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Cold. Hard. Red.
Those were the first impressions that formed in Napoleon’s mind as he struggled toward consciousness.
The surface beneath his back was firm and coarse, almost abrasive, and soaking wet. He could feel moisture leeching into his clothing, causing a slight shiver where sodden fabric clung to chilled skin.
The light filtering through his slitted eyelids was bathed in red. An unusually bright shade that shifted oddly, as though hundreds of tiny scarlet flags were undulating just above him.
He sniffed cautiously but couldn’t detect the coppery stench of blood, just the heavy scent of damp earth and unfamiliar vegetation.
He listened intently and found only a faint whooshing sound, steady and rhythmic. Not growing closer or moving away. Too soft to be a car engine, too faint to be a helicopter. No voices, no note of human activity, no—
Illya?
The world spun dizzily as he forced his eyelids further open and tried to jerk himself into a sitting position. Then he sank back onto the ground, eyes squeezed closed. That brief moment of vision, though, told him several things.
It was daylight, where his last hazy memory was of night.
He was lying across a narrow gravel path engulfed by a field of red flowers, where that elusive memory was of reclining on a sagging mattress in a sparsely furnished motel room.
And he was alone. In that dimly remembered room, another person had occupied the adjacent bed.
He thought furiously, searching his muddled mind for something to connect his blurred recollections to this vast expanse of gently swaying tulips. Disjointed pictures drifted behind his closed eyes, and he tried to grab one and hold on tight, forcing it into clearer focus.
Napoleon turned his head as the bedsprings to his right creaked softly beneath his partner’s weight. Illya was sitting cross legged on the faded navy coverlet, his suit jacket tossed aside and his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Silky blond hair obscured his features as he stared down at the map spread out before him.
“We’ve made good time so far,” the other agent said, his tone less satisfied than his words. His forehead creased in thought as one large finger traced a succession of rural and urban roadways, calculating both the time needed to reach their morning destination and the route least vulnerable to ambush.
Napoleon, similarly clad in shirtsleeves and travel-wrinkled trousers, reclined with his hands clasped behind his head against stacked pillows and a scarred headboard. He shared the Russian’s vague feeling of disquiet. He’d learned long ago to not dismiss such forebodings … he wouldn’t have survived long as a field agent without paying close attention to the sixth sense that constantly monitored his surroundings for danger signals … but he too managed to drag his words if not his thoughts onto a more optimistic path. “We couldn’t have asked for nicer weather, especially in this part of the country.”
Springtime in Michigan could mean anything from a late snow to a driving rainstorm, even an occasional tornado, but the skies when their flight landed in Detroit had been clear and blue, with nothing but sunshine and balmy temperatures forecast for the next week here.
They wouldn’t have much opportunity to enjoy the mild May weather, but at least the drive from the airport to this slightly run-down motel had been pleasant enough. Too bad the rental agency hadn’t had a convertible available … it would have been a nice change of pace to have cool breezes rather than hot bullets ruffling his hair during the long drive.
Napoleon sighed. As much as he enjoyed sitting behind the wheel of a fast moving sportscar, he longed to be standing at the helm of the Pursang. It was a shame that, surrounded by some of the largest and most beautiful lakes in the country, and he would be spending the next day confined to either a stuffy classroom or a sterile laboratory. He hadn’t been sailing in months.
His partner appeared to hear and seriously consider his friend’s unspoken yearning, and his lips twitched as he suppressed a smile. “According to the traveler’s guide on this map, boat rentals at the lakes don’t begin until Memorial Day weekend. However, if you want to spend time outdoors, there is a tulip festival in Holland this week.”
Napoleon snorted softly. “Holland? Isn’t that a bit far?”
Illya’s eyes sparkled, a hint of humor and mischief in the cool blue depths that mirrored his friend’s nautical fantasy. “Holland, Michigan. It’s about a thirty minute drive from the university, near the shores of Lake Macatawa.” He lifted the map, pointing to a red blotch on the upper corner, too small for Napoleon to focus on either the picture or the tiny print from a mere four feet away. “According to the advertisement, the town has tried to create a ‘genuine Dutch experience, from fields of tulips to the only fully functional Dutch windmill in the United States.’”
Napoleon chuckled, finally pulling his thoughts away from the vast expanses of azure water he’d watched from the landing plane. “And why do the residents of Holland, Michigan need a fully functional windmill?”
Illya shrugged. “Bragging rights? It seems a rather primitive method of grinding flour, but I don’t think most of the tourists who travel to see it expect to visit Northern Europe anytime soon.”
Napoleon tried again to open his eyes, squinting against the bright, early morning sunlight. Shifting slightly, he was able to turn his head far enough to see the source of the whooshing sound. A primitive windmill, at least five stories high, constructed of mellow red brick and weathered wood, squatted at the edge of the tulip field. It amazed him that the noise the mill generated wasn’t a louder; the blades turning in the soft breeze were at least six feet wide and close a hundred feet long; the interior gears had to be massive.
Solo groaned as he watched the slowly rotating blades, even that gentle motion almost more than his roiling stomach could handle. The windmill gave him a point of focus, though. It told him where he was, even if it couldn’t tell him how he had gotten here.
Given the splitting headache and queasiness, he suspected he hadn’t arrived under his own power. Why someone would have dumped him here, weakened but basically intact, was a mystery, though. One he needed to solve quickly.
There was a sudden hiss, and water sprayed across his face and legs. He tensed and then relaxed, recognizing the output of an automatic sprinkler system. Sprinklers would account for the wet and chill. And although it was far from comfortable, the cold shower might help to clear the cobwebs from his brain.
After a few moments, his equilibrium seemed to adjust to the light and motion, and he cautiously pulled himself into a sitting position. Nausea rose in his throat and he fought it back down, but he wasn’t able to will his brain into submission as easily as he did his lurching stomach.
He didn’t have amnesia. He knew who he was … where he was … and the approximate if not the exact date and time. But everything else was murky and unclear, as though he was looking at the recent past through a thick white fog.
He raised one hand gingerly to his head and found an egg-sized lump on his right temple. A mild concussion might explain some of the blank dizziness, or he might be drugged. He must have been deeply unconscious, not merely asleep, to have been transported here without any recollection of the last eight or more hours.
He began patting himself down. He wasn’t surprised that his shoulder holster and Walther were missing, but he found his communicator tucked into an inside pocket of his rumpled and mud-smeared suit jacket. It was significantly the worse for wear, the shiny metal damp and dinged, and when he pulled out the antenna, it bent at an awkward angle.
At first, twisting the activation mechanism caused only a shrill whine. However, after he’d spent a minute manipulating the device, it emitted a burst of grating static followed by several seconds of garbled, indecipherable voices. “Open Channel D,” Napoleon said through a dry cough that might have been the side effect of a THRUSH drug or might simply have been the result of not swallowing anything liquid in so many hours. “Channel D, can anyone hear me?”
“Mr Solo. Is that you? Report, please.” Napoleon exhaled in relief upon hearing the tinny, hollow sounding voice of Alexander Waverly through the static.
“Solo reporting, sir.” He licked parched lips with an equally dry tongue and wished for a tall glass of water or, even better, a cup of strong coffee.
He could barely distinguish his boss’s words through the continuing crackle of the communicator. “Where are you, Mr Solo? I expected to hear from you last night.”
Professionalism and force of will kept his voice calm and level. “I seem to have taken an unexpected detour, sir. Last night, I was at a motel on the outskirts of Grand Rapids, but I’ve been unconscious for an unknown number of hours. I believe, from the topography, that I’m now in Holland, Michigan, near their imported Dutch windmill.” He paused, then added “I don’t know where Mr Kuryakin is, though, sir.”
“You don’t —” The words ceased abruptly, and Napoleon wasn’t certain whether to attribute the sudden silence to the flunctuatung communication signal or to an interruption in his chief’s train of thought. “Do you have a head injury, Mr Solo? Or are you under the influence of a THRUSH drug?”
It didn’t occur to Napoleon to be less than honest with his superior. A physical injury he might downplay, but any mental state other than fully alert could cost lives, including his partner’s and his own. “I have a bump on my head, sir, and my recent memory is a little foggy. I’m not sure whether that’s due to the bump or something else.”
“I see. Hold on while we triangulate on your communicator to verify your location.” There was a longer pause, during which Napoleon pictured the old man stuffing his pipe to keep his hands occupied while he waited for the Communications team to do its work.
As one minute stretched to two, Napoleon felt a familiar tingle along the back of his neck. Waverly rarely engaged in small talk during official communications, but something about the older man’s reticence suggested there was more on his mind than the grogginess of his CEA. “Sir,” Napoleon said, breaking a silence that had become almost unbearable, “may I suggest that someone try to connect with Illya’s communicator while they’re triangulating on mine?”
“Mr Solo, what is the last thing you remember clearly?” Waverly resumed as though Napoleon hadn’t spoken. It was possible he hadn’t heard Napoleon’s request due to the poor connection, but knowing that did nothing to relieve Napoleon’s tension.
The question was also more difficult to answer than it should have been. Napoleon’s clearest memories were no more than disjointed snapshots, indistinct as to time, and his efforts to organize them into a logical sequence was gaining him nothing except a sharper headache. “I’m afraid everything’s a bit fuzzy right now, sir,” he said with a sigh he hoped was inaudible over the continuous buzz of static.
Rubbing the fingers of his right hand between his eyes, he tried again to marshal his thoughts. The most prominent one was the need to locate his missing partner. If Illya was on the job and even partially functional, he would have reported Solo’s disappearance by now … yet there was no indication Waverly had known that the senior agent was missing in action.
“My last unclear memory is of the motel room outside Grand Rapids, and that was more than eight hours ago,” Napoleon said, judging from the position of the sun that it was not much past seven am. “If you haven’t heard from Illya, I’ll need to get back to the motel and pick up his trail from there.”
“Mr Solo …” There was yet another pause, causing a shiver to travel down Napoleon’s spine. “Hold on again while I determine whether there are any local agents close enough to assist you.”
During the next few minutes, Napoleon fought an uncharacteristic wave of panic that tried to superimpose itself over the unpleasant sensations of cold, pain and worry. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Waverly had deflected every mention of Illya Kuryakin. Although his Chief was usually blunt to the point of appearing heartless to those who didn’t know him well, Napoleon couldn’t help wondering whether his boss was purposely withholding some vital piece of information due to his CEA’s less than lucid state.
By the time Waverly’s voice was heard again, Napoleon was becoming accustomed to the interfering static. He was not, however, resigned to the other man’s refusal to discuss his missing partner. “There are no Section 2 agents close enough to your location to reach you this morning,” Waverly said without giving Napoleon any opportunity to reopen what he considered to be the most urgent topic. “However, I have located a group of Section 3 agents on a training exercise near Lansing, and the two most senior men have been dispatched to your location. They should reach you in approximately forty-five minutes. I assume, with their assistance, you will be able to retrieve both Dr Calvin and the documents he has offered to share with us.”
Dr Calvin. The name nudged a missing puzzle piece into place. Napoleon was supposed to meet with Dr Calvin at Grand Rapids University this morning, review the chemist’s concerns about recent patterns of chemical purchases in the local area and the possibility that someone was developing biological weapons, and accompany the man back to New York to keep both him and his findings out of THRUSH hands.
No … that wasn’t quite right. He and Illya were supposed to meet with Dr Calvin and accompany him to New York. The scientist had requested Napoleon’s escort because they had met, albeit briefly, at a conference in Vienna the previous year, and he was frightened enough to insist on his UNCLE contact being an agent he recognized by sight. But there would be no point in the doctor trying to explain his concerns about potential chemical weapons to Napoleon. Illya, with his vastly superior understanding of all concepts scientific, would be part of any retrieval operation.
“Yes, sir,” Napoleon said automatically, even as his mind screamed the opposite. No, this isn’t right. This isn’t what makes sense, isn’t what was planned. “But I will need to return to the motel for a change of clothes, and then I should try to locate Illya. Of the two of us, he will be far more capable of understanding Dr Calvin’s documentation.”
“Mr Solo.” An uncharacteristic edge of irritation was audible in the older man’s voice despite the poor connection. “I am trying to be understanding of your temporarily impaired state, but you must listen carefully. You are confused. Mr Kuryakin was not traveling with you on this assignment. Due to his superior understanding of the scientific implications of Dr Calvin’s findings, he left New York for Michigan four days ago. We haven’t heard from him since, and Dr Calvin has become quite frantic over the ramifications for his safety and for the possible misuse of his own overlapping research into chemical weapons.”
“Four days … no, sir.” It was rare for Napoleon to contradict his boss, especially when his mind was as unclear as its current state, but he couldn’t help himself. He believed in … he trusted that one hazy memory. “I distinctly remember Illya being with me yesterday, at the motel.”
“Your memory is faulty, Mr Solo. Whether as a result of the bump on your head … or another reason … I do not know. However, you assured me, yesterday before you left New York, that you were capable of handling Dr Calvin’s retrieval on your own, and I now expect you to pull yourself together and do so.”
“Yes, sir, but —” He stopped, struggling to marshall his thoughts. Something was unquestionably wrong with this scenario. If Dr Calvin’s research was so critical, and the scientist had specifically asked for Napoleon’s involvement, why would Illya have been sent to Michigan alone? If his partner had disappeared four days ago, why had Napoleon only arrived last night?
And why was no effort being made to locate the missing agent? Napoleon would never have agreed to travel to Michigan and back to New York without making any attempt to locate his partner if there were any hint the Russian was in trouble. Alexander Waverly would never have expected it of him. Number One, Section One might be intensely goal oriented, but he wasn’t unfeeling or unreasonable. He knew his top enforcement team well enough that he might occasionally expect the impossible, but he would never ask for the unpardonable.
“That is all, Mr Solo. Wait at your current location for your back up and then complete your assignment. Report to me from the Detroit airport before you begin your journey home to New York. Waverly out.”
Waverly’s voice broke off sharply, leaving only a small burst of static in its wake. Napoleon shoved the bent antenna back into the unit and slipped it into his pocket, scowling, his mind in even more turmoil than it had been fifteen minutes ago.
Finally giving in to the wet and cold, he pulled himself awkwardly to his feet and looked around, spotting a wooden bench at the side of another path only a few dozen yards from the windmill. His muscles were stiff but not sore, likely the result of lying on the cold, damp ground for an unknown number of hours. After a few minutes of careful stretching, he was able to make his way to the bench, if not with his usual confident stride at least with very little awkwardness in his gait. Then he settled himself down to wait … and to think.
*******************
It was nearly an hour later that Napoleon saw two dark-clothed men walking toward him on one of the paths through the tulips. They were making no noticeable effort to mask their approach. Their footfalls scuffed noisily on the drying gravel and their voices were easily discernible over the soft, monotonous background whoosh of the windmill. Still, he felt uncomfortably vulnerable. If these were THRUSH agents, not his newly acquired UNCLE backup, he was a sitting duck waiting unarmed, out in the open on the bench.
Still, what other choice did he have? He’d already checked himself for hidden weapons, a search that had yielded only a pair of exploding buttons, a small pellet of explosive putty, and the wire garrot in his waterlogged wristwatch. None of those items would be of much use in the current situation. Other than the damaged communicator, the only object he’d found in his pockets was a black plastic disk marked ‘Blue Waters Motel 24.’ A large key dangled from the plastic disk, presumably the key to the motel room where he’d briefly rested the previous evening. He had no wallet, no identification, and no money … nothing that would assist him in either returning to the motel or making his way to the university.
He had a full minute to study the approaching men before they saw him. Both were sandy haired, clean shaven, and an inch or two taller than his own medium height. Both had bland, forgettable faces and husky, although reasonably athletic, builds. Both were clearly out of place strolling through a field of spring flowers on a weekday morning.
He was considering whether to call out to them when they turned in his direction, apparently guided by the small black box carried by the one wearing navy. The other wore a plain black suit that reminded him vaguely of his partner’s typical working wardrobe. But where Illya’s attactiveness shone through plain dark clothes, this unknown man seemed to be washed out by them.
Tentative recognition broke out on the two approaching faces as the men caught sight of him and waved. They looked around at the maze of intersecting paths, then backtracked a dozen feet to turn in his direction, the lead man pocketing the transmitter they’d been using to zero in on his location.
He continued studying them as they came nearer, feeling vaguely suspicious, although he knew the sensation might be caused by his aching head rather than impending danger. Neither man looked threatening, although there was an air of suppressed nervousness in their bearing and their smiles.
“Mr Solo?” The man in the navy blazer spoke first as they reached his bench, holding out a large hand to shake Napoleon’s. “I’m Art Beckett, Section Three, Detroit, and this,” he indicated the man beside him with a small sweep of his left arm, “is Brad Paxton.”
“It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” the black-suited man said. “We’ve heard a lot about you, but I never imagined I might get a chance to work with you on a case.” Paxton thrust out a hand and shook Napoleon’s vigorously, his eyes drifting off to the side as though inspecting the surrounding tulip fields.
Napoleon supposed that small hint of discomfiture was to be expected. How often would a low level midwestern operative be called on to assist the CEA of the Northwest region? And such a man would likely spend an entire career at UNCLE without ever speaking to a living legend like Alexander Waverly.
“Glad to meet you” Napoleon said, disguising his misgivings behind a charming smile. “Did you happen to bring me a weapon?”
Both men blinked in surprise. “No, sir.” Beckett spoke first again after shooting an alarmed look at his companion. “New York didn’t say anything to us about needing to bring extra equipment. We were just told to get here as quickly as possible and to stay with you as backup until you’ve completed your assignment.”
Napoleon tried not to find that suspicious. He couldn’t remember whether he’d mentioned his missing Walther during his conversation with Waverly, and even if he had, the statement could have been lost in the sea of static. Still, they should have expected him to be less than fully equipped, given that he had been dumped by unknown adversaries in a field of flowers and they’d been pulled from a scheduled training exercise to assist him.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I have a spare Walther and a spare communicator in my suitcase at the motel. We need to head there first, anyway, so I can change out of these wet clothes.”
“Don’t you think we should head straight to your meeting, sir? New York said the case is time sensitive and — ” Beckett shook back his cuff and looked at his watch. “It’s a quarter past eight. What time do we need to meet with your contact?”
“We have plenty of time,” Napoleon said, not altogether truthfully. By the time they backtracked to the motel and then made their way to the university, it would be close to ten o’clock, and common sense told him the meeting wouldn’t have been planned for such a late hour. But with his head still pounding and his memory far less than reliable, he wanted to proceed extremely cautiously.
Neither Beckett nor Paxton looked happy, but neither protested as the three of them started through the tulips toward the parking area.
*******************
By the time the three men arrived at the motel, it was just after nine am. Random details of the mission were starting to solidify in Napoleon’s mind, and he knew he was already late for his scheduled meeting with Dr Calvin at Grand Rapids University. He was also more certain than ever that — contrary to what he had been told this morning — Illya was supposed to be with him. Which left him in serious doubt of the identity of these two men and, more importantly, the identity of the voice on the damaged communicator. So, despite several pointed suggestions from his two babysitters, he hadn’t called the university to inform the chemist of his delay or rearrange the time or place of their rendezvous.
For some reason he couldn’t quite articulate even to himself, he felt the scientist would be more safe twiddling his thumbs in ignorance of current circumstances. If he went into temporary hiding when his UNCLE contacts didn’t appear when and where expected, so much the better. Napoleon always had a backup contact plan in these kinds of situations. The fact he couldn’t yet remember the details of said plan didn’t mean it didn’t exist.
Napoleon glanced down the one story strip of motel rooms, wishing his surroundings would spark more memories. He was certain it has been well after dark when he’d arrived last night, with or without his partner, but the facade of the building was singularly unremarkable — just a small, lighted window proclaiming “Office” with a dozen black doors to either side.
Pulling the key from his trouser pocket, he stared again at the number 24 and then glanced down the line of black doors. Number 24 was the last door to the left of the office.
There were only a few vehicles in the parking lot. None looked familiar, and none were parked immediately in front of room 24. Napoleon climbed from the vehicle as soon as it pulled into a parking space, straightened his shoulders, and strode purposefully toward that door, sliding the key into the lock and swinging it open on slightly creaky hinges. He paid no attention to the two men scurrying to follow him.
Room 24 looked vaguely familiar. There were two double beds with battered headboards and clean but worn navy spreads, one unmade and the other slightly rumpled. A small nightstand sat between the beds, the only items on its surface a lamp and a telephone.
His suitcase sat on a foldout rack at the foot of the unmade bed, and he crossed the narrow space to rifle briefly through its contents. Several clean shirts, underwear and socks. Toiletries. No spare communicator. No spare Walther. Clearly, someone had already gone through the suitcase and removed anything useful.
“Something wrong, Mr Solo?” Paxton asked from behind his left shoulder.
Was it his imagination, or were his escorts acting even more nervous since they’d entered this room? Both were fidgeting, and they clearly wanted to get in and out as quickly as possible.
He stared at the second bed. There was no evidence it had been slept in, and the only item on its surface was a folded map.
“There are two beds,” Napoleon said, trying to keep his tone conversational rather than accusing.
Beckett shuffled his feet on the worn carpet, his gaze fixed on the curtained window. “This place only has double rooms,” he said, swallowing visibly. “It caters mostly to families visiting the lakes or the university.”
Napoleon gave a slight nod, as though the information was what he expected, but his thoughts were churning again. It had been evening when he — or they — had arrived yesterday … but not so late that it would have been difficult to find another motel if the first one he tried had only double rooms available. And given Waverly’s parsimonious safeguarding of the field budget, Napoleon certainty wasn’t in the habit of booking a double room when he was on a solo assignment. On the other hand, this wasn’t exactly the Ritz, and he could easily afford an extra $20 out of his own pocket if he had been tired enough. Still …
His eyes flicked again to the folded map, and he stepped away from his suitcase to pick it up. It didn’t escape his notice that Paxton stayed at his elbow as he shook it out.
There was a soft hiss, and he turned his head to see a disgruntled Russian, eyes pouting, one finger in his mouth. The pose was innocently erotic, and Napoleon felt his breath catch. “Something wrong?” he asked, his own mouth suddenly dry.
Illya scowled. “Paper cut,” he grumbled around the obstruction. “You would think, as much abuse as our hands endure, they would be toughened sufficiently to be immune to damage from a product as flimsy as paper.”
“Soft Russian,” Napoleon teased after clearing his throat. “Would you like me to kiss it and make it better?”
Illya rolled his eyes and pulled the finger from his mouth with a faint pop. “Snarky American. I’d prefer if you’d check whether there’s a restaurant list in the drawer under that phone. We missed dinner and I’m hungry.”
Napoleon stared down at the map in his hands, at the small streak of blood along one edge, then at his own uninjured fingers. Suspicion solidified into certainty. Illya was in this room with him last night … which meant that everything said to him this morning was a lie.
Paxton was leaning toward him, looking down at the map, reaching as if to twitch it from his loose grasp. In one fluid movement, he swung his right hand back and down, applying a sharp katate chop to the other man’s exposed neck. As the larger man collapsed soundlessly to the floor, Napoleon grabbed the pistol from his lax hand and spun toward Beckett, bringing the muzzle of the weapon unerringly to bear on the surprised man’s chest.
“Your little game is up, my friend,” he said, allowing a hint of menace to infuse his words. “You have two choices. You can take me to wherever my partner is being held, or I can use your blood to brighten the decor of this rather dull room. If you choose option number two, I suspect your pal here,” he paused to nudge the unconscious man with the toe of his left shoe, “will be more than happy to provide me with information to avoid the same fate.”
“Look, Mr Waverly told us you’d be confused,” Beckett said placatingly, hands outstretched. “Why don’t you relax, put the gun down, and we can talk this over.”
“I don’t think so,” Napoleon said, finger tightening on the gun’s trigger. “From now on, we’re doing things my way.”
*******************
Ten minutes later, Napoleon walked out of room 24, one pace behind Art Beckett, the muzzle of his purloined weapon held firmly in the center of the other man’s back. Under his watchful eyes, Beckett had bound the unconscious Paxton to room 24’s only chair. Unfortunately, Napoleon had no opportunity to change out of his damp and muddy suit, but that was a minor inconvenience compared to the pressing need to locate Illya and then Dr Calvin.
As the two men stepped toward their parked car, though, Napoleon heard a small chuff of sound, and Beckett slumped to the ground unconscious. “It’s me, Napoleon,” a voice called from behind and above him, and he spun around to see his partner’s blond head appear at the edge of the motel roof. A moment later, the Russian swung himself over the edge, using the eave for balance, and dropped to the pavement in front of the senior agent.
“Let’s get this one inside,” Illya said, indicating the slumbering THRUSH agent, an UNCLE sleep dart just visible over the collar of his jacket, “and we can fill each other in on our morning activities while you change into dry clothes. You’re going to catch pneumonia if you don’t get out of that wet suit.”
*******************
“Their scheme was actually quite sound even though the execution was faulty,” Illya explained twenty minutes later as he watched Napoleon button a clean shirt and slip into his spare suit jacket. “With the aid of a new sedative gas, a rewired UNCLE communicator and a sound-alike Waverly, they planned to trick you into cooperating long enough to ingratiate themselves to Dr Calvin and obtain his research materials. Of course, once they had him locked away in a secure THRUSH laboratory, they expected to coerce him into constructing weapons for them.”
“That does sound unusually subtle for a THRUSH plot,” the senior agent agreed as he toed his feet into his shoes. “Do you know how they managed to get the jump on us so easily last night? That part of the affair is a bit embarrassing.”
The Russian scowled, making Napoleon glad he wasn’t the one who’d had to explain that little detail to the real chief of UNCLE northwest. “They intercepted an UNCLE communication giving our arrival time and were watching the car rental agencies at the Detroit airport. They were able to attach a tracking device to our car, trace us to the motel … and then shoot a cannister of their gas through the window.”
Napoleon frowned. He still had no recollection of that part of the evening, although most other details were slowly coming back to him. He still had a nagging headache, too, whereas his partner seemed to be completely over the effects of the gas. “It apparently didn’t have as strong an impact on you as it had on me.”
“From the conversation of our captors, I learned that most of their test subjects experienced about two hours of unconsciousness followed by another three to four hours of headache, nausea and mental confusion,” Illya said, taking a sip from a large cup of coffee he had purchased from the diner across the road while Napoleon was catching a quick shower. “I believe, although the memory is unclear, that we received the initial dose around ten o’clock. I woke up a little after midnight and was extremely uncomfortable for the next few hours. I only had one exposure to the gas, though; they gave you several additional small doses, hoping that if you stayed asleep until shortly after dawn, the confusion would last long enough to reach Dr Calvin before the effects wore off.”
“I guess that explains why these two,” Napoleon nudged the two unconscious THRUSH goons as he picked up his own cup of coffee, “were so anxious to get to the university. I don’t suppose you were able to get a sample of the gas?”
“Of course I was.” Illya’s expression told him it had been an unpardonably foolish question.
“And how were you able to intercept me here?”
“A little of your Solo luck,” Illya said with a glimmer of a smile. “Both of your feathered friends wanted to shoot me in the head and toss me into a lake, but the man running the operation told them to keep me alive until they got their hands on Dr Calvin.”
“Ah,” Napoleon said, mirroring the smile. “That was an almost unforgivable error on his part. Not that I regret him making it, of course, but I’m a little surprised.”
“It was understandable that he wasn’t completely confident of the ability of his henchmen to keep you under control with the drug and the false Waverly’s instructions.” Illya reached down to check the ropes on the wrists and ankles of their two captives, then shrugged and shot each with a second sleep dart. “Neither of these two, nor the man they left to guard me, would have made it through the first day of Survival School.”
Napoleon swallowed the last of his coffee and set the empty styrene cup on the bedside table. “So what’s our plan now? I assume you rescheduled our rendezvous with Dr Calvin before you came back to the motel to pick me up, since you insisted I take time to shower even though we were already over an hour late.”
Illya’s smile turned smug. “Actually our rendezvous with the good doctor took place several hours earlier than scheduled.”
“Oh?” Napoleon blinked in surprise. “And how did that come about?”
“The man who was left to guard me made the unwise decision to leave me tied to a chair, with both our guns and communicators in the room, while he took a nap.” A flash of menace narrowed the Russian’s blue eyes. “It was quite insulting.”
“I’m sure you showed him the error of his ways.”
“Yes, and it was ridiculously easy,” Illya said with a mocking grumble. “Since they’d told me their plans, I merely had to contact Mr Waverly and have him move our meeting forward several hours. Dr Calvin wasn’t pleased to lose the opportunity to show off the experiments he’d set up for us, but he was reasonable about it. He and the most important documents, as well as a vial of the gas THRUSH used on us, were on a flight from Detroit to New York, accompanied by two men from the Detroit office, while you were still playing ‘tiptoe through the tulips’ with these two rather unconvincing UNCLE impersonators.”
“I’m surprised Mr Waverly didn’t send you to New York with Dr Calvin.” Napoleon raised a dark brow. Since the mission always came first, it was unexpected that Waverly would have relinquished the prize, even to other UNCLE personnel, quite so easily. “Don’t tell me that he put the well-being of his CEA above the security of an expert in chemical weaponry.”
“Mr Waverly thought his CEA should be capable of taking care of himself, in spite of being under the influence of a rather strong drug,” Illya said, a hint of sarcasm in his words. “However, once Dr Calvin fully realized the danger he was in and how long he would likely be away, he was quite recalcitrant about leaving one of his possessions behind, and he only acquiesced to departing immediately for New York when I suggested that the two of us could handle the matter.” Illya grinned mysteriously. “Which is also why Mr Waverly allowed me to retrieve you on my way back through Grand Rapids from the airport.”
“That was kind of him.”
“He might feel a bit less kind after you tell him you were temporarily taken in by the rewired communicator and false Waverly,” Illya said, his tone droll. “He told me he was quite certain you wouldn’t be. I think it’s a point of pride with him to be … unique.”
“I’ll have to attribute my temporary lapse to the combined effects of a mild concussion and the drug.” Napoleon said as he quickly repacked his suitcase and scanned the small room for any belongings he might have missed. “So we’re going to the university, after all?”
“No.” Illya stood and stretched. “We are going to retrieve and relocate Dr Calvin’s cat.”
Napoleon froze for a moment, staring in amazement at the other man. “You’re not serious?”
“Very serious. Dr Calvin is extremely fond of his cat. He insisted on being assured that she is removed to a place of safety until he can be reunited with her.”
“And Mr Waverly agreed to wasting the time of two senior agents to relocate a cat?” That was extremely difficult to believe.
“Retrieving this particular cat requires your expertise and my assistance.”
Napoleon gazed blankly at the blond agent. His brain was still a tiny bit fuzzy, but obviously he was missing something here.
Illya’s lips twitched, his eyes sparkling with suppressed mischief. “Did I mention that Dr Calvin’s cat is a 30 foot Catalina sailboat? He has a small laboratory set up in her cabin, and some of his most sensitive research was conducted there, so Mr Waverly is quite anxious that it be properly secured.”
It was rare that Napoleon Solo was rendered speechless, but words failed him as he remembered his silent longing to be on the Pursang as their plane descended over the lakes yesterday.
“Dr Calvin’s sailboat is currently docked a short distance west of Grand Rapids, but Mr Waverly wants her moved to a new mooring closer to Detroit before we fly back to New York.” Illya said, a rare, brilliant smile lighting up his face as he enjoyed his partner’s stunned surprise. “If you feel up to it, of course. If you’re still too impaired, Mr Waverly might be able to find someone from Detroit —”
“It sounds perfect,” Napoleon said, wondering for the thousandth time how he had gotten so lucky in the partner department. He could almost feel cool breezes blowing away the lingering effects of the sedative. “Sailing through the Great Lakes is just what the doctor ordered.”