THE MILTON-FREEWATER AFFAIR
by ardavenport and tlneill
= = = Act 4 : "They're planting bombs, all over town."
The motel was clean and comfortable. Illya appropriated the bath and soaked. Napoleon could take a shower in the morning.
"I think a visit to Bernie's house is definitely in order," Napoleon said from the other side of the partly open bathroom door.
"Preferably when Boom-Boom and Marlowe aren't there." Illya wrung out a wash cloth and draped it over an exposed bruise. "What are we going to do about Miss Goldstein?"
No answer.
"Napoleon?"
"I'm thinking. She certainly has unusual taste in boyfriends."
"We don't know that for sure," Illya called back.
"It seems rather obvious that they have some kind of rapport." Napoleon idly thumbed through The Song of Solomon in the Gideon Bible, looking for pictures. "We may not be able to rely on her."
"I'll be sure to relay that message to Helena Thomas, Serena, Angelique and that blonde in Cairo next time we meet."
Napoleon flinched inwardly, annoyed at Illya's reminder of his previous indiscretions with attractive Thrush beauties. He tossed the Bible aside. "I didn't say she was utterly untrustworthy."
"You should know," Illya answered, enjoying himself, smiling in the bath where Napoleon couldn't see him.
"I think I'll go to bed now." Napoleon began taking off his shoes. "Don't stay up too late; we want to get an early start tomorrow. And don't drip on the carpet when you get out."
= O = O = O = O =
Early next morning the U.N.C.L.E. car drove up to the Skinner residence, a white, two-story house surrounded by locust trees. Three people pried themselves out of the car. Two of them walked up to the porch while the third crept into the bushes along the side of the house. Charlotte rang the doorbell.
"Oh hello, dearie!" An older woman about Napoleon's height greeted them and invited them in. Charlotte made the introductions and they strolled into the living room. Except for her slow walk, Napoleon noted, she was in good condition.
"I'm sorry. Bernie isn't in yet, dear. I fixed a nice breakfast for him and his friends but they haven't come back yet." Mrs. Skinner pulled Charlotte aside. "Thrush business," she whispered conspiratorially while Napoleon pretended to examine the knick-knacks on an end table.
A slender tabby cat wound itself around his ankles whenever he stood still. "They've been out all night and I'm not sure when they'll be back . . . " Her voice trailed off as Napoleon seemed to be taking an interest in the conversation. "I have a charming idea. Since Bernie and his friends probably won't be in, why don't you and your nice friend here have breakfast with me?"
"We'd be delighted," Napoleon accepted gracefully.
Illya, having finished his investigation of the yard, searched for a likely way to break in. He found a suitable basement window and made his entrance climbing down to stand on top of a washing machine stuck in the corner of a large, but incredibly cluttered room. It was filled with boxes of junk, old furniture and useless lumber.
Jumpin off the washing machine, he prowled about with gun drawn. When nothing sprang out at him, he holstered the weapon and went looking through the other rooms.
He discovered nothing save more rooms full of junk and one locked door. His handy lock-pick took care of that barrier. Next to several more boxes of old clothes he found a very standard Thrush computer terminal. The table it sat on was cluttered with local maps, game score sheets and manuals. He thumbed through them noting that Bernie wasn't privy to any very important information. He found the 'Games' section and read on. Instructions were included for such diversions as 'Shoot the U.N.C.L.E. Agent,' 'Assassinate Mr. Waverly,' 'World Domination' and 'Tic Tack Toe.' The rules for 'Anarchy on the High Seas' were particularly entertaining. Illya spent a minute perusing the contents of the manual before putting it aside and getting back to business.
Above in the dining room Napoleon dined on ham, eggs, pancakes, toast and jam, coffee and fresh milk, all served on Thrush china. A lovely floral pattern that included the Thrush bird decorated the edges and centers of the plates, saucers and cups. The silverware (Solo noted that it was real silver) and glasses were similarly monogrammed. Even the tablecloth was embossed with Thrushes. Napoleon ate sparingly and concentrated on being charming to Mrs. Skinner. Charlotte lamely contributed to the small talk and squirmed in her seat.
A cat yowled, 'I'm being stepped on!', and a gray tabby streak bolted through the dining room. The sound of jostled furniture followed the cat. Illya appeared, a little sheepishly, in the doorway. Mrs. Skinner abruptly put her coffee cup down and stared at the sudden house guest. Napoleon came to his partner's rescue.
"Mrs. Skinner, I don't think I've introduced my associate, Illya Kuryakin." Napoleon signaled to him with a beckoning finger. Illya stepped forward warily. "I hope you'll forgive my friend. He has a basically suspicious nature. He has a phobia about entering houses through the front door," Napoleon apologized to his hostess. "He had a very insecure childhood."
"Oh." Mrs Skinner looked at the blonde as he took a seat at the table. "Kuryakin? You're Russian then?" she inquired.
"Uh, yes Ma'am," Illya answered.
"Oh, well that explains it." She tossed the matter off, filled a plate with food and passed it on. Illya frowned at Napoleon. Napoleon smiled back and restarted the interrupted conversation.
Illya contributed very little to the small talk; mostly he just ate. Napoleon wondered when he'd notice the cutlery and the dishes. They were casually discussing Bernie's 'friends' at the survivalists' ranch when Illya got to the end of his first helping. He dropped his fork loudly and stared at the uncovered Thrush on his plate. Slowly he looked up and peered at the rest of the breakfast ware. Napoleon leaned his chin on his hand, covering a smile and cleared his throat to keep from laughing.
"Is there something wrong, Mr. Kuryakin?" Mrs. Skinner asked.
Napoleon didn't think he could bear to watch his partner make excuses with his mouth full of food, so he spoke up for him.
"I think he's still hungry." He reached across the table, scooped up the plate and covered the offending monogram with a second helping. Illya frowned again and resumed eating.
"Charlotte, dear, you really are worrying me." Mrs. Skinner paused just long enough for Charlotte to get flustered. "Bringing such a suave gentleman like Mr. Solo here when my Bernie isn't even around to defend himself."
Charlotte blushed. "Really Mrs. Skinner, Napoleon's just a friend."
"A cousin? At least that's what I heard from Sheriff Kune."
"You heard about that?" Charlotte asked in a small voice.
"Dear, your trailer blew up at 9:31 PM last night. I dare say the whole county knew about it within the hour."
"I suppose so. But you didn't say anything."
"Well, why should I? You know that my home is always open to you. You could have the spare room upstairs if you like. The one right next to Bernie's room." Charlotte smiled nervously. "Besides, talk of bombs and explosions is such an unsettling thing to start the morning with. Don't you agree, Mr. Solo?"
Oh, absolute . . . ly," Napoleon answered automatically before he realized what he was agreeing to. Mrs. Skinner beamed back at him. Illya stopped eating.
"Surely you didn't think I thought you two were barbed wire salesmen. I've been inactive for 30 years, but I haven't completely lost it," she told them. "I must say that you're a cut above those two goons who came calling last night, Mr. Solo. Even your friend here has more savoir-faire than they did. Why did they blow up your trailer, Charlotte?"
Charlotte looked to Illya and Napoleon for help. The cat meowed loudly in the kitchen.
"Ah . . . I think you have the advantage, Mrs. Skinner," Napoleon admitted.
"You obviously have some connection with Mr. Hammond and Mr. Lovejoy; not a friendly one I should think. The question is, 'where are you from?' Thrush Central perhaps? Come to collect a couple of renegades?"
Illya's head came up and he quietly rose and walked to the kitchen door. Napoleon held up a hand to forestall any questions, having heard the same sound that Illya had. The Russian jerked the door open and their portly, rifle-bearing adversary of the night before stumbled into the room.
"Bernie!" Charlotte exclaimed.
"Bernard Skinner," his grandmother scolded. "What are you doing skulking about in the kitchen? Come in here and sit down." Bernie obediently complied.
"That's a good question, Bernie," Napoleon said. "What are you doing skulking about in the kitchen?"
Bernie looked a bit helplessly from Illya, standing silently behind him, to Napoleon and lastly to Charlotte who looked at him questioningly. He sighed. "I was trying to warn you," he told her.
"About what?" Illya inquired.
"About Mr. Hammond and Marlowe."
"Go on, Bernie," Charlotte urged. "What about them?"
Bernie squirmed uncomfortably in his chair under Illya's scrutiny. "We were out all night," he began. "They said they needed some help, and I couldn't just leave after I found out what they were doing! They would have killed me!"
"Or worse," Illya muttered.
Bernie glanced at him nervously.
"What were they doing?" Napoleon insisted.
"They're planting bombs, all over town."
"What?" Charlotte asked.
"They're going to blow up the whole town," he told her seriously. "Unless you two give yourselves up by noon," he finished.
"And you were supposed to give us the message," Napoleon concluded.
"Well," Bernie hung his head. "I wasn't supposed to deliver it in person."
"Bernie, what are you talking about?" his grandmother demanded. "And what do those two men want Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin for so badly that they're willing to blow up the town?"
Bernie looked at Charlotte pleadingly, both of them knowing that their secret would soon be a secret no longer.
"We have a few differences," Napoleon explained diplomatically.
"That much is obvious. And you haven't answered my question, either. Where are you from?"
"We're from U.N.C.L.E., Mrs. Skinner." Solo confessed. The cat meowed again in the kitchen.
"I was afraid you might say that," their hostess sighed. "Bernie, do feed that cat of yours. She's been under foot all morning." Her grandson started to rise, but Illya's hand on his shoulder held him in his seat.
"I think the cat can wait until we hear Bernie's story about the bombs," Napoleon suggested. Bernie looked up at his captors, at where he knew the two very competent-looking agents kept their guns. Bernie started to sweat.
= = = END Act 4