A Man from U.N.C.L.E. Story
by Darklady
Chapter Forty-Six: I Don't Believe in If Any More
Rated: PG
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The two young men who arrive to retrieve the damaged car provide not only an address but a map. Apparently the local director has anticipated our request. Either that, or they wish to interview us for reasons of their own.
I am watchful all the way, but we arrive without incident.
This time the headquarters is out in the semi-suburbs. A pretty brick building with Victorian details. According to the sign out front, an independent geologist's office shares space with a fiduciary management company. The upper windows boast a sign offering document storage. A step up from a tailor's shop, but I assume the principal is the same. All very innocuous looking, but as we drive down into the parking garage, a steel door rolls down behind us.
A smiling young man in an orange cap and vest over his black shirt and pants directs us to the spaces at the side, where one parking space bears a hand-lettered sign marked S/K. Right by the elevator door. Very polite.
As we step up the elevator opens without being summoned, and once we are inside the doors close without a floor being pushed. Not that it would matter. All the buttons are for floors above us - but the elevator goes down.
The doors slide open on a beige hall with grey carpeting. Very innocuous, if boring.
Mr. Lee is waiting. This time he is wearing a suit. Black, naturally. As is the grey-haired man at his side.
"Mr. Solo. Dr. Kuryakin." Lee makes the introductions. "West Regional Director, Mr. Smith."
"Gentlemen." The older man acknowledges as we shake hands all around.
He leads us down the hall to an unmarked door. A briefing room, to judge by the large central table and peripheral computer stations. These are occupied by several black-suited agents who he does not bother to introduce. Smith waves us to the table, where two seats on the near side have been marked out with thick file folders. Obviously those are for us .
Smith takes his seat at the head, leaving Lee to sit across from us. "Director Dancer has informed me that you are both elected at policy level one. That is a full sanction level. She has also directly ordered me to place the full resources of this office at your disposal."
"Which clearly thrills you." Napoleon is not *always* as charming as he can be.
A young lady in a black dress comes by with coffee. Lee and Napoleon take some, but I decline. From the smell of it, it is the usual American brew.
"Should it?" Smith pushes a button and a photo of the first wrecked car appears on the wall behind him. "Mr. Solo, you and your partner have caused quite a stir around here. This office has not had three fire-fights in the last year. You manage to be involved in that many in less then a day."
The picture changes, this time to a shot of three young men. Caucasian but tan, most likely local, I would put them in their early twenties. They also look rather bruised. I assume they were the unfortunate passengers of that car. I glance at Napoleon, but he shakes his head. They are as unfamiliar to him as they are to me.
"Mr. Solo?" Lee asks, glancing up at the wall. "Are you sure you don't have personal enemies?"
"How could I?" Napoleon shrugs as a second set of unfamiliar faces appear. "I've been dead since 1968. Nobody's boyfriend holds a grudge that long."
Lee pulls out his palmtop and reads the screen before correcting Napoleon. "1969".
So Waverly did wait a year, as April had said. Interesting information, but hardly relevant now. I store that and return to more pressing issues. "How do you know that Napoleon is the target?" I ask Lee. "Yesterday Director Dancer believed it might be me?"
"We found a circled photo in the second car." The wall decor once again changes, this time to a candid shot of Napoleon entering his apartment. "With his name on the back."
"When was that?" Napoleon studies the photo closely. "I think I remember the suit."
"July 26, 1967." I answer. "Six months before our last mission."
"God." Lee looks up, impressed. "You people are good. How did you know that?
"There is a date on the newspaper."
"Oh." He blinks at the vending machine just visible behind Napoleon's back. "Yeh, well..." He turns again to Napoleon. " Who hated you back then?"
"Other then all of T.H.R.U.S.H.?"
I am considering the suggestion that it might be simpler to ask who in the business did *not* hate us, when Smith finally decides to comment. "There is no more T.H.R.U.S.H.!" His voice dismisses the possibility with the irritated edge of self evident truth.
"Excuse me, sir." A trim looking woman in her late forties rose from one of the consoles. "There is no more T.H.R.U.S.H. like there is no more U.N.C.L.E. The organizations are gone. That doesn't meant the *people* aren't still around." She steps over to Napoleon. "I mean... you're still here. I'm still here.."
"You are?" Napoleon rises, holding out his hand.
She takes it firmly. "Janet Trent. Communications and Decryption."
Only from my perspective could one see the swift slide of thumbs over palms.
Trent drops her voice and adds, "That too."
"Communications?" I rise to offer my hand as well.
"Conversationalist."
"Understood." Our eyes lock as her thumb glides under mine.
Napoleon turns to Smith, claiming command. "Mr. Smith, have your people run a cross check on all known T.H.R.U.S.H. operatives -all dates - all levels - against the listed the population for...?" He looks at Trent. "Five hundred miles? At least to start."
"Yes, sir," Janet Trent acknowledges without looking at Smith. "Also known allied independents."
"Excellent." Napoleon picks up his files and signals me to be prepared to follow.
Trent is already back at her station when the operative beside her objects. "I'll have to load that from files." The young man sounds rather put out by the prospect. "T.H.R.U.S.H. is in the back data."
"Then do it," Trent directs. "And get it to me the minute you find anything."
Napoleon nods at Mr. Smith. "When you have something, Kuryakin and I will be on the range. As I recall, I'm not qualified on this." He taps his shoulder harness. "And I'd hate to violate policy in my own office."
**********************
I am cleaning my pistol while Napoleon finishes his second clip. At two hundred rounds each the process takes a while. Still, it is necessary. It also has the virtue of keeping us occupied at a location where conversation is evidently impossible. Just in case Smith wishes to protest. Or rather - since quite obviously he must *wish* to - I should perhaps say if he decides it is worth the risk to try.
I have no idea where our authority ends, but neither does Smith. Neither does Napoleon, for that matter, but he has never been inclined to concern himself with such details. Waverly he would obey. More likely because Waverly was Waverly then because Waverly was Hemispheric Chief. Beyond that? Napoleon did what it took to do the job. Then he dumped the paperwork on me. As he no doubt will do here. Thirty three years may change many things, but never that.
Cleaning the new weapon is delicate and unfamiliar work. That, combined with the ear protection required even for 'quiet' loads, must explain why Agent Trent is almost to the counter before I notice her. That and the fact she moves like a sister.
"Excuse me, sir?" She signals me to pull off my headset.
"I ran the search you requested and..." She breaks off in seeming embarrassment. Never a good sign. " And.... there are twenty-seven names in the listed area. Low level suspected operatives."
I take the printout and read down the list of names. None I remember particularly. "Nothing much here."
Napoleon has noticed the newcomer. He changes his clip and holsters the gun before coming over. I pass the list to Napoleon. He taps one name.. "I'm not certain. Was he..?"
While Napoleon is searching his memory Trent continues. "More then that. It appears they all live in the same town. Fifteen of them in the same neighborhood. And they all work for the same company. Avian Solutions."
"Avian Solutions?" My startled exclamation meets Napoleon's equally astounded glance. "That is where you had lunch yesterday! With Bill Vally's 'friend'." I check over Napoleon's shoulder. "Joe Bierbaum is not on this list."
"Even so, I'm glad I met him at the restaurant."
"I am glad you did not go back for the 'tour' after lunch." I retort. "I do *not* want to get back into the habit of rescuing you."
"This is it?" Napoleon hands the list back to Trent.
"I'm not sure." A politely phrased answer with a meaning closer to 'not a chance'. "We haven't finished running the list. But there are at least this many."
"Damn." Napoleon holsters his pistol and reaches for his jacket.
Trent nods. "A whole damn satrap, right beneath our noses, and we never knew it."
END CHAPTER FORTY-SIX