Alexander Waverly knocked on the door, the plush carpet in the hallway masking the sound as he turned back. He knew Solo was home, and he knew that at this unreasonable hour, he was most likely alone. If not, then his security team had a lot to answer to. He waited and raised his fist to knock again. The door opened to a tired and preoccupied agent. Strangely he was still dressed. The remnants of his dinner lay on the table and files cluttered what he could see of the living room.
Solo’s jaw stayed open a moment longer as Mr. Waverly smiled and brushed passed. He regained his composure and senses in a matter of seconds.
“Coffee, Sir?” He went ahead into the living room and tidied off a large leather armchair for his superior. Still a little stunned by the visit, he stood with the folders in his arms.
“Oh yes, please,” Waverly answered in familiar gruff tones.
Solo smiled, entered the kitchen and came back with a two steaming mugs, offering one to his guest.
“To…ah…what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, sir?”
Waverly looked up. He seemed to be deciding how to answer the young man before him. He realized with delight that if one man could handle the truth it would be Napoleon Solo. “Have you seen your partner today, Mr. Solo?”
The young American laughed, “Which one?”
“Yes indeed. You seem to have a menagerie of partners of late. No, I was referring to the Colonel.”
“I put him on a plane at five this afternoon for Canada. He’s doing some minor leg work up there. Why?”
Mr. Waverly reached forward and opened his brief case exposing a three-inch thick file. The security tag on the front page went as high as the Pentagon. When it was lifted out a smaller second file was attached from Internal Revenue.
“You requested everything we know about Colonel Richards. You will find everything you need in these files.”
Solo took the bundles of information and flipped them open in his hands. The first contained everything from birth certificate to classified documentation of recent and past assignments. The second contained detailed records of financial statements from the day he first lodged a tax return. Solo whistled.
“I was unaware of our full capabilities, sir,” The American was awed by the in-depth examination of the man’s past.
“Quite so, Mr. Solo. Yet this was a favor not UNCLE. You see there is a link to this man and THRUSH. One going back many years, but does he work for them? We have no proof. We do know, though, that inordinately large sums of money have found their way into his accounts, that he leads a very Bohemian lifestyle and that he makes no secret of his sexuality. All very interesting, considering he is still an active officer. Need I remind you of the prejudice that warrants. Given that and his assignment to the UN Peace Council being orchestrated from within their own ranks, this opens a whole new set of rules. Treason and corruption at a very high level.”
Solo nodded. “I’ll have Betty keep him out of the office covering leads for the next couple of days….”
Waverly interjected, “No, that is exactly what you must not do. We need him here under surveillance.”
“Sir?” The question sounded both bemused and tired.
“Think, Mr. Solo. The last piece of information went astray twenty-four hours ago. You are scheduled for an interview at the United Nations building tomorrow afternoon at three. If our traitor utilizes the same protocol, it will be passed on within the next two days. We must find the contact and we cannot do that with him cooling his heels in Canada.”
Solo smiled. “You have a plan sir?”
“The beginnings of one. But we shall need a good deal more information. What our mole does not know is the last three batches of information are false.”
“And no doubt chemically treated,” Solo smiled.
“Quite so. Thus we have been able to establish a great deal of information peripheral to the case at hand. We know they are shielded, that they go into circulation and that the information is passed to THRUSH with seventy-two hours of the UN investigation beginning.”
“We need the link, the courier. One name keeps coming up with amazing regularity, a Mr. Paul Carter.” Solo handed across a file. “He is an art dealer, travels abroad frequently. Each of the fifteen thefts coincide with Mr. Carter’s visits to the hot spots.”
Mr. Waverly cleared his throat and looked a little uncomfortable. “Mr. Kuryakin has the Carter matter in hand.”
Solo nodded, “What we need is to establish the connection. Alright I’ll have Betty bring Mark back in.”
Waverly stood, pleased with the night’s efforts and decided to take his aging body home to a hot bath and a warm bed. “Mr. Kuryakin was in the office today, did you by any chance get to speak to him?” he asked Solo.
The American prickled. Even though the tone remained casual, he knew the old man never asked rhetorical questions. “Yes sir, as a matter of fact I did.”
“Did he mention his case to you.”
“In passing.” Solo narrowed his eyes slightly trying to read the old fox.
“I trust he is well?” Waverly’s hand was on the door as Solo followed him.
“Tired, sir,” he said with a genuine smile, hiding well the worry the question instilled. “Otherwise he seemed fine. Is he in danger?”
“All agents on assignment are exposed to danger Mr. Solo. That is why we pay you so well,” he answered gruffly and strode down the hallway to the lifts. Solo stared after him for long minutes before closing the door.
He paced, not a usual occurrence in itself. He vaguely realised that the hall clock had struck midnight. Still he paced. His eyes scanned the pages on the floor, then stared at the fire .
He began to clean up, the dishes made the short trip to the sink, the discarded folders placed to one side, the relevant information kept on the table.
An hour later he emerged from the bathroom, refreshed, shaved and attired in his best robe. The internal debate had raged for long hours. Illya was in trouble. But at a guess, not from THRUSH. The old man was worried about him. Not unusual given their long association. He had watched the paternal interest the head of UNCLE had shown his younger partner over the years. Never did he doubt Mr. Waverly’s genuine concern for either of them, but he always carefully hid his concern under the professional mantle he wore. Until now.
Time floated as he looked out over the city. He remembered with absolute clarity his own determination to not recruit the Russian as he had become known in the early days of Solo’s life in UNCLE. Already with only a year under his belt, his determination and prowess in the dangerous field had secured his position within the organization.
Kuraykin would not come to UNCLE as a refuge from his country. He was the best, already feted by the sister agency in Moscow, trained, educated and groomed. The Secretary of Internal Affairs at the Kremlin personally oversaw his acceptance into the agency. The Russian was a solitary figure, not at all what Solo had expected. Illya was not the tub-thumping Communist that he had envisaged the man to be. He was slight and well-spoken, a hint of fine British education coloring his words. As for his political views, he held them to himself. Certainly they were there yet, to this day, they had never gotten in the way of his duty or his assignments. All of this, he learned second-hand. His resolve wavered slightly.
Still his privileged American upbringing cried out against Communism and he unabashedly held fast to his own dictates in the matter.
Waverly had smiled then watching and waiting. The Russian came to New York, late that spring. His retraining at the academy was flawless, his experience in bomb disposal techniques saw his delay to active assignment. So impressed were his instructors that he stayed on an extra month to teach a class in the subject.
Solo had read dispassionately all the reports. He knew the man to be a good agent in the field on the small assignments that he had been given. Still though, he had not met the man and showed no inclination to.
That all changed late one Friday afternoon, Mr. Waverly had called him into his office. There at the table sat a slight blond figure. Impeccably dressed, cool and confident, he looked him up and down with ice-blue eyes and Solo for all his paranoia and pretty idealism was lost in those eyes. What he saw he trusted immediately, the Russian seemed to be aware of this and smiled in return. He would come to know what a rare sight that was and cherished that memory above all others of his friend.
Now four years later, he missed his partner, his dry ascerbic wit, his traditional values and morals. He feared for his friend’s safety. The realization that Illya was better equipped to survive this mission than he was offered no comfort.
Solo rubbed the back of his neck as the first pale light of dawn stole across the sky. Rubbing chilled bones he lifted the small pen communicator to his lips and opened a channel. He waited for fifteen seconds before a soft female voice answered.
“Janice, have Betty organize the first possible flight for Colonel Richards this morning, I will be in late. Solo out.”
He wandered to the bedroom and closed his eyes. The room was warm and comforting as his subconscious whirled on the edge of reason. One vision leapt before sleep took him. Illya’s smile.
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To Proceed to Part Six
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To be continued...
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