DEAD
END
SOLO
nightmare
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
DEAD END
Winter 1975
-----------------
Rain pelted like gravel into the slimy,
cluttered, dark alley. Night covered the scars of the tenements. A violently weeping
storm shaded the wastrel hole of urban plight that surrounded the forsaken
space between old and tattered buildings. A cold wind swept through the Stygian
corridor. A distant street lamp cast an anemic glow of yellow light into the
center of the walkway where it was absorbed on the sides by the inky blackness.
He huddled against a collapsed wooden crate that sprawled in splintered planks
across the ground. He shivered as the polar blasts of wind, the icy fingers of
rain, pounded his shoulders and head. Frigid drops slid down his neck and
collar. Jacket and shirt were already soaked through and the chill permeated
into his marrow. Shuddered again he folded closer to the discarded crates, his
only source of meager protection. Hardly able to move, he tried to melt into
the pavement, fighting for protection from the incessant barrage of the storm.
Nothing helped. He was wet, cold and dying.
The only warmth left was from the steady
flow of blood that seeped from his stomach and chest and oozed onto the hands
clutching his wounds. The pressure did nothing to stay the steady flow of
life's fluid, nor did it ease the deep, painful ache. Yet, in a primitive
instinctive need to cling to life he pressed against the wounds until his hands
were numb.
The reflection of light-on-metal glinted
faintly in the weak glow of paleness just an arm's length away. The silver pen
that might have been his lifeline had been smashed in two by a bullet. The
black Walther, slick with rain, lay partially obscured in a muddy puddle, the
slide pulled back indicating the weapon was empty. Two familiar objects
attesting that he had done his best, had fought to the
bitter end. And failed.
Native, incisive intellect was still aware
enough to realize the truth. He could categorically list medical cause and
effect, could clinically describe the malevolent damage done by lead bullets as
they tore through the Human body. Many times, in many forms, he had witnessed
the tattered tissue, muscle, organs and bones as he had killed others. He'd been
wounded enough times to recognize this was lethal. Facing his own mortality now
as it grasped him in a frozen fist that would not give release. No miracles, no
amazing rescue, no hope.
The agile brain fleetingly traipsed over
the tapestry of experience -- the places, the people -- that had been part of
his life. He had filled every moment in a mad dash to do everything. His
sojourn on the planet had been active, fast-paced, and brimmed with a crush of
activity. There had been the continual devotion to duty, the profession he'd
lived -- and ultimately would die -- for. Beyond the career, mostly he thought
of the people. He had touched many lives, for good or ill, and he would leave
behind a myriad of recollections, of sorrow -- and one good friend.
That had been the way he wanted to play
life. A game. High stakes. Walk a tightrope, a
knife-edge of existence. Forever balanced between hazard and safety, life and
death.
Live by the gun die by the gun
You knew the risks when you took the job.
Proverbs applicable to his daily walk with
danger. Somehow he had never expected the cliché ending in a grimy, dank,
filthy alley.
The numbness spread cold fingers into his
arms and chest. The dull miasma snaked thick tendrils around his brain. Like a
pall of blackness of impending death, the edges of his mind irised
to a numb void. He thought the analogy a clever one in his muddled thoughts.
There was so little time left, so much of his past wasted.
Behind he would leave many regrets. The greatest -- leaving his partner, his friend -- alone.
His death would be a heavy blow to his long time friend. Right now he would
welcome the last fond touch from a trusted hand, a nonsensical quip from the
familiar and quick wit, a wink of reassurance from compassionate eyes. They had
shared so much in the past. Now Fate denied them a last good-bye.
Perhaps this was the best. Death -- a solo
mission, he laughed ironically, and instantly groaned from the intense, deep
pain that movement caused. They could not embark together this time on this
final mission. The ultimate division in the path of
inseparable friends. Perhaps it would be better this way. His physical
pain was only temporary. His partner's hurt would last longer and cut deeper
than any bodily wound. It might be easier to learn of it in the cold, austere
confines of a safe headquarters rather than sharing these grim moments in this
forsaken alley. If he was here the blood would stain him forever, and their
last memories would be marred by the anguish and hopelessness that he could do
nothing to save the dying half of the team.
This time there would be no last minute,
eleventh-hour rescue. No one knew where he was, he couldn't call for help, he could only wait for death. He would give anything for one
last conversation. There was so much left to say. All the unspoken messages
accumulated from years of close association, but never traded out loud. Remembrance of things past, and things never to be.
It was a slight comfort that everything he
could have said, his friend already knew, really. It had been spoken, not in
words, but in long, loving laughter, in knowing silences and devilish
conspiracies. And in a deep, pervading devotion that underscored a kaleidoscope
of events in their lives, which bonded them to a friendship stronger than time,
and life, and ultimately, he hoped, even death.
The rain mercilessly struck him and there
was no escape from the cold and damp that was now indistinguishable from within
and without. He shivered; completely losing sight and feeling as a creeping
numbness stole into his nerves.
The glacial frost, the pain, the blackness
swept over him in an engulfing cloak. He cried aloud through the rattling
raindrops, in a last echo of pain. With his final breath, he called out a
single name.
Rivulets of rain slithering down the
street were the only movements in the black alley. The solitary sound came from
the clatter of drops as they pelted the wood, the pavement, and cascaded around
the inert form of the dead man.
SEQUEL TO: DEAD END
THE SOLO AFFAIR
"He's on his way to
your office, Mr. Waverly."
"Thank you," the
old man replied tiredly and flipped off the communication channel. Today he
felt every one of his weary, experienced years.
He had been expecting the
arrival of the agent for several hours. Certainly time enough to steel for the
confrontation. Yet, Waverly still felt like a nervous schoolboy brought before
the headmaster. He had always suffered a peculiar brand of nerves whenever the
bearer of bad news, although such humanity never revealed itself to his agents.
They would never be allowed to see such weakness in their leader. It would
surprise so many -- amaze the man coming to see him now -- to know there was so
much vulnerability in a chief. Within the man who sent them out to face peril.
Inside the man who had sent his partner out there. To die.
This was an unpleasant duty
performed too often. As head of UNCLE NY it was his job to intimidate young
agents. His stern facade an effective shield for compassion.
He keenly felt every fatality; amplified because he was the man who ordered
agents into danger and death. Any death was a personal blow, but this
circumstance was different. He had never really expected this. There was so
much life and luck . . .
Against his own code of
emotional isolation he had grown attached to a few of the agents in New York.
Several of the brightest stars he had adopted in a mentor/student relationship.
A forgivable mistake he had warned his operatives against countless times --
especially these two certain agents.
It wasn't often sparkling, skilled operatives like Kuryakin and Solo came
along. With some self-satisfaction he admitted he had recognized their
uniqueness from the start; had seen the special, rare flash when the two worked
together -- a brilliance that outshone their individual talents and set them
apart from the elite of the elite of UNCLE operatives.
The Solo and Kuryakin team
was exceptional in an organization staffed with exemplary men and women. The
American and Russian had become the most outstanding partnership in the history
of UNCLE. Thanks to Solo's innovative bravado and Kuryakin's skilled
improvisation accomplishing the impossible became routine.
The gears of efficiency had
occasionally been damaged by the close friendship, which grew beyond the
average partnership between operatives. A double-edged sword, the mutual regard
and affection had enhanced the skill of the team, but had also caused some
unfortunate loyalty conflicts
As subtlety as possible
Waverly had tried to dissipate the friendship by giving Solo and Kuryakin
separate assignments whenever possible. He wanted to maintain the skill of the
partnership without the emotional complication of protectiveness for each other.
Perhaps
if they had been together this time . . .
Simply by the law of
averages the phenomenal luck had to run out. Together or separate, the two men
were Human, susceptible to mistakes and -- death. Waverly could not subscribe
to the theory that his decision to split the agents had lead to death. Guilt
would not erase the sad truth that one of his special agents was gone.
Waverly glanced at the
clock, knew the nervous speculation was based on a natural aversion to causing
pain. This news would be the most painful, devastating announcement he could
deliver to the surviving team member. The solo partner.
Both men, under better circumstances, would have appreciated the black humor.
The remaining agent would,
of course, accept the news with the stoic calm of his profession. The mind
would rebel, would scream in anguish. For the rest of his life he would wonder
if he could have saved his friend -- if only he had been there. Eventually
there would be bitter acceptance. Beneath the layers of control there lived
sentimentality, and beneath that, a solid core of realism. No matter how
painful, death was part of their business and even the death of a friend must
be endured
The gunmetal grey doors
swished open and Waverly stared at the report on his desk. It would give him
time to cover any trace of emotion in his face or voice. He had already
memorized the black-and-white autopsy sheet that was so stark and succinct. Irrefutable proof of death. No mistake, no second chance --
identity confirmed.
"Reception said you
wanted to see me, sir," came the quiet voice. The
last calm, steady words this man would speak for some time.
Waverly had an almost
out-of-body objectivity as he glanced up at the agent. He was about to change
this man's career, his future -- his life. With inadequate, starkly insensitive
words he would announce the end of a brilliant partnership, the loss of an
irreplaceable friend. The surviving agent would spend a lonely lifetime
closeted with solitary memories of what had been -- what would never be.
Pondering a tandem past in a solo future.
"Please sit down. I'm
afraid I have some unpleasant news."
sequel to
Dead End
and
Solo
nightmare
"No . . . Napoleon . .
. no . . . no . . . . "
Never really asleep, the
quiet moanings brought Napoleon Solo to a high level
of consciousness. Shivering, he pulled the blanket closer around his shoulder
and broken left arm, and gazed at his mumbling companion. Illya Kuryakin was on
a thin bed, tossing, muttering fevered laments in the throes of a disturbing
nightmare. Through the smudged, dirty window of the cheap rented room in an
insignificant town in France, the moonlight was pale and splotched. Kuryakin's
disarrayed, sweat-caked hair stuck to his beaded forehead, lending his skin an
unhealthy, waxen sheen in the pallid light.
"Illya."
"I should have saved
you." It was a broken whisper; painful, mournful.
What had happened in the
nightmare? One of the bad ones, Solo judged sympathetically. They had been
through a rough week. Chasing around Europe for some ragtag
remnants of the THRUSH Council. As an organization of crime THRUSH was
mostly eliminated. Leaders, agents and administrative structures were
destroyed. Some renegades had eluded UNCLE and police capture and were fleeing.
For over six months Kuryakin and Solo were engaged in the sweep-up operation of
the once powerful arch-enemies. The hold-outs were still dangerous, but it was
just a matter of time before they were captured or killed. Many UNCLE Section
Two agents worried about their future employment, but Solo believed there would
always be criminals to battle on an international scale. Their work would never
be done.
Encountering assassins and
traps in three countries, they finally caught up with their quarry near the
Dunkirk coast. A nasty battle in a dirty alley had ended the lives of the two
former THRUSH leaders. Rain and cold had accentuated the filthy, nightmarish
quality of the encounter. It had been a close thing. They were lucky to be
alive. The UNCLE agents had fared little better than their rivals -- Solo
coming away with a broken arm, Kuryakin a knife slash to the shoulder and a
nasty hit to the head. At least they were still breathing.
After seeking medical aid
in the nearest town the partners had decided to rest before returning to New
York. Impossible to sleep with the sore arm -- cracked in the same spot it had
been broken a few years before -- Solo had sat on the floor next to the window,
leaning on Kuryakin's bed, watching his friend for signs of difficulty from the
concussion. Alternately he gazed out at the streets of the quiet town as the
hours slowly passed. While the Russian's wounds were not serious the doctor had
worried about infection of the nasty cut. And while Illya did not have a
concussion, he had a history of bumps and knock-outs and had seemed lethargic
and tired. Solo -- miserable from the aches and breaks of the battle --
admitted that he, too, was not as young as he used to be. It was harder --
longer -- for both of them to recover these days.
"I should have . . .
saved you . . . . "
Napoleon placed a gentle
hand on the warm forehead and quietly whispered into the Russian's ear.
"What?"
"Nooo
. . . I didn't . . . not fast enough . . . ." The mumblings were
disoriented, rambling, confessions mired in the depths of a realm between
misery and nightmare.
"Hey. Tovarich. I'm okay. We made it out of the alley." He
firmly shook Illya's shoulder. "Can you hear me?"
Blindly reaching out,
Kuryakin grabbed onto Solo shirt, then tugged him close until his face was
buried in the American's chest. "I wasn’t there." His broken
voice caught, nearly sobbing. "I should've been there."
Concerned at both the
content and the depth of the nasty dream, Solo firmly
wrapped his good arm around his friend and held tightly to the shivering
shoulders of the slighter man. Illya wasn't coherent, but clinical
understanding of fevered confusion didn't make this any easier. Groaning
in dismay, Solo held on to his friend and shook him slightly.
"Illya," he
soothed in a subdued breath. "Wake up sleepy head. The nightmare is
over."
Gradually the trembling
eased. Then the body under his grasp stiffened, as if suddenly coming to
awareness. Before the Russian could bolt away, Solo calmed him with a
restrained, but firm reassurance. "It's okay. We're bloody but unbowed,
tovarich. Take it easy."
Several deep breaths
inhaled and exhaled from the taut chest and then Illya pulled away slightly.
Uncertainly, he touched Solo's face with tentative fingertips, as though he was
afraid of what his contact would tell him.
"You're alive?"
The tight words came out in a breathless hush. His fist clutched to the hair at
the nape of Napoleon's neck. "You're alive." The hand was trembling
and he closed his eyes, slightly shaking his head. "It was so real this
time." He opened his eyes again, staring at his friend as if uncertain
what memory to trust.
Agitated by the quivering
fear still plainly displayed on his friend's pale face, Solo tried a reassuring
smile. "Sure. Nothing that won't mend." The
horror was still reflected in the stark, pallid blue of the Russian's eyes.
"It's okay, Illya. It was a nightmare."
Kuryakin leaned his head
back against his friend. "It was so real. You were in an alley -- a
terrible alley. It was raining -- and the blood . . . . "
Solo sighed heavily, trying
to dispel the overpowering terror rippling through his nerves. So close. It
could have been their tomb tonight. As stinking, desolate, filthy alleys, or
roadsides, or side streets had nearly been their graves many times before. "Only a dream. We're both okay."
What he saw in his friend
was a reflection of the horror he had felt countless times before when Illya
was captured, wounded, imagined dead. These were nightmares he had experienced
himself innumerable times -- accentuated fears cultivated by the danger, the
insidious threats, the continual stress from years of peril. He was humbled and
devastated that Illya would take his dream-land death so hard. No harder than
nightmares Solo had about losing his friend. Even with
the fall of THRUSH this life just didn't get any easier.
"It seemed . . . so .
. . real . . . . "
Kuryakin fell back to
sleep. Hopefully, Solo sighed, he wouldn't remember any of this in the morning
when he awoke for real. Closing his eyes, he ignored the trembling coursing
along his body and prayed to whatever capricious gods watched over spies. He
prayed that this would only be a nightmare. That it would never really happen
to either of them. And he prayed for the faith to believe that thin shield of
expectancy.
***
"Napoleon."
The shaking of his world
abruptly popped him awake and Solo's eyes snapped open as he drew in a sharp
breath. "What!"
A gentle touch on his
shoulder stayed any other impulsive reactions. "Everything is fine. I just
wanted to let you know I was going to find us some breakfast. Why don't you lay down on the bed for a while?" Solo was still numb
with disorientation. Illya leaned close, concerned. "Is your arm
okay?"
"Uh
-- yeah. I'm
fine. Just -- it'll take me a minute." He shook his head to felicitate
alertness.
Kuryakin crouched down to
meet his level. The Russian's eyes were red and puffy from sleeplessness;
filled with concern for his friend. "Will you be all right here
alone?"
Startled, still climbing up
to a coherent level of consciousness, Napoleon blinked, then
stared at his partner. "I -- uh -- you're okay?" he narrowed his eyes
to study the blond. "You shouldn't be going out alone."
Kuryakin's
eyes widened in confusion. They were suddenly wary, reflecting the horrible day and
hellish night they had endured in the last grueling hours. Mirroring
a shadow from the harrowing dreams.
"I'm hungry," he
snapped out impulsively. Meeting his friend's doubtful expression, he amended
the brash words. "Yes -- uh -- I'm all right . . . ." He cleared his
throat and his expression looked like he had tasted something sour. "I --
uh -- it was a bad night, wasn't it?"
"Pretty bad,"
Solo confirmed simply.
"I remember -- a --
little." He sighed and shook his head. "And I suppose I embarrassed
myself completely," he scowled.
"Not completely."
Kuryakin slid down to sit
on the floor next to his friend. "Fortunately, I don't remember
much."
"That's good." At
the distressed expression on the pale face Napoleon smiled. "Don't worry,
all your secrets are safe," he winked, then sobered. "We've been
through a lot lately, Illya. It's okay
to be a little rattled. But we're all right. We made it."
"This
time."
Solo sighed, rubbing his
face, grimacing at the stubble that probably made him look as bad as he felt.
"Sometimes that's all we can hope for." Times like these he wondered
why he didn't retire and go into banking or something safe and simple. In the
next instant the grim doubts were pushed away. He could never give up the
allure of living on the edge of danger. Nor would he ever trade this rough and
exciting life for one that would be absent his partner. He squeezed his
friend's arm. "This is reality. Don't let the nightmares overshadow that.
Our luck is still holding."
"Often your luck is
all I can hope for," Illya quietly confessed.
Gazing out the dirty
window, seeing a bright morning beyond the grime, Solo nodded. While the
nightmares were always bad, they had to remember the spectres
were only dreams. Imagination's worst scenario. In
actuality, they were still alive. And he would do everything and anything in
his power to make sure they stayed that way for a long, long time.
THE END