The Vanished Into Thin Air Affair
My stories are written for fun. The characters and the shows belong to their creators. I thank them very much for sharing them with us and in no way intend to infringe upon their rights when I write my stories.
The Man From U.N.C.L.E. and its characters is copyrighted by MGM Inc/United Artists and Arena Productions © 1964.
Part I
The man vanished.
One split second before, he had been walking across a rather non-discript street in an ordinary, small town, several hours southeast of Topeka, Kansas. He was wearing a red, plaid, flannel shirt and blue denim overalls. His brown hair was short and sweaty. His hands were worn and dirty from hard work. There were, in fact, several men on the street that day closely matching his description, but he was the only one who slowly faded out of existence as he went along his way.
The woman screamed. It took 2 hours, 5 police officers, and a sedative from her doctor to calm her enough to fill out a report on what she had seen.
The truck turned wildly out of control and crashed into a blue and white mailbox in front of Ed Neely's Drug Store. The driver swore he hadn't been drinking, but no one who knew him believed him. It wasn't, after all, his first mailbox.
**********
Alexander Waverly sat in the large, comfortable chair at his desk. The bushy, gray eyebrows that extended across his forehead were set in their usual frown. As he read the report that had just been spewed out from a nearby computer, the frown deepened. He took the long, smoking pipe from his mouth and lay the report on his desk where several more sheets of paper lay scattered. Each sheet held a report strikingly similar to the one he had just read. He leaned back in his chair and puffed several small breaths from the pipe as he stared at the ceiling.
Suddenly, his mind was made up. Leaning forward he pushed a button on the small box positioned on the left corner of his desk.
"Ahh...Miss. Carper?"
"Harper, Sir," the muffled voice replied from the box.
"Ahh, yes. Miss Harper, please have Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin report to me as soon as they arrive."
"Yes, Sir, Mr. Waverly."
Waverly sat at a long table with the report print-outs spread out across it. He pointed to or picked up each one in turn as he spoke.
"Tori Smith, 3rd grade teacher and mother of three. Vanished while hanging laundry in her own backyard."
"James Hostetter, third rate Lawyer in Minnesota. Vanished while purchasing a hot dog from a street vender.
"Pierre Malais, vanished while walking across a busy street in Paris during rush hour."
Solo sat up in his chair and reached to pick up one of the reports. Illya stopped reading the one that he held and peered over his dark rimmed glassed as Waverly went on.
"Andrea Mirkovitch, she ran a small restaurant in Minsk. I understand they serve excellent pelmeni."
"Miso Kimiko, Japanese airline pilot. Luckily, he was playing baseball with his son and not flying!"
"The list is extremely long, gentlemen, and each case is strikingly similar. These people are not famous or well known. They have nothing in common except that they vanished off the street or out of their yards into thin air. The incidents date back well over a year. It has taken way to long for us even to notice, much less to put together a discernible pattern."
"What is the pattern, Sir?" Kuryakin looked over several of the reports spread out in front of him.
"Only this, Mr. Kuryakin, the vanishings have been becoming more and more frequent. Over the past year there have been 106 reported vanishings. This month alone twenty men and women have disappeared off the streets of the world. Five of those have been in the past week."
"What can we do, Sir? Are there any leads, any connections between these people? Where do we start?" Solo lay down one report and picked up another, perusing it quickly.
"You will start here." Waverly dropped a report and it floated gently toward Napoleon. "Elmer Crat, a farmer from Washita, Kansas. Vanished, yesterday morning, right off the street. There are two witnesses. Find out everything you can."
*********
Napoleon Solo was driving the little blue car that finally pulled on to Main Street in Washita, Kansas. His back and shoulders ached from sitting too long in a car too small for his tall frame. He leaned forward to look out at the buildings as he passed them and squinted up at the blazing sun as it shown down from high over head.
"Lovely," he said, with his voice dripping sarcasm.
Beside him, Illya Kuryakin looked up from where he sat dozing in the passenger seat. For what was not the first time, Napoleon envied his partner's smaller size as well as his ability to sleep in nearly any situation.
When it was time to sleep, Illya slept. As with everything Illya did, his body and mind set aside all other concerns and concentrated on the task at hand. As they traveled Illya knew he may not have another chance to rest for some time, and so he slept. However, when Napoleon spoke, Illya was instantly awake.
"We're here," Solo announced.
"Lovely," Kuryakin deadpanned.
Solo's mouth made a small smirk as he slowed the car and pulled into one of the three parking spots in front of the local police department. He turned off the car, opened the door and slowly stretched the kinks out of his body as he stood. Turning around, he saw Illya watching him with a playful smile hiding in the corners of his mouth.
"Your getting old, Napoleon," he remarked, letting the smile reach as far as his eyes.
Solo glared at him, but didn't choose to respond. Instead he turned and walked purposefully towards the building. It was brick and there were bars on several of the windows. Above the door hung a wooden sign. It was painted white and in large black letters it read: County Sheriff.
The Sheriff was a large, jovial man. He was very glad to see the U.N.C.L.E. agents and to tell them all of the information he had been able to gather. Washita was not known for much except a low, almost non-existent crime rate. Last summer two teenagers had written sexual invitations on the backs of three buildings in town, the diner, the post office and the church. This was pretty much ignored at the diner but caused quite a ruckus on Sunday morning. Pastor Roberts and the old ladies worship group marched over to the Sheriff and demanded he take action. It wasn't even hard to catch the boys, as one of them had proudly written his own phone number.
So Elmer Crat's disappearance was more than the Sheriff knew how to or wanted to deal with. He assured the agents that Bill Tilmer had been drunk, was surely drunk now and would be drunk at any time in the future. Tilmer had already paid for damages on three other mailboxes in and out of town. Despite having long since lost his license, having no insurance and having spent many a month or two in jail he still drives his blue pick-up regularly.
Then he sent the agents out to Mrs. Bear's ranch. She was the richest resident of Washita as well as the oldest and she had a reputation for being "smart as a whip and mean as a pole cat!"
It took over an hour to drive out to the Bear Ranch, then twenty minutes to drive up the path to the huge, log cabin that Mr. Bear and his four sons had built for his wife before he died. When the trees parted and Solo saw the house he sighed in quiet relief. The two agents climbed out of the car and looked around at the secluded homestead. Several horses were corralled near an old, but well built barn and a friendly, little, floppy haired dog ran up to them, tail wagging uncontrollably.
Two steps from the car, the loud blast of a shot gun sent both men diving to the ground.
A high pitched, scratchy voice called out to them from the house. "Hold it right there, strangers! We don't take kindly to trespassers here, especially the cityfied kind!" Another blast from the shot gun punctuated her announcement and froze the agents when they started to rise.
Solo looked up from the ground and called to their assailant. "Uh...We're looking for Mrs. Bear. We..."
Before he could finish a man ran from behind the barn yelling towards the front porch.
"Margret! Stop that shootin' right now! These are fellas the sheriff told me about. Crazy women, put that shotgun away!"
Illya and Napoleon slowly rose to their feet as the man reached the porch and stood between them and the old women on the porch. Illya stood with his UNCLE special in his hand, Napoleon brushed the dust off his suit and straightened his tie.
After taking the shotgun the man turned to the agents. His skin was dark and wrinkled from working in the sun and his gray hair poked out from under a dingy baseball cap. He called out to them.
"Hey there! Come on up, I got the gun. She ain't gonna shoot no more." He waved them to the house..
The Russian looked at his partner with some doubt. Solo smiled, with much more confidence than he felt, to reassure him. Then he took cautious steps towards the couple on the porch. Illya followed slowly, but did not immediately put his gun away.
"Sorry about the ornery welcome, Mrs. Bear's been a little on edge since Elmer....well, you know." The old man grasped Solo's hand as he mounted the stairs and Solo responded with a hearty hand shake and a casual grin. "I run the place, you know, feed the horses, mow the grass, do the fixin' up, been workin' for the Bears thirty two years! Name's Rodney Walters."
"Hello, My name is Napoleon Solo, this is my..." He paused when he saw Illya's gun. "similarly on edge' partner, Illya Kuryakin."
"Glad to meet ya, and this is Mrs. Bear."
The frail women that took Solo's hand looked up at him and squinted to see more clearly. She wore a flowered sun-dress and her white hair was neatly fashioned into a bun on the top of her head. When she spoke Solo almost forgot she had just tried to run them off with a shotgun.
"Mr. Solo, I apologize for the greeting, Rodney failed to inform me you were coming. You can't be too careful, you know. Strange things have been happening around here!" She smiled at him and offered her hand to Illya who finally holstered his gun and briefly took her delicate hand.
"Mrs. Bear, we wanted to speak to you about Elmer Crat." Solo began.
"Oh no, I'll not have it, you boys come in and have a bite to eat, maybe some cookies. I've been baking all week, just waiting for someone to share it all with." She reached and took the shotgun back from Rodney. She held it loosely at her side as though it belonged there. "Rodney, back to work. Have you finished with those horses?"
"Yes, Ma'am...I mean, no Ma'am." Walters sauntered off the porch and towards the barn. "Save me some of them cookies, ya hear?"
She waved her hand at him and took Solo's arm, leading him in the door.
"Really, Ma'am, We appreciate the offer, but we would like to get back to town early....." Solo stopped in mid sentence, when Mrs. Bear turned and innocently lay the shotgun in the crook of her arm across her chest. "...but we do have time for a few cookies. Don't we Illya?" He looked at his partner for support.
Before Illya could respond to Solo's suggestion, Mrs. Bear spun on her heals and left the room. "Wonderful, gentlemen, please have a seat. I'll be right back."
Two hours and a dozen cookies later, Mrs. Bear told them that she had been walking down Main St. towards the hairdresser, when she had seen Elmer, an old friend of her husband's, walking toward her from across the street. He called out a greeting and smiled, she stopped to wait for him to reach her. Suddenly he paused in the middle of the road and looked at her in confusion. He called her name, flexed his fists and looked at his hands. Then, as she stood on the sidewalk and watched, Elmer "went all fuzzy and disappeared".
They left the Bear ranch early in the evening, barely making it out before being invited to dinner. They drove back to Washita in search of Bill Tilmer. Just as the Sheriff had suggested, Tilmer was drunk. They met him coming out of a Millie's Sports Bar N' Grill. Stumbling and slobbering on his flannel shirt, Tilmer told them how Elmer had walked out into the street in front of him. How he had expertly swerved to miss the old Farmer, and how the old coot had sneakily decided to disappear so that no one would believe his story.
When they finally pulled into the empty, motel parking lot the sun was completely gone. One street lamp gave off a flickering circle of light that was eerily swallowed by the thick darkness of the country night. The only other light was a neon sign over the office door and a faint yellow glow that came from a curtained front window. Illya turned off the car but neither man made a move to exit.
Solo reached into his jacket's breast pocket and pulled out his pen communicator. Holding it up, he spoke into it. "Open Channel D."
"Yes, Mr. Solo." Waverly's voice came back through the pen instantly. "You have a report."
"Hmm...not really. We spoke to everyone, Sir. Their stories are strange, to say the least, and they are very similar, but they are in no way helpful or informative. The man who vanished is a farmer from the area. He is well known in town. Never done anything unusual or suspicious and hasn't been seen since that day on the street when he "went fuzzy and disappeared."
"Very well. There has been another incident. A gardener in London, England. Your flight leaves Topeka at 10:17 tomorrow morning."
Solo gave his partner a woefully resigned look and put the pen back in his pocket.
"I'll get the bags, you check us in." Illya commented as they got out of the car.
Instantly, the rear driver's side window exploded in a spray of glass. Kuryakin cried out in surprise and threw up his arm to protect his face.
Solo jumped and called out in concern, "What the...? Illya...!" Something whizzed by his ear and he leaped back as a bullet plowed through the roof of the car.
Solo heard several more shots, but reflex had already sent him to the ground and he crawled around to the front of the car. Another shot kept him from peering over the hood. "Illya!" he called. There was no answer.
He knelt down and looked under the car trying to find his partner. Nothing. He pulled out his gun and fired two blind shots over the car. Then risked raising his head to search the parking lot. More bullets slammed into the car roof and he quickly ducked back out of sight.
"Illya!" His call was answered by more thumps as the mysterious gunmen fired in his direction again. He was completely pinned down unable to get a clear view of anything. Unable to locate his partner and unable to tell where the shots were coming from.
Finally, he heard the distinct sound of an U.N.C.L.E. special being fired and the parking lot was plunged into darkness as the street lamp exploded. He recognized the shot instantly. He sighed in relief, muttered a word of thanks to "Mother Russia," and took advantage of the darkness to sneak out from behind the car, across the small lot and into the wooded area left of the motel.
Their attackers fired two or three more shots at the car and showered the corner of the motel opposite Solo, where they must have seen Illya take his shot from. When he reached relative safety, Napoleon stopped to calm his breathing and look around. To get a good angle on the street lamp Illya had to be on the other side of the motel. From where Solo watched he could see exactly where the attack was coming from. He and Illya would both have to cross the street to reach the gunmen. Solo set off away from the motel, for safety's sake, before making his move.
Illya had thrown himself to the ground instantly after the window shattered so close to him. There was a large, green dumpster not more than 15 feet away from the car and while the shooters took their first few shots at Solo he disappeared behind it. Standing up with his back against the dumpster he looked around in the dim lighting. directly in from of him was a walkway that passed between the two buildings that made up the motel. Thrilled by his luck he followed it to the rear of the buildings. He heard Napoleon call out but didn't answer for fear of giving away his advantage. His partner would know soon enough that he was unscathed.
There was a small spot light shining behind the motel and he raced around the building and into the woods. Stopping a good distance from the parking lot he saw that Napoleon was still trapped behind the car. He took careful aim and fired at the street lamp. It took some time for his eyes to adjust and he had to throw himself to the ground as the gunmen fired wildly in his general direction. Each shot glowed bright orange in the dark across the street. In the quiet that followed he moved off through the woods away from the motel. He reached the edge of the wood and peered out into the street. Nothing could be seen from either direction so he stepped out and sprinted across.
As Solo and Kuryakin worked their way towards the shooters from opposite sides, quiet descended on the motel and the front door opened a crack. Light from inside spread out into the dark lot and someone cautiously poked a head out. When nothing happened the door was pushed open further and a tiny, gray haired man slowly stepped out carrying a hunting rifle. He gazed out at the darkness and saw nothing.
His heart leapt to his throat when suddenly a vehicle roared to life in the trees across the street. Headlights blinded him as a large sport utility truck bounced and scraped out of the brush and onto the street. With a squeal it raced away into the dark.
Napoleon reached the area as the truck came to life and tore off. He broke into a run but was slowed by the underbrush and never got a good look at anything. He stood on the side of the street breathing heavy and watched in frustration as the headlights disappeared in the distance. Looking across the street he saw the frightened motel clerk and stepped back into the woods. He had no desire to exchange fire with an innocent bystander. The man had certainly had enough excitement for one night.
"Napoleon!" Illya called him from the trees. Solo turned and followed the voice until he saw the dancing beam of Illya's penlight flashing on the ground.
"Are you all right Tovarich?" He asked his friend as he approached.
"I'm fine. Come have a look at this," Illya answered. Other agents thought Illya's calm was impenetrable under fire, but Solo could always make out the effect an adrenaline rush had on his partner's voice. The voice also told him he was indeed "fine." Solo was also well accustomed to the sound of his partners voice when he was injured and trying hard not to show it.
"Did you find something?" He asked as he approached.
"Hmm...lots of somethings." As Napoleon came through the trees Illya shone his light over him quickly from head to toe.
Solo turned his head and squinted at the light in his eyes, but did not complain. He knew it was Illya's way of assuring himself that Napoleon was also unharmed. It saved him the trouble of having to ask.
When Solo reached him Illya shone his light on the ground around his feet. It was littered with shell casings. Napoleon bent down and picked up several to examine under Illya's light. He turned them over and held one up between them.
"Thrush," he said with chagrin.
He dropped the shells to the ground and took his communicator out of his pocket. "Open Channel D."
Mr. Waverly answered immediately. "Mr. Solo, is there a problem?"
"No Sir, but I'm fairly certain we are going to need a new car."
********
When Solo and Kuryakin arrived in London, the airport clock read 9:04 am. They met their local U.N.C.L.E. contact and drove out to meet the family of Clarence Mclain. He was an old man and grandfather to four young boys. He lived with his son, his son's wife and their children. For thirty years he had tended gardens that belonged to others. Since he had retired and until two days ago, he had been lovingly tending only his own. The only witnesses of his disappearance were his two oldest grandsons. The oldest, Jeffrey, was nine, his brother, Micky, was seven. They had been playing in the yard when he called out to them. They looked his direction in time to see him lift his arm as though he were reaching for them. He had a look of confusion on his face. Then, Jeffrey said, "...he got blurrier and blurrier until he was gone."
As the car pulled into the long asphalt driveway, Illya gazed out the window at the luxurious lawn and flowering garden. The man had certainly known his Rhododendrons. The house was large and had two stories. It was an old wooden building, parts of which had obviously been standing for 100 years or more. It was, however, far from run down. The Mclains had lived there for many years and had cared for it and the grounds with love and loyalty.
On this day, what should have been a pleasant sight, left Illya feeling uneasy. Something wasn't right. He didn't voice his feelings but shifted uneasily in his seat. Solo noticed the movement, and when he saw the dark SUV parked in front of the house he cleared his throat. Illya looked at him grim faced. Solo frowned and pulled the car up short of the house so as not to draw attention from anyone inside.
They got out of the car and drew their guns. As they approached the house they saw that the front door was not closed. Turning in separate directions they entered the yard and began to circle the house.
Solo went to the left and found a low window that he could sneak up to. Peering in he saw no one. He was looking down a long hallway. He was about to turn away, when a dark haired, unshaven man walked out of one room and crossed the hall to another. He did not look towards the window, but he carried a gun, hanging loosely at his side. Moving away from the window Solo continued his search for a way inside.
Illya approached a large picture window on the opposite side of the house. He had to crawl on his belly to get close. He pulled himself up and leaned against the side of the house. Sitting under the window, he closed his eyes and listened. He heard crying, perhaps more than one voice and he heard footsteps walking away from the wall he leaned against.
Cautiously he raised his head above the window sill. The room was large and furnished with a plush couch and two easy chairs. From the window Illya could see the dining area as well as the kitchen. He also saw the entire Mclain family, minus one grandfather. Mrs. Mclain and her four boys sat clutching each other on the couch, crying. Mr. Mclain was tied hand and foot. Illya could tell he had not been treated well. There were bruises starting to appear on his face and a small trickle of blood ran from his nose. There was no one else in the room.
Kuryakin sat back down, thinking for only a second, then crawled away from the window towards the back of the house.
Solo found a window that was open in the rear of the house. It led to a room that was dark and closed off from the rest of the building. Slowly, and carefully he pushed the window open, knocked out the screen and squeezed in. He dropped to the floor and froze, listening.
Kuryakin stood against the outside of the building behind a tall bush that grew to the right of the back door. A gruff voice called out inside the house.
"I'm goin' out!"
A different voice answered him. "No, we were told to stay put and stay alert."
"I'm just going to the yard, I'm sick of sittin' around waitin' for them to get here."
"I'm tellin' you to stay in here!"
"Yeah, O.K. and your the boss now right? I'll have to remember that."
The words sounded contrite but the footsteps grew louder and Illya saw the door knob turn. He froze in place.
Solo heard voices moving away from the room he was listening in. He moved to the doorknob and tried the handle. It was locked, but from the inside, when he turned it he was rewarded with a quiet click. He opened the door a crack and looked out. He was in a room along the same hallway he had peered into earlier. At the end of the hall he could see sunlight and shadows moving. He heard a grumbling voice and the footsteps of a man pacing back and forth. Silently, he crept down the hall until he was outside the room where the pacer seemed to be complaining.
"Damn fool........Where the hell are they?........It's been hours......."
As the door burst open Illya tensed for action. The man exited with a flourish, anger and sarcasm twisted his face. He took three steps and Illya moved behind him. The brute fell to the ground before the door finished closing. Reaching down with caution, Illya made certain the man was unconscious. Then he turned back to the door and quietly entered the house. Somewhere ahead of him he heard a shot. Giving up caution, he ran to the front of the building.
Solo stepped boldly into the room and announced, "All right, hands over your head, your wait is over."
The shocked thrushman didn't obey. Instead his gun hand swept upward.
Without hesitation, Solo fired his own weapon. Hearing running footfalls, he spun expecting to be set upon by more Thrush. Instead Illya burst into the room, gun raised.
Both men instantly relaxed. Illya looked around and shook his head, His voice was utter calm. "Oh, Napoleon, that is very messy."
Solo holstered his gun, and muttered an apology. Then he approached Mr. Mclain to untie him. Illya put away his own gun, looked at the frightened faces of Mrs. Mclain and her children and tried his hand at a charming, comforting smile. It may not have been effective in beguiling beautiful women, but to the Mclains, it was a most beautiful sight.
"Open Channel D." Holding his communicator in his hand, Solo called Mr. Waverly.
"Mr. Solo?" As usual his answer was prompt.
"Sir," said Solo, "We're going to need a clean up crew. Thrush has paid the Mclains a visit."
Illya interrupted, "We have a pick up as well out back. My work is much neater, he will come to in a while."
Solo rolled his eyes and continued, "Add a pick up to that request, Sir. Illya has a gift for the interrogation team."
"Excellent work, Mr. Kuryakin!" Mr. Waverly almost sounded excited. "We may get to the bottom of this yet! Oh, I nearly forgot. You're needed in Maine, gentlemen. A quaint little village called Lane's End. Our London man will make your flight preparations. Carry on"
Solo put the pen away and turned to speak with the battered and bruised Mr. Mclain. Mrs. Mclain took the children into the kitchen and Illya went outside to collect the "garbage" for "pick up".
Several hours later, the London division of U.N.C.L.E had removed all the signs of Thrush's presence at the Mclain residence. The local police were stationed outside in case Thrush decided they needed to return and Solo and Kuryakin walked out and down the driveway to their rental car. They had learned nothing more from the Mclain's than they had learned in Washita.
Solo watched his somber partner walk around to the passenger side of the vehicle. To Napoleon he looked even more pensive than usual. "What are you mulling over. You look absolutely, heartbroken." He asked.
Illya looked up at him, insulted, "Heartbroken? I do not!" When he saw Solo grinning at him he realized he was being teased and snorted in disapproval.
Solo chuckled and gave in, "O.K. O.K., but I know that little wrinkle in your forehead means your worried about something."
Illya rubbed his forehead as he got in the car. "What wrinkle?" he said, frowning.
Solo got in the drivers seat and turned on the car without saying anymore. They drove away from the house and Illya's mood grew even darker as he stared out the window watching London pass by. Finally, Solo pointed at his partner and continued. "That wrinkle, right there. Now tell me what it is that your thinking."
Illya sighed in resignation and turned to speak. "Just a feeling, Napoleon."
"What sort of feeling?"
"I don't think Mr. Waverly is going to get the information he wants from that bird we sent him."
Solo frowned and responded without conviction. "What makes you think that. They certainly weren't the brightest couple of birds we've dealt with, and you know how good the interrogation team's new techniques are."
"No, what I mean is, I don't think he has the information Mr. Waverly wants. Were not learning anything from any of the people that we talk to, but Thrush is still pestering us everywhere we go. If there is no information, no trail for us to find why do they care that we are here?"
"Maybe they don't, maybe they're just following us. We do have quite a reputation you know."
"Hmmm...than how do you explain the Mclains? Why beat up Mr. Mclain? Why question them about their missing grandfather if they know where he is?"
Solo was quiet, thinking. He had been wondering the same thing. "Illya," he said, "I don't think Thrush knows anymore about these vanishings' than we do."
It was Illya's turn to quietly sit and think.
"Well, now you know what I was worrying about." Illya finally responded. "If it's not Thrush making hundreds of normal, innocent citizens with nothing in common vanish into thin air, then who is doing it!?"
*******
Lane's End, Maine was a coastal community. The population was just under 7,500. There were a few motels to house the occasional tourist in search of the perfect lobster dinner, two small movie theaters and several factories on the outskirts of town. The Lane's Inn Diner boasted the best seafood in the north. Across the nearly deserted street from the diner and next to the town's largest marina was the Marina Bar N' Grill.
The sun was putting forth its final efforts at day light as Illya and Napoleon drove into town. The marina and the bar were easy to find. The smell of smoke accosted them as they entered, though the air was not yet thick at this early hour. Napoleon entered first and removed the sunglasses he had been wearing to drive. He stood a few moments at the door and watched as he waited for Illya to come in behind him.
There were only three patrons spread out around the room. One, a burly brown haired man with a thick beard and mustache sat at the bar in a dark turtleneck, jeans and rubber boots. He looked up and watched the two strangers enter. The bar ran the length of the room to the left of the door and way in the back a little more light shone on two pool tables. Two young, black men ignored the front of the room as they laughed and enjoyed a round of pool. From behind the bar a young woman, dressed in a tight fitting, red T-shirt, blue jeans and a white apron, turned to greet them.
"Well, hello gentlemen." She raised her eyebrows at Napoleon's prim, crisp suit and the confident lift of his chin. "What can I get for you?"
Napoleon smiled his most charming smile and sidled up to the bar. The burly man at the bar watched him closely. Illya smirked and wandered in the other direction. He found a table against the wall and sat where he could see the entire room. He watched as Napoleon played the young women and her burly protector. He could not hear everything that was said, but within minutes they were all three chuckling like old friends.
Illya was wishing for half of his partners social charms when four more strangers walked into the bar. These men could not have been more obvious if they had "Thrush" stamped on their foreheads. Illya quickly turned away and lowered his head in what he hoped looked like a drunken stupor. For Solo, disappearing would not be so easy.
They stood at the door and gazed around the room. They did not speak even when the young woman looked up at them and uneasily welcomed them in.
"Gentlemen, come in. What can I get you this evening?"
Solo sighed when he saw them enter but resisted the urge to look over at his partner. When he turned to the men, one of them smiled in recognition and another slipped his hand into his jacket pocket. Solo's eyes widened in apprehension and he stepped forward before they came into the room any further.
"Ahh...Friends, don't trouble yourselves here. I have all the information these people can give you." He walked right up to the men and took one of them gently by the arm. The muscular man didn't budge except to glare down at him in confusion. "Come," Napoleon continued, "let's step outside and I'll be more than happy to share it with you." He tried to corral the men back out the front door.
Confusion moved the men several steps before the big one stopped.
"Hold it, Solo! Where's Kuryakin?"
"Ohh, he went across the street to the Inn. We need a room for the night you know." He applied some pressure to the man's arm and without being seen moved his other hand closer to his gun.
The big Thrush henchmen wasn't convinced and his companions were growing uneasy. He looked up around the room again and motioned with his head. "You over against the wall, Come over here. I want to see you in the light."
Illya didn't move, he made a sound that may have been a snore.
The big, burly fellow at the bar could sit still no longer. He stood up form his stool and yelled at the intruders. "Hey, who the hell do you guys think you are? Myra, go call the cops." He took a step forward. Myra took a step back.
The Thrush leader moved quickly for his gun, but Solo moved even quicker and the big man froze as he felt the muzzle of Solo's gun bury itself in his ribs.
Solo spoke next with forceful determination hidden in his voice, "I'm telling you friend there is nothing here you need. Outside you can get all you want from me." He was determined to remove these thugs from the bar. He did not want a repeat of what happened in London, even if he had to sacrifice himself to prevent it.
The Thrush leader looked over at Illya again and hesitated.
Behind the bar, Myra was beginning to get a vague idea of what was going on and before her burly friend could speak again she motioned toward Illya and said. "That guy's been dead asleep over in that corner since early this afternoon. It'll take more than a little yelling to get him out of that seat."
Napoleon looked at her and then nudged his gun, reminding the thrushman that it was there. Finally, the man grunted in resignation and moved toward the door. His three companions followed he and Solo out.
As soon as the door closed. Illya jumped up. "Is there a back door?" he asked.
Myra nodded and pointed though the pool room where the two men had stopped playing. Illya turned and sprinted across the room, and out the door into the early evening darkness.
Myra let out the breath she had been holding. "This place is just getting too weird." she said.
Big and burly nodded his head in agreement and took his seat at the bar.
Illya peered around the corner of the building. Solo was surrounded by the four Thrush henchmen. They stood next to a dark sedan. The biggest of the men held Solo close to his face by the collar of his expensive suit coat. Another threw a viscous punch into the ribs on his right side.
A distraction,' Illya thought I need a distraction.' He looked around the alley he stood in and considered the various weapons and devices he had concealed on his person. Then he remembered the green and brown station wagon he had run past behind the bar. He looked up to see Napoleon receive another blow to the midsection and then took off back down the alley.
Solo wrapped his arm around his stomach and mumbled up at his assailants as they roughly pulled him upright for the fifth time. He didn't try to speak coherently, he just concentrated on breathing.
The big leader finally grew impatient. "Throw him in the car, they'll get everything he knows out of him."
The back door of the dark sedan they had pinned him up against was opened and he was roughly thrown in and pushed to the floor. He didn't try to resist and he wasn't particularly worried about escape. The men had missed Illya. It was only a matter of time before he was rescued, and he didn't know anything to tell them, about the vanishings.
Thrush piled into the car and squealed away from the curb. One of the men in the back put his feet on Solo's shoulders. The other jabbed a wooden club into his kidney to keep him in place.
Illya reached the station wagon, jumped in and yanked the wires down from under the dash. In seconds the car rumbled to life. Jamming the gas pedal to the floor, he sped out of the alley.
The stationwagon hit the street at the same instant that the sedan passed the ally. The two cars slammed together in an ear shattering crash and their combined momentum smashed them into a telephone pole.
The two Thrush in the front seat of the sedan didn't move even a twitch. Illya pushed back from the steering wheel and shook his pounding head, it had connected solidly with the windshield. He quietly berated himself for not wearing his seat belt. The two Thrush in the back seat of the sedan cursed the station wagon and slammed Solo's head against the floor boards before getting out of the car, relatively unscathed.
Illya got out of the station wagon in time to meet the first Thrush getting out of the sedan. He slammed his foot into the door hitting the thug squarely on the forehead. Then he pulled the door open and reached in to pull the man out. Instead he was hit by a sudden wave of dizziness and stumbled. This gave his adversary time to recover and send Kuryakin flying backwards and to the ground. By now the other man had raced around the cars. Together, they pulled him to his feet.
"Kuryakin! We should have known," one groaned.
"Yeah, where there's one roach there's another!" the other laughed at his own joke.
"Shut up, idiot," the first yelled. Then he took out his frustration on Illya's chin sending him back to the asphalt.
Suddenly, the idiot fell to the ground in a heap and his insulter looked up in time to see the long wooden club connect with the side of his own face. Solo stood over them holding the club at his side and looking down at Illya who looked up at him and shrugged.
"Your suit's torn, Napoleon," he said holding his chin.
"My suit...Illya what were you thinking! I seem to remember you calling me messy! Look your even bleeding! What were you trying to do, get us both killed?" Solo dropped the club and helped his friend to shaky feet.
"No, I was rescuing you, couldn't you tell?"
*********
Sleepless nights, adrenaline letdowns, jet lag, fruitless efforts, long hours of travel and the crash of two fast moving vehicles had begun to take it's toll. Even U.N.C.L.E.'s top agents need rest. After calling for assistance with the Thrush mess they had made in the streets of Lane's End, they were flown by helicopter to Maine's largest U.N.C.L.E headquarters. They flew out into nowhere for over an hour before touching down in a field that looked, to the unknowing eye, completely empty.
A loud, mechanical grinding was the only indication that something was different as Solo and Kuryakin disembarked the helicopter and followed two local U.N.C.L.E. agents away. As the chopper took off, the ground before them shook and began to rise. Out of the ground appeared a doorway. The four men stepped in and let the doors close behind them.
As the small room began to descend, Illya leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. Solo frowned in minor concern as he watched him. The first place they were going was medical.
After nearly an hour of insistent poking and prodding of his ribs, Solo walked briskly out of the treatment room. Behind him, a nurse called out in surprise.
"Mr. Solo, the doctor wanted to see you again! Please, wait sir!"
Turning toward the nearby desk in the next room, he smiled at the pretty blond lady typing at a computer. She looked up at him over a pair of round, red eyeglasses.
Using his most insistent tone he asked, "What room is my partner in? Small, blond...bleeding from his scalp."
"Oh!" She looked at up at him, uncertain how to respond. His look convinced her. "He's down the hall, Sir, but..."
He didn't stop to hear her tell him he couldn't go into Illya's room.
A few steps down the hall and he could hear Illya's voice, his tone was irritated. Solo smiled slightly and pushed the door open. As he had expected, a doctor stood over the Russian trying to hold him down on the exam-bed as Illya, complaining indignantly, kept trying to sit up.
"Being as difficult as usual I see." Solo said as he entered, the hint of a smile still in his eyes.
"Here now," said the doctor, "Who are you? You can't come in here."
With the doctor distracted, Illya quickly sat up on the bed and swung his legs off the side. "Finally, Napoleon. They let you out?"
"Hmm, yes, in a way, but it looks like your not quite finished?"
"On the contrary, I have had my fill of tests for tonight."
"Are you sure?" Solo squinted his eyes and questioned him, he leaned forward and examined the stitches on his forehead.
"Yes," Illya answered in frustration, "I'm fine, Napoleon." He brushed his friend away like a pesky fly. Please, don't mother in front of strangers!" He stood off the bed to leave.
"Now wait a minute," interrupted the doctor, "where do you think you're going?" He put a hand on Kuryakin's arm to stop him.
Illya sighed and started to respond, but another man walked into the room and interrupted him. Napoleon recognized him as the same doctor that had examined his ribs in the other room.
"What's this? Mutiny, already!" the new doctor said without surprise. "Waverly wasn't exaggerating."
Solo's eyes widened questioningly, "Mr. Waverly? No, I can't say I've ever heard him exaggerate. What did he say, Doctor?"
With a chuckle he answered Solo, but did so speaking to his colleague. "He said these two would be difficult to keep in medical, that we should be certain that they would survive, and send them on their way as soon as possible. It seems that they're needed back in New York."
Solo and Kuryakin were surprised that Waverly had suggested they be released quickly, but glad at the prospect of getting out from under the medical probing!
Solo knew, few doctors could be persuaded to release patients before they were ready. He asked, "And how did you answer him?"
"I told him I would release you both under two conditions."
Illya looked at him waiting, Solo prompted, "And they are?"
"Mr. Kuryakin has suffered a minor concussion. The first condition is that he not be left alone for 24 hours."
"Done. He'll be with me." Solo said before Illya could protest. His partner frowned but remained silent.
"The second condition," continued the doctor, "Is that your flight not leave Maine for 12 hours, and that you both use those 12 hours to get some rest."
Solo and Kuryakin looked at each other, then at the doctor. Solo asked in amazement, "Waverly agreed to 12 hours?"
*********
After leaving the buried Maine Headquarters, Solo and Kuryakin spent the rest of the night in an U.N.C.L.E. safe house. The whole time was quiet and uneventful, which Solo found unsettling. He did sleep some, but paced a lot, anxious to be back on the trail. Illya, as usual, slept soundly and only protested mildly when Solo insisted on waking him every few hours.
They were both awake and ready to go when the knock came in the morning. They were driven to the airport and were sitting in Mr. Waverly's office within a few hours.
This time Mr. Waverly only had one print out from his computer. It was a list of names. He handed it to Solo and waited while he read.
After reading only a few names Napoleon let out a low whistle and handed the sheet to Illya. Illya began reading and did not stop until he had finished the entire list of twenty names, committing them almost instantly to memory.
When he looked up both men were watching him. He cleared his throat awkwardly and said, "That's quite a list."
"A Who's Who of great political and financial power," commented Solo.
"Indeed," agreed Mr. Waverly, "but more a Who's Who of astonishing disappearances."
Solo and Kuryakin looked at him in surprise. "All of these men have vanished?" Solo asked, wide-eyed.
"Every last one," answered Waverly, grim faced. "And all within the last 48 hours. Practically one right after the other. Thank goodness it seems to have stopped now. I haven't received a report in the past few hours."
"Strange," Commented Kuryakin, "They are suddenly so specific. Obviously, these men were chosen for their power and wealth. What can they possibly have in common with a gardener and a school teacher?"
"That's a very good question, Mr. Kuryakin, and I hope you have a suggestion for finding an answer." Waverly looked tired as he sat down and puffed his pipe. He looked at his men expectantly.
All three men sat in silence.
Finally, Solo quietly cleared his throat. He was hesitant to speak and shifted slightly in his seat. Illya looked up and over his glasses at him. Waverly took a long draw on his pipe and held it in anticipation.
Solo shifted in his seat again and suggested, "Maybe Thrush could help."
Waverly choked and coughed on smoke.
Illya sighed and shook his head in disapproval. "Napoleon, I think Mr. Waverly was waiting for a constructive solution not a sarcastic one."
Frowning deeply and with tears in his eyes, Waverly turned to admonish Solo. "Mr. Solo..."
Interrupting him, Solo sat up straight to defend his suggestion. "Now, wait, Sir, I am thinking constructively..."
Illya raised his eyebrows, but listened attentively.
"Thrush may just know something that we don't. Like who might have the power, motive or ability to accomplish something like this."
Waverly stopped him. "We are already very certain Thrush is not involved. The men you captured knew nothing and even went so far as to say they were trying as hard to figure out who was doing all this as we were."
"Yes, Sir, exactly! They don't know. They want to know, probably as badly as we do! I can't even imagine what they would do if they got there hands on this technology."
"They may just be desperate enough..." Started Kuryakin.
"Yes, they might!" agreed Solo.
Waverly scoffed doubtfully. "I certainly doubt it!"
"Who would we approach?" Illya wondered aloud. "All we've seen so far have been thugs, muscle only, no brain."
"If I were Thrush, I would be extremely interested in what the world leaders, what is left of them, are planning to do next," suggested Solo.
"They will send someone to the press conference at the United Nations," said Waverly without enthusiasm.
"I suppose it's worth a try, If we can get them to listen," said Illya with only slightly more conviction than his superior.
"Well, with such an earnest endorsement, how can we fail?" Solo replied as he stood to leave.
Walking out behind him, Illya quietly questioned him. "Now, that was sarcasm, right?"
********
The room was bustling with reporters, protesters, government officials and guards. It was a large, banquet room in the Regal Hotel down the street from the United Nation's Building. The UN itself had been closed, its officials secreted away, and the police had set up barricades around the building to keep out the frantic, the curious and the fiendish. The room grew crowded and hot, but the crowd did not diminish. Everyone was anxious to hear the official announcement and explanation of the sudden disappearance of twenty of the worlds finest and richest men and women.
Standing completely at ease in the crowded room, Solo watched every face. Finally he found the one he wanted. He chuckled in anticipation. Finally, Thrush had sent someone he could deal with. Bruno Van Buren was tall and thin, His dark hair and eyes shown with intelligence. His face was unscarred and clean cut. He carried himself with poise and confidence as the crowd parted to let him pass. He wore a fine, dark gray suit, and he smiled and nodded to Solo in instant recognition.
Solo scanned the room for his partner. Illya stood, looking and feeling awkward, in the far corner. Solo's small smile at Kuryakin's expense, faded quickly when their eyes met and Illya signaled his acknowledgment of Van Buren's presence. Ignoring Illya completely, Van Buren, strode purposefully up to Napoleon. He took an extra step, bringing his face too close to Solo's.
Napoleon smiled, ignored the effort to unnerve him and greeted the Thrush official warmly. "Bruno! It's so good to see you again. I thought you were vacationing in France?"
Bruno was not out done. "Ahh, Napoleon," He grasped Solo's outstretched hand, shook it firmly and smiled, "I've been back for a while now, and a lucky thing for us, too, or we may have missed each other."
Illya watched the friendly exchange with distaste and slowly began to make his way around the crowd to join them.
Solo went straight to the point. "So, Bruno, you're here trying to get a lead on the vanishing machine."
Bruno's eyes narrowed, he stared at Solo, measuring his comment. "Machine?" He finally asked "You admit then, U.N.C.L.E. is behind this?"
Solo smiled and commented with condescension, "Now, Bruno, haven't you learned yet that nothing can happen on this planet that U.N.C.L.E. doesn't know about?"
Bruno ignored the bait. In the corner of his eye he saw a splash of blond hair getting closer. "What's your game Solo? I tire of your company!" He was impatient to be away. Bantering with Solo was risky. Wasting time while Kuryakin drew closer was stupid.
"It's never a game, Bruno." Solo's voice almost betrayed his anger. He continued more calmly, with a well crafted nonchalance. "But perhaps you would be interested in an exchange of information?"
Van Buren let his confusion show. "Exchange of...ha! You've got to be kidding!" He turned his head for the first time to check Kuryakin's progress.
Solo saw Illya struggling to make his way past the group of angry reporters hounding Senator Mateson in the center of the room.
Solo grabbed Van Buren as he turned to leave, then released him immediately, not wanting to elevate the exchange to threats and blows.
Van Buren stopped and squinted at Solo, uncertain how to respond.
"Let's just take a walk," Solo suggested. "Somewhere safe...for both of us." He watched Bruno's eyes as he mulled over this strange turn of events. They knew each other well, had been enemies for years. Solo knew that Bruno would want to know what he was up to. He knew he would risk quite a lot to solve a mystery and he knew that, for Bruno, discovering the source of the vanishings could mean the rise or fall of his future. Solo saw on his face when the decision was made and he smiled knowingly.
"Outside," said Bruno and he quickly walked away into the foyer and towards the front door. Solo followed close behind. Illya continued to work his way through the crowd.
There was a moment of hesitation before they walked out of the building. Neither man wanting to let the other have an advantage. Finally, Solo, in a gesture of trust, lowered his head and pushed through the heavy glass door. Van Buren followed closely, but made no move for his gun and gave no signal to the Thrush agents waiting in the building across the street.
Stepping purposefully down the long flight of stairs, Solo glanced down the street to assure himself that the U.N.C.L.E. car was still parked within view. He hit the bottom of the stairs and stopped, without looking back, to wait for Van Buren to catch up.
"This is far enough Solo," said Van Buren anxiously. "Right out here in the open, I feel exceedingly safe." He also glanced down the street at the U.N.C.L.E. car and then back at the window where his own men watched.
Solo turned to him, "All right, Bruno, what do you know?"
"Uh uh," he answered shaking his head, "you first."
Solo frowned. From deep inside his head he heard a steadily growing whine. He sighed and decided to tell the truth. "We know nothing."
Van Buren's fingers began to tingle with numbness. "Hah," he exploded, "I knew you would tell nothing. Do you think I'm a fool?"
Solo frowned and clenched his fists in an effort to chase away the strange numbness he felt. Did they have a chance to drug me?' he thought. Out loud he responded to Bruno. "Whether or not I think you are a fool is not important. As a matter of fact I do, but that does not change the fact that U.N.C.L.E. knows nothing about these vanishings, except that Thrush is not behind them! As I suggested earlier, temporarily combining our efforts and our information may prove useful to us both."
"Hah! Combining?! If you know nothing as you say, why should we combine' anything? What good will it do Thrush!?" Van Buren was growing angry and concerned. His head was aching and his eyesight was growing blurry. He had obviously walked into a trap. Pulling out his cigarettes he tried to light one in signal to his men.
Solo saw the cigarettes, and knew them for what they were but he could not make his arms move fast enough to signal his own help. Behind him and up the stairs he heard the doors and turned to see his partner rush into the sunlight.
Struggling with mysteriously numb fingers Van Buren managed to light his match as Illya burst through the doorway.
From the upstairs room where the Thrush gunmen were watching, they saw Van Buren struggle with the matches. Both fired at once.
U.N.C.L.E. agents appeared from the doorway of nearly every building in sight, as well as from the car Solo had been watching.
As four shots rang out from the building across the street, Napoleon saw Kuryakin go down immediately. Solo moved with agonizingly slow reflexes, yelling out in concern and frustration. He expected to feel the burning pain of a bullet entering his flesh, but instead he felt nothing but numb and heard the sound of bullets bouncing off concrete nearby. He tried to grab Van Buren, but stumbled awkwardly. Their eyes met and Solo recognized the fear in Bruno's eyes as the same as that in his own.
Illya stepped into the sunlight and had to blink at it's brightness. As soon as he felt its heat he heard the shots. The searing pain in his shoulder was instantaneous. He went down hard on the steps and instinctively started to roll. Ending up behind the sparse protection of the concrete railing, he leaned back and tried to push the pain from his thoughts. He felt the tickle of blood running down his side and his lungs began to race. Shots were being fired, but not at him, so he grit his teeth and pushed himself up to look down to the street.
What he saw was more terrifying than the sensation of fire in his shoulder. Watching in horror, Illya saw his partner and Van Buren, twinkle slightly, become blurry, and slowly fade out of existence.
END PART ONE