Prologue
Paladin’s Journal, May 18, 1906
Death is coming for me. My body is racked with pain. It is in ruins just as most of my beloved San Francisco remains in ruins from last month’s earthquake. A lifetime of my vices having their revenge, I suppose. No matter. None of that can be changed. Yet, before the Grip Reaper visits, I feel compelled to write down these thoughts. I have done much with my life, some good, some not very good at all. But in these final days I continue to remember a woman, her hair black as night. Her sweet smell comes back to my nostrils as if she were here now. That’s impossible, of course. She died decades ago, up on that cliff overlooking Monterey Bay. Of those events that might cause me regret, her death would have the highest rank. I suppose it is my life’s greatest failure. Perhaps that is why I choose to write about it now....
Act I
“...The Fragile Moon of Birth”
New York City, the present
The summer had hung on in New York City, extending its talons deep into the metropolis, producing stifling humidity well into September. But now, on this October day, the summer had finally acquiesced, releasing its grip. Napoleon Solo had been tempted to grab an overcoat on his way to work that chilly morning but chose to leave it in the closest. He would need it soon enough, but he’d put up with the slight chill at least this day.
As he neared the familiar tailor shop, Solo briefly flexed his chest and shoulders. The pain was nearly gone in the left pectoral muscle, as was the stiffness. A hell of a way to make a living, sometimes, he thought.
Upon entering, the glum Del Floria continued to operate the pressing machine, never looking up even after Solo wished him a good morning. Solo decided he couldn’t resist.
“You know, Mr. Del Floria, the expected answer to ‘good morning’ is to repeat the greeting. Or, if one wishes, they can try a variation. Irishmen have been know to say, ‘top of the morning,’ for example.”
Only then did Del Floria glance up. “To you, it’s a good morning. I have to be a profit center as well as a security guard. It’s getting tough to compete against all those big dry-cleaning chains.”
Solo bit his lip to avoid grinning and went on into the changing booth. Once again, he pulled the hook and entered through the security entrance for the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.
The Asian receptionist looked up. “Oh, Mr. Solo...”
“Let me guess,” Solo interrupted. “Go to Mr. Waverly’s office, post haste.”
“Why, yes. How did you know?”
“Your nose wrinkles in a certain way.”
A few minutes later, Solo entered Waverly’s office. The Number One of Section One looked at a file and didn’t seem to notice while Illya Kuryakin, already sitting at the round conference table, looked up.
“Glad you could make it, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said, still looking at the papers. “Hope you haven’t any plans for the next week or so.”
Solo, arching his eyebrows, took a seat, but said nothing.
Finally, Waverly glanced up from the file. “A bit of bother has been dropped in our laps. Ever hear of the Lady of the Five Moons?”
Kuryakin piped up. “It’s a Chinese fable, or parable, or some such, isn’t it?”
Solo glanced briefly at his fellow agent. Interesting. Don’t remember Chinese social information as being part of Illya’s expertise.
“Something like that, Mr. Kuryakin,” Waverly continued. “It’s also the name of a jade figurine. Has a high price, but that’s not exactly why we’re interested.”
“Are we talking about a relic of historic significance, sir?” Solo asked.
“Yes, but that’s still not why U.N.C.L.E. is becoming involved. This particular figurine once was the property of the royal family of China and was smuggled out of that country sometime in the 19th Century. Believed to have turned up in San Francisco sometime after the Civil War. Hasn’t been seen for more than a century.”
“But it has turned up?”
“Not exactly,” Waverly said. “But there have been persistent rumors and stories that it is in this country. So much so, the Chinese government has rather impatiently requested the United States to return it.”
“But I thought nobody knew where it is.”
“They don’t -- certainly nobody in the United States government knows, according to some reliable, if unofficial, information I’ve received in response to some inquiries. Since the two countries have somewhat strained relations at the moment, it’s been dumped in our laps.”
“They’ve turned to U.N.C.L.E. as a sort of neutral third party,” the Russian said.
“Precisely.”
“But where do we begin, sir?” Solo said. “If the object hasn’t been seen in more than hundred years....”
“News of the dispute has caused the riff raff of the world to converge on San Francisco, Mr. Solo. They’re all rather devious, not to mention dangerous and determined. Here,” Waverly said, turning the table so the file now was between Solo and Kuryakin.
The agents began leafing through the materials. “The local and federal authorities can keep a watch on many of these characters. But I’m concerned about the cumulative effect. If the Lady of the Five Moons is there, one of these nefarious characters will likely turn it up. And if one such person were to obtain it, that would not be a satisfactory outcome.”
“I don’t suppose we have any leads?” Solo asked.
“Not as many as we’d like,” Waverly said. “But you fellows have proven rather inventive when you had to be. See what you can dig out of that file and get out to San Francisco as soon as you can. Check in with the station chief when you arrive. That’s all, gentlemen.”
San Francisco International Airport
Howard Willey looked up as the tall, skinny man approached his Customs window.
The man’s red hair was oily and thinning on top. His pale facial complexion was sprinkled with freckles. He carried a long, blue umbrella, which was nearly the same color as his navy three-piece suit.
“Good morning, sir. Anything to declare?”
“Ah, not this trip, sir,” the man said with a strong Irish brogue.
“May I see your briefcase and passport?”
The man handed the passport over first. Willey began to read it. Kenneth Kilpatrick. Business Consultant. Dublin, Ireland. The document had been used a lot. Kilpatrick, then opened the briefcase and Willey took a quick glance inside before gesturing to close it.
“Would you like to take a look through my bags, sir?” Kilpatrick said.
“No. Have a pleasant stay in San Francisco, Mr. Kilpatrick.”
Willey was already looking at the next person in line. Had he looked more closely at Kilpatrick he would have noticed a brief, but quite sinister looking smile that lasted only for an instant.
However, a woman with frosted hair did catch the look on Kilpatrick’s face. She had stopped to take a drink from a water fountain while on her own way to the main terminal. Oh, not Kilpatrick, Sabrina Viacelli thought to herself. I knew there’d be competition but not that damn Irishman. How many times has he gotten ahead of me to the big ones, the kinds of jobs that set you for life? Twice? Three times? Damn him.
Sabrina, however, looked a little too long. Kilpatrick waved his hand slightly in her direction. Pasty faced bastard, she thought.
Meanwhile, a ten-minute walk away, another man was getting into a limousine. “Good to see you again, Mr. Wong,” the driver said as he held open the door.
Thomas Wong said nothing. His posture was erect, he had the look of poise of someone used to success. As he sat down, he opened up his own briefcase and took out an artist’s rendering of a figurine. A small jade statue of a woman was attached to a stand that also had a background and a top. On the top, there were five shapes, representing the moon in its various phases. Wong didn’t even notice the limousine starting up and pulling into traffic.
Paladin’s Journal, continued.
Though three decades have passed, I remember how it began quite clearly. I paid my respects to a Chinese friend who had died. Before I could leave, another friend, one Chee Yan, approached me discreetly and led me to a room. There, an elderly woman awaited, the mother of my late friend. Her son had died leaving many debts. And the man’s daughter “is to be taken in payment of those debts,” the old woman said.
She didn’t specify the method of payment. Nor was it necessary. At best, the daughter would be committed to a loveless marriage of some, fat sweaty debt holder. More likely, she would be pressed into a form of indentured servitude, no doubt at some badly lit bordello.
There was another choice. In a few days time, a ship would approach Point Lobos off Monterey Bay. The crew had been instructed to look for a signal fire before beginning the long journey across the Pacific Ocean to China. Her family had once been part of the Chinese royal family. She might be afforded a desirable station there if she could return.
I looked at the old woman, whose name was Jin Ho. I suggested what she was doing was brave -- and potentially fatal. To Jin Ho, it mattered not whether she died in her sleep or at the hand of a Tong assassin. But she wanted my services to ensure her son’s daughter, Jin Ho’s granddaughter, would survive the rendezvous. I agreed without hesitation.
“So I am not too much in your debt---” she said, reaching for the figurine. She handed it to me. I recognized it instantly. The Lady of the Five Moons, a small jade statue on a stand studded with diamonds.
“It is exquisite,” I said.
Quickly, I made my arrangements. But had I known what awaited me, surely I would have hesitated.
Somewhere in San Francisco, the present
The cab pulled up to the dingy newsstand.
“One might think U.N.C.L.E. could come up with a more dignified cover,” Kuryakin said as he got out.
Solo ignored him for a moment and paid off the cabbie. “I’m just glad we checked into the hotel first.,” Solo finally replied, after the cab sped off. “Imagine what people would say if they saw us taking our travel bags inside this place.”
The agents went inside. At the front counter, a heavy-set, bad man with glasses sat, reading a magazine. Solo caught a quick glance. The publication appeared to have many more words than most of the lurid magazines in the stands that lined the shop.
“Can I help you boys?” the fat man said, not looking up from his magazine.
“We’re interested in rare editions,” Solo said.
“Smart ass. Go to the back.”
As the agents headed to the back, they saw a sign.
Adults
Only. No one under 18 permitted.
This
is NOT a library. No reading. You’ll go blind.
Solo and Kuryakin went through the entryway, though Kuryakin checked the sole of his shoe for a moment. Upon entering, they moved around the corner. Just then, a door silently, but quickly closed behind them. The two men could feel the hum of the scanning devices. The wall in front of them then moved upward, revealing the security entrance to U.N.C.L.E.-San Francisco.
The men stepped forward. An African American receptionist stood at her desk. “Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin, it’s good to see you again. It’s been what, over a year?”
“Something like that,” Solo said. He smiled as the receptionist pinned the security badge. Kuryakin, as always, grabbed his own.
“Mrs. Workman is expecting you, gentlemen.”
The agents began walking the corridor to an elevator. “Tell me again about Mrs. Workman,” Kuryakin said. “I understand she has an unusual background.”
“She’s a former academic that Mr. Waverly hired a few years ago to help prepare an internal history of the organization. He was so impressed with her organizational skills, he hired her as an analyst. She rose through the ranks and Waverly made her station chief here, sometime after the Glenconix affair.”
“Isn’t that unusual? Most Section One personnel are former enforcement operatives.”
“The Old Fox doesn’t exactly confide in me regarding Section One personnel moves.”
“By chance, I had an opportunity to review some of that internal history. I think she must be a member of your -- oh, what do you Americans call it?”
“Fan club?”
“Yes,” Kuryakin said irritably, as he pushed the button for the elevator. “She waxed a little too eloquent about the genius of using an innocent person in the midst of an assignment. She even cited U.N.C.L.E. slang, referring to ‘O Solo Mio.’”
Solo frowned. “Now, you know I never called it that. And half the time the so-called innocents stumbled into the assignment.”
“Try telling that to her. She made it sound as if you had revolutionized espionage.”
After exiting the elevator, the agents approached the station chief’s office. They saw a short blonde woman, somewhere in her 40s, addressing a secretary. As the agents came up, the woman turned.
“Howareya? Candace Workman,” she said, extending a hand to Solo. “Heard a lot about you, Mr. Solo.” The New Jersey accent, which Solo hadn’t expected, reminded him of New York.
Solo shook the hand. “Good to meet you, Mrs. Workman. This is my associate, Mr. Kuryakin.”
“Yeah, I know, the Russian,” Candace said, taking a quick glance at Kuryakin. “You know when I was doing that history of U.N.C.L.E., I could have really used an interview with you, Mr. Solo.”
“Sorry about that, but Mr. Waverly keeps us pretty busy.”
“Believe me, I know,” she said, as she gestured for them to follow her into the office.
The agents took their place at a round conference table that was standard in most Section One offices. “Got some dossiers for you,” Candace said. “I think every lowlife within a thousand miles must be converging on San Francisco.”
Kuryakin began leafing through the materials. “How much is the figurine worth anyway?”
“Hard to say,” the station chief replied. “But the fact the Chinese government wants it so bad has put visions of a big fat ransom dancing in some heads.”
The Russian frowned momentarily, taken back by her phrasing.
“It’s a play on a Christmas poem,” Solo whispered.
Kuryakin strained to avoid rolling his eyes.
“Agents stationed in this office are helping out the local authorities,” Candace Workman continued. “They can handle the more routine fellows. But I wanted to draw your attention to a couple of those dossiers on the top.”
“Hmmmm,” Solo said. “Thomas Wong. Heads a large, criminal organization operating on both sides of the Pacific. Controls international narcotics, gun running, prostitution. Hands-on operator, not afraid to get his hands dirty personally. Lovely fellow.”
“Then, there’s Kenneth Kilpatrick, dabbles in assassination, terrorism and industrial espionage,” Kuryakin said, looking at the papers on the top of his pile. “Only a general description, no picture available. Sounds like a sort of Renaissance man.”
“The worst sort, a real sweetheart,” Candace said. “Keep a careful eye out for those two, but don’t underestimate any of those people. Some of them are down on their luck and desperate. They may not have anything to lose. Sometimes desperate people get lucky.”
“All right,” Solo said. “We know who to be on guard against. But do we have any meaningful leads where the Lady might be found?”
“The best person I can suggest is a Mr. Lehr at the Metropolitan Museum,” she said. “He’s extremely knowledgeable about San Francisco’s history in particular and Northern California in general. He’s expecting you after lunch. Not much else to suggest at this point.”
“Well, I guess we’ll get started,” Solo said.
“Just a minute,” Candace interjected. “Mr. Kuryakin, I’m trying to update the official U.N.C.L.E. history. I was wondering if you had a few moments.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to beg off.”
“Why?”
“I don’t feel comfortable talking about myself and the past. My focus is on the present.”
A few minutes later, the agents arrived at the reception area and prepared to leave the field office.
“Well, I guess we’d better grab a quick bite to eat before talking to Mr. Lehr,” Solo said as he took the security badge off.
“You go on without me,” Kuryakin said. “I may be able to turn up something in Chinatown.”
“Chinatown?”
“We are dealing with an object of Chinese origin, aren’t we? There may be a place or two not on the tourist maps that might provide useful information.”
“I don’t recall your dossier mentioning such detailed knowledge of things Chinese.”
“One more reason why you should rely on dossiers for only so much,” Kuryakin replied. “I will see you later.”
Paladin’s
Journal, continued
I watched from a distance as Chee Yan and another approached the meeting place at Point Lobos. He stood there, surveying the scene. His manner was tenuous and confused.
Just as I had hoped.
Chee Yan commented something about following my directions but the landmarks not matching what I had told him. I came down from a hill and laughed. “Then my preparations were not in vain.” Chee Yan looked puzzled. I intended to explain that if he looked like someone who was lost, then a potential assassin might hesitate.
Before I could discuss such matters of strategy, I gazed upon her for the first time.
Kim Sing, though dressed in clothes that were plain and commonplace for Chinese, had dark eyes that I could feel penetrate my very being. Her attire belied her beauty. I could indeed see why a creditor would be more than content to claim her as payment for a debt, no matter how expensive.
“Mr. Paladin, this is Kim Sing,” Chee Yan said.
My mouth turned dry for a moment before I returned to the business at hand. Chee Yan went to the cliff that overlooked Monterey Bay. He stood at a spot where I had cut wood for the signal fire. He began his vigil without complaint. Chee Yan, I knew, was a man to whom duty was a solemn vow. He would maintain the vigil, even knowing the danger that could envelop us.
If only to reassure my own conscience, I stressed the potential threat. I told him the Tongs had “talons that are exceedingly long.”
“I know,” is all Chee Yan said before walking to his observation point. He was unusually tall for a Chinese man and stood there, simply watching the bay.
I then turned back and looked at Kim Sing. Suddenly, I felt nervous. The Tongs had nothing to do with it.
San Francisco Metropolitan Museum, the present
Napoleon Solo walked briskly up the long steps at the front of the museum. Upon entering, he quickly spotted a circular shaped receptionist’s booth. A woman with short blonde hair seemed to perk up as he approached.
“May I help you, mister...?”
“Solo. Napoleon Solo.”
She seemed taken aback. “Really?”
“Well, I
wouldn’t want to call myself Napoleon for fun. I’m looking for Mr. Lehr’s
office.”
“Sorry, uh, it’s in the back, just behind the exhibits on the American west.”
“No need to apologize.”
Solo
thought he caught a peek of the receptionist eyeing him as he walked away but
forced the thought from his mind. Now’s not the time..... Instead, he
concentrated on the museum’s layout, going past the large displays of dinosaur
bones and models that it seemed like every museum emphasized nowadays. He
veered off to the left, where he caught a sign mentioning the American west. As
he moved into that area, he looked over to the far wall, where several
paintings were on display. He caught a look at a 1912 Charles Russell landscape,
with Indians in the foreground gazing at oncoming settlers in the
distance, as well as a more recently
produced Olaf Wieghorst portrait of a cowboy trying to tame a wild horse.
Suddenly, the agent felt a chill and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. The memory of Agnes Dabree and a Thrush virtual reality device filled his mind. He shook his head, hoping it would dispel the memory. I hope old Dabree is enjoying her stay at the nursing home, Solo thought grimly to himself.
Finally, at the back, he saw the door to an office. No place for a secretary. The door read only, “Norman Lehr.” He knocked but heard nothing for several seconds. Finally, there was a softly spoken reply. “Yes?”
“Mr. Lehr. It’s Mr. Solo. I have an appointment.”
Long seconds passed. Finally, the door opened. A tall man, with a pale complexion and red hair was putting on a pair of wire rimmed glasses. “Sorry, Mr. Solo. I was lost in my work, as it were. I’m sorry, who did you say you were with?”
Solo reached into the breast pocket of his suitcoat and produced one of the official U.N.C.L.E. identification cards. “I believe the local office set up the appointment.”
“Quite, quite,” Mr. Lehr said, tilting his head up, as if having trouble reading the card. “Come in. What can I do for you, sir?”
Solo closed the door behind him. “I’m interested in anything you can tell me about the Lady of the Five Moons. It disappeared around these parts, sometime in the 1870s. It’s a rather distinctive piece, thought there might be some mention of it somewhere in your materials.”
“Oh yes, it’s a very well known piece, indeed,” Lehr said as he straightened his tie. “San Francisco was quite an interesting place back then. We might have better luck checking out the back.” He pointed toward a rear door.
“What’s there?”
“Oh my dear, sir, we only have display space for part of our collection. Most of our Western materials are back there. We rotate them out for display. After you.”
Solo nodded his head. He opened the door and saw a large dimly lit room, full of gunracks, old gambling tables and a series of cases where mannequins had Western clothing on them. The nearest case to Solo contained a mannequin wearing nothing but black -- cowboy hat, work shirt, pants and boots. The only thing that was distinctive was the holster on the gunbelt, which had a silver colored design of a knight chess piece on it.
Just then, as the door closed, Lehr was taking out a large, doubled edged hunting knife out of the breast pocket of his suit.
Act II
“...The Silver Darts of Knowledge...The Golden Darts of Love...”
When he thought about it later, Napoleon Solo still wasn’t sure what exactly had tipped him off. Part of it may have been how the words had almost come out “me work” instead of “my work” when the ersatz Mr. Lehr was talking. Then, too, the pale man didn’t exactly look like someone named Lehr. O’Shaughnessy, perhaps, or Kilpatrick.
Whatever the case, Solo’s senses were screaming at him a second or two before Kenneth Kilpatrick lunged at the agent with the knife. Solo avoided the Irishman, tripping the assassin in the process. Kilpatrick dropped the knife as he fell. But the tall man seemed as elastic as a rubber ball when he immediately bounced off the floor, prepared to launch another attack.
Solo attempted a karate blow, but Kilpatrick successfully parried it. Then, the killer launched his own attack, trying to jab at Solo. The U.N.C.L.E. agent struck at Kilpatrick, connecting with the inside of the man’s elbow, then hitting the pale man with a backhanded blow.
Kilpatrick’s head whipped backwards from the force of the last strike but somehow he instantly gathered himself, rushing into Solo. Caught more by surprise than anything, Solo sailed backwards into the nearby display case. Both he and the case crashed to the floor. The display fell on its side, but the front glass shattered anyway. Solo bumped his own head on the floor an instant later.
The Irishman didn’t wait for Solo to move. Instead, the skinny pale man darted toward the rear of the large storage room. Solo, dizzy and disoriented for long, agonizing seconds, tried to shake it off. But the room seemed tilted for a moment and his vision began to cloud, though only for a second. He began to come out of it when he heard a door opening and slamming shut, somewhere in the back.
Dammit.
Can’t let that bastard get away that easy.
Solo closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and then opened his eyes once more. The room, at least, had stopped spinning, but his head now hurt ferociously. He slowly got up, then paused when he got one foot underneath himself. Before he could debate whether to pursue Kilpatrick he happened to notice an extended hand laying just behind a crate about twenty feet away.
The agent sighed, then got to his feet. He walked as quickly as his aching head would allow and looked behind the crate. There, laying on his side, was a tall, tan man with a handlebar mustache. His left eye was open, looking up at nothing in particular. It was the right arm that was extended outward, the arm that had caused Solo to come this way. The left was clutched around his chest. Underneath the body was a pool of blood.
“Mr. Lehr, I presume,” Solo said to no one in particular.
Paladin’s Journal, continued
I have known many woman over the years. If I do say so myself, I had a way with women that put them at ease. I always enjoyed the rituals of courtship. In this new century, I fear it’s possible that the pace of life may accelerate so much that such rituals may disappear. If that should come to pass, this world would be all the poorer for it.
Yet, even I was surprised with the ease of how Kim Sing and I became involved that chilly evening in 1875. She beguiled me and, I would like to think, I beguiled her. We simply sat there in the moonlit night on Point Lobos and talked.
As I gazed upon her face, I could not help but state the first part of the story of the Lady of the Five Moons. “At the first gate hung the fragile moon of birth, and of beauty. And she did enter there.”
She asked how I knew of a story from her country.
“Kim Sing,” I replied, gesturing to my firearm. “On some occasions, I have lived beyond the distance that a bullet from this gun will travel.”
She asked if I knew any more of the story.
“At the second gate,” I continued, “the moon loosed the silver darts of knowledge. And at the third, the golden darts of love.”
Our conversation continued. Neither she nor I had any reason to interrupt. It became evident she was conflicted. Kim Sing clearly did not want to be payment for her father’s debts and be “at the feet of some fat merchant in San Francisco.” Part of her longed to return to China, where she believed she would wear fine furs and silk.
Yet, she hesitated somehow. Without thinking, I said, “You do have a third choice.”
Before we continued, there was a sharp crack as the foot of a Tong assassin broke a twig I had laid to warn of possible intruders.
San Francisco Metropolitan Museum, the present
“Closed channel for Mrs. Workman. Solo here.”
Solo continued to gaze at the body of the museum official. “Yes, Mr. Solo, what is it?”
“Mr. Lehr is here in a back room of the museum. He’s quite deceased, I’m afraid. My guess is he was done in by Kenneth Kilpatrick, based on the dossiers you showed Illya and I. At least, there was an intruder here who attempted to pass himself off as Mr. Lehr before he attempted to do me in.”
“Are you all right?”
“Only a mild headache and a bruise or two. My ego is probably more bruised because Mr. Kilpatrick got away. Could you alert the local authorities? They generally frown on homicides.”
“Very droll, Mr. Solo. But yes, consider them alerted. You should probably stay there until they arrive. The local authorities aren’t used to working closely with U.N.C.L.E. and they’ve been helpful with us to monitor this situation.”
Solo closed off the channel without further comment. He moved away from the body to avoid contaminating the crime scene. Instead, the agent went to the shattered display case where various items had tumbled out and onto the floor. The first thing that caught his eye was an old book. He bent down and glanced at an open page. The paper was yellow and brittle looking and Solo gingerly closed the book and placed it back at the case. Then, amidst the shards of broken glass, Solo noticed another yellowing object, apparently a business card. He turned it over and saw the odd inscription with the drawing of a chess piece of a knight.
HAVE GUN WILL TRAVEL
Wire Paladin
San Francisco
The agent then glanced at the mannequin dressed in all black. “A knight without armor,” Solo muttered as heard sirens coming from outside the museum.
Somewhere in San Francisco
Illya Kuryakin came up to the antique shop, looked in both directions and walked in. The air inside was still, the place reeked of serenity. He felt as if he had just shut himself off from the rest of the world.
There was no one at the counter but Kuryakin walked there anyway. He quickly glanced at the various pieces of old furniture and place settings. Although the front windows were not tinted, somehow the light coming from outside was filtered.
He turned back to the counter and suddenly a short Asian man with cropped gray hair was standing there. Kuryakin had heard no noise, of course, and most people would have been startled. The Russian, though, had known what to expect and, as a result, didn’t flinch.
“Mr. Kuryakin,” the man said as he bowed. “One of my favorite pupils. I am honored.”
Kuryakin returned the bow. “The honor is all mine.”
“It has been many years since Manchuria.”
“And many miles.”
“You were a dedicated Soviet back then. At least you were sponsored by them. Conditions change, eh?”
“One adapts,” Kuryakin responded. “One could say the same of the teacher, Mr. Ming.”
Ming showed only the traces of a smile. “Indeed. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“I would be delighted.”
Ming gestured for Kuryakin to go to a back room and the Russian complied. Off to the side, was a small kitchenette. The center of the room was bare, save for a large rug. Kuryakin sat down there. A few moments later, Ming joined him, and handed him a cup of tea.
“I hope the matters we discussed have proven useful,” Ming said.
“I do not think it would be understatement to say I am still alive because of what you taught me. My occupation is, on occasions, quite hazardous.”
“I merely pointed out ways one can accelerate the healing process. Merely tapping into the power we all have. No more.”
“Still, my gratitude endures.”
“Nevertheless, you are not one for nostalgia, Mr. Kuryakin. What brings you to my humble abode?”
Kuryakin took a deeper look at Ming. He looked no older than he had those years ago in Manchuria. There were funny rumors about Ming’s origins. But he knew some questions were not meant to be asked. So he pushed those thoughts from his mind and returned to the business at hand.
“You are well informed about a great many things.”
“You are too kind, Mr. Kuryakin.”
“Perhaps,” the Russian said. “Nevertheless, I thought I might inquire about a certain figurine.”
“The Lady of the Five Moons, I presume.”
Kuryakin resisted the urge to grin. Ming’s manner was just the same as it had been before.
“Correct.”
“No one has actually seen it for many years. So what I am about to tell you is more than rumor but much less than established fact.”
“Go on.”
“There are stories of a man, an occidental. This man led a dual life. To some, he was a gentleman who partook of material things -- fine food, wine, the company of beautiful women. In the company of others, however, he dressed much more simply. To encounter this man in his latter guise, one’s best hope would be to simply avoid him.”
Ming’s expression did not change. Kuryakin remained quiet.
“The man’s real name is lost to the sands of time,” Ming continued. “As I understand it, he was known as Paladin. A most unusual man, especially in that he was quiet friendly to Chinese at a time -- oh what is the name? -- yes, ‘coolies’ were how occidentals referred to us.”
“What is the significance of this man?”
“The stories vary in slight details, but his one great failure was when he could not protect a woman. The woman’s family -- again, the veracity of these tales is in question -- provided the Lady of the Five Moons as payment. Yet, Paladin did not succeed. Although Paladin lived for a great many years after this, it is said he bore a heavy heart. Certainly, the Lady of the Five Moons was never seen after this.”
“Paladin,” Kuryakin repeated to himself.
“I believe the term bears a particular significance in the Western game of chess, does it not?”
“Mr. Ming, you have been kind, as always.”
“There is one thing you should know, Mr. Kuryakin.”
“Which is?”
“I am expecting another pupil. He turned out far different from you. A grave disappointment to me. His name is Thomas Wong.”
The information from the dossier flashed through Kuryakin’s mind. “I know the gentleman only by reputation.”
“You are most tactful,” Ming replied. “These are not my affairs, of course. Their outcome shall be determined by you and those who work with you. But I felt it worth bringing to your attention.”
The two men got up. Kuryakin bowed to Ming who returned the gesture. The Russian then left without saying another word.
***
Sitting in the back seat of the limousine, Thomas Wong looked ahead. No anxiety showed on his face. Someone meeting Wong for the first time might think him serene. They would be wrong.
The communications device buzzed. Wong reached for it slowly and deliberately.
“Yes?”
“The blonde man is leaving the shop.”
“Send your team after him. Also, dispatch someone to fetch me the old man. But someone proficient.”
“Acknowledged.”
Two blocks away, in an alley across the street from Ming’s shop, a tall Asian man put away his communicator. Five men watched him intently. Finally, one of them spoke. “Mr. Chung?”
“Highachi, go to the shop. The rest of you eliminate the visitor who just left.”
The group split up silently, with the tallest man, Highachi, veering in the direction of the shop while the others spread across both sides of the street, tracking Illya Kuryakin.
Paladin’s
journal, continued
I had the crossbow prepared. I walked a few steps as quietly as I could, picked it up. In the dark it was hard to determine exactly how far away the assassin was. He was expert in his profession, as I knew he would be. But my aim was accurate and he apparently believed the twig hadn’t been set there on purpose. Too bad for him. The single arrow struck him in the chest and he fell.
Kim Sing came and hugged me. I felt her warm, quivering body and at once it seemed that time had stopped. She paused for a moment and we looked at each other. I moved away, a dirty but necessary job ahead of me. I went to my supplies, took out the small shovel and walked to the dead Tong.
After making sure the man was alone, I spent the hour digging and placing the body in the grave. I would never know the man’s name. I killed many men in my time, most deserving, as he was. Yet, I usually knew their name. The thought was only a passing one. I returned to Kim Sing, kneeling on the ground in the moonlight.
“He will not bother you again. But I fear there could be others.”
“That is not important right now.”
She reached for my face and stroked it with her right hand. I reached up and held it for a moment. Then I began to kiss her. Twice briefly, followed by a much longer kiss. I do not recall whether it was I or she who pulled the other to the blanket on the ground. It did not matter. Who’s ever idea it was, the other offered no resistance.
***
An hour later, perhaps two, we laid there, fully clothed. She asked if I was happy. I was, but I indicated that happiness is transient. Like property, or fine food or even life itself is transient.
If I only knew how correct I was.
Somewhere in San Francisco, the present
It took Illya Kuryakin only moments to realize he was being followed. He hadn’t glanced back, but could see concern in the eyes of the few pedestrians he encountered. None of the people he passed dared to make eye contact with the Russian. The agent reached into the breast pocket of his suitcoat and extracted a pair of tinted glasses which he then put on.
Seconds later, he quickly turned down an alley. Immediately after doing so, he could hear the footfalls of men scurrying to keep up.
Kuryakin went behind a large trash canister. The first steps were coming fast, and they were the sounds of a man unafraid, even anxious. The thug met Kuryakin’s expectations. A man, dressed in a black jump suit, ran into the alley, stopped just past the trash container. Before the thug could turn in his direction, Illya rushed him, connecting with a karate blow to the back of the neck. The thug moved forward when Kuryakin, from a standing start, launched himself upward, kicking him karate style. The attacker fell, unconscious.
The agent turned, hearing whispering from just outside the alley. Suddenly, another man in a jump suit, began a series of somersaults with incredible speed. He landed on his hands, then pushed off, connecting with a kick to the Russian’s head. The acrobatic assassin managed to land on his feet and paused. Dizzy, Kuryakin tried a karate blow, but the attacker easily sidestepped him, striking a karate blow of his own against Kuryakin. The Asian man gloated just a little too long, however, and Kuryakin punched him. The Asian man staggered back and Kuryakin tried to clear his head.
Now, however, the remaining two thugs rushed into the alley, moving in for the kill.
Act III
“...The Jade White Coldness of Duty...”
Kuryakin faked one way, and the acrobatic thug was fooled. The agent then moved the other and struck another karate blow, sending the Asian man down hard. He could almost feel the rush of air as the two other assassins approached. Without hesitating, he reached into the pocket of his suitcoat, took out a lighter and threw it on the ground. Suddenly, the only thing that could be seen was a pulsating white light.
The two attacking thugs, still being carried by the momentum of their rush toward Kuryakin, tried to shield their eyes. Then, each ran into Kuryakin’s arms, which extended outward. The man on the Russian’s left fell and hit his head on the ground and was immediately out. The man on his right, though, was only staggered. Kuryakin kneed him in the stomach, then struck a karate blow. The man groaned as he hit the ground but didn’t get up.
Kuryakin then walked quickly out of the alley, his pace getting faster with each step.
***
Chung looked at his watch. Higachi wasn’t back yet from the antique shop. Nor had he heard from the four assassins sent to dispatch the Russian. The antique shop was closer, so Chung went in that direction. As he approached the entryway, he heard a noise from the side alley. Chung looked around and drew a semi-automatic pistol.
He moved cautiously around the side, his weapon poised. Then, he saw the body, about 20 feet ahead of him.
Higachi lay in a trash can, his neck at an odd angle. The eyes were glassy, looking nowhere and seeing nothing. Chung walked slowly, his senses alert. Then, he saw the small scrap of paper on Higachi’s lap and picked it up.
Dear Thomas,
I am not a fool, so please do not take me for one. A repeat of this folly will bring unpleasant reprisals.
The note wasn’t signed. But, Chung thought, it didn’t have to be.
***
Metropolitan
Museum
The police detective was tall and stout, with a large, bulbous nose and an out-of-style fedora on his head. He wasn’t in a good mood.
“Mr. Solo, is it?” the detective said, looking at the card. “The great U-N-C-L-E I’ve been ordered to cooperate with.”
“That’s right,” Solo replied.
The policeman took out a pair of reading glasses and looked at the identification a second time. “Napoleon? Is that your real name?”
“My parents had outsized expectations for me.”
“Cut the jokes,” the detective snapped, putting the reading glasses away. “I don’t like getting stuck with a homicide.”
“I’m sure Mr. Lehr liked it even less.”
“What’s your problem?”
“Wasting time on bureaucratic nonsense. I’m sure you got your nose out of joint--” Solo paused for a second, realizing the unintended pun, but continued hurriedly, trying to get past it, “--over having to cooperate with our agency. But I think this homicide is a sign this is a serious affair we have to deal with.”
The detective glowered. “I suppose you’re right, Mr. Solo. All right, I’ve got your statement. Go on.”
Solo moved away from the crime scene, watching Lehr’s body being taken away. The agent knew almost nothing about the dead man. What were his last thoughts? He blocked out the thought and began thinking of a rubbery assassin with the hint of an Irish accent.
Solo was now again amongst the Western paintings on display. I hope Illya is having better luck than I am, he thought to himself.
At that moment, an attractive woman with frosted hair approached him. The red dress accentuated her trim figure and the black stockings caught Solo’s eye.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for a Mr. Lehr,” she said.
Solo’s mind quickly returned to the assignment. “You haven’t heard?”
“I saw a lot of commotion with all those police cars...Mr. Lehr?”
“I’m afraid he was killed.”
A stern look came across her face, as if she might be cursing the fates or some such. Solo decided to probe.
“I’m sorry, by coincidence I had an appointment to see Mr. Lehr myself, miss?”
“Sabrina,” she said, quickly regaining her composure. “Sabrina Viacelli. I’m researching a book about San Francisco in the 19th Century. I had heard Mr. Lehr was an expert in the subject.”
“He certainly was,” Solo said, taking a quick glance back at the rear office. “It would appear to be yet another senseless crime.”
“Have they arrested someone?”
“No, but they have a description,” Solo said, not exactly lying, but not wanting to tip off the fact he had seen the killer. “A fellow with a pale face and red hair.”
The stern look returned to Sabrina for a moment. “I hope they catch him.” Her voice was genuine, a little too genuine. Why would she care that much about the death of a stranger. Unless....
“I do, too,” Solo replied. “I was hoping for his help. I’m trying to find out some information about an old figurine. Called the Lady of the Five Moons or something.”
Sabrina’s face lit up. “I’ve run across that in the research for my book. What’s your interest, mister...”
“Solo. Napoleon Solo. I know of somebody who feels it belongs to them.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, but I’ve got to run to another appointment just now. Of course, we could get together later to discuss the matter. Maybe I can be of help -- for your research, I mean.”
Sabrina arched her eyebrows. “Couldn’t hurt.”
“How about dinner? Say tonight around eight?”
“Well...I don’t know.”
“Think about it. I can be reached at the Monticello Inn.”
“All right, I...oh what the hell...sure. Dinner at eight sounds good.”
“Where can you be reached?”
“I’ll drop by your hotel.”
“It’s 127 Ellis Street,” Solo said. “If you don’t show, I’ll be gravely disappointed.”
Sabrina sighed, then smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll be there.”
Solo walked off. Sabrina waited a minute, then left the museum herself. For just a moment the stern look came across her face. “That pasty faced Irishman,” she muttered to herself.
***
U.N.C.L.E.
station, San Francisco
Solo entered the conference room where Kuryakin looked over various printouts.
“I heard you were keeping yourself busy,” the American said, taking off his suitcoat and hanging it on a coat rack. “How did it go today?”
“I think it was Thomas Wong’s men who tried to kill me, but I’m going through this material to make sure.”
“Oh?” Solo said. “You care to share more details?”
“Not for the moment. And how did your appointment go?”
“Nothing out of the usual. The man I tried to see had already been murdered by someone. Probably Kenneth Kilpatrick, based on the dossier I read, but I thought I’d re-read the file.”
Kuryakin looked up. “Nothing more?”
“Not for the moment,” Solo said sarcastically.
“Well, here, at least, is the confirmation,” Kuryakin said, ignoring the gibe. “All four of them work for Mr. Wong. Clearly, he means to possess the Lady of the Five Moons.”
“Well Mr. Kilpatrick is certainly an obstinate fellow and is prepared to do a great deal to get the Lady. On top of htat, I may have encountered yet another competitor, a woman.”
“You and a woman. That’s quite surprising.”
Solo frowned. “Yes, but I don’t recall her dossier mentioned in the briefing with Candace Workman.” Solo moved toward the table and hit a switch on the intercom.
“This is Records.”
“Yes, this is Mr. Solo. I need a background check. This is possibly related to the Lady of the Five Moons. Name: Sabrina Viacelli, though I wouldn’t want to vouch that’s her real moniker. Age, I’d say early thirties. Frosted hair. Try checking the list of the so-called routine people where the local authorities are assisting U.N.C.L.E.”
“Right away, Mr. Solo.”
“Did you encounter Mr. Kilpatrick yourself?” the Russian asked, still looking at the documents.
“Uh-huh. I take it you had a personal meeting with these operatives from Mr. Wong.”
“Correct.”
“Well, we’re off to a wonderful start. Mr. Lehr gets killed before he can tell me anything that might be useful.”
“The day hasn’t been a total loss. I’ve initiated my own Records check.”
“Oh?”
“Some historical information I picked up. I’ll let you know if anything develops.”
Solo frowned. So where did you go today, Illya? the American thought to himself. But he’d seen this before from his partner and knew it’d be fruitless to press the matter farther.
***
A little more than an hour later, Solo went by the Records office.
“I think you’ll find what you’re looking for, Mr. Solo,” the woman attendant said.
“Thank you, eh...?”
“Patricia. Patricia Eveready.”
“As in the battery?”
“With a name like Napoleon, you’re asking about unusual names?”
“People in glass houses,” Solo replied. “Thank you Patricia.”
Solo thought he saw Patricia arch her eyebrows just before he took the file. He was tempted to flirt with her a bit more, but figured he needed to concentrate on the matter at hand. Over the next fifteen minutes, he went over the file intently.
“Sabrina Viacelli, age 33,” he said to himself in the small conference room he had gone to for privacy. “Once attended Vasser, failed to graduate. Considered bright but didn’t apply herself.”
He paused
and re-read a couple of passages and mentally summarized them. At some
point, with the details not entirely clear, she had fallen into some bad
company while living in New York. She had become involved with one Jonathan
Bauch, a skilled criminal known for pulling elaborate stings. His new lover
became adept at being the honey for men with money without the smarts to
prevent them from spending it on questionable schemes. Bauch, however, was
found floating in the East River one morning, apparently having victimized the
wrong target.
Solo turned the page. Sabrina
Viacelli, forced to make her own way in the world, took what Bauch had taught
her. Always careful enough not to get caught, but indiscreet enough to
establish a reputation among law-enforcement officials. Three years ago, a
large shipment of diamonds was stolen. Viacelli was a suspect as was.....Kevin
Kilpatrick? Hmmmmm...the diamonds were never recovered.
The
agent began running the details of Kilpatrick’s dossier that he could remember.
That might fit...Kilpatrick’s standard of living began to rise sharply at
that time. Solo then began reading the report on Sabrina. If she was
involved, she must not have gained much. Doing OK, but not living the luxurious
life.
He tossed the file on a table and leaned back in the chair. “Looking for the elusive big score,” Solo said to no one in particular. “And willing to swim with the big sharks to get it.”
Minutes later, Solo dropped by the conference room where Kuryakin was still studying files.
“You’re working late,” Solo said.
“This history might prove useful,” the Russian replied. “At least it is worth checking.”
“All right. I’ve got a business dinner.”
“Blonde, brunette or redhead?”
“Frosted, actually.”
Kuryakin arched his eyebrows. “A new look?”
“Some research that might prove useful,” Solo said. “At least it’s worth checking.”
***
Solo got back to the hotel. He changed clothes and conducted a short, but intense, workout of situps, pushups and other exercises. After a quick shower, he put on another suit. Just as he finished tying the necktie, the telephone rang. Solo glanced at a clock. Two minutes before eight.
The agent picked up the telephone. “Solo here.”
“I’m down in the lobby,” Sabrina said. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Beautiful and punctual,” he replied. “Be right down.”
A few minutes later, Solo spotted Sabrina. She was still wearing the red dress and black stockings.
“Sorry, I travel light and didn’t have a lot of outfits to change into,” she said.
“Nonsense,” Solo said, with a hint of a smile. “That outfit is quite pretty. So, any preferences?”
“Not really,” she said, smiling herself.
“I know a place a short walk from here.”
Thirty-four minutes later, they were seated at a nearby restaurant. Their cocktails had just arrived -- a Scotch and soda for Solo, a Bicardi on the rocks for Sabrina -- and the order had been placed.
“So, you’re writing a book,” Solo said. “Must be a fascinating thing to do.”
“It’s a lot of work. You never know whether it will pan out or not.”
“Sounds like a line of work with a lot of uncertainties.”
“Something like that,” Sabrina said, sipping the Bicardi.
“I know about the Lady of the Five Moons. Where does a figurine like that fit into your research?”
“It’s a bit of lesser-known local lore,” Sabrina said. “It’s an interesting story. Might be the kind of anecdote to spice up the book, make it different. By the way, what do you do for a living?”
“I’m a consultant with the Hargrove Trading Company.”
“I thought you said you represented someone who claims ownership of the Lady.”
“No,” Solo said. “I said I knew of someone who claimed ownership. Being in international business you hear of a lot of things.”
“Is that right?” she asked. “I’m not sure I’ve heard of the Hargrove Trading Company.”
“It’s a family firm,” he replied. “My uncle helped me get on there.”
“Oh, I see,” Sabrina said. “Now that you mention it, I think I have heard of your firm.”
Her voice took on a serious tone. “So are you looking for the Lady, Napoleon?”
“Not for myself. I’m not even sure it’s intact. But if it is, my firm would like to make sure it gets into the proper hands.”
“Must be an interesting company.”
“It’s a living,” Solo said.
Sabrina stirred her drink. “Do you think the Lady still exists?”
“Somebody does. Or else poor Mr. Lehr would still be among the living. I’m under the impression the killer was interrupted before he could search Mr. Lehr’s effects.”
“How would you know that?”
“I can’t divulge my sources,” he said. “As a journalist, you could appreciate that.”
“Oh, yes, uh, sure.” She paused for a second then continued, this time with a longing in her voice. “Can you imagine what it would be like to possess something like that? What would you do if you could hold it?”
“It doesn’t belong to me.”
“But if you got a hold of something like that, it could be the answer to all your dreams.”
“I have everything I want.”
“Everything?”
“In terms of material goods, yes. I live reasonably well but life’s too short to worry too much about an extra car I may not drive.”
“Easy to say when you have something to begin with.”
“Perhaps,” Solo said. “But I’ve lost people who were important to me. I almost married one of them a long time ago. No amount of money could bring them back. But the memories remain.”
“A bit of the philosopher, Napoleon?”
“Perhaps,” Solo said. “As long as I’m on a roll, I’ll offer a bit more. The problem with pursuing something like the Lady of the Five Moons is that there’s always somebody else who wants it. Perhaps wants it more badly than you. If one wants to swim with sharks, one has to be prepared to be bitten.”
“Sometimes you don’t have a choice.”
“We all have choices,” Solo said. “Meanwhile, enough philosophy, I see the waiter coming with our meals.”
***
Illya Kuryakin rubbed his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kuryakin, that’s all I could find,” Patricia Eveready said. “Western history isn’t a major feature of most U.N.C.L.E. databases.”
“I’m sorry, it has been a long day. Please go home. I won’t be much longer myself.”
“You’re sure?” she said as her eyes met his.
“Positive,” Illya said, effecting a weak smile.
Patricia walked out of the conference room and Kuryakin looked at the few sheets of information she had provided. He sighed for a moment. It was little more than what Mr. Ming had provided.
Paladin, real name unknown, Kuryakin thought, analyzing the data he had read. Date of birth unknown. Settled in San Francisco sometime after the United States Civil War. Best known for hiring himself out to whoever would pay his price. Had a reputation for both high living and being extremely efficient.
Kuryakin chuckled to himself. “A kindred spirit, Napoleon?”
Best known for a distinctive business
card. “Have Gun, Will Travel.” Died 1906. Believed to be in his 70s. Died of
cancer in a San Francisco hospital. His residence at the Hotel Carlton
destroyed in San Francisco earthquake.
“More of a legend than a man,” Kuryakin muttered. He had hesitated to mention Mr. Ming’s information until he verified it himself. But that had proven to be next to impossible. He decided he would bring it up tomorrow.
***
Solo and Sabrina exited the restaurant, made a quick turn and began walking up Ellis Street.
“You still haven’t told me where your hotel is,” he said. “Want me to flag you a cab?”
“By pleasant coincidence, it’s just a few blocks from your own, a little west and a little north. It’s a lovely night for a walk.”
“Might be getting a little nippy.”
“I don’t mind.”
It wasn’t the weather that was bothering Solo. It was the feeling they were being followed. But he couldn’t spot any tail, and he was pretty sure it could only be one man. His instincts told him no attack was imminent; he and Sabrina had walked far enough by now. Had they intended to rush them, it would’ve been too tempting not to have done so by now. The famous San Francisco fog hadn’t rolled in yet, despite the late hour.
“Something wrong, Napoleon?”
“I suppose not,” Solo said. “So what’s on your agenda tomorrow?”
“Guess I’ll look for new avenues of research.”
“Well, just don’t get bit.”
Solo could feel Sabrina’s gaze. After a long silence she said, “We all do what we have to.”
He looked at her face and her pale blue eyes. He didn’t quite know what to make of the gaze. If the eyes are indeed the gateway to the soul, Solo got a mixed message. He saw both hurt and determination.
“I suppose you’re right. We all do what we have to do. Still, be careful.”
“Careful?”
“Sorry, it’s part of my nature to worry about beautiful women.”
“This is my hotel.”
“Travelodge?”
“It’s affordable. We all can’t stay in fancy hotels, you know.”
“Oh I’m not being a price snob. I just try to avoid the plastic hotels. Anyway, thank you for a lovely evening.”
He took her right hand and kissed it. Then he again looked into the pale blue eyes before giving her a brief kiss on the mouth.
“Sorry, was I being forward?”
“No, no,” she said. “I was hoping you weren’t going to stop at the hand.”
“Well, it’s late and I’ve got to get back,” Solo said, still feeling uneasy about the surveillance he sensed.
“Will I see you again?”
“Hopefully under the right circumstances,” he said. “Take care of yourself.”
She watched for a moment, as he turned and walked into the night, before entering the hotel.
Had Sabrina stayed outside a few moments longer, she would have seen a BMW drive by the front of the Travelodge. In the driver’s seat was a man with a pale complexion and a smile. But it wasn’t the kind of smile that puts you at ease.
***
Paladin’s Journal, continued
The next morning, I sensed a change in Kim Sing. She said nothing and I did not inquire further for I had other preparations to make. When I returned, she wore a new dress. Chee Yan stood there next to her. Although neither said anything, I knew what must have occurred.
“You’ve made your decision?” I said, though it wasn’t really a question.
“At the fourth gate, the jade, white coldness of duty froze her heart,” she said.
I looked at her. She herself held the torch to light the signal fire that would attract the attention of the ship now in Monterey Bay.
“Let me light the fire, Kim Sing,” I said. I could feel other eyes upon us and could see Chee Yan believed the same.
Kim Sing ignored me and began to walk toward the pile of wood. At that moment, a knife flew through the air.
***
Monticello Inn, San Francisco, the present