Napoleon amused himself on the flight, between chatting with the stewardesses and watching the in-flight movie, the Oscar nominated Doctor Doolittle...not exactly his sort of entertainment, but then he supposed it would be one that Poly and Luci would enjoy when they got a little older. Poly would love the pushmi-pullu, and Luci...Polynesia the parrot. He found himself liking the idea of a floating tropical island though...no need for a boat there, he mused.
He couldn't help thinking for some reason that Mark Slate had an odd resemblance to Rex Harrison, and wondered why he'd never noticed that before. He was never one for musicals but for the duration of the flight, he was a captive audience so to speak.
The stewardesses were of course pretty and quite fetching in their bright blue uniforms and kept his attention more that the film did as he innocently dallied with them..." feels just like the old days", he mused to himself. A little flirtatiousness saw to it that he was well taken care of on a flight, even when he wasn't in first class, which was usually the case.
His meal of salsbury steak and mashed potatoes was palatable enough, but it was the extra helping of apple pie that helped make the meal.
"Thank you Ilsa," he smiled at the blond stewardess who had hovered over him for most of the flight, then chuckled to himself with a quiet groan. "A blond named Ilsa, no doubt 36-24- 36." He calculated her measurements as he leaned out watching her walk up the aisle. "Sigh."
After he ate, he closed his eyes trying to catch some winks to ease the jet-lag that would hit him in Germany.
He slept longer than he anticipated, being woken much later when the pilot's announcement came over the PA that they were beginning their descent and gave the weather forecast for Frankfurt and Berlin... rainy and cold. It was followed by the usual chatter about altitude, and the seat belt sign finally lit and the warning bell gently dinged the passengers attention to buckle up.
Napoleon checked his watch, noting they were slightly ahead of schedule, as the plane touched down for a smooth landing, then once it taxied to a stop at the terminal; he gathered up his silver briefcase and then then waited for the other passengers to deplane as was his usual custom. He was the last off, so as to not get caught up in the slow shuffle of his fellow passengers moving along the walk way...one never knew when trouble would strike.
And just like old times, one of those lovely stewardesses passed her telephone number to him jotted down on a cocktail napkin when he had ordered a scotch on the rock, and now a slip of paper was discreetly shoved into hand by another of the ladies as he exited the plane.
But unlike the past when he would have pocketed the notes in anticipation of spending the evening with one or both of them, now once in the terminal he crumpled the papers up and tossed them in the trash with a sigh.
He scanned the area quickly, looking for anyone suspicious as well as for a driver from headquarters who was supposed to be meeting him there to take him to the offices in West Berlin.
He gabbed his well-worn suit case as it came around on the turn-style, noticing a blond haired man dressed in a black suit and tie holding a pick-up sign. For a split second he thought it was his partner.
Anthony Solamente, that was the name written on the white square of paper that he held and that being Napoleon's cover name. He walked up to the fellow, obviously a junior agent and flashed him a smile along with his ID, to which the young man whispered.
"Welcome, Monsieur Solo," I am Hervé Bouchard, then he showed his own yellow ID card to the senior agent. And with that Napoleon was escorted to a waiting car.
The weather was fairly unpredictable in Germany, one day it could be sunny and the next day cold and raining. Today since it was the cold and raining option, Napoleon turned up the collar to his trench coat, fighting off a shiver as he stepped from the terminal with Hervé to the waiting the red Ford Taunus hardtop coupé that was parked curbside.
"Nice wheels," he crinkled his nose as he leaned towards his escort as he spoke quietly. " A little bright for espionage work don't you think?"
"Not really Monsieur Solo, there are quite a few with this color on the road, very popular this year so we will blend in nicely."
"Oh, oookay." Napoelon answered warily, then climbed into the passenger seat. It would be a fairly long ride and he pulled a folder from his silver brief case, preparing to go over the notes regarding his assignment.
Communications had picked up coded transmissions from their Berlin office, and were still trying to decipher them and at the same time finally discovering some of the File 40 security protocols had been compromised. Obviously someone was sharing UN.C.L.E. secrets and that was a no-no.
It was unsure if the information was going to Thrush or if it was the work of East German intelligence, the STASI. Though It didn't matter who the intelligence was being leaked to, only that the leak be plugged and done so permanently.
Napoleon had bogus batches of information to plant, hoping up to set up the culprit by process of elimination, which unfortunately would take a little time as it was suspected that it was someone in the Section IV intelligence and communications office. Each suspect employee in that section would each be given separate bits of intelligence, and as soon as it was transmitted, he would know who the culprit was instantly. Simple enough.
Hervé was a jittery sort of fellow, and liked to talk, and lived up to the meaning of his last name...a French nickname for someone with a big mouth. He'd only been a Section II agent for six months and at the rate his mouth was going, he might not make it to a year. Being talkative in their business generally got you in trouble . At the moment he was somewhat excited that he was riding in a car with the Napoleon Solo, as he called him, going on about the legendary Solo and Kuryakin team.
Napoleon found that a little amusing and it made him smile in an embarrassing sort of way, guessing that his reputation preceded him, but then it also pushed his worried thoughts of Illya to forefront.
He let the young fellow babble away for most of the trip, then begged off opting to take a nap along the way, feeling confident that Hervé could keep them out of trouble.
The car pulled up in front of headquarters five and a half hours later and Hervé still filled with enthusiasm opened the boot to get his passenger's suitcase from it. Napoleon stepped out into the rain that just seemed to be letting up, but it was still quite cold and he could see his breath in the air.
Hervé was right, as Napolen saw several of the red coupés drive up and down the road as well as Trabants and Citröens; Hervé was right. The cars distracted him for a moment as he stepped out to the sidewalk, not watching where he was going and walked right into a man moving quickly past him. He was wearing a black leather jacket, and was looking a little cold and damp.
"What the...pardon me," Solo apologized, then realized the auburn-haired man he was addressing was a dead ringer for Kuryakin, but with red hair...just like Andropov.
"Illya?" he whispered warily.
"Umm nein, sie irren sich_no you are mistaken," the man said in perfect German, then looked him straight and winked with a brown eye.
Napoleon stopped himself from smiling, though the eyes and hair were different, he knew it was indeed his partner.
"Nun wein sie mir verzeihen, Ich muss raus aus dieser regen. Auf weidersehen_now if you will pardon me, I must get out of this rain. I am late to cross the border. Good bye."
Solo watched as Illya continued walking quickly down the Freidrichstrasse carrying a worn duffle slung over his shoulder. Kuryakin crossed the street then turned right on to Köhlerstrasse and was no doubt heading in the direction of the Berlin wall and the Brandenburg gate.
Napoleon knew better than to have said anything else, and now at least knew that Illya was definitely deep undercover, disguised as his late brother and where he was at least headed for the moment. But that confirmation gave him a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
.
Illya cursed himself silently asking why he had to let himself walk past U.N.C.L E. headquarters, it was a foolish thing to have done on his part but then supposed that it was emotions coming to the surface as he had suddenly felt the need to see something safe and familiar, something that was a part of him one last time before he crossed into East Berlin.
He had to get out of that Citröen as the last part of the motorway into Berlin was cobbled, and the ride jarred his insides something terrible. Controlling shifting the gears with the need for double clutching was a nightmare and he was glad at least to be on foot, getting some fresh air and just found himself on the street where the agent entrance was located.
East Berlin, the thought of it gave Illya chills as it was like a vacuum that seemed to suck the life out of him. He hated the place that much. His most recent visit to that grey smudge of a city had marked the beginning of a living nightmare for him and nearly resulted in his demise.*
For a moment those memories let his fear rise, as he recalled the abuse he had suffered at the hands of Karl Voelker and the Stasi...all because of the C.I.A. Now he was helping the Americans again and for a moment he asked himself if this was really worth doing? The taste of bile filled his mouth as his nervousness rose within him. This would be his first major test of his cover and of his nerves and would not be like that trivial questioning back in Bern.
He took a deep breath, thanking the powers that be that allowed him to literally bump into his partner. The odds of that happening; he walking past at that exact moment in time were astronomical...Napoleon being there, he guessed on assignment. This to him was a positive sign, but he took a cold comfort in it.
Though a chance meeting, that fleetest of moments when their eyes met did his heart good to know that his partner was close by; that knowledge was suddenly reassuring... not that he could dare contact him but just knowing he was closer helped Illya's apprehension subside.
Napoleon would no doubt be willing to help him if he got into trouble, but if he were in the hands of either the Stasi or KBG, he was a dead man, as surely this time it would be either the guillotine or firing squad for him, but unlike in his nightmares, Viktor Karkoff was no longer alive to torment him nor was Karl Voelker.* He was sure there would be new, unfamiliar people to vex Illya Kuryakin.
He continued down the Freidrichstrasse, not daring to turn back to look at Napoleon, yet his intuition told him that his partner was still watching him, then he turned the corner onto Köherstrasser heading toward Kadettenweg. There he hailed one of the black taxis to take him the rest of the way. He called to the driver to stop, dropping him off just before they reached the gate, there he would cross by foot.
The necessity of leaving the Citröen behind did not make him happy, but the gearshift being a sort of push me pull you affair on the dashboard had seen better days, and he probably would not get much farther in the little car. It had been a chilly trip with the heater not working and besides it having registration papers in France and French plates would make the vehicle stand out that much more. Given the fact that it was a stolen one did not help either. He would not be able to travel to the U.S.S.R. without it drawing attention to him, so it had to go.
He was sure he could obtain other transportation once across the border, what...he had no idea, he hoped another car or if needed he would take a train depending on the schedules. But trains were notorious for not running on time, especially ones heading away from East Berlin.
Illya prepared himself for what he could expect once on the other side of the wall, as no doubt would no doubt be presented to the resident KGB agent monitoring the Gate, once the Stasi were satisfied with him being who he said he was. "I am Kiril Andropov," he repeated over and over to himself.
Here it would be no doubt be a trip to one of the many Stasi sites within the city, though he hoped it would not be the compound where he had been held prisoner by Voelker...where ever it was; it would still mean danger and there he would no doubt be questioned again.
Though the KGB carried great weight, it was still Stasi territory. If his cover held, then there would be no infighting for his custody as he hoped he wouldn't be a prisoner, that was if this all worked. Unlike last time...after Voelker had his fun, he was turned over to the KGB and Viktor Karkoff.**
He fought off a shiver at that thought, chastising himself for letting those memories get to him. "That was then, this is now. Everything will be fine," he reassured himself.
Once cleared by Stasi security, he would then have to report to KGB liaison officer at the Kartshortst Rezidentura, a Stasi compound where they maintained their central office.
The Stasi were his first major hurdle to cross, and given the preponderance of the secret police, it was ludicrous to think that he would not be questioned by them. And for that reason he readied himself, suppressing his emotions to keep them hidden and under control as the Stasi were masters of interrogation and would look for the minutest of reactions; watching the eyes and face, and his body language as well.
To ensure the people of East Germany remained submissive to Communist rule, the country was saturated with agents of the Stasi, there were more spies there than under any other totalitarian government.
The numbers broken down to a minimum showed there was one Stasi secret policeman per 166 East Germans, and when regular informers were added, the ratio became one spy for every 66 citizens and one informer per 6.5 citizens. So it was spies watching spies within their own city...not to mention the large number of foreign operatives that had infiltrated the country as well.
It was a place were one was constantly under surveillance, with 100,000 telephone taps to West Berlin and West Germany that alone was a round the clock job for thousands of officers.
If one did the math, it was easy to presume that there could be one Stasi informer present in any party of ten to twelve dinner guests. Their long-reaching arm was felt in every aspect of German life, with officers posted in every major industrial plant. every school, University, hospitals.
Even the home-lives of the German were not sacred.
There was at least one tenant in every apartment building who was a designated informer, so the comings and goings of all residents and their guests were noted and reported. The churches both Protestant and Catholic had their informers, nothing was sacred to the Stasi as even the confessionals were full of eavesdropping devices. Religion was still frowned upon, but it had it's uses to the secret police.
There were holes bored in apartment and hotel walls, filming their suspects with special cameras and listening equipment. Even bathrooms were invaded by Stasi voyeurs. Nothing was sacred to the secret police, and like their predecessors, the Nazi Gestapo, the Stasi maintained a sinister code of German meticulousness.
A city based on lies and deceit...a city of spies was a true epithet for this place and now he was returning to it.
"You can do this," he whispered to himself.
He assumed his role whole-heartedly. Kiril took a deep breath as he approached the gate, straightening his shoulders and holding his head up confidently. He got in line, waiting his turn to step up to the booth, pulling out his documentation to present to the soldiers.
KGB agents crossed frequently whether under cover or not, in this case
the name and likeness of Kiril Andropov was on the clipboards of the border guards as he had expected. The border guard asked him to wait, then returned with a man in a tan trench coat and fedora. Stasi.
The travel papers and passport were in order, and he had taken on his brother's demeanor completely, and as long as Illya Kuryakin was Kiril Andropov, he knew that he could convince his komrades that he was legitimate.
Kiril maintained a confident, but not quite arrogant countenance, but sharpened his superior attitude once his KGB credentials were presented.
He had no doubt they were all ready for his arrival, but who knew what they had in store for him.
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* ref "The Gambit Affair" ** ref "Such Stuff as Dreams are Made On"