By Bill Koenig
Act I Act I
“The Storm Clouds Gather”
The Customs clerk looked up as the dark complected woman approached. She impressed even Harry Mendez, who fancied himself a ladies’ man and believed he had discriminating taste where women were concerned. Mendez admired her looks. While not the sculpted perfection of a model, her figure was sleek, sleek enough to make the plain dress seem like something from a designer. Her raven hair was shiny and full bodied. Her walk was lithe and catlike Mendez guessed the woman could make a burlap bag seem sexy.
“May I help you?” Mendez’s voice said, brightening. Normally, he’d say nothing and only react to the traveler here at John F. Kennedy International Airport. He couldn’t help but take an interest in this particular traveler.
“Only in processing this,” she said in a direct, businesslike tone. The voice was accented, Mendez guessed somewhere in Eastern Europe. He was more interested in the perfume that filled his nostrils, however.
“Let’s see, Katarina Delgato,” Mendez said, his voice still chipper.
“That is correct,” Katarina replied, her voice sounding leery.
“You’re from London. But you don’t look English.”
“And you, eh, Mr. Mendez,” she said, looking at his name tag, “do not sound American. Yet, I assume you are. So shall we dispense with the so-called pleasantries?”
Mendez’s shoulders slumped. “Uh, do you have anything to declare?”
“No. I travel light. Is there anything else?”
Mendez looked over the form and looked for a moment at Katarina. He glanced one last time at the dark eyes and alluring mouth before sighing. Whoever she would want is a lucky son of a bitch, he thought. But it finally sunk in she’d put any man in her place she thought went too far.
“All is in order. Have a pleasant stay.”
Katarina walked off without a word. Mendez grunted for a second before starting to concentrate on the next person.
***
Late November was a time the pace picked up even in hectic New York City. It was as if the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade set off a signal in every New Yorker to walk just a bit faster, crowd more into already busy days. Commuters from the suburbs tried to squeeze in a little bit of shopping over lunch, hoping not to fall behind entirely before the holidays approached.
For Napoleon Solo, shopping was always more complicated than for the average man. Even though his shopping list was hardly a long one -- being single and unattached with almost no family to speak of -- Solo also knew he might be jetting off somewhere at a moment’s notice. Hell, he might not even be alive when the holidays rolled around. Still, he was determined to get it done early this year. He particularly wanted to get April Dancer a present. She had come through at a critical moment during that Dabree business last summer. Had she and Mark Slate not shown up, Solo might still be stuck in that virtual reality hell. Plus, he admitted he was intrigued by April. He wasn’t sure which priority was driving his intention to get her the right gift.
As Solo went through the security entrance of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, his thoughts about shopping quickly melted away. The Asian receptionist had a familiar look on her face.
“Let me guess,” Solo said before she could speak. “I need to see Mr. Waverly right away.”
“Actually,” she replied, “he indicated that you make yourself available this afternoon.”
“Interesting,” he said. “Normally, when you have that expression it means I’m at least five minutes late.”
“All I know is he wanted me to relay that message. He called no more than two minutes ago.”
Solo fought back the urge to grin. The old fox playing mind games again. Of course, Solo always had that little bit of doubt whether Waverly was merely keeping his agents on their toes or whether he really had god-like powers.
A few minutes later, Solo was on the way to his office. He spotted Illya Kuryakin coming up the hallway. The Russian seemed preoccupied, but that was nothing unusual.
“Illya,” Solo began, “I have the feeling we’re going to have...”
Kuryakin walked right past Solo, not saying a word.
“...a meeting with Mr. Waverly later....today,” Solo said as his fellow agent continued down the hallway.
Solo arched his eyebrows for a second. “And good, morning to you,” he muttered. He went around the corner to his office, hung up his suitcoat on a coat rack. A copy of The New York Times was there on the desk. He sat down at the desk and took a quick look at the bulky paper. Normally, he’d scour the newspaper for any hint of trouble that might attract U.N.C.L.E.’s attention. But, already knowing that trouble was likely to make itself known shortly, Solo only glanced at headlines. Just before completing his examination, his eyes were drawn to a short story in the Science section.
The agent rubbed his chin for a moment. “Major psychics conference to convene,” Solo said , reading the headline out loud. He read silently for a second then spoke up again. “Among those slated to appear are Katarina Delgato of the Boothroyd Institute in London.”
Solo looked at his watch. Illya had gotten wind she was coming, of course. Solo leaned back in his chair for a moment, remembering the woman’s olive complexion and dark hair -- Illya’s old flame who had become involved in that assignment over a year ago.
The agent smiled briefly. He had seen Katarina react warmly those many months ago when she met Kuryakin at DeGaulle Airport, their first meeting in years. Illya had, as usual, been his cool, collected, almost aloof self. Suddenly, this passionate woman planted a big kiss on the Russian, right there in public. It was hard to tell which surprised Illya more -- the public kiss, or Solo’s approving look when he walked by.
A few months later, Solo had seen another side of the woman as well. Solo had gone to the London think-tank where she worked, accompanied not by Kuryakin but by April Dancer. Solo hadn’t exactly told her a lie, but he hadn’t told her the full truth, either -- namely, that Mr. Waverly didn’t want Illya on the assignment because of his relationship with her. Katarina Delgato was not a woman who appreciated the fine art of splitting verbal hairs.
Both incidents had led to separate encounters with Thrush. And during both assignments, Solo concluded she was probably one of the most remarkable people he had ever met. The dossier sounded so outlandish. A gypsy woman turns out to be a scientific prodigy, becoming one of the world’s leading physicists. If he hadn’t seen her himself, Solo would never have believed it. Twice becoming bait for Thrush, once the unknowing target, the second time a willing, if reluctant, volunteer.
Now, she was here in New York. And once more, Illya was acting more moody and withdrawn than usual.
“He knows she’s here, all right,” Solo muttered to himself.
***
The short bald man backed his way through the door, carrying a silver tray with two cups of steaming tea. He walked slowly up to the large, bearded African American man who methodically looked through the documents.
Novius looked closely for a moment at Leonard Exeter. It was as if the large man’s eyes were document scanners, picking up every single piece of information, digitizing them and storing them for future use. Exeter was perhaps the calmest man Novius had ever met. That was not to say Exeter was unemotional. The Thrush operative could cut a man to ribbons with but a word. Exeter did not yell or raise his voice, but hatred, or dismay would be contained within a phrase.
“Mr. Exeter?” Novius said softly.
“Hmmmm?” Exeter replied, suddenly looking up.
“I thought you could use some tea, sir. I was preparing some for myself.”
“Yes, that would be fine, Novius,” Exeter said, rubbing his eyes. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”
Novius sat down, adjusting his suspenders as did so. “Will the device work?”
“That is what we are to find out. Theoretically, it should do the job. But theory is not always reality.”
Novius sipped his tea. “I can understand the need to test. But why such a high-profile test subject?”
“High profile? Oh, the Delgato woman?”
“She is one of the top people in her field.”
“Absolutely,” Exeter said. “Her knowledge is very valuable.”
“But if the projections are correct....”
“Those projections are exactly why Miss Delgato was selected, Novius.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s not only her value as an intellect that is driving the test,” the bearded man said. “It is the opportunity for a unique brand of revenge. That is something that always interests Thrush.”
Novius took off his thick glasses and cleaned them for a moment before replacing them on his head. “Of course.”
Exeter sat up and leaned forward. “Enough of this,” he said. “The tea is excellent, Novius.”
***
Illya Kuryakin looked at the target and pulled the trigger. The fully assembled U.N.C.L.E. Special spat its round and his shoulder absorbed the recoil. He then raised his head and peered at the target.
The hole punched out by the bullet was at least a quarter-inch too low. Unforgivable, he thought. In the field, such a poor example of marksmanship might permit an adversary enough life to return a fatal volley of fire.
As he began to take apart the weapon, the woman who was overseeing the target range, Helga, brought over the scores as compiled by the computer.
“Not quite as high as usual,” Helga said, her hazel eyes peering hard at the Russian. “But just above the 90 percentile level. Nice shooting.”
“It’s that top 10th percentile that usually kills you,” he replied, continuing to put away the U.N.C.L.E. Special attachments.
Helga frowned but said nothing. Normally, Illya was circumspect and quiet, but today he seemed downright cold. Occasionally, she and her other girlfriends had talked about Kuryakin, the office enigma, as it were, wanting to know more about him. Despite his reserved manner, almost any of the single women employees would quickly leap at the chance to go out with him. But he never made an approach and, on occasion, never picked up the hints that were sent his way. Or, if those hints had been picked up, the woman herself had been as quiet and circumspect as Illya was.
Helga left the paper and went back to the desk without comment. Kuryakin picked up the sheet, analyzed it for a second and looked briefly at the red-haired woman. He thought for a moment about apologizing but Helga was already out of earshot.
He glanced at his watch. Nearly five. The day had been an uneventful one, studying routine intelligence reports, reading dossiers of Thrush operatives and other criminals, and, for the last hour or so, shooting targets. Then, of course, there was that e-mail he had received this morning.
Illya,
Arriving this morning for conference in NYC. Please be my guest at reception tonight at Waldorf Astoria at 8. Black tie. Look forward to seeing you again.
Love,
Katarina
Katarina Delgato. The one woman who could turn him into blonde-haired sentimental goo. It wasn’t that bad, of course. But during that affair at the Sorbonne, months ago, he had been swept up in a torrid afternoon of passion. He had always thought she looked exotic, and something about her direct manner reached into him. Being with her was intoxicating, and, like the man who had consumed just a little too much alcohol, he was a second or two too slow -- just when she needed protecting the most. They were lucky that Napoleon Solo turned up later to liberate them. Kuryakin grunted to himself. Over the years, he had met various people who fell prey to gambling, to alcohol, to drugs. For him, Katarina was his drug. And while he always looked forward to seeing her, she was also a weakness. He sighed for a moment. He knew he’d show up at the reception. It was preordained from the moment he got the e-mail.
Kuryakin completed disassembling the gun and put on his suitcoat. Before leaving, he decided to swing by Solo’s office. As the sliding door opened, Kuryakin saw the American at his desk, glancing at some papers. But he seemed preoccupied.
“Napoleon.”
“Illya,” Solo said glancing at his watch.
“It is time to go, unless there is something you need me to do.”
Solo looked at his watch and frowned momentarily. “No, I suppose not.”
Kuryakin thought the response odd. “You are sure?”
Solo got up. “Sure I’m sure. If a situation arises, I can always get in contact with you via your communicator.”
This time, Illya frowned. “Of course.”
Solo broke into a grin. “Don’t worry. Only a bona fide emergency will cause me to call. Good night, Illya.”
Illya waved, then began walking down the hallway before stopping. The way he reacted...does he know Katarina is here? He thought about asking, then turned back and kept walking. He wasn’t going to tempt fate and be delayed going to the reception.
Inside his office, Solo grinned again. He recalled how Illya had been acting funny around the office just prior to a vacation in Paris. Out of the blue, Solo had received an assignment there too and, his curiosity piqued, arranged to get booked on the same flight as Illya. After the plane arrived, and the passengers had cleared customs, there was this dark, raven haired woman planting a big kiss on Kuryakin, right in the middle of DeGaulle Airport. Illya was catching his breath when Solo walked by, flashing a thumbs up sign at the Russian. He then scurried away before Katarina Delgato could see him. Solo arched his eyebrows, remembering the shade of red on Kuryakin’s face that day.
Just then, the intercom buzzed. “Mr. Solo,” said Lisa Rogers, secretary to Alexander Waverly. “Mr. Waverly will see you now.”
Solo paused. Why did Waverly wait until now to summon him after instructing the receptionist to pass along the message to be ready. He sighed, knowing he’d never get the answer. “Be right there.”
The agent took his suitcoat off the coat rack in his office, put it on and began the familiar journey to Waverly’s quarters. A few minutes later, as he arrived, the old fox appeared as his usually did, sitting at the round conference table, reading some report. “Sit down, Mr. Solo,” he said, not looking up from the papers he was reading. Solo did as he was instructed.
“Is Mr. Kuryakin around?”
“No, sir. He went home.”
“Home?” Waverly responded, with a hint of testiness in his voice.
“Yes, sir. It is after five. However, he is on call, as it were...”
“Never mind. I’m of two minds regarding Mr. Kuryakin’s involvement in all this.”
“Would this involve Katarina Delgato, by any chance, sir?” Solo said, working to keep his best poker face.
Waverly’s eyes squinted for a moment. “You saw the item in The Times, then?”
“Yes sir.”
“We’ve come into some information that Miss Delgato may be in danger, yet again.”
“Thrush?”
“Most likely, but it’s all still rather fuzzy. I had the receptionist relay that message to you this morning, hoping we’d have more hard data. But nothing has turned up. Suppose I should have called you and Mr. Kuryakin in earlier. By the way, did Mr. Kuryakin say where he was going?”
“No, sir. Although, based on his manner, I wouldn’t be surprised if he perhaps might be seeing Miss Delgato tonight. I believe the paper mentioned a reception of some kind connected with the conference she’s attending.”
“You’d better get over there yourself,” Waverly said, taking an envelope from the bottom of his stack of papers. “Here’s an invitation. It’s black tie.”
“Any instructions?”
“Just keep her under observation for now. If Mr. Kuryakin is there as well, so much the better. We need to find out more before taking further action. That’s all, Mr. Solo.”
Solo looked at his superior for a moment. Did the old fox know more than he was telling? Perhaps. But he also knew the energy spent debating the point was probably wasted. “Yes sir,” he muttered as he left the office.
***
The Waldorf Astoria towers over the intersection of 49th Street and Park Avenue, a reminder of a time when New York’s glitter was not tainted. Now part of the Hilton chain, it retains its uniqueness, though also showing its age in spots. Even Illya Kuryakin, not a man to whom glitter had much appeal, could appreciate the character of the building.
Kuryakin entered through the 49th Street entrance, into the large lobby. It was an unusually warm November evening, and the agent had not bothered wearing an overcoat over the tuxedo. He took the invitation out of the breast pocket of the tuxedo jacket, to see which of the ballrooms was the site of the reception. He found a directory, found his destination listed and headed toward an elevator.
On the ride up, Kuryakin thought about the last time he had seen Katarina. It was following her second encounter with Thrush, in Japan. Napoleon Solo had insisted he and April Dancer would make the official report to Waverly, leaving himself a few days with Katarina. It was just as intense an experience as Paris had been.
That was more than a year ago. Kuryakin had been back to Europe several times since, and could have seen her again. Most recently, a few months ago, he and Solo had been in London during that affair with the so-called “eco-terrorists.” Kuryakin could have easily arranged a visit. Yet he had not. Perhaps, he mused, it was the feeling of not being in control.
The door to the elevator opened, breaking up the thought. He walked a short distance and saw the ballroom. A thick, dark haired man was looking over invitations closely as people went inside. Kuryakin took his out. The large man read it, then glanced at the Russian. “I hope you have a pleasant evening.”
Kuryakin went on inside. The room reeked of opulence, the kind of opulence that, to Kuryakin, felt suffocating. No matter how many times he had attended affairs like these, Kuryakin always felt out of place, like a serf in the home of the king. He disliked the escapism involved, men and women dressing up for a fancy dress ball, oblivious to the world outside.
He continued walking for a few moments until he stopped dead in his tracks. He spied an olive-skinned woman with raven hair talking to a tall, bearded African American man. Katarina glanced back and her dark eyes locked on Illya. She immediately broke into a smile, motioned to the man she was talking to wait for a moment. She then walked briskly to Kuryakin. They stood, staring at each other for a moment before she held him by the hand and kissed him lightly on the lips.
“Illya. It is wonderful to see you, as always.”
“It has been a long time.”
“Much too long.”
The large man came up to the couple. “So this is the man for whom you have been waiting, eh?”
“I am sorry. Dr. Littleton, this is Illya Kuryakin, an old classmate of mine from the Sorbonne. Illya, this is Dr. Leonard Littleton.”
Kuryakin shook Littleton’s hand. It was large and powerful, and Kuryakin thought Littleton could break a bone if he wished. Littleton was tall, over six foot, and his erect posture seemed to make him even larger. Kuryakin wasn’t sure why but felt something was wrong.
Act II
“A Cold Front Pushes Through”
“Mr. Kuryakin, a pleasure,” Littleton said.
“Likewise,” the agent replied. “I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with your work.”
“Oh, I am here merely to listen to the papers that are to be presented. I’m basically taking a break from a research project.”
“Forgive me, Dr. Littleton, Illya and I have much to discuss,” Katarina said, starting to nudge Kuryakin away.
“Of course, dear lady. I am sure I will see more of you.”
Kuryakin racked his brain. The name Littleton meant nothing, and he was certain he had never met this man before. But he knew something had to be wrong.
Twenty-five feet away, Napoleon Solo caught the tail end of the scene. He could sense that Katarina was looking for a convenient corner to take Kuryakin. But the tall African American man also caught his attention. He seemed familiar somehow, but Solo couldn’t place him.
A tall, blonde woman in an evening dress had just introduced some guests. Solo hoped she was a hostess of some sort. Perhaps she would know.
“Excuse me.”
The woman turned around, her eyes locking on Solo. “What can I do for you, mister...?”
“Solo, Napoleon Solo.”
The woman smiled and had to stifle a giggle. “You can’t be serious.”
“Well, my real name is John, but I decided that was too plain.”
“I’m sorry. Seriously, do you need to be introduced to someone?”
“Well, it’s a little embarrassing, but that gentleman over there,” Solo said, gesturing toward the tall man. “I met him at some other function and I’m embarrassed that I can’t remember his name.”
“Oh, that’s Dr. Leonard Littleton. I believe he’s from a European university. I saw his name on the invitations but don’t remember his affiliation. I can take you to him if you’d like.”
Solo arched his eyebrows. “No, no. I’ll reintroduce myself. Just wanted to avoid a little embarrassment.”
“A pity,” she replied. “My name is Joan, Joan Van Ardsdale. I’m acting as hostess for this affair, but I really don’t know many of the people involved.”
Solo resisted the temptation to sigh. Duty calls, remember. “Perhaps we can talk more some other time when we’re both off duty.”
Solo moved into the center of the room, trying to keep an eye on Littleton with the corner of his eye. Suddenly, it hit him, but he needed to run a check. Taking one more glance around, he wandered to a vacant corner of the ballroom. There was a window, which provided a magnificent view of the city. The agent pretended to look out, while he reached into his pocket for the pen communicator.
“Open Channel L,” Solo said quietly into the device. “Code nightingale.”
There was a pause. “Research here, Mr. Solo,” a woman’s voice said.
“I need a quick geographical check. Is there a city, town or village called Littleton in the state of New Hampshire?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Littleton. L-I-T-T-L-E-T-O-N, within the confines of New Hampshire,” he said firmly.
“Just a moment,” the voice responded with a hint of exasperation. A pause ensued for several seconds. “A town of about 4,600 people, in the northern third of the state, near the Vermont border. Any particular significance?”
“Perhaps. Thank you, that’s all. Solo out.”
Solo turned, catching a glimpse of Illya and Katarina off in one corner of the ballroom, while Leonard Littleton was on the opposite side. Solo had never seen the man in person, and the dossier was skimpy. But it had to be him, the “man from New Hampshire,” as he had once called him. A tall, African American man who had successfully pulled off a number of operations for Thrush. His apparent real name was Leonard Exeter, though so little was known of his background that, too, might be an alias. While his cover identities varied greatly, he always used the name of a city in New Hampshire as a surname. Solo even had a personal grudge, of a sort. It was Exeter he was trailing when the Thrushman dumped a load of special spikes on the road that caused Solo to crash his former car, the Nissan 300ZX.
“I always liked that car,” the agent said softly to himself.
***
Exeter wasn’t sure at first because the man was far away. But a second glance confirmed his conclusion. It was Napoleon Solo, no doubt checking up on his Russian friend and the woman scientist. The U.N.C.L.E. agent appeared to act nonchalantly, but to the trained eye of the professional, he was moving in a deliberate manner. Exeter wondered if Solo had recognized him. They had never met face to face. During that farce with Dabree a few months ago, the deranged old woman had insisted on making the virtual reality test a personal vendetta. Exeter was all too happy to stay in the background, save for getting the old bitch out of the nursing home, where she had laid incapacitated. Perhaps Solo had learned enough he had an idea of who he was dealing with. He played with the lapel of the tuxedo jacket, where a small transmitter was hidden.
“Novius here,” Exeter heard through a small earphone.
“I believe Mr. Solo may have a suspicion who I am,” he whispered into the transmitter. “I suggest a nice reception.”
“I shall arrange one now,” Novius said.
Exeter began to head for the exit.
***
“You look well,” Kuryakin said.
“I would feel much better if you did not try to act so detached,” Katarina said, peering into the blue eyes. “I know you are, by nature, reserved. But I sense you are uneasy.”
Kuryakin silently chortled. “You were always adept at sensing moods.”
“Why, Illya?”
“Partly, it is the nature of what I do. Permanent attachments are generally discouraged.”
“I’m quite aware of what you do,” she said, taking a sip from the glass of champagne. “There is something more. Is it me?”
“No. I---”
Just then, he glanced and saw Napoleon Solo. Katarina looked in the same direction and recognized the American agent.
“Your colleague. Spying on us?” Katarina said, her voice rising. “What is the meaning of this?”
Kuryakin, though, hardly heard her speak. Instead, he looked ahead and saw he was trying to catch up to Dr. Littleton. The tall man still didn’t register with Kuryakin, but he knew his instincts were correct.
“No, I don’t think so,” Kuryakin said, not completely sure, but convinced that Dr. Littleton had something to do with Solo’s presence here.
“Are you quite sure? From what I have seen, Mr. Solo can be a manipulator of events and persons.”
“Reasonably sure.” For a second, Kuryakin pondered whether to assist. But if Solo had needed help, he would have requested it by now. So, Illya opted against doing anything for now.
“Illya, I did not come to this conference to listen to scientific papers being discussed,” Katarina said, her words piercing his thoughts. “I came because I hoped you would be here.”
“The mountain coming to Mohammed, so to speak?”
“An adept metaphor,” she replied. “Although I suspect even some rocks are more talkative than you are sometimes.”
Kuryakin glanced briefly at his partner, then turned his attention to Katarina. Twice she had been the target of Thrush. Could it happen a third time? Suddenly, duty and emotion intersected. “Come, then. You have my undivided attention.”
***
Littleton, or Exeter, or whoever the man was surprised Solo. The man moved catlike, despite his size and bulk. Solo broke into a trot to reach the elevator before the door closed.
The agent looked up into the emotionless, bearded face. Littleton/Exeter was two inches or so taller but seemed to tower above Solo.
“Another refugee,” Solo said.
Littleton/Exeter blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Sorry, I assumed you wanted to get out of that stuffy reception a little early.”
“I suppose so,” the man replied.
“You must be Dr. Littleton,” Solo said.
“That’s right.”
“From the University of California at Los Angeles?”
“No, MIT.”
“Of course. I should have recognized it in your voice.”
The tall man blinked again. “My voice?”
“Yes, I thought I detected a trace of New Englander in it. Let me guess, Maine? No. How about New Hampshire?”
For a second, and only a second, Solo caught a glare out of the impassive eyes. “Afraid not.”
“C’est la vie.”
The elevator stopped at the ground floor, and Littleton/Exeter walked briskly out, trying his best to ignore Solo. He moved quickly out the Park Avenue entryway but Solo kept up the pace. The agent half expected to see Littleton/Exeter hail the nearest cab, but instead the tall man turned and walked north on Park Avenue, into the cool night. While the evening had started out warm, the temperature was starting to drop.
The Thrushman -- and Solo had no doubt now that this was Exeter -- walked another block or so, before taking a quick right turn into an alleyway. The agent tensed, then continued. If this was indeed the man responsible for reviving Dr. Dabree, he was a cunning opponent. But this was an opportunity, as well.
Solo edged into the alley, paused, then let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Off in the distance, he heard footsteps, like dress shoes clomping on concrete. But before he could move, Solo could sense a figure starting to drop on him. The agent moved, but the falling person clipped Solo, causing him to stumble. The attacker, dressed all in black, tried to move in to press his advantage. But Solo was ready, moving to the side and striking a blow on the thug’s back. The attacker turned to look at Solo and moved in again. Once more, Solo moved to the side, but the attacker connected with a glancing blow to the side of the head. Dazed, Solo had the presence of mind to trip the thug. As the man fell to the ground, Solo leaned over and connected hard with a karate blow.
Solo’s head throbbed, but the sounds of two more sets of footsteps caused the adrenaline to kick in again. More by feel than by sight, Solo turned in time, to block a karate blow from a second attacker. He could also hear a third man starting to move around to the side. The U.N.C.L.E. agent knew he had to end this fast.
Solo struck the second man with the heel of his fist, the blow causing the attacker’s jaw to whip backward violently. He then grabbed the thug and whirled him around as third man began to launch his attack. The karate blow connected with the back of the second man’s head. Solo heard the crack of bone and felt the second man become limp from the embrace of death. The agent did his best to throw the body into the third attacker. The move caused no real harm, but the thug was unsteady on his feet for a second, which is all Solo needed. He formed fists with his hands and hit the man simultaneously on both ears. The man felt for the sides of his head and hunched over. The U.N.C.L.E. agent then kneed the attacker in the stomach and knocked him unconscious with a karate blow.
Solo’s chest heaved as he caught his breath. He was ready for another wave but none came. And there was also no sign of the undoubtedly bogus Dr. Littleton, either. He took out the U.N.C.L.E. pen communicator and began to get ready to send a message. Just then, he could hear the two surviving thugs starting to gasp for air. He leaned over and only now saw they had been wearing dark snow masks. He ripped off the mask of the first attacker. His eyes were starting to bulge and his body jerked violently for a second before he, too, was still. He looked over to the third man who convulsed before Solo could reach him.
The agent stood up, took in a deep breath, then activated the communications device. “Calling Channel D. Solo here. Need a clean-up team to deal with three Thrush birds. They appear to have taken the usual performance drug. I’m near the intersection of 50th Street and Park Avenue. Activating signal beacon.”
“Understood. Team will be on its way.”
“Acknowledged, Solo out.” He looked around at the carnage but resigned himself to waiting.
***
As Illya and Katarina exited the ballroom, Kuryakin glanced at his watch. “Is there somewhere I can take you?”
“My room is on the 12th floor,” Katarina said. Kuryakin looked into the dark eyes again. Her gaze verified that fact.
“I see,” the Russian said deliberately. “Isn’t this hotel a bit expensive?”
“Oh, I wasn’t planning on staying here for the entire conference. I have more modest lodgings near the university. But I thought tonight would be appropriate to have a room here.”
Kuryakin cleared his throat. “I seem to remember from college you were well prepared.”
Before she could answer, the whine from the communicator filled the air. The Russian reached at the breast pocket of the tuxedo jacket, causing the sound to cease.
The dark eyes turned suspicious. “Your Mr. Solo, I suppose.”
“One moment, please,” he said, holding up his right index finger. He walked over a few steps, then readied the device. “Kuryakin here. If this is you Napoleon, it had better be good.”
“Ah, the worm turns,” Solo said.
“The worm what?”
“Never mind. A team of U.N.C.L.E. agents is attempting to discreetly remove the remains of a Thrush party. The usual performance enhancing drug was probably ingested.”
“Where are you?”
“Just a few blocks away from the hotel. Given Miss Delgato’s bad experiences with this particular flock, I doubt it’s coincidence. Keep a close eye on her, Illya. For the rest of the night, if you have to.”
Kuryakin cleared his throat. “You and your orders.”
“I could substitute another agent, if you’d like. In fact...”
“Never mind,” the Russian said.
“Good. Get in touch with me around mid morning tomorrow. We’ll need to confer. By that time, we can arrange some other surveillance. Solo out.”
Kuryakin put away the communicator, then turned back to Katarina.
“Well...?” Katarina said.
“It appears your preparations were not in vain,” Kuryakin said. “After you.”
***
Novius came in as soon as he heard that Exeter had arrived.
“The team...”
“Will not be returning,” Exeter interrupted. “It appears Mr. Solo must know more of my background than I had expected.”
“That’s impossible. He never saw you during that previous encounter, only Dabree.”
Exeter chuckled. “Perhaps he finally figured out my little signature, eh? In any event, the fools were unable to eliminate him. Now, U.N.C.L.E. will be on guard.”
Novius took off his thick glasses and began to wipe them with a lens cloth. “Perhaps the test should proceed with a less prominent subject, someone who would not be missed.”
“No, Thrush Central was most explicit,” Exeter said. “This is a matter as much of revenge as it scientific testing.”
Novius put the glasses back on. “It will be more difficult.”
“Undoubtedly,” Exeter said, untying the bow tie to his tuxedo. “I believe it will require a bit more cunning. And perhaps some additional personnel.”
“As it turns out, she is available,” the assistant said, handing Exeter a dossier. “She can be here on less than 12 hours’ notice.”
Exeter looked over the papers carefully. “She’ll do splendidly.”
***
Katarina stirred, reached for Kuryakin and was surprised to find him sitting up in the bed, reading a book.
“Ohhhh, you are exasperating,” she said, sitting up and pulling the sheet up.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You seem so nonchalant about it.”
“Hardly,” Kuryakin replied. “I merely had trouble getting to sleep. Rather than toss and turn all night, I decided to read.” He smiled briefly for a moment. “Do not take as a critical comment of what occurred before.”
Katarina passed her hand through her raven hair. “You have a unique romantic style.”
He leaned over and kissed her briefly. “It is my own. I cannot help that.”
She returned the kiss. “I know. Yet, you seem preoccupied. What is it?”
Kuryakin pondered for a moment how forthcoming to be. He knew Katarina was headstrong; trying to avoid the truth entirely would be futile, but a complete disclosure might not be productive.
The Russian breathed deeply, then let it out. “U.N.C.L.E. thinks you might be in danger, once more. Thrush is known for being quite persistent.”
“I thought your organization destroyed the weapon this Thrush was trying to develop.”
“We did.”
“So why would Thrush...you mean revenge, of some sort?”
“Perhaps. There really isn’t a whole lot more at this moment,” Kuryakin said. “Still, I would advise being careful around strangers.”
“To me, nearly everyone is a stranger.”
“Beg pardon?”
Katarina smiled. “It is of no consequence.” She leaned over and kissed him again, this time harder and longer than before. “So you are to protect me?”
“I don’t think this is the preferred technique.”
She reached up and pulled him down just as he finished the sentence.
***
The waitress poured Napoleon Solo another cup of coffee. “Still expecting your friend to join you?”
Solo glanced at his watch. It was just after 10:30. “Hopefully, he’s only running late.”
The waitress walked off without comment. Solo looked around the coffee shop once more and saw no sign of Illya Kuryakin. He began to read the paper again, but put it aside. At that moment, Kuryakin entered the coffee shop. Solo avoid the temptation to sigh.
“I am sorry for being late, but I ran home for a change of clothes. I figured it might look a bit conspicuous to meet you here still dressed in a tuxedo.”
“Of course,” Solo said, arching his eyebrows. “How is Miss Delgato?”
“She checked out of the hotel this morning and headed for the university. I made sure our man was following her. It was Kapiloff.”
“Dov, eh? Well, he’s a good man, if a bit too sure of himself.”
“Perhaps he emulates role models.”
Solo made a dirty face, then reached into the pocket of his suitcoat and put an envelope on the table. “You’ll find your credentials to the conference in there. You’re a physics professor at Empire State University. Don’t worry, it’s under your own name.”
“That’s a relief, knowing your penchant for preposterous cover identities.”
“My aren’t we frisky, this morning?”
“Frisky?”
“Never mind.”
“What will you be doing?”
“I have my own papers,” Solo said. “I’ll be part of a think tank with an interest in the conference. Not the greatest cover, but about the best we could do on short notice.”
The waitress came by once more. “What’ll your friend have?”
“Nothing for me, thanks.”
“Big spender, your friend,” she said and walked off again.
Solo reached into his pocket and put some dollar bills down. “Nothing like service with a smile. You go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”
“Why?”
“I’d like to finish my coffee. No sense wasting it. Besides, you have a body to guard.”
Kuryakin rolled his eyes and left.
***
Solo approached the massive Science Building at Empire State University. It was at least 10 stories tall, and its exterior featured intricately cut limestone. A picture was carved into the limestone, featuring various figures, including a man looking through a microscope. While Solo was looking upward, he bumped into a hurrying man.
The agent was nearly bowled over by the force of the collision and felt dazed.
“I’m sorry,” said the man, who looked older than the average college student. “Are you all right? My name is Parker, if there’s anything I can do.”
“I’m fine,” Solo responded. The man looked of average height and weight but the agent thought he packed a whallop. Solo guessed the brown-haired man must have been in his mid 20s, probably a graduate student.
“It’s my fault,” Solo said. “Wasn’t looking where I was going. Listen, do you know which floor the big physics conference is taking place on?”
“Sure, it’s on the seventh floor. Gotta run,” he said as he started to dash off.
As he watched Parker run off, Solo heard the whine of his U.N.C.L.E. communicator pen. He looked around, and walked off to the side before setting the device.
“Solo here.”
“Kuryakin here. I have relieved Mr. Kapiloff.”
“Where are you?”
“Kata, er, Miss Delgato has attended sessions the last two hours. She wants to go for lunch soon, away from the campus. We’ll probably go somewhere nearby. There’s a passable place called the Runcible Spoon, I’m told. And yourself?”
“Just outside the Science Building. I’m going to take a look around. Check in with you later.”
The agent put the device away and went inside the Science Building. After disembarking the elevator at the second floor, Solo went to a table and registered using the papers supplied by U.N.C.L.E.
“Mr. Solo is it?” said a woman who was manning the table.
“That’s right.”
“Unfortunately, you’ve arrived just in time for the midday break. They held five smaller sessions this morning. Everyone will go to lunch, then reconvene in 90 minutes for a general session.”
“The delay was unavoidable, but hopefully I can catch up,” Solo said as he took the credentials.
He began to look around when, down the hallway, he saw a rush of people from one of the sessions that had just ended. One of the first people out was a brunette woman, quite attractive. The only thing out of place was the black plastic rimmed glasses. She carried a notebook and seemed not to notice anyone. Solo wandered over and intercepted her. The brunette seemed startled for a split second before assuming a more confident manner.
Solo took her glasses off. “My, my Serena, these aren’t becoming at all,” he said, as he began to peer through the glasses. “If you want these to do any good, you’re going to have to do more than just put in clear plastic.”
Serena took back the glasses, folded them and put them in the pocket of the conservative dress and suit she was wearing. “You know you will only draw attention to yourself, acting in such a forward manner. These are respectable academics, after all.”
“Well, maybe, that’s not all bad,” Solo said. “Perhaps these conservative academics would be interested to know that a Thrush operative is in their midst.”
“Ah, it is good to see you still know how to play the game, eh?”
“Only when I know the rules.”
“There are no rules, you know that.”
“Let me guess. Thrush fixed you up with some credentials so you appear like one of the attendees of this gathering.”
“Just as U.N.C.L.E. has with you, I suspect.”
“Touché. The question is where do we proceed from here?”
“I think it should be obvious. You need to protect Dr. Katarina Delgato from coming to great harm. That is your assignment, is it not?”
“Maybe it’s only supposed to seem that way.”
“What? This is all a trap for me? You flatter me, Napoleon. But I do not think so. The most prudent action would be for us to discuss this at some neutral site.”
“Oh?”
“My relationship with Thrush is a bit more detached than some of those you’ve encountered. I believe I once said I work strictly on commission.”
“So you did. Just before you sprung a big surprise on me.”
“What? Getting in the shower with you? I was under the impression you rather liked that.”
“Afterwards, I mean. You remember, love, that nasty knockout gas. I woke up with quite a headache.”
“Yes, but I also helped you out of that fix, remember?”
Solo smiled. “Because of feelings for me or because it was the expedient thing to do?”
Serena arched her eyebrows. “We may never know. But you’re wasting time, and you know it. I might be willing to discuss this Delgato woman. You never known until you try, eh?”
Solo wanted to sigh but held back. At best, it was a long shot, at worst another trap. At the same time, it was an opportunity, one that might not come along again. Once more, he played his hunches and his gut.
“After you.”
***
The Runcible Spoon was founded during the days of the counter culture, it now attracted people because of its nostalgia value. On the walls, were small pictures of Jimi Hendrix, Janet Joplin and other now-dead music stars. A classic styled juke box had a selection of primarily late ‘60s music, though a closer inspection showed they were on compact discs.
Katarina Delgato took a drink of iced tea. “So, how do you like it? I am not very familiar with American culture.”
“Well, I have lived here many years but American culture was never my strong suit,” Kuryakin said. “By the way, what did you mean this morning when you said nearly everyone was a stranger?”
Katarina stared for a moment, then put the glass of tea down. “Once I left the gypsy tribe to pursue my education -- the education papa insisted I pursue -- it was as if I had been exiled.”
Kuryakin remembered the anecdote but thought it best not to interrupt. “When Papa died a few years ago, I went back for the funeral,” she continued. “The members of my tribe were polite, at least as polite as gypsies can be to outsiders. But it was clear I was no longer one of them. I work in London, but I am not British. I visit America, but am not American. I am estranged where ever I go. Is it the same with you?”
The Russian cleared his throat. “Somewhat. It is the nature of the job. One does not enter into too many deep relationships in my line of work.”
“Yet you are friends with that American, though for the life of me I do not see why.”
Kuryakin grinned for a second, then pointed to the salt and pepper shakers on the table. “Think of it as seasonings that complement one another.”
“Always the pragmatist.”
“Always,” Kuryakin repeated.
Just then, the waiter arrived with their orders. Had Kuryakin looked up he would have seen a bald man with thick glasses. Instead, he looked ahead at Katarina. The waiter glanced at the two people, then scurried back to the kitchen. He went toward the back corner, looked around, then activated a fire alarm.
***
Serena opened the door to the small apartment. “I am afraid my lodgings are a bit sparse.”
Solo looked around, seeing it was a three room apartment, containing little more than bare necessities. “A bit of a comedown from your usual style.”
“Sacrifices have to be made in emergencies.”
“So Thrush considers Katarina Delgato an emergency situation?”
Serena drew closer to Solo and kissed him once. “Actually, I consider this an emergency situation.”
“Business first,” he said as he drew away.
“Now it is you who is straying from his usual sense of style.”
“Sorry, it’s just I generally prefer leading physicists to remain safe.”
He looked into Serena’s eyes, but couldn’t tell anything. Anxiety? Concern? None of the above? Then he took a deep breath and exhaled. This was a game that would take some patience.
“On the other hand, I have a duty to make sure beautiful women stay safe as well,” Solo said, as he embraced Serena again. They kissed one short kiss then a much longer one. Solo’s back was to the bedroom, so he didn’t see the black clad man silently leave the closet. The man drew a large knife as he inched toward the couple.
Act III
“When It Rains...”
Solo shoved Serena onto a nearby cot, then turned and struck the thug in the stomach. The attacker was caught so much off guard, Solo could feel all the breath leave the man at once. The U.N.C.L.E. agent then grabbed the man’s right arm -- the one with the knife -- and executed a judo throw, causing the knife to drop.
Solo paused, which he realized, an instant too late, was a mistake. The thug immediately rose and rushed Solo, causing both men to tumble to the floor. The attacker quickly reached for Solo’s throat and began to squeeze. The agent strained to chop at the man’s shoulder blades to no avail. Feeling the breath beginning to leave him, Solo then hit the thug in the ears with both fists. The Thrushman let go, and Solo connected with a right cross. He forced the thug off of himself and struck a last karate blow to knock out the Thrushman.
The U.N.C.L.E. agent stood up, began to straighten his tie and looked at Serena, still sitting on the couch.
“Serena, really. That old trick?” Solo swallowed, realizing he didn’t sound quite as collected as he had attempted.
“Under the right circumstances, it can be effective.”
“Like when?”
“Like right now. It did the trick, you merely guessed the wrong one.”
Solo squinted, then groaned. “A decoy.”
“Correct. You can try and interrogate me or try to rescue your friend Kuryakin. But I don’t think you’ll have time to do both.”
Anger rose through Solo but he kept it bottled up. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the pen communicator. “Channel L, for Mr. Kuryakin, please.” Seconds passed. No carrier wave was established. Serena sat there, not outwardly gloating, but Solo could sense she was pleased she had executed her part well.
“You and I have a score to settle, Serena.” Solo then rushed out the door.
***
“Ahh, what is that noise?” Katarina said.
“It’s the fire alarm,” Kuryakin said. “Follow those people out the door, but stay calm.”
“Calm I can be, but that amount of racket is quite unnecessary.”
The couple arose and stayed behind about a dozen customers. They were out on the street in a couple of minutes. Kuryakin heard another noise, this time a siren as a fire truck pulled up.
“That’s odd,” the Russian said to himself. “How did they respond so quickly.
The tires on the fire truck screeched, and a half dozen men scrambled off the truck, already wearing masks and tanks on their backs.
“Katarina!” Kuryakin said.
It was already too late, however. Instead of going inside to the restaurant, the firemen started spraying a mist from their tanks into the crowd. One of them immediately spotted both Katarina and Illya and both received a strong whiff of gas before Kuryakin could pull out his U.N.C.L.E. Special. Two of the firemen moved in and dragged them to the fire truck. Meanwhile, smoke was now streaming out of the restaurant. The result was mass confusion among the fifty or so people that were now watching the scene.
A half block away, Napoleon Solo was sprinting. Glad they were going to a restaurant with such a distinct name, he thought.
He could now see the back of Kuryakin’s head as the agent was being strapped down on top of the fire truck. He could see black smoke and white haze. He was still 250 feet away as the fire truck began to move. With the crowd, he couldn’t risk a shot with the Special, but he had to do something. Solo took a deep breath and summoned the rest of his energy to run harder than before. The truck was pulling away but Solo saw a fireman holding on the back of the vehicle. The agent leaned over and grabbed the man by his coat, dragging him off the truck and onto the pavement. The bogus fireman tried to kick Solo, but the U.N.C.L.E. agent avoided the flailing leg. Then, Solo stomped on the man’s left knee. He yelled in pain, but that left Solo an opening and he struck a karate blow, putting the man down.
Solo’s chest was heaving as he saw the fire truck disappear. At the same time, sirens were coming from the other direction. The agent took out his pen communicator. “Calling Channel L. We’ve lost the merchandise. Need immediate help with the authorities. Location: an eatery called the Runcible Spoon near Empire State University.”
“Acknowledged. Mr. Waverly isn’t going to like this,” said a voice from the other end.
Solo glanced down as he heard the phony fireman starting to gasp for air. He leaned over but knew yet another thug was about to expire from the Thrush death drug.
***
Two hours later, Solo walked into Alexander Waverly’s office. The Number One of Section One was standing by his office widow, staring at the United Nations Building.
“Let me see if I understand, Mr. Solo,” Waverly said without turning around. “You lost both Miss Delgato and Mr. Kuryakin, have few clues to their whereabouts and let one Thrush operative go. Is that about it?”
“Yes sir,” Solo said dejectedly.
“Perhaps I should have let you explain that scene to the authorities by yourself,” Waverly said as he turned around. “But I haven’t the time to engage in such pleasant daydreams at the moment.” The U.N.C.L.E. chief’s voice was cold, the kind of cold that penetrates to the bone.
Before Solo could speak, the intercom at Waverly’s round conference table buzzed. He walked over and flipped a switch. “Yes, Miss Rogers?”
“George Dennell has some information, sir.”
“All right. Yes, Mr. Dennell, what is it?”
“Uh, yes,” Dennell said, as usual sounding nervous when addressing Waverly. “We found a small trace of a chemical on the body of the dead Thrushman. It’s quite a mouthful, but is generally known as HCFC.”
“HCFC?” Solo said. “Is that got something to do with CFCs, the stuff that destroys the ozone layer?”
“Yes, Nap, er, Mr. Solo,” Dennell said. “It’s a less potent version of CFC, it reacts more slowly with the ozone level but it, too, was phased out along with CFCs.”
“Mr. Dennell, I am not a scientist,” Waverly said testily. “What are, or were, these chemicals used for?”
“Various things. Refrigeration for air conditioners was very common. Also they have been used for cleaning things like computer circuit boards.”
“Circuit boards?” Solo said. “Hmmmm.”
“Yes, Mr. Solo?”
“Well, it’s only a hunch, sir.”
“That’s more than we had two minutes ago.”
“Well, assuming it is Leonard Exeter we’re dealing with, the last time Illya and I encountered him, he was apparently helping to develop that Thrush virtual reality device. Maybe he’s working on either a new version of that, or some other machine with electronics. In any case, it would probably be a device with complicated electronic circuitry. Might explain why one of his personnel might have traces of such a chemical.”
“An interesting theory, though not one that does us much good at the moment.”
“Not by itself, but it suggests some kind of front, perhaps some sort of electronics related firm -- perhaps a brand new company.”
“Napoleon! I think you’ve got something,” Dennell said over the intercom. “Er, Mr. Solo, I mean.”
“Get cracking on that notion, both of you. Whatever Mr. Exeter is planning, I doubt he’ll be so considerate as to wait on us.”
***
The blackness began to lighten, but only gradually. First there was a gray spot that gradually expanded, crowding out the black. Then the gray gave way to a brown, which in turn yielded to a bright yellow. Illya Kuryakin finally opened his eyes but the light forced him to squint, so he shut them once more. He could feel the tightness of the bonds around his chest and his arms behind him. He knew at once he was bound, sitting in the chair. These were sensations he was all too familiar with.
Kuryakin opened his eyes once more and saw Katarina Delgato sitting next to him, also bound in a chair. She was starting to awaken. Before he could look further, a noise diverted his attention. A tall man in a lab coat was adjusting some large machine. The control panel had a series of lights, but Kuryakin couldn’t deduce their function. It could be anything from a mainframe computer to a computerized tool-and-die machine. But, knowing Thrush’s involvement, no such innocent use was likely. Then, he saw a cylinder extending from the control panel out several feet. At the end of the cylinder, there was a transparent round object.
Then, a tall African American man entered the room. “Ah, Mr. Kuryakin,” said the large man who had gone by the name of Dr. Littleton last night. “We’ve not met formally, though I have had the pleasure of your company. I am Leonard Exeter.”
“Ah, yes. The ‘man from New Hampshire’ as one of my colleagues calls you.”
“That would be Mr. Solo, no doubt. I am impressed. I made such an effort to avoid detection during that ridiculous Dabree business.”
Katarina began to stir. “Where...?”
“Dr. Delgato, sorry for the inconvenience, but the U-N-C-L-E forced me into taking more melodramatic steps than I had hoped.”
“Dr. Littleton?”
“No, as I was explaining to your, eh, benefactor, my real name is Leonard Exeter. I have a little quirk. I like to use the names of cities from my home state for cover identities.”
Kuryakin thought the voice was quite cold and clinical. Some of the adversaries he had encountered engaged in theatrics at moments like this. Exeter was talking as if he were blandly reciting his favorite recipe.
“What is this? You are from this Thrush?” Katarina said, anger creeping into her voice.
“Precisely. And Thrush has a long memory, Dr. Delgato. Exactly why you’ve been chosen for this.”
“Chosen for what?” Kuryakin said.
“Let me answer with a question. Mr. Kuryakin, can you imagine the benefit of being able to directly access the information of, say, an Einstein or a Goddard?”
Kuryakin said nothing.
“Diaries and journals are helpful, of course. but if you store the knowledge, the data, it would be quite useful.”
“You are talking nonsense,” Katarina said.
“Not so, doctor,” Exeter said, pointing to the device where the technician continued to work. “This device will do just that.”
“Do just what?”
“Take the knowledge, directly from the human brain. Not only hard facts, but memories, analysis. After all, what are thoughts but a form of energy?”
“I have the nauseating feeling there is some sort of complication involved,” Kuryakin interrupted.
“Quite true,” Exeter continued. “Ideally, you would want the copying to be like copying a computer program. You would duplicate the program on a disk, but the original program still is functional.” He looked back for a moment, then resumed. “This device makes the transferal a one-way journey. The information has been transferred, but the original -- in this case, the original person -- is left a mindless vegetable.”
“You’ll forgive me if I sound skeptical,” Kuryakin said.
“I don’t blame you. Thrush Central wants a practical demonstration. And, it would seem Dr. Delgato’s cooperation with your organization is still a sore point with some members of the Thrush hierarchy. Hence, if the transferal is to leave its subject a brainless idiot, who better than someone who cost your organization quite dearly?”
Kuryakin felt his mouth go dry.
“Two objectives are obtained at the same time. The valuable information inside her brain, and revenge. A bit late, but still sweet, nevertheless.”
The technician walked slowly in Exeter’s direction. “Sir?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“I shall need more time. One of the circuit boards will need to be replaced.”
“No hurry,” Exeter said, turning his attention to the captives. He motioned, and two guards entered the room. “Take them to the holding cell. It appears the experiment will take longer than expected. If they move, kill Mr. Kuryakin here, but only maim Dr. Delgato.”
Kuryakin tensed as the guard began to untie him, but his arms and legs felt numb. An attack now would surely be folly. He looked again at Katarina and thought he saw panic or anxiety in her eyes. Who could blame her?
“In a way, this will be better,” Exeter said as they were led away. “You’ll have time to reflect on your follies before the procedure.”
***
Solo pecked away at the computer in his office. He nearly jumped when the intercom buzzed.
“Solo here,” he said, flipping the switch.
“Napoleon, it’s George,” Dennell said, excitement rising in his voice. “I think I’ve got something.”
“What is it?”
“A company called Lanconia Enterprises set up shop three weeks ago, here in the city. It’s near the harbor, but the permits indicated they’d be involved in light manufacturing. Supposedly they do some assembly of machine tools.”
“Lanconia...wait a minute. George, you got an Atlas handy?”
“Let’s see....yeah, I sure do.”
“Look in the index. Is there a Lanconia, New Hampshire?”
“Well, let me...hey, whattya know. There sure is. How’d you guess that?”
“I think our Thrush friend got cute one time too many. Thanks, George.”
Solo flicked another switch. “Lisa, I need to talk to Mr. Waverly, pronto.”
“You’ve got something?”
“Yes, but I think we’re going to have to be a bit discreet -- at least at first.”
“What?”
“I’ll explain later. “ He paused then flipped the intercom switch again. “Mr. Waverly, please.”
Act IV
“Barometric Pressure Is Rising”
Jesus Barreiro was the first of the men to stow away his fireman’s gear. As he closed the locker, the man nearest to him, Conrad Rollins, was still putting away his rubber fireman’s boots.
“Too bad about Richard, eh?” Barreiro said.
“Not too healthy to think about things like that,” Rollins answered. “Ever notice how they gave us a stimulant right before the raid and again when we got back?”
“What about it?”
Rollins only shook his head.
Just then, Barreiro looked up and saw Exeter’s assistant, Novius, enter the locker room. It was the first time Barriero had seen the odd looking little man wearing a suitcoat. Normally, he went without one, and Barreiro figured that Novius liked to show off his expensive suspenders, with their solid gold clips.
“One of you didn’t make it,” Novius said coldly.
“Yeah, Richard.” Barreiro said.
“What happened?”
“Some guy ran up just as we were pulling out. Grabbed Richard off the end of the truck.”
“Unfortunate.”
Novius whipped out a silenced semi-automatic pistol, hitting Barreiro in the forehead with his first shot. The others tried to run, but the bespectacled man only needed one to get each one. Rollins had gotten the farthest away, about two steps. Novius’ shot hit him in the spine.
A few minutes later, Leonard Exeter sat at the desk in his small office. He raised the glass of ice water to his forehead and held it there for several seconds. He continued to hold it up even when he heard the knock on the door.
“Enter.”
Novius came in. “The task is completed.”
Only then did Exeter lower the glass. “Was it difficult?”
“Hardly.”
“Good. Is the technician about ready?”
“Another twenty minutes.”
***
The fork-lift truck driver maneuvered the vehicle out the rear door. His load was the last of several metal drums and he took it to the dock at the rear of the building. He lowered the drum and turned the fork-lift truck around .
“Excuse me.”
The man turned around. A dark-haired man approached. The pants to his navy blue suit had sharp creases and the suit itself looked practically new. The stranger looked ridiculously out of place on a dock.
“What do you want?” the driver said sternly.
“Well, much as I hate to admit it, I’m lost,” the man said. “I’m looking for an address.”
“Listen, I don’t have time to give out directions.”
“Oh, really?” the man said.
“Get the f--”
The man yanked the driver off the idling fork-lift truck and slammed him to the ground. The driver tried to struggle but the man struck a karate blow and the driver fell unconscious.
Napoleon Solo dragged the Thrushman behind some crates. The agent then reached into his suitcoat pocket and took out a small kit which contained a syringe. Solo found a vein and jammed the needle home.
“Open Channel D,” Solo said after taking out his pen communicator.
“Strike force ready, Mr. Solo,” said Helga Thorstrom, one of the newer enforcement agents.
“I’m about to go in. Do you remember what to do?”
“Wait 30 minutes. If no word by then, we rush in. Correct?”
“Correct. Solo out.”
The agent then began to take the jump suit off the unconscious Thrushman.
***
Illya Kuryakin strained to reach the back heel of his shoe. His hands were tied behind him and his right hamstring was hurting. But he needed to stretch another inch. Katarina, who knew as much as she cared for about the Russian’s work, stayed quiet but watched carefully.
Finally, he could feel at the heel of his shoe. It took him several more seconds to extract the small, sharp knife from the heel. Kuryakin pinched at the object with his fingers and began working on the ropes. Katarina kept watch on the door of the small storage room as Kuryakin sawed at his bonds. Finally, the ropes gave way and Kuryakin rubbed his wrists, trying to restore circulation. A couple of minutes later, he had Katarina untied.
“What other trinkets do you carry?” Katarina said.
“Unfortunately, they got most of them,” Kuryakin said, patting down his suitcoat. “To get out of here, we will need some sort of diversion.”
“If it gets us out of here, I know what to do.”
About 100 seconds later, the guard outside the storage room heard the sound of boxes falling over. He immediately prepared his Thrush rifle to fire, paused at the door, then opened it quickly and cleanly. Five feet ahead of him lay the Delgato woman, seemingly unconscious, her dress hiked well above her knee. He moved forward about a foot and then tensed. He wasn’t quick enough, however, as Kuryakin launched himself, kicking the guard in the head. The agent then scrambled up and struck a karate blow. Katarina bolted up and closed the door nearly all the way. She peered out, seeing no other guards as Kuryakin kneeled down and used Katarina’s ropes to bind the unconscious guard.
The scientist looked back. “You would think some of these mercenaries might think with their brains instead of their other organs.”
“Let’s be thankful he didn’t follow such advice,” Kuryakin said as he finished tying up the guard. He then picked up the Thrush rifle. “Let’s try and get out of here.”
***
Solo cursed silently as he drove the fork-lift truck inside the building. The guard’s jump suit was at least one size too large. He could only hope the ill-fitting uniform wouldn’t give him away too quickly.
He was now inside a rear loading area. He parked the truck and moved deeper inside the Thrush front. He kept his head down as he started to walk past guards. He moved into a corridor, with offices on either side. Solo decided to follow the corridor, hoping to get his bearings and figure out where to look for Kuryakin and Katarina.
The agent was now in a large, central room, with various computers along the wall. On the far side of the room was a tall machine, perhaps seven feet high. The device was plain, except for a cylinder protruding that had some kind of transparent round object at the end. Solo kept moving, seeing a desk with a clipboard on top. He grabbed the clipboard and began to pretend to read the papers on it. In the corner of his eye, he saw a familiar figure. He froze for a split second before starting to walk again.
“Where is he?” Serena said to a guard.
“I don’t know..”
Then, the tall bearded African American man who had called himself Dr. Littleton appeared, coming out of a nearby office. At this point, Solo could only think of him by the slang nickname of the man from New Hampshire. The Thrush official was accompanied by a shorter, bald white man whose glasses seemed as thick as Coke bottles. “What are you doing here?” the New Hampshire man said coldly.
“My instructions were to assist with security,” Serena said sharply. “From the news accounts I heard, Mr. Solo nearly foiled the abduction despite being delayed by myself.”
“I’m not worried about Mr. Solo,” Exeter said dismissively. “Nor should you be now. You have accomplished what I needed. Your services are no longer required.”
“You are foolish to dismiss Solo so casually.”
“And people such as yourself and Dr. Dabree worry too much about particular adversaries. If Solo shows up, he will be dealt with. That will be all.”
Serena’s eyes glared for a second. “No, I will stay for the test procedure.”
“Just stay out of my way.”
Serena walked away, in the direction of the tall device. Solo’s eyes followed her for a moment, then returned to the New Hampshire man. There, he saw the bald man nodding his head.
“Uh-oh.”
The bald man nodded again, this time in Solo’s general direction. Before the agent could move, two guards had rushed up from behind and were grabbing his arms. Solo managed to trip the one on his right before the guard could get a good grip. That enabled Solo to turn and nail the other with a hard karate blow. The guard was only dazed, however, and Solo launched himself into a kick from a standing start, nailing his opponent in his head. The first guard, however, had gotten up and rushed into the agent, sending both men sprawling to the floor.
At that moment, Illya Kuryakin and Katarina Delgato were in another corridor. They heard the commotion, and Illya motioned for Katarina to stay back a few feet. He edged to a door and realized this was the main room, the one that contained the machine Thrush wanted to test. A guard was rushing by, and Kuryakin tripped him with the butt of the Thrush rifle. After the man fell to the floor, Kuryakin struck him in the head with the rifle butt and quickly relieved him of a semi-automatic pistol.
Katarina now moved swiftly next to him. “I’ll take that,” she said, grabbing for the pistol. She extracted and checked the magazine and took off the safety in seconds.
“Gypsy knowledge is always useful, I suppose,” Kuryakin said.
“Illya, that’s Mr. Solo over there, isn’t it?”
Kuryakin looked and saw Solo fighting off two guards. He also saw other security men starting to come into the room. There, off to one side, the Thrushmen spotted the Russian and the gypsy scientist and were getting their weapons ready to fire.
“It looks like Napoleon’s going to have to take care of himself for a bit,” Kuryakin said, firing the Thrush rifle. “Get back in that corridor.”
Katarina fired the pistol and one of the three guards dropped from a leg wound. Kuryakin said nothing as the couple retreated back into the corridor.
***
The guard on top of Solo connected with two, three blows to the body. Solo took a deep breath, arched his back and flipped the man over. As fast as he could, he got up and struck a karate blow. He clipped him again on the temple to make sure he was out.
Before, the agent could catch his breath, he fell backward from a kick to the head. Novius had gotten a running start and flew into the air, connecting just when Solo was least prepared. The U.N.C.L.E. agent staggered and tried to concentrate. Novius moved in, hitting Solo on both sides. Solo screamed, feeling one rib crack.. With all the energy he could muster, Solo managed to connect with his own blow, a backhanded slap. The bald man’s glasses flew off as his head snapped back. But Novius recovered and kicked Solo in the stomach.
The U.N.C.L.E. agent staggered backwards, finding himself edging toward the device in the central part of the room. Solo glanced backward for a moment then peered ahead as Novius had his hands rigid, karate style, ready to strike the death blow.
The Thrushman rushed in. Solo stood for a moment, then moved to his right at the last possible second. Novius’s hand smashed the panel, and sparks flew outward. The bald man began to convulse. The rancid smell of burning flesh filled Solo’s nostrils just as Novius collapsed.
***
Kuryakin shot one more guard before he and Katarina got back into the corridor.
“I think they will not be so quick to rush us,” he said.
“Yes, but we don’t have much ammunition. This pistol has five more shots.”
“Yes, and this rifle can’t have many more.” He checked the weapon. “Correction: no more.”
Three guards burst through the door into the corridor. Katarina fired her weapon twice, while Kuryakin grabbed the first man by his ears, yanking him into the Russian’s raised knee. A fourth guard paused and began to raise his hands.
Kuryakin took the fourth guard’s weapon. The two guards Katarina had shot were still alive, but Kuryakin wasn’t sure one of them would make it.
“What do we do now?” Katarina said.
Kuryakin was already thinking. The mission was to protect Katarina, something which intersected with his own feelings, an event that rarely happened in his profession. But he knew Solo might need help. Dammit.
The Russian hit the fourth guard with a karate blow, then grabbed Katarina by the arm and began to take her out the back. “But your friend,” she said, then stopped talking. It’s his orders, she thought, He has to protect me, even if... She let the thought lapse as he had to hurry her pace to keep up with Kuryakin.
***
Solo caught his breath. Off in the distance he had heard an exchange of gunfire and scuffling. Illya...did he get her out?
Before he could move, a massive fist struck Solo, causing the agent to stumble. It was Exeter coming for him. The tall man connected again with a backhanded slap and Solo fell back again.
Solo’s vision was clouding. He needed just a few seconds to clear his head. But the New Hampshire man moved amazingly quick for someone so big.
“You have no idea what Novius meant to me,” Exeter said, an undercurrent of anger in his voice. He yanked Solo up and threw him to the floor once more.
“I criticized Dabree for being obsessive about you. Perhaps the old woman was right. But now...”
Solo could only see a cloud now but thought he heard a muffled sound of some sort. Phffft.
The agent shook his head, and his vision cleared. Exeter still towered over him. But something was different. There was a trickle of blood coming out of the corner of his mouth. He started to turn around but collapsed. Behind him stood Serena, holding a Thrush rifle, with smoke coming out of its barrel.
“Deja vu,” she said.
Solo struggled to get up. “You two have a falling out?”
“Let us say, Mr. Exeter and I did not see eye to eye.”
“What?”
“Thrush has its office politics, just as any large organization. Now, my love...”
Serena clipped Solo on the temple.
***
The black began to clear. When it finally did so, Solo could see Kuryakin looking at him.
Solo tried to speak, but the pain from the cracked rib caused him to grunt at first. He cleared his throat. “Delgato...did you get her out of...”
“Yes,” Kuryakin said flatly. “We had effected an escape while you were fighting as it turned out. She can handle weapons quite expertly.”
“I seem to recall that myself,” Solo said.
“I just wasn’t sure whether you’d..well...”
“You’ve said it before Illya. I’m both good and lucky,” Solo said before groaning once more. “Though this kind of luck leaves a bit to be desired.”
Just then, Dov Kapiloff and Helga Thorstrom approached Kuryakin. “The facility is secure,” Kapiloff said.
“Good, help me up,” Solo said.
“Napoleon, I don’t think that’s advisable,” Kuryakin said.
Solo gestured and the junior agents helped him stand up and steady the enforcement chief. He looked in the direction of the device, still smoldering. A blanket covered Novius’ body, which lay several feet from Exeter’s.
“What was this wonder toy anyway?” Solo asked.
“I guess you’d call it an information extractor,” the Russian said. “It would remove information from one person’s brain.:”
“Remove?”
“Yes. Exeter said it could not copy information, merely take it. The subject would be rendered brain dead. They wanted to use it on Ka--, Dr. Delgato.”
“No deposit, no return,” Solo said.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
***
Two days later, Solo dined with Kuryakin and Katarina at the Runcible Spoon. Katarina still looked at Illya with affection. But, while Kuryakin had gone to the rest room, Katarina looked as if the suspicion she felt toward Solo had been lifted. She hesitated, then began to speak.
“Mr. Solo, in the past I have not always held you in the best regard...” Katarina’s voice trailed off.
“Actually, as I recall, I haven’t always been the most forthcoming when involving you during an assignment. A natural reaction on your part.”
“It is just, your injuries, well...”
Solo winced, thinking about the bandaged ribs underneath his dress shirt. “Hazard of the profession.”
“When Illya took me away while you were still in there, I could see great pain in his eyes.”
“He did what he was supposed to do. Under other circumstances, I know Illya would have helped me right then and there. But with Thrush having captured you once, he had to get you out.”
“Still, I think it has bothered him a bit, though he does not show it.”
Solo grinned. “He rarely does.”
Kuryakin returned to the table. Solo thought Kuryakin had squinted for a moment. Before he could say anything, Katarina’s gaze was again on the Russian.
“You know we don’t have much time,” she said.
“I know,” Kuryakin said.
Just then a voice could be heard throughout the restaurant. “Paging Mr. Solo. Please come to the telephone.”
Solo glanced over at the couple again. Katarina had locked onto the object of her affections once more. Saved by the bell, Solo thought. After all, three’s a crowd.
He got up, saying nothing, but he could tell Katarina had plans on how to spend that time. Solo then walked to the front of the restaurant and asked for the phone. The hostess pointed to a corner, where a telephone was on the wall. But when Solo put the receiver to his ear, all he heard was a dial tone.
Solo began to reach for the U.N.C.L.E. Special in the shoulder holster hidden by his suitcoat. But Serena was already there. The red dress and black stockings she wore accentuated her figure. “Deja vu,” she said.
“All over again,” Solo said. “After that farewell love tap, I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again.”
“I had the feeling with a couple of U.N.C.L.E. agents on the premises that more would follow,” Serena said. “And I was right, wasn’t I?”
“True enough,” he replied. “But won’t Thrush be a bit angry, office politics or not?”
“It has already been established in the records that Mr. Exeter perished at the hands of either Solo or Kuryakin. There was too much confusion to tell. And besides, it was Exeter’s responsibility that Kuryakin escaped with Delgato and Solo infiltrated the base.”
“Your office politics can be a little rough.”
“Never mind that,” she said. “Do you really want to go back there?”
Solo glanced back at Illya and Katarina.
“Not unless it’s absolutely necessary,” he said. “By the way, there are three U.N.C.L.E. agents out front and three out back in case you were thinking of kidnapping Dr. Delgato.”
“All I want to do is rescue you from that awkward dinner,” she said.
“It depends on what you mean by rescuing.”
“It’s an idea I think you’ll like,” Serena said.
He did.
THE END
Authors love feedback.
To send Bill a note, click below: