The Reluctant Vampire Affair by Nancy Kaminski, August 1997 A Man From UNCLE/Forever Knight Crossover Story For the benefit of the younger members of the list, "The Man from UNCLE" was a very popular, cultish TV show which ran from 1964 to 1968. It was about the battle between good and evil, personified by UNCLE (The United Network Command for Law and Enforcement) and THRUSH (The Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity--how's that for a name!). UNCLE was a multinational organization which could operate all over the world, owing allegiance to no one country. UNCLE's staff was drawn from every nation. The stars of the show were Robert Vaughn, playing American Napoleon Solo, the urbane, ladykiller secret agent, and David McCallum as his Russian partner, Illya Kuryakin, the techno-whiz and man of mystery. At the time, pairing American and Russian characters was a fairly radical thing to do, considering the state of the cold war at the time; it was not unlike Bill Cosby's groundbreaking leading role in "I Spy." Their boss was Alexander Waverly, played by venerable English actor Leo G. Carroll. Mr. Waverly would sit in his large office with the revolving table, puff on his pipe, and send his agents out to face danger and malevolent villains bent on world-shattering mischief. The show was awash with nifty, James Bond style gadgets. The main props were the pen communicator, a transceiver of unlimited range that looked like a fountain pen, and the UNCLE Special, an automatic pistol that could be converted into a sort of rifle with the additional of a few parts and a really nifty night vision scope. There was clever banter between the two stars, over-the-top villains, girls in miniskirts, and a characteristic "revolving pan" style of scene changing camera work that was quite novel at the time. All these factors made the show an enormous hit, and the stars themselves mobbed at every public appearance. David McCallum, especially, was the favorite of adolescent girls everywhere (myself included). His shaggy blond good looks, mysterious air, indeterminate accent (Russian? British? What?), and propensity to dress entirely in black made him completely irresistible. Sound familiar? He was very Nickish, in a less angsty way. Anyway, UNCLE had their North American Headquarters in New York City, quite close to the United Nations. So the revelation in "Close Call" that Nick had a New York driver's license from the 1960s was just too good to pass up--I had to get Nick, Napoleon and Illya together for an adventure (or "affair" as each UNCLE episode was entitled). This story is the result. Enjoy your trip back into the Swingin' Sixties! As Nick once said about the Middle Ages, "I enjoyed them!" New York City, 1965 "'S', before," Napoleon Solo opened his eyes and lifted his head to smirk at his partner. "Ha, didn't see that coming, did you." He let his head fall back on the hard thin pillow and rearranged his lanky frame more comfortably on the narrow army cot. "Your turn." Illya Kuryakin frowned, his eyes remaining fixed on the warehouse across the street. "Why do we always have to play Ghosts in English?" he complained. "You have an unfair home advantage. How about a neutral language--say, French, or German?" Solo shook his head. "Nope. 'When in America, do as the Americans do.' Your turn." Illya thought, then said, "T, after." A slight smile twitched at his mouth. "S, M, O, L, T," Solo spelled slowly. He paused and thought, staring at the cobwebbed ceiling. "That's not a word--you're making it up. Not an English word," he amended. "I challenge." "You lose--it is a legal word." The blond agent replied. "You had your chance last year in Seattle, but you wanted to go barhopping after we wrapped up the Barker affair." "What do you mean 'I had my chance?' What's that got to do with S-M-O-L-T?" "If you had gone to look at the salmon run instead of the night life, you would have found out about smolts." He paused for effect, but the other UNCLE agent remained silent. He sighed. "A smolt is a very young salmon. There was a sign next to the fish ladder explaining the life cycle of the salmon. They start out as smolts." Solo scowled. "Damn smart Russian." Illya said mildly, "Don't blame me, blame your National Park Service. They put up the sign. I didn't know about them until I saw it." He held up a hand. "We have some activity." Solo rolled off the cot with a fluid movement and joined his partner at the partially curtained window. Silently they watched a dingy garage door in the warehouse across the street jerk upwards. The nose of a late-model Cadillac convertible, a fashionable teal green, slid into the narrow street. It paused while the driver triggered the remote control that closed the garage, then drove off into the night, its taillights twin red eyes that disappeared around the next corner. *** The UNCLE agents had been watching the warehouse for three days, the end of a trail that had started in a seemingly innocent electronics plant in Muncie, Indiana. The trail had continued on a convoluted path through Chicago, Saint Louis, and Minneapolis, and then finally ended up here, in a seedy warehouse in Brooklyn. They were following the third of a series of hijacked shipments of XCS-112s, a newly-developed laser communication device that was intended for ultra-secret NATO installations in Europe. By the time UNCLE had been brought in, two shipments of the valuable, rare devices had disappeared en route to New York, where they were to be flown to NATO Headquarters in Belgium. Both times, the unmarked trucks, with the drivers and guards, were found in remote wayside rests off secondary highways. None of the men had any memory of what had happened to them. NATO could only speculate on who was behind the hijackings. None of the Western intelligence agencies reported any information indicating that the Eastern Bloc or China, the most obvious candidates, were involved. UNCLE had had better luck. An intercepted THRUSH communique sent from the Dusseldorf satrap to Amsterdam contained the two words, 'device' and 'Muncie.' Section 4 had put the pieces together and concluded that THRUSH was involved. Acting on that scanty information, Alexander Waverly, head of UNCLE's North American Operations, put his most experienced agents on the case--Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin. *** Two Weeks Earlier Highwood Electronics, Muncie, Indiana Robert Anderson, a thin, balding man in his forties, and the president of Highwood Electronics, the company that manufactured the XCS-112, was understandably upset. "None of my people can be involved with this," he fretted, knotting his hands together nervously. He swiveled agitatedly back and forth in his chair, looking out the plate glass window overlooking the plant floor. He gestured at the assembly line below. "I've known each of my one hundred fifty employees for years--I hired every one of them. None of them would turn traitor..." Solo held up his hand reassuringly. "We're not saying that, Mr. Anderson. In fact, we don't really suspect anyone here. But we have to make sure, and this is the logical place to start." "Yes, but I opened all my records to those Army investigators last month. What more do you want from me?" Illya picked up the briefcase he had set on the floor next to his chair. "We want to add a little something to the next lot to be sent out." He fished around for a moment and then held up a clear plastic tube containing what looked like a capacitor. "We want to include one of these in each XCS-112 going out next week." He held up his hand to still Anderson's protest. "They're well-shielded, and won't interfere with the working of the device. And they'll be removed when they reach their destination--that is, if they reach their destination. Until then they'll masquerade as just another component." Anderson took the proffered tube gingerly and examined the tiny device with an engineer's eyes. "What does it do?" "It broadcasts a high-frequency signal once every thirty minutes on a very narrow band. It will help us follow the shipment from a discreet distance." "Are you sure it won't interfere with anything? We're manufacturing to mil spec, you know, and we'd face huge penalties if we don't comply with every contract line item..." Anderson gave the tube back to Illya. Apparently his bottom line was just as important to him as the integrity of his employees. "We've fixed that with the NATO contract manager. You won't be penalized if anything happens because of this." Illya assured the worried manager. Ultimately it was the president, with assistance from Illya, who installed the tracking devices late the next night. "Good thing we don't run a third shift," he grumbled as he soldered the silvery cylinders to one of the less-densely populated circuit boards in each of the five XCS-112s destined to be shipped in two days. "Good thing I used to build boards for a living..." He concentrated on his task. "There. Last one." He yawned and sat back while Illya screwed the housing back in place. "Now all they have to do is go through one last burn-in cycle, and they're out of here." Illya flicked on a hand-held receiver and pressed a test button. After a few seconds, a blip showed on the small circular screen. "There, it's transmitting. The internal power source should be good for two weeks--plenty of time to see where they go." He turned off the receiver. "Let's call it a night." *** Just like the other two shipments, this one went astray. Unlike the other two shipments, however, this one had the tracers faithfully bleeping every half hour to report on their whereabouts. The UNCLE agents were too far behind to see the truck actually taken, but they did manage to catch up to the thieves in a truck stop and surreptitiously photograph them while they ate their bacon and eggs. Three weary days of driving later, the agents' communicators warbled simultaneously. Solo was taking his turn at the wheel--he flapped his hand at his partner to answer, then turned off the radio, cutting off the nasal announcer reading the swap ads for the town of Greenleafton. Illya fished out his communicator, extended the antenna, and said, "Kuryakin here." Mr. Waverly's voice said tinnily, "Good afternoon, Mr. Kuryakin. Is Mr. Solo there?" "Yes, sir, he's driving." "Section 4 has identified one of your hijackers from the microfilm you sent us. The red-headed fellow is Rollo Halvorsen, a small-time THRUSH operative, used mainly for courier activities. The other is as yet unknown to us-- we've sent his photo on to NATO to see if he's in their files. Where are you at the present time?" Illya consulted his map. "We're seventy-five miles north of Mason City, sir. We appear to be heading to Minneapolis. We're about a half mile behind the hijackers." "Very well, I'll have Halvorsen's file transmitted to the Minneapolis office. Arrange with them to deliver it to you." "Thank you, sir. We'll keep you advised." "You do that." Waverly ended the transmission in his characteristically abrupt way. "Well, at least we know who one of them is," Illya said philosophically as he tried to stretch in the cramped rental car. "Now if they would just stop leading us on the Cook's tour of the Midwest. I've seen enough soybean fields to last me at least a year." "Is that what this green stuff is?" Solo asked, glancing at the endless gently rolling fields on either side of the highway. He grimaced as an aromatic, manure-scented breeze blew through the open car window. "Yes, Napoleon, this green stuff is soybeans. The tall green stuff is corn. The spotted black and white things are cows." "Thank you, Farmer Brown. Now, just tell me we're coming to a town with a population higher than fifty soon. Too much fresh air makes me nervous." *** The agents continued following the hijacked shipment through a stopover in Minneapolis. The hijackers appeared to be waiting for instructions--they laid low at a cheap motel near the airport, which proclaimed its tenuous connection with air travel by displaying a battered Cessna 150 precariously perched on the roof of the office. "That's what I like about this job," Napoleon grumbled as he inspected their room's pair of sagging beds. "The glamour of travel, the opportunity to see new, exciting places..." "Yes, but just think, we have a fine view, not only of the hijacker's room, but of the airplane on the roof, which is a novel sight, no matter how you look at it," Illya answered reasonably. A jet thundered overhead, and the lamp on the night table jittered alarmingly. Both agents reflexively looked at the ceiling. "And we're conveniently located underneath the major flight path of an international airport, not to mention near a drive-in." "Oh, goody," Solo said sourly. For the next two days, the agents were treated to continual noise and a parade of indifferent food. The hijackers went out only for meals at the next-door drive-in, apparently waiting for some word from their superiors. On the third day, though, they abruptly headed out again, eastwards this time. The agents scrambled to collect their scanty belongings, pay the bill, and follow. "And just when I was beginning to recognize each of those Northwest Orient jets," Solo complained. "I was making a list, like those English train spotters." "Don't worry--you can come back on your next vacation and complete your list," Illya said. "I'm sure Mrs. Johnson will give you this room again, if you want." He flipped a matchbook at his partner. "Here's a souvenir matchbook, just in case you didn't note down the phone number." "It wouldn't be the same without Halvorsen and company in the foreground," Solo said. "I guess I'll have to settle for Monaco again." In two more days, after driving practically nonstop, they were pulling into a warehouse in a rundown part of Brooklyn, Solo and Kuryakin in tow. "At least we can go home and change clothes," Solo sighed. "I dibs first shift off." *** New York City "Have we got an ID yet on that Caddy?" Solo asked. "It just came through a few hours ago, while you were taking your beauty sleep. Section 4 reports it's registered to a Nicholas Forrester at a Manhattan address--a townhouse in the Forties, no less." "So what's it doing here?" Illya shrugged. "Maybe he works here. They don't have an occupation on him yet." "He keeps odd hours, then. He came in yesterday morning at," Solo consulted the logsheet, "four a.m. Now he's leaving at nine p.m. Something of a night owl, isn't he." "It's not against the law." "On the other hand," Solo mused, "maybe he's the next link in the chain. After all, Halvorsen drove straight to this address and disappeared. The truck's still at that parking lot down the street. This guy is the only other person we've seen go in or out." "Section 4 is still doing a rundown on him. So far they've traced him back only ten years or so. Before that, nothing. As far as we can tell, he appears to be independently wealthy and a bit of a recluse. Interestingly enough, he just returned from a long stay in Europe--according to his passport, he was in the Netherlands, France, and Belgium. He travels quite a lot." "Hmm." Solo flipped through the scant file, and studied the copy of the driver's license photo. It showed a studious-looking man with horn-rimmed glasses and a goatee; he reminded Solo of some of his old college professors. "Wish I could afford a Caddy like that." "Save your pennies--I don't think a salary increase is in the future. I heard Mr. Waverly talking about cutting back the clerical staff again." Solo snorted. "Don't they know how much it costs to save the world from tyranny and injustice on a weekly basis?" He threw the file onto the cot. Illya shook his head. "I don't think upper management considers Cadillacs an essential tool for law enforcement." Solo sighed. "Oh, well. We do it for the job satisfaction, anyway." He changed the subject to the business at hand. "You know, Illya, I don't think surveillance is going to get us the information we need. I think it's time for some direct action." "In other words, breaking and entering." "I prefer to think of it as 'strategic infiltration.'" "As I said, breaking and entering." *** Thirty minutes later, the two UNCLE agents were in an alley outside one of the warehouse's doors. Solo kept watch while Illya quietly and efficiently picked the lock, then eased the door open and cautiously flicked on a penlight. The narrow beam of light revealed a corridor with two heavy steel doors and a freight elevator. One had a faded sign, 'Loading Dock.' "That must be where Forrester parks his car," Solo whispered. Illya nodded wordlessly and turned his attention to the next door. Several more minutes of his ministrations resulted in another open door, revealing a dark staircase leading upstairs. Illya gestured silently and they cautiously looked up the dusty wooden stairs. "Start at the top?" Solo whispered. Illya nodded, and the two agents mounted the four flights of stairs as quietly as possible. Each landing they passed had a another heavy steel door guarding the storage or office space behind it. At the top was yet another door, but this one was different. It was a heavy slab of polished oak with brass fittings--and it was unlocked. Illya pushed it open, his penlight flicking around the revealed room. He gave a small snort of surprise. "It's an apartment. A nice one." Solo looked over his shoulder. The yellow glow glanced off polished furniture and bookshelves. The floor was carpeted with a thick Persian rug, and curios were displayed on the antique tables. An expensive Garrard turntable, reel-to-reel tape recorder, and hi-fi receiver graced another shelf, flanked by racks of stereo LPs. A large console color television stood in the corner. He whistled under his breath. "No wonder he drives a Caddy, the guy must be loaded." "But why is he living here in such a rundown area? What's at that Manhattan address?" Illya objected. "Maybe he moved and didn't change his driver's license?" Solo suggested. Illya didn't grace the comment with a reply. They moved further into the apartment. There were seven spacious rooms in all, equally well-appointed. The few that had windows were heavily draped with dark red brocade, floor to ceiling. There was no obvious evidence of any connection to the smuggling operation-- *What did you expect to find? File drawers labeled 'Secret NATO Gizmos?'* Solo thought to himself--although the mere fact that a luxury apartment was located in such an odd place, and the suspicious coincidence that Halvorsen had been traced to this address, and that Forrester himself had just been in Belgium, the site of NATO Headquarters, made it suspect. Illya was busy installing a bug in the telephone and Solo was running his penlight over the spines of the books lining the wall--"Jeez, this guy has books in at least seven languages," he commented. Illya just grunted and continued with his work--when a quiet voice asked, "Can I help you find something?" and a light snapped on. The UNCLE agents started and faced the direction of the voice. Solo thought his heart would jump right out of his mouth. *Where the hell did he come from?!* A tall blond man lounged casually in the doorway, his hand on the light switch, icy blue eyes fixed on the two men. He was well-dressed in a dark navy suit, an obviously hand-tailored white shirt and a conservatively striped tie. Solo recognized him from the driver's license photo in the file Section 4 had put together, although the goatee and horn-rimmed glasses were absent. "Nicholas Forrester," he said. The blond man raised an eyebrow. "You had better have a good explanation for being here," he said, his voice deceptively mild. "I don't take invasions of my privacy lightly." There was something under the quiet tones that sent chills down Solo's spine. Although Forrester didn't look that muscular, somehow Solo knew he could hurt both of them, and badly, without breaking a sweat. There was a blur of motion, and before the agents could react, Forrester was next to Illya, his hand on the Russian's wrist. Without effort he removed the tiny electronic bug from Illya's suddenly nerveless hand and examined it briefly. He smiled sardonically at Illya, said, "Really, now," and crushed it between his fingers. Illya stared dumbly at the rain of tiny components that pattered onto the hardwood floor. "Napoleon," he said conversationally, "I don't think the story about being the telephone repair man will work with Mr. Forrester." He rubbed his wrist, his eyes on Forrester, then unobtrusively started moving his hand towards his jacket pocket and the UNCLE Special nestled there. Solo noted his partner's surreptitious movement and began edging sideways to get more distance between them. The further apart they were, the less control Forrester would have over them... "No, it won't." Forrester looked directly into Illya's eyes, and the blond agent felt the world slow and contract to encompass only the sound of his own beating heart. Forrester's voice echoed in his ears. "Do not lie to me." Illya swayed slightly. "Don't lie..." he found himself murmuring, and it seemed the most reasonable thing in the world to say. Why would he lie? His hand dropped limply to his side. Forrester swung around and caught Solo in his stare before Solo could do anything but gape at his suddenly passive partner. "Do not lie to me," he repeated, and Solo, like his partner, felt the force of Forrester's will wash over him like a warm tide, his heart loud in his ears. "I won't lie..." he said, as if in a dream. "Sit down," Forrester ordered, and the two agents moved slowly to the leather sofa and sat side by side, their eyes vacantly staring ahead. "Now tell me why you are here..." *** Nick paced restlessly back and forth, wondering what to do. The two men he had caught breaking into his home--his home!--sat quietly on the sofa, just as he had told them. Of course, it wasn't like they had any choice; neither was a resister. The 'whammy,' as some of the younger ones in the Community liked to call it, had been absurdly easy. He grimaced in annoyance. In a moment of misbegotten generosity, he had agreed to let Lacroix use the two unoccupied floors of his warehouse while he was away in Europe for the last three months, and this is what he got-- international smugglers, spies, intrigue, and mysterious supra-national organizations with stupid names battling each other in secret--all going on under his unsuspecting nose. He sighed. He could see the latest period of uneasy but mostly peaceful coexistence with his ancient master dissolving yet again. He was also uneasy about the mysterious Rollo Halvorsen. He hadn't detected any signs of life elsewhere in his building except the expected rats and mice, and his visitors had said Halvorsen had gone in but not out. Perhaps, he thought humorlessly, Lacroix had felt the need for a little snack. He wondered what scheme, what intrigue Lacroix was playing at. He wouldn't put it beyond him to stir up a war, just for the entertainment value. In the old days, that didn't usually result in a major conflict--two duchies battling it out, with maybe twenty casualties total--but nowadays the scope for mischief had grown so much larger. Just look what had happened the last time Lacroix had meddled in politics, back in 1917. *Poor Nicky,* he thought, thinking briefly about the sad and not-too-bright czar and his family. He shook himself away from that unproductive line of thought. He would have to put a stop to whatever was going on, that was clear, starting with these two. They and their organization seemed bent on investigating him, and while the identify Aristotle had created for him ten years ago would stand up to ordinary scrutiny, the UNCLE agents seemed to have more resources than most available to them. They just might find the inevitable unforeseen inconsistencies, and start digging into the dark world of the Community. And if they started poking around Lacroix's life, well, there would be curiously drained corpses springing up all over New York City. No, he would have to get involved again with the mortal world. He sighed. After HUAC and Senator McCarthy had forced him out of his quiet and fulfilling life as Nicholas Girard, assistant curator and associate professor of archaeology, he had retreated into a self-imposed isolation, refusing to become involved with mortal lives and concerns. It had been over ten years, but he didn't feel ready to try again--not yet. It seemed that Chance, however, in the form of his ever-scheming master, had intervened and forced the issue. Damn. Nick turned to his uninvited guests and focused his will on both of them. The regular thudding of their hearts, slightly out of sync, was thunderous in his ears. He pushed away the ever-present temptation to simply drain them and be done with it. Instead, he said, "Listen to me. You no longer think I am a suspect. Instead, you have asked me to assist you in catching your smugglers. You believe I am just a wealthy, eccentric man with too much time on his hands, who just happened to rent his warehouse to the wrong person." He paused. That should do it. He sat down in the chair opposite the two men and assumed a casual air. "You may wake up now." He watched the awareness grow in the agents' eyes, and said, as if continuing a conversation, "You want me to do *what*?" Solo said, "Huh?" then seemed to regain his train of thought. He glanced at his partner uncertainly, and said, "Well, it would be helpful if you could, ah, assist us in our investigation. It's your warehouse, after all, and no one could question your concern about your own tenant. Right, Illya?" The Russian seemed dazed but he said, "Yes, of course. You would be doing a great service if you cooperated." Nick pretended to hesitate. "Well..." Solo continued persuasively, "It won't be dangerous. We'll be here to protect you, and with any luck, we should be able to wrap this up in no time at all." Nick smiled inwardly at the absurdity of these two mortals protecting him. Who would protect *them* if Lacroix was involved? He relented. "Oh, all right. What do you want me to do?" That stopped them. Nick hadn't 'suggested' any course of action. Solo hesitated. "Well..." Nick suggested smoothly, "How about I meet with my...tenant? I'll see what I can find out in casual conversation. There are some matters of the lease that need discussion, anyway." He smiled deprecatingly. "I think I could draw him out a bit. We're old acquaintances." "I don't know." Solo looked at Illya. "If he's involved with the smuggling ring, it could be dangerous. He might get suspicious. We should check him out first, find out what his connection is with Halvorsen." Nick tensed. Of course they would try to check Lacroix out, no matter what he said, but Lacroix's identity was, as they said, bullet-proof. Nick was sure that no one could connect him with anything in the least bit illegal--odd, perhaps, but not illegal. Still... This wasn't going the way he wanted. He said hurriedly, "No, let me speak with him first. I'm sure he thought he was involved with a legal export arrangement, or something like that." Illya said, "Then you must wear a transmitter, so we can listen in and act if it becomes necessary." Damn! This wasn't going well at all. He frowned and exerted his will again over the two agents. "No. I will talk to my tenant, and you will *not* investigate him or insist I carry a transmitter with me. You will wait until I contact you again." Still affected by his original whammy, the agents' eyes were instantly vacant again, and they were nodding in agreement. "No transmitter--wait until you contact us--" Nick stood up and gestured to them. "Get up, now, and leave. Oh, and before you go, tell me how I can contact you" Solo was rubbing his hand across his eyes. "Boy, this has been a long day--I feel like I could sleep for the next week," he muttered. He straightened up and took a small notebook out of his pocket. "Call this number after you meet with your tenant," he instructed, ripping off the sheet of paper and handing it to Nick. "Someone is there twenty-four hours a day. They'll pass the message along. We'll expect to hear from you within the next day or so, right?" Nick nodded solemnly. "Yes, I'll meet with him tonight, and call you tomorrow." This was more like it, he thought with satisfaction. He ushered the two men towards the door, and said, "Good-night, gentlemen. I'll be in touch," and shut the door firmly behind them. The agents trudged down the dark stairs, and let themselves out the door Illya had picked open earlier. Standing in the dank alley, he said, "Well, we wait, then. But you know, Napoleon, there's something that just feels--wrong--about this. I don't know what, but it just feels wrong." He shook his head dubiously. "And we never found out the name of his tenant." Solo slapped him on the back. "That's your Slavic, Gypsy blood talking. It's just because he caught us in flagrante, and we didn't even have to fight to get out. *That's* what's different about this. The people we burgle are hardly ever as cooperative as Forrester is." He yawned hugely and stretched. "Time to report in and then hit the sack." "Very well, but you get to explain this to Mr. Waverly. I'm still trying to figure it out, myself." "Oh, no, I wrote the last report. It's your turn..." They continued arguing amiably and disappeared into the night. *** Nick watched them go from the roof of the warehouse and considered what approach to take with Lacroix. He had no illusions about his ability to keep his feelings and thoughts from his master. In fact, he thought sourly, he was probably anticipating his visit right now and relishing yet another opportunity to taunt him about the stupidity of trying to maintain a human sense of morality. Nonetheless, he had to try to talk him out of this latest escapade, whatever it was. Nick looked again into the alley, and into the dark windows of the building across the street. Even with his enhanced night vision, he couldn't see any watchers, but just to be sure, he decided he shouldn't take the Caddy out again. Accordingly, he took to the sky. Five minutes later he touched down softly in an alley behind a Chinese restaurant in Greenwich Village, scaring a scrawny alley cat away from his dinner, and hurried out to the street. The sidewalk was crowded with late-night revelers, the bright young things who frequented the hip nightclubs in dimly-lit basements, listening to atonal jazz improvisations and discussing the latest art exhibit at the Guggenheim. Black clothing, Gauloise cigarettes, and bored attitudes were the favored mode, and Nick was conspicuous in his conservative navy suit and rep tie. He made his way to the club where he knew Lacroix spent most of his evenings, as did many of the vampire residents of New York. A meaningful glare at the vampire bouncer at the door gained him admittance, much to the noisy protests of the semi-drunken crowd gathered around the door of the popular night spot. He could feel Lacroix's presence strongly now--the ancient had let down the mental barriers he habitually kept in place except when he wished Nick to know his mind. Right now he was amused. Wonderful. "Hello, Nicholas," he said with a wintry smile, when Nick appeared at his side. He motioned for his son to have a seat at the small table he occupied at the back of the dark room. "Do sit down." He sipped at his glass of bloodwine. "To what do I owe the honor of this visit? Oh--I should welcome you home, I suppose. I trust Paris is still standing." Nick sat down, and said wearily, "Yes, Paris is fine. Although I understand you've taken some steps that might change that." "Me? Whatever do you mean?" Lacroix raised an eyebrow and continued watching the heroin-thin saxophonist on stage. "You know what I mean. The little smuggling operation you're running out of *my* warehouse." Although he was trying, it was rapidly becoming hard to contain his annoyance. "Oh, that. A mere divertissement." He gestured as if chasing away an annoying insect, then feigned astonishment. "Do you wish, as they say, 'a piece of the action?' Your cut for providing storage space?" He frowned and shook his head. "I don't think I'd be willing to lessen my share of the transaction--I've gone to quite a lot of effort to set this up. I apologize for my lack of candor, but I didn't think you'd mind letting a few boxes sit in that big, empty space for a week or so. They would all have been long gone if there hadn't been some unforeseen delays." He shook his head in mock sorrow. "Lacroix, this must stop. Do you know what you are meddling with?" "Of course I know, Nicholas. But when you think about it, I am merely disseminating information--ensuring that the whole world knows of important new technological breakthroughs. Don't you think it rather selfish, unfair even, that the Western alliance would keep this to itself? Any profit I gain is a mere afterthought in light of that." He seemed pleased with his reasoning. "Did it ever occur to you that you could be endangering the balance of power by 'disseminating information?'" Nick gritted through clenched teeth. Lacroix was amused at his intensity. "Yes, of course it occurred to me. Why do you think I agreed to arrange this little transaction for the Hierarchy? It might prove to be very--entertaining." He absently traced little patterns on the tablecloth. "'The Hierarchy?' That wouldn't be by any chance an organization also known as THRUSH, would it?" "Why yes. One of their people approached me last year. It seems I came to their attention quite by accident while I was seeing to some of my affairs in the Belgian Congo." He laughed quietly. "Do you know, they actually offered me a satrapy--that's what they call the local cells of their little group. They wanted to make me a satrap." He shrugged. "I refused, of course. Far too much paperwork for my tastes, and a rather tedious chain of command. They actually take orders from something they refer to as 'the Ultimate Computer.' I did, however, agree to arrange this for them, in return for an obscene amount of money. And the amusement of it, of course." He reflected. "They're actually quite advanced, in that they seem to value power over mere money. They were rather disappointed I insisted on Swiss francs instead of taking control of a large portion of West Germany." Letting his eyes rove over the dim room he added, "I've never cared for that part of the world. Barbarians to the core." "Well, it appears that you weren't careful enough with your little escapade. Some agents of THRUSH's adversary, UNCLE, were busy bugging my apartment this evening. They are probably busy investigating me, you, the warehouse, and anyone else you come into contact with, including a Rollo Halvorsen, if he's still alive--" a twitch of Lacroix's lips told NIck that Halvorsen was no longer among the living. "--if I wasn't successful in 'persuading' them to stop, that is." He drew a deep breath. "This whole thing has gotten out of hand, and I want it stopped, now. I want those things returned, I want *you* out of my warehouse, and I want to be *left alone*!" By the end Nick was fairly shouting his demands. He realized people were looking at him, and managed to quell his anger. "Do you hear me?" he hissed in a quieter voice. "Yes, and I imagine everyone else here does, too." Lacroix watched the untalented musician onstage and toyed with his wine glass. Finally, he said, "And in answer to your demand--no." "What do you mean, 'no!?'" "Just that. No. I gave my word, and regardless of what you think of me, that means something. I will see this affair through. I am noting your objections, of course, but--no." Nick scowled. "Then I will have to stop you." He started to get up. Lacroix's arm shot out, and Nick found his wrist held in an iron grip. The fingers tightened painfully in warning. "Do not defy me, Nicholas. Perhaps you should go back to Europe, or see Aristotle about another identity, if you are worried about these UNCLE men. Or better still, kill them and be done with it. I warn you, though--do not interfere." He released Nick's hand. Nick glared at him, turned on his heel, and left. Lacroix smiled gently to himself, and turned his attention again to the musician on stage. "Oh, but you *will* try, won't you? *Bon chance, Nicolas, bon chance*," he whispered. *** The first thing Nick did when he got home was pay a visit to the space he had allowed Lacroix to use. Nick's apartment was on the top floor; the floor below that was his storage space for the eclectic collection of possessions he had accumulated over the years and couldn't bring himself to abandon. The bottom two floors had been vacant--until recently, that is. Presumably that was where the stolen electronics were. He went downstairs and opened the door to the first floor with his master key. The heavy steel door opened with a loud creak, letting a sliver of light from the stairwell fall on the dusty wooden floor beyond. He flicked on the overhead lights and scanned the large room. Nothing. There was nowhere to hide anything, no evidence that anyone had been there recently. He locked up and went to look at the second floor. He couldn't fit the key in the lock. Frowning, he checked to make sure he had the correct one. It was, and it still didn't slide into the lock. He smiled grimly--this was it. Someone had changed the locks. It wouldn't have been Lacroix, who was well aware that a lock couldn't keep him out if he wanted access. It had to be one of the smugglers. He grasped the doorknob firmly and twisted, and the lock groaned and sheared off in a small shriek of overstressed steel. The door opened with a gentle push. He listened carefully for signs of life. Again, nothing. This time when he turned on the lights five wooden packing crates stacked in the center of the room were revealed, the dusty floor marked with wheel tracks and footprints. The stolen electronics had obviously been brought in on a dolly by way of the freight elevator in the far wall. Nick examined the crates closely. Each was about three feet on a side, and was marked only with a serial number and the international symbols for "This Side Up" and "Fragile." He grasped the nearest one in an awkward grip and hefted it experimentally; it weighed about eighty pounds, no great burden for him, although the size of the box made it unwieldy to handle. He couldn't leave them here where they might be picked up by others in the smuggling operation. From what the UNCLE agents had told him, THRUSH was large and well-organized. It seemed unlikely they'd let these crates stay unattended for long. And surely, Lacroix was expecting him to investigate his warehouse for the contraband. Nick started to take the crates up to his apartment, then reconsidered. That would be the first place Lacroix would look. He did, however, have a few more properties in New York of which his master was unaware. He thought for a moment and then decided on another warehouse, this one located in Manhattan. It was occupied by a distributor of Persian carpets, but he thought he could stash the crates on the roof for a day or two without his tenant noticing them. Accordingly, he flew the crates one at a time three miles through the waning night to the Manhattan rooftop, where he arranged them neatly in a corner between the roof door and a large heating and cooling unit. When at last all five crates had been moved, Nick snugged a tarpaulin around them and looked at his work with satisfaction. They were safe--for the moment. *** The next evening, as dusk was falling, Nick called the number on the scrap of paper Solo had given him. It rang eight times, then a female voice answered. "Yeah?" said the voice, in a bored tone. "I was given this number to call. Can you pass a message on to Mr. Solo?" Nick asked. "Whaddaya wanna say?" The accent was pure Flatbush. Nick could imagine her snapping gum and filing her nails while she sat, the phone propped between her shoulder and ear. He replied, "This is Nick Forrester. Please tell Mr. Solo I talked with my tenant, and I have good news about the, uh, merchandise." "'Kay. That it?" "Uh, yes." The line went dead. Nick sat back and sighed. He supposed now all he could do was wait for a call from the UNCLE agents. He hoped they would get back to him before Lacroix decided to check up on the status of his little 'divertissement.' For a seemingly endless hour, Nick paced, picked out meaningless tunes on the piano, and fidgeted. When the phone finally rang, he pounced on it and said, "Forrester here." Solo's voice said, "Mr. Forrester? I hear you have good news?" "Yes," he answered, relieved that the ball was finally rolling. "I spoke with my tenant last night, and he assured me he thought he was dealing with a legitimate export operation. He's horrified that he got involved with smugglers, and he turned the shipment over to me." The lies came with practiced ease. "I have the crates in a safe place, where the smugglers can't find them." "Uh, that's not what we wanted." Solo sounded less than pleased. "We *want* them to have the shipment, so we can track where they're sending it." "Oh," Nick said. God, why couldn't they just *take* the damned things and go away? Now what? Solo sighed. "Well, I guess we can't do anything about that now. Where are they?" "In Manhattan, at another one of my properties." He rattled off the address. "I'll meet you there in an hour." "We can take care of it..." Solo began. "No, I don't want you breaking into *another* one of my buildings. I'll meet you there with the keys." Solo sighed again. "All right. One hour." "I'll see you there." Nick hung up the phone. One hour and the crates would be out of his hands and into those of their rightful owners, and he could fade back into the obscurity he preferred at the moment. Maybe. He suddenly remembered the agents had told him there had been two other stolen shipments. Where were they? Lacroix could still cause trouble. Damn. *** An hour later Nick was standing in the shadows of the Manhattan warehouse. He had flown again, not wishing to be followed by anyone still on observation duty in the warehouse across the street from his. There were few people around the deserted back street, save two derelicts sleeping in the alley next to the building. Nick heard the quiet tread of the two men before they rounded the corner. They were dressed casually in dark clothes, as was he, and they were moving alertly. Nick stepped silently out of the shadows when they came abreast of him and said, "Good evening." They both jumped. "Damn!" Solo exclaimed. "How do you do that?" then collected himself. "Good evening, Mr. Forrester." Nick gestured. "Shall we?" The agents both nodded, and the trio moved to the front door of the warehouse. Nick produced his key and let them into the dark front office. "The crates are on the roof," he explained as he led them to the freight elevator. They rode silently to the roof. Once there, Nick showed them the pile of boxes in the corner. Illya asked curiously, "How did you get them here yourself?" He removed the tarpaulin and hefted one of the boxes, grunting as he picked it up awkwardly. "They're pretty heavy," he commented, and put the box down as gently as he could. Nick shrugged. "It wasn't that difficult. I took two at a time in the trunk of the Caddy, and brought them up on a dolly." He put as much sincerity as he could into his voice, but he could tell by the way that the two agents looked at him they didn't quite believe him. "Well, now that we've got them, let's get them out of here," Solo said brightly. "There's a panel truck around the corner that'll take them." He fished his communicator out of his breast pocket and extended the aerial. "Open Channel L, please," he said into it. "You're so polite, Napoleon," came a voice through the tiny speaker. "Your mother would be proud. Time for the pick-up?" "Yeah, Bob, bring your boys up to the roof. We've got five crates here," he answered with a grin. Shortly, three men in coveralls arrived on the roof, and proceeded to take the crates away. Five minutes later they were gone. "Well, that's that," Nick said. "I'll be going now. Let's lock up and go home." He moved towards the elevator. "Uh, Mr. Forrester," Solo began. Nick turned to look at him inquiringly. "We'd like to have a little chat with you down at headquarters." "'A little chat'--that sounds suspiciously like an order, not a request." "Well, you're not a suspect in this affair, but we still have some questions about your tenant. You never told us his name, incidentally. And our superior would like to thank you personally for your cooperation." The two agents now flanked Nick, one on either side. He looked at their faces; they didn't appear quite so friendly now. He thought briefly of whammying them again and flying away, but now there were others that knew about him--this superior, for one--and they would just come after him again. He would have to 'disappear' again to avoid them. He had been wearing this identity only ten years--it was too soon. He was just getting comfortable. He decided to play the situation out. Perhaps it would turn out to be nothing more than questions he could easily avoid. He *had* survived the Spanish Inquisition, after all--what could these men do to top that? "All right," he said. The agents visibly relaxed, but they remained on either side of him. "Where's your car?" Illya asked. "We could take it with us. It might be stolen here." Nick shook his head. "I, uh, took a cab most of the way, then walked." "That's all right, then. Let's go--it isn't far." The agents' car was parked two blocks away. They rode silently through the late night streets towards the East River, pulling into an underground garage ten minutes later. In a small reception area, an attractive young woman pinned a numbered triangular badge on Nick's lapel. She smiled at him and said, "This badge allows you only on the third floor. Don't try to go anywhere else, or alarms will sound." Her smile warmed considerably as she pinned a badge bearing the number '11' on Illya, and she fluttered her eyelashes at the blond agent. "Keeping late hours tonight, Mr. Kuryakin," she murmured, taking longer than absolutely necessary to make sure the badge was straight. The Russian merely smiled slightly and nodded. Solo rolled his eyes as he received his badge, this one with a '2' on it. As the trio walked towards the elevator in the hallway, he said, "Illya, will you put that poor woman out of her misery and take her out? It's driving me crazy watching her go to all that trouble flirting, and you not doing a thing about it." Illya smiled enigmatically. "How do you know I haven't already?" He got into the elevator. Solo stared at him, then ushered Nick into the car after Illya. "I would have heard..." he said, but the Russian just raised an eyebrow. Nick was amused at the interchange, but turned his thoughts to the story he was going to have to tell. It would have to be close to the truth, given the investigational tenacity of the UNCLE agents, but he would also have to leave out some crucial details--such as Lacroix's 'arrangement' with THRUSH. He was shown into a comfortable conference room, furnished with a large table and eight armchairs. His sensitive ears picked up a muted whirring noise, and looking casually around, he noticed a tiny lens in the corner of the ceiling. A camera. At least it was more subtle than the traditional one-way mirror. "Please stay here," Solo said. "We'll be back in a few minutes with our superior." With that they left him alone. The door made a decisive 'snick' as it locked behind them. *** Fifteen minutes later, Solo asked the agent watching the camera monitor, "What's Forrester been doing?" Agent Graham shook his head. "Nothing, and I mean that literally. He sat down, crossed his legs, and hasn't moved a muscle since." Graham sat back and pointed at the monitor. "See? It's creepy. Are you sure he's alive?" He sounded like he was only half joking. Solo peered at the monitor. Forrester sat composedly, his hands folded in his lap, his legs crossed, no expression on his face. Solo watched for a minute, and sure enough, he detected no movement. Forrester didn't fidget, didn't blink as far as he could see--Graham was right, it was creepy. Just then Illya came down the hallway, accompanied by Mr. Waverly. Solo was amazed Waverly was still in the building--didn't the old man ever sleep?--he seemed to be there constantly. Waverly peered into the monitoring room. "Well, Mr. Solo? Shall we have our chat with your helpful Mr. Forrester?" "Yes, sir." The three went to the conference room, where Illya unlocked the door, opened it, and stepped aside to allow Mr. Waverly to enter. *** Nick heard the 'snick' of the lock and snapped out of his reverie and back into the present. He turned his gaze on the door and the elderly man entering the room. Alexander Waverly was a man of about seventy years, with iron gray hair and a deeply-lined face, wearing a baggy tweed suit. His eyes, however, were bright and discerning--and at the moment, staring at him. His features seemed familiar to Nick, as apparently Nick's were to him. "Nicholas Chevalier!" Waverly exclaimed, then shook his head in disbelief. "But it couldn't be, of course. My mistake--but you look amazingly like someone I knew long ago, in the war." He sat down at the table, as did Solo and Kuryakin. "Are you in any way related to a French gentleman named Chevalier?" As Nick tried to collect his thoughts, Solo said smoothly, "Nicholas Forrester, allow me to introduce the head of UNCLE's North American Operations, and our boss, Alexander Waverly." Once again the reality of mortal existence hit Nick squarely between the eyes. Alexander Waverly! This elderly man must be the same Alexander Waverly who in 1941 had been the British liaison between the Parisian cells of the French Resistance and the Allies--and Nick had been his contact. Then, Waverly had been an energetic and resourceful forty-five year old intelligence officer. And now...Nick was willing to bet the keen intelligence was in no way diminished. He would have to watch himself. In the meantime, he trotted out his standard explanation of why he resembled someone who should be much older, or dead. He stood up and shook Waverly's hand. "A pleasure, Mr. Waverly," he said. "Nicholas Chevalier was my father. I'm named for him, as a matter of fact." "But your last name is different...?" Waverly raised an eyebrow in polite inquiry. Nick attempted to look embarrassed. "My father, uh, died in the war, and never actually married my mother. She was an American studying in England when she met him as a student. He went back to France in 1932 and was never able to return for her." He made a show of regret. "Thomas Forrester was my stepfather, and the only father I ever knew." Nick silently thanked Aristotle for contriving a relatively flexible past for him--his fictional father could very easily have been his stepfather. He made a mental note to ask the vampire forgery expert to produce an adoption certificate for him sometime in the next few weeks, just in case. Waverly harrumphed, his face creasing in a reminiscent smile. "Chevalier was always pursued by the ladies, that is true enough. So the Germans finally caught up with him, eh? I lost track of him in '43." He examined Nick again. "The resemblance is quite remarkable. You even sound like him." "That's what my mother always said," Nick said. Trying to change the conversation away from his supposed past, he asked, "I understand you have some questions?" Waverly waved a hand. "Mr. Solo? Carry on." Solo shuffled through the folder he had before him on the table. "Now, Mr. Forrester--what is your tenant's name?" Nick settled himself deeper in the chair and looked blandly at the agent. He had anticipated this line of questioning and had decided to tell as much of the truth as possible. Lacroix's history was impeccable, anyway; he was sure they wouldn't be able to find anything odd in *his* paperwork. Aristotle wouldn't dare leave any holes, not if he valued his unlife. "My tenant's name is Lucien Lacroix," he began. "He is an entrepreneur with far-ranging interests, and has business interests internationally. In fact, that's how we met--he bought a property of mine in Belgium." "What nationality is he?" asked Illya. Nick had to think about that. What was he claiming now? Oh, yes... "He's Canadian." Solo was taking notes. "Now about your relationship with Mr. Lacroix..." The gentle but insistent interrogation continued. Nick carefully painted a picture of a busy international businessman, with a finger in so many ventures the details sometimes escaped his notice. Someone who traveled in exclusive circles, who had expensive tastes; someone who, while occasionally dealing with less-than-sterling characters, would not knowingly do anything illegal. Someone like himself. When he realized what he was doing was giving Lacroix the qualities he hoped he himself possessed, he cringed mentally. Were there that many similarities between them, was he that much a reflection of his sire? Or was it just the realities of the shadow life a vampire was forced to live that made them so similar? All through the questions and answers Waverly sat in the background, his sharp mind taking in every nuance of every answer. Nick was constantly aware of Waverly's intent gaze as he sat quietly drawing on his pipe. The night wore on. The questions ranged from where Lacroix did business to his own recent travels in Europe. Nick was pleased with his performance. Even Lacroix would not be able to find fault with him--or so he hoped. He had felt the insidious touch of his master's mind several times throughout the night, just enough to let him know he was being monitored. The feather-light connection held no anger in it--perhaps his interfering in Lacroix's game wasn't going to be punished, after all. Now, though, another invisible touch insinuated itself into his consciousness. Nick was acutely aware of the approaching dawn. This cat-and-mouse game was going to have to end, or he would be faced with trying to explain why he wanted to stay the day in the safe, windowless confines of UNCLE Headquarters. In the end he yawned conspicuously and stretched. "Are you quite satisfied?" he asked. "I really need to go home and get some sleep." He glanced at his watch--four-thirty in the morning. The sun would make its appearance in less than an hour. Solo looked down at the copious notes he had taken. "I guess we're done--for now," he answered. He downed the dregs of his now-cold coffee and made a face. "Blecchhh." He shuffled the papers into a semblance of order and added casually, as if an afterthought, "We still want to take the crates back to your place." Nick could only stare at the agent. After all this -- answering all these questions -- to go back to ground zero! "What?!" Nick exploded. "No! I did my part--you do yours! I gave the damned things back to you, and what do you do?" His temper finally snapped. "You drag me in here for the third degree, you imply that my business associates are crooks, and now you want me to take those things back? Absolutely not!" "You really don't have much of a choice," said Illya from where he had been observing the interrogation all evening. "You've broken any number of laws just by having the crates in your warehouse." "But I didn't put them there..." Nick protested. "We know that, and you know that, but that doesn't make much of a difference to the police. It's still against the law to receive stolen goods, and it's your property. We can cause you some inconvenience, if nothing else, while you argue your case from Ryker's Island. So you really have no choice but to cooperate with us this one last time." Nick muttered a curse under his breath in a language not commonly spoken in the last four hundred years. He was acutely aware of the approaching dawn and the tenuousness of his position. "Oh, all right. But it's under protest--I'm done helping you out with your little intrigues." Unbelievable, that he had thought he could control this situation with a few well-placed whammies and a fanciful story. He stood up. "Now, can I, or rather we, be going? I'll show you where to put the damned things, and then I'm done." Solo stood up. "By all means, let's go." He gestured courteously at the door. "After you." Mr. Waverly, who had remained silent throughout the long night, said, "Thank you, Mr. Forrester. We really do appreciate your efforts." He puffed on his pipe, then seemed surprised to discover it had gone out. "Perhaps we may speak again--I have many fond memories of your father. Perhaps you would like to hear some of an old man's war stories." Nick reined in his temper and regarded the elderly man for a moment, seeing within him the reflection of the young intelligence officer. "Perhaps," he replied neutrally, then relented. "I would be most interested to hear your...stories." He had almost said, 'your side of the stories.' It would be interesting, he admitted mentally, to hear someone else's perceptions of himself. He shot his gaze at Solo. "Let's go," he said curtly. The trio went back down to the subterranean reception area. A different young woman was on duty at the desk. She accepted the triangular security badges without a word and went back to watching her security monitors. "Finally," Solo muttered to himself. "A receptionist who doesn't throw herself at him..." They drove at a sedate pace back to Brooklyn, followed by the panel truck bearing the five crates. The trip took long enough to make Nick edgy. After all, It wouldn't do to spontaneously combust in front of the UNCLE agents. Nick shook his head to erase the image of himself bursting into flames and the agents trying to put him out. It didn't bear thinking about. He just wished the blond Russian would drive a little faster. When they finally arrived, Nick could barely refrain from using inhuman speed in unlocking the door and entering the safety of the entrance area. "It's on the second floor," he said gruffly, and unlocked the door to the stairwell, then remembered they probably wouldn't want to carry the crates up the stairs. And there was the matter of the broken lock on the door, too. He pointed to the freight elevator. "We'll take the elevator up." Solo stuck his head out the door and gestured to the move crew to start bringing the crates inside. In a scant ten minutes, the crates were back where they had been only twelve hours before--as was Nick, to his disgust, once again saddled with his unwanted burden and faced with persuading Lacroix to cease and desist. *Why me?* he asked himself plaintively while he watched the UNCLE agents arrange the crates in their original position. *Isn't it enough to be eternally damned?* He felt very sorry for himself and the internal monologue continued. No, not only did he have to bear the guilt of thousands of murders and other heinous crimes against humanity, he had to somehow prevent global warfare as well. *It just isn't fair.* He saw that Illya was fussing over some kind of detector. There was a quiet 'ping,' and the Russian smiled in satisfaction. "The tracers are still working perfectly. We'll know the minute the XCS-112s are moved," he announced. "Will you be going now?" Nick hated the plaintive note that had crept into his voice. "It's been more than a long night." *And I want to dive into a bottle of swill and wallow a bit*, he added to himself. "Yes, we'll leave you now." Solo yawned. "It's been a long night for us, too, remember." He looked pointedly at Nick. "Leave these things alone, now. We'll have agents watching from across the street for any sign of THRUSH. We'll take care of it from here." The agents departed with a final admonition to 'take care,' and left Nick standing in the entrance vestibule. He remembered again that he had broken the lock to the second floor door. More complications to worry about... no, he wasn't going to do a thing about it. Let the smugglers worry a bit, at least they'd find their goods sitting there waiting for them. He trudged up the stairs and headed for what he figured might be his last day of peace and quiet, at least for a while. There was a bottle of blood up there with his name on it, and they were going to become intimately acquainted. And then his bed beckoned. *** At one that afternoon, Nick awoke from a sleep full of fitful dreams, all featuring Lacroix and pointed objects, to the sound of several large men trying to move quietly two floors below. He lay still in his bed, listening intently. At this distance and with the intervening floors, all he could hear were muted whispers and an occasional thud followed by a muffled curse. He surmised the smugglers were moving the crates on to their next destination, and none too adroitly, at that. He was glad it was the middle of the day--he had a perfect excuse to not do anything. After all, the windows on the second floor were uncovered, so he couldn't possibly intervene in the smugglers' activities. No, he had to stay safe in his nice, dark, protected apartment and let the UNCLE agents take care of it, just like Solo had said they would. He lay still for another five minutes, then sighed. He supposed he should call the number Solo had given him, just in case the agents on duty across the street hadn't noticed he had company. He dragged himself out of bed to the phone and dialed the number. The same bored female voice answered. "Whaddaya want?" "This is Nick Forrester," he said. "Please tell Mr. Solo my temporary tenants have come to pick up the merchandise. It sounds like there are three of them." This time she did snap her gum. "Okay," she said, and once again hung up the phone with a bang. Nick climbed back into bed. He felt like death--or rather, more like death than usual--and if his dim memories of mortal life were anything to go by, he was developing a headache. Though he tried not to, he couldn't help but listen to the activity from below. He categorized the various noises: wooden crates being shoved across the floor...wheels squeaking...grunts of effort, then the thud of wood on metal...a muted crash, and a male voice saying loudly, "They're marked 'fragile' for a reason, idiot! Be careful!"...the creaking whine of the freight elevator...a truck door slamming shut...the chugging of a diesel engine. Then blessed silence once again. *** Illya and the two agents who had been maintaining surveillance on Nick's warehouse followed the truck carrying the XCS-112s. Their nondescript gray delivery truck stayed a respectful eight blocks behind it as it wound through the streets of Brooklyn. The pursued and the pursuers eventually found themselves in the thick afternoon traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike, heading south. "The last time I did this," Illya announced to no one in particular as he monitored the blips on his tracking screen, "I ended up in a motel with bad food and an airplane on the roof. I hope this ends up more happily. Or at least somewhere with a better sense of aesthetics." Agent Graham, who was driving the van, said, "Well, I don't know about motels with airplanes, but I can vouch for these guys' poor sense of aesthetics." He pointed. "We're exiting at Elizabeth." Illya looked up from his screen. He could just see the truck disappearing around the bend of an exit marked 'Port of Elizabeth.' "The motel with the airplane is beginning to look good," he muttered, and returned to his monitoring screen. Elizabeth was a grimy industrial town across the river in New Jersey, just south of Newark. Its petroleum refineries and chemical plants covered the area in a pall of black, brown, and more exotically-colored smoke. The port itself was crowded with tankers and cargo ships bobbing in its greasy, odorous waters. The agents briefly lost sight of the truck as it twisted through the dirty warehouses surrounding the docks, but the tracers added to the XCS-112s pointed them in the right direction. They caught sight of the truck again just as it pulled onto a dock where a small cargo ship was berthed. They pulled over out of sight behind an adjoining warehouse. Illya instructed, "Stay with the van. I'm going out for a closer look." He sidled around the corner of the warehouse and concealed himself behind a convenient pile of what looked like telephone poles. From his vantage point, he could see the truck and the stern of the cargo ship. The smugglers were loading the crates in a cargo net when he took out his communicator, opened it and said quietly, "Open Channel D." There was a brief hum of static, then Waverly's voice sounded through the tiny speaker. "Waverly here." "This is Kuryakin, sir. I think we've found the transport out of the country. The crates have been taken to a cargo ship called the 'Arne Carlson' at the Port of Elizabeth. The ship is Liberian registered. They're loading the crates now." "Very good, Mr. Kuryakin. Just a moment, please." There was a pause of several minutes, during which time the last crate was loaded onto the deck. "Mr. Kuryakin?" "Here, sir." "The 'Arne Carlson' is owned by a British holding company, General Imports, Ltd., which Section 4 informs me is also a THRUSH front. It is scheduled to sail tomorrow morning for Amsterdam. According to its declarations to the Port Authority, it is carrying sheet metal, bicycle parts, metal cable, and radios." Illya said grimly, "It appears to be carrying some extra parts now." "Well, you'll have to do something about that, won't you? Perhaps you had better make some plans with Mr. Solo." "Right away, sir." With that Illya slipped back to the van and told the two agents what he had seen. "So we go back to Brooklyn," he concluded. "Graham, you stay here and keep an eye on the ship. Stay in contact. We'll be going after the XCS-112s tonight." *** Nick was still trying to go back to sleep an hour later when there was a thunderous knocking at his door. He dragged on his robe and threw open the door with a bang. "What?!" he snarled. Solo stood on his doorstep, his fist raised for another round of door knocking. His mouth was slightly agape at the sight of Nick dressed in black silk pajamas and a red brocade dressing gown, barefoot, bleary-eyed and irate. "Uh," he said, nonplussed, "I just wanted to tell you that the crates are gone..." His voice trailed off at Nick's icy stare. "I know. I called you, remember?" "Yes, well, I just thought you would want to know. Officially. That they're gone, that is." Nick took a deep cleansing breath and forcibly calmed himself. He knew his eyes were just *this* far from flaring gold. He fought down the urge for a mid-afternoon snack. "Thank you. I suppose someone is following them, right?" "Yes, Illya and a team of agents is following them with the tracers." "And this will lead you to the other hijacked shipments, correct?" "That's what we think, that they're going overseas together." "And then you'll get them all back, and you won't need to bother me any more?" Solo nodded cheerfully. "That's the plan." Nick nodded once, decisively. "Fine. Good-bye." He shut the door in the agent's face. *** Solo blinked at the now-closed door, shrugged, and went back down the stairs. *Try to be polite,* he thought to himself, *and what happens? They slam the door in your face. That's gratitude for you.* His communicator warbled. "Solo here," he answered when he had extended the tiny antenna. "Napoleon," said Illya's voice, "the devices are being shipped out tomorrow morning on a cargo ship docked in Elizabeth named the 'Arne Carlson.' It looks like all fifteen crates are aboard." "Hmmm. I suppose we better do something about it." "Strangely enough, that's what Mr. Waverly said. I'm en route back to Brooklyn now--I'll meet you at the warehouse and we can make some plans." "Okay. See you in an hour or so. Solo out." He pocketed his communicator and headed back for their stakeout in the warehouse across the street, formulating plans as he went. *** Nick listened to the agent's footsteps go down the stairs. *Try to help someone out,* he thought to himself, *and what happens? They wake you up in the middle of the night to tell you something you already know. That's gratitude for you.* Suddenly he heard a strange warbling sound. The footsteps paused and then Solo said, "Solo here." Nick eavesdropped shamelessly on the conversation between Solo and his partner. *So that's where Lacroix is collecting the stolen electronics,* he thought. It didn't seem to be his style, somehow--in the old days, Lacroix would have shipped the crates on the swankiest passenger liner crossing the Atlantic available. But perhaps THRUSH had a say in this arrangement. Whatever the arrangement, if the UNCLE agents were planning to try to take the electronics back tonight, they might come up against Lacroix. And in spite of their confidence in their abilities, Nick knew they were no match for the ancient vampire. No, Nick would have to get there first and try to even out the odds. He took a moment to feel aggrieved and irritated, but then started formulating plans for this evening. *** Shortly after sundown that evening, Nick, dressed in black jeans and a black turtleneck, took to the air and headed south. If he was fortunate (and he wasn't counting on it), the UNCLE raid would go off uneventfully and he could stay hidden in the background. And if Lacroix were present, well, perhaps he could distract his master long enough for the mortals to retrieve their stolen goods. Perhaps. Nick hated flying over central Jersey. The industrial smokestacks littering the landscape spewed out so much crud it was like flying through clouds of hot, stinging insects. When he finally touched down among the docks of Elizabeth, his face was streaked with smuts and his clothing stank of petroleum byproducts. He approached the Arne Carlson silently on predatory feet. His reaction this afternoon was correct--it was a filthy, unprepossessing ship, its hull rust-streaked and peeling. Definitely not Lacroix's style at all. He levitated and flew an aerial reconnaissance around the ship. He could detect no motion on deck, but his hearing picked up six mortal heartbeats amid the creaking and clanging of the old metal hull. The crew must be below decks. He took up a concealed position near the forward smokestack and settled down to wait patiently for something to happen. An hour later, he saw ten black shapes moving stealthily towards the ship, six from the water, four from the dock. The UNCLE commandos silently boarded the ship and spread out across the deck, covering all the hatches and doors. There was no sign of Lacroix. Nick extended his senses to their maximum but couldn't pick up even the slightest quiver in his bond with his sire. The black figures disappeared below deck, and soon, the muted sounds of rubber-soled feet running on metal floors came to Nick's ears. From what he could tell, the commando raid seemed to be going off without a hitch. He could hear the sounds of brief scuffles below decks, but no gunfire. Nick was just beginning to relax when something streaked past him. Suddenly there was a figure standing by the door to the bridge. The figure halted, glared up at him, then disappeared through the door. Lacroix! At full speed Nick leaped from his perch and followed Lacroix. By the time he caught up with him, the ancient vampire had one of the UNCLE agents by the throat in a vice-like grip. Nick barreled into his master and knocked the hapless and by now unconscious agent out of Lacroix's grip. "Leave them alone!" he growled, grappling with his elder. Lacroix broke Nick's hold easily and slammed him into the bulkhead with a resounding thud. "I told you, Nicholas, do *not* interfere in my business!" His eyes flared red in his anger. Nick leaped at his master, and the two vampires fought like wild animals, caroming wildly off the small compartment's bulkheads, their fangs flashing in the dim light. Lacroix was stronger, but Nick's rage gave him added strength. They were almost evenly matched. One deck below, Solo paused while handcuffing a sullen THRUSH operative, lifted his head and said, "What's that?" It sounded like a pair of wildcats were fighting somewhere on the ship. Illya listened and shook his head. "I don't know--but I think we'd better find out. Berger!" he called, "Watch these two!" The agents ran down the narrow corridor. "This way!" Solo pointed up a ladder. They climbed the ladder and pounded down another corridor towards the source of the noise, their UNCLE Specials at the ready. The agents halted at the doorway. There was a confusion of flying bodies in the small room. Solo got a brief impression of one of the combatant's faces--"This one's Forrester!" he yelled, pointing, and tried to draw a bead on the other figure, all the while trying to shake off the impression of fangs and glowing eyes. Illya got off the first shot. He hit Lacroix squarely in the middle of the back, seemingly to no effect. Solo's two shots in rapid succession hit home a second later, and finally Lacroix reacted. He suddenly went limp and fell bonelessly to the floor, leaving a panting, wild-eyed Nick opponentless. Solo stepped forward. "Forrester! Are you all right?" Nick turned away, struggling to put on his human face. He drew a deep breath, then turned and said shakily, "Yes, I'm fine." "You don't look fine--my God, look at the scratches and gashes on you..." Solo put out his hand to steady him. "No, no...it's nothing. It looks worse than it is..." Nick refused his help with an upraised hand. He looked down at his master. "What did you shoot him with?" Nothing, especially bullets, should have affected Lacroix like that. Solo held up his gun. "Tranquilizing darts, our own special formula. They take effect almost instantly. He should be out for several hours, especially since he got hit with three of them..." His voice trailed off as a giggle sounded from the floor. Nick quickly crouched beside Lacroix, pulled out the small darts, and turned him over. Lacroix flopped on his back and looked owlishly up at his son. "Hello, Nicholas, fancy meeting you here." He grinned foolishly. Illya said, "I've never seen this reaction to the tranquilizers before. He sounds like he's drunk." He bent over Lacroix with clinical interest. Lacroix turned his eyes towards the source of the comment. The slightly out-of-focus gaze roamed blearily over the black-clad, blond Russian, then turned back to the black-clad, blond Nick. "Another interesting blond one! Would you like a brother, Nicholas?" He tried to get up. Nick pushed down on his shoulders and hissed, "Lacroix! Be quiet!" Lacroix persisted. He looked at Illya and asked, "Are you a Crusader knight? 'Cause I already have one of those." He lowered his voice. "We're vampires, you know. Shhhhh, it's a secret." He turned back to Nick. "Do you think Janette would like a matched pair? I should ask her." He looked around, a puzzled look on his face, and started calling. "Janette! Ma cherie! Janette!" Nick put his hand over Lacroix's mouth, and over the muffled calls said hurriedly, "I think he's having an adverse reaction to your drugs. He's obviously delusional." "Who the hell is he, and why was he attacking you? And for that matter, what are you doing here?" Solo asked irately. Nick looked at him blankly, then hastily improvised. "Uh, first off, I followed you from Brooklyn, just to see if I could help out. I guess Lacroix found out about where the crates were going some other way, and showed up to do the same. Unfortunately, we mistook each other in the dark for smugglers, and started fighting. It's a good thing you came along before either of us did any damage to the other." *And,* he thought to himself, *if you buy that one there's a bridge I'd like to sell you...* Both agents stared at him in disbelief. With a sigh, Nick applied another mild whammy to reinforce his story. "You believe me completely...this is all reasonable to you..." The agents were staring at him with the typical deer-in-the-headlights-just-been-whammied look. Solo said, "Of course. Perfectly logical." From the floor Lacroix started singing a bawdy Roman marching song--the one about the senator's wife, the one-eyed centurion, the three Thracian slaveboys, and the goose. Nick was forcibly reminded that Lacroix couldn't carry a tune in a handbasket, and reapplied hand to mouth. "Was that Latin?" Illya asked curiously. Nick said shortly, "Classical education." He looked down at at his master. "Do you have any idea how long this should last?" Solo answered doubtfully, "Well, usually about two hours, but like Illya said, this is a rare reaction." "Well, I suppose I should get him home." Sometimes filial responsibility was a bitch. Nick stood up and hoisted Lacroix to his feet, draping his arm around his shoulders. "If everything is under control here, I guess we'll be going. I'll drive him in my car--it's only a few blocks away from here." Solo offered, "Can we arrange a lift anywhere? We can take him to our infirmary until he snaps out of it." Nick refused. The last thing he needed was Lacroix babbling in an UNCLE infirmary, surrounded by doctors wondering how he could be alive and planning all sorts of interesting tests. The Enforcers would have a field day with that one. He maneuvered the ancient vampire off the ship by ordinary means somehow, aware of the eyes following them down the dock into the shadows of the surrounding warehouses. When they had turned a corner and were out of sight, he propped Lacroix up against a wall and shook him. "Lacroix! Do you think you can fly?" Lacroix opened one eye. "Of course I can fly--I'm a vampire, and vampires can fly." He poked Nick in the chest with his finger. "You're a vampire--you can fly, too!" He levitated off the ground about three feet, listing slightly to the left. "Let's go fly somewhere!" He gestured extravagantly and started spinning. Nick hurriedly levitated next to him and grasped him firmly around the waist. "We'll go together to my house, how's that?" Lacroix's only answer was to drape both arms around Nick's neck and fall asleep. Nick could see it was going to be a long flight home. *** Two days later, Solo and Kuryakin were at their seldom-used desks finishing up their reports on the XCS-112 affair. Solo sat back and said, "You know, we never finished doing a background check on that Lacroix character." Illya looked up and raised an inquiring eyebrow. "I thought since it turned out he wasn't involved, we were going to forego a detailed check." "Yeah, well, I don't like to see such a big hole in a file," Solo answered. "I just think we should do a complete job." "Well, you'll have to do it on your own time, then," his partner replied. "The new budget has been announced, and all non-essential investigations are being put on hold until further notice." He tossed an interoffice memo across the aisle. Solo scanned the memo and scowled. "In that case, the file gets closed with a few details missing. Anyway, there's some trouble brewing in Abu Dhabi, and I think our names are on it." He folded the memo neatly into a paper airplane and sailed it across the office. "We're men of action, anyway." *** That night, Nick sat down at Lacroix's usual table in his favorite Greenwich Village nightclub. "How are you feeling?" he asked. Lacroix took a sip from his glass. "Are you referring to the after effects of being tranquilized like a wild animal, or the thwarting of my business plans?" "Both, I guess." "I am fully recovered from the former, and highly displeased about the latter." "I thought as much. It's just as well, though. We really don't need another world war, you know." "It's water under the bridge, now." Lacroix smiled the smile that made sensible men turn and run. "They will not get their money back, however. It was their incompetence that ruined the deal, not mine. My part worked flawlessly, notwithstanding your interference--which, by the way, I will not forget." Lacroix transferred the ominous smile to his wayward son. Nick met his gaze unflinchingly. "Perhaps I should remind you of the consequences of revealing ourselves to mortals. I believe the Enforcers take a dim view of that." Lacroix looked away. "Did I do anything--foolish--while 'under the influence?'" Nick failed to suppress a grin. "Well, between offering to bring that Russian agent across as a present for Janette, singing the song about the senator's wife and the one-eyed centurion, and..." Lacroix raised his hand. "Enough. Let us call it a stand-off, then." He looked threateningly at Nick. "But next time..." Nick continued remorselessly. "...and wanting to wave at the diners through the windows of the restaurant at the top of the Empire State Building, and..." Lacroix flinched. "I surrender--this time." Nick grinned and left. *** Back in his warehouse, Nick reflected on the previous week. He thoughtfully sipped his glass of bloodwine and ticked off the things that, in spite of everything, had gone right. He had successfully thwarted his master in one of his nefarious dealings--surely a day to mark on his personal mental calendar. He had prevented some bad people from doing mischief. He had, perhaps, done a little to prevent another world war. It felt good to work on the side of law and order again, almost like his stint as a cop in Chicago those twenty years or so ago. He thought about what his next career would be, when he felt able to interact with mortal society once more on a regular basis. Perhaps the police again? He finished his glass of bloodwine and took it to the kitchen to rinse out. Would he like to enforce mortal laws on a daily basis again? Fight the garden variety of evil--murderers, kidnappers, and drug dealers--all the while combating the extraordinary evil within himself? Could he stand the constant self-examination that choice of profession would surely bring him? Could he tolerate being so close to spilled mortal blood, to the raging emotions of the victims, without snapping? As he put the glass neatly in the overhead cabinet, he reached the only answer he possibly could. Nah. Not in a million years. Never again. Let someone else do it. Finis ==================== Nancy Kaminski nancykam@mediaone.net