantage over the other side. And, most likely, Frommage would then go to the other side and make similar sales -- while perhaps executing a killing or two along the way.
Kuryakin carefully replaced the cartridge in the compartment with the pistol, then closed and put the case back where he had found it. The agent double checked and made sure nothing appeared to be disturbed. He then left quietly, and headed down the hallway.
A few seconds later, Frommage walked up to his room door. Looking in the direction Kuryakin had headed, the Thrushman smiled.
***
Two
November 12
Outside of Pristina, Kosovo
Colonel Kapstan Milovanich walked into the mobile command center, which was a little more than a large tent. He strode confidently to the communications console, where an officer was sitting, watching him approach. Milovanich had a fearsome reputation, cruel to his men and his enemies. The communications officer looked outwardly calm but was furiously rubbing the forefinger and thumb of his right hand.
“Are the tanks in position?” Milovanich asked.
“Yes, sir. The planes are ready to take off.”
“Send them into the air,” the colonel said, looking at his watch. “Action commences exactly one-half hour from now.”
***
Kuryakin came down for breakfast, still pondering what to do about Frommage. The situation was too delicate -- the rising tensions between the Serbs and the separatists had already led to isolated skirmishes -- to move rashly. But quick action was needed, judging by the contents of Frommage’s sample case. The agent decided he could use another set of eyes and one person had already demonstrated his willingness to respond to monetary incentives.
The clerk sat at the desk, a bored expression on his face. Kuryakin reached for his money clip, ready to provide the incentive.
“Excuse me, my friend, I--”
The glassy eyes caused Kuryakin to stop in mid-sentence.
The Russian looked around, then stepped behind the desk. The corpse still retained body heat.
“One shouldn’t rely too much on greedy vermin, my friend.”
Kuryakin had never heard Frommage’s voice before. Yet, he had no doubt that was who it was as the explosion of pain started in the back of his head and enveloped him.
***
Everything was still black but a sound had awakened him. Then he felt the toes of his shoes rubbing on the wooded floor. Keeping his eyes shut, Kuryakin could feel he was being carried, one man on either side of him. Frommage had help. Not good news.
There was a pause, followed by the click of a key opening a lock.
“Tie him up. We will find out what he knows.”
Kuryakin’s mind struggled. The pain was intense and the room seemed to spin. He was lucky to even be conscious. But he needed to shake himself out his stupor. They were dragging him into the room -- probably Frommage’s room -- and he had only seconds to act.
Suddenly, the whole room shook from an explosion.
“What the hell?” It was another voice, not Frommage.
Kuryakin’s body jerked, as if he had stuck a finger into an electrical socket. He lashed out at the first he saw, which was a tall, beefy man. The thug, caught by surprise, was unprepared for the blow. Kuryakin then tripped the man, sending him to the floor. He leaned over and struck the man in the neck, rending him unconscious. Just then, the room shook again from another explosion, a closer one this time that shattered the room’s windows.
Illya stumbled as he tried to rise. He could see Frommage was also getting up.
The Thrushman reached inside his suitcoat for a gun. Kuryakin didn’t wait, launching himself into Frommage. He collided with the assassin, forcing the man to drop the pistol. Before Kuryakin could press his advantage, Frommage flipped him over. The Russian screamed as he landed on his shoulder.
The pain shot from the shoulder into Kuryakin’s torso. As he rolled over, he could feel his right arm hanging limp because of a separated shoulder. Illya’s vision began to cloud but he saw Frommage get up and start to rush him.
A third explosion, the closest yet, shook the room. Plaster and dust filled the air.
Frommage tripped and Kuryakin nearly lost his balance. The Thrushman fell awkwardly. Kuryakin could feel the pain engulfing him. Summoning all the force he could, Kuryakin used his good arm and struck a karate blow before Frommage could stand. The crack reverberated throughout the room, above the loud din of the noise outside.
Kuryakin stood for a moment, then his vision began to clear. Frommage’s eyes were wide open as was his mouth. The man was dead, a look of hate frozen onto his face.
The Russian took a deep breath. Outside, he could hear sirens and yelling. What was going on?
Before he could think any more, another explosion shook the hotel. The world turned black again as the ceiling came down.
***
Three
November 13
A cemetery in Terbuf
Petr Yellen approached the cemetery carefully. The Westerner in the overcoat was still there, having hardly moved from an hour or so earlier. The man just stared at the grave, his passive face betraying no emotion. He just stood there, rigid, gazing upon a tombstone.
Upon his arrival, the other gypsies had treated the man with courtesy and deference. Petr guessed the man was roughly twice as old as himself. The gypsy had heard stories for a day or so before about this man. Yet, the Westerner was not especially imposing. He was of average height, not especially muscular. Yet, the gypsies Petr knew held the man in high regard, something extremely unusual of an outsider.
The young gypsy looked over and saw Emil approach. The large man was the unquestioned leader of gypsies in this region of Terbuf, a gregarious man who always seemed to have time for everyone. Petr’s curiosity had seized him, he had to know more.
Petr began to walk toward Emil. The large man noticed immediately. “Ah, Petr. Is there some aid you require?”
“Emil,” the young gypsy said, nodding in the direction of the cemetery. “Who is that man?”
“Him? It is merely Mr. Solo.”
“But ever since he arrived, it is as if everyone I know has taken note of his arrival. What makes him so special?”
Emil laughed softly. “You are a young man, Petr. You do not recall the oppression of the old regime.”
“I have heard of it!” Petr protested. “We all have.”
“I am sure,” Emil replied. “But it was some years ago. He was one of those instrumental in the events that caused the fall of the old regime.”
“I thought the woman who died last year--”
“She was part of it. So was he and another outsider.”
“I still don’t understand.”
Emil took a deep breath. “That man and the woman who died last year. They were once quite close. Once, they were very much in love. He came here and helped her and in doing so spurred the downfall of the old regime. Then, when Clara Richards fell ill, he returned just before the end. That was one year ago. Obviously he has a need to come back. So he has.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“When you are older, you no doubt will. For the moment, however, I suggest we leave Mr. Solo alone with his thoughts. It is the least we can do.”
Petr began to speak in protest, but stifled the words. Instead, he slightly shrugged his shoulders and walked off with Emil.
***
November 13
Pristina, Kosovo
The Jeep zigzagged through the Pristina streets, skirting a pile of rubble here, circling around a collapsed building there. As it approached the central part of the city, the Jeep slowed down. The debris and rubble had gotten higher and higher. Finally, the Jeep stopped at a sentry’s signal.
Colonel Kapstan Milovanich didn’t wait for his driver before disembarking from the vehicle. A captain came up and saluted his commanding officer.
“Colonel, we were not expecting you.”
Milovanich returned the salute. “Quite all right, Captain. How did it go?”
“If the separatists were in this sector, they have gone.”
“What about that special target?”
“This way, sir.”
Milovanich’s driver caught up with the Colonel and walked behind the two officers. The group went a few blocks in silence before coming upon what was left of the Hotel Pristina.
“As you can see our artillery men were successful,” the Captain said. “We’ve set up a makeshift morgue this way.”
A few blocks away, the military officers entered what had been a large gymnasium. It was mostly intact, but inside the floor was covered with bodies. Several other people also lay on the floor, receiving only the most basic medical treatment.
“As you can see, very few survived,” the Captain said.
Milovanich didn’t respond, instead going up by himself to the nearest body and pulling away the blanket. After a quick glance, he tossed the blanket carelessly upon the corpse. He did the same with another four bodies. Then, after yanking the blanket off yet another corpse, Milovanich paused and exhaled. For just a second, the Colonel relaxed. The Captain tried to avoid staring until he saw Milovanich staring at the corpse intently. The only special thing the Captain noticed was the corpse’s pencil-thin mustache.
“What of this man?” Milovanich said.
The Captain moved closer to Milovanich. He pulled some papers from a pocket and began scanning them.
“Oh, yes. We found him in an upstairs room. He was underneath some rubble but that hadn’t killed him.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Preliminary report was a broken neck. More consistent with a blow of some kind. We found two other men, also buried. One died from asphyxiation, the other was still alive.”
Milovanich arched his eyebrows. “Where is the survivor?”
“Over there,” the Captain said, gesturing to the far end of the gymnasium, where the survivors were being tended to.
The Captain led Milovanich to a blonde man laying atop a blanket. His head was bandaged and his right shoulder was in a crude sling.
Milovanich squinted. This was not one of Frommage’s operatives, certainly not one of the ones he had encountered while buying weapons from Frommage.
“Who is he? What was he doing there?” Milovanich said.
“Illya Kuryakin,” the Captain responded. “Some sort of business man, apparently works out of New York City, according to the papers we found. Do you recognize him?”
“Not at all,” Milovanich said. “Captain, this is classified above your level, but suffice to say there are some individuals who are not what they appear.”
The blonde man’s head turned and groaned, but he remained unconscious.
“Who is in charge here?” Milovanich said.
The Captain began to look around. Just then, a physician approached.
“Who are you?” the Colonel asked.
“I am Dr. Frankovich, I volunteered when the Captain here was looking for additional medical help.”
“That man,” Milovanich said, pointing toward Kuryakin, “when can he be interrogated?”
“It is out of the question, at least immediately,” Frankovich said, his voice rising. “A concussion, one separated shoulder. He drifts in and out of consciousness.”
“Doctor, this is a matter of extreme security to the state.”
“And, Colonel, I’m saying an interrogation will be fruitless with the man in his current condition.”
The physician flinched but Milovanich could tell his feelings were genuine.
“All right. We shall delay for 24 hours. But that is all.” With that, Milovanich turned away and motioned for the Captain to follow him.
“Is there any other assistance you require?”
“One more thing,” Milovanich said. “I require some, eh, company.”
“I do not understand.”
“Captain, I can not believe you obtained your present rank by being dense. I require a certain type of woman -- tall, brunette, thin. I would imagine there is an appropriate bordello, even with all the shelling of the past 24 hours.”
The Captain’s mouth went dry. He merely nodded and followed Milovanich out of the gymnasium.
***
November 14
U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, New York City
Lisa Rogers hurried to Alexander Waverly’s office. She had been the old fox’s secretary long enough to differentiate the urgent summons from the routine one. It was only a slight inflection in the voice but Lisa knew something was troubling the Number One of Section One.
The sliding doors opened. Waverly stood at the solitary window, looking out at the New York skyline. He seemed in a world all his own.
“Sir?”
Waverly slowly turned around from the window. “Oh, Miss Rogers. Could you please take down a memo please?”
“Of course sir,” Lisa said, flipping open a notepad and getting ready to write.
“This is to be addressed to all Section One regional office heads and station chiefs,” Waverly began. “Ladies and gentlemen. Agent Kuryakin still missing in Kosovo. No communications. Within 48 hours, I would appreciate your recommendations for possible replacement if the worst should come to pass. Efficiency of Enforcement Section must supersede regret over loss of life. Only the highest level of individuals can be considered.”
Lisa dropped her pen.
“Miss Rogers, did you get all that?”
“Uh, yes sir, of course,” Lisa said, bending her knees to pick up the pen.
“Get that out immediately.”
“Yes sir.” Lisa stood for a moment.
“Is there something else, Miss Rogers?”
Lisa shook her head no and headed out the sliding doors.
***
Somewhere in Terbuf
Napoleon Solo felt he had slept the sleep of the dead. It was the kind of sleep where waking up is a struggle, requiring will power and patience. He felt as if he were at the bottom of a deep, black pool. Finally, he felt himself gradually rising to the surface and his eyes opened. He drew a deep breath and pulled off the sheet.
For the first time in two weeks, Solo felt alive. The impending anniversary of Clara Richards’ death had battered him unexpectedly. Just knowing the anniversary was approaching had consumed his thoughts. Now, having come back to Terbuf and visited the grave site, he felt an obligation had been met. It didn’t mean he would forget Clara or what had happened. But he again pulled himself back into the land of the living.
He bathed and shaved and felt a renewed sense of vigor. Upon dressing, Solo began to think about the journey home.
A half hour later, Solo entered the Cafe Flora. He saw Emil was already there, sitting at a table by himself.
The agent approached the big gypsy. “Emil, I just wanted to thank you--”
Solo paused. He could tell Emil was distracted.
“Huh? Oh, Mr. Solo.”
“Something wrong, Emil?”
“No. At least nothing that concerns you.”
Solo pulled up a seat. “Well, after the help you extended, perhaps I can be of assistance.”
“I doubt it,” Emil replied. “Some gypsies I know are in trouble with the authorities in Kosovo. They have been taken into custody.”
“Kosovo? That’s part of Yugoslavia, isn’t it? There’s been a lot of trouble there recently.”
“Correct. An area where there has been much trouble over the years. The fighting between the government and the separatists has gotten worse in recent days.”
“How are the gypsies involved?”
“Our people have never fit very easily within the various groups. Any conflict amongst the various ethnic bodies becomes an excuse to persecute gypsies.”
Solo sighed. He felt helpless. The agent was used to identifying specific enemies and dealing with them. While Thrush was a massive conspiracy, he could focus in on specific operatives and leaders. But persecution hundreds of years old -- that was a faceless evil, that went beyond individuals.
Emil continued. “There is news that gypsies will be punished by the government. There are more rumors than fact, but the rumblings are not good.”
“There’s not much I can do at this stage,” Solo said. “But I do have access to other forms of information. Perhaps I can find out something.”
Emil perked up. “At this stage, knowing something would be better.”
Solo got up. “Let me see what I can do.”
***
U.N.C.L.E. Station, Vienna
Elizabeth Hunt studied the incoming data. The job was fairly routine, monitoring news accounts and other “unofficial” communications and preparing summaries for the station chief. There was the usual array of political stories from around Europe. Those would likely rate a few lines. Also, there were the usual mishaps and accidents. Those would be listed without much detail, unless Intelligence asked special attention be paid to specific events. On this November day, no such requests were pending.
The conflict in Kosovo would probably draw the lion’s share of attention, as it had the past few weeks. Elizabeth scanned various articles from leading newspapers, particularly looking for any stray bit of data or nuance that varied from conventional wisdom. She also fast forwarded through some video tape copies of any newscast in central Europe that might also stir some interest.
The U.N.C.L.E. woman had already studied some BBC video as well as an Austrian report on the civil war. Then, as she went through the German video, something caught her eye.
Elizabeth cursed under her breath that her German wasn’t as strong as it should be. She had trouble making out all of the rapidly spoken words. Something about video shot by free lance journalists who had just been expelled. But somehow the journalists had gotten into a jail.
She squinted and hit the pause button on the video.
After rewinding the tape, she put her reading glasses on and moved closer to the screen. A Serbian soldier was escorting a blonde man into the huge cell. His back was to the camera for most of the shot. But, at the last second, he twirled, and faced the camera just for a moment before the shot ended.
She hit the pause button again.
“It can’t be.”
Elizabeth moved away and began pecking away at a keyboard. On the screen the words “computer enhancement” appeared. The picture began to clear slowly.
Elizabeth moved her glasses down to the tip of her nose. Then, she resumed typing at the keyboard.
“Initiating Identification,” now appeared on the screen. The picture from Kosovo was scrunched to the left half of the screen. On the right, a series of facial images sped through rapidly. Finally one image appeared.
“Illya Nikovich Kuryakin. Number Two, Section Two, United Network Command for Law Enforcement. Probability of Identification: 78.5 percent.”
Elizabeth reached over the console to the nearest telephone. Suddenly, her routine job was anything but.
***
Napoleon Solo walked outside the Cafe Flora and, convinced no one was nearby, took the pen communicator from his pocket. For a moment, he thought about which U.N.C.L.E. office to call. It was still the middle of the night in New York, and only a skeleton staff would be available. Berlin was the nearest regional office. Rome was across the Adriatic, but if he radioed there, he might get patched into Ricardo Cavetti, the pompous station chief Solo detested. The stuffy bureaucrat would likely pick a fight than help out on an information request, especially if it weren’t entirely business. Vienna, on the other hand, was close enough to the Balkans it might have more specific information while Solo would avoid the Cavetti factor.
“Open Channel D,” Solo said softly into the communicator. “Solo here.”
“U.N.C.L.E. Vienna,” the woman communications officer said. “What is it you require, Mr. Solo? You are listed as being on leave.”
“I have an information request. It concerns the situation in Yugoslavia, Kosovo.”
“Kosovo? Why Kosovo?”
Solo squinted. “I’m dissatisfied with the quality of the newspapers here.”
“Pardon?”
“Never mind,” he replied, trying to avoid sounding testy. “I know things are getting hairy over there. I was wondering if foreign nationals had gotten caught up in that mess. In particular, if we had anything about gypsies, perhaps.”
“All sorts of foreign nationals. I-I, I better patch you into Mr. Hill, the station chief.”
Now what? Solo thought. Something strange was happening. The agent searched his memory Robert Hill was one of the younger station chiefs, a former enforcement agent. Solo hadn’t been to Vienna since Hill had taken over but had heard good reports from other enforcement agents.
“Mr. Solo? Napoleon? This is Robert Hill.”
“Mr. Hill? Is something wrong?”
“Please, call me Bob. Uh, actually I don’t think I’m supposed to be telling you this--”
“Telling me what? I thought I was making a routine request.”
“Yes. You wanted to know if foreign nationals had become involved in the Kosovo situation?”
“That’s right.”
“Quite a few. We think Illya Kuryakin is one of them...”
Solo shook his head for a moment. “Bob, what are you talking about?”
“I haven’t had a chance to make a full report to Mr. Waverly yet because of the time difference. But we’re pretty sure Illya is in custody, along with the separatists the Serbs have arrested.”
“Illya?”
“Napoleon, I’m taking a big chance telling you this much. We’re pretty sure he’s in the central jail complex in Pristina. The Serbs have been pretty indiscriminate. Chances are there are some gypsies in there, along with God knows who else. Listen, I can’t say anymore until I’ve consulted with Waverly. Hill out.”
Solo stared at the communicator as the connection went dead.
Four
U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters
New York
Alexander Waverly arrived for work early, as usual. It was cold that morning, a sign of the winter to come. It hadn’t snowed yet this season, but it was on its way, to be sure. Waverly shook off the thought. Like anyone of advancing years, it was too easy to compare this particular season to this stage of life. And Alexander Waverly told himself he had too much left to accomplish to think about such matters.
The U.N.C.L.E. chief entered his office through a rear entrance. He sat down on his desk and began paging through the overnight communiqués. It was the usual assortment of updates. A terrorist captured here, reports of renewed Mafia activity there, continued concern about the Russian Mafiya and its effects on the stability of the former Soviet Union. Waverly paused to stuff his pipe full of Isle of Dogs No. 22. The nature of the work rarely changed, only the faces.
Finally, the dispatch from Vienna caught his eye. Waverly scanned it quickly, reading every line, taking in every word. He puffed furiously for a few seconds, then looked at his watch.
“Please connect me with Mr. Hill in Vienna, please,” Waverly said as he flipped on the switch to the communications console. “As quickly as possible.”
***
Napoleon Solo looked for Emil as he re-entered the Cafe Flora. But the large gypsy was gone. The place was mostly empty, except for a thin, young gypsy -- Solo guessed he couldn’t be older than 22 -- sitting at table. Solo vaguely recalled seeing him around the village.
“I’m sorry, do you know Emil?”
“Everyone knows Emil, Mr. Solo. He told me to wait for you. He had urgent business. He told me to let you know he had received a confirmation of that matter you had discussed.”
Solo bit his lip for a second. “Did he say when he’d be back?”
“No.”
“What’s your name?”
“Petr.”
Solo looked around once more. “I need to charter a plane. Fast. The kind where the pilot doesn’t necessarily ask a lot of questions. Do you understand?”
“Oh yes,” Petr replied. “Emil, of course, knows more of those people than I. But there is the American woman.”
“American woman?”
“She sometimes, how do you say....”
“Provides commerce transportation -- unofficially, so to speak?”
Petr smiled. “Something like that.”
“That’s exactly what I need. Where do I find this woman?”
“When she is in Terbuf, she stays in the Hotel Nationale.”
Solo rubbed his chin for a second. “Hmmm. That’s my hotel. You say when she stays here?”
“She is always moving, but makes frequent visits. Frequently, she arrives late at night. It’s possible you may not have seen her.”
Solo sighed. Hardly the most promising prospect. “If she’s here, could you point her out to me?”
“Well, I suppose. Emil said to provide you any assistance until he returned.”
“Good, let’s go.”
***
The Hotel Nationale was a modest inn, a two-story structure. It had a small kitchen and cafe. Solo was starting to head toward the registration desk, but Petr split off and looked into the cafe.
“Mr. Solo,” Petr said, pointing toward the cafe.
Solo headed back and glanced in the direction where Petr pointed. There was only one person there, a tall brunette woman, a bit on the thin side. Her hair was up in a bun. She ate from a large salad while reading a magazine. Her clothes were plain, denim shirt and pants. But Solo sensed some kind of self assuredness. Her erect posture, her very casual manner as she ate. This was a woman who was very comfortable with who she was and what she did. Then again, if she regularly flew for smugglers, she probably had earned the right to be confident. It was potentially a rough business and if she were good, she had to be tough.
“Perhaps you could make an introduction, Petr.”
The young gypsy led Solo to the table. The woman continued to read and didn’t look up.
“Pardon me, Miss Hank?”
Solo looked at Petr. “Hank?”
Only then, did the woman look up from her magazine. “Hello, Petr,” she said, glancing up and down briefly at Solo. “Who’s your friend?”
“Uh, this is Mr. Solo, Miss Hank. He is a potential client. Mr. Solo, I need to get with Emil.”
“Thanks, Petr,” Solo said. As the gypsy walked off, Solo looked toward Hank. “May I join you?”
“I always have time for potential business, Mr. Solo. I take it you know Emil.”
“We’re old acquaintances,” Solo said as he sat down. “Forgive me for asking, but Hank?
“Henrietta Van Buskirk,” she said shaking hands with Solo. “My father wanted to name me after his father. When he got a girl, he did the best next thing. I go by Hank.”
“Ask a silly question,” Solo replied. “Here’s another: Could you fly me into Kosovo?”
Hank sat back in her seat. “Kosovo? The way things are going most people are going to want to get out of there! You want to go in?”
“I need to run an errand.”
“You’re pretty ambitious with your errands. The Serbs aren’t real nice folks, in case you haven’t been watching television or reading the papers.”
Solo reached into a fold inside his pocket and took out ten $100 bills. It was an emergency stash of money. He only hoped he could bluff his way through.
“I have access to more. Consider that a down payment.”
Hank eyed the bills laying on the table. “Just who do you work for, Mr. Solo?”
“Call me Napoleon.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Hardly,” the agent said. “I can get you more if you’re interested. One flight into Pristina, Kosovo. One flight out. If you need another reference, here’s one.” Solo took one of his Hargrove Trading Company business cards and placed it on top of the money.
“Trade consultant,” Hank said, reading from the card. “A little too cute.”
“I’ll take that into account next time I order a refill,” Solo said. “Do we have a deal?”
Just then, Solo could feel the vibrations from his pen communicator going off.
“Excuse me, I have to return a telephone call,” Solo said, taking five of the bills off the table. “Consider that,” he said, pointing to the five remaining bills, “a retainer for you to stay for a few minutes.”
Hank squinted at Solo but remained sitting. He then walked outside of the cafe and into the lobby, and toward an old fashioned telephone booth. He closed the booth door, then prepared the communicator to receive.
“Open Channel D,” Solo said.
“Prepare for a transmission from the office of the Number One of Section One.”
Solo’s mind raced. If it was Waverly, what would he want? Solo doubted Waverly would approve of what Solo was about to attempt. He began to think of ways to avoid directly disobeying an order.
Then, Lisa Rogers’s voice could be heard in the booth.
“Napoleon?”
It wasn’t Waverly. No order to disobey yet.
“Lisa, Solo here. I’ve been hearing some odd communications traffic. What’s up?”
“You don’t know?”
“Know
what?” Try and sound convincing.
“Napoleon....maybe you’d better sit down. Illya is missing.”
Solo covered the speaker with his hand. He thought for a second. React like you’re hearing it for the first time. “How long? Where?”
“He went to Kosovo. He was on the trail of Frommage.”
“The Thrush assassin?”
“The same,” Lisa replied.
“What happened?”
“The details are sketchy,” she said. “Frommage is dead, but we think he was killed in a fight. Had to be with Illya. but the hotel was shelled because of the fighting in the area. We haven’t heard from Illya.”
“Hmmmmmmmm,” Solo said.
Suddenly, there was a change on the other end. The agent sensed that Lisa was already thinking about what he might do.
“Mr. Solo?” she said.
Mr. Solo. Definitely assuming the official role now. “A moment ago it was Napoleon.”
“Mr. Solo, the situation in Kosovo is highly unstable. All foreign nationals are being urged to keep out.”
Well, you can’t disobey an order you never receive, Solo thought. “probably a sound thing to do,” he said. “Solo out.”
“Mr. Solo...”
He cut off the transmission, switched the communicator off and put the device back in his pocket.
***
Central Jail
Pristina, Kosovo
Illya Kuryakin tried to concentrate. Gradually the cell seemed to melt away. The voices of the other prisoners faded. The guards outside the cell disappeared into nothingness.
Kuryakin was surrounded by nothing but darkness. Relax. Let your body do its job....
Slowly, all too slowly, the pain began to recede. It went from a shooting pain to a dull throbbing to being simply sore. But the injury wasn’t going to be conquered that easily. He felt a sharp twinge and the shoulder began to throb again, although at least it wasn’t as bad as before.
The
Russian opened his eyes and breathed deeply. Be patient.
Suddenly, he noticed a boy standing, staring at the agent but not saying a word. Kuryakin guessed the child could not be much older than seven or eight. The boy’s eyes betrayed his curiosity.
“And who are you my friend?” Kuryakin said.
“Andre.”
“Andre! Leave that man alone!” said a woman with dark complexion. A gypsy woman, he thought, judging by her clothing.
“It is all right,” Kuryakin told her. “I meant no harm.”
The woman bent over and hugged Andre. “I am sorry, I it is just...”
“This is no place for proper introductions, I know,” Illya said, trying to reassure her. “That pendant you’re wearing is particularly handsome. I thought that style was more common to the tribes further south and west from here.”
The gypsy woman stared for a moment. “You are familiar with our ways?”
“I have known gypsies on occasion,” he replied. “Illya Kuryakin.”
“Kuryakin? A Russian?”
“Most of the time.”
“No, I mean, they tell stories...”
“Stories?”
“My name is Maria. Andre and I, we are from Terbuf. They tell stories of how a Russian and a Westerner helped the country, helped Emil.”
“Emil?” Kuryakin said. “You know Emil?”
“He is my father.”
Kuryakin thought back several years. The wily Emil, who commanded not only the loyalty of Terbuf’s gypsies but who also obtained some papers dangerous to those in power. Had it really been that long ago?
“I don’t recall Emil having a daughter.”
“He is, how do you say, not a conventional father figure.”
Kuryakin tried to suppress a grin. “No, I suppose not.”
“Mr. Kuryakin...”
“Please call me Illya.”
“Illya, what is going to happen to us?”
The Russian didn’t answer, instead he looked around the huge cell. There were dozens of people crowded in. Gypsies, Albanians, other foreigners of indeterminate origin.
“I’m not sure,” Kuryakin said coolly.
“I thought the Serbs were friendly with the Russians,” Maria said, her eyes darting. “Why are you in this cell?”
“Somehow, I do not think our captors have been terribly discreet in their work.” He dared say no more for fear of causing the woman to erupt into a panic.
***
Napoleon Solo returned to the table. Inwardly, he breathed a sigh of relief that Hank Van Buskirk was still there.
“Thought about it any more?” Solo said, as he sat back down.
“It’s going to cost you. I’d say $25,000 would be fair.”
“I’m in no position to argue,” Solo said, putting the other $100 bills back on the table. “A down payment. I’d give you more, except Terbuf doesn’t have many ATMs.”
“That’s all right,” Hank said as she arched her eyebrows. “I have the feeling this Hargrove Trading Company doesn’t exactly lack for funds.”
Only when the job is authorized, Solo thought. But he wasn’t going to tell her that. “How soon can you be ready?”
“If we’re gonna to sneak into Kosovo, we should probably fly in tonight. I don’t relish the thought, but I get the impression you don’t exactly want to announce your arrival.”
“Something like that,” Solo said. “When and where do we meet?”
“Front of the hotel, about six o’clock. I’ll take you to my plane. Pack light.”
“Always.”
***
Colonel Kapstan Milovanich walked into the office he had commandeered as a makeshift command post. It had been part of a small, three-story office building near the jail. Before he reached his desk, the Serb Captain acting as his aide knocked on the door.
“What is it now, Captain?” Milovanich said, not looking at the officer but instead looking at some papers on his desk.
“Sir, it is the man from the Red Cross. He has been quite persistent. Belgrade has also called. They want us to deal with the man.”
“The President wants us to cleanse Kosovo, but he forces me to deal with bureaucrats.” Milovanich grunted. “Very well, I’ll talk to this man.”
“Yes sir.”
Milovanich sat down at the desk. Belgrade, indeed, had many plans for the Kosovo region, the nature of which were only known at this point to a few senior officers. Crushing the separatists was only the beginning.
The phone rang, breaking Milovanich’s thoughts.
“Colonel Milovanich here.”
“Colonel, this is Allen Dean of the International Red Cross. I understand you’re in charge down there.”
“Where are you calling from Mr. Dean?”
“Belgrade. Your government wouldn’t permit me to travel to Kosovo.”
“It is for your own safety. These separatists are very deadly. They are known to traffic in very illegal weaponry. They are quite savage.”
“Colonel, I’m hearing some rumors that you’re planning something pretty deadly yourself.”
Milovanich reached for a cigarette and lit it.
“Colonel?” Dean said from Belgrade.
“Go on, Mr. Dean. I am fascinated.”
“There are some funny rumors you’re planning a big, public execution.”
“Interesting rumors,” Milovanich said.
“Are they true?” Dean’s voice now had an edge to it.
“You can put your mind at ease, Mr. Dean,” Milovanich said.
“I can?”
“Absolutely. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have many things that demand my attention.”
“All right, but I am still going to press to observe things myself.”
“We’ll see about getting you passage here in a few days. Good-bye, Mr. Dean.”
Milovanich hung up the telephone without waiting for a reply. “By that time, we should have all of the bodies disposed of,” the Colonel muttered to himself.
Five
U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, New York City
“Mr. Waverly, it’s Mr. Cavetti from Rome. Again, sir.”
“Tell him I’m busy -- again.”
Alexander Waverly emptied the leftover pipe tobacco into an ashtray. “On second thought, Miss Rogers, I’ll take the call.”
The intercom on Waverly’s desk buzzed. “Yes, Ricardo, what can I do for you?”
“Alex, is U.N.C.L.E. going to do anything about the Kosovo situation?”
“We’re going to exhibit patience for the moment, Ricardo.”
“We’re picking up information that madman Milovanich is planning some sort of large public execution in Pristina. We need to do something. You know as well as I that we can organize most of the Section Two and Three operatives in Europe on short notice.”
“U.N.C.L.E. does not routinely assault sovereign governments, Ricardo. If you have something more practical to add, I will be pleased to take it under advisement. Waverly out.”
The Number One of Section One banged his pipe once on the ashtray, then flipped another switch on the console. “Miss Rogers, the next time Mr. Cavetti calls, tell him to submit any ideas in writing.”
“Yes sir. Uh, sir.”
“Yes, Miss Rogers?”
“A call is coming in from Mr. Hill in Vienna.”
“I’ll take it.”
Waverly sighed. Section One officials in Europe had been deeply divided since the Kosovo situation had begun. Cavetti, in Rome, was the most vocal for intervention. Other field offices were more cautionary, but almost none of the station chiefs seemed to agree. The U.N.C.L.E. regional office in Berlin seemed unable to forge a consensus and had dumped the bloody mess in the New York office’s lap.
The intercom buzzed.
“Please be brief, Mr. Hill.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Waverly. I was wondering if you had heard from Nap, er Mr. Solo, yet.”
“No, why should we? The man is on leave.”
“Well, it’s just possible he might, well, try and assist Mr. Kuryakin, sir.”
“Why should he? That hasn’t become public knowledge. The footage you showed me was very brief, and we still don’t have 100 percent assurance that was Mr. Kuryakin.”
“Well, sir, it’s that...”
“It’s what, Mr. Hill?”
“I think Mr. Solo may have, uh, gotten wind of things, sir.”
“And how did that occur, Mr. Hill?”
“I’m not quite sure, sir,” the Vienna station chief replied. “But I think we should perhaps work on that assumption.”
Waverly didn’t have to hear any more. He thought Hill had the potential to be a fine administrator, but he still thought of himself, deep down, as still a member of the Enforcement section. The man would learn to take a more detached approach in time. Waverly had to be patient, but he was damn tempted to put the fear of God in him right now.
Instead, the U.N.C.L.E. chief took a deep breath. “Very well, Mr. Hill. Should Mr. Solo contact your station, inform him that he is to report back in New York promptly.”
“Yes sir.”
The connection went dead. Now, Waverly looked toward his door, and visualized Lisa Rogers sitting at her desk.
“Miss Rogers,” he said, activating a switch on the console.
“Yes sir?”
“Come in immediately, please.”
The brunette woman entered promptly. If she were nervous, she showed no sign of it.
“Miss Rogers, have we heard from Mr. Solo, by chance?”
“Mr. Solo, sir?”
“Yes, Miss Rogers. Dark-haired man. Average height. He carries the designation of Number One of our Enforcement Division. Or at least he did until today.”
“Well, sir...yes.”
“And, in what context was this communication?”
“Uh, it had to do with Mr. Kuryakin’s status.”
“Did he say anything about, say, attempting to enter Kosovo?”
“I gave him strict instructions that foreign nationals were supposed to stay clear of the region, sir.”
“And what was his response?”
“Something about that was a good idea.”
“You’re quite aware, Miss Rogers, that any communications you had with Mr. Solo are routinely recorded.”
“Yes, sir.”
Waverly sighed. “Very well, Miss Rogers. I’m sure Mr. Solo knows how to respond in an appropriate fashion.”
“Yes, sir,” Lisa said, trying to restrain a smile. She turned and then exited the office for her own desk.
Waverly thought about trying to contact Solo, but tabled the idea. No doubt he turned off the communicator, the U.N.C.L.E. chief thought. “One captured agent. One possible rogue agent. Meanwhile, U.N.C.L.E. squabbles,” Waverly said inside the now-empty office. “I must be getting sentimental.”
***
Somewhere in Terbuf
Napoleon Solo separated his belongings. The bulk of his clothes he put in his suitcase. However, he put one change of clothes -- including a turtleneck sweater and dark trousers -- into the carryon bag he had taken from New York. Into the latter he also stuffed spare magazines for the U.N.C.L.E. Special and a couple of other special assorted items. A few minutes later, he checked out of the hotel, arranging to have the suitcase sent ahead to New York.
He reasoned he’d need to travel light once inside Kosovo. In all likelihood, he’d probably end up dumping the suit and overcoat he was wearing today. He only hoped he’d survive to see the look of disapproval from Alexander Waverly when he tried to put the loss of the suit on his expense account. For that matter, if the tentative plan now taking shape worked, that might not be the only unusual item on the report....
As he left the hotel clerk, Solo spotted the young gypsy.
“Petr,” Solo said, “did you find Emil?”
“Yes, but he was quite busy with various matters.”
“I’m sure,” Solo said, reaching into the breast pocket of his suitcoat and extracting a small notebook and pen. He quickly wrote out a note. “Give this to him, will you?”
The gypsy scanned the paper. “I am not sure I understand. Perhaps you should...”
“I really have to shove off,” Solo said.
“But Emil--”
“Has been a very gracious host, and I am most thankful. Now I really must go. Good-bye.”
Solo turned without waiting for a response. He glanced at his watch. One minute until six.
Henrietta Van Buskirk sat in an old-style Jeep, bereft of any modern features. She glanced at Solo as he laid the carryon bag in the back. “I see you’re punctual,” she said.
The agent only nodded. Hank fired up the engine and the Jeep sped away into the evening.
***
They quickly found their way into the country. Solo had a vague recollection of the terrain. He had been here all those years ago, when Clara had summoned him to help Emil and get out evidence of the old government’s corruption. Somewhere along these roads was the army depot where he and Clara had been taken. If he had the time, Solo probably could have found it. But time was fleeting and the past he thought about was as dead as Clara was -- and as Illya could be if he couldn’t get him out.
How many times had they saved each other’s lives? Solo chuckled. They had taken turns almost from the beginning of that first mission. Well, after they stopped the squabbling amongst themselves. God, how man