Act II: Working for the Competition
Early the next morning
"—and that was it," Illya completed his report to Waverly. He'd spent most of the night submitting to an extensive exam and blood workup in Medical.
"At least you have a clean bill of health," interjected Napoleon. Illya rolled his eyes at that as Waverly scanned through the report in front of him.
"The issue at hand, Mr. Kuryakin, is the matter of how you were spotted so quickly." Waverly's blunt question went directly to the heart of the matter.
Illya shook his head ruefully, at a loss to see what he could have missed. Still deep in thought he mused, "What was it they hoped to gain? Medical reports showed nothing abnormal. Scans produced nothing out of the ordinary… so what was their purpose?"
A thoughtful expression came over Napoleon's face. "I suppose it could be simple coincidence that Illya was grabbed… but the timing was too smooth. There has to be a leak of some sort..."
"Go on." Waverly gestured with his pipe.
"It would have to be someone pretty highly placed to have gotten the information necessary to grab Illya off guard like that." He rubbed his chin. "I think we can make that work in our favor, Sir."
"I would be bait," Kuryakin's tone was resigned.
"Big, juicy bait," assured Solo.
There was a long silence while Waverly considered the situation—his primary concern of the mission's success weighing against the safety of the innocent, in this case an old friend. "Research has unearthed very little on this, ah, Godfrey Schlamm. All we have is a record of his doctorate in cellular biology from the University of Pennsylvania and Mr. Kuryakin's report indicating an association with Thrush. Aside from that, the man appears to be a complete mystery." He gave a hard stare at his top two agents. "I agree with the assessment of a mole; Mr. Kuryakin is too experienced an agent to give away his cover." He depressed a button on his console. "Please send Mrs. Callum in."
The door slid open and Cathy walked in; the men stood up politely until she was seated next to Napoleon. "There's been a change in status." At her nod, Waverly continued, "Mr. Kuryakin's cover has been compromised. To what extent we are still uncertain. We can still go ahead with the original plan using this information to flush out the perpetrator. However, you must know that because of this, you will almost certainly be at more risk than originally supposed."
Cathy bit her lip. "I trust you Alex. You needn't stop on my account."
"Very well… Mr. Solo, Mrs. Callum is still your first priority in this Affair. And, Mr. Kuryakin, you will keep a communicator with you—perhaps one of the redesigned models would be appropriate."
"Yes, Sir."
Dismissed, Solo and Kuryakin left Waverly's office and headed down to the lab.
"Redesign?" Napoleon wondered.
"The old-style cigarette packs have been converted into a battery-operated transistor radio with a 'station' set up for communications."
Later, on a Hudson River waterfront not too far from Greenwich Village
Illya sat on his canvas stool daubing paint with flamboyant strokes. Despite the cool weather, there were a number of passersby who stopped to stare at the strange painting. He seemed to be painting the Hudson, but the only resemblance was the blue and green color. At the moment he was spending a great deal of time painting a very precise black circle on one side.
He sat back, seemingly engrossed in the 'mood' of the painting; in reality, he was checking his surroundings and any onlookers.
He'd been at this all afternoon. So far, nothing, but one never knew—at least he was getting noticed as an artist. He squinted up at the sky. Looking at his painting critically, he finally settled on adding a small red dot in the top corner and began to gather up his paints and brushes. He would start another canvas tomorrow...
Monday, April 29, 1968, evening
The beams shut off and the humming died down. For a long moment, no one moved in the silence.
Godfrey Schlamm finally moved away from his dials and over to the 'man' lying supine on the catafalque. Moving closer, he gently touched his creation.
The man's eyes popped open then slowly blinked. His blue eyes stared blankly at Schlamm, who smiled broadly.
"Rest now," he reassured his creation gently, "Everything is going to be fine." As he stroked the man's forearm, he cast a knowing smirk to the gallery overhead. "Just fine."
The newly-formed man closed his eyes sleepily. The doctor gave a short nod to the men waiting just outside the room who quickly transferred the creation onto the gurney. Schlamm looked back up at his audience.
"Gentlemen," his tone bordered on arrogant, "and madam," he added, "this part of my demonstration is over. In a few days, my copy—my exact copy will function as well as the original." Waving his dismissal to his assistants he looked back up at the observation gallery.
One of the observers was wiping his brow with a handkerchief. "We have seen a demonstration, yes, but what guarantee do we have that the process really works as advertised?"
Schlamm, still smiling faintly, explained, "As outlined in my proposal, once my creation has been activated, he will 'remember' all the experiences and skills from the original. You will see proof from that phase of the program as the timetable progresses."
"Humph, yes we will see."
As the disgruntled man sat down the woman spoke up. "Where are you taking him?"
The doctor smiled. "He is on his way to his cell."
"Why? I thought he was programmed to be loyal to Thrush?"
Nodding condescendingly, the doctor continued, "As I explained in the proposal, he must be kept in a cell. He is an UNCLE agent after all." Holding up a hand to forestall protests, he added calmly, "When he first 'awoke' he was completely unaware of his surroundings—rather like being unconscious. He will have no memory of waking here, however, over the next several hours he will awaken completely. To be of use to us, he must function exactly as the UNCLE agent. Later, when the time is right, his loyalty to Thrush will be activated." Glancing around his laboratory, he smiled up at his observers as he offered cheerfully, "May I direct you to my dining area; I believe a celebration is in order. I will join you after I change, and answer any further questions you may have at that time."
A few days later, Wednesday, May 1, 1968
A knock at the door startled Illya out of his reverie. Forcing himself to stay in character, he called out, "The rent's not due yet—I'll have it by end of the week."
"We're looking for Korzicki—we got a job for him," a deep voice rumbled.
"Just a minute," Illya grumbled grabbing a paint-covered rag to wipe his hands before walking over to the door. Yanking it open he glared at the two men just outside, "Now what's this about a job?"
The smaller of the two (over six feet in height) stared inside the flat while the larger man (four inches taller than his companion and solid as well) moved closer until he stood mere inches away. Looking down at the artist he said mildly, "If you're Korzicki, our boss may have a job for you."
Still wiping his hands he looked the two men up and down boldly before asking bluntly, "What sort of work?"
"Work that pays good."
Shrugging he turned his back on the men, "Very well, come in." He didn't wait for an answer.
The two men looked at each other, shrugged and the smaller one followed Korzicki/Kuryakin inside.
Tossing down the dirty rag, Illya carelessly brushed some papers off of the battered chair and sat down in a slouch, crossing one leg over the other at the ankle. Peering up at the man who came inside, he ordered impatiently, "Well, what's the work—I don't have all day—and, what kind of pay?"
"Get your coat. The boss will answer any questions."
The artist shrugged before rising and starting to put away his supplies around the apartment.
"Now." There was no room for argument.
"I don't have money to throw away good paint!" he protested as he strode over to the open window and closed it, pausing for a moment to ostensibly shut off his radio, but in reality, thumbing on the silent signal alerting headquarters.
"I said, now." The threat was very clear.
"I had better be reimbursed," he muttered while snagging his coat on the way out.
"So, you're looking for an artist?" Korzicki/Kuryakin came straight to the point.
Illya had been 'escorted' to a building in a van. The windows were blacked out and the obviously circuitous route kept him from knowing where they were; it could be in New Jersey, Pennsylvania, or even an obscure part of Manhattan for all he knew.
Seated behind an ultra-modern chrome and glass writing table, was a slender man, his back to the door, a small ceiling light spotted on him like a piece of art. His voice was clear, each word precise even though he kept his back facing his 'guest.'
"I have seen your...work."
"Thank you."
"I did not say I liked it—merely that I have seen it."
There didn't seem to be any answer to that.
"I want to hire you to paint something very special. You are familiar with the Minimalist Movement?"
"Yes."
"I have some ideas which incorporate the totality of this Movement in a bold new way through the use of a revolutionary new paint we recently developed. We're looking for some new, rather unknown artists to test the product in order to obtain a true response, untainted by any preconceived expectations from the better-known artists."
Returned to his flat Illya checked in with headquarters, following up with the signal he'd sent earlier.
"Bait has been taken."
Two days later, Friday afternoon May 3, 1968
Illya was in his studio slapping paint enthusiastically over the canvas. This new paint really caught the light; depending on the angle it seemed to shimmer. Stepping back, he studied the painting with a critical eye. Maybe a bit more blue... Through the open window he could hear traffic, voices calling, and other neighborhood sounds as he loaded his brush. His radio tuned to WRVR found him swaying slightly to the upbeat tempo Miles Davis was currently playing. Ed Beach, host of "Just Jazz" was announcing the next record when Illya realized with a start that the sun was almost behind the skyline; the shadows would be too deep in another ten minutes and he needed to finish the canvas tonight in order to show his 'benefactors' the new paintings showcasing their product. His brush hovered over the canvas.
Suddenly he was seized with a powerful cramp! Bent over from the sharp pain, he dropped the brush and palette, sinking down to the floor in a heap as he clutched his stomach. For a moment all he could do was gasp for air as he writhed on the floor from the intense pain.
Forcing himself back up, he stumbled to the door still holding his stomach tightly. Fumbling, he tried to get to the bathroom. After a few tries, he sagged back down. Crawling over to his garbage pail he vomited forcefully. Weakened, dizzy and shivering from a cold sweat, he curled into a ball as his stomach spasmed again.
The fog in his mind seemed to clear briefly and in that moment he crawled over to the open window. Taking a deep breath, he pulled himself up high enough to grab hold of the sill. After a couple of tries, he grabbed the radio and yanked it down.
Exhausted, he almost passed out from that effort, but drawing on his last bit of strength, managed to depress the proper buttons activating the communicator hidden inside.
"Open Channel D," whispering hoarsely as yet another wave of dizziness and nausea swept over him.
"Channel D open,"
"I-I need to speak...to Napoleon...Solo…"
"Solo here."
"I... Paint... poisoned...need help..." As the darkness surrounded him, he dimly heard Napoleon's anxious voice shouting through the communicator.
Late Saturday afternoon
The all-too familiar sounds of monitoring equipment... Sensing his partner nearby, he blinked open his eyes.
Napoleon looked relieved although his tone belied his concern, "About time you woke up."
"How—"
Before he could finish the question, Napoleon spooned some very welcome ice into his dry mouth. "You've been out nearly a day." Still seeing a question in his partner's eyes, he continued, "Good thing we were able to triangulate your position. Another hour and…" He didn't need to finish the sentence.
"This is becoming ridiculous!" Illya was completely disgusted with the situation. "Tell me you at least got some decent leads on this!"
"I wish we did."
Illya struggled to sit up. Seeing this, Napoleon moved closer and turned the crank to raise the bed. Settling back against the pillows he muttered darkly, "I suppose we can take this as a definite confirmation of a mole."
The CEA pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Mr. Waverly had us doing this as a personal favor, so, let's break it down; who would have known?"
"Lisa made the arrangements for my art lesson and the flat and Letitia set up your cover… But they've been with the organization for years. Who else...?"
"Mrs. Callum knew—but she didn't have the details. As to the attack in the parking garage...she was in danger herself at that point. Other than Mr. Waverly and ourselves...?" Napoleon shook his head slowly, "But it's obvious that the mole has higher access than originally supposed. Mr. Waverly will have to be informed—"
"—and Mrs. Callum will have to stay at a safe house known only to the three of us."
Sunday, late evening in the Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania Safe House
"You're quite sure you're alright?" Cathy called from the bedroom.
"I'm fine." Illya was leafing through the photograph album. Given an antidote in time had rendered the poison uncomfortable rather than deadly. Since there was no point in continuing his cover, Illya had no reason to keep the beard, so he'd shaved. To annoy Napoleon, though, he kept the overlong hair, which was currently in a tumble. Finger-combing his hair aside he studied the black and white wedding picture catching his breath; he could have stood in for the groom.
He continued leafing through the album, staring at the small photographs. There weren't a lot, but since this was during the War, it was hardly surprising. The ones of Simon in uniform brought his own Soviet Navy pictures sharply to mind.
"Here's the album I was looking for. I figured I'd probably be here a while so I brought my favorites. "Cathy said fondly, "Now, these were taken before we were married—mostly from his trips abroad. His Uncle was in diplomat service."
Looking through the proffered album, Illya strove to contain his astonishment. Every snapshot of this man looked enough like him to be…him!
His eye riveted on one of Simon squinting at the camera while sitting on a large rock by the sea, feet dangling. He was barefoot, pant cuffs rolled up above his ankles and wearing a striped sweater. He knew that sweater.
"Cathy, where was this taken?"
Peering down she smiled. I believe it was taken somewhere near Kiev, Vas-ill something, from when he was in the Soviet Union."
"Vasilkiv. Do you by any chance know when?"
"He was traveling with a group of diplomats sometime in August 1932 until late February," She paused, "Curious you would ask about this one though."
"Why is that?"
"That sweater is one of the few things he managed to keep intact from that time. It was Simon's favorite. I'd put it away to give to our son..." She sighed briefly before saying briskly, "When we only had the two girls, I promised myself I would give it to my first grandson. Why?"
Still staring at the picture Illya said mechanically, "The sweater is blue with black and grey stripes and a thin stripe of dark green."
"Why, however did you know?"
"My mother often described it as one of my father's favorites..." He swallowed before adding dryly, "Although her story was that my father died before I was born."
There was a long silence. Illya was focused intently on the floor as though he had never seen it before. A gentle hand caressed him on the cheek and he looked up to see Cathy smiling at him, tears in her eyes.
"Oh, Illya, I—" she stopped, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Holding his emotions in check Illya said quietly, "I am sorry to have distressed you..."
"No, no, no, you haven't distressed me at all; you've made me quite happy. I-I'd like very much to have you as a son...we all would."
Illya took Cathy's hands in his and gave her a kiss on the cheek, "I'd like that, too."
Monday morning, May 6, 1968
Napoleon was following a hunch—something Cathy had mentioned about Chester Martin…
"Files, please."
"Files," the sultry voice purred, "What can I do for you today, Napoleon?"
Grinning, Napoleon answered, "Ah, Duchess, if you only knew." Duchess was a highly efficient Records secretary with a sweet and generous nature—and a Section III husband who towered over Napoleon like a giant. Clearing his throat, tone abruptly serious, "I need everything you can find on a Chester Martin and his wife Mildred. They're actively involved in charities, art functions, things like that."
"Sure thing, Sweetie."
In a surprisingly short time, Duchess sent a packet up to his office. Inside were newspaper articles containing pictures of the couple—one from a charity auction and one from a fundraiser dinner for which Mildred had been one of the hostesses. They appeared to be a fairly ordinary-looking pair from upper Manhattan. Reaching for the brief biography, he began to read.
Odd that… Reading on he suddenly realized a possible connection.
Chester had gone to school in Belle Vernon, Pennsylvania and one of his classmates was a Hulda Schlamm. Further digging revealed she was a cousin to Godfrey Schlamm. It had to be the connection! Their moneyed circles could certainly provide plenty of opportunities for potential blackmail…
Then there were those unusual characteristics Section VIII discovered while analyzing the 'special' paint recovered from Illya's cover flat. Wet, its rather drastic properties made it fortunate Illya had been able to get help when he did—untreated it would have been fatal. Once dry though, the paint became a highly receptive transmitter. Viable for thirty days, a lot of sensitive information could certainly be obtained even in that short time frame.
Napoleon sighed. Typical Thrush tactics; the paint was difficult to manufacture and the subsequent window of opportunity very limited. He shook his head in amazement at the supra-powered organization with its wildly grandiose schemes.
"This has got to be one of the more bizarre ideas they've concocted." Solo had taken the two hour drive to check on things personally and touch base with his partner, who was now guarding Mrs. Callum.
"Perish the thought."
"Okay wise guy… Look, the information on the Martins—who by the way are probably innocents in this—and the results from that paint are indicative of something huge. Granted, it's a high-rolling blackmail scheme of immense proportion, but there's an undercurrent of something else… something even bigger."
"Go on…"
Napoleon hesitated, "I can't quite put my finger on it but I think it's somehow connected with your abduction from the flat."
Staring at the copious notes, Illya suddenly felt a shiver run down his spine. "Napoleon…?"
Napoleon looked up in surprise at the odd tone.
"What comes to mind when you put cellular biology together with the wounds I received?"
"Nothing jumps out. What are you on to?"
"What if they were sample sites?"
"Sample sites...?"
"Something I read recently in one of my scientific journals; speculation about retrieving samples from plants, animals, or even humans with the idea of cloning them in the future. I took it to be fanciful conjecture at the time…" He paused before adding thoughtfully, "It does bring to mind the Nazi dreams of a 'Master Race' and their evil machinations—" Illya broke off abruptly.
Napoleon turned pale as he suddenly realized what it was his partner was suggesting!
Three days later, May 9, 1968
Research produced a probable location for the satrap laboratory. While Napoleon followed up on the cousin Hulda Schlamm, Illya would lead an intelligence-gathering recon with a team of agents from the Pittsburgh office who were familiar with the area.
Their lead took them to an innocent-looking farmhouse tucked in the steep hillside overlooking the Monongahela River in the tiny town of Roscoe. The dirt driveway near the top of the hill was marked by a tiny building—from its size probably a place for children to wait for the school bus during inclement weather. If this really was a satrap, it was doubtful children were living there; nevertheless, it made an excellent place to keep a lookout. The rest of the team spread out among the stand of Blue Spruces along the treacherously steep edge of the property.
Kuryakin's worst fears were realized. Everything—especially this lab would have to be destroyed immediately! The potential ramifications were horrific! He needed to notify headquarters of his findings. Hurriedly pulling out his communicator he activated it. Nothing except a squeal—a jamming device! Using the camera secreted inside his medallion he rapidly took picture after picture of the doctor's notes. He was almost finished when a small sound to his left caused him to freeze. Suddenly the doorknob rattled and from the muttering, it sounded like several people were just outside.
No place to hide! Shoving the folder back into place, he dove under the desk just as a key was inserted into the lock. The fluorescent lights overhead snapped on, bathing the lab in a harsh glare. Hardly daring to breathe, Illya remained motionless as the people entered.
"So this is where you conducted the first experiments?" The voice belonged to an older man and from the way he was wheezing, either severely overweight or prone to emphysema.
"Yes, it is. I thought you might appreciate seeing where it all began," replied another voice, the words somewhat clipped and with a faint German accent.
He'd heard that voice before—Schlamm!
Scuffling. At least two other people...
A woman spoke, her voice a rich contralto with a hint of teasing in her tone, "I see you have a copy of Frankenstein. Was this your inspiration?"
Footsteps as Schlamm walked over to the woman. "I read this book as a boy. The idea of harvesting corpses did not appeal, but the idea of improving mankind into something more, well..." He chuckled modestly as he added, "You have all seen how successful that was."
Another man spoke; confident—someone used to being in charge. "The final test has yet to be completed." There was a pause. "If you manage to produce the promised results, I can assure you that Central will reward you most generously."
"You shall see your results and more. There will be no disappointment."
The woman was moving around the room, her heels clicking on the linoleum. She stopped before walking around the desk and pulled out the heavy chair. Sitting down sideways to the desk, she crossed her legs. Illya froze. She was mere inches away.
"What have we here?" Schlamm was triumphant as the woman and the chair were abruptly pulled away from the desk. Snapping his fingers sharply, he ordered, "Guards!"
Unable to escape, Kuryakin was resigned as the two guards dragged him out from underneath the desk. Once on his feet, the guards roughly cuffed his hands behind his back as he was searched. His Special, knife, gas pellet and small cache of explosives were confiscated with equal efficiency.
Schlamm grabbed Kuryakin by the hair, smirking as he angled his prisoner's head looking first at one side and then the other. Looking back at the others he demanded, "Can you tell the difference?"
The woman stood up and moved closer. Eyeing Kuryakin boldly from head to toe, she finally sniffed, "How can we be sure, Godfry?"
Schlamm inclined his head briefly in salute to the woman. "How indeed, my dear?" He smirked before snapping out orders to the guards, "Bring him. We will go down to the holding area." With that he turned sharply on his heel, the guards shoving Kuryakin in front of them as they followed. He stopped abruptly causing the others to scramble. "Wait!"
Narrowing his eyes at his prisoner he speculated, "Kuryakin will not be alone—I want the entire area searched, inside and out! Now!" Offering his arm to the woman he smiled. "Shall we continue…?"
The group walked down the surprisingly wide hallway as they descended deeper until they reached a bright red steel door. The doctor flattened his palm against a plate, activating some kind of security device until the door slid open. Standing behind a thick glass wall was a man—blond, blue-eyed—an exact twin to Illya!
Kuryakin froze. Recovering quickly, he gave the 'twin' a chilling stare, raking his eyes over the imposter from head to toe. The 'twin' did nothing—obviously the glass was one-way.
"You no doubt wish a formal introduction," gloated Schlamm, "Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, meet...Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin."
To be Continued...
7
