THE
AFFAIR
by
gm
editing
by AS
Prologue
“You asked for it!”
“Waverly assured me he would
send the best!”
Chief of Station Wills Anders
closed within inches of the Chief Enforcement Officer from headquarters. The tall, broad Texan had several inches in
both directions over Napoleon Solo, but the younger, ranking agent did not
flinch at the attack. The cool
disapproval exuding from the confident interloper seemed to anger the older man
as he assessed the composed, frosty expression in the narrowed brown eyes.
“I’d say you’ve fallen far
from the mark!” The piece of paper
crumpled in his right hand was mercilessly crunched into a tight ball and
thrown at Solo.
The younger man flinched, but
stood his ground. Illya Kuryakin
intervened, his shoulder touching his partner’s as he became a partial barrier
between the men. “We’ve done our best. It’s only been two days --“
“And two
more dead agents!” Anders shouted,
his angry voice seeming more suited for herding longhorns rather than dealing
with international spies. His gaze never
leaving Solo’s, he spat out, “You were supposed to
save lives!”
“Our job isn’t done, yet, Mr.
Anders.” Keeping his expression fixed at
neutral, he delivered his declaration as a steel-edged certainty. “We regret the loss of your personnel, but we
are closing in on the Trasks --”
“They are lunatics! They’ve decimated my station! Not personnel, not double-oh-sevens! They are people I work with every day! They are my friends and that murderous beast,
Trask, is picking them off one by one!
These are my friend’s, Mister Solo!
Do you have any idea what that means?”
Grinding his teeth to not
blurt out a nasty, rebuking insult, he clenched his fists to keep from
throttling this insubordinate man. Napoleon felt -- and sensed -- Kuryakin
stiffen and shift slightly as if to go after the man. With a subtle brush against his friend’s arm,
he signaled that he could handle it.
He would not address the
rhetorical affront about knowing what it meant to lose a friend. As Chief Enforcement Officer for North
America, he knew all too well the hurt when one of his agents didn’t come back. He felt the pain keenly. Every day he lived with the threat that it
would be personal one day. Too often he
had been near to understanding that ultimate pain. Even the close calls were agony. The loss he feared weighed on him every time
Illya took on an assignment. It was the
miserable part of his leadership position, and the unfortunate danger inherent
with the profession he had chosen.
“As I said,” he reiterated
tightly, his tone frosty with authority and resolve. “We have a lead. We are leaving now to check it out. I think we’re close to finding the Trasks.”
“Just don’t bring them back
alive.” Anders spun around and left the
room.
Napoleon released a sigh and
continued to stare at the door.
“You’re doing everything --“
“He’s right. We haven’t stopped them yet.”
“We will, Napoleon.” He hesitated, moving closer, placing a
comforting hand on his arm. “You mustn’t
take it personally. He is upset.”
“I do take it personally,
Illya. Remember your John Donne.”
“’Every man’s death diminishes
me.’ “
“
‘No man is an island.’ “
Especially
true when he considered his partnership. “It’s worse when we know them,
but they’re all part of us.” He looked
at the worried blue eyes clinging to him.
Aware that things could be infinitely worse before
this ugly business was over. The
Trasks had targeted UNCLE agents. As
long as they didn’t get the one standing next to him, he could survive
this. “I don’t want them to take even
one more agent.” His fervent voice
nearly cracked. From the flicker in
Illya’s expression he knew his friend read him completely and clearly -- all
messages on all levels. This was
personal and both would do all things possible to make sure it didn’t get the
most personal.
Solo crouched down and picked
up the crumpled paper ball.
Straightening it out, he read the scrawled message unevenly printed in
blood. It was a taunt from two of the
most dangerous men Solo had ever encountered.
Li and Wu Trask were Hong Kong street punks who grew up to be
notoriously evil twins running THRUSH’s enforcement operations in the Far
East. Their exploits became even too
grisly and dangerous for THRUSH and the fraternal twins had been ousted. Not before leaving a trail of dead THRUSH
supervisors behind.
The misguided head of UNCLE
stationed in Hong Kong tried to recruit the young men. They found the Chief’s head atop the mast of
a Chinese junk floating in the harbor.
They never found the rest of the body.
The brother’s were known for their prowess with Oriental fighting swords
and knives. Each carried various
weaponry used to mutilate, behead or dismember depending on their whim at the
time of attack.
Since then the Trasks had led
UNCLE across the globe for months.
Bodies of UNCLE agents accumulated along with local enforcement
agencies, Interpol, CIA
and MI6. Now, with each
body, or with each crime (they kept themselves in lucre by robbing banks,
kidnappings, extortion -- anything that they could conceive of), they left a
challenge:
catch us if you can
For every agency that felt a
loss, there was a quest to catch the brothers.
Napoleon would stop short of calling it a vendetta, but that was what it
was. Most, like Anders, took it
personally. Solo did, too. Five agents killed in North America in the
last month. Two dismembered, two
beheaded, one eviscerated. Three of them
were from the Seattle Station. That made
it personal for Anders.
As soon as the first taunting
note was received at the beginning of the week, Solo and Kuryakin had been
dispatched here to the Northwest to track the Trasks. The grisly and needless murders sickened
Napoleon, and he sympathized with Anders emotions, but he needed to keep a cool
head to beat these guys at their own mind games. There was no one better to pit against them
than him and his partner, who had a great track-record at outwitting many
foes. This game of hide and seek had
become deadly. Two more agents lost, but
through detective work and some analytical thinking on Illya’s part, they were
close. He knew they were.
“We should prepare,” Illya
suggested and took the note from his partner, folding it away in a pocket.
“Thanks.”
“For?”
Patting his shoulder,
Napoleon favored him with a wry wink.
“Back up. The
not-so-subtle Kuryakin threat.
He’s twice your size.”
“You know my greatest
advantage is my deceptive appearance.”
“Yes,” he nodded slowly. “When someone makes you angry, they never
know what hit them until after they’re on the floor.” He straightened his shoulders and looked his
friend in the eyes, his demeanor sobering.
“I have a feeling we’re going to need all our skills today.”
“The Trasks are no match for
our cunning,” he declared confidently.
“Their reign of terror ends here.”
***
Wearing ski masks, coats and
gloves, they were as protected as possible from the frosty night air. Lying in the damp dirt on a
hillside overlooking a scenic vale, Solo set down his binoculars and rubbed his
eyes.
“Only ten more minutes. You don’t think we miscalculated?”
“No,” his partner replied
without hesitation or doubt, interrupting humming. “We are right.”
Solo returned to staring
through the field glasses. “Conviction - one of your best traits, Illya. What are you humming?”
“You don’t recognize it?”
“No.”
“Subtlety is lost on you, my
friend.” He hummed a few more bars. “Well?”
Shrugging, Napoleon glanced
at him. “I give up.”
“Dave Clark Five.” On the American’s blank look, he
scowled. “Catch Us If You Can,” he surrendered glumly.
“Are you serious?”
“You have no ear for music.”
“Let me guess. This group has long hair and British
accents?”
“Of course. ‘Here
they come again, hmm. Catch us if you
can, hmm.’ “ His glower deepened. “You make it so difficult to play musical
trivia by being musically starved.”
“Sinatra, Martin, Bennett,
Mathis, Getz. I don’t live in a cultural
wasteland, you know.”
He returned to watching the
mineral company. Raw gems were to be
shipped from this clearinghouse today.
The street value would be worth millions after cutting and processing the
various stones. They were certain this
quiet, unassuming, but monetarily important little business in the mountains
outside of Vancouver BC was the target of the Trasks.
In a few minutes, the gems
would be leaving in an armored car. Solo
was betting they would strike here at the plant before the gems entered the
security of the truck. Illya voted they
would attack en route. The truck pulled
into the secured grounds and the agents tensed, watching every detail. The transfer went smoothly and within moments
the truck was on its way. The partners
sprinted to their jeep and Kuryakin raced through the brush to connect with the
small road leading to the freeway.
When the armored truck was in
sight, he slowed, following at a safe distance.
Only a few miles to go on the narrow, two-lane highway, then they would be on the freeway. Grudgingly, Solo admitted this was a good
spot for an ambush. Sheer
drop to the left where the mountain sloped down. High sides on the right
where the road cut into the mountain.
As they followed, they
watched in horror as a flatbed truck tore down the mountain around a blind
curve of the road, and smacked into the armored car, pushing it off the road
and down the ravine. Illya slammed on
the brakes and the jeep skidded sideways, nearly clipping the rear of the empty
logging truck. As they skidded in
360-degree turns, they felt and heard the distinctive pluck of bullets around
them.
The jeep rocked to a stop
tilted against the mountain on the passenger side. Solo unbuckled his and Illya’s seat belts and
moved before they finished jolting. Two
blurred figures in black raced after the truck, shooting at the jeep. He fired back, slipping out as Illya dropped
to the pavement.
Amid the choking dust,
coughing, gunshots, the grinding of the truck’s downward plunge, his senses
alerted him on other levels. Almost
instinctively -- a sense/hearing -- he was aware of Illya’s moan as he hit the
ground. Scrambling over he dragged his
partner behind the jeep as both of them shot at the disappearing Trasks racing
after the armored truck.
“I told you so,” Illya
snapped, groaning as he leaned against the wheel.
“It hurts to be so correct,”
Solo grimaced as he saw dark red fluid spreading across Kuryakin’s black
sweater at the top of the right shoulder.
“How bad?”
The arm was shaking and the
Walther dropped from his hand. “I think
my muscles are not working properly,” he hissed in pain. “And maybe worse.”
Quickly assessing, Solo
determined the bullet went through the top of the shoulder, probably chipping
or breaking the shoulder blade and leaving two bleeding holes. “Well, we’ve got trouble with a capital T.
You stay here. No doubt the
Trasks have a vehicle waiting down the hill.”
Before he could sprint away,
Illya grabbed his shirt. “I’m coming --“
“You’re staying.”
Defiantly, the Russian seized
his pistol with his left hand.
“Ambidextrous.”
Frowning, Solo ripped open
Illya’s sweater at the tear. Removing a
handkerchief from his pocket, he carefully tucked it on the bleeding wounds. Finally, he nodded with a sigh, “Back me up
then, but be careful, please.”
“Always.”
Solo ran across the road and
slide down the mountain. Concentrating
on keeping his footing in the muddy, thickly overgrown forest ground, he
occasionally glanced back to keep an eye on his friend. Illya was slowly making his way down. Napoleon couldn’t afford to wait, but on a
few occasions backtracked to assist his injured friend. Then he would dash ahead and scramble through
the underbrush swiftly, hoping to catch their prey before the evil brothers
fled.
Li, stocky and flat-faced,
with broad shoulders tucked tightly in a coat, had just disappeared behind the
front of the truck. Wu labored at the
back, dragging bags out of the mangled vehicle.
The renegades were murderers.
They had nearly killed Illya and him.
Still, Napoleon’s code of ethics forced him to take a stand and issue a
fair warning.
“Hold it right there,
Wu. Put your hands up and back away.”
The flash of silver
registered at the same instant Napoleon ducked, feeling the back of his sweater
rip as he dove for cover as bullets sprayed around him. Popping off several shots at Wu, who had
scurried into a thicket of trees, and at Li, toward the front of the truck, he
glanced back. There was no sign of
Illya.
Napoleon stepped silently to
the right and gasped when a shiny blade swept out of nowhere, slicing his arm,
knocking the pistol from his hand. A sword plunging into the tree next to him. Just in time, he caught Wu flying in for a
tackle. They tumbled into the mud,
slamming against a tree. There was no
time to search for his pistol.
“Napoleon,
move!”
Illya stood just a few feet
away, unwilling to shoot while the combatants were tangled together. Incapable of using his numb, injured arm,
Solo was losing the fight and Kuryakin was impatient to help his friend. Wu slammed Napoleon against the tree and
throttled his throat. Unable to get a
clear shot, Illya tucked away the Walther and reached for the sword imbedded in
the wood.
Caught in Wu’s grip, Napoleon
was being strangled. Illya came from
behind, swung around and with a mighty thrust skewered Wu, sending the body
into the nearest tree, impaling the Oriental like a trophy on a wall. A scream echoed in the still woods.
“No!”
Another
horrendous screech.
“WU!”
The area rained bullets and
Illya grabbed Solo, throwing them into the thick brush.
A sobbing wrench sounded like
a death-throe, echoing through the trees.
“I -- will -- kill -- you for this!”
The forest splintered with
the reverberation of agony, then with the murderous spray of bullets as they
pinged into trees and plowed into bushes.
Solo skidded through the underbrush searching for his weapon. Finally retrieving it, he joined his partner
and returned fire. Illya’s
slide popped back and he switched clips awkwardly with one hand as Solo emptied
his pistol, clumsily reloading, with limited use of his hand. In the silence, they waited, watching the
forest, occasionally glancing at each other.
Solo checked his friend’s shoulder, which was still bleeding, the black
sweater now soppy with dark red.
Napoleon motioned that he was
going to walk to the right. Touching
Illya’s chest, he indicated the wounded agent should rest. Illya gave a nod and leaned against the tree,
keeping watch on his partner’s progress.
Solo crept away, circling around to get a view at the front of the
truck. No sign of Li. Down the hill he heard a car engine and saw a
green truck tearing away in a billow of dust.
Just to be on the safe side
he circumspectly checked the area, finally determining it was clear. Then he returned to the accident scene. Illya was there checking the truck. He reported that the escaping Li managed to
get away with part of the shipment of gems.
“More importantly, Wu is
dead.”
“Yes, I gathered that.” He slowly trudged over to observe the body
impaled on the tree.
“So did Li.”
Solo grimaced. “Well, I’m afraid that won’t be the last
we’ll see of Mr. Li.” Suddenly drained,
he took Illya by the arm and led him to a nearby log. “Sit.
Did you call for back up?”
“On the
way.”
Leaning against the nearest
tree, Napoleon closed his eyes and leaned his head back, cradling his bleeding
arm. “You don’t look so good.”
“I’ll be fine.” His next words were rife with concern. “You don’t look so good, either.”
“Wu didn’t go down easy.”
“They never do.” He tutted sympathetically, irritated. “I think you will win for the
most-stitches-contest this time around,” he drolly informed, just a hint of
regret intermingled with the long-suffering sigh.
“Yours is worse.”
“Yours is a deeper gash. Mine can just be sewn up.”
“Swell,” he sighed with equal
weariness of body and soul. “I just love
winning.”
Illya joined him sitting
against the tree. Their heads met in
mutual exhaustion. “Half
winning. Only one brother is
dead. Li will not forget this.”
“Well, they did ask for it,”
Solo concluded, closing his eyes.
I
“Catch me if you can.”
“Jeez, Kuryakin, don’t you
ever take a day off?”
“I am anxious to catch
Trask.”
“He’s just another
THRUSH. You sound like it’s personal.”
Touching the sling on his
arm, Kuryakin glared at Agent Sands.
Smoothly intervening, Solo glibly stepped
between his partner and the other two agents in the hospital room. There was no need to turn this into a turf
war. Neither was it necessary to define
Illya’s reasoning about why Trask’s apprehension was so personally important. He had a good idea why the Russian was in a
sour, guarded mood. No reason to enlighten
the others.
“You know how Illya hates
hospitals,” he offered blandly. Barely
brushing eye contact with his partner, he moved closer to Richardson and
Sands. “He hates losing THRUSH agents who
put him here even worse. He’s just in a
bad humor.” His smile was thin,
conciliatory and shallow. “Let’s
concentrate on the issue at hand. When
you think you’ve got a solid lead on Trask, call
me. I’d like to be in on the kill.”
Carl Richardson, a tall,
broad, imposing young man originally from Jamaica, gave him a curt nod. Tyson Sands, a slighter, thinner agent who’s
piercing sky-blue eyes seemed to penetrate right through Napoleon, lightened
his expression. They were a formidable
team. Competitive in every aspect of
life, Napoleon felt they were always figuratively nipping at his heels, trying
to prove they were better than him and Illya.
It was the nature of men and women who lived for danger that they be
naturally aggressive. Not that Section
Two had any overt rivalry going, but it was no secret that they would like to
be hailed as Section Two’s top team.
Napoleon’s ego would never allow it, but neither would he ever admit
that in the back of his mind he always enjoyed besting his teammates.
With both he and Illya
injured – an all too common occurrence – Richardson and Sands were taking over
lead on the Trask hunt. In this case, he
was glad for the assist. Illya’s cracked
shoulder blade and muscle damage would put him out of the field for some
time. Napoleon’s arm had twelve stitches
thanks to Wu Trask’s sword, and five stitched in his back for the slice made by
Wu’s ninja throwing star. So action
games were not on his agenda for a while.
He would be out there himself, but the blood loss from his laceration
left him weak enough to acquiesce to a few days on the sidelines.
“We’ll be in touch,”
Richardson smiled as he headed for the door.
“Does this make three times
this year, Napoleon?”
“Who’s counting?” Illya
responded for his partner.
Napoleon just offered a sour
expression to Sands.
“See you back at the ranch,”
Sands smiled and slipped out of the room.
“Their imaginary competition
is ridiculous, Napoleon.”
“Childish,” he agreed
readily.
“Then why do you allow it to
bother you?”
“I don’t,” he countered too
quickly. Not wanting to see a smug,
knowing look from his partner, Solo moved to the window. “Neither one of us is in any shape to go up
against Trask. As long as he’s behind
bars, or dead, I don’t really care who catches him.”
“Hmm,” was the Russian’s
dubious lack of agreement. “Remember what he promised.”
Ah, he suspected that was why
Illya was taking this personally. Not to
mention the injuries. Illya didn’t
forgive enemies for putting either of them in the hospital. He liked violent threats against them even
less.
“I remember.” Solo settled carefully into a chair. It was going to be a very uncomfortable
night. “That’s why I thought I’d hang
out here for a while. I’ll go scrounge a
deck of cards after dinner. Between the
two of us, we can just manage to shuffle.
Almost. Maybe.”
“Chief Anders will not assign
an agent –“
“There are no agents left,”
Solo sighed. “And I don’t trust your
health to the local Mounties. They are
still reeling from all the murders around here.”
Illya closed his eyes and
snuggled into the pillow. “Careful. Li Trask is after both of us.”
“Togetherness, that’s what
partnership is all about,” Napoleon offered, smiling tightly as he watched his
friend slip from drowsiness to sleep almost instantly.
The humor faded quickly as he
thought of Trask’s promised revenge.
There was nothing funny about being targeted by a deranged
assassin. Neither did he like the
thought of other agents – albeit talented colleagues – out there taking care of
their vitally important mission. This
was personal to both him and Illya. It
could mean their lives, and he was feeling particularly vulnerable with both of
them wounded and in the hospital. Well,
soon enough Richardson and Sands would bag Trask. And at the end of the week he and Illya would
be flying back to New York. Shifting
uncomfortably in the chair, he reasoned either of those outcomes would just not
be soon enough.
***
The drone of voices blurred
in his mind. It happened often –
awakening from drugs or unconsciousness and uncertain about his place or
status. That one of the voices was
easily recognizable as his partner’s washed him with a sense of peace and
security. Whatever was happening, Napoleon
was not stressed. Everything was
okay. His partner was taking care of him.
Who was taking care of his
partner? His dulled mind wondered.
Napoleon was not in immediate danger, but there was a threat out there
that he couldn’t quite remember. But Solo seemed
unfazed. The others – Richardson and
Sands – were unstressed as well.
Everything was all right. They
were joking with his partner? Slipping
back into an uneasy doze, he remembered the first time he met Carl Richardson
and Ty Sands – a recollection not so pleasant:
------------------------------------------------
Spring 1964
"The guy is a headhunter. I'm telling you, Ty, we're done
for."
Slipping his thin frame into the lift just before the automatic
doors closed, Illya Kuryakin breathed a covert sigh of relief. His first day in UNCLE HQ New York, he did
not want to be late. It was not his
fault, of course, that traffic was horrendous because of an accident. The head of UNCLE North American would not be
impressed by that excuse, however.
"Come on, Carl, you really think he's that ruthless?"
"Deadly. Any agent not
measuring up to his perfect standards is history in this office."
There was no way to not eavesdrop in an elevator. Kuryakin tried to politely SEEM to not be
interested. Who were these two agents
talking about? A new
enemy? Ty, the thin man with
blazing blue eyes and thinning red hair, seemed calm. The bulky, broad, muscled Carl seemed tense,
his dark face agitated.
"All I know is what I heard from the Section Two secretary
Annie. The Emperor is pushing agent Rice
out of his number two slot. To get to
the top of Enforcement, the Emperor’s gone through five partners this year
alone."
"Five? Why do you keep
count? You’re too competitive with
him. I think YOU wanted to be
promoted."
"Okay, yeah, I’m steamed about his promotion. But he's using every one of those bodies to
climb up to the top slot as Chief Enforcement Officer. Old Milton better watch his back."
"Come on, Ty --"
"And he's looking for a partner to go with him on this
Canadian case. I'm telling you, if
Waverly asks I'm gonna tell him I won't go with the Emperor. He's like his name, a loner, and lets his
team mates catch the bullets for him."
"I heard Waverly was bringing in a new agent from Europe. Maybe he'll be the new victim."
"Then we better get the name and address of where to send
flowers."
The lift stopped and Kuryakin exited first since it was the level
where he was supposed to meet with the aforementioned Agent Milton -- the Chief
Enforcement agent for Section Two.
Just transferring in from Europe, Kuryakin was a little nervous
about coming to the United States and working with Americans. As soon as they learned he was a Russian they
would be suspicious and distrustful.
Even though they were all agents, they wouldn't be able to help
themselves. He had experienced a mild
form of the prejudice in England, but expected it ten-fold here.
Now added to the mix were intense office
politics. There had been too many such
games in Russia. Many
in English universities. He never
ventured into such games, but knew Americans were notorious for such trivial
concerns. To Illya, it was more
important to fight the bad guys outside the walls rather than the jealous
factions within any large organization.
-----------------------------------
Feeling secure, Kuryakin
remained still, eyes closed. When he
heard the soft rustle of material and a barely audible sigh, he almost smiled, aware it was his partner faithfully remaining on
vigil. Relaxed, knowing he was not in
danger, he took his time waking. Illya had followed Solo’s
lead in releasing himself prematurely from the hospital the day before. Neither were fit
enough to travel back to New York so they were staying out the week in a
comfortable hotel. Still not completely
fit, Napoleon was in and out of the local RCMP offices coordinating the hunt
for Trask. Curiosity now overpowering
comfort, Kuryakin opened his eyes.
His partner was standing by
the window, gazing out at a cold, bleak sky.
Close clouds were dark with the promise of heavy rain. Dressed in casual slacks, open-collared plaid
shirt, and sweater, there was a pensive, disturbed expression on the American
that worried him.
“What’s wrong?”
Solo started; turning, he
smiled. “Nothing. How are you feeling?”
“Better. What’s wrong?”
Moving closer, Napoleon grin
was sincere. “Everything’s fine. Ty and Carl came by. They got Trask.” He stiffly sat on the side of the bed, not
bothering to disguise the soreness of his injuries. “He’s being processed. Richardson and Sands will take him back
today.” The calm assurance almost
reached his eyes. “All’s well that ends
well.”
“And you are uneasy because?”
Scowling, Solo shook his head.
“I would feel more comfortable if I could put a bullet in Trask’s
dangerous head.”
Illya nodded with
conviction. “Agreed.”
When Richardson and Sands
returned, they brought foam cartons of deli food that Solo and Kuryakin eagerly
accepted. The camaraderie was more
relaxed, the edge of competition eased with the capture of the violent
assassin. Ty felt it had been too easy,
and invited the top team to a real competition.
“Carl and I are doing a hide
and seek next weekend. Care to make it a
team effort?”
“We’re still on the injured
list,” Solo reminded. “Besides, I’m not
supposed to know about these games officially.”
“Okay,” Carl shrugged. “Unofficially, do you want to engage in a
game of wits? Nothing physical, I
promise. We’ll go easy on you guys. We don’t want you to look too bad when we
cream you.”
Carl seemed confused.
Solo offered one of his
effortless smiles -- denoting danger -- even evil -- behind the benign
façade. “We could run rings around you
two.”
“But we are not interested,” Illya
assured sharply, with expressive finality, glaring at his partner.
Clearly challenging, Sands
raised his fair eyebrows. “Come on,
everybody does it. So, who won between
you two?”
“My money’s on Illya,”
Richardson admitted with a sly look.
“You’re slick,” he complimented the Russian.
Clearly stung by the slight,
Napoleon frowned.
“We’ve never engaged in the
game,” Kuryakin shot out bluntly. “There
is far too much real work to attend to without playing adolescent contests of
pride.”
Sands scoffed. “It’s just like tracking Trask, except for
sport, and against your partner.” He
shook his head. “You’re no fun,
Kuryakin.” He eyed their superior. “My money’s on you, Napoleon. Senior agent. You have the edge with experience.”
Without as much conviction,
the Section Two Chief guaranteed they had far more serious matters that
constantly held their attention. When
asked what they did to blow off steam, Napoleon declared he would rather play
games with the many available women of his acquaintance than taking a busman’s
holiday with fugitive play-acting.
“It’s like Survival School
training only more fun,” Richardson assured.
“You’re pitted against your partner.
There’s nothing tougher than trying to outfox someone who can read you
like a book.”
“No thanks,” Illya firmly
reiterated.
After the other team left,
Solo donned a warm coat, admitting he’d feel better seeing Trask off
personally. He advised his friend to
rest. Maybe on the morrow, after his
duties with the local authorities were taken care of, they could see what
Vancouver had to offer. Not all that
interested in sightseeing, Illya admitted it would be nice to get out and walk
in the fresh air. He was feeling
confined even in the hotel room. He had,
after all, seen too many non-descript hotels as he had hospitals and was not
fond of either.
At the door, Solo paused and
gazed back at him with a speculative, bemused expression. “So, who do you think would win?”
“What?”
“If we
played agent hide-and-seek? Who would win?”
“I will not even dignify that
with a response.”
“Bet you a dinner at the
Russian Tea Room it would be me.”
“Humph.”
Retaining the little secret
smile, Napoleon gave a nod and left.
Kuryakin, knowing his partner all too well, thought it a dangerous look.
II
“Let the Games begin.”
From the dim light against
his eyelids he knew it was still light outside, but subdued. Faintly he could hear rain pelting the roof
and windows. In no hurry to waken he lay
still and listened. Strangely
quiet. Napoleon should have been awake
by now. Opening his eyes, he noted the
room was empty. Rolling over, his head
crumpled something. Sitting up, he read
the note:
“Catch me if you can,”
NS
He’s started the game! Illya
raged, instantly furious. Sometimes
Napoleon was so ridiculous. They have a
few days off and he allowed other agents to goad him into this frivolous
competition. It angered the pragmatic
Russian that his friend was addicted to the thrill of adventure and often
sought it out in avenues aside from their risky profession.
Well, he was not going to
play. He would just ignore it. Years of experience with Napoleon’s arrogance
made him an expert with his subject. Of
course, in a real contest he could track Solo blindfolded. He knew his friend too well. But he was not going to play the game. It was silly. He would rather rest in
preparation for his flight back east in a few days. It also irritated him that Solo had ruined
their planned time off together. Sitting
in the hotel, gazing out the window, he looked through the blurry, rain-smeared
panes and simmered with irritation at the man he loved like a brother, and felt
so vexed with frequently. It had been
the pattern of their partnership from the very beginning:
----------------------------
Spring 1964
Alone in the
Number One Section One's office, Kuryakin tensed when the automatic doors
opened and he heard a familiar voice strained with opposition. In mid-sentence, the self-absorbed Mr. Solo
was volubly debating with the leader of UNCLE North America!
" . . . not need a partner! Solo, I work fine solo, sir."
Waverly strode into the circular office as if never hearing a word
from the obstreperous younger man. Solo followed, his attention on the older man, thus completely
missing Kuryakin, who was standing near the window in the far corner of the
room.
"And I don't have time to train some fresh-faced kid who won't
know a thing about me!"
For a moment, Kuryakin wanted to interrupt to save Solo and himself
from embarrassment.
Obviously, Napoleon had not changed his mind about partners. Fine, neither had he, Illya insisted to
himself. So why was he so disappointed
at the dashing agent's rejection? Because Solo had made it a point to befriend him on a mission the
year before? In reality, perhaps
the previous experience had been empty flattery on Solo's part.
Disgusted with himself, Illya stared at the floor, expertly
covering the chagrin from his now closed expression. When he looked up again to stare icy daggers
at the back of Solo's perfectly combed hair, Kuryakin was completely under
control, his face a disdainful mask of neutrality. He had spent a lifetime perfecting this armor
around himself.
True, the cunning American had briefly pierced the shielding last
year. Solo had accepted him as a new,
green field agent -- accepted him as an equal.
Even respecting his opinion of a phase of the
operation. At the conclusion,
expressing a hope they would work together again.
“ ‘If you’re ever in New York we’ll get together,” ‘
Solo had invited.
Now that Illya knew the real nature of the arrogant agent, he would
not be fooled again.
Waverly took a place in his chair at the round table. As he charged a pipe, he barely flicked his
eyes up. "Ah, I see your new
comrade has joined us."
Unable to help himself, Kuryakin stared at the American, daring the
self-centered, brash daredevil to make a comment to his face. Illya couldn't wait to dash him with the cold
contempt of his icy eyes -- to cut him to ribbons with lashing wit . . . .
Turning stiffly, Solo's dark, glowering expression seemed to
overshadow everything for an instant. Then the flash of recognition. And a smile. Kuryakin blinked as he realized the warmth of
the grin thawed the cold of Solo's features and sparked the brown eyes with the
light of humor and – something akin to welcome and inclusion.
"Illya!" Solo
barely glanced at Waverly, then crossed the room. His left arm was held close to his chest and
he was careful not to make many movements with that side of his body. "You don't mean Illya?" He fondly shook hands with the startled
visitor and stood next to the slighter Russian.
"You're my partner for this mission?" He gave a pleased nod. "Well, that's different. Good to see you again. Let the games begin."
Illya was too stunned to respond.
Eyebrows raised, he silently looked from the boss to the American. How could he be Solo's partner? Neither one of them wanted a partner! They were so completely unsuited, although their
South American operation the year before had been successful.
The acceptance made him both wary and pleased. Unusual reactions for him. He wouldn’t let his guard down, but Solo did
seem honestly pleased to see him and glad to work together. Still, Solo had proven to be a skilled, if
flamboyant agent. He could probably
learn a few things from the American, as well as teach him a bit of
humility. And it was only one mission. Waverly did not say anything about this being
forever.
---------------------------
Well, Napoleon could stew in
his own soup today. Illya would allow
him to be solo this time. He
could explain the game to Waverly. Of
course, tonight, when Illya was not on the trail of Solo to wherever he was,
the American would call, be irritated that there was no game, and they would
meet for dinner.
Insisting he was not engaging
in the competition, Illya left the room, checked the hotel, asked questions of
the maids and other employees, and tracked down Solo’s departure time and his
mode of transport (a cab). Easily traceable. He
was not playing much of a game so far.
It would grow more complex, of course.
Continuing the search purely out of curiosity, he established through
some phone calls that Solo had been dropped off at the bus station by the
cab. Then he caught another cab to the
fishing pier, and chartered a boat.
Napoleon was serious about
the game. He had not returned to
surrender. Of course, Illya had never
really expected that. Napoleon loved betting,
loved playing against the odds and mostly, he managed to win through that
incredible, miraculous commodity they had come to label ‘Solo’s luck’. But he
thought because of the recent injuries, Solo would grow bored when Illya did
not give chase. Napoleon was too stubborn
to give in. Promising he would exact
revenge against his partner, Illya left the cozy, if lonely hotel, and drove
their rental car to the docks.
Getting the name and
description of the rental boat, he drove to every marina in the area, finally
finding the empty boat in a populous area of Vancouver where various
restaurants were near the exclusive dock area.
Just the type of place his partner loved.
He tracked the slippery Solo
to a classy marina restaurant where soft Sinatra tunes played over the PA and
well dressed professionals lunched. The
receptionist remembered Napoleon well.
The smile and dreamy eyes were memorable, she said. He had come in to use the phone and call a
cab. He had flirted with her while he waited, and gave her a tip when he left.
Ah, Napoleon, my friend, your
old habits and charm are your undoing. He
smiled to himself as he called the same cab company and learned where his
partner had been taken. Feeling
invigorated with the challenge, he resolved if Napoleon wanted to play games,
he would meet the challenge.
“Against
my better judgment.”
It would never do to
underestimate his friend’s skills. Illya
was the best. Except
for him, of course. And even that
was a close call. Almost a dead heat in
the way they could play the game. But,
his pride allowed himself a bit of an edge. His communicator beeped and he
responded immediately.
“How you doing so far, partner?”
“Napoleon –“
“Come on. We
have a few days off. I promise I’ll go
easy –“
“This is a foolish –“
“I promise it will be fun, Illya.” He used his
most persuasive tone. His friend was
irritated, but he could win him over. “Come on.
You’re not afraid I’ll win, are you?”
“No.”
Appeal to his inquisitive,
challenging nature. That always
worked. “Then you’ll keep playing?”
“Against my
better judgment. Where are you?”
“You’re not going to get off too easy, tovarich. Hungry yet? If you
hurry, I’ll treat you to lunch. Catch me
if you can.”
He cut the connection with a
sly smile. This was going to be so
fun! There was very little he liked as
much as hanging around with his partner.
Illya was a great guy. Few had
discovered the hidden value of the Russian.
Over the years, they had melded into fast friends. Secure friends. It had not always been that fun, of
course. He had to go through a lot of
training to teach the reclusive new agent how to have a good time. At the beginning, he felt a little sorry for
Illya. Not everyone in America was
willing to openly embrace a Russian. Not
even UNCLE agents.
------------------------
Spring 1964
". . . and I'm going to
protest to Mr. Waverly about it!"
"Come on, Janice, this is an international organization. And you know we need someone as skilled as
this young man . . . . "
Minding his own business in the coffee line in the cafeteria,
Napoleon Solo didn't want to be a third party to the conversation between the
two agents he did not know. Curious, though, about the hot debate, he was pleased that there
was a conclusion before the two drifted off.
"I know, but a Russian!
Here in New York!"
Sipping his coffee, Solo smiled behind his cup as he strolled into
the corridor, heading for the top floors of headquarters. He'd worked with a Russian once in South
America and found it a successful, even enjoyable mission. Considering himself as patriotic as the next
man, he had learned last year that good agents came in all sizes, colors and
nationalities.
Aside from the cold war, UNCLE represented
an international blending of talent to make the world a better place. He really believed that. Besides, he’d briefly met a very skilled and
cunning Russian operative and was suitably impressed. They weren’t partnered, but worked on the
same mission together with several other agents. It had been a successful and illuminating
experience. If this new agent was anything like the smart blond he'd worked
with before, then the New York office would be in good shape. Just as long as Waverly didn't think he was
going to partner the newcomer with him!
Solo worked solo.
-------------------------
Now, after years of fruitful
missions and shared days of pain and joy, he loved the guy like they were
brothers. They were as matched as
brothers, although their personalities were vastly different. That was where the astronomically high
success rate came from. Their differing
approaches brought new angles and sparking proficiency. In this challenge, it
would be fun to see if he could really pull it off. Not that Illya was better than he was, but he
knew it was going to be close. It took him a while, but he slowly cracked the
icy barrier around Kuryakin and it had all been worth the trouble:
***
In spite of his misgivings,
Illya put his complete attention and considerable wit into the game. Napoleon had covered his tracks well, but the
senior agent was not donning a disguise.
Yet.
With his almost movie-star good looks and natural sophistication – not
to mention the injuries, his arm was stiff and awkward, made him move slowly -–
Napoleon was a noticeable figure. He
might decide on a disguise later, but Illya would catch him by this afternoon,
certainly.
It should be soon, his
stomach was growling. It was
lunchtime. He scanned the area,
wondering if his partner could see him.
Napoleon would not respond anymore on the private Channel S they used
for personal communications. That
escalated the game.
There had always been a
friendly and sometimes not-so-friendly competition between them. Right from the start. Solo didn’t like to lose even in the smallest
things. Illya didn’t either. Solo had the easily bruised ego and stiff
American pride. Illya had his own issues
with conceit and prejudice. Somehow,
they got through it in those early days to establish something incredible
between them. Despite Illya’s stubborn
defiance:
--------------------------
Summer 1964
Wary, but pleasantly surprised at the success of the partnership,
and his growing camaraderie with the American, Illya did not want to appear to
surrender too easily. Russian pride and
Solo’s ego made him guarded about showing the fondness that came with this
strange partnership that was turning into friendship. He had never really had a friend before, and
he very much liked the benefits. But he
would not let Solo know just yet.
"Do not make the same mistake about Russians as your namesake,
Napoleon."
"And what is that?"
“There is nothing you can do to thaw a Russian’s soul."
"Really? Wanna bet?"
Illya forced himself to not automatically respond to the twinkling
eyes and the challenging grin of the American.
"No," he considered after a moment.
Solo laughed.
"Good. Cause you'd lose that
one, Illya. I'm going to show you some
incredible tricks, partner."
The Russian snorted.
"You show me? I think not.
Besides, Mr. Waverly did not say we would continue to be partners."
“We will, bet on it. Waverly
can’t deny our successful collaboration.”
“I thought you didn’t like partners.”
“Well, I didn’t before. But
you’re pretty good, Illya. I’ll be able
to teach you a lot.”
“Teach me?”
"And we’ll have fun. You’ve never really had much fun in
Russia, I bet. Have you ever been to a
ball game?" On the perplexed
expression he laughed again. "Welcome to the new world,
tovarich."
-----------------------
The beep of his communicator
surprised him and he switched it on. “I
am closing in, my friend,” he reported with relish.
“Really,
Mr. Kuryakin?”
“Mr.
Waverly!”
“We are unable to reach Mr.
Solo. Apparently he is not with you?”
“No – he is – out – at the
moment.”
“I see. Please contact him as soon as possible. Li Trask escaped custody while in transit.”
Alarm shot through him like
fire. “How?” It didn’t matter the methods, of course. What mattered is that a man who swore
vengeance on them was at large.
“Richardson and Sands had him.
What happened?”
“They were injured, but
alive. Trask escaped before they left
Vancouver. If Mr. Solo feels up to it, or you for that matter, you might want to join the
search. I understand it will be in your
best interests to return him to custody.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rushing along, he tried again
to raise his friend on the communicator.
Napoleon! This is not a game
anymore! he promised, fear lending energy and urgency
to his strides as he hurried to the next shopping area where Solo was taken by
the last cab. No one in the shops had
seen Solo. Still no
answer. What if Trask already
found him?
IV
“What goes around comes
around.”
It was misting, a precursor
to rain, when he found the small skiff Solo rented. It was tied up at an isolated dock outside
the city. Repeated signals on the
communicator yielded no response. Heart
in his throat, as he hurriedly approached the small boat he heard the familiar
bleep of Napoleon’s communicator.
Instinctively knowing that was an ominous turn of events, he rushed
over, crouching down to peer into the boat.
On the wood slats of the
seats was the shiny reflection of a metal circle, the dark black of a
Walther. Inside Napoleon’s ring was a
scrolled sheet of paper. With shaking
hands, Illya retrieved the articles.
They all seemed smeared with dark coloring; the ring – Napoleon’s
familiar silver ring with the iolite gem – was still sticky with blood. Pocketing the prizes, he unfolded the paper,
also smeared with blood. The words, in
an untidy scrawl, were clearly legible:
catch us if you can
Trembling with regret and
dread, Illya collapsed to his knees.
Trask had Napoleon. They couldn’t
be that hard to track. Napoleon was
hurt. If he was still
alive. Trask
wanted to kill them. Why lure them to
their deaths? Why didn’t Illya find a
body instead of a taunt? Because it was a ludicrous game. Trask wasn’t done with either of them
yet. He wanted to play a game, just as
he had before. This time the stakes were
deadly. And he was afraid of what he
would find at the end of the game.
Weak and sick at heart, he
gathered his nerves and called Waverly first.
He hoped his report was concise and neutral. No need to allow his anguish to seep into a
call for help. Sands and Richardson were
still in the area and he called them next.
After the communications were complete, he sat there, deep in disturbed
thought, planning his next move. His
communicator beeped and he answered it.
“How are you doing so far, Kuryakin?”
His blood chilled. “Trask?” he barely whispered.
“Do you need another clue?”
“Let me talk to Napoleon.” A low grunt echoed in the stillness of his
suspended breath.
“Illya – don’t play the game
–“
Another
grunt.
Trask’s
voice next. “Follow the
trail, Kuryakin. But you mustn’t
tarry. At nightfall, Solo will die.”
The connection was
broken. Illya strained to think beyond
the agony clouding his thoughts. The trail. What
trail? With Trask? Or with Solo? Or with anything? Think logically. Trask, like every madman, had a pattern. Follow where Trask had been? His victims? His crimes? How far must he backtrack? The logical point would be where he and
Napoleon came into the picture. At the mineral depository.
He contacted Richardson and suggested they check Trask’s previous crime
locations. He was moving blindingly
here, but knew there was method in the madness. And only a
few hours to win the most important game of his life.
The mineral depository was
closed. He skidded up to the gates and
leaped out. The electronic fence was
locked down. Before he approached the
guard shack, he veered over to the electronic latch. There was something not right . . . . The
silver shaft of a communicator caught the anemic light of the waning sun
through the tall trees. He removed the
communicator from the gate. Red smears
of blood were still sticky. He saw it as
the last chance to find his friend. No
more communications. Would there be any
more clues?
Climbing slowly into the car
he sighed, weary in spirit, body and mind; desperate and afraid. He struggled to think past the
limitations. This was far from over yet. Trask would want him to find Napoleon. Late, but still find him so Trask could have
the opportunity to gloat over the suffering, and then kill him along with his
friend.
Turning the car around, he
stopped when he saw a sword in the last tree at the end of the driveway. He leaped out to examine what he guessed was
the final clue in the tinted light of the dying twilight. The blood soaked sword piercing Napoleon’s ID
-- a yellow UNCLE card with Solo’s name -- to the wood, brought waves of
revulsion to him. Beyond the initial
fear, it also brought a clear message of what he intended to do – or had
already done – to Solo. And the final, most crystallizing clue to the macabre game. Trask wanted to kill them – or kill Napoleon
– in the same manner his brother had died.
Perhaps in the same place.
Calling Sands and Richardson,
he told them of his guess and raced out to the lonely highway where the battle
with the brothers had occurred. This
time he took the low road, the route Trask had taken in his escape. It was with ill satisfaction he saw a car
there on the shoulder of the road.
Quietly exiting his car, he
drew his Walther and stealthily coursed through the woods. A fire burned nearby. He closed in on the light and smoke. From a distance he saw his battered, bleeding
partner, awkwardly trussed, hands tied behind a tree. Trask held a ninja-styled long, curved sword
in his right hand. With his left hand,
he clutched a handful of Solo’s hair, talking face to face with the wounded
agent.
Illya’s only prayer of saving
his partner was the element of surprise.
At this angle, he could shoot Trask, but the likelihood of hitting
Napoleon was too great. The
orchestration was not lost on the Russian.
Trask planned this down to the last detail. He hoped to lure Illya out in the open and
kill both UNCLE operatives just as Wu had been killed.
Making his way to the side,
he hoped to improve the angle. The sun
had set. He was out of time. He moved quickly and as quietly as possible,
but he could not sacrifice speed for stealth.
Trask was armed and ready to murder his friend. Momentarily, Trask
stepped back, the sword swinging high.
Illya was not prepared, but it would have to do. Before the blade came down, he fired,
breathing again when Trask’s body flew to the ground.
“Napoleon!”
It was close, but apparently,
he had not hit his partner. Why wasn’t
Napoleon moving? Kuryakin scurried down
slope, wary of Trask, but also unable to stop watching his all too still
friend. Finally, he drew close enough to
see Napoleon’s chest moving. Suddenly
Trask jolted, leaning up and thrusting out the sword, plunging the blade into
Solo.
Illya fired as he ran,
emptying the clip into Trask’s limp body.
“NO!”
Strangled with grief, he
skidded to a halt next to the tree, frozen with agony. The sword had stabbed through Napoleon and
secured itself to the tree, just as Illya had killed Wu. The angle was to the side, on Napoleon’s
right and bleeding profusely. Not
instantly fatal at least, but terrible.
“Napoleon.” He could
hardly whisper the name, hardly think or move.
Solo’s eyes flickered; he
breathed in, and shifted slightly. The
blade caught him and he cried out in pain.
“Don’t move,” Illya
whispered, taking Solo’s weight against him. “I have to pull the sword out of the tree,
Napoleon.” He would have to be careful
to not draw it all the way out.
Unstopped by the blade, the blood would flow unchecked and Solo might
bleed to death before help could arrive.
Moving Solo off the tree was imperative because the body weight was
tearing against the blade and ripping Solo apart inside. “Just relax.”
Gently he eased the blade out
fractionally, leaning tightly against his partner to minimize Solo’s
movement. It had to be agony to have the
blade excruciatingly sliding slowly along ribs or internal organs, but Illya
could not risk the increased damage that might occur by pulling it
quickly.
The blade was deeply imbedded
and stuck rigidly in the wood. Leaning tightly
against his friend, Kuryakin yanked, Solo gasped and dropped into his
arms. His shoulder gave out and Solo
slipped, almost hitting the ground, but Illya caught him and eased him to the
dirt. Folding down beside his friend, he
called for help.
Cold and trembling, Solo gritted his teeth.
Raspily, he struggled to speak.
“You – won-- game.”
“Yes,” Kuryakin swallowed
hard. Solo’s eyes did not focus. He placed his hands around the sword to keep
the blood flow down. “Don’t let me lose
now.”
Solo’s eyes narrowed in
confusion. Trying to respond, his eyes
rolled back and he slipped to unconsciousness.
He was dreaming. He knew it because everything seemed a little
fuzzy and out of place. He had lived
through this scene before, but it was clear and bright then, the colors
real. Everything now was muted and eyed
with the knowledge that it was history:
--------------------------
Fall 1964
Waverly did not seem to pay any attention to them, but was focused
on the pipe. "I thought Mr.
Kuryakin's skills could keep you from accruing more hospital bills, Mr.
Solo. After this mission I'm not so
sure."
Patting Kuryakin on the arm, a slight ripple of a wince came and
left quickly from his expression.
Winking, Solo made an exaggerated aspect, then
cleared his throat. "You have to
admit, sir, that the hospital bills were much better this time."
Kuryakin held his breath.
Was this when Waverly would reprimand him? How could Solo joke about the injury caused
by the inexperienced Russian?
"Humph." Smoke
trailed from the pipe. "I shall
expect you, Mr. Kuryakin, to help Mr. Solo stay out of trouble." He was nearly obscured now by the strong
smoke. "Especially, since Mr.
Milton has recommended you to act as Section Two Number Two. Mr. Solo is your superior as leader of
Enforcement section."
Nearly gasping, Illya disguised it as a slight cough, but Solo
caught the slip and smiled even more.
"You may fill him in on his duties, Mr. Solo." He shuffled some papers. "You're not being paid to stand in my
office. That will be all,
gentlemen."
"Yes, sir!" Kuryakin snapped and rushed out, Solo following at a more leisurely gait.
In the corridor Kuryakin stopped, shaking his head. His confusion seemed to amuse Solo even more,
who surrendered a gentle laugh.
"I don't understand.
Why isn't he angry with me? Why
is he rewarding me?"
Puzzlement momentarily shaded Solo's sparkling eyes. "Rewarding you?"
"I've just been partnered with the Number Two Enforcement
Agent!"
Solo laughed so hard he winced, holding his left side. "Maybe you ARE being
punished." Noticing Illya did not
appreciate the joke he took Illya's arm and led him down the corridor. "Your report, and mine, was -- uh --
modified. Slightly."
Kuryakin stopped, scandalized.
In his old country that could mean any number of unpleasant things. "What do you mean?"
With a sigh Solo an arm around his
shoulder and continued walking.
"No need for Waverly to know all the details of our
assignment. Besides, things were pretty
confusing and --"
Sucking in a nearly escaping yelp Kuryakin stopped and leaned
closer. "You lied?"
Snagging Kuryakin's jacket sleeve Solo pulled the shorter man into
an elevator and punched a button.
"I glossed over a few things.
Look, you're not going to get all nit-picky about this, are you? Waverly would have been mad at both of us if
he knew what really happened. This way
he just chalks it up to another blunder at gallantry on my part and you have a
clean slate." He shrugged, the
casualness marred by the wince at the pain.
"Besides, I'm your boss, the Number Two Enforcement Officer, I can do that kind of thing." He frowned.
"Sort of." His eyes narrowed. "But I better not see you doing
it." The full Solo smile was
back. "At least
not without my permission."
The lift stopped and they emerged on the Section Two floor. Solo led them to an office, formerly occupied
by Milton, supposedly, since it was larger and more comfortably furnished than
the one formerly occupied by Solo. The
American eased himself onto the plush leather sofa. Kuryakin paced.
"What happened to Richards?"
Rubbing a hand over his eyes, the first sign of fatigue and strain
at his act against the pain filtered through Napoleon’s facade. Solo sighed and stared at his hand as he
brushed the crease in his trousers.
"He couldn't take the pressure anymore and took a retirement from
UNCLE." A smirk flickered on his
lips. "No coup. No poison in his coffee. I came by the office legally."
Illya felt the blush redden his face and he turned away to inspect
the desk. "So you were aware of the
rumors."
"I AM a spy,
remember?"
Kuryakin surrendered a nod of agreement. "And
a good one, too."
Clicking his tongue, Solo's attitude was wry. "Careful, Mr. K, I might get an inflated
ego with all that praise flying my direction.
You’re just too effusive," he teased with glittering eyes.
Unable to help himself, Illya grinned and walked over to have a
seat on the sofa. "You are aware of
what some of the other agents say about you?
The arrogance, the ruthlessness, the selfishness --”
“All right!” Solo halted with a scowl.
“Of course I know what they say behind my back. Spy, remember?”
“Then why do you continue the deception? Occasionally you display some of those
unflattering traits, but you are an amazing professional with an incredible
capacity for survival and cunning."
Solo actually blushed and his face faltered from amusement to a
touching softness. He cleared his
throat. “How do you know it’s a
deception,” he quietly queried. “Maybe you’ve never seen the real me.”
Illya would have none of it.
“I have worked with you under duress.”
His voice deepened. “Through my
mistake you were injured, yet you not only forgave me, you covered up for
me. In other men – in the Soviet Union –
the misdirection would be construed as suspicious. Rife with ulterior motives. You are too honest. Too much of an American.
I know you are not putting up a façade to me. I don’t understand it, but you
fabricate and encourage misleading appearances about yourself. And you are
generous and ridiculously loyal to me.
Why?”
Solo tapped his knee.
"Why do you deceive others about yourself? Why do you like to disguise your incredible
devotion and caring?"
The piercing brown eyes were too honest and Kuryakin stared at the
wall, refusing to answer.
"Ah, two vulnerable spies who have secrets." The smile was obvious in the wryly-amused
tone. "Two loners
who have been thrown together."
“You are far from a loner.
You are gregarious and much too effusive.” He cast a sideways glance. “Except when you are being
deviously guarded for your own ends.”
A quiet laugh was almost a sigh.
"We seem to have a lot in common.
I think we'll make a pretty good team."
The light humor in Solo's eyes made him smile. "Maybe we will."
Napoleon critically studied the blond man. "You’ve probably
never had a hot dog, am I right?" he shook his head in mock despair.
With a shake of his blond hair, Illya confirmed the guess, puzzled.
“Where are you staying?”
“I haven’t had time to look --“
“There’s a nice one-bedroom place available in my building. Good location, not far from work. On the East river.”
“I --“
“No need to thank me, Illya.”
“I-- uh -- suppose not.”
In a terrible Humphrey Bogart impression, Solo
said, "I think this is the start of a beautiful relationship."
Kuryakin shook his head, not sure what he had gotten himself into,
but certain it would never be dull having Solo as a partner.
-------------------------
“Hey,
tovarich.”
Kuryakin instantly started
awake, his eyes flying open to see his partner looking at him with blurry brown
eyes dulled from medication.
“How are you?” Illya asked
with concern, leaning forward out of his chair.
Another
hospital vigil. Another close call. Another slow recovery. Some things in life were destined to be
repeated -- both good and bad.
“Sore.”
“That’s what happens when you
play dangerous games, Mr. Solo.” He
scooted the chair closer. “You’re very
lucky. Trask’s sword sliced into your
side and caught in some ribs. No
permanent damage.”
Napoleon nodded tiredly. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“Trask?”
“Dead. I made sure of
that.”
“Knew you
would. No one I’d rather have avenging me.” He struggled to reach out and pat Illya’s
arm. “Thanks for saving me.”
Illya held onto his
hand. “Now that we know who the better
agent is,” he reprimanded, his tone lighter but
rippling with emotion, “we will never need to try that competition again.”
Solo shook his head. “You think I’m giving up that easily?”
“Napoleon –“
Smirking, the American
surrendered. “Even though it was a
disqualified competition because of Trask’s interference, we don’t have to do
that again. I’m not sure who would win in
a fair test, but I’ve always known who’s the best partner.”
Somewhat mollified, Kuryakin
gave a nod. He could say the same,
although, at times like this, wondered why he considered this foolhardy and
egotistical man his closest friend. Because
beyond the arrogance and limitless passion for danger, he was the only man who
offered his wholehearted trust and allegiance to Illya. Completely, without reserve, Solo would do anything for him -- had done too many things
for him.
Caught in their own strange
game of competition, they seemed to try and outdo each other in heroics and
ridiculous hazards constantly in their harrowing careers. As long as they both kept, winning-- kept
each other alive -- he could handle any game.