Chapter Text
He watched from behind a small grove of trees. This morning was the morning; he would finally accomplish what he had been training for, waiting for.
The priest normally jogged alone along this path. He always wore the same thing: black sweatshirt bearing the legend of a seminary, grey jersey knit pants, track shoes. Usually he did not wear a hat, allowed that bright orangey-red hair to reflect the sun; but today it was very cold, and the priest must have felt a chill, for he wore a black stocking cap.
Strange; he usually didn’t have such a small gait. That other priest who sometimes ran with him had that peculiar running motion. But that other priest never wore that sweatshirt. He never jogged this way unless he was with him. It had to be him. He was alone. And it was time.
He sprinted out from behind the trees, grabbed the jogger and sliced his throat without hesitation. The priest fell to his knees, then collapsed onto his face. His blood ran red onto the dirt path.
“Finally. Finally, you are mine. I’ve done it.”
He turned the corpse over and his glee turned to horror. “No…no…NO! It can’t be!” he shrieked, pulling the stocking cap off of the dead man’s head to reveal thin black hair.
He crossed himself and begged the dead man’s forgiveness before running back into the trees. He would have to rethink everything. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Yet another reason why W. Brigham Baltz had to be killed.
--
Napoleon Solo walked into his superior’s office. Mr. Waverly had instructed him to come as soon as possible, letting no one, not even his partner Illya Kuryakin know where he would be. The Chief Enforcement Agent thought it was strange, but knew that Waverly had his reasons.
The Old Man was steadily puffing away at his pipe when Napoleon walked in. “Ah, Mr. Solo. I have something very important to discuss with you.”
“Yes, sir. What is it, sir?”
“It has come to UNCLE’s attention that there have been a few… shall we say interesting homicides lately. And a lot of them have to do with former UNCLE employees or associates.”
“THRUSH, sir?” Napoleon asked, well aware of the nefarious dealings of that organization.
“No. In fact, we are not sure who it might be. That’s where you come in.”
“Me?”
Waverly tapped his pipe against the desk and puffed some more. “Yes, Mr. Solo. You. This is a need to know mission. The most important thing is that we stop these killings. I can give you what I know, and unfortunately that’s not much. Also you need to assemble a core group of people you can trust and get to Louisiana as soon as you can.”
Napoleon’s stomach lurched. The only thing he could think of in Louisiana that UNCLE would care about was…
“Brig?”
“Yes. Mr. Baltz…or should I say Father Baltz, is in jeopardy. Someone has made an attempt on his life. He can fill you in when you get there. I suppose you will be taking Mr. Kuryakin with you?”
Napoleon nodded. He could think of no one he wanted by his side more than Illya, especially when the life of his former partner was on the line.
“Good. I don’t think he has anything to do with this. Oh, Napoleon? Good luck.” Waverly turned around in his chair to look out of his window. Napoleon took it as his cue to leave.
That afternoon, when Illya came into their shared office after a morning in the lab, Napoleon told him the basic gist of the mission..
“So, former UNCLE employees are being systematically murdered, not by THRUSH, and your former partner is a target?” Illya asked.
“It appears so, tovarisch,” Napoleon replied.
“I suppose we’re on a mission to save him?”
Napoleon ran his hand through his hair. “I think our mission is to both keep him safe and to find out who is doing this. The police haven’t put it together because it’s been all over the world. What’s one murder in West Berlin and another murder in Los Angeles? There’s nothing to tie them together except that they all have UNCLE connections. And…”
Illya’s eyes narrowed. “And what, Napoleon?”
“They all have connections to me.”
---
The flight to New Orleans was thankfully short, as the drive to the fishing village that Father Baltz served in was further inland and difficult to get to using roads. Illya slept the entire way, leaving Napoleon to ruminate on the few clues he had regarding the murders.
So far, there had been five people killed that he knew about. Theresa “Taffy” Barton, a young woman who used to work in UNCLE’s secretarial pool, was found beaten in Seattle, her neck broken. Daniel Blank, a former UNCLE chemist, was stabbed to death outside of a nightclub in West Berlin. Henry Baines, an agent who worked out of the UNCLE Los Angeles office. His brakes had been cut and his car plunged off of the Pacific Coast Highway. Another former agent who worked in the Mexico City headquarters named Jose Angel Dos Santos was fourth, found murdered in Piedras Negras three months ago, his throat slashed.
The fifth was Father Dennis Nalepinski, a man who served with Brig in St. Raphael Parish. Apparently, from what Napoleon could glean from the incident report, his only crime had been to borrow Brig’s sweatshirt that morning. The killer left a note that read “Father forgive me, you were not the one,“ which led Napoleon to believe that Brig was the target of the attack. Like Dos Santos, his throat had been cut.
They pulled up to the building that Brig called The Manse, home of Brig, another priest named Ken Sobel, and the late Father Nalepinski. Illya stretched out, shook his head twice and rubbed his eyes. “We’re here?” he asked.
Napoleon nodded. Illya opened the door and took the suitcases out of the trunk of the car.
Brig met them at the door. He grabbed Napoleon in a big hug and patted his back. “It’s good to see you, Solo,” the priest said warmly, then looked up and caught Illya’s eye. “You too.”
“Illya,” Napoleon murmured in Brig’s ear. “His name is Illya.”
Brig laughed. “Thanks, son. So you made it okay.”
Illya yawned and shrugged, elbowing his way past Napoleon and next to Brig. “As you can see. Can you tell me where we are staying? I’d like to put these suitcases down and check out the premises.”
“Oh! Forgive me, Illya. You are staying in Dennis’ old room, and Napoleon is staying in Sister Mary Margaret’s room. We’ve sent her to the Stella Maris parish until the coast is clear. I hope you don’t mind sleeping in a nun’s cell,” Brig added, a wicked glint in his eye as Napoleon ran his finger around his collar.
“Of course not, Brig. Just lead the way.”
The trio walked down the hall. The first room was Brig’s own, the one next to it was the one that had belonged to Father Nalepinski. Illya dropped his suitcase at the foot of the bed and inspected that area while Napoleon checked the closets and windows.
“We’re good,” Illya said.
They continued down the hallway. The room across the way from Illya’s was the other priest’s room, Father Sobel. His door was closed.
“Your room is toward the back, segregated from the men,” said Brig. “Obviously Sister Mary Margaret wanted it that way. It makes it difficult for you, I think.”
Napoleon shook his head. “No, someone needs to patrol the back. I’m glad to do it. In fact I think Illya would be a better choice to guard you and Father Sobel. He’s quite good at it.”
--
Brig, Napoleon, and Illya sat in the parlor room. Father Sobel had sequestered himself in his room. Brig had given the two agents a glass of brandy. He, in turn, had an ice water. “It’s so hot. I’m more interested in the ice than the water.”
Napoleon sipped his brandy neatly. “So, Brig, tell me more about Father Nalepinski.”
“Dennis had been here for about a year. He was actually due to leave this church for a pastoral position in Indiana in about a month. Ken came to take his place as my associate. Dennis was showing him the ropes,” Brig frowned. He took another gulp of ice water. “Dennis and I used to jog together. I always wore the same thing. Dennis wore other things, but I always wore a sweatshirt.
“It was cold. I had twisted my back that morning and didn’t feel up for a run. Dennis was cold. He asked if he could borrow my sweatshirt. I said sure, why not? And he borrowed my shirt and laced up his shoes and ran off on the trail. And then he died.”
Illya loosened his tie. “How did you find him?”
Brig crunched on some ice. “I heard someone scream. In this community, you don’t really hear that often. You’ll hear some yelling sometimes but that comes from the south, near the bay. The fisherman yell to one another at times, but that has a cadence all its own. This was different. This was… anguish.”
Illya sipped the last of his brandy. He rose to his feet and paced, scratching his head. “And you decided to investigate?”
“I’m sure you can appreciate that although I’ve not been an agent for almost 11 years, old habits die hard.”
Napoleon shook his head. “You don’t carry a gun, Brig. What were you thinking?”
“That was my brother out there, my co-worker and a vital part of our parish. I didn’t know if Dennis was hurt, or if there was one of my parishioners out there. It’s my job to bring comfort to those who need me. And the manse is the closest building to the woods path. You’d do the same.”
Illya snorted. Napoleon glared at him. “I would. I’m not sure about my partner here.”
Brig smiled. “I think he would, if he knew that people were counting on him. Innocent people. If he didn’t, I don’t think he would be your partner for long.”
Napoleon nodded. “You’re right. You’re always right, Brig.”
Brig’s smile faded, and he continued. “I’m not always right, son. I’ve made plenty mistakes. Who knows, maybe Dennis paid for them.”
“So you agree with Mr. Waverly that this death is connected to the others?” Illya asked.
“I have to. Obviously whoever did this was after me,” Brig said, “And I am connected to the others.”
“How is that?” Napoleon looked at his cuffs, picked imaginary lint off of them.
“I worked at UNCLE when Danny was second in command down in the labs. Taffy used to type my reports; I asked specifically for her because she could read my chicken scratch without asking me questions. I worked with Baines and Angel on a case…”
“Which case?” Illya asked, his curiosity piqued.
Brig frowned. “The Klaxon Affair. Do you not remember this, Solo?”
Napoleon squeezed the bridge of his nose and rubbed his temples. “I am familiar with Dos Santos. I’m sorry to admit that I don’t remember the Klaxon Affair. Did we work this together?”
“Yes. We did. Worked with Baines, too, right before he retired. He was a lot older than us, one of the originals in the LA office. Remember him, Solo? He had a silver crew cut and always wore a seersucker suit.”
“A fashion plate he was not,” Napoleon chuckled. “I do remember him now.”
“So…this Klaxon Affair. Is there anything out of the ordinary about it?” Illya inquired as he sat back down in his chair.
Napoleon’s foot tapped anxiously against the table. “I can’t say. Give me something, Brig. Jar my memory.”
“Beautiful woman who wasn‘t sexually attracted to Mr. Solo.”
Illya’s laugh was sharp and staccato. “That has to - what was it? - jar your memory, Napoleon.”
Solo frowned. “I remember now,” he said grudgingly. “Gorgeous, leggy blonde, green eyes, Cherries in the Snow lipstick. Yvonne.”
“Yvonne. One of the few times that I had to try and play that game. I felt so dirty afterwards,” Brig said. “I’m not going to lie, it made me feel cheap, even though it didn‘t even work.”
“You were never good at that part of the job, Brig.”
“It bothered me from day one.”
“And that’s why you left UNCLE?” Illya asked.
“No. But that reason is mine alone, son,” Brig replied. He rose to his feet, stretched and yawned slightly. “I’m going to bed. Good evening, gentlemen.”
As Brig walked away, Napoleon and Illya looked at one another. “Another fine mess you’ve gotten us into, Stanley,” Napoleon said. “You could have been a tad more tactful.”
“I was being honest. I assume you don’t know why he left UNCLE, either?”
“I never asked. It was his decision.”
Illya scowled. “He was your partner, Napoleon. If I decided to leave, wouldn’t you be curious?”
Napoleon grinned. “Ah, but you, tovarisch, are a rare bird. Besides, we have been partners roughly a thousand times longer than Brig and I were. I was a green recruit fresh from Survival School when Mr. Waverly paired me with Brig. I want to say that you and I have a different relationship, but if I’m honest with myself, I was intimidated by Brig.”
Illya nodded. Napoleon continued, “He was the big man on the totem pole. Brig was everything I wanted to be - cool under pressure, part spy, part detective, part cop. He taught me the fundamentals, Illya - no, the intangibles. Survival School and my own instincts were strong, but Brig gave me tools that I didn’t realize I even needed. He was that good. He was a sure bet to be Chief Enforcement Agent and eventually, take over for the Old Man himself.”
“And yet he gave it up to become a priest.”
“Yes. It was a shock, to be certain.” Solo sighed. “I’m beat, partner. I think it’s time to catch some z’s.”
Illya agreed. He walked down the hall to his own room, weary but on alert. Tucking his Special under his pillow, he laid down and closed his eyes. The cicadas were loud, but beautiful - an even sound that lulled the Russian to sleep.