Act IV: Down in a Coal Mine
Jon Steel watched in frustration as the van sped away. Bringing up his binoculars, he noted the plate numbers before calling back the others. The open hood of their car revealed old-fashioned vandalism. Notifying the Pittsburgh office, he leaned against the car in disgust.
It was just under an hour when two large sedans with tinted windows pulled up. As the doors opened, Steel and his men stood ready. An old man wearing tweeds stepped out of the first car flanked by two heavily armed men. "Mr. Steel, have your men stand down!" The Pittsburgh agent stepped into the clearing as Waverly took a sharp look around. "Your report. And… where is Mr. Solo?"
Steel sighed inwardly dreading this debriefing. "Mr. Solo was taken by Thrush, Sir, along with Mr. Kuryakin. I gave headquarters the plate number forty minutes ago. Stolen—local authorities found it abandoned off the interstate, no one inside. Pittsburgh is checking further." He took a breath while running a nervous hand through short chestnut curls. "There's no sign of Mrs. Callum, Sir; she wasn't taken with the others. We've searched, but it's a large area."
"I see."
"Mr. Waverly, there's more…"
"Go on…"
"Sir, there were two Illya Kuryakins."
At Waverly's forbidding stare Steel added almost defensively, "That's what it looked like, Sir." Taking a breath, he continued hurriedly, "Mr. Solo had just signaled the team to return. I was maybe thirty yards from the vehicles when I saw someone join him—Kuryakin. I was about to move in when I realized someone was already with him. Kuryakin was already there!" He grimaced, "I was caught off guard, Sir. I never expected to see two Kuryakins…" Taking another breath, "One of the Kuryakins got shot—it appeared minor. Thrush took the one they didn't shoot away in a car. Another group took Solo and the injured one away in a van. They all appeared to be prisoners, Sir."
Steel tried not to flinch as the hard, pale blue eyes pinned him after his report. Then, in a surprising move, Waverly cupped his hands over his mouth and suddenly emitted a loud trill—a bird call! He repeated it several times, and then stopped, listening.
Several moments passed before an answering trill came from somewhere to the south.
They could hear rustling from the underbrush, the crackling of branches as something moved closer. Waverly motioned everyone to wait. Suddenly Mrs. Callum burst into the clearing—disheveled, burrs and dead leaves clinging to her wool sweater—but alive and unharmed! Seeing her mentor, she stumbled over to his waiting arms.
"There, there." Patting her hands. "Are you all right?"
Pulling herself together with an effort, she sniffed, "I'm fine Alex. But, wait! There's something wrong with Illya! He-he's not quite… himself!"
"Yes, yes, I just learned of this myself." Leading her over to sit down in the car, an agent quickly opened the door while another poured a cup of hot coffee from a thermos. Waverly pressed the coffee into her shaking hands. "Now then, what can you tell me?"
The ride didn't last long. Solo guessed maybe fifteen minutes before lurching to a stop, causing the UNCLE agents to lose their precarious balance. Before they could react, the rear doors were thrust open and Thrush agents, armed with rifles, gestured them to come out. The men inside jerked Solo and Kuryakin to their feet and forced them to jump down. They were parked next to a large, cab-over-engine panel truck squeezed on the narrow shoulder between the pavement and a steep hill. An equally steep drop-off was on the other side of the road.
The transfer had Solo and Kuryakin manacled by the ankles to a chain inside. Immediately the diesel engine rumbled to life and the truck jolted into gear.
This ride was longer making the twisting roller coaster ride brutal in the back. After an engine-groaning drive up yet another steep hill, the truck finally slowed to a stop and the doors were opened.
It was dark. Hands still tightly handcuffed, the UNCLE agents stumbled awkwardly on the uneven ground as they picked their way down the steep hill.
They finally arrived at the large bungalow-style house. Like many homes built in this part of the country the structure took advantage of the steep grade. The back porch where they entered was only a step up, but three steps at the far end were just visible. Lights in the front of the house revealed what was probably a front porch and lower level walk-out. The welcoming porch light and ordinary-looking screen door completed the picture; the only jarring notes were the armed guards and patrolling dogs. Solo blinked his eyes against the bright overhead lights in the large country kitchen. Seated at the yellow Formica table, two men in Thrush jumpsuits were eating a savory stew. His stomach rumbled reminding him he hadn't eaten since breakfast. Illya must be starving. Casting a glance at his injured partner, Solo was unsurprised to see Illya coolly assessing their surroundings flanked by two of the guards.
Schlamm, dressed formally and holding a glass of wine entered the kitchen. "Take them down to the cell. After they are… settled, you may as well feed them." His glance coolly took in Illya's condition. "Send for Nurse Hansen—I still have need of Kuryakin."
Through the archway was a spacious, tastefully-furnished living room. Two men in expensively tailored suits, sitting in brocade-covered chairs, stood up as a slender woman dressed in a Dior gown came into view. Casting a sideways glance at the two handcuffed agents, her voice was low and musical as she spoke, "Godfry, how much longer before the next test?"
"Not before morning Pet. It's late, why don't you get some rest?"
The woman nodded as she turned to go upstairs. Schlamm gestured for the guards to remove the UNCLE agents.
Back at New York Headquarters
"Really, I'm quite all right," assured Cathy sipping her tea. An UNCLE jet had whisked them back to the New York office. The rest of the team was making a careful search of the area, particularly in Roscoe where intelligence now had good reason to suspect the satrap was still located.
"Quite so, however I believe you should stay in headquarters tonight, just to be sure. It may not be the Carlton, but you'll be comfortable."
"I suppose you're right. But I—"
The shrill sound of a communicator cut her off.
"Excuse me. Waverly here…"
"I'm sorry to interrupt, Sir, but there's a man in Del Floria's that insists on seeing you immediately."
"Who is it?"
"He didn't say, Sir, but he also wants to see Mrs. Callum."
"Patch through the camera."
Cathy gasped as she stared over Waverly's shoulder at the man glaring into the small closed-circuit television. "Why that's Simon!"
"We had better see him before things get out of hand…"
Early morning, May 11, 1968, Roscoe, Pennsylvania
Napoleon looked around the cell appraisingly. The trip down had passed in a blur—they'd scarcely eaten before collapsing on the cots. The cell seemed uniquely located inside some kind of coal mine underneath the basement of the house. Trust Thrush to come up with yet another way to incarcerate us.
They'd been roused at dawn for the Nurse's visit when he'd been unceremoniously handcuffed to the bars. Illya suffered stoically under the less than gentle ministrations by the nurse sniffing derisively, "A waste of my time!" as she cleansed and bandaged the wound.
The guards were waiting. The nurse gone, Solo's handcuffs were once again removed. As he rubbed his wrists, one of the guards moved just out of sight down the hall. There was a click followed by a crackle and hum.
"If yunz like it hot, go ahead and touch the bars," they chucked evilly. "That's 3-phase 440 current running through them." On that note, the guards left.
The chances for escape had just declined sharply.
"That is new."
Napoleon stopped his restless recheck of the cell to look at his partner resting on one of the cots, "How's that?"
"The electrified bars weren't here before… or, at least weren't live at the time."
"Hmmm, I don't suppose you have any of your devices left? An exploding button—"
"Napoleon, surely you jest. I gave you those things earlier."
His partner looked askance. "You mean you didn't hold back anything?"
Illya sighed, "My lock-pick. But I can't use it with the 'hot' bars, at least not without awkward ramifications."
Napoleon leaned against the stone wall. "I'm in the same boat except…"
"Don't keep me in suspense. Except…?"
"I happen to have a detonator inside one of my molars."
For a moment Illya looked perplexed, his brows knitting together in concentration. He grinned suddenly. "That should act as a kind of breaker converting to a single-phase which pushing through should blow the entire circuit."
The spectacular array of sparks shot out from the panel across the hall and through the bars! Everything went dark for a few minutes until the back-up generators kicked in, emergency lights filtering dimly through the increasingly dense smoke. The bars now 'dead' they made short work of the lock and scrambled out. The elevator was out of the question—too dangerous. Narrow emergency stairs were off to the side but… a bit obvious.
Resigned Napoleon started for the stairs when Illya suddenly veered off in the opposite direction. "There's another way…" he gestured. Heading down the hall he led his partner down a short set of crude stairs to a large wooden door.
Opening it cautiously, Solo's eyes widened. On the other side was an immense room—a cave, with a low, stone ceiling. At the far end was a conveyer belt with large buckets attached at six foot intervals. Glancing back at his partner, he saw a glint of mischief. "You have got to be kidding…"
"It's this or the elevator."
"Do you even know how to work this thing?"
The left eyebrow rose.
In minutes the motor caught with a roar. Another switch had the belt running.
"It's how they get the coal to the surface!" Illya shouted to be heard above the racket.
When they reached the regular basement, maybe some ten minutes of bumpy ride later, they were both trembling from the effort of hanging on. Hopefully Schlamm and his people were getting the 'big wigs' off to safely.
"Now!" motioned Solo, rolling off the belt onto the floor into a crouch, Illya following a moment later.
The basement suddenly flooded with light and in the deafening silence the familiar whine of Thrush rifles. They were surrounded!
"I see you have finally arrived," Schlamm's voice was taunting, "You have caused a great deal of inconvenience. If Central did not prize your capture, you would be killed right now."
Solo and Kuryakin stood silently.
The phone rang. Holding his hand over the receiver, the guard announced, "Doctor, it's Herr Mohn."
Schlamm tightened his lips. A few terse words in German and Schlamm hung up forcefully. Glowering, he spat out orders to his men, "We leave now!" He pointed to one of the armed men, "You! Go to my office and box up everything from the files. Get a couple of men and load up the safe—inside the deacon's bench—bring everything!" He glanced at his watch before waving his other hand wildly. "Move! We only have twenty minutes before the tanks go!"
The permeating smell of smoke was everywhere, thick and hazy, making it hard to see. As the already frenzied activity around them increased, Solo glanced over at his partner. Handcuffed once again, at least this time it was in front.
Herded out toward the waiting truck they were joined by a tall, thin man who, by the way Schlamm greeted him was the man in charge. An almost imperceptible flinch told Solo that his partner knew this man, and not in a good way.
"The guests are safely away," the German-accented voice was harsh. Raking cold eyes over the prisoners, he snorted, "Perhaps you will manage to hold onto this one."
"What has happened, mein Herr?" Schlamm asked nervously.
"He managed to break free in the chaos, however," a cruel tightening of his lips twisted into a sneer, "since he headed down toward the mine, I took the liberty of firing the explosive to seal the entrance."
A brief expression of regret passed over Schlamm's face. "A pity—I would have liked to run more tests."
"Oh…?" dangerously.
"It is not a problem," Schlamm continued hastily, "I can complete my analyses as soon as I retrieve my back-up supply of Schlamminate-RD. That should satisfy—"
A rumble could be heard and the house shook slightly from the vibration.
Shoving the prisoners carelessly into the back of the truck, doors slammed shut, engines whined and gears rumbled as they labored up the steep driveway then back down the narrow, twisting road toward the river. Suddenly a loud explosion shook the ground! Rocks loosened and began falling, bouncing off the truck and on the road, the truck swerving wildly to avoid the larger ones.
As they reached the bottom, Solo could see a huge spire of angry black smoke and flames rise above the pines through the small windows in the back. He could hear Schlamm speaking as they reached the main road and headed west toward the bridge.
"I own a small house across the river—not far."
"A house?"
"Yes, I have had it for a long time. It is a duplex. One side is usually rented out to some commoners to keep it safe from vandalism."
"Are you not opening yourself unnecessarily to speculation?"
Schlamm chuckled, "Most of the time they are too drunk to notice anything. Wait! Slow down!" Schlamm screamed his orders to the driver, "Do not exceed the speed limit by even one kilometer!" His tone modulated back down, "There is a speed trap in Dunlevy. When the Allenport-Fayette City ferry was running, I never had to worry about this petty bureaucracy but now..." He wiped his brow before muttering under his breath, "I also had a tunnel that ran underneath the Monongahela, but the explosion—"
"Halten sie ihr Maul!" Mohn spat impatiently.
Offended, Schlamm resolutely remained silent for the rest of the ride over the bridge on the interstate and the short distance to Fayette City. The tiny town had a couple of one-way streets designed to push traffic through as quickly as possible lined with houses crowded together like brownstones. Turning south they stopped in front of a very old house on the side street. Railroad tracks ran parallel between the dirt road and the river, a tall, steep ferry ramp sloping under the trestle. Looking around the all-but deserted neighborhood through the dirty windows, Solo could see Schlamm and a couple of his men walk through the front door on the left side of the unpainted duplex. He gave a speaking glance to Illya: make a diversion.
Illya moaned quietly, then louder. He began to shiver.
The two guards inside the truck glanced at the prisoner with disinterest, but returned to their lookout duties.
Another cry of pain, this one quite loud.
"Be quiet, you!"
A louder moan.
The guard, irritated that his warning wasn't heeded moved closer. Immediately, Kuryakin yanked the guard down with his legs before kicking him unconscious. The other guard got to his feet but as he did, Solo knocked him senseless as well.
Kuryakin grabbed the Thrush weapon as he stood up quickly. "We'll have to get inside. That extra compound—we must destroy it!"
Napoleon had been frisking the guards. Keys in hand he undid their handcuffs before carefully opening the door of the van. It was pitch black except for a rear yard light two doors down. Creeping up on the porch, they checked the door—unlocked! Inside they could hear talking from the back. The layout was simple; a front room, bedroom and kitchen all opening into each other. Slipping into the dark bedroom they could see the large kitchen was a step down.
"Here it is." Schlamm sounded satisfied, "Now all that remains is getting to the alternate lab where I will perform the final phase. We can then deliver Solo and Kuryakin to Central!"
"Not if I have anything to say about it." Solo was calm as he allowed his weapon to become visible in the kitchen. Staying inside the relative darkness he gestured with the gun. "I'll take that package now,"
"I do not think so, Mr. Solo," Schlamm was contemptuous, "You may have your weapon trained on me, but my people have their weapons trained on Mr. Kuryakin. A stalemate, I think."
"You're bluffing."
"Indeed! Shall we test it?"
"What? Run the risk of upsetting your neighbors? Tsk, tsk."
"Come now, surely you have heard of silencers?" Schlamm's eyes flicked to a spot just left of Solo. "However, I believe if you listen closely you will detect the sound of… checkmate."
The tell-tale whine of Thrush rifles, like the singing of mosquitoes filled the room, but the cock of a gun near his left ear was quite clear. He strained to hear something from his partner.
"Ooof—"
The cry, cut off abruptly, was accompanied by a scuffle and small thud. Schlamm glanced dispassionately at the fallen agent.
"Illya?" No answer.
"I have no more time for this. So you die; Central will understand."
Solo capitulated, setting his borrowed weapon carefully on the floor, thumbing the safety back into place. Two guards immediately grabbed him, one twisting his arm painfully behind his back.
A quick glance at his dazed partner was all he had time for as Mohn stepped smartly into the room.
"Is this a sample of your… work?" Mohn was openly contemptuous.
"It is under control," Schlamm tried to appease, "We can still complete the necessary tests once we get to the other laboratory."
"Thrush may feel differently once they are fully apprised of the situation."
"There is nothing to dissuade them from the proposal! My tests have thus far—"
"Enough! I will take Solo to Central now. As to Kuryakin… you have twenty-four hours.
Napoleon sagged slightly, appearing defeated while inwardly trying to come up with a plan. He didn't know how much he could count on Illya. There had to be something…
"How much longer?"
Napoleon could hear Mohn becoming increasingly impatient.
Good… that could work in their favor.
An overhead light snapped on in the middle room. Furnished with heavy, old-fashioned furniture there was nothing that could be used as a weapon. The only things not anchored and small enough to use were the pillows on the tall, iron bed and a row of souvenir salt and pepper shakers in a wall niche; he wondered idly if they were filled. Schlamm was still in the kitchen carefully lifting a small metal box.
That must be the element—he had to destroy that package.
Glancing over at his partner, he was relieved to see him blink his eyes and look around surreptitiously. Catching his eye, he signaled, 'get ready'.
They waited...
Schlamm stumbled on the small rug in the kitchen. As he did, all eyes shifted over automatically. Seizing the brief moment of inattention, Solo twisted around and snatched the rifle from the guard, firing off a round, instantly killing the guard closest to him. At the same moment, Kuryakin rolled and knocked the other guard from his feet, kicking away the fallen weapon. One of the guards from the kitchen dropped; the other ducked behind and fired off a few shots. Schlamm and Mohn ducked back into the kitchen.
The front door burst opened and more guards poured inside bringing the odds once again in Thrush's favor.
"Kill them!" Schlamm was furious, "Now!"
The guards brought up their rifles when Mohn's curt order stopped them.
"Stoppen!"
The guards froze.
"I give the orders here." Disdain dripped from Mohn's voice. "I trust you will remember that in the future."
Silence.
Finally Schlamm ventured to say, "My apologies, mein Herr. I thought you—"
"That was your mistake, Schlamm, thinkingoutside of your small scientific endeavors. Gather up your materials—you have," he glanced at his watch, "five minutes—no more." Looking at the guards, he ordered, "Secure these men and get them ready for transport to Central. If they resist, shoot them."
Catching Illya's eye, Napoleon sent his apologies. It was fun while it lasted, Tovarisch.
Illya blinked. It's been a pleasure, my friend.
They were shoved back into the front room under guard. Kuryakin was bound as Schlamm slowly and carefully placed his supply of the element into a large leather case. He was securing the top when a knock came to the door. The knock repeated, this time more insistent. The guards hesitated, not certain what they should do.
"Answer it!" Mohn was terse.
Shoving the agents back into the middle room and snapping off the light, the first guard handed his rifle to one of the others and strode to the door. There was an angry murmur of voices; apparently the neighbors didn't like the ruckus and were complaining. Napoleon glanced at his partner—now or never…
Now or never… Illya lunged! Using his bound hands as a bludgeon he caught the Thrush guard in the face breaking his nose and knocking him out. Grabbing up the fallen weapon he started to shoot, but before he could, another gun fired! His own weapon discharged an instant later and the guard went down.
As Illya moved, Solo karate chopped the nearest guard snagging the gun as he fell. Bringing it up, he shot the other guards before they could return fire.
A noise behind him—Schlamm! Spinning around he shot the Thrush scientist reflexively as the man rushed him!
The firefight seemed over. Eyes darting around the room, everything seemed secure as Napoleon turned back to his partner. "Let's finish—" He broke off suddenly when stunned, he watched Illya sag slowly to the floor, his legs no longer able to support him! That was when he saw the fresh blood... Heart racing he dashed over to his fallen partner. Dropping down beside him he checked breathlessly for a pulse.
Illya's eyes fluttered open at his touch. He blinked, eyes glazed with pain. "You… hurt?" he gasped brokenly, blood bubbling from the corner of his mouth.
For a long moment Napoleon couldn't answer—overwhelmed as he stared at the horrific wound. "No," swallowing hard, "you're the one with the honors this time."
"Na…pol'n…? I…" choking on blood.
Napoleon cradled his friend trying to make it easier to breathe.
Breath hitching in pain, Illya tried again, "S-sorry… too slow…"
"Take it easy Tovarisch. We'll get you fixed up," Napoleon tried to reassure.
A faint grin, "Bad… liar… my friend." Another shuddering gasp. Then in a clear voice, "I'm fine…" The light in the crystal blue eyes faded. The ragged breathing stopped his body suddenly grew lax.
"Illya? Illya!" Frantically checking for a pulse, Napoleon pleaded softly, "Oh Illya…"
Nothing.
The jolt of sorrow washed over Napoleon as he gently closed his partner's sightless eyes.
Instincts and training kicked in through his haze of grief, but not before he heard the click of a gun being cocked behind him. Turning around, he found himself looking directly into the barrel of Illya's fallen weapon!
Mohn gave a sharp bark of laughter. "Yes, Mr. Solo, I see you understand." His eyes swept over the body of Solo's partner. "Thrush Central will have to do without their prize." He snapped his fingers and ordered sharply, "Prepare to fire the place. I want nothing left of Schlamm's errors!"
Turning back to Solo, his lips curved up in a faint smile, "And now—"
His finger tightened on the trigger, the report deafening… but Solo never felt the shot. Instead he was stunned to see a small, dark hole appear in Mohn's forehead.
A bedraggled Illya Kuryakin, filthy with coal dust, blood on the side of his face staining into his hair, staggered from out of the dark opening in what Solo thought was a closet; gun held firmly in one hand, the other supporting his ribs.
"Illya—" Napoleon was numb with shock. In those dark moments following his partner's… death, he'd completely forgotten about the 'other' Illya Kuryakin!
Illya…?
"Napoleon—you okay?"
Stunned he stared blankly at the bodies before hastily turning away from Illya's— He spun back staring hungrily at his friend.
Illya's alive!
A megawatt smile. "Absolutely, partner!"
Illya sighed, shaking his head indulgently.
Needing to regain his composure, Solo's eyes fell on the fallen case containing Schlamm's element. It really should be destroyed…
A ruckus at both the front and back doors! Napoleon supporting his partner protectively, pulled them both into the wall opening for cover and waited...
Unexpectedly face to face with his superior, Napoleon tried to brush off his filthy, coal-dust and blood-stained clothing to make himself more presentable—impossible!
"Mr. Solo, I see you have everything under control," Waverly's tone was dry. His sharp eyes took in the scene, widening slightly at the dead Kuryakin. After a brief pause he looked hard at his Chief Enforcement Agent and live Kuryakin, "I look forward to hearing your report."
The paint was confiscated by Section III and in an unusual move, would be applied to a bank of UNCLE-owned brownstones due for renovation, the apartments remaining empty until the paint was safely inert. Thrush record books noting the victims' names with dates of contact and payments were also confiscated, the tapes safely destroyed; dealing with them would be a matter for other agencies to attend.
"—and that's about it, Sir," The debriefing had been long and… emotional. "We were shocked to learn about Lisa. What put you onto her?"
Waverly snorted in disgust, "The evidence against Mr. Kuryakin seemed a bit too obvious. I did my own checking and discovered several waylaid communications. Some of my War connections revealed the sleeper cell with Miss Rogers."
The door slid open admitting Simon Carter 'Callum' and his wife.
Cathy walked over and gave Napoleon a kiss on the cheek. Smiling happily at Waverly she reached over to give Illya's good hand a squeeze.
"We can't thank you enough, Alex," Simon shook Waverly's hand warmly before standing next to his wife and catching her other hand in his, pulling her close.
Waverly harrumphed, "You should know that Miss Rogers' real name was Elise Soulier; she took her mother's maiden name before coming to the U. S. Her father—Henri Soulier—was the traitor who sold out to the Germans. Bad business that."
"So it's finally over," remarked Cathy.
Simon shot an oddly familiar glare at his wife before murmuring, "You took too many chances."
Bestowing an indulgent smile to her husband, she simply squeezed his hand.
Simon cleared his throat, "Why don't we celebrate? I understand New York has some really fine eating establishments."
"Every type of cuisine you can imagine—" began Napoleon.
"Do you like jazz?" interjected Illya.
As Simon's eyes lit up Napoleon was again struck by the uncanny likeness in the two men as everyone started out for a night on the town.
8