THE BERLIN AFFAIR
by
gm

---

I

"Mr. Solo is very good."

Influence and position were wonderful perquisites of living in a capitalistic society. Though the socialistic Kuryakin would never admit to any contamination to the ways of his adopted country, he did not hesitate to reap the benefits of 'pulling strings'. For several weeks he had longed to bury himself in one of UNCLE's state-of-the-art laboratories. A few world crises had kept him from his desired goal. Finally, he had called in a number of well overdue favors from the Chief Enforcement Officer of Section Two. Kuryakin had been promised undisturbed time in the labs and Solo had been as good as his word. After Napoleon left on assignment Illya had buried himself in the lower reaches of Headquarters for four days.

"Mr. Kuryakin, what are you doing here?"

The incredulous inquiry almost cost UNCLE part of a lab table when a container of highly combustible chemicals all but dropped from Kuryakin's hands. The surprise in the voice had startled him more than the abrupt interruption. Illya couldn't remember Waverly ever sounding so -- disturbed.

"Sir?" he questioned when the chemical had been safely disposed of.

The older man continued to stare at the Russian. "You are supposed to be in East Germany."

Kuryakin's eyebrows disappeared into his blond bangs. "Sir?" he queried again and wished he could get enough of a grip on the situation to stop repeating himself.

Confusion flitted across Waverly's wise and wrinkled countenance. Then comprehension slowly formed the face into a mask of disappointment. "Come to my office," he instructed curtly, and Kuryakin hastily followed.

Once in the command center of UNCLE NY, Waverly took an inordinately long time filling his favorite briar pipe. Several minutes of filling, lighting, and puffing passed in silence. Kuryakin squirmed in his seat. This extended ritual coupled with total silence boded ill for some poor agent. He hoped it was not himself.

"I take it you know nothing about the East Berlin assignment," the Number One, Section One asked with a tone of voice that indicated he already knew the answer.

"Not much, sir. I know Mr. Solo had an assignment there."

"When was the last time you spoke with Mr. Solo?"

The Russian stared at his hands that twitched with nervousness and mentally examined the question. Something was very wrong -- not for him, but for Napoleon. There was no choice but to answer truthfully, though instinctively, Illya knew it would be somehow detrimental to Solo. There was a reflexive desire to protect his partner from this unseen threat, but he dismissed it as ridiculous. Mr. Waverly was not the enemy.

"Four days ago, sir. I asked him if I could have some extended lab time. He said he would keep my schedule clear."

"Is that all?" Waverly asked, his eyes seemed to bore through the blond agent and see hidden truths.

"He said if I was needed . . . " Kuryakin stopped, realization hitting him with a force that almost took his breath away. ". . . he would contact me."

Illya felt a dark foreboding clutch his chest. Solo's mission had somehow gone awry. Was Napoleon dead? Waverly's harsh attitude denoted something on the level of a defection rather than death or failure. While Solo had been known to blunder, he would never defect. And Illya did not want to accept the possibility of death.

With a long sigh of -- regret? -- Waverly explained Solo had been investigating possible THRUSH infiltration of the East German secret police. However, UNCLE's relations with East Germany were almost nonexistent and the international organization was forbidden to operate within the borders of the Iron Curtain country. Waverly had deemed the mission worth the risk. Waverly and Solo had devised a daring plan: an agent was to conduct a covert, independent investigation within East Germany. Proof of THRUSH's involvement was to be planted for the secret police to find. It was an extremely high-risk assignment with capture a high probability. The agent Waverly had selected for the very dangerous mission was Kuryakin.

"Your knowledge of such police organizations, your command of the language, your obviously Aryan characteristics were all to your advantage," Waverly explained. Kuryakin wondered if he should be flattered, but remained silent. He did not dare turn Waverly's wrath in his direction. "However, Mr. Solo vociferously objected due to your status as a Russian citizen."

Relations between East Germany's intelligence units and Mother Russian's KGB had been extremely strained. Germany's paranoia of the KGB had fuelled the antagonism to unreasonable limits. Any Russians caught spying within Germany's borders would be dealt with in excessively harsh terms. That vague comment could be interpreted in many ways. However, in Kuryakin's mind 'harsh' and 'excessive' conjured images of prolonged torture, or instant execution. There could be very little interpretive middle ground.

"So apparently, Mr. Solo took it upon himself to modify my orders." Waverly's restrained harshness scraped on Illya's ears like a knife on exposed nerves. "He has gone in your place and gone in alone."

Illya could hardly believe the accusation. A terrible chill snaked along his spinal column and he fought down a shiver. Convinced the report was the truth solely by Waverly's conviction, he saw a mixture of anger and -- disappointment -- Illya had never seen in his chief. But the surprise was pushed aside by the overwhelming anxiety that filled the Russian

"What has gone wrong?" His breathed the inquiry quietly, fearfully, a hushed tremble.

Waverly glanced at the agent with piercing eyes, a mute warning that he would abide no insubordination from the other half of UNCLE's most successful team. "Mr. Solo has failed to communicate with his contact for two days. As prearranged, I was contacted today. It was the first time I realized Mr. Solo had not arranged for you to join him."

Illya's throat went dry in anticipation of the death pronouncement he feared the most. He covered all anxieties with a deceptive, calm silence, forcing Waverly to take the initiative.

"Because of the extreme danger of this mission we must assume Mr. Solo has been killed. You must salvage the mission, ascertain Mr. Solo's status and assure his true identity will not be discovered. If the East Germans knew of his UNCLE affiliation, we would have heard by now."

At the thought that his friend was dead, part of Illya's heart shriveled. On the other hand, he was terrified that Napoleon was alive and in the custody of the secret police. Death was certainly preferable to torture at the hands of the state police. But Napoleon dead . . . . Illya closed his eyes but could not close out the mental images writhing in his thoughts.

"I am sending you to Berlin on the next plane," Waverly ordered, then continued after Kuryakin's desultory nod. "No connection between us and Mr. Solo must be found. UNCLE must maintain it's anonymity at all costs, Mr. Kuryakin."

Kuryakin's head snapped up, afraid to ask for a definition of that ominous phrase: 'at all costs.' He thought he could read between the lines already. "Mr. Solo is very good, sir," the Russian finally defended, refusing to accept his friend was dead, refusing to abandon hope. "He would never have let his identity slip."

"Even Mr. Solo's skill and luck could not last forever," was the oblique response.

Illya ignored the past-tense phraseology. "If he's still alive . . ."

"He is dead." Waverly's stern eyes scrutinized the younger agent. "I believe I can count on you, Mr. Kuryakin. I will have no more orders disobeyed because of friendship, or loyalty -- or whatever Mr. Solo thought he was doing." His voice was cruel in its incisive harshness. "You WILL take whatever steps are required. The credibility of UNCLE is at stake." He looked away from Kuryakin and shook his head in silent incredulity. "I don't know what came over him," was the confused, quiet comment.

Illya's closed his eyes, mentally accepting the assignment with a numbed fatalism. IF Napoleon was dead . . . Illya pushed the doubts aside. If not . . . Illya would deal with that when he knew the truth. Either way, Waverly had already written off Solo professionally as well as physically. Waverly reiterated the importance of the mission. The high stakes were underlined. The head of UNCLE New York explained that Kuryakin's skill, along with his knowledge of Solo, were the factors that made him the obvious choice to salvage the mission.

Kuryakin was instructed to follow the book -- to the letter. Little wonder; the chief had been betrayed by a man who held implicit faith, who had been groomed to one-day take over as Number One Section One. In a single stroke Napoleon had betrayed all of Waverly's hopes and trusts, in favor of a nebulous, insubstantial liability called friendship. Pondering the facts, as they knew them, friendship seemed the only answer to the puzzle of Solo's rebellious behavior. In his own blundering way Napoleon had been trying to save Kuryakin -- and Illya would get him for this when he found him.

Waverly walked Illya to the door. "I want your report as soon as the mission is completed. You will communicate with me through Mr. Solo's contact." Kuryakin nodded his agreement. Waverly hesitated, his expression grim and stern. "If by some chance Mr. Solo is alive, you must do whatever is required to protect UNCLE," Waverly repeated. "Even if you must eliminate Mr. Solo to keep him silent."

Illya's mouth snapped shut before the gasp escaped. He had not wanted to see the obvious and the old man knew it. Agents had been compelled to assassinate fellow agents on occasion, but it was a rare and extreme measure. "Sir . . . ."

"I trust you to do what is necessary, Mr. Kuryakin. Do not disappoint me."

"I couldn't kill him, sir," the Russian admitted firmly, ignoring any consequences of his insubordination.

In a rare moment of open compassion, the older man put a hand on the agent's shoulder. The wrinkled face was filled with unusual understanding and the weary eyes were soft. "I have faith that you will do what is right, whatever the circumstances," he said quietly, his voice deep. "Despite his recent deviation, Mr. Solo was a professional. He would understand," he assured.

Not at all convinced, a disturbed Kuryakin left the office, knowing there was a great deal about this assignment he would never understand.

II

"No easy way out this time."

A warm drop slid from his ear, the leading edge of a trickle of blood that ran down his cheek and trailed onto his swollen, cracked lips. Napoleon Solo did not possess the energy to lick the vital fluid from his lip and let the salty substance slide into his open mouth. All conscious effort was expended on breathing shallowly enough to protect his fractured ribs from slicing deeper into his lungs.

The meager strength left him was focused on blocking the pain that seemed to burn through every nerve. Choked coughs spurted blood from his mouth. When the spasm stopped, tears of pain streamed down his face. The cold steel wall was rough on his cheek, though the metal felt good against his fevered, damaged face. Pain had become a constant companion, communicating in sharp stabs in his chest, splitting throbs in his head, pulsing agony in his feet and hands. He was sick from infection and what felt like the onset of pneumonia.

Solo's tormentors had beaten him for information, then when it was clear he would not break, for pleasure. Ironically, he was now too injured to speak even if he would have. There had never been a danger of him breaking. UNCLE hypnotic blocks made it virtually impossible to crack an agent with drugs or torture. Solo's obstinacy would never allow it.

Several days of imprisonment had passed, though he could not be sure how many. It was easy to lose track of time when every minute was filled with unspeakable torment. To drift off in sleep brought nightmares as harsh as reality. Since his last interrogation the intensity of pain had driven off any hope of sleep, though his exhaustion was so acute he was light-headed.

Solo found that torture always made him thoughtful. Now he had no escape except through his thoughts. Mental release alleviated the pain and provided the only measure of comfort left to him. There had never been a chance of rescue, of course. The gossamer hope of a miracle had been nurtured for a long time. His natural optimism kept him from completely abandoning hope. He had always been a great believer in his personal guardian angel, whom he labeled 'luck'. Because of an unshakable confidence -- ego -- he didn't really accept premonition as reality, though perhaps years with a moody Russian had changed that. When he had left New York HQ alone, he felt he might not be back. He had analyzed the feeling and accepted it with the equanimity of a man accustomed, and unafraid, to face death.

The assignment had seemed simple enough: go in, find the network of THRUSH agents operating in the East German government, gather evidence and allow the information to be found even if it meant capture. No escape plans had been covered. It was such an easy thing to be captured -- he accomplished that with annoying regularity. Escape was not always so easy, but out of necessity, he had become very proficient at timely exits. A dangerous mission, but not so much that Waverly felt he would be losing a prized agent like Kuryakin. Then, cynically, Solo reevaluated -- perhaps Waverly didn't mind sacrificing an operative for this duty. Perhaps it was important enough to relinquish Section Two Number Two -- Illya.

To Napoleon's chagrin he had been disqualified because of his position as Chief Enforcement Agent. Waverly had also pointed out, none-too-kindly, that Solo's German was inadequate for intense undercover missions. His obvious nationality as an American would also endanger his success. Solo's ego had been stung. After all, Illya had commented on several occasions that Napoleon would have made a convincing Gestapo! There had been bitter objections from Solo and Waverly had finally relented by allowing Solo to lay the groundwork for Kuryakin.

Gaining an understanding of the mission, Solo had endured days of guilt and several sleepless nights of solitary anguish. He could not stomach the cold, dispassionate decision to simply throw Illya to the wolves. If captured, Illya's nationality would prove fatal and the Russian's talent for escapes could not be counted on in this deadly situation. Waverly would never sanction a rescue plan if Illya weren't instantly executed. If kept alive, it certainly seemed impossible for one UNCLE agent, no matter how talented, to remove a Russian from a German prison.

After evaluating the situation in East Berlin informing NYHQ through his contact, Solo had started the mission with every intention of coming out of it alive before Illya even arrived. He had always, arrogantly, considered himself just a little bit more skilled than his partner. However, it seemed, not skilled enough.

With a sobering pride he was pleased with his recklessly foolish heroics. There was no guilt or regret for his blatant disobedience. He would certainly not live to receive the reprimand from Waverly. Just as well. This had been a do-or-die situation. Even if he had come out 100% successful, there would have been nasty repercussions. He wasn't sure what had gone wrong, but was grateful he was in the German prison instead of his partner.

As instructed he had traced the THRUSH link inside the government. To his surprise it involved several officials of the secret police. He'd been captured by a very well prepared force of soldiers and taken straight to a security prison. He was treated as if he could and would try to escape. Betrayed? If so, he could no longer think clearly enough to deduce the reason, or the betrayer.

The Germans were professional, inventive, and thorough in their techniques. They intended to let him live, but not in comfort. Though the consultations had been uncommonly brutal, however, his patience had outlasted his chief interrogator, Colonel Tahler. Tahler had lost his temper at the last session, insisting Solo reveal who sent him and why. Tahler speculated Solo was with CIA, but the UNCLE agent had neither confirmed nor denied any possibilities. It would take more than a German Colonel to break UNCLE's Chief Enforcement Officer.

Sometime later Solo had woken in his cell. He had taken stock of his wounds and knew the internal injuries were serious and that he would not live for long without medical treatment. Napoleon's arrogance, or optimism, prevented him from carrying the standard-issue suicide capsules. There was no easy way out this time.

The injuries would eventually prove fatal and excruciating in their pain-level. A hand and foot had been broken one bone at a time. No part of Solo's body was left unbruised and several bones no longer intact. All that remained was to await his final curtain. It would be soon and he welcomed the thought of imminent release from mortal pain. There was no business left unfinished. Of necessity, an UNCLE agent always made sure his affairs were in order before an assignment. A trace of disappointment shadowed his bravado. Though glad his partner was safe -- that, after all, was the whole reason he was here -- it was disappointing that he would never see Illya again. Just as well. If Illya found him alive, Kuryakin would kill him for what he'd done. The thought brought a shadow-smile to his swollen face and he endured the pain, deeming the speculation worth the price.

The metal door of the cell creaked open. With the blurry vision of his single functioning eye he could barely make out the indistinct figure of his personal demon, Colonel Tahler. He swallowed down the instinctive fear that surfaced like a Pavlovian response when he saw the torturer. Napoleon clamped his jaw shut so no whimper would escape as he was dragged to his feet. He closed his eyes. The blackness made the pain easier to accept as he was pulled from the cell to what he hoped would be his final interrogation.

III

"Herr Solo has nothing to lose."

A livid Kuryakin paced the small, one-room apartment belonging to Petrovich, the West German Section Two Number Two UNCLE agent. "You know he's alive and you haven't told Mr. Waverly?"

"Herr Solo is near death. It did not seem important enough to risk a transmission."

Kuryakin fought for control of a temper ready to erupt. He would not enlighten this fool about just how important it was to know Napoleon was still alive. Unable to suppress the anger, he went to the next burning question. "You never tried to rescue him?"

Petrovich, a Yugoslav-born agent with little imagination seemed surprised. "Nine, Herr Kuryakin."

"You were his back up!" he snapped, his voice frosted with contempt, shaky with suppressed rage. Even in the stodgy Teutonic tongue, his accusations sliced through the German like rapier swipes.

"Herr Solo was planned to be captured," returned the calm Slav.

This revelation stopped Illya cold. He swallowed the viscous insults on his lips and controlled the surprise that almost reached his face. First, disbelief flooded his mind. Waverly would never leave Napoleon out in the cold. "But then the rescue . . . "

"No rescue. UNCLE can not be involved."

Illya was incredulous. As Chief Enforcement Officer, Napoleon was too valuable to sacrifice . . .

He turned away, staring out the window with unseeing eyes. Illya had been the agent targeted for the perilous mission. But sentimental fool that Solo was, Napoleon would not allow his friend to take the risk, and went in his place. No doubt Solo had hoped skill and luck would once again save his skin. Somehow, Napoleon had misjudged and failed to escape. So Illya's partner, his friend, would die in his place.

In the two days since his arrival in East Berlin, Illya had ascertained where Solo was being held. The extreme security measures were a surprise and Kuryakin understood why Napoleon had not been able to escape. However, that did not concern him as much as Solo's present condition. According to Petrovich's informant Solo was not expected to live for more than a few more days due to the vicious interrogations. Illya's mind had filled with wild plots of rescue -- insane speculations of scenarios that could never be accomplished. There was ever the underlying dread that he would have to accept this terrible reality and admit there was no chance to get Solo out alive.

Kuryakin turned to watch Petrovich sort through miscellaneous equipment and explosives. UNCLE equipment had remained on the other side of the border so there would be no danger of tracing anything to the international organization. There was no way to contact New York directly. All transmissions had to go through Petrovich, who had to cross the border to contact the Berlin office. Kuryakin reflected that the Berlin office had given Solo and he a great deal of trouble in their careers. [THE SUMMIT FIVE AFFAIR] In the future they would have to avoid Germany, he determined. He automatically assumed there WOULD BE a future for both of them.

"I'm going to get Napoleon out," Kuryakin announced bluntly. With a deadly glare he dared the German to try to stop him.

"You cannot."

"I will. I won't let him die. Especially since he took my place on this mission."

Petrovich's voice was even and matter-of-fact. "You are wrong. Herr Solo was intended to be the agent all along." With chilling calm the German explained the Machiavellian plot. An agent was needed to get evidence of THRUSH activities in East Germany. The evidence and agent were to be captured. Never intended to escape, the agent was to break under interrogation and reveal the information. Since it was a recent mission, UNCLE hypnosis blocks would not apply, though they would protect the organization from being discovered. The Germans would be alerted to the danger of THRUSH and would eradicate the criminals themselves or openly ask UNCLE's assistance. A working relationship would be established, the agent returned, and THRUSH would be out one more avenue of refuge. The borders of most of the eastern block nations would be opened for UNCLE.

The plan had worked all the way down the line. Solo's streak of heroism had compelled him to take on the assignment alone. Napoleon had been captured and unable to escape because the German's had been tipped he was an enemy spy. However, Solo's stubborn resolve had been underestimated. Five days after capture Solo had not cracked. The information against THRUSH was too vague to be of value without a confession. So despite the capture and torture, Solo had still failed the mission.

With stunned disbelief Kuryakin listened to the story. He was sickened to realize the terrible torture Napoleon had undergone was part of an UNCLE scheme. He could not accept that Waverly had devised the diabolical plot or would leave Napoleon to die without the hope of a rescue. Solo was too valuable to waste on this unimportant mission. Any cause seemed insignificant in exchange for the sacrifice Solo had been tricked into making.

There was a wall of horror around his mind and Kuryakin felt disgusted and betrayed. Every agent was considered expendable (although he refrained from thinking in those terms about his partner), and he had never considered this kind of backstabbing situation. His mind grasped a cliché from training: no espionage agent could trust anyone completely -- not his partner, not his superiors, not himself. Black humor saw the irony in that terrible truth. Their superiors had betrayed them both. Napoleon could only be accused of too much loyalty. Illya knew he could never fully trust Waverly or anyone else in the business again. Except Solo. A truth known too late to do either of them any good.

If Kuryakin had embarked on the mission, he would have been identified as a Russian. It would have probably resulted in quick execution. Or a wild rescue attempt by Solo, who would never have stood by while Illya was in danger. So Solo had been tricked into heroics and now death by torture.

"Now the mission must be finished," Petrovich concluded with crisp bluntness.

Kuryakin numbly focused on the German agent. "What do you mean?"

"Since Herr Solo did not break we must do something dramatic. The East Germans must believe THRUSH is a dangerous threat."

Illya pushed aside the horrors of the appalling story he had just heard. Personal anguish must not interfere with professionalism now. He would have to be at his best to rescue Napoleon. The Russian eyed his fellow agent with instinctive suspicion. "How?"

Petrovich's glare was superciliously arrogant. "Obviously we must turn Solo's failure into an advantage."

Illya had never felt such a chill of cold hatred in his life. He ground his teeth with suppressed rage. His friend had been betrayed, tortured to near death, and now dismissed because he had failed to break! The ludicrous situation was almost more than Kuryakin could take.

"What are you suggesting?" Illya asked, his tone controlled and dangerously quiet.

"I intend to infiltrate the prison and kill Solo. I will plant evidence that THRUSH is responsible . . ."

"You are mad!" Kuryakin whispered harshly.

"It is Waverly's order," Petrovich countered, oblivious to Kuryakin's anger. "The only way to save the mission. Herr Solo has nothing to lose. If he is killed it will be the step that will cripple THRUSH in Europe."

They had made great inroads into the complete destruction of THRUSH. Many of the leaders were in prison and numerous satraps were already destroyed. This would be the beginning of the end. But this cost was much too high a price for Kuryakin to pay.

He was shaking with suppressed anguish that bled into his voice. "I will not allow it!" he insisted hotly. "Never!"

"You have no choice, Herr Kuryakin. It is the only way to save the mission. You cannot stop it." Petrovich strove for a false compassion Kuryakin found revolting. "It is the only way his death will have meaning."

"His LIFE has meaning! I won't let you murder him! After everything you've put him through this is the best you can offer?" The Russian shouted into the German's face.

Petrovich's voice escalated to the same angry pitch. "You cannot change his fate. He is a dead man."

"No!"

"If he had not failed in the beginning we would not have this problem."

Kuryakin could feel sanity drain from his mind. "Because Napoleon was too strong to break we will kill him?" His voice cracked from the raw violence barely restrained within.

"If you were truly his friend you would welcome an end to his misery. He would never survive a rescue!" Petrovich snapped coldly. "You are wasting sentimentality on a dead man."

Kuryakin shot his fist into the Slav's face. All the anger and anguish broiling inside was behind the punch. Petrovich was catapulted over a table and onto the floor. Illya vaulted over the furniture and seized the man by the shirt collar. A thin thread of tenuous control kept him from instantly murdering the agent.

Petrovich saw death in Kuryakin's eyes. "Kill me and you will not change the inevitable."

Kuryakin squeezed his eyes shut, but could not shut out the logic of the argument. He was sickened to realize he understood WHY the orders had been given. For that reason he hated himself as much as he hated Waverly and the rest of UNCLE. He also understood why Napoleon had undertaken the ridiculously foolish mission.

Over the last few years Solo exhibited growing disenchantment of certain UNCLE policies. Solo often modified orders, acted alone and beyond his authority. There had been many reckless risks and dangerous chances concerning agents who were friends -- particularly Kuryakin. And it was no secret Napoleon vehemently protested limitations of field assignments because of his leadership position. Since he was approaching forty, Napoleon had also vociferously objected to the mandatory retirement from field duty because of age -- for the vain Solo age was a touchy subject in itself.

It was an unhealthy pattern, a signal that the Chief Enforcement Officer found it easier to act, to risk his own life rather than the life of a friend. The behavior was decidedly non-regulation, non-establishment, and lacking responsible leadership characteristics. As he had learned from reading Sherlock Holmes, Illya tested the theory from all sides and continued to come up with the same solution every time. He was mildly surprised he had never detected the course of events before this. Perhaps he was too close to the subject to see objectively, or still too trusting to accept this new theory at face value.

Had Napoleon been selected because his usefulness to the organization had ended? Was Solo's decision on the Berlin mission a final proof that he was no longer an objective agent, and therefore a liability to UNCLE? Was Illya chosen to finish the mission -- or finish off Napoleon -- to confirm his loyalty and kill, along with his partner, any lingering sentimentality to a friendship that had become a threat to smooth operations?

The theory was soul chilling. Even more frightening was that he had collated such a revolutionary idea. Was he grasping at straws and making excuses to disobey orders and desperately rescue his friend? If he were wrong, if he made a mistake, if he was captured and still managed to save them both, his career and his life would be in jeopardy. His career be damned. If he did not attempt a rescue he would condemn his friend to a prolonged death through excruciating and inhuman agony. Kuryakin was sure he could not live with that. Better to try, and fail, in the rescue than sit back and do nothing.

Suspiciously, Illya imagined this could be some kind of terrifying, deadly test. Its nucleus was a circle of friendship, from Napoleon's lone heroics, to this dilemma of Kuryakin's. Duty verses personal loyalty. There could be only one choice and Illya would soon be forced to decide. His mind ached from the convoluted possibilities. Could Waverly have devised this entire scheme? Illya didn't want to believe it. Was this all a plot, or mad rationalization from an agent pushed to the brink of sanity because he had been asked to abandon -- to kill -- his best (only) friend?

Suddenly another theory materialized fully formed and with intuitive insight Illya seized upon it as the truth. Petrovich; the contact in every phase of the operation was the one focal point of the mission. Were his instructions real, or his own design? Whatever the machinations were, Illya would sort them out. After he performed one more task.

Kuryakin's tone was deceptively silky. "You're right." His smile was grim. "I must accept the inevitable."

IV

"You never make anything simple."

Deceit was the stock-and-trade of an espionage agent and Illya Kuryakin was a past master of dissimulation. The Russian called on every bit of his cunning now. He adjusted the collar of his German Officer's uniform as he walked the corridor of the prison.

Kuryakin was not by nature impulsive. Unlike his flamboyant partner, the Russian preferred planning to spontaneity. However, being the talented agent he was, Kuryakin had come up with this mad scheme even as he implemented it. Any UNCLE agent worth his salary could initiate a workable off-the-cuff ploy -- a necessary talent in a life-and-death business. Imminent death was a powerful motivator, but this time it was not his life that was in immediate peril. Perhaps that was the strongest motivation he had ever known.

Petrovich had been rendered out of the action for the next several hours. Kuryakin had easily acquired the uniform and ID of an officer who was similar in appearance. Once inside the prison Kuryakin learned Solo was in the infirmary. With quick efficiency Illya planted timed incendiaries around the prison. Now the only task left was the rescue itself.

The moment Kuryakin had knocked out Petrovich the mission had been irreversible. There could be no second thoughts, and Kuryakin had none. The alternative was too impossible to imagine. There had ever been this single option -- get Napoleon out of Germany or they would both die trying.

Kuryakin took the stairs two at a time as he raced up the flights to the third floor. Quietly he opened the door leading to the corridor. With a slight measure of relief he noted a single guard at the infirmary door. If Napoleon were dead there would not be a guard. Like a hovering cloud at the back of his mind, doubt darkened his subconscious. There was little hope he could successfully rescue Solo, little hope that Solo would live through the ordeal. Yet, neither logic nor reason had been employed by either partner on this mission. Kuryakin would not abandon his friend -- that possibility existed only in Petrovich's imagination.

Shouted warnings of fire were Kuryakin's cue. He slipped into the corridor and told the guard the prisoner had to be moved to safety. As they entered the room Kuryakin knocked the guard out and dragged the man into a closet. There was only one patient in the infirmary. Kuryakin stared at the figure for a moment before identifying the disfigured man as Solo. Though he had mentally accepted Napoleon's desperate condition, he was unprepared for the reality. The grey prison clothes were little more than tattered strips. Blood was caked to the swollen skin on Solo's face and on one hand where broken bones punctured the skin.

Kuryakin swallowed the lump in his throat and crossed the room in a few quick strides. There would be time later to assess the injuries and find medical assistance. Illya could not now be distracted by compassion; he would need all his faculties for the tricky escape.

"Napoleon?" Kuryakin called quietly and gently pushed on Solo's shoulder. "Time to wake up."

When there was no response he felt for a pulse. The slow beat was weak and unsteady. Kuryakin grabbed a nearby blanket and wrapped it around his partner. A muffled 'boom' echoed as the room shook from explosions on the floor below.

"Napoleon you are being rescued. At least have the decency to pay attention!"

Solo's unswollen eye opened and stared at Kuryakin for several seconds before recognition made him blink. A smile twitched at the broken lips. "What took -- so long?"

"Ingrate," Kuryakin responded dryly. "We are about to leave with a bang. Can you walk?"

"Not easily," Solo said and nodded to his foot. The toes were swollen and misshapen from multiple fractures.

Kuryakin grimaced. "You never make anything simple." His tone was harsh, a reaction to the anguish at his friend's injuries.

He helped Solo slowly sit up. The simple maneuver exhausted the senior agent, who could not stay upright without aid. Solo gritted his teeth against the pain of even the slightest movement.

"How long?"

"A few minutes."

The dark-haired agent tipped his head toward the door. "I'd rather not stay."

Kuryakin gave a curt nod of acknowledgement. Neither was prepared for the rigorous ordeal ahead, but there was no going back now. He helped Solo off the gurney. On the second step toward the door Solo collapsed into his partner's arms. Kuryakin swung the agent over his shoulder and fled from the room.

V

"I saw death coming for me."

"Mr. Waverly considered it a rather ingenious ploy. Though he felt it was unnecessarily dramatic."

Illya Kuryakin paused and waited for a pithy retort from his conspicuously subdued friend. There was no reply. Solo continued his silent study of the wintry London sky. Almost a week had passed since the desperate escape from East Berlin. Solo had been more dead than alive when they crossed the Berlin Wall and sought emergency medical aid in Berlin. Then they had flown on a special charter to one of Britain's top hospitals. The doctors' skills had brought the agent from the edge of death to the secure path of recovery. Physically, Solo was healing faster than anticipated. Kuryakin questioned if his friend would mentally recover as quickly. Solo had endured the rigors of torture only to learn his own people had trapped him. He stubbornly refused to discuss the treachery, a sign in itself of how disturbed the agent was.

In the first days of Solo's recovery, Kuryakin had swept through UNCLE LONDON HQ like an avenging angel. He had uncovered proof that the ploy to use Solo had come from the ambitious Petrovich, acting on his own. Petrovich had been expelled from the organization. Kuryakin had volunteered to perform a slow execution, though Waverly had vetoed the offer.

A complete reevaluation of the Berlin office was underway. Waverly had apologized to Solo and promised better security in the future. Then the affair was dismissed as an unfortunate episode in the spy business. Kuryakin was sickened by what he considered inadequate justice. What retribution would compensate Napoleon for the betrayal? Killing Petrovich would be a start, but neither Solo nor Kuryakin could sanction murder. Promises of future security were hardly a balm for the suffering Napoleon had endured. Nor were empty assurances an adequate foundation for the loss of faith in superiors.

Illya worried about the uncharacteristic silent brooding so alien to Napoleon's natural exuberance. Usually after these incidents Solo was bitingly sarcastic and pithy, which soon leveled out to his normal attitude. Except that caustic viewpoint was becoming more and more prevalent with each danger faced and each assignment completed. Now he was dangerously withdrawn and uncommunicative. The UNCLE psychiatrists were threatening to retire the American unless he made a full psychological recovery.

The threat to expel Solo from UNCLE was almost more frightening to Kuryakin than any other aspect of the disaster. It was almost as if Napoleon wanted to be dismissed. Illya was at a loss to cope with that eventuality. Better than anyone else, Kuryakin knew the subliminal scars left on the mind after betrayal and torture. He knew the wounds would never heal for his friend if Solo did not quickly come to terms with the episode.

Solo would not volunteer to discuss the painful experiences. Kuryakin could not find the courage to draw out the information. Part of Illya did not want to know the extent of Solo's anguish, for what affected one partner affected the other tenfold. For Napoleon to reveal his innermost anguish would necessitate Illya to respond on a level of intimacy he was not ready to admit.

Though Solo's friendship was now the cornerstone of Kuryakin's life, the Russian could not openly reveal that to himself, or Solo. To do so would crumble the invisible barrier between Illya and the rest of the world. That wall had to separate him from the emotions of others as well as himself, or he could not function as a professional agent. The greatest danger to Illya was not the external threat of enemies, but the feelings that could undermine his confidence and control. A strange dichotomy: he unhesitantly risked his life for his friend all the time, but could not risk emotional honesty. Because of this inability to communicate, each visit to the hospital became more strained. Illya could feel the distance between them increase daily and was at a loss to correct the drift. Yet, if he had learned nothing else on this traumatic mission, he had learned he did not want to lose the only stability in his life. He had to fight to preserve that friendship now that Napoleon needed him most.

The partners shared some very deep bonds. One was a psychological link something between telepathy and empathy. They knew what the other felt and thought and how he would act or react. It was through that link that Kuryakin could subliminally sense that today's visit was their Rubicon. He was scheduled to leave for New York in a few hours. If he left without resolving the breach between them, he somehow knew their relationship would never be the same -- certainly their lives. Napoleon would pull farther away, perhaps beyond reach. And Kuryakin was the only one who could reach him now. Some psionic sensibility also told him this time Solo could not be the one to reach out as he had so many times before. Illya would have to initiate the emotional impetus, a role reversal new to them both.

With a mental sigh Illya knew his only recourse was to approach Napoleon as they had always approached their partnership: bluntly and honestly. "I've been called back to New York," he commented conversationally. Undaunted by his partner's continued muteness, he continued. "Before I leave, I want to find out how you really feel."

For the first time since the rescue, the reticent Solo locked gazes directly with his friend. There was vulnerability in those expressive hazel eyes that made Kuryakin wish Napoleon would turn away. But the senior agent's gaze remained resolutely steady.

"For a long time I didn't know." Solo took a deep breath. His voice was shaky as he resumed. "I felt betrayed, used -- worthless." He held up a bandaged hand to forestall an imminent interruption. "Part of it is my own fault. I walked into the trap with both eyes open."

"And what do you feel now?" Illya probed gently, unsure he wanted to hear the answer. Neither of them had ever explored so deeply into the other’s psyche. Was Napoleon resentfully blaming him since the American had undertaken the assignment in Illya's behalf? Now desperate to know, Kuryakin asked his most difficult question. "What is in -- inside your heart?"

Now Solo looked away. "I am -- humbled," he whispered almost too quietly to be heard. "I felt the price of treason. I saw death coming for me. Then the rescue . . . . It was an almost painful balm of loyalty so complete . . . " his voice cracked from emotion. "It scares me to know how committed you are to our friendship."

Silent moments ticked past. The speechless Kuryakin was at once amazed yet unsurprised that Solo's turmoil was a mirror of his own emotions. A harrowing affirmation that their greatest commitment and loyalty was to each other. They had structured their lives on the delicate foundation of friendship -- a fragile dependency to another person. It was a dangerous risk, far more terrifying than facing bullets and bombs. In the spy business that had brought the together and fostered their growing dependency, it was pure insanity to be so entwined with another person. It took a greater courage to see one's own vulnerability reflected in a friend, and still reach out to conquer those vulnerabilities together. That unity was their strength. They could withstand anything the world threw at them as long as they faced it together.

"As committed as you were when you took my place on the mission," Illya responded firmly, though his voice shook.

Solo wiped the moisture from his eyes and looked back to his friend. "Committed is probably what I'll be, too," he quipped with a trace of his old humor. "I never thought friendship could be quite so painful."

Kuryakin's response was wryly speculative to match the lighter tone. "You will not know what pain is until you return to Mr. Waverly."

"I'm afraid of that," Solo agreed soberly. "I'm finished in UNCLE."

"If you really want to come back nothing will stop you, Napoleon." Illya countered fervently, believing nothing was impossible if they wanted to fight for it hard enough. The American and Russian were living poof of that. "I would not allow it." A subdued, resolute promise. He held his breath, waiting for Solo to overcome this last hurdle of doubt. Napoleon's decision would spell the future for both of them. Kuryakin had no intention of staying in UNCLE without his partner.

Solo stared at his friend for a long time. He knew Illya would sink or swim with him, they were in too deep for either to abandon the other in any situation. It was a weighty realization to know he held control of their careers. It was nothing new -- he had held their lives in his hands more than once, just as Illya had. It was a responsibility they accepted along with all the benefits of a friendship. Knowing Illya would always be unfalteringly at his side made the decision easier. That faith had sustained him through years of trials. It had kept him alive in the German prison. Sometimes it seemed the only thing that kept him alive at all.

"If you wish I will pull a few strings.  You could fly back with me today," Illya speculated hopefully.

"And tackle this together?" Solo flashed a quick, humorless twitch of a smile. "It won't be easy," Solo said soberly.

Kuryakin accepted the challenge to stay and fight beside his friend as easily as he would have accepted the decision to leave. "Nothing with you is ever easy."

Napoleon grinned with a humor that never touched his eyes. "What are friends for?"

Darkly muttered Russian phrases were Kuryakin's returned comments, then he seriously asked, "For this.” When the injured agent did no reply he said, “You want to come back, don't you?" The answer had seemed obvious until this moment. Where else would Napoleon Solo be, but within the structure of UNCLE? Beside his Russian partner?

Gazing momentarily out the window, Napoleon glanced back to study Kuryakin -- a twinkle of challenge in the blue eyes. How could Solo return to those familiar, traitorous corridors of UNCLE HQ? How could he not? Never could he face the betrayal in those blue eyes if he failed to return. From somewhere he would find a tiny fragment of courage left inside and go back for Illya's sake. He had been willing to die for his friend, certainly he could find the courage to live for him now.

"Of course I'll go back," he responded with forced humor. "You couldn't manage without me."

Kuryakin's smile transformed the sober face to an expression of anticipation. "Battling UNCLE psychologists and policy makers. I love new challenges. I shall go inform the doctors you will be leaving."

The door closed behind the Russian and Solo smiled to himself. Within him he did have the strength left for any kind of fight, but with his friend at his side he knew he would somehow find that strength.

EPILOGUE:

Berlin Wall -- 1990

Napoleon Solo crouched down and folded a fist around a large, hefty chunk of debris atop a bland concrete slab. For a moment he studied the piece of grey, jagged rock, hefting it in his hand. His mind strayed beyond the dull cement and drab day, to a black day twenty years in the past.

"Napoleon?"

The gentle inquiry, spoken from only a few feet away, startled him from the dark reverie. Solo glanced up to look at Illya Kuryakin, standing at his shoulder. He tossed the chunk to Illya and picked up another piece.

"Even as we stand here, breathe this air," Kuryakin began softly, almost in awe, "it is difficult to comprehend this as reality." He absently pocketed the stone and strolled a few steps away.

Ruminatingly, Solo weighed the rock in his hands and straightened to stand next to his friend. Following Illya's studious gaze, Solo surveyed the startling scene of destruction before them. The rubble-filled pavement was scattered with souvenir hunters, tourists and dazed spectators; the curious from the four quarters of the world come to amble through the dust and collect their little shards of history.

Solo negligently tossed the piece of concrete from one hand to the other. "It's just about impossible to believe," he whispered.

He was surprised that awe completely washed out the bitterness, which should have been in his tone. Perhaps the years had blunted his painful memories of this city. Perhaps the sudden destruction of this monument had displaced other, long cooled emotions. Again his mind floated back to another overcast winter day -- the bite of snow in the air, the frosting of ice on the streets. That long ago day was hazed distorted by years, blurred by the pain of the ordeal. He couldn't clearly remember much of that last desperate flight out of Berlin in '68. He remembered the pain. More intently he remembered the insane loyalty of a partner who had infiltrated a hostile country and rescued him from certain death. West Berlin evoked terrible memories of Beldon and Struthers -- torture and the frame of treason. East Berlin -- his facial muscles twitched at the remembrance of the prison, the torture. Resentfulness and anger filtered past his sense of history. They had both left UNCLE not long after their last, fateful visit here to East Berlin, but the years had not erased enough of the pain to make this visit comfortable.

One-handedly tossing his chunk of the Berlin Wall up and down in his fist, Solo scanned the huge, thick slabs of grey concrete, which literally and symbolically represented a divided country and world. He never expected to be on this side of the Wall again. His fist closed around the rock. This terrible edifice had caused so much pain. He scanned the people around them -- some weeping, some silent and dazed. His own throat tightened; hate being washed away by pity and other confusing emotions.

Of all those present here, certainly Kuryakin and he had a right to spill tears, to feel the confusion of change, to mourn the wasted lives and spilled blood of the past. Theirs was a personal agony they had suffered because of this barrier and the ideologies, which had mortared its hate-filled structure. His eyes finally came to rest on his friend a few feet away. Solo's eyes misted at the most profound memory represented here: The personal heroism of sacrifice and risk performed by his friend twenty-odd years ago.

Kuryakin picked up a grey chunk of the Wall and examined it. Satisfied after a few moments of inspection he tossed it back onto the thick slab upon which they were standing. With sharp gestures of finality he brushed the dust from his hands. As if wiping away the residue of the years -- clearing away the ghosts haunting particles of the Wall. He turned and with clear, undisturbed eyes looked at Solo.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," he quoted quietly. "A pity so much pain was inflicted before this could come down."

Solo sighed and philosophically shrugged. His eyes were still misted and he blinked them clear even as he stared at his friend. "If we didn't experience the pain we wouldn't appreciate the joy as much. The tragedy forces us to great sacrifice and heroism."

In the Russian's eyes was a corresponding comprehension of memory, understanding and emotion. Kuryakin blinked his eyes clear and offered a subtle nod. "I think we are done here."

Solo nodded slowly. "I think so."

As the two veterans walked from the old battlefield, Solo slipped the hefty rock into the pocket of his overcoat.

***

A week later, Kuryakin sat at his desk to open a package addressed with the familiar, bold script of his friend. Chills coursed his skin as he pulled from a box a palm-sized chunk of Berlin Wall mounted on a stand. There was a small plate with an inscription:

'For a friend who walks through Walls.'

He smiled warmly, rubbing a finger across the rough surface of the rock. He thought of a return inscription for the rock he had brought back and would send to his friend:

'To a friend who crumbles walls built by Russians.'

THE END