The Lighthouse Affair

Mid October 1974

Napoleon Solo grabbed the large pile of manilla folders tucking them under his arm as he left his office. He needed to discuss with the Old Man the current manpower shortage in Sections two and three caused by a severe outbreak of influenza. He only had to walk a few steps before reaching the reception area outside of Alexander Waverly's office.

"Go on in, Mr. Solo, he's expecting you."

"Thank you, Lisa." Napoleon chuckled to himself. Lisa Rogers had always called him by his given name when he worked in Section 2. But Napoleon had retired from the field two years ago and moved up to the floor that housed the Section 1 offices. He was promoted to Assistant Chief of Section 1. From that point on Lisa started addressing him as 'Mr. Solo' out of respect for his elevated status. He kind of missed the more familiar, less formal greeting.

The pneumatic doors leading to Mr. Waverly's office slid open. Mr. Waverly looked up from the files he was reviewing and beckoned his second-in-command to join him at the round conference table.

"Please come in, Mr. Solo. Mr. Kuryakin will be joining us shortly. Help yourself to the coffee cart if you'd like."

Before Napoleon could do so, the doors opened again as Illya Kuryakin, his former partner, entered the room. Illya had filled the vacated Section 2, CEA position when Napoleon moved up to Section 1. While the Russian was no longer field certified, his in-depth experience in the field enabled him to effectively advise and lead his Section 2 agents from his office.

It didn't escape Napoleon's notice that his friend leaned slightly on the ebony cane that he kept in constant reach for the past two years. After he had been hit by a Jeep during the "Last Commandment Affair" doctors held little hope that Illya would be mobile without the use of a wheelchair.* However, the man stubbornly refused to accept such a prognosis and with hard work and a tenacious drive he proved them wrong. Illya rarely needed the cane anymore, but kept it in hand should his leg act up. His leg or hip must be bothering him, today, Napoleon surmised.

"Good morning, Mr. ah Kuryakin. Please join us."

"Thank you, Sir." He nodded to Mr. Waverly. "Good morning, Napoleon." He smiled. He didn't get to see Napoleon as often as he liked now that they were in different offices on different floors. They tried to meet at least a couple of times a week for lunch or dinner, but their schedules didn't always permit it.

" 'morning, Illya." He pointed to the cane. "How's the leg this morning?"

Illya patted his left leg and smiled wryly. "It is fine. It tends to get a bit stiff in all this wet weather." He chuckled. "Of course, tripping over the landlady's cat this morning did not help it any."

"Ah, yes, gentleman, if we could get down to business." Alexander Waverly redirected his men's attention.

"Yes, Sir."

"Of course, Mr. Waverly."

Each man sat in his accustom chair. Illya sat to the right of Napoleon just as he had for the past eleven years. Before each of them lay a folder. In each were a series of photographs and a map of Lake Michigan. They both spent a few moments studying the material before the CEA of Section 2 looked up.

"Mr. Waverly, how old is the intel in this report, Sir?"

"That is the problem, Mr. Kuryakin. Some of the information is fairly recent, however none of it can be truly considered reliable. That's why it is imperative to get some of our people into the area so the alleged activities can be verified and monitored."

Illya Kuryakin thought for a moment considering which of his agents were already on assignments and who was available. "I could send Agents Ridenour and Bronstein. The doctors tell me they are both recovered from the flu and are to be released this afternoon."

"No, I think not, Mr. Kuryakin. I already have someone in mind."

"Who, Sir? I can check to see if they are available."

Mr. Waverly, who had been fiddling with his pipe, paused with a lit match over the bowl. "You, Mr. Kuryakin. I want you assigned to this mission." He paused to draw the flame into the packed bowl. Satisfied when the pipe was lighted he waved the match to extinguish the flame and tossed it into the ashtray.

Illya was stunned. He truly missed being out in the field but knew his medical status made it unwise for him to be active. "Me, Sir?"

Napoleon was equally surprised. "Illya, Sir?" He looked over to his friend and rested his hand on Illya's arm. "Sorry, Illya," he apologized for what he was about to say. Turning back to the Old Man, "Sir, do you think Illya is physically able to work on such a mission?"

"What would you have me do, Mr. Solo? Most of our agents are on sick leave and those that aren't are already out in the field. Besides, Mr. Kuryakin's scientific background and knowledge make him the most qualified to investigate the matter."

"Of that I've no doubt, Mr. Waverly, but he's been out for over two years! Remember he's not a fresh agent anymore! You're asking an awful lot."

Illya snorted and glanced over in his friend's direction. He wasn't sure if he should be grateful for Napoleon's concern or angry that he didn't think Illya could take care of himself. Mr. Waverly caught the nonverbal

communication and smiled.

"You needn't worry about Mr. Kuryakin, Mr. Solo. I wouldn't have him venture into the field without competent backup." Turning to Illya, Mr. Waverly continued, "You, Mr. Kuryakin, will have assistance from one of our finest men."

Somewhat mollified, Napoleon eased back on his objections. "Well, that's better. Who did you have in mind, Mr. Waverly?"

"You, Mr. Solo."

This time Illya protested. "But, Mr. Waverly, Napoleon has been out of the field almost as long as I have. Besides, as your assistant and being next in line for your position, he would be at greater risk if captured!"

"Gentlemen! Your objections are duly noted, however my mind is made up. You leave in a week so I suggest you make yourselves familiar with the files and maps and develop a strategy. I expect to be briefed on your plan in the next three days. Dismissed!"

Both men stood in unison, "Yes, Sir." They gathered their materials and left for Napoleon's office.

"According to recent intel, Napoleon, the unusual activity is occurring in the vicinity of the Beaver Island Archipelago." Illya punctuated the statement with a stab of his finger on the map laid out before them. The Beaver Island Archipelago was comprised of a few large islands and several small unnamed islands. "Apparently the measurable electronic activity increases dramatically the week before each full moon and has been doing so for the last six months."

"What could they possibly be trying to do that would require a full moon, especially from the northern part of Lake Michigan?"

"Some of the scientists in Section 8 think that THRUSH is trying to find a means of creating ocean-like tides in the Great Lakes. If they are successful then they could play havoc with the fishing and shipping industries. Such tides would very likely have adverse effects on the ecosystems along the shores, as well."

Napoleon shook his head in disbelief. "What could they gain by that, Illya?

The Russian shrugged his shoulders. "Napoleon, I have long given up trying to fathom why THRUSH does half the things they do. But, as always, it is important that we stop them from succeeding." He returned his attention to the map. "It is doubtful that THRUSH would use the large islands as they are more inhabited than the others. I suggest that we concentrate on these small islands to the northwest of Beaver Island."

The two agents pulled into the parking lot of a small marina in Naubinway, Michigan, to inquire about boat rentals. It felt good to get out and stretch their legs after hours of driving along Route 2. It had been a pleasant drive as the last of the autumnal coloring clung stubbornly to the trees. The crisp cool air of the last October days foretold of the change of seasons.

They made arrangements to rent a twenty foot inboard/outboard motor boat for the next week and to pick it up the next morning. Finished with their business at the marina they crossed the street to a roadside diner.

The screen door creaked as they opened it and slammed behind them as they entered.

"Hello, boys! Seat yourselves and I'll be right with you." The pig-tailed brunette waitress snapped her gum as she turned away to serve coffee to the only other customer.

Napoleon pointed to a back booth near the emergency exit and both men made their way to it, sitting in the dingy, torn yellow vinyl seats. Napoleon grabbed a couple of paper napkins from the dispenser and wiped away the remnants of the last customer's meal. Illya watched with amusement as his partner's curled lip in distaste as he wiped up spilled coffee and hamburger grease. He chuckled.

"Definitely not one of your fancy New York restaurants is it, Napoleon?"

Napoleon gave his friend a sour look. "Ah, hardly, Illya."

"Okay, boys, my name is Debbie. What's yer pleasure?" She looked up from her pad and gave Napoleon a wink. Illya rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"What would you suggest?" Napoleon asked.

"Well, today's special is the meatloaf, mash potatoes, and green beans. It's pretty good." She leaned closer to them and whispered. "Whatever you do, stay away from the goulash."

"I think I'll order the meatloaf. Illya?" The blond looked up from the map he was studying and nodded. Solo continued, "Make that two, please, and lots of coffee."

"Sure, honey. I'll be right back."

Both men were poring over the map where Illya had circled several of the small islands to the northwest of Beaver Island. The waitress returned with their platters of food and noticed the map.

"Are you planning to travel to those islands?"

Napoleon glanced at Illya as he took the plate from Debbie. His partner nodded indicating he thought it would be safe to say, plus they might get some helpful information.

"Well, Debbie, you see we're writers from Michigan History Magazine and we decided to do a little research for an article about the Beaver Island Archipelago. We're going to take a boat and explore the smaller islands, maybe mix business with pleasure and do a little camping."

"Oh, well, that sounds fascinating! I understand that there have been some strange goings on in that area. Of course, there have been strange stories about that area since the mid 1870's."

Illya turned to Debbie and pinned her with his intense gaze. "Really? Such as?"

The waitress took the question as an invitation to sit down with her customers. The last customer had left the diner, so she scooted onto the bench next to Napoleon.

"Well, boys, for the last half year, during the full moon, there have been reports of unusual activity on a couple of the small islands. But that's not as weird as the stories the old timers have been telling over the past 100 years. There are rumors of a ghost island that only appears out of a fog bank during a full moon, but only when the full moon is on Halloween night."

The two men looked at her in disbelief. "I'm sorry," said Illya tucking some meatloaf into his mouth. "I do not believe in ghosts. There is always a scientific explanation."

Debbie pouted at such a comment, her feelings obviously hurt. Napoleon glared at Illya. "Now, partner, we're here to learn some of the history of the area, let Debbie fill us in with the local lore."

Encouraged by Napoleon's charm, Debbie poured a cup of coffee and began.