After leaving UNCLE headquarters, I just went home and crawled into a bottle. Waste of
good Scotch to chug it out of the bottle, but I didn't care. My whole life is a waste. I'm
supposed to be making the world safer, a better world for children to grow up in. Well,
little Michael won't grow up in a better world because I killed him.
I should have been more careful about the reconnaissance, known who the players on
the other side were, known if there were any Innocents in there.
I should have picked up the gun the moment it dropped from the dead woman's hands.
I should have checked the lab more carefully and found the child before he found the
gun.
I shouldn't have turned around to ask Illya if he was done setting the explosives. It was
just an excuse to look at Illya. I endangered both the mission and Illya.
Woke up this afternoon on the living room floor. Felt like, well, like someone who drank
himself under the table. After an Alka-Seltzer and a couple cups of black coffee, I
remembered why I had gotten drunk. Decided to get drunk again, but I was out of liquor.
So, I headed out to the nearest liquor store.
I ended up walking in
stead. No particular direction. As often happens when I don't have any place to go, I
found myself heading for Illya's apartment. We would talk over the mission like we
always do when it is a bad one. Or maybe we would just get drunk together. I could at
least check on him to see he was okay, even if he wasn't in the mood for company.
No one answered his front doorbell. I tried the bell again, then used my key to let myself
in. As usual, I barely got one foot inside before Illya's landlady, Mrs. Gavrilyuk, popped
out of her ground-floor apartment. Today she was wearing a red and purple plaid dress
that clashed with her bright orange hair. I've never known if she is color-blind or just has
the most atrocious taste I've ever seen. Her little Jack Russell terror, ah, terrier,
bounded out too and began frisking around my ankles. Since I'm well-known here as
Nero Fabbri, her tenant Illya Kuznetsov's friend and co-worker, I was allowed to go on
up after a cordial exchange of greetings.
Illya didn't answer my coded knock. After the third try, I used my key again. Before
opening the door, I called, "I'm coming in! Ollie, ollie, oxen free!" (This recognition
phrase is embarrassing, but as I told Illya, no enemy in his right mind would ever think
of it.) No response. The "away" security setting was on and there was no sign of Illya.
I did a quick visual sweep first, and noticed his little Russian lacquer box was gone from
his bureau. There were three business sized envelopes in its place. One addressed to
me as Nero Fabbri. One addressed to Mr. Waverly with what felt like a communicator
pen inside. One addressed to his landlady, with what might have been a wad of paper
or cash. This did not look good.
Nevertheless, I did a proper security sweep of the apartment, bed-sit, lavatory, shower
stall, closet, and kitchen. All in order. Minimal food in the kitchen, full bottle of vodka in
the freezer. No sign of any surveillance equipment or booby-traps. No sign of any
struggle.
Kitchen window was partially closed, but not latched. I opened it and climbed up onto
the sink to lean out. I knew there was a strong steel bar, painted black, bolted just
above the window. This enabled someone as acrobatic as Illya to flip himself from
windowsill to roof and back. He had explained that he then had three different routes
over the adjoining roofs, trees, fences, telephone poles, and dumpsters, to reach
ground level well away from any surveillance. He told me he often goes in and out that
way just for the exercise. Mad Russian.
I scrounged around a little more. Aside from the Russian box, there wasn't much
missing. Just his knapsack with the clothes and equipment he would take for a mission
that included hiking or cat burglary. Plus, every weapon he owns, which includes a fair
few that aren't U.N.C.L.E. issue.
Something is very wrong.
My hands were shaking a little as I sat down in Illya's only comfortable chair and
opened the envelope addressed to me.
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