Act I
"In Search of a Rat"
For Gen. Jack Shaughnessy, the last day at work seemed to be routine.
Today, Shaughnessy would yield his command at the North American Treaty Organization. But if Shaughnessy was feeling sentimental, he wasn't showing it. His military driver kept glancing back at his rear-view mirror but Shaughnessy kept reading his copy of the International Herald-Tribune. As the car traveled the narrow streets of Brussels, Shaughnessy just slowly scanned the pages of the thin newspaper.
The driver thought Shaughnessy was being very cool and detached. In reality, Shaughnessy was contemplating his future. Very influential people had approached the soon-to-be retired general about a political future. He certainly had the credentials, including a well-publicized command during the Gulf War. His posting at NATO headquarters was quite the cap to his thirty-two-year military career. And, now in his mid fifties, he was certainly still young enough to pursue elective office and could perhaps even afford to wait out the next election.
Shaughnessy began to size up his potential political competition and prospects. There would be no incumbent in the next presidential election, he thought. It looks like the current president is just muddling through his second term, no large agendas, no big ideas. The next election voters may be looking for someone with vision. It will be an adjustment from the military, but I'm not a one-dimensional man. I've got what it takes and the backers to make it happen.
What Shaughnessy didn't see, standing perhaps thirty feet away, was a tall, thin bearded man, casually dressed, who looked as if he were wearing a Sony Walkman. The man pushed the play button on the device as the general's car was passing over a manhole cover in the street. The explosion rocked the area. Pedestrians in the crowded area screamed and ran. All except for the thin man who calmly walked away.
A day later, in New York City, Napoleon Solo stepped into the reception area of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. He bent forward so an Asian woman could attach his security badge to the lapel of his dark blue suit.
"You'd better go straight to Mr. Waverly's office, Mr. Solo," the woman said. "He left precise instructions."
"He usually does," Solo said.
Solo could guess why his superior wanted to see him so quickly this morning. The terrorist killing of Gen. Jack Shaughnessy had been all over the television news programs. Not only was Shaughnessy a four-star U.S. general but it was believed he had a political future ahead of him, a latter-day Eisenhower. Solo had seen the excerpts of previous speeches. Shaughnessy had a mane of silver hair, distinguished looking but with a vital and energetic manner. Solo had further read The New York Times' coverage this morning. There were very few leads. Because Shaughnessy was the lead NATO military commander, Solo guessed the investigation already was turning into a bureaucratic morass. Was U.N.C.L.E. about to wade in?
Solo made his way to the office of Alexander Waverly, U.N.C.L.E.'s Number One of Section One, the lead policy-making body. As the automatic sliding door opened, Solo wasn't surprised to see his partner, Illya Kuryakin, already sitting at Waverly's round conference table.
"Sit down, Mr. Solo," Waverly said, dressed in his usual tweed suit. "I hope you haven't made any plans for the next few days."
Solo didn't respond immediately and sat down next to Kuryakin. "General Shaughnessy's killing?" Solo said after taking his place.
"Only indirectly," Waverly said. "What do you know of Le Main Noir?"
Solo frowned for a moment. "The Black Hand? Some kind of Nineteeth Century criminal organization, wasn't it?"
"I believe it operated all over Europe from the years 1859 to 1892," Kuryakin said. "It was relatively small but quite cohesive. There has been speculation that remnants of the group helped found Thrush. But that is only legend."
"Quite so, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said. "In any event, the Black Hand was put out of commission in 1892. U.N.C.L.E.-Paris has been developing information about a new Black Hand. That was before yesterday's assassination of the general. There are signs this new Black Hand was involved."
"How solid is this information?" Solo said.
"Reliable enough that I'm sending the both of you to Europe," Waverly said, as he flicked a switch on the console in front of him. A large screen descended from the ceiling. When it was in place, a man's picture appeared. He was Caucasian with dark brown hair and a bushy beard.
"This man appears to be the leader of the Black Hand," Waverly continued. "One Curtis Ditchman, one-time U.S. intelligence operative, fluent in several languages. Average looking, but with one distinguishing feature. His voice has a metallic whine to it. Quite unpleasant to listen to, I'm told. Also, the gentleman had a falling out with his former employer and went free lance a few years ago. As best as the Paris branch can make it out, Ditchman seems to have organized this new Black Hand. The group has been linked to various high-profile robberies. The Shaughnessy killing was their first known foray into assassination."
"Has the Black Hand been definitely linked to the general's killing?" Kuryakin asked.
"No," Waverly replied. "The formal investigation of the general's death, however, promises to be extremely complicated. Army intelligence, the C.I.A., N.A.T.O. as well as others are all seeking to stake their claim. It's my belief that our organization can be more effective addressing the root cause, as it were. Therefore, I am assigning you gentlemen to capture this Ditchman fellow and smash his apparatus. Other events will take care of themselves after that."
"Any suggestions how we accomplish that, sir?" Solo said.
"Please, Mr. Solo, you fellows are much too clever to be bothering me with the details of how you should do your jobs. We do have one general lead. As best as we can determine, the Black Hand seems to be operating somewhere in the Alps, probably in France, but near the Italian and Swiss borders. It's in the briefing papers," Waverly said, pointing to the folders in front of Solo and Kuryakin. "I'll leave it to you, Mr. Solo, as to when you leave but the sooner, the better."
"Well, he has given us more to go in the past, hasn't he," Kuryakin said, rubbing his eyes.
Both he and Solo were dressed in their shirt sleeves. Kuryakin had removed his black necktie after he and Solo began studying the dossier information.
"Yes, the Black Hand could have the decency to set up shop in Monaco or Nice," Solo said. "According to these papers, however, they are most likely in some French provinces near Geneva such as Haute-Savoie, Savoie or Hautes-Alpes. Or maybe none of the above. On top of that, there are very few pictures of Ditchman after he left the employ of the United States government. Not a lot to go on."
"So what is the plan? Stumble in?" Kuryakin said. "Please say no, those type operations can be a bit hard on my body."
"Well, Mr. Ditchman evidently must like his privacy. So, I say we with start with Savoie."
"Just what do we start with?"
"A couple of traveling tourists would be the simplest covers. In fact, I suggest we use one of the standard U.N.C.L.E. business covers like Hargrove Trading Company or Fields Consulting. The average hotel keeper wouldn't think twice about a man from Fields Securities but an experienced intelligence operative would be able to figure out the connection to U.N.C.L.E. pretty quickly."
"I was afraid you'd say something like that."
"I'm open to any alternative suggestions."
"Unfortunately, I don't have one at the moment."
Solo snapped his fingers. "Actually, I may have an alternative. I'm guessing we'll be keeping to the rural areas. This time of year, the mountains are lovely. Just the thing to inspire a painter. Especially an up and coming painter, one who's just about to break into the big time. An enigmatic Russian, perhaps."
Kuryakin rolled his eyes. "I think I liked the Hargrove Trading cover better."
"Ah, but a free spirit, a struggling artist might slip around into places that a businessman might not."
"Usually places where they hit you on the head first."
"Illya, you're not making this easy."
"This is usually the time you come up with some outlandish cover identity."
"Not this time. You simply go by your real name. An artist painting landscapes won't seem out of place to the residents of the area. In the meantime, I'll be a vacationing American businessman. We'll be able to cover more ground that way."
"I don't suppose it will do any good to protest."
"I am the lead enforcement agent, you know."
"I know," Kuryakin sighed. "Therefore, no protest."
"Good, now I'll make arrangements for a quick side trip to Paris."
"Wouldn't it be quicker flying to Geneva? We could draw whatever supplies we need from the U.N.C.L.E. office there," Kuryakin said.
"I'd like to check in with Philippe Raymond," Solo said, referring to the head of the U.N.C.L.E. station in Paris. "It was his men who developed the information about the Black Hand. He may be able to tell us something that's not in the briefing papers. It might be a small thing, but I'd like to have whatever information I can get."
The late June air was clear and warm, the snow was now only in the highest elevations. The village of L'Alpe des Resseaux was like the many hamlets that dotted the mountains. However, one blonde woman wasn't getting to enjoy the day. She walked down the street a bit hesitantly, as if looking for an address. The village's residents went about their business, shopping for groceries at the small shops or having breakfast at the tiny eatery. The woman, whose green dress ended just above the knee, paused. If only my French were better, she thought.
Then, coming down the narrow walkway was a priest. His very stride exuded some kind of confidence, like he was at ease with the world. Not only that, he was good looking. His white hair didn't make him seem old. He looked handsome, in a rough sort of way. His nose looked as if it had been broken once. Perhaps he had been some kind of athlete before he joined the priesthood.
Alicia Parkway decided he was more approachable than the others. "I'm sorry, Father, but could you help me out?"
The priest stopped and his face lit up. "Ah, an American. Bit far from home, aren't we? What can I do for you?" he said in a thick Irish accent.
Irish? Here? Alicia thought. "Well, I was looking for the Alpes Tavern," she said.
"Well it won't do me reputation much good to admit I know the place."
"Er, I'm sorry."
"Ah, I'm just funning," he said. "Actually it's two blocks down and to the left. The sign is a bit small but you'll spot it. It's a bit early to be quenching your thirst. It's even early for an Irishman."
"I heard they had a job opening for a waitress," she replied.
"I see," the priest said. "But, as I said, you are a bit far from home, are you not?"
"I'm traveling. Actually I completed graduate school late last year. But I wanted to travel around the world before I joined the so-called real world."
"Yes, but a village like L'Alpe des Resseaux is a bit off the tourist trail."
"I wanted to get off the well-traveled trail, at least for a while," Alicia replied.
"So why are you applying to be a waitress?"
"I'm a little short on spending money right now. I have enough to get back home but I'm not ready to leave just yet. I figured if I could get even a low-paying job I could extend my stay by a couple of months."
"Well you'll forgive my inquisitive nature. In my profession, we're always looking for souls to save. I'm afraid not much happens in the parish around here so I'm always on the lookout. May I ask one more question?"
"Certainly, father."
"What is your name?"
"Alicia. Alicia Parkway."
"Just call me Father Burke. My parish's name translated is the Church of the Nativity. It's old and small but you'd be amazed at all the work one can get accomplished up in these mountains. Good luck to you, Alicia."
"Thank you, Father Burke."
The priest walked off. Alicia smiled. She found herself liking the man and his manner, despite the questions. Somehow, he didn't seem too pushy, like other clergy she had met. She continued on her way and ten minutes later, she found the tavern.
Solo and Kuryakin entered the Del Floria tailor shop off a side street in Paris. The shop was a virtual twin of the one in New York that camouflaged the U.N.C.L.E. agents' entrance. As they had at various times in the past, one of the agents -- this time it was Kuryakin -- muttered a phrase in French. The attendant on duty then pointed toward the changing room. Once Kuryakin drew the curtain, Solo pulled on the hook on the wall, revealing the hidden entrance.
Three minutes and twenty seconds later, they were in Philippe Raymond's office.
"So, I understand that Monsieur Waverly is assigning you two to the Black Hand, eh?" Raymond said as he stood and extended his hand to the two enforcement agents.
"Yes, Philippe, but I believe you can be of assistance," Solo said as he shook the hand of the Paris station chief. Kuryakin shook Raymond's hand without a remark.
"Of course," Raymond said, motioning Solo and Kuryakin to sit. Like Waverly's office in New York, Raymond had a round conference table. At a shade over six feet, he was taller than Solo and Kuryakin. His thinning dark hair was beginning to gray at the temples. Solo had a high regard for Raymond; he and his agents acted in a professional manner during an operation in Paris several months ago.
"I am puzzled about something," Raymond continued. "The Geneva office is much closer to the region where you will be operating. I can provide an agent or two but I would think the logistics would be easier from Geneva, eh?"
"It's not manpower I'm interested in, Philippe," Solo said.
"The primary information was provided to New York," Raymond said. "There isn't much more I can provide."
"Every bit helps."
"All right. What specific questions do you have?"
"What is your reading on this Ditchman? The information your operatives turned up indicate he is a high-ranking leader, if not the number-one person. Is he cut out for such a role?"
Raymond bit his lip for a moment. Kuryakin sensed the Paris station chief was debating how to phrase his answer. "Monsieur Raymond, we don't necessarily expect hard facts and data," Kuryakin said. "But sometimes when one is hunting a quarry, they get a feeling for how the hunted will react. How would you describe the personality of the quarry we have been assigned?"
Raymond paused a moment longer. "Ditchman is quite brilliant and ruthless. He no doubt has been of great assistance in the execution of the various robberies and, if we are correct, the killing of the American general in Brussels. But this," he pointed to his nose, "makes me uneasy. In a way, Ditchman is too obvious. The beard makes him look a little too menacing."
"What do you mean, exactly?" Solo said.
"Oh, what do you Americans call it?" Raymond said. Solo knew Raymond spoke English very well. If he was having difficulty, Solo guessed, he must be groping for some kind of American slang.
"Too menacing? You mean it was as if he were sent over by central casting?"
"Yes, that is it. I do not mean to make light of the situation," Raymond said. "Ditchman has proved elusive. But his appearance it is almost obvious, somehow. My agents got onto his trail by investigating several of the Black Hand crimes that occurred in this country. There were enough people who recognized him that we could get a physical description relatively easily. Once that was completed, we turned up his name. Some time later, the identity was confirmed when a Black Hand operative was captured. He was wounded quite severely and died. But he lived long enough to be questioned and all he talked about was Ditchman, as if he were the guiding force behind the organization."
"The data we were provided did not go into detail about many of the Black Hand's operations," Kuryakin said. "How ambitious were they?"
"Extremely ambitious, Illya," Raymond said. "You might have heard about a large diamond robbery in Antwerp last year."
"About twenty million American dollars, wasn't it?" Kuryakin said.
"Yes. It was a Black Hand operation, but we didn't determine that until after we captured the now-deceased operative. He was involved in one of their most ambitious efforts."
"What was that?" Solo said.
"An attempted theft of plutonium from a French nuclear facility," Raymond said. "It was kept secret. Took place two months ago. U.N.C.L.E.-Paris got involved because one of our agents knew an informant who had been hired to perform some minor task. We were able to prevent the robbery but we only captured the one operative. He was shot up pretty badly. In fact, he only survived two days after the attempt. He was coherent enough to be questioned for perhaps three hours. Much of that dossier was developed from that interview and subsequent follow-up work."
"So that's how you established the French Alps are their base of operations?" Kuryakin asked.
"After his capture, we established that he had purchased some clothing items in Grenoble. We pressed him hard on the headquarters. He only muttered various comments about the mountains. From the context of the remarks, it sounded as if he were talking about an area more remote than Grenoble. But we could not get him to be more specific before he died."
"Philippe, you've been quite gracious," Solo said. "But let me ask you this. If you were hiding out in that part of France, where would you hide? Based on the fragmentary information we were given, it could be any of three or four provinces. If the Black Hand is trying to steal plutonium and assassinating generals, I'm not sure we have the time."
"You're asking me to make a guess?"
"Please," Solo said.
"I would try Savoie," Raymond said. "It's quite out of the way. As a sort of intellectual exercise, I did some research." He hit a switch on his control console, which looked almost identical to the one Waverly had on his desk. "Please send in the file from research. eh?"
A moment later, a tall brunette secretary entered the room and handed a file to Raymond. Solo's eyes briefly followed her out of the room, then he returned his attention to Raymond.
"I will have a copy made of this. But in this file, I have the names of a dozen or so villages and towns which would make a good -- oh, what do you Americans call it?"
"Hideout?" Solo said.
"Oui," Raymond replied. "These locations are remote enough it would be difficult to find. Yet, they are close enough to major transportation routes and large cities that you could still have suitable access to carry out operations. The Savoie province is roughly in between Geneva to the North and Turin to the east. Yet, it is mountainous. A rat could make himself quite a lovely rathole there."
"And from the sound of it, I would think the Black Hand is quite the rat," Solo said.
Act II
"Interlude in a Bar"
Alicia Parkway hung up her coat in a back room as she began her shift in the late afternoon at the Alpes Tavern. It has been a slow two weeks, she thought. The village is nice but I'm beginning to get bored. Maybe another week or so. In fact, maybe it's time to face facts: it may be time to enter the real world. Time to go back to the U.S. of A. and start putting that M.B.A. to work. It's going to be tough enough explaining to recruiters why I traveled around the world for a year instead of entering the workplace directly.
Alicia ran her hand through her hair as she pondered her future. Her father wasn't happy when she'd told him how she wanted to see the world before becoming immersed in income statements and balance sheets. But in the end, he was supportive and provided the bulk of the funds she needed to make the trip. To conserve her money, Alicia stayed away from tourist hotels. She also minimized her time in the large cities that attracted tourists. Instead, she traveled the countryside, sometimes going by bus, or renting a motor scooter. But the money started running out a few weeks ago. She had made a point of keeping enough for a return ticket to St. Louis. This job provided enough she needn't worry about dipping into that reserve. Maybe she was just delaying the inevitable.
Just then, a man came through the door and Alicia glanced in his direction. He wasn't especially tall, but there was something about his manner. She wasn't sure how, but she sensed a confidence in the way he walked, as if he had a purpose. His stride was deliberate, as if each step were carefully measured. The dark-haired man didn't look like a tourist, particularly an American. These days, it seemed like Americans dressed in raggedy bluejeans or cutoffs. This man instead wore a dark blue sport coat with a light sweater covering his dress shirt. The slacks had a sharp crease as if they were new.
Alicia walked over as the man sat down. Although she could get out the basic phrase in French -- Monsieur, may I help you? -- her accent was still a bit ragged.
The man's eyes met Alicia's. "You sound like an American, miss."
"Er, yes. Sorry, we don't get many tourists around here."
"No problem. A glass of your best Merlot, please," he said as he smiled.
Alicia bit her lip to avoid smiling back. "Right away."
She went to the bar and had the bartender pour the glass of red wine. When she returned, the man was looking around the room. Only one other table was occupied at the moment, an older, heavy-set man who had been nursing his glass of wine over the past forty-five minutes. "Please sit down, miss. Do you have a minute to chat?"
"Well, it's probably not a good idea..."
"Just for a minute. I haven't had a chance to talk to an American for more than a week now."
Somehow she felt comfortable so she sat down. She was still alert, however, in case the civil manner was only a front. "All right, I guess I can talk for a few minutes, mister...?"
"Solo, Napoleon Solo."
This time, Alicia couldn't hold back the smile and even let out a small laugh. "Is that your real name?"
Solo smiled back. "Certainly, and I'm in the right country, wouldn't you say? And what's your name?"
"Alicia Parkway."
"Alicia Parkway? I'm not sure you're one to make light of anyone else's moniker. Sounds like a thoroughfare."
"Touché," Alicia said. "So what brings you all the way out here?"
"I'm a businessman and travel a lot. I go to a lot of cities the tourists go to. So when I decided to take a vacation in Europe, I opted to go to an out-of-the-way spot."
"You can't get much more out of the way than L'Alpe des Resseaux," Alicia said.
"So what's your story? Been here long?"
"Only a couple of weeks. I got my M.B.A. last fall, but I wanted to do some traveling before I had to put it to use. I'm probably going to have to go back soon."
"You don't sound too pleased."
"Oh, I guess I'm not too worked up about going into finance or some such job. I worked a couple of years between undergrad studies and business school. I have something of an aptitude for it, but I wanted a little adventure before I plunged back in. Still, I'd probably better get back soon before I get too much older."
Solo laughed. "You're hardly an old maid."
"Well, I am twenty-seven, that's a bit old to begin a career. By the time I return, it will have been a year since I got the M.B.A. All those eager twenty-four and twenty-five-year-olds will be jumping into the work force right away."
"I wouldn't worry, you'll do fine."
"So what do you do, Mr. Solo?"
"Napoleon, please," Solo said. "I work for a company called Fields Consulting. I do a variety of things, a little of this, a little of that. So tell me, anything very interesting happen around here?"
"Not really. The village is mostly small shops or eateries. Pretty routine. Almost boring," Alicia said. "I'm afraid we'll have to end our conversation, another customer just came in the door."
"Don't worry too much. He's with me."
Alicia was already looking at the blonde man coming in the door. He was a little bit shorter than Mr. Solo but she didn't notice that as much as the piercing blue eyes. Just a second, Alicia thought. Is he making some kind of dirty face at me?
"Ah, Illya, what are you doing here? We were supposed to meet somewhere up the road," Solo said.
Kuryakin glanced briefly between Solo and Alicia. "I was having trouble finding inspiration for my landscapes. I see you had no such problems."
"Illya Kuryakin, this is Alicia Parkway, an American traveling through these parts taking temporary employ as a waitress in this establishment. Simply two expatriates having a nice chat. Alicia, a glass of Merlot for my friend."
"I'll have an ale, thank you," Kuryakin said. "Be sure and put it on his bill."
Alicia squinted for a moment, trying to figure these two out. I hope they're friends, she thought. I'd hate to get on the blonde guy's bad side. And what kind of name is Illya, anyway?
"Being a little touchy today, aren't we?" Solo told Kuryakin.
"Well, we are supposed to be looking for nefarious characters, not talking with pretty young girls."
"She's twenty-seven, hardly a girl," Solo said, glancing in Alicia's direction.
Just then, Kuryakin saw a man in black come into the room. He scanned the figure quickly until he noticed the priest's collar he wore. He looked up into the face. For a moment, it almost appeared as if the priest's eyes flashed recognition at Kuryakin.
"Ah, a couple of travelers. What brings you two fellas here? We don't get many guests," he said.
Alicia returned from the bar with Kuryakin's ale. "Oh, hi Father Burke," she said as she put the glass down on the table.
"And how are you doing today, Miss Alicia?"
"Fine, thanks. Want something to drink?"
"Actually, I was just saying hello to these strangers, but I think I'll have what this blonde fella is having. Do you mind if I pull up a chair, gentlemen?"
Solo caught himself starting to frown. An Irish-accented priest in this setting seemed more than a little odd. But the fellow seemed friendly enough. "Certainly, Father."
"Thank you, lads. Now, as I was saying, what brings you fellas to L'Alpe de Resseaux?"
Hmmm. Nosy fellow, Solo thought. "Just passing through, Father," he said. "I'm a businessman on vacation. My name is Napoleon Solo. I'm not quite sure what this other gentleman does for a living."
"Illya Kuryakin. I'm an artist."
"So father, what about yourself?" Solo said. "Are you also a traveler or do you hail from these parts?"
"Reverend William T. Burke, pastor of a small church just outside the village. Its French name translates to Church of the Nativity. We don't get too many visitors, gentlemen. Sorry if I seemed a trifle inquisitive."
"So how does an Irish-accented pastor get a French-speaking flock?"
"Well, the Church can be a demanding lady, Mr. Solo. One goes where one is told."
Alicia brought Father Burke's drink. "Thank you, ma'am," he said.
Alicia smiled slightly and almost rolled her eyes. "Really, Father Burke, just call me Alicia. I don't have to be called ma'am or Miss."
"Ah, but the world needs a little formality, my dear," Burke said. "Makes the place a little more civil, don't you know. Don't begrudge a man his quirks, Miss Alicia."
She smiled again. "If you insist. Do you want another glass of wine, Mr. Solo?"
"Oh, you can just call me Napoleon, and I'll wait a while before I have another glass."
Other people were starting to come in the bar and Alicia left to attend to other customers. "Speaking of formality, father," Solo said, "is that why you call yourself Father Burke instead of Father Bill?"
"I suppose," the priest replied. "It's strictly a matter of personal preference. I always thought a pastor should be a little bit of an authority figure. I've heard some American priests like to go around callin' themselves Father Bob and Father Bill, but it seems a bit undignified to me."
"Maybe they're trying to make themselves a bit more accessible to the flock," Solo said.
"Perhaps, Mr. Solo," Burke said as he took a drink of his ale. "But I have me own style and I think it works."
Kuryakin, at that moment, seemed to stiffen. "Tell me, reverend, is that a member of your flock. He reminds me of someone I know."
Solo turned in the direction Kuryakin was looking. That's when he saw Curtis Ditchman.
Act III
"A Friendly Game of Darts"
Ditchman's eyes focused on Solo and Kuryakin's table. Each agent had the same reaction: it was as if they were being scanned by an X-ray machine. Ditchman looked at the table and those sitting there then walked over to the bar itself. He ordered himself a glass of white wine, speaking in flawless French.
"Reverend Burke, do you know that man?" Kuryakin said. "He reminds me of an old acquaintance."
"Uh, no," Burke said. "Seen him around the village but I really don't know the gentleman. Actually, I think I'll be going now."
Solo took his money clip from his pocket. "Well, I appreciate the company, Father. Allow me."
"Ah, well it's appreciated very much, Mr. Solo. Perhaps we can run into each other before you depart." Burke took a few steps then stopped as Alicia walked past with a tray of drinks for a table. "Good evening, Miss Alicia. Watch out for smoothies," he said, slightly cocking his head in Solo's direction.
"Don't worry about me, Father," she said.
"Worryin' is me job, ma'am. Good night."
Solo caught the exchange out of the corner of his eye but turned his attention to Ditchman, who was sipping his glass of wine alone at the bar.
"More than a week of traveling these mountains and he just walks into this bar," Kuryakin said softly. "Seems a bit overly convenient."
"Yes, isn't it?" Solo replied. "Reputed head of a secret criminal organization goes out for a social drink."
"What would you suggest?"
Solo didn't answer immediately, instead scanning the room. By this time, there were eleven people in the bar. He recognized no faces from U.N.C.L.E.'s dossiers of adversaries and known criminals. But that didn't mean members of the Black Hand weren't here or nearby. There was something odd about this situation, but Solo had no idea what it was. It was time to play it cool.
"Let's not make a move just yet," Solo said. "Do you have a tracking device on you?"
"Yes."
"Keep it handy."
Ditchman finished his wine then stepped over to a wall where a dartboard was hung. He pulled out the darts, stepped off five or six paces and began tossing them at the board.
Solo got up and walked toward Ditchman. In French, he asked, "Would you be interested in a game, Monsieur?"
Ditchman looked at a Solo for a moment. "I only like to play games if money is involved," he said in English. Just as the dossier indicated, the voice had a harsh whine that grated on the ears. "If you can't speak French in a better accent than that, you should stick to English."
"Oh, I see," Solo said. "Is five thousand francs enough to pique your interest?"
"Perhaps. Where is your money?"
Solo again took out the money clip, sorted through some notes and held up a wad of bills. "Now, where is your money?"
Ditchman reached into the coat he was still wearing and withdrew a wallet. He opened it to reveal an impressive-looking bank roll. "I think mine is bigger than yours."
Solo frowned slightly. "Usually it's people who talk about it are the only ones who need to worry."
"And just who is it who is so unworried?"
"Napoleon Solo. And you are?"
"Brooks. Henry Brooks. Very well, Mr. Solo, what game shall we play?"
"Three tosses each. Closest to the bullseye wins. You first."
Without comment, Ditchman turned toward the target and held a dart between his thumb and forefinger. He drew back slightly and threw. He hit the edge of the target's second ring.
"Not bad," Solo said. Ditchman handed the agent a dart. Solo held the dart longer than Ditchman had. Solo mentally cursed himself for not asking for a warm-up toss. But Ditchman had annoyed him so much, Solo didn't want to show the slightest sign of weakness. He put the thought out of his mind and threw. His dart hit just outside the second ring. Advantage: Ditchman.
"You shouldn't get into situations for which you're not prepared to cope." The voice even more grating this time.
Solo was silent as Ditchman threw the second dart. This time he landed inside the second circle and wasn't that far from the innermost ring. Ditchman maintained the advantage. Solo remained quiet as he took the second dart from Ditchman. Solo practiced his throwing motion twice. "Come now my friend, no cheating," Ditchman said. The U.N.C.L.E. agent almost let go the dart, which would have cost him one of his three chances.
Solo glanced at Ditchman a moment and then looked around. At least half the patrons had stopped sipping their drinks and were instead watching his match with Ditchman. Even Alicia and the bartender paid rapt attention. Solo cleared his throat, held up the dart once more and threw. It landed just inside Ditchman's second toss. Advantage: Solo.
Ditchman squinted a second and turned to Solo. "Ten thousand francs, sir."
"Absolutely," Solo said.
Ditchman returned his gaze to the dartboard and he threw with an exaggerated motion. His dart struck inside the inner circle but slightly off center. The Black Hand leader now held the advantage. It would take a bull's eye, or very close to it, to beat him.
For just a moment, Solo imagined filling out the expense voucher for ten thousand francs. Then, a memory came back of another dart game, some years back in England. This match had been against a lackey of the deadly G. Emory Partridge and the game was meant for one man to establish superiority over the other. Solo began to relive the memory, almost feeling time reverse itself. He turned his head and looked Ditchman straight in the eye. Then, maintaining his gaze at Ditchman, Solo let fly with the dart.
It wasn't quite a bulls eye, but it was no more than a couple of millimeters off.
Solo kept starting at Ditchman but the roar of the customers told him everything he needed to know. "I prefer cash to checks," Solo said.
Ditchman's eyes burned at Solo but the thin man reached into his coat pocket and took out the wallet again. He fumbled for the notes while continuing to gaze at Solo. "Perhaps I underestimated you, Mr. Solo."
"Or perhaps you simply gave it your best shot," Solo said, "and you came up short."
Ditchman handed him a wad of francs. "I believe you'll find it all there, Mr. Solo. Good-bye."
The bar was abuzz, with people moving about after having stopped to watch the match. Solo saw Ditchman turn away and begin to walk out. However, he was walking away from Kuryakin, who was attempting to angle toward the tall man. At that moment, Alicia was walking in Ditchman's direction while carrying another tray of drinks. Solo pretended to stumble, tripping Alicia. The woman fell forward into the tall man, knocking him down while simultaneously the drinks flew off the tray and splattered on the floor.
"I'm sorry, I--" Alicia said, who was sprawled on the floor.
Kuryakin bent over and helped Ditchman up, but Ditchman shook off the Russian and rose on his own and stormed out of the bar. Kuryakin looked in Solo's director and nodded slightly. Solo then turned his attention to Alicia and helped her up.
"I'm the one who should be sorry," Solo said. "I didn't look where I was going."
Some of the beer and wine had soaked into Alicia's dress. She shook her hands, which were dripping with alcohol. "Oh, I'm a mess! Ugh."
Solo took a few steps over to the bartender and counted out a couple of notes from his winnings. "This should cover any damages, Monsieur," Solo said in French. The bartender grinned as he looked at the notes. Then Solo added, "Perhaps the mademoiselle can take the rest of the evening off?" The bartender looked at him until the agent passed some additional cash. After stuffing the last piece of currency into his pocket, the bartender nodded his approval.
Alicia was looking for something to dry herself off when Solo returned. "I paid for any damages I caused and your boss says it's okay if you take the rest of the evening off," Solo said. He took out a few more bills and gave them to Alicia. "And that should cover the cost of a new outfit in case I ruined that one."
"Oh, it's not ruined, it just needs to be cleaned and I couldn't take this much," she said.
"I'd really feel better about it if you took the money. After all, you shouldn't suffer from my clumsiness."
"Funny, you didn't strike me as a clumsy man, Mr. Solo."
"Napoleon. Maybe I was just feeling flushed from the thrill of victory."
Solo glanced in Kuryakin's direction and caught his Russian partner rolling his eyes. Kuryakin motioned that he was stepping outside.
"I tell you what, Alicia, I may have to go in a minute. I really am sorry about what happened."
"Listen, you've paid me more than enough to replace this outfit and I really don't need to replace it," she said. "On the other hand, you could walk me home -- or rather to the little rooming house I'm staying at."
"Uh, let me check real quick with my friend, I may be able to spare a few minutes."
"I'll wait here."
Solo walked out the front entrance and glanced around. It was now evening and was quite dark. The streetlights were few and dim. Kuryakin wasn't there but Solo took a few steps until he reached the side of the building. He heard a faint crackling noise and glanced in the direction of the alley. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Solo could see Kuryakin with his pen communicator.
"The device is operational. Our friend seems to be quite close, according to this," Kuryakin said. "I'd say no more than a few blocks away and he doesn't seem to be moving away yet. It might be a little premature to try and follow him."
"Where did you slip it in?"
"I managed to use some sleight of hand and put it in his coat pocket without him noticing. Hopefully, it will go undiscovered at least until he hangs up his coat."
"All right, why don't you head to your vehicle and wait. I'll pick up my car in a few minutes and we can prepare to tail him."
"A few minutes? What are you going to do in the meantime?" Kuryakin said.
"I'm going to walk Miss Parkway home. She is soaked with alcoholic beverages, overall. And she asked me to do so."
"I might have known," Kuryakin said. "This is a rather important matter, remember?"
"I'm quite aware of that," Solo said. "I am feeling a little guilty about having to trip her so you could plant the transmitter on Mr. Ditchman. I'll be ready in fifteen minutes. If he starts off sooner, just buzz me on the communicator."
"I will also buzz you at the end of fifteen minutes, if you don't mind," Kuryakin said.
Solo gave Kuryakin a hint of a dirty look and returned to the bar. Alicia was still standing just inside the door. "I had almost given up on you," she said.
"Just had to make a few quick travel arrangements," Solo replied. "One escort reporting for duty." Solo motioned for Alicia to walk ahead and he opened the door for her.
They walked past a bakery and a small shop without comment before Alicia finally spoke. "It's all so beautiful. I'm going to miss it."
"You sound a bit blue, as if you're leaving tomorrow."
"Talking with you earlier this evening caused me to think about the future again. I guess I've been avoiding it lately. Maybe that's why I came up here -- I may have been looking for a spot to hide."
"The Alps can be a pleasant place for it," Solo said. "On the other hand, hiding isn't always the answer."
"I know," Alicia replied. "I'm thinking I'll give it another week here and see if I can fly home after that. Then, I guess I'll start trying to immerse myself in the dull life of finance."
"Well, don't knock the safe life," he said. "You're bright and I'm sure you'll do fine with whatever choices you make."
Just then, Solo thought he had heard footsteps. You idiot, he thought. There's a reason Ditchman hasn't traveled very far from the tavern. He's after you! Get the woman to a safe place now and get out of here.
They came up on a two-story house. Alicia started to motion, as if to indicate this was their destination. But she didn't get a chance to get the words out. Three men lunged from behind. Solo had already begun to turn to meet the threat, but one of the men was too quick and tackled the U.N.C.L.E. agent. Another grabbed Alicia from behind. She had the presence of mind to give him a hard elbow in the ribs. She moved with the form of someone who had taken self-defense classes. But this man was a professional and quickly sidestepped any other attack Alicia could mount. Solo had more luck as he landed on the sidewalk, using his opponent's momentum and flipping the man over. But as Solo scrambled to his feet, Alicia's attacker already held her head tight, covering her mouth with his left hand. All three of the men wore ski masks. The third man, the one who had not engaged in any physical attack began to speak in French. "Monsieur Solo, you should never assume the Black Hand ever rests. Our superior is interested in renewing his acquaintance with you."
Solo stood as the thug he had sent sprawling got up and went through the agent's pockets. He first removed Solo's U.N.C.L.E. Special from the shoulder holster hidden by the jacket and then took the communicator from the jacket's breast pocket. The man placed it on the sidewalk. The device began its familiar whine a split-second before the thug stomped on it. The leader of the group then took out what looked like a pen from his own pocket.
You damn idiot, Solo fumed to himself. If you had taken Illya's approach, neither you nor the woman would be in this fix. At that moment, the pen elected a plume of gas. As he lost consciousness, Solo thought the scent was familiar. As he began to fall, he saw the man shoot the same knockout gas at Alicia. Maybe that explains the masks, Solo thought just before everything turned black.
It didn't take long before a black BMW pulled up. Curtis Ditchman motioned the three men to put the two prisoners inside the car.
Act IV
"A Lovely Night to Climb"
Kuryakin gazed at the communicator for a moment. For all of his friend's womanizing, Kuryakin knew Solo wouldn't shirk his duty. At the very least, if he were able, Solo could have sent an acknowledgment signal. No, Kuryakin knew better. Solo's communicator had either been switched off or, more likely, been disabled.
The Russian pondered his options. He really only had one choice -- he had to keep track of Ditchman. While the village of L'Alpe des Resseaux was small, the U.N.C.L.E. agent knew he had no time to spare on a side trip. His best hope was that Solo hadn't been killed, only taken prisoner. Hesitatingly, Kuryakin switched the communicator to receive the transmitter he had placed on Ditchman. The signal was still strong but indicated the Black Hand leader was finally starting to leave the area. Kuryakin fired up the engine of the Range Rover in which he had been waiting out Ditchman and put the engine into drive.
Solo was walking on the mountain, a solitary figure, a fleck on the countryside. Suddenly the rock below him collapsed. He fell down, down, down into a blackness that didn't seem to end....
He opened his eyes. Things were blurry for only a moment before his eyes began to focus. He leaned back and felt something -- no, someone. Concentrating a bit more, he felt his arms were bound, with someone else's arms intertwined with his. Of course, what do you expect?
"Mr. Solo, Napoleon, what's going on? Who are these people?"
It was Alicia Parkway's voice. Solo ignored her for a moment, taking in his surroundings. They sat in chairs, arranged back to back Otherwise the room was bare. It looked like a small bedroom that was part of a cabin or maybe a lodge. There was one window, with no curtains. A ceiling light provided only minimal illumination. Solo guessed no curtains were needed because, in all likelihood, there would be no one outside to peer in. It was black outside the window and Solo would be willing to bet a thousand francs there was a steep drop beyond the glass.
"Napoleon, did you hear me? I thought you were awake."
"I am, I just woke up. How long have you been awake?"
"I don't know, maybe fifteen minutes before you did."
"They might have given you a lesser dose of that gas."
"What is going on? Are you really a businessman?"
Solo paused. "In a manner of speaking."
The agent heard the door to the room open and a second later the lights brightened. "What's the matter, Mr. Solo? Afraid to tell the lady?" The metallic whine was unmistakable. Ditchman.
"No, I just had a feeling there might be an electronic bug in this room," Solo replied. "Why make it easy on anyone who might be listening in?"
Ditchman walked around the bound duo to stand in front of Solo. "Why indeed, Mr. Solo? So now that I am here, I will rephrase the lady's question. For whom do you work, Mr. Solo? If I recall the dossier, you are a member of the U-N-C-L-E, are you not? Most businessmen aren't trained in judo."
Solo frowned for a moment. At this point, there wasn't much use for lying. "You're well informed but then I would expect that of a former intelligence operative like Curtis Ditchman."
"You look confused, my dear," Ditchman said to Alicia. "Mr. Solo's employer is an international espionage and law-enforcement agency. A sort of U.N. of the cloak-and-dagger set. So why the interest in me, Mr. Solo? I am a humble former employee of my country."
"I'd say you were being a little overly humble, wouldn't you say, Mr. Ditchman?" Solo said. "Humble former government employees don't employ thugs to kidnap people off the street."
"What are you talking about?" Alicia said nervously.
"Oh, he's quite right," Ditchman said, the metallic twang getting more irritating by the second. "But the Black Hand does what is necessary to protect itself."
Alicia's mouth started to quiver. Ditchman continued, "I know you have questions, my dear. I have seen you occasionally in the village. My guess is you are exactly what you appear to be, an American traveler working her way around distant countries. Unfortunately, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'm afraid you're going to have to die with Mr. Solo here. Normally, you'd be dead already. But about ten days ago, the Black Hand pulled off an assassination over in Belgium and we've been laying low. I think the best way to dispose of the two of you is to make it look like a climbing accident, which I'll have to wait till morning to set up. It's a little treacherous around here and no one would believe anyone would be foolish enough to climb here at night, eh?"
I must be a fool, Kuryakin thought.
He double-checked the night vision goggles one more time. He had driven by the villa in the Range Rover. It lay literally on the edge of the mountain and a good two hundred feet from the road. At the road there was a gate that looked to be very securely locked. A fence extended backward from the gate and ended at the cliff's edge. He followed the road as it snaked further up the mountain where he had found this spot that overlooked the villa. It would be a challenging climb in the daylight, but at night?
He switched on the pen communicator one last time. Judging from the signal from the homing device, Ditchman had to be inside. Then he switched it for a broadcast. "Open Channel R, signal for U.N.C.L.E.-Geneva. This is Number Two of Section Two."
There was a pause of twenty seconds. "Geneva here, Mr. Kuryakin. This is the communications room," a woman's voice replied. "Please report."
"I have located subject of inquiries, regarding Le Main Noir," he said. "Nearest community is a village called L'Alpe de Resseaux in Savoie Province, France. We're about twenty kilometers north, I'd say."
"Hang on, we're getting a fix on your signal and we can narrow it down. Yes we have an approximate fix."
"Conditions are such I will need to take immediate action. It is impractical to await reinforcements. But if I fail, at least you will know where to pick up the pieces."
"Mr. Kuryakin, should I not alert the station chief? He can mobilize agents and be there within two hours."
"Please advise him to do so. But my attention is needed below and I cannot wait. Kuryakin out."
Kuryakin heard the Geneva woman start to take issue but he switched the communicator so it was only sending a "beacon" signal to U.N.C.L.E.-Geneva. He walked back to the Range Rover and started going through the supplies in back.
"So, Mr. Solo, the main question I have for you is how much does U.N.C.L.E. know of the Black Hand?" Ditchman's whine was bad enough but the man liked to blabber endlessly.
"I'm not sure it's the kind of subject one talks about in front of a lady," Solo replied.
"Spare me the witticisms."
"You said yourself you plan to kill us," Solo said. "Not much incentive to talk."
"And you're too smart a man to fall for a lie such as, 'Talk and I'll spare the girl's life,'" Ditchman said. "But I can make it more painful."
"I thought you wanted our deaths to look like a climbing accident. Signs of torture might provide clues for future pursuers."
Ditchman started snapping his fingers but said nothing. Finally, after a minute, maybe two, he broke the silence. "Perhaps I should consult with my superior."
Solo cocked his head only a bit but it was enough for Ditchman to notice. "Why should that surprise you, Mr. Solo. Unless, of course, you thought I was the primary leader of the Black Hand?"
Solo bit his lip. Ditchman continued, "If that's the case, then you don't know a lot about our group. That's good. For your benefit, Mr. Solo, I am sort of an operational chief. Roughly equivalent to your post in U.N.C.L.E. In case you're wondering, it was I who planned and executed the assassination of General Shaughnessy."
"Was it really or are you taking credit for your unnamed superior?"
"Don't try the psychological games, it is I who have the advantage here," Ditchman said. "There is no need to bother the head man with this. I'll proceed with your deaths in the morning before we move on to new business."
Kuryakin had the line in place. He decided to try the simplest maneuver -- he would rappel down the sheerest face between his vantage point and the villa below. Based on what he could make out with the night vision goggles, he ought to stop on a ledge a few feet above the fence that surrounded the building.
He put the backpack on with the supplies he hoped to use once he got down safely. Kuryakin braced himself, took a deep breath and began to rappel down the mountain. His feet, enclosed in boots, touched the sheer face about twelve feet down from where he first pushed off. He rappelled further, traveling the distance in five "jumps." He came down hard on the ledge and stumbled for a moment, almost slipping off. He steadied himself and caught his breath.
Kuryakin looked through the goggles to get a good hand hold. It took three minutes to climb down the remaining distance to the ground. Now, he was perhaps twenty-five feet from the fence itself. No signs of guards but that didn't mean danger wasn't close. Kuryakin removed the goggles, then took off the backpack and removed its contents. He took out a coin from his pocket and tossed it against the fence but it bounced off with only a tinkle. A good sign -- it wasn't electrified. Moving quickly, Kuryakin took a pair of wire cutters from his supplies and used it on the fence. A minute later, he crawled through the opening, bringing his supplies with him. He lay on the ground for a moment, his hand on the fully assembled U.N.C.L.E. Special.
Then the sound of footsteps pierced the night air. Kuryakin put the night-vision goggles on once more. A man with a rifle appeared to be turning from the front of the house to the side. There were no shrubs or brush for cover and Kuryakin had no idea how long it would be before the guard would spot him. He waited for a moment so the man would not be visible from the front of the house. Kuryakin aimed and squeezed off one shot. The man grabbed his chest as he fell backwards. The Russian tensed but the guard made no more sounds, only laying on the ground motionless. Kuryakin counted off a minute, then another. Kuryakin then got up but walked in a crouch as he approached the house. He was nearly there when he heard something out front. It sounded as if another vehicle had pulled up front. Kuryakin stood still up against the house and waited.
Solo and Alicia were again in the room by themselves, the light once more dim after Ditchman had left.
"I just wanted to let you know, I am sorry," Solo said, breaking the uneasy silence.
Alicia let out some of the emotion that had built up. "We've got to do something," she said, half whimpering.
Through the door Solo could hear Ditchman having a conversation with someone. No, make that an argument; voices were being raised.
"That was quite the grandstand play," said a flat voice that Solo didn't recognize.
"I had to make a move. He's an U.N.C.L.E. agent and would have reported me," Ditchman responded.
"You only wanted immediate revenge because the man bested you. Everything else is a rationalization."
"And what would you have done?"
"I certainly would have waited until we could isolate Solo. Instead, you bring him and the girl in here. At least one unnecessary killing and perhaps two. It's unlikely U.N.C.L.E. knew much about the Black Hand. This was very rash and very foolish. It endangers the upcoming operation."
"Now it is you who are rationalizing," Ditchman's metallic whine shot back. "We both know why the woman means so much to you."
Solo couldn't tell whether the other man had answered Ditchman or not. "Who is the other man? It sounds like he knows you," he said to Alicia.
"I-I-I'm not sure," she said nervously. "I don't know that many people in the village, I've only been staying here several days."
Kuryakin dragged the guard's body, intending to deposit it toward the rear of the house. Unfortunately, the back of the dwelling was situated almost up against the dropoff of another sheer cliff. No one had bothered to extend the fence all the way around the back because there was no need. It appeared there was only a narrow section of rock between the rear of the house and the cliff.
Kuryakin had left the body up against the side of the house when he noticed a light coming from the back window. He looked down, measuring just how far a fall would be but it looked like he had enough room to maneuver. He hugged the rear of the house, moving his feet sideways until he got to the window. He peered inside and saw Solo and the woman tied up together and by themselves. They sat back-to-back but facing sideways from the window.
Kuryakin slowly raised his left hand and tapped on the window. Alicia almost jumped out of her seat but Kuryakin heard no scream or loud noise. Solo also looked over quickly at the window and Kuryakin could see his friend's face light up with relief. Kuryakin motioned to be quiet.
Inside, Solo tried to calm Alicia. "Don't worry, he's also an U.N.C.L.E. agent."
"Why doesn't he get in here?"
"I'd guess there's a pretty steep drop out there," Solo said. "Let's try and help."
Solo looked at the door. He could hear the voices continuing to speak but couldn't make them out now. Apparently, Ditchman and the other man were still talking but more quietly."
"We don't have time to be subtle," Solo said. "I'm going to try and tip us over, hoping the ropes get unsettled or part of these chairs break. I'm going to need your help."
"I-I-I don't know," she said.
"Come on. Illya can help us but it will be quicker if we can help him in first."
Solo didn't wait for an answer before he began to rock sideways. Alicia paused then joined in, coordinating her movements with his. They rocked back and forth, several times, the motion getting jerkier each time. Finally, Solo pushed off with his feet in the direction of the window. That knocked them off balance and onto the floor. A wave of pain shot through Solo's arms as they hit the floor. But he felt the bonds had loosened and he could unlock his arms from Alicia's. He grabbed at Alicia's bonds and the woman, feeling what was happening, began to work on Solo's. The agent got one arm free and was able to speed up the process. After a couple of minutes of struggling, Solo got off the floor and opened the window, assisting Kuryakin as he came through the window.
"Took you long enough," Kuryakin said quietly.
"You could have brought your cat-burglar kit," Solo said. He then crouched down on the floor and helped Alicia get free of her remaining bonds.
"Did you get a look at that man who came in a few minutes ago?" Solo asked Kuryakin.
"No I was on the side of the building. I heard a car or truck stop in front but I was too busy trying to avoid being seen."
"Well, our friend Ditchman is not the number one man of the Black Hand. This latest arrival may be, but I don't recognize the voice. Also, he seems to know our barmaid here."
"Barmaid?" Alicia fumed.
"I thought she was just a traveling American. How would she know the leader of the Black Hand?" Kuryakin said.
"I am a traveling American. I never heard of this Black Hand before tonight."
"Shhh," Solo said. "Let's not blow this now."
Kuryakin was at the door, placing a small clump of something in the lock. "No, let's blow this now," he said, motioning to the door. "Do you still have your watch?"
"Yes, indeed," Solo said. Kuryakin produced a spare pistol from his backpack, then completed preparing the plastic explosive. Solo pointed his watch in the direction of the door. He pressed a switch on the watch and the plastic explosive blew the door off its hinges. As the door flew off, Solo caught a glimpse of one of the three men he and Alicia had encountered back in the village. The man shook off his surprise and reached for a gunrack that stored a half-dozen rifles. As the man took the rifle off the rack and aimed, Solo opened fire, wounding the man in the left arm. The man ignored the pain and got ready to fire. Solo fired a second, lethal shot, striking the man between the eyes.
At the same time, Ditchman tensed but froze when confronted with Illya's U.N.C.L.E. Special. The last man in the room -- evidently a larger, living room space -- only stood immobile, a black clad figure with a white collar. Father Burke, too, had frozen while preparing to react. He relaxed, then stood erect..
Solo now aimed his weapon at the priest -- or rather the man he had viewed as a priest. "Running a little low at the collection plate, Father?"
Burke answered in the flat voice Solo had heard earlier through the thick door arguing with Ditchman. "Perhaps, Mr. Solo."
"Father Burke? I don't understand," Alicia said.
Burke's eyes widened for a moment at the sight of Alicia. Suddenly the voice changed to the familiar Irish accent. "Sorry to be disappointing you, child," he said. "But I think Mr. Solo has already figured I've been deceivin' folks."
"But why?"
"Well, you see, I intercepted the real Father Burke sometime ago as he was on his way to take over the little parish. I thought it would be a nice, out of the way place to conduct business, you see. The good father, it turned out, was a bit of a loner without family and friends. I made sure of that before I took his place."
"What was that argument between you and Ditchman about Alicia?" Solo said.
"I don't want to give away too much, Mr. Solo," said Burke -- or rather the man who pretended to be Burke. There was no telling where the body of the real pastor was now. "Let's say I got a wee bit sentimental and leave it that."
"All right, maybe a more formal interrogation is in order."
"I don't think so, Mr. Solo," Burke continued in the Irish brogue. "The Black Hand has major affairs to conduct and I don't intend to stop now." Suddenly, Burke's right arm snapped as he threw something on the floor. Before either Solo or Kuryakin could react, the room filled with smoke. Solo fired in Burke's direction but couldn't tell if he hit anything. Both Solo and Kuryakin moved in the direction of the front door. Ditchman was there and was drawing a gun from his coat pocket. Solo got to Ditchman first and landed a karate blow on Ditchman's arm before he could fire the weapon. Ditchman headbutted Solo in retaliation and the agent staggered backward a step. It was still smoky and confusing. Solo heard a shot off to his left but ignored it, instead concentrating on sidestepping Ditchman's next move. Solo then tripped Ditchman, sending the assassin to the floor. Solo pounced on him, kneeing Ditchman in the back and landing a decisive blow to the neck. He then turned around to face the new threat but none appeared. As the smoke cleared, Solo saw another of the men who had captured him earlier in the evening. He lay wounded on the floor but had the sense not to try and shoot again. It looked like he would survive his wound, unlike the comrade Solo had killed a few minutes ago.
"That gentlemen looked as if it were going to assist Mr. Ditchman but I persuaded him otherwise," Kuryakin said.
Solo nodded then went outside the front door. He saw no signs of Father Burke but it looked as if there might be fresh ruts in the gravel driveway that led to the house. Burke had plenty of time to drive away.
Solo walked back inside where Illya kept watch on the two members of the Black Hand. Ditchman was still out while the other man groaned from the pain inflicted by Kuryakin's shot. "I radioed U.N.C.L.E.-Geneva a while back," Kuryakin said. "I expect they should be here within the hour."
In the middle of the room, Alicia Parkway stood silent, as if in shock.
"Are you okay?" Solo said.
"What did he mean, Mr. Solo?" Alicia said. "I never met Father Burke until I came to this village? What is he, anyway?"
"I'm afraid I have more questions than answers," Solo said. "And I have a feeling we don't have much time to find the answers."
TO BE CONTINUED