Illya choked on the tea he was swallowing. She waited calmly while he sputtered and coughed, then glared at her, rubbing his throat and swiping at his tearing eyes. "That wasn't fair," he accused, his voice even hoarser than before.

  "You sound like Misha," Trish took his cup, went to make it up fresh, and brought it back to him. But at least you have a little life in your eyes. I don't like it when you haunt my kitchen like a pale ghost, Ilyusha, wearing your pain as visibly as you wear my son's clothes. What is so wrong that Alexander himself called to tell me you were coming home? She relented a trifle and said, "I knew where you were, darling, and when you came back, and something of your injuries. But I don't know what your mission involved." Or why you are upset. Norm said your mission was successful. And he looked well enough. A trifle thinner and he had a faded bruise darkening one cheek. But he seemed to have no obvious injuries and he'd even found time to get a haircut before his arrival.

  Illya sighed and leaned back, studying her, his shoulders relaxing. "I am glad to be home. And really, I am fine."

  "We are glad to have you home." She didn't ask how long he could stay. That would be putting demands on him, and Alexander had the corner on that. She had decided, long ago, that the only way to keep her suspicious, closed-mouthed, reserved foster son coming back to them was to give him what he needed without any strings. What he gave back would then be equally a gift. But then a reason occurred to her as to why Illya would be in such a disturbing mood. "How is Napoleon?" she asked casually.

  She startled him, that was obvious. His eyes darkened, his lips tightened, and a scowl started to appear on his features before it melted away under Illya's best controlled expression. So that is it. Napoleon was injured and you feel responsible. But then he surprised her.

  "Napoleon is fine."

  She looked at him, puzzled. His face was carefully blank, but his tone simmered with resentment. With anger.

  Illya pulled his legs out from behind her and flowed to his feet, escaping her quizzical gaze and the questions she wanted to ask but would never presume to—at least not without some hints that Illya wanted her to pry. She stared after him as he put his tea on the counter and crossed to the refrigerator, leaving its door wide open and burying his head inside, staring at the contents as if it were a television show—an annoying habit he had picked up from Tony that she knew he was adopting purposely to distract her.

  "I'm hungry," he was saying. "Can I have this leftover roast beef in a sandwich?"

  "Of course, darling," she replied absently, but her mind was elsewhere. Could Illya possibly be angry with Napoleon? That would be a first. Something must have happened. Napoleon must have done something reprehensible if Illya, with his strong, uncompromising loyalties, was angry with his partner, the heir apparent of U.N.C.L.E.

  Could it be that Napoleon was the reason Illya was upset—Napoleon was the reason Alexander had called? Well, Alexander would be concerned if a serious rift had occurred between his top enforcement team.

  She still found it incredible that Illya would be angry with Napoleon. Illya didn't get angry with people that he cared for, and he not only respected Napoleon professionally, but she knew that he considered him his closest friend. Her foster son had never had that many people whom he cared for—or who cared for him. Those that he did have, he treasured and was intensely loyal to them, even if it meant sacrificing himself.

  Illya had a temper, though it was rare for him to display anything but his usual controlled exterior to strangers, but she had become well familiar with it. But that temper was usually directed against himself. He became frustrated at his slowness in adapting to his adopted country, in understanding his role, in understanding everyday American life, in fitting in. When there were misunderstandings or blame to be attached, Illya usually annexed it for himself, whether he was responsible or not.

  But not this time, it seemed.

  What would cause Illya to be angry with Napoleon? It wouldn't be loyalty toward himself, it would have to be something he held higher.

  But what did Illya hold higher than his loyalty to his partner? Loyalty to his family? That didn't seem likely—they hadn't seen Napoleon in some time, and even then, she suspected if it came to a showdown with U.N.C.L.E., Alexander and Napoleon on one side, and their family on the other, Illya would side with his original loyalty to Alexander and U.N.C.L.E. That is, if he survived the emotional conflict. And he would undoubtedly blame himself for being in the center of the conflict.

  No, the only thing that Illya held sufficiently high to cause a rift with Napoleon was U.N.C.L.E. itself. Somehow the Chief Enforcement Agent had put himself in conflict with U.N.C.L.E. and Illya could not forgive him. Or perhaps it was conflict with Alexander. For Illya there wasn't much difference—U.N.C.L.E. was Alexander to Illya, and vice versa.

  So what power struggle was Napoleon involved in with Alexander that he had tried, and failed, to enlist Illya's support with?

  What had Napoleon asked of her foster son?

  And what right, partner or not, did Napoleon have to ask anything of Illya that would compromise her son's own hard won and fragile position, the tentative place he had carved out for himself in a hostile and unaccepting world? Surely the great Napoleon Solo could swing his own undoubtedly self-serving agenda without the need to implicate Illya, whose acceptance in U.N.C.L.E. was still so new and so easily rescinded.

  She had respected Napoleon because Alexander and Norm valued his professional skills. Because he had accepted Illya, at least to some extent, and because Illya considered him a friend. But she herself had never been particularly impressed with the smooth-talking, womanizing CEA, and her own loyalties told her Napoleon had probably accepted Illya, at least at first, because Alexander had told him to, and later on, because Illya was also an extremely competent agent. Certainly Illya spoke highly of Napoleon, but he never said much. She herself suspected Napoleon was rather selfish and self-centered, and only too willing to use a subordinate, a transplanted Russian defector not too sure of the unspoken rules, to some private gain. And perhaps Illya had finally discovered that.

  She felt her own jaw set with anger.

  It was just as well Napoleon Solo was in New York.

  CEA or not, he was safer there than in Washington, D.C.

  U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters, New York City

  5:00 p.m.

  Solo sat back in his office, his feet on the desk, and rubbed his forehead. What a case. What a day. He'd managed not only to get Waverly angry with him, but Illya angry too—and that was a real accomplishment—the Russian so far had taken everything from real abuse from others to teasing from himself without much reaction. Only recently had Illya begun to tease him back.

  It had been a disastrous summer for Napoleon Solo. First the case with Jud Carter that had led to Illya's kidnapping and his own realization of how he had let the past interfere with his perceptions of his partner. Then the mission to the Soviet Union, where he had learned just how much he hated to be anything but CEA—and where he'd been faced with the puzzle of how to train Illya to that role.

  And now this—ethical quandary. Now that he thought of it, he wasn't surprised Illya didn't have a problem with Waverly's actions—his partner had never had much of an upbringing; he'd been virtually raised by the KGB.

  No, that wasn't fair. Illya was as honest and as ethical as himself. Just more cynical. The cruelties of the world that Solo still railed against, Illya just shrugged his shoulders at and worked harder to prevent, one case at a time.

  So how could Illya sanction what Waverly had done? Was it just that he didn't have the background to consider it a problem, or could this be one of those areas where his partner was actually ahead of him?

  Illya had almost been making a habit of that lately. And Solo was getting a little tired of it. Part of him wanted to believe that if Illya agreed with Waverly, then they both were wrong.

  But what if they both were right, and he was wrong?

  No, it couldn't be. Illya was grateful to Waverly, and only too familiar with being used and manipulated. And Waverly was a world class manipulator, but that didn't make the U.N.C.L.E. chief right.

  So where did that leave him, U.N.C.L.E.'s Chief Enforcement Agent, who had recently discovered how much he hated not being in the CEA role, who had also recently discovered how he had let the past influence how he had treated his partner—and who, instead of using that knowledge to reinforce his position and improve his relationship with Illya, was now at odds with his partner and his boss.

  No, he was not very comfortable. Not too sure of his future. And not too sure of himself.

  Probably exactly how Waverly wanted him to feel.

  Solo swore softly, swung his feet to the floor, and stood up. He needed some air. Some breathing room. He was getting pretty tired of not being sure how much of what he felt he had come to on his own, and how much he had been cleverly maneuvered into feeling. It seemed that even back in U.N.C.L.E., back in his position of CEA, he still felt the lack of being completely in charge. He was still subject to Waverly's maneuvering.

  As he left U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters for a needed walk, the thought occurred to him that the only way to avoid being the puppet, was to be the puppeteer.

  It was an image that would come to haunt him.

  Table of Contents

  The Rushin' Fool

  Interlude

  The Double Dipping Affair

  Interlude

  Regaining Footing

  Interlude

  White Knight in the Side Pocket

  Epilogue

  The Red Retriever Affair

  Chapter One: Prelude

  Chapter Two: Setup

  Chapter Three: Mobilization

  Chapter Four: Mission

  Chapter Five: Flight

  Chapter Six: Return

  Cost Accounting

 

 

  LRH Balzer, Collection 6 - The Summer of '65

 

 

  Thank you for reading books on GrayCity.Net
Share this book with friends