Children of the Night Aff 2/5-13 (Rated: R)
***
Oliver began to pace at the foot of the bed. “I’m sorry I had to break your communicator, but you have no idea how dangerous radio waves can be! Voices and images going through the air. Aren’t telephones enough? At least the voices are trapped in the wires.” He paused and shuddered magnificently, then noticed Napoleon staring at him. He swallowed and tried to compose himself. “I’m afraid you’re not seeing me at my best.”
“Well, I’m not quite at my best at the moment either,” Solo said sympathetically. He smiled, hoping to defuse the tension.
Oliver tried to smile back, but the corner of his mouth twitched, and he ran his slender fingers through his wavy mane of chestnut hair. “All right, let me think. I wanted to keep you here, safe from Veracity for at least one night. But now, with the radio waves…” He chewed his bottom lip for a moment. Then his stomach growled loudly. And all that blood on your clothing is making me dangerously hungry.
“I assume we’re still safe here,” Solo said, motioning to the heavily barred door. “Why don’t you tell me more about the radio waves? Why do they disturb you so much? Don’t you watch television? Listen to the radio?” He thought of the city’s most popular station. “You know, WABC? Dan Ingram? Cousin Brucie?”
“Well, there is a television … or rather, there was one in my other house. I watched it from time to time.” He nodded. Then his voice grew intense, as he added, “But I took precautions. I never let it view the entire room. I made sure I was in a corner, out of its line of sight. And when the program was over, I unplugged it and covered it with a blanket.
“Radios used to be more trustworthy, before they started sending images through the air. Nowadays, who knows? Don’t you see? If the waves can enter your home, they can also leave it, and there’s no way of telling what information they carry away with them or whom they carry it to. I dislike being spied upon.”
At this point, Solo decided it probably wouldn’t be such a good idea to explain to Oliver what his own profession was. “I see,” he said as reasonably as possible. “And, ah, what makes you think the television might work two ways?”
Solo really didn’t care what the answer was. He was just stalling, wasting time. When the homing beacon cut out, no doubt Connie had contacted Illya to let him know. Solo knew where the city morgue was located, and at this hour, it shouldn’t take too long to cut across town, especially the way his partner drove.
Unobtrusively, the agent stole a glance at his watch. Come on, tovarishch.
Oliver began rummaging in the armoire. “I don’t think you realize, my friend, that if I hadn’t shown up when I did, you would be quite dead by now.” He turned back to the bed with an armful of shirts on hangers and a pair of scissors.
Watching him, Solo couldn’t figure out what Oliver could possibly be up to, but then, the agent had just about given up on logic here. Right now, all his focus was on survival and getting the hell out of this room alive. He gathered up the stray gold cufflink in his uninjured fist and held it ready, his thumb against the clip.
And if we don't get you out of that bloody shirt, thought Oliver, I shall be too aroused to think clearly. Veracity was feeding on you, but for me, the taste of human blood is an aphrodisiac, not an appetizer. Aloud, he said, “You'll be more comfortable in a clean shirt. I'm going to cut that sleeve so we don't disturb your wrist. Or would you prefer to do the cutting?” Oliver laid the shirts on the bed and held out the scissors handle-end first.
“Sorry,” Solo said. “Can’t handle scissors in my left hand. “Go ahead. Be my guest.” He held out his right arm, the soul of accommodation. This should take at least ten minutes, he thought, acutely aware of the time passing.
Oliver snipped quickly through the shirtsleeve above the makeshift splint, then snipped up the sleeve through the shoulder and collar. “There. No, don’t move. I’ve done my share of quick fixes.” He kept the scissors moving, snipping from the cut sleeve on down the front of the shirt to the hem, until the entire right side of Solo’s bloodstained shirt literally fell off his body.
As he snipped, he talked. “When vampires are involved, there always seems to be a lot of sudden departures.” He tried to smile, but he winced instead. My God, his blood smells so good! I must feed soon, but how? I can’t leave him unprotected.
“You don’t say,” Solo remarked casually, his tone belying the fact that he was watching the movement of those scissors very carefully. The deadly cufflink was still in his fist. One snap and the room would be flooded with enough knockout gas to put an army to sleep.
Oliver moved to the other side of the bed. “If you’ll let me pull this shirt off you, we can put a clean one on. I’ll slit the sleeve to allow for your wrist.” As he spoke, he was pulling the shirt down Solo’s left arm. “Then we can leave.”
“Leave?” Solo said. He had no intention of budging an inch. He turned slightly, ignoring Oliver’s request. “Why do we have to leave? I’m really not feeling very well.” Which was actually the truth. He had a splitting headache and expected that if he tried to stand up, he’d be too dizzy to walk. He’d lost blood and it was going to take some time to recover.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. But you see, Veracity knows about some of my hiding places, and she is also very wise in the modern ways of radio waves. I’m afraid she may be tracking us down at this very moment. That door will hold against humans, but Veracity has a knack for entering where she isn’t wanted.” His tone was bitter when he spoke of her. “If she gets in here, in this small space, I may not be able to protect you. Now please, let me remove the shirt.”
Wise about radio waves? Now, what did that mean? That she might have planted a tracer on him? Solo had to admit it was possible. Whatever she’d sprayed him with had knocked him for a loop. He’d been unconscious for a time while she was attacking him, he knew that.
“You know, Oliver, we could have used that pen you destroyed to check for, ummm, radio waves. It had a device inside it to pick up the signature of a tracer. But I really don’t want to leave yet. That door should hold for a bit and I have some weapons that might hold them off.” Until help arrives. Solo almost completed the thought aloud, but didn’t. Oliver was so paranoid, it might not come as good news.
Oliver frowned in disbelief. “Weapons? Are they invisible? What sort of weapons?” He stopped abruptly and put a finger to his mouth. He moved to the barred door, put his nose to the crack around it and sniffed up and down. Then he sighed with relief and returned to Solo.
“Forgive me. I thought I heard something, but it was nothing. No scents but ours so far. He sat on the edge of the bed, and his eyes were drawn to Solo’s neck wounds. A moment later, he had to wipe his mouth. Good grief, I’m drooling. “You said you have weapons?” he croaked.
“Just one, actually” Solo lied, “but it’s pretty powerful.”
“Only one? What is it?” Oliver asked as he moved toward the chest of drawers. His back was to Solo as he rummaged in the bottom drawer. When he stood up and turned around, he was holding a coil of white cotton rope.
Solo looked at the rope, then at him. “Ah - Oliver. What is that for?”
Oliver hefted the rope in his left hand. “Oh, it’s quite comfortable. Very soft. If I’m going to carry you to safety in your weakened state, it may be wise to secure you to my back. Like a lifeline. We have to leave before Veracity discovers our location.”
“No, Oliver,” Solo said evenly, “I don’t think so.” He was vulnerable enough, now; damned if he was going to allow anyone to tie him up to boot. He looked at Oliver and explained very carefully and clearly, like a teacher instructing a student: “I have, right now, in the palm of my hand a device that is filled with sleep gas. All I have to do is squeeze my fist and the seal will break and this entire room will be completely flooded with the gas in about five seconds. You and I and anyone who might be here will be unconscious in less than ten. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
Oliver dropped his hands to his sides, the picture of despair. “You don’t understand anything about me, do you? I’ve tried to explain who and what I am, but you refuse to believe me.” He sighed wearily. “I don’t even know why I’m trying to save you. It just seems like the right thing to do.” He ran a hand through his wavy hair and shifted to a more pragmatic tone.
“Well, actually, yes, I do know. If Veracity kills you, then there will be many questions, and your devices have made it clear that you are probably some kind of policeman, and I have learned over the years that killing policemen brings only tragedy. To me. So I am forced to save you from Veracity, whether you like it or not.
“So, if you must use your weapon, please do so. You’ll be a lot less trouble unconscious. And I will hold my breath and move faster than you can imagine to unbolt that door and reach fresh air. Then I’ll come back in for you, tie you, and take you with me. Go on. Do it.”
Not only was the man delusional, Solo thought, but he fancied himself Superman as well. “Okay, Clark Kent,” Solo said. He almost smiled; as weird and desperate as the situation was, he couldn’t help it. “Why don’t you just stay over there like the friend you claim to be and we’ll just wait for my own people to arrive? All right?”C’mon Illya. Where the hell are you?
“Ah, now I understand. You are laboring under the hope that your friends will arrive before Veracity, and of course you believe that your friends will be able to protect you from her.” He shook his head sadly, no. “The human male is quite an amusing and charming creature. All puffed up and ready to crow, always moving with purpose, looking determined, eyes on the prize, and all that.” Oliver laughed softly, as if enjoying a private joke, then sobered. His voice was stern now. “Veracity cares only for the kill. She’s strong, she’s fast, and she’s amoral. She will kill you and eat you. I can’t let that happen. Now hold still. There is quite a trick to rigging this rope properly.” He moved with purpose toward the bed.
Human male? Solo wanted to ask. And what does that make you? But there wasn’t any time. It was a desperate measure and though Solo would have preferred not to take it, he had no choice. To stop Oliver, he’d have knock himself unconscious, too.
Ah well. See you when I wake up in the infirmary, tovarishch.
In one fluid motion, Solo squeezed the cufflink in his fist, heard the familiar pop and lobbed it straight at Oliver. The little circle of gold bounced off Oliver’s cheek and landed on the floor, a thick plume of sickening sweet pink spouting from it like a geyser.
The sting of the gold startled Oliver. Solo had warned him about the gas, but he hadn’t mentioned the gold casing. And why would he? Even if he believed in me, he wouldn’t know anything about me. Vampires were quite practiced at appearing not to breathe, and ceasing his respiration for a minute or two was not a problem. However, the gas stung his eyes and they began to water as if he were weeping.
And Oliver was highly annoyed to discover that wiping at his eyes only made it worse, as he carried microscopic droplets of the gas on his exposed skin. He could feel the flesh around his eyes beginning to swell. He growled in irritation, and that was a mistake. By releasing air to vocalize, he shortened the time he could hold his breath. Idiot human! Barely able to see, he stumbled to the door and removed the top bar. Then he turned to check if Solo was unconscious yet.
The agent was sprawled sideways on the bed, out like a light.
Oliver lifted the second bar, pulled the pantry door inward, and stumbled into the little kitchen, fleeing from the noxious gas. He moved into the living room and started to open a window. Too late he remembered they were nailed shut. He stood there for a few seconds, breathing the relatively untainted air, and tried to think.
When he could see a bit better, he returned to the secret room, grabbed the rope, pulled the unconscious human over his shoulder, and moved his lifeline rigging into the living room.
He didn’t feel as safe out here. He jumped at every sound. He rigged a makeshift harness for Solo, securing the man’s legs around his waist and attaching part of the rope to his left arm.
Now all Oliver had to do was take the stairs to the roof. He’d have to move as quickly as possible. He hefted Solo into a more secure position on his back and went to the door. Then he froze. Out on the street, a car had just squealed to a stop in front of the building.
***
Kuryakin pulled the Chevy to the curb in the middle of the block and cut the engine, knowing his hardest task was still ahead of him: determining exactly which building Napoleon might be in. It wouldn’t be easy because the ones before him all looked alike: flat faced, unadorned, nondescript apartment buildings, as indistinguishable from one another as a line of cardboard boxes. The rents here were low, the residents working class or poorer. Perhaps, someday, the more sophisticated Bohemians who lived below Fourteenth Street, in Greenwich Village would spread northward, but for now, urban renewal was a dream.
Before leaving the car, Kuryakin snapped open the glove compartment and took out the extra clip he found there, pocketing it. This clip contained special ammunition - “e-bullets” the field agents called them - steel jacketed, explosive-tipped bullets that could stop something the size of an elephant or pierce a fuel tank and blow up a car. Only certain high-ranking field agents like himself could carry them without specific authorization, and they could only be used in emergencies.
Mindful of what the medical examiner had shared with him, Kuryakin had no doubt this qualified as an emergency. Thus fortified, the agent pulled up his collar and emerged into the freezing rain. It was late and most of the windows were dark. Except for the streetlights, there was little illumination.
Pausing on the sidewalk, Kuryakin pivoted and scanned the buildings around him, searching for a clue that would tell him where to begin his search.
At that moment, inside his otherwise vacant apartment house, Oliver was heading up the stairs as fast as he could go with an unconscious human slung across his back. The door to the roof was secured by a padlock. When Oliver shoved against it, the padlock held but the hasp tore free from the door, and he burst out into the rainy night, grateful for the fresh air.
He ran to the side of the roof and leaped onto the neighboring building before he dared peek over the front edge. The night breeze carried a familiar scent, one he’d smelled before on Solo. He looked down and saw a slight but determined human with shaggy blond hair. This must be one of Napoleon’s friends.
A shift in the breeze made him bristle. Another scent wafted up to him. Veracity! He hesitated only long enough to make sure he was moving away from her, then put on as much speed as he could, traveling over the rooftops.
***
Below on the sidewalk, Oliver’s movements caught Kuryakin’s eye. Because of the weather, the sky was black, but something glinted in the reflected streetlight and the agent saw the outline of a figure sprinting across the roof with a bundle on its back.
Kuryakin broke into a run, heading straight for the apartment building in front of him. He didn’t bother with niceties; there was no time. He rammed his shoulder against the door and when it didn’t give way, he shot the lock off and kicked it open.
Inside, the ground floor rooms were all dark, and the sickeningly sweet smell of U.N.C.L.E. knockout gas swirled about, stirred by a cold damp breeze. Kuryakin pulled out his Special, substituted the e-bullet clip, and pressed his free arm against his nose and mouth, using his coat sleeve to filter the air. He stumbled down the hallway, following the breeze until he found a steep set of stairs in the rear of the building that apparently led to the roof.
Taking two steps at a time, the agent raced up the staircase. The door at the top had been left open. The sprinting figure had been in a hurry.
Exposed to the elements again, Kuryakin scanned the area, his Special ready, but there was nothing to be seen. He ran along the ledge, circumnavigated the entire roof and searched the tops of all the adjacent buildings, squinting against the icy raindrops for a glimpse of the figure.
Nothing.
Annoyed, he circled again, this time studying the tarred surface for a clue, footprints, anything, but the rain was merciless and if there’d been anything, it had been washed away.
***
Veracity had to stop on every roof and crisscross to pick up the scent. Sometimes she went in the wrong direction and had to double back to the last strong scent trace. But she persevered, driven by her anger. Then suddenly, a gust of wind blew Oliver and Solo’s scents into her face with a freshness that slapped like the palm of a hand.
They were only a few hundred feet away! She began moving faster. The scent came from directly ahead. She stopped crisscrossing and ran, leapt off the edge of the building and landed on the roof of the next one.
The wind changed direction. She paused for a moment to scan the neighboring roof. Look before you leap. Another Oliver lesson, but at least that one had saved her life a few times. In the moment it took her to reconnoiter, she caught the sound of movement, and along with it a third scent wafted up to her on the breeze. It was faint, yet familiar. She racked her brain.
Of course! She’d smelled it on Solo, but now it walked on its own. A different man. Solo’s friend or colleague? She crept toward the front of the building and hid herself behind the lip of the roof. She would wait until he reappeared and see if his face had been in the book. That would be a treat. She could take him out and report successfully to Barbarossa.
***
After fifteen fruitless minutes, Kuryakin sighed in disgust and descended back down the stairs. The corridor was still pungent with fumes and noting the open door to an apartment, the agent was fairly sure where the gas had been released.
But why? Releasing the gas had obviously been an act of desperation, yet it hadn’t accomplished its goal. Someone had escaped.
And Napoleon? Was he still in there?
Kuryakin took a deep breath, held it and darted into the apartment. A door hidden behind a pantry was wide open and he went inside to look around quickly.
No Napoleon; no one at all. Nothing.
And then he saw Solo’s suit jacket and shirt left on a bed in shreds.
So Napoleon had been here, but not any more.
Unable to hold his breath any longer, Kuryakin pressed his coat sleeve against his nose and mouth again and, retreated from the hidden room, the apartment and finally, the now deserted building.
***
It didn’t take long for the blond man to reappear on the sidewalk, heading for his car. Yes, that mop of golden hair was certainly in the book Veracity remembered. Excellent! She’d -. Another waft of breeze brought his full scent to her attention.
Danger!
She narrowed her eyes and watched him with a fresh sense of respect. Oliver told her once it was possible to smell danger. She’d never believed him. But she could smell it on this one: danger and weapons.
Veracity glanced down at herself. Sopping wet, miserable, barefoot, and missing three fingernails now. No, damn it. To hell with Barbarossa. To hell with all of them. She was going to find herself some dry clothes, grab an easier meal, and find a nest to shelter her during the daylight.
***
Outside again and unaware of the close call he’d just had, Kuryakin gasped in deep, clean breaths, trying to clear his lungs. Inhaling icy dampness along with the air that stung his throat, he slid into the driver’s seat of the Chevy and slammed the door, grateful to escape the cold and damp.
Thumbing his communicator, Kuryakin opened Channel A and found Connie waiting for him on the other end.
“Illya? Are you all right?”
“Fine. I’m fine, Connie.”
“And Napoleon? Did you find him?”
Kuryakin directed his gaze out the car window, to the nearby rooftop and conjured up the image of the fleeing figure. Carrying a bundle. Something big and heavy, something that looked vaguely like a human body.
No. Couldn’t be. Not alone. Not moving that fast.
But then again, considering those autopsies, anything might be possible.
“I think I did, Connie. But I lost him.”
***
During the next hour, Kuryakin did as much damage control as he could. The first order of business was a request for a Section III team to examine the Chelsea apartment.
“But it’s nearly midnight on a Friday night,” Connie protested. “There aren’t many agents on duty.”
“I’m sure there are at least two,” Kuryakin said. “Check the commissary if necessary. Napoleon is missing, but his suit jacket is in there, and there may be clues.” With Solo absent, that meant the Russian was in charge and he had the authority to order up nearly any sort of field operation he deemed necessary. “I’ll need a thorough investigation ASAP.”
“Okay, but you know this means overtime. Mr. Waverly won’t be pleased.”
Kuryakin didn’t care; he’d deal with The Old Man in the morning. They needed to find Napoleon and time was of the essence. A field agent falling into the hands of Thrush was an emergency and the more time that passed, the more likely there wouldn’t be much left to rescue.
And there was more. “And I’ll need Intelligence to do a follow-up on the ownership of this house. I assume it will be under a false identity, but tell them to cross reference with that Greenwich Village brownstone that burned down the other day. They will probably have a lawyer or a real estate agent in common. When we find out who that is, I’ll want some calls made.”
“Tomorrow is Saturday you know,” Connie reminded him yet again, though she knew it was futile. “The offices will probably be closed.”
“Then we’ll contact the lawyers and the real estate agents at their homes.”
He heard a sigh from the other end before she said, “Okay, got it. Anything else?”
“Not at the moment. I’m going to backtrack to the bar where Napoleon was supposed to have met with the informer. If my beacon signal goes dead, send in a backup team immediately.”
“Will do.”
“Oh, and Connie -”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
He could almost hear her smile over the channel.
***
By the time Kuryakin reached the Club Shangri-La, the freezing rain had diminished to a fine, cool mist. He found a space around the block, parked the car and covered the rest of the distance on foot. Along the way, he kept his eye peeled, looking for clues or any evidence of Solo’s earlier presence. He found it soon enough: Solo’s car from the HQ pool was still parked on the street, a short distance south of the bar. He discovered Solo’s topcoat in a rumpled, soggy heap next to an adjoining building. There was no evidence of blood, but then, the rain would have washed any traces away. When Kuryakin lifted the coat from the sidewalk, he found Solo’s Special with the “S” on the butt underneath.
Odd, the Russian agent thought. Leaving a coat behind was one thing, but assailants, particularly of the Thrush variety, would always confiscate a weapon. Folding the coat over his arm, Kuryakin stuffed the Special into his own coat pocket. When Solo came back, he’d want both.
If he came back.
Don’t think like that, Kuryakin chided himself and banished the thought from his mind. The best he could do at the moment was focus on the job at hand. He scanned the bar before him, the broken, half-lit neon sign above and the windowless facade below it, and listened to the sounds of percussion, applause and leering laughter that leaked out through the front door.
Steeling himself, Kuryakin pulled open the door and went in.
The interior was dark and haphazardly lit and even after midnight, as his American colleagues would say, the place was jumping. Men dressed in inexpensive suits, sometimes accompanied by women with too much hair and make-up and too little clothing, lined the bar and filled the rest of the small space nearly elbow to elbow. The three-piece combo in the corner were ramming a beat home with no real concern for hitting all the proper notes, and when Kuryakin drew closer to the bar, he saw the strippers and understood why. A lean rat-faced bartender approached the agent, ready to take an order.
“Vodka, neat,” Kuryakin said.
The bartender eyed him and asked, “You from the boss?”
Prompted by the unexpected question, Kuryakin stiffened. “Ummm, yes,” he lied. “How did you guess?”
“You’re carryin’ -” he motioned toward Kuryakin’s armpit “ - and you don’t look like fuzz.
If you’re checkin’ up on Mr. Barbarossa’s new chickee, she split already.”
“Oh?” Kuryakin remained noncommittal as he watched the bartender pour him a shot of vodka.
“Yeah. Left with the mark. Couple hours ago.”
“Did it go well?”
The bartender shrugged. “I suppose, but confidentially, this chick operated like a real Suzy.”
Kuryakin arched an eyebrow.
“Y’know, an amateur. She been doin’ this long?”
“I couldn’t say.”
The bartender shrugged again, not really expecting any real information. “Here.” He reached under the counter and passed something across the bar. “She left this behind.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Real sloppy.”
Kuryakin looked down at the object before him, a small, black photo album. Casually, he slipped an index finger between the pages, flipped the cover open and was suddenly confronted by a collection of faces.
All recognizable, all familiar. All Section II enforcement agents.
Kuryakin swallowed down a curse along with his vodka, sucking down his surprise. Replacing the empty glass, he scooped up the album and waved it at the bartender. “I’ll see the boss gets this.”
“Thanks. Put in a good word for me, will ya?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” the agent assured him. “I most certainly will.”
Outside, Kuryakin uncapped his communicator as he hurried back to his car. “Connie? Are you still there?”
“Still here. Sections III and IV are working on your requests and -”
“I must speak with Mr. Waverly.”
“Now? You do realize he’s home in bed.” Obviously, Connie had no desire to wake their superior.
“Of course. Patch through my call.”
“Hooookay,” she said. “It’s your funeral. Give me a sec.”
But Kuryakin wasn’t concerned. Under his arm, he knew what he had: a catalogue. An assassin’s catalogue. Waverly would certainly want to know about this immediately, if not sooner.
And besides, everyone knew the Old Man never slept anyway.
Oliver began to pace at the foot of the bed. “I’m sorry I had to break your communicator, but you have no idea how dangerous radio waves can be! Voices and images going through the air. Aren’t telephones enough? At least the voices are trapped in the wires.” He paused and shuddered magnificently, then noticed Napoleon staring at him. He swallowed and tried to compose himself. “I’m afraid you’re not seeing me at my best.”
“Well, I’m not quite at my best at the moment either,” Solo said sympathetically. He smiled, hoping to defuse the tension.
Oliver tried to smile back, but the corner of his mouth twitched, and he ran his slender fingers through his wavy mane of chestnut hair. “All right, let me think. I wanted to keep you here, safe from Veracity for at least one night. But now, with the radio waves…” He chewed his bottom lip for a moment. Then his stomach growled loudly. And all that blood on your clothing is making me dangerously hungry.
“I assume we’re still safe here,” Solo said, motioning to the heavily barred door. “Why don’t you tell me more about the radio waves? Why do they disturb you so much? Don’t you watch television? Listen to the radio?” He thought of the city’s most popular station. “You know, WABC? Dan Ingram? Cousin Brucie?”
“Well, there is a television … or rather, there was one in my other house. I watched it from time to time.” He nodded. Then his voice grew intense, as he added, “But I took precautions. I never let it view the entire room. I made sure I was in a corner, out of its line of sight. And when the program was over, I unplugged it and covered it with a blanket.
“Radios used to be more trustworthy, before they started sending images through the air. Nowadays, who knows? Don’t you see? If the waves can enter your home, they can also leave it, and there’s no way of telling what information they carry away with them or whom they carry it to. I dislike being spied upon.”
At this point, Solo decided it probably wouldn’t be such a good idea to explain to Oliver what his own profession was. “I see,” he said as reasonably as possible. “And, ah, what makes you think the television might work two ways?”
Solo really didn’t care what the answer was. He was just stalling, wasting time. When the homing beacon cut out, no doubt Connie had contacted Illya to let him know. Solo knew where the city morgue was located, and at this hour, it shouldn’t take too long to cut across town, especially the way his partner drove.
Unobtrusively, the agent stole a glance at his watch. Come on, tovarishch.
Oliver began rummaging in the armoire. “I don’t think you realize, my friend, that if I hadn’t shown up when I did, you would be quite dead by now.” He turned back to the bed with an armful of shirts on hangers and a pair of scissors.
Watching him, Solo couldn’t figure out what Oliver could possibly be up to, but then, the agent had just about given up on logic here. Right now, all his focus was on survival and getting the hell out of this room alive. He gathered up the stray gold cufflink in his uninjured fist and held it ready, his thumb against the clip.
And if we don't get you out of that bloody shirt, thought Oliver, I shall be too aroused to think clearly. Veracity was feeding on you, but for me, the taste of human blood is an aphrodisiac, not an appetizer. Aloud, he said, “You'll be more comfortable in a clean shirt. I'm going to cut that sleeve so we don't disturb your wrist. Or would you prefer to do the cutting?” Oliver laid the shirts on the bed and held out the scissors handle-end first.
“Sorry,” Solo said. “Can’t handle scissors in my left hand. “Go ahead. Be my guest.” He held out his right arm, the soul of accommodation. This should take at least ten minutes, he thought, acutely aware of the time passing.
Oliver snipped quickly through the shirtsleeve above the makeshift splint, then snipped up the sleeve through the shoulder and collar. “There. No, don’t move. I’ve done my share of quick fixes.” He kept the scissors moving, snipping from the cut sleeve on down the front of the shirt to the hem, until the entire right side of Solo’s bloodstained shirt literally fell off his body.
As he snipped, he talked. “When vampires are involved, there always seems to be a lot of sudden departures.” He tried to smile, but he winced instead. My God, his blood smells so good! I must feed soon, but how? I can’t leave him unprotected.
“You don’t say,” Solo remarked casually, his tone belying the fact that he was watching the movement of those scissors very carefully. The deadly cufflink was still in his fist. One snap and the room would be flooded with enough knockout gas to put an army to sleep.
Oliver moved to the other side of the bed. “If you’ll let me pull this shirt off you, we can put a clean one on. I’ll slit the sleeve to allow for your wrist.” As he spoke, he was pulling the shirt down Solo’s left arm. “Then we can leave.”
“Leave?” Solo said. He had no intention of budging an inch. He turned slightly, ignoring Oliver’s request. “Why do we have to leave? I’m really not feeling very well.” Which was actually the truth. He had a splitting headache and expected that if he tried to stand up, he’d be too dizzy to walk. He’d lost blood and it was going to take some time to recover.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. But you see, Veracity knows about some of my hiding places, and she is also very wise in the modern ways of radio waves. I’m afraid she may be tracking us down at this very moment. That door will hold against humans, but Veracity has a knack for entering where she isn’t wanted.” His tone was bitter when he spoke of her. “If she gets in here, in this small space, I may not be able to protect you. Now please, let me remove the shirt.”
Wise about radio waves? Now, what did that mean? That she might have planted a tracer on him? Solo had to admit it was possible. Whatever she’d sprayed him with had knocked him for a loop. He’d been unconscious for a time while she was attacking him, he knew that.
“You know, Oliver, we could have used that pen you destroyed to check for, ummm, radio waves. It had a device inside it to pick up the signature of a tracer. But I really don’t want to leave yet. That door should hold for a bit and I have some weapons that might hold them off.” Until help arrives. Solo almost completed the thought aloud, but didn’t. Oliver was so paranoid, it might not come as good news.
Oliver frowned in disbelief. “Weapons? Are they invisible? What sort of weapons?” He stopped abruptly and put a finger to his mouth. He moved to the barred door, put his nose to the crack around it and sniffed up and down. Then he sighed with relief and returned to Solo.
“Forgive me. I thought I heard something, but it was nothing. No scents but ours so far. He sat on the edge of the bed, and his eyes were drawn to Solo’s neck wounds. A moment later, he had to wipe his mouth. Good grief, I’m drooling. “You said you have weapons?” he croaked.
“Just one, actually” Solo lied, “but it’s pretty powerful.”
“Only one? What is it?” Oliver asked as he moved toward the chest of drawers. His back was to Solo as he rummaged in the bottom drawer. When he stood up and turned around, he was holding a coil of white cotton rope.
Solo looked at the rope, then at him. “Ah - Oliver. What is that for?”
Oliver hefted the rope in his left hand. “Oh, it’s quite comfortable. Very soft. If I’m going to carry you to safety in your weakened state, it may be wise to secure you to my back. Like a lifeline. We have to leave before Veracity discovers our location.”
“No, Oliver,” Solo said evenly, “I don’t think so.” He was vulnerable enough, now; damned if he was going to allow anyone to tie him up to boot. He looked at Oliver and explained very carefully and clearly, like a teacher instructing a student: “I have, right now, in the palm of my hand a device that is filled with sleep gas. All I have to do is squeeze my fist and the seal will break and this entire room will be completely flooded with the gas in about five seconds. You and I and anyone who might be here will be unconscious in less than ten. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
Oliver dropped his hands to his sides, the picture of despair. “You don’t understand anything about me, do you? I’ve tried to explain who and what I am, but you refuse to believe me.” He sighed wearily. “I don’t even know why I’m trying to save you. It just seems like the right thing to do.” He ran a hand through his wavy hair and shifted to a more pragmatic tone.
“Well, actually, yes, I do know. If Veracity kills you, then there will be many questions, and your devices have made it clear that you are probably some kind of policeman, and I have learned over the years that killing policemen brings only tragedy. To me. So I am forced to save you from Veracity, whether you like it or not.
“So, if you must use your weapon, please do so. You’ll be a lot less trouble unconscious. And I will hold my breath and move faster than you can imagine to unbolt that door and reach fresh air. Then I’ll come back in for you, tie you, and take you with me. Go on. Do it.”
Not only was the man delusional, Solo thought, but he fancied himself Superman as well. “Okay, Clark Kent,” Solo said. He almost smiled; as weird and desperate as the situation was, he couldn’t help it. “Why don’t you just stay over there like the friend you claim to be and we’ll just wait for my own people to arrive? All right?”C’mon Illya. Where the hell are you?
“Ah, now I understand. You are laboring under the hope that your friends will arrive before Veracity, and of course you believe that your friends will be able to protect you from her.” He shook his head sadly, no. “The human male is quite an amusing and charming creature. All puffed up and ready to crow, always moving with purpose, looking determined, eyes on the prize, and all that.” Oliver laughed softly, as if enjoying a private joke, then sobered. His voice was stern now. “Veracity cares only for the kill. She’s strong, she’s fast, and she’s amoral. She will kill you and eat you. I can’t let that happen. Now hold still. There is quite a trick to rigging this rope properly.” He moved with purpose toward the bed.
Human male? Solo wanted to ask. And what does that make you? But there wasn’t any time. It was a desperate measure and though Solo would have preferred not to take it, he had no choice. To stop Oliver, he’d have knock himself unconscious, too.
Ah well. See you when I wake up in the infirmary, tovarishch.
In one fluid motion, Solo squeezed the cufflink in his fist, heard the familiar pop and lobbed it straight at Oliver. The little circle of gold bounced off Oliver’s cheek and landed on the floor, a thick plume of sickening sweet pink spouting from it like a geyser.
The sting of the gold startled Oliver. Solo had warned him about the gas, but he hadn’t mentioned the gold casing. And why would he? Even if he believed in me, he wouldn’t know anything about me. Vampires were quite practiced at appearing not to breathe, and ceasing his respiration for a minute or two was not a problem. However, the gas stung his eyes and they began to water as if he were weeping.
And Oliver was highly annoyed to discover that wiping at his eyes only made it worse, as he carried microscopic droplets of the gas on his exposed skin. He could feel the flesh around his eyes beginning to swell. He growled in irritation, and that was a mistake. By releasing air to vocalize, he shortened the time he could hold his breath. Idiot human! Barely able to see, he stumbled to the door and removed the top bar. Then he turned to check if Solo was unconscious yet.
The agent was sprawled sideways on the bed, out like a light.
Oliver lifted the second bar, pulled the pantry door inward, and stumbled into the little kitchen, fleeing from the noxious gas. He moved into the living room and started to open a window. Too late he remembered they were nailed shut. He stood there for a few seconds, breathing the relatively untainted air, and tried to think.
When he could see a bit better, he returned to the secret room, grabbed the rope, pulled the unconscious human over his shoulder, and moved his lifeline rigging into the living room.
He didn’t feel as safe out here. He jumped at every sound. He rigged a makeshift harness for Solo, securing the man’s legs around his waist and attaching part of the rope to his left arm.
Now all Oliver had to do was take the stairs to the roof. He’d have to move as quickly as possible. He hefted Solo into a more secure position on his back and went to the door. Then he froze. Out on the street, a car had just squealed to a stop in front of the building.
***
Kuryakin pulled the Chevy to the curb in the middle of the block and cut the engine, knowing his hardest task was still ahead of him: determining exactly which building Napoleon might be in. It wouldn’t be easy because the ones before him all looked alike: flat faced, unadorned, nondescript apartment buildings, as indistinguishable from one another as a line of cardboard boxes. The rents here were low, the residents working class or poorer. Perhaps, someday, the more sophisticated Bohemians who lived below Fourteenth Street, in Greenwich Village would spread northward, but for now, urban renewal was a dream.
Before leaving the car, Kuryakin snapped open the glove compartment and took out the extra clip he found there, pocketing it. This clip contained special ammunition - “e-bullets” the field agents called them - steel jacketed, explosive-tipped bullets that could stop something the size of an elephant or pierce a fuel tank and blow up a car. Only certain high-ranking field agents like himself could carry them without specific authorization, and they could only be used in emergencies.
Mindful of what the medical examiner had shared with him, Kuryakin had no doubt this qualified as an emergency. Thus fortified, the agent pulled up his collar and emerged into the freezing rain. It was late and most of the windows were dark. Except for the streetlights, there was little illumination.
Pausing on the sidewalk, Kuryakin pivoted and scanned the buildings around him, searching for a clue that would tell him where to begin his search.
At that moment, inside his otherwise vacant apartment house, Oliver was heading up the stairs as fast as he could go with an unconscious human slung across his back. The door to the roof was secured by a padlock. When Oliver shoved against it, the padlock held but the hasp tore free from the door, and he burst out into the rainy night, grateful for the fresh air.
He ran to the side of the roof and leaped onto the neighboring building before he dared peek over the front edge. The night breeze carried a familiar scent, one he’d smelled before on Solo. He looked down and saw a slight but determined human with shaggy blond hair. This must be one of Napoleon’s friends.
A shift in the breeze made him bristle. Another scent wafted up to him. Veracity! He hesitated only long enough to make sure he was moving away from her, then put on as much speed as he could, traveling over the rooftops.
***
Below on the sidewalk, Oliver’s movements caught Kuryakin’s eye. Because of the weather, the sky was black, but something glinted in the reflected streetlight and the agent saw the outline of a figure sprinting across the roof with a bundle on its back.
Kuryakin broke into a run, heading straight for the apartment building in front of him. He didn’t bother with niceties; there was no time. He rammed his shoulder against the door and when it didn’t give way, he shot the lock off and kicked it open.
Inside, the ground floor rooms were all dark, and the sickeningly sweet smell of U.N.C.L.E. knockout gas swirled about, stirred by a cold damp breeze. Kuryakin pulled out his Special, substituted the e-bullet clip, and pressed his free arm against his nose and mouth, using his coat sleeve to filter the air. He stumbled down the hallway, following the breeze until he found a steep set of stairs in the rear of the building that apparently led to the roof.
Taking two steps at a time, the agent raced up the staircase. The door at the top had been left open. The sprinting figure had been in a hurry.
Exposed to the elements again, Kuryakin scanned the area, his Special ready, but there was nothing to be seen. He ran along the ledge, circumnavigated the entire roof and searched the tops of all the adjacent buildings, squinting against the icy raindrops for a glimpse of the figure.
Nothing.
Annoyed, he circled again, this time studying the tarred surface for a clue, footprints, anything, but the rain was merciless and if there’d been anything, it had been washed away.
***
Veracity had to stop on every roof and crisscross to pick up the scent. Sometimes she went in the wrong direction and had to double back to the last strong scent trace. But she persevered, driven by her anger. Then suddenly, a gust of wind blew Oliver and Solo’s scents into her face with a freshness that slapped like the palm of a hand.
They were only a few hundred feet away! She began moving faster. The scent came from directly ahead. She stopped crisscrossing and ran, leapt off the edge of the building and landed on the roof of the next one.
The wind changed direction. She paused for a moment to scan the neighboring roof. Look before you leap. Another Oliver lesson, but at least that one had saved her life a few times. In the moment it took her to reconnoiter, she caught the sound of movement, and along with it a third scent wafted up to her on the breeze. It was faint, yet familiar. She racked her brain.
Of course! She’d smelled it on Solo, but now it walked on its own. A different man. Solo’s friend or colleague? She crept toward the front of the building and hid herself behind the lip of the roof. She would wait until he reappeared and see if his face had been in the book. That would be a treat. She could take him out and report successfully to Barbarossa.
***
After fifteen fruitless minutes, Kuryakin sighed in disgust and descended back down the stairs. The corridor was still pungent with fumes and noting the open door to an apartment, the agent was fairly sure where the gas had been released.
But why? Releasing the gas had obviously been an act of desperation, yet it hadn’t accomplished its goal. Someone had escaped.
And Napoleon? Was he still in there?
Kuryakin took a deep breath, held it and darted into the apartment. A door hidden behind a pantry was wide open and he went inside to look around quickly.
No Napoleon; no one at all. Nothing.
And then he saw Solo’s suit jacket and shirt left on a bed in shreds.
So Napoleon had been here, but not any more.
Unable to hold his breath any longer, Kuryakin pressed his coat sleeve against his nose and mouth again and, retreated from the hidden room, the apartment and finally, the now deserted building.
***
It didn’t take long for the blond man to reappear on the sidewalk, heading for his car. Yes, that mop of golden hair was certainly in the book Veracity remembered. Excellent! She’d -. Another waft of breeze brought his full scent to her attention.
Danger!
She narrowed her eyes and watched him with a fresh sense of respect. Oliver told her once it was possible to smell danger. She’d never believed him. But she could smell it on this one: danger and weapons.
Veracity glanced down at herself. Sopping wet, miserable, barefoot, and missing three fingernails now. No, damn it. To hell with Barbarossa. To hell with all of them. She was going to find herself some dry clothes, grab an easier meal, and find a nest to shelter her during the daylight.
***
Outside again and unaware of the close call he’d just had, Kuryakin gasped in deep, clean breaths, trying to clear his lungs. Inhaling icy dampness along with the air that stung his throat, he slid into the driver’s seat of the Chevy and slammed the door, grateful to escape the cold and damp.
Thumbing his communicator, Kuryakin opened Channel A and found Connie waiting for him on the other end.
“Illya? Are you all right?”
“Fine. I’m fine, Connie.”
“And Napoleon? Did you find him?”
Kuryakin directed his gaze out the car window, to the nearby rooftop and conjured up the image of the fleeing figure. Carrying a bundle. Something big and heavy, something that looked vaguely like a human body.
No. Couldn’t be. Not alone. Not moving that fast.
But then again, considering those autopsies, anything might be possible.
“I think I did, Connie. But I lost him.”
***
During the next hour, Kuryakin did as much damage control as he could. The first order of business was a request for a Section III team to examine the Chelsea apartment.
“But it’s nearly midnight on a Friday night,” Connie protested. “There aren’t many agents on duty.”
“I’m sure there are at least two,” Kuryakin said. “Check the commissary if necessary. Napoleon is missing, but his suit jacket is in there, and there may be clues.” With Solo absent, that meant the Russian was in charge and he had the authority to order up nearly any sort of field operation he deemed necessary. “I’ll need a thorough investigation ASAP.”
“Okay, but you know this means overtime. Mr. Waverly won’t be pleased.”
Kuryakin didn’t care; he’d deal with The Old Man in the morning. They needed to find Napoleon and time was of the essence. A field agent falling into the hands of Thrush was an emergency and the more time that passed, the more likely there wouldn’t be much left to rescue.
And there was more. “And I’ll need Intelligence to do a follow-up on the ownership of this house. I assume it will be under a false identity, but tell them to cross reference with that Greenwich Village brownstone that burned down the other day. They will probably have a lawyer or a real estate agent in common. When we find out who that is, I’ll want some calls made.”
“Tomorrow is Saturday you know,” Connie reminded him yet again, though she knew it was futile. “The offices will probably be closed.”
“Then we’ll contact the lawyers and the real estate agents at their homes.”
He heard a sigh from the other end before she said, “Okay, got it. Anything else?”
“Not at the moment. I’m going to backtrack to the bar where Napoleon was supposed to have met with the informer. If my beacon signal goes dead, send in a backup team immediately.”
“Will do.”
“Oh, and Connie -”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
He could almost hear her smile over the channel.
***
By the time Kuryakin reached the Club Shangri-La, the freezing rain had diminished to a fine, cool mist. He found a space around the block, parked the car and covered the rest of the distance on foot. Along the way, he kept his eye peeled, looking for clues or any evidence of Solo’s earlier presence. He found it soon enough: Solo’s car from the HQ pool was still parked on the street, a short distance south of the bar. He discovered Solo’s topcoat in a rumpled, soggy heap next to an adjoining building. There was no evidence of blood, but then, the rain would have washed any traces away. When Kuryakin lifted the coat from the sidewalk, he found Solo’s Special with the “S” on the butt underneath.
Odd, the Russian agent thought. Leaving a coat behind was one thing, but assailants, particularly of the Thrush variety, would always confiscate a weapon. Folding the coat over his arm, Kuryakin stuffed the Special into his own coat pocket. When Solo came back, he’d want both.
If he came back.
Don’t think like that, Kuryakin chided himself and banished the thought from his mind. The best he could do at the moment was focus on the job at hand. He scanned the bar before him, the broken, half-lit neon sign above and the windowless facade below it, and listened to the sounds of percussion, applause and leering laughter that leaked out through the front door.
Steeling himself, Kuryakin pulled open the door and went in.
The interior was dark and haphazardly lit and even after midnight, as his American colleagues would say, the place was jumping. Men dressed in inexpensive suits, sometimes accompanied by women with too much hair and make-up and too little clothing, lined the bar and filled the rest of the small space nearly elbow to elbow. The three-piece combo in the corner were ramming a beat home with no real concern for hitting all the proper notes, and when Kuryakin drew closer to the bar, he saw the strippers and understood why. A lean rat-faced bartender approached the agent, ready to take an order.
“Vodka, neat,” Kuryakin said.
The bartender eyed him and asked, “You from the boss?”
Prompted by the unexpected question, Kuryakin stiffened. “Ummm, yes,” he lied. “How did you guess?”
“You’re carryin’ -” he motioned toward Kuryakin’s armpit “ - and you don’t look like fuzz.
If you’re checkin’ up on Mr. Barbarossa’s new chickee, she split already.”
“Oh?” Kuryakin remained noncommittal as he watched the bartender pour him a shot of vodka.
“Yeah. Left with the mark. Couple hours ago.”
“Did it go well?”
The bartender shrugged. “I suppose, but confidentially, this chick operated like a real Suzy.”
Kuryakin arched an eyebrow.
“Y’know, an amateur. She been doin’ this long?”
“I couldn’t say.”
The bartender shrugged again, not really expecting any real information. “Here.” He reached under the counter and passed something across the bar. “She left this behind.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Real sloppy.”
Kuryakin looked down at the object before him, a small, black photo album. Casually, he slipped an index finger between the pages, flipped the cover open and was suddenly confronted by a collection of faces.
All recognizable, all familiar. All Section II enforcement agents.
Kuryakin swallowed down a curse along with his vodka, sucking down his surprise. Replacing the empty glass, he scooped up the album and waved it at the bartender. “I’ll see the boss gets this.”
“Thanks. Put in a good word for me, will ya?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” the agent assured him. “I most certainly will.”
Outside, Kuryakin uncapped his communicator as he hurried back to his car. “Connie? Are you still there?”
“Still here. Sections III and IV are working on your requests and -”
“I must speak with Mr. Waverly.”
“Now? You do realize he’s home in bed.” Obviously, Connie had no desire to wake their superior.
“Of course. Patch through my call.”
“Hooookay,” she said. “It’s your funeral. Give me a sec.”
But Kuryakin wasn’t concerned. Under his arm, he knew what he had: a catalogue. An assassin’s catalogue. Waverly would certainly want to know about this immediately, if not sooner.
And besides, everyone knew the Old Man never slept anyway.