Man from UNCLE / A-Team

Crossover

(alternate universe)

THE DOUBLE IMAGE AFFAIR

by

GM

RATED PG

AA for extra AAngst

---

The San Luca Clinic was enclosed by a stiffly manicured landscape, similar to any other mental hospital anywhere in the country. The horticulture barrier lent the fabricated impression of outward serenity; a showy facade to cover the anxious turmoil within. Pleased with the astute analogy, General Hunt Stockwell, Ret., felt slightly more at ease. A veteran of combat and numerous covert missions, he was embarrassed to admit, even to himself, that mental clinics unnerved him. That he shared the unease with the majority of other "normal" people was no comfort. Being grouped with the masses was an insult to his independent nature.

This was his third visit to the sanitarium. The recollection brought enough irritation to wash away his nervousness. He hated to lose control of any situation, but, like the excellent tactician he was, he knew when to retreat, regroup, and accept what he could not change. Life with the A-Team had taught him a measure of tolerance. Hunt had learned a new definition of flexibility during this trying time. Command had altered to occasional compromise. The best he could hope for usually was simply to direct the course of the maverick Team.

As Stockwell walked the sickeningly sterile corridors he sighed in self-pity. He had 'enlisted' the services of the free-styled A-Team -- complete with personal idiosyncrasies. In some form of bizarre self-punishment he felt obligated to personally see to these little problems instigated by his most -- unique -- operative.

The orderly led Hunt to the doorway of large verandah open to patients during the day. The bright sunlight and fresh air seemed a depressing reminder of an outside world where these listless people were no longer included. Stockwell couldn't repress a pang of regret that Murdock may never sever the ties to these institutions. Hunt had developed a guarded fondness for Murdock. Although the Vet was still considered legally insane, he was a tremendous asset to operations, and at times displayed an eerie sense of reason.

Hunt scanned the patients for the familiar flight jacket and baseball cap . . . .

Suddenly Stockwell's heart seemed to stop. Only the automatic instinct of tightly controlled emotions restrained the gasp of surprise that caught in his throat. He had to force himself to breathe again as he stared at the two men at the corner of the patio. Murdock sat on a bench near the verandah railing. Next to him was a pale man who seemed almost trance-like with detachment. The pallor of the skin was magnified by the deep-set hardship lines that scored the face. Still, no tragedy or span of time could significantly change that terribly familiar face framed with blond hair. Stockwell would never fail to recognize the only man he had ever called his best friend.

"Ivan," he whispered in a hoarse, shaky voice.

Then reason returned. The man on the balcony COULD NOT be his former partner. Surely, Hunt would have heard of anything this drastic happening to his old friend. And here in California! No, it could not be Ivan . . . but the similarity . . . .

Stockwell grabbed onto the nearest employee and the orderly explained the patient's tragic history. The man was a Russian named Kuryakin. A former intelligence agent with some unspecified international organization, who had cracked after a mission. Murdock, knowing some Russian courtesy of his stint in 'Nam, had befriended the withdrawn Kuryakin.

'Yes, Murdock was the type to adopt strays,' he thought, still unnerved by the alarming and bizarre coincidence of a Russian ex-spy so similar to his old friend.

Stockwell was not inclined to learn more; already unaccountably depressed to discover so much about this haunting look-alike of his friend Ivan Trigorin. A mixture of relief and empathy tingled his taut nerves: Relief the pale man was someone besides Trigorin, pity and empathy that this was the tragic end of the road for a once active operative.

Although Hunt and Ivan had not spoken in many years, for both professional and personal reasons, Stockwell still tracked the whereabouts of his old partner. Now a successful mercenary, Ivan had been pegged at his country home in Kent only two months ago. Hunt wondered if some kind of twisted fate had brought him here; had drawn Murdock and him to this eerie place and time, to meet this haunting twin who was some strange, distorted reflection of Ivan. It was said everyone had a double somewhere in the world, but this was almost unbelievable. Hunt was smitten by the palpable tragedy surrounding this pathetic, silent parallel. Not Ivan; but how easily it could have been Trigorin, or Stockwell, reduced to a mindless shell. So many times the risks of intelligence work took agents to the edge of sanity. That last mission in Cuba -- Ivan seemed to have been teetering on the breaking point.

Mustering his fluctuating courage, Stockwell walked into the warm California sunshine and slowly approached this ghost-double from his past. He continued his transfixed stare of fascination at the pale Russian. Abstractly, he noted Murdock wore a T-shirt that said: You are now entering the Twilight Zone. Stockwell mentally smiled with rueful acknowledgment of the vagaries of fate. Murdock was haltingly conversing in Russian. Hunt's comprehension of the language was a bit rusty and he could only follow pieces of the conversation. Murdock said something about the University of Georgia in the Ukraine? His Russian must be worse than he thought.

Hunt suddenly was overwhelmed with the desire to see Ivan again. They had been too long apart; differences in ideology; jagged memories of the traumatic end of their partnership, old wounds never healed, had kept them separated for years. Those differences seemed inconsequential as he faced the despondent Kuryakin. Now a pathetic picture of broken humanity, this displaced Russian soul once had been an operative. Someone's partner? -- as Ivan had always been Hunt's other half? Stockwell shivered, doubting he had the strength to discover what had happened to break this man; what dark nightmare haunted the history of this former spy.

Murdock glanced up and smiled at his employer. "General, I'm glad you're here," he greeted warmly as he stood and took Stockwell by the arm. The former General was taken aback by the warm greeting, but covered his surprise with a gruff clearing of his throat.

Kuryakin seemed oblivious to the new arrival and stared across the grounds with an eerily vacant expression. "Illya will be happy to meet someone else who speaks Russian," Murdock explained, though there was still no visible reaction from the man.

"My Russian isn't very good," Stockwell offered.

Murdock ignored the excuse and tugged Stockwell over to stand beside Kuryakin. "Doesn't matter, General. Illya hasn't spoken English for six years."

"Illya," Hunt whispered, testing the name so close to Ivan's.

Murdock sat on the ledge of the balcony, his back against the protective wrought-iron fencing. He was only inches from Kuryakin. "Illya, I brought a friend to talk to you. He speaks Russian."

Beyond further shock, Stockwell accepted this label of comrade from Murdock. "Illya Kuryakin, this is General Stockwell," was the formally intoned introduction.

Acutely uncomfortable, but determined not to show it, Stockwell crouched down to eye level with the stranger. He could feel a tangible barrier of isolation around Kuryakin. The Russian did not accept intruders into the private hell trapping the altered mind. Untrusting, guarded, suspicious; traits this silent man shared with his look-alike Trigoin.

The comparison to his friend was inescapable. Unbidden, the response was automatic. He offered a fond greeting from a long buried past.

"Das vidania, tovarich."

The blond head snapped around instantly. Eyes as blue as the sky were clouded with a deep horror, backdropped by a haunting pain, and pierced Stockwell to his heart. He wanted to turn away, but found himself unable to deny the disturbing probe. So hauntingly like Ivan's were these blue eyes; windows to a soul temporarily resurrected from -- desperation -- longing -- from a slow and agonizing death.

With delicate hesitation Kuryakin stretched a pale hand to Hunt's shoulder; touched the arm, testing if this was apparition or reality.

"Napoleon?" The tremulous questioned was whispered with all the doubt and pain sequestered behind the vulnerable, pale face. He traced a hand along Hunt's jaw. "Are you real?" Amazement conquered the cracked voice. An inarticulate noise caught in his throat. Without warning he launched himself at Stockwell, clinging to the General with the desperate fervor of a dying man seizing a lifeline.

For a moment, Hunt was immobile from shock. Then he hesitantly wrapped his arms around the trembling, weeping Russian. It seemed too bizarre that Ivan's look-alike mistook Stockwell for someone else -- someone called Napoleon. Reason had no reference in this strange, altered reality he had entered.

"I thought I had killed you," was Kuryakin's explanation between shuddered sobs.

Automatically Stockwell gently placed a hand on the straw colored hair and tried to calm the shaking man. Responding on an instinctive level to the raw, tortured emotions of Kuryakin because, in too many respects, Illya WAS Ivan Trigorin. Just as Kuryakin longed for this reunion to be real, in his own way Hunt wished this was a real reunion with Ivan. Finally the sobs subsided and Kuryakin's grip loosened.

"Napoleon, how did you . . ," the voice trailed away. Kuryakin pulled back to scrutinize Stockwell's face.

Sudden confusion filled the tear-streaked face. The achingly open vulnerability was instantly masked by suspicion. Wary, astute blue eyes probed sympathetic brown eyes now discovered to belong to an interloper.

"Napoleon?" Kuryakin whispered and pushed away from Hunt.

Stockwell remained still. He did not flinch when Kuryakin brushed unsteady fingers on his chin. "No scar," Kuryakin accused and retreated against the iron rail. "Napoleon had a scar -- that night in Lisbon -- " he sucked in a ragged breath. "A THRUSH impostor! What did you do with Napoleon?" Then with surprising suddenness his eyes cleared to frighteningly sharp lucidity. The voice was calm, almost hollow in its lack of emotion. The face was placid but drained of color. "Of course you're not Napoleon," was the reasonable comment. "I killed you, Napoleon." Confusion flitted across the face, then was quickly replaced by an expression of clear comprehension. The blue eyes lanced through Hunt to some unknown point of infinity as Kuryakin whispered, "I'm coming, my old friend."

Without warning, the deceptively agile man launched himself onto the wrought-iron railing.

Hunt caught onto a thin wrist. "Illya -- NO!"

The grip stopped the Russian's forward momentum.

"Illya -- you mustn't leave. I'm not Napoleon, but I know he's coming for you. You must wait for him." The blue eyes ached with the pain of former betrayal, but were haunted with the empty hope of faith -- the desire to believe. "You must wait," Hunt urged.

The Russian allowed the others to assist him back to the balcony. He kept a wary eye on Stockwell as he was escorted inside the sanitarium by an attendant.

***

Stockwell pulled his eyes from the monitor. He and Murdock were alone in Stockwell's private office aboard the General's jet. Their attention was on the picture on the computer monitor. It was a black and white photo of a young Illya Kuryakin and a man who bore a remarkable resemblance to Stockwell.

"Illya and Napoleon?" Murdock questioned.

Stockwell nodded and looked away from the screen. It was disturbing to see the twins of Ivan and himself on the monitor. It was sadly depressing to know the history of these two agents with whom Hunt felt an almost psychic link. Kuryakin and Napoleon were too close to another Russian/American team.

With almost a physical ache, Hunt was reminded that Ivan had returned none of his calls. He was almost desperate to renew their contact again. He had tried many times over the years to keep in touch, but Ivan's wounds from the past were too strong. Pain of failure overcame the once incredible bond that connected them. A sad and stunning loss that Hunt still felt.

The computer read-out explained Illya Kuryakin and his American partner, Napoleon Solo, had been UNCLE agents. On a mission six years before, Solo had infiltrated a THRUSH (a now extinct criminal organization) base in Thailand where Kuryakin was a prisoner. The Russian had escaped and set the fatal explosives that destroyed the complex. Solo was officially listed as killed in action, although no body was ever found. When the Russian discovered he had inadvertently killed his partner, he retreated into shock and forged a self-induced mental prison.

Stockwell glanced at the screen, then quickly turned away. "When Kuryakin saw me . . . ", he sighed heavily

"It wasn't your fault, General," Murdock offered quietly.

Stockwell shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to handle this -- first Murdock's acceptance, now his understanding and comfort. Hunt nervously fingered the papers on the desk. "I pushed him over the edge, Murdock."

"Not you," Murdock firmly maintained. "Napoleon Solo. A ghost Illya can never escape."

Hunt glanced up at Murdock. Having spent many years running from the lingering wraiths of Vietnam, Murdock knew all about mental hauntings. Hunt owned his own spooks from the past.

"Thank you. In this business there are so many ghosts." Hunt snapped off the monitor and stared at the empty screen.

"We are all reflections of each other," Murdock quietly philosophized. "But each reflection is different." He studied the silent General for several minutes. "You understood Illya. Did you know him?"

"I know his double." Hunt's response was an echo of the emptiness he felt; a blurred reflection of the hollow ache Kuryakin had known. "I had a partner once, too." Murdock rested a hand on Stockwell's shoulder, a silent message of a shared understanding.

"Do you think Napoleon could be alive?"

"After six years in Southeast Asia?"

Murdock shook his head, then stopped. His face took on an expression of wonderment. "MIAs are still over there, General. Maybe -- well, it's possible. You don't think --?"

Hunt denied the sliver of hope bursting into his thoughts. "I don't know."

"Isn't it worth a try to find an old friend?"

The question hit him like a blow to the chest. Murdock thought he was speaking of the UNCLE agents, but Hunt was thinking of his own Russian soul-mate who was somewhere on the globe. Lost to him emotionally instead of physically. Wouldn't it be nice to reunite a parallel team and give life back to others even if he could not experience such a reunion for himself?

***

After Murdock left, Stockwell placed some calls to high-level intelligence sources. He found out that several expatriate THRUSH agents had survived the destruction of the base and were working as terrorists in the Middle East and Asia. There was even a rumor of an American agent and other MIAs being held prisoner in Cambodia. If Napoleon Solo had somehow, miraculously survived that explosion, Stockwell would know about it very shortly. Even if the unknown American was not Solo, Stockwell would organize the A-Team for a rescue. Now that he had a possible identification, he felt justified in risking the rescue operation. If the agent was Solo, then there would be at least one happy epilogue in this covert, shadowy war of spies.

Then, he placed some calls to Ivan Trigorin's European contacts. He would continue to search for Ivan until his errant Russian returned the calls. Ostensibly, it was to offer his old friend a spot on his intelligence team. In reality, he simply wanted to see his Ivan again.

If this incident with Kuryakin had taught him nothing else, he had learned to take advantage of second chances. Stockwell could understand the agonies of the loss of someone irreplaceable; a friend more important than national boundaries, ideologies and political stubbornness. He had been a fool to let his own stuffy attitude allow Ivan to walk out of his life those long years ago after Cuba. It was time to mend fences. Pride, bitterness and broken commitments had separated them for far too long. He wanted to see Ivan again before it was too late. It might be too late for Kuryakin and Solo, but he did not want that to happen to his partnership. He would keep trying to contact Ivan, no matter how long it took for the Russian to respond. After more than twenty years, he had a lot to say. After all that time, he could wait a few more days for an answer.

***

Hunt Stockwell was a man who understood how to utilize every resource to his advantage. His vast intelligence network covered the globe, and there was hardly a nook in any country that was too remote for his various and sundry operatives. At the end of the week he had come up short at two dead ends. One, was the information on possible American prisoners being held in Asia. The second was the wall of silence from Ivan Trigorin. Neither was an insurmountable problem. The first was being sorted through by his staff. The second would be settled in person.

He pulled his rented Mercedes to a stop at the gates of a palatial manor set against the lush green hills of Devon. The country estate in the south of England was ancient, dignified and seemed displaced from a calendar-perfect photo. The security fences and gates indicated it was also equipped with the latest security technology. Something to be expected from a former spy.

Hunt gave his name in the intercom and waited patiently while the video camera scanned him. Several minutes later the gate automatically unlocked and swung open. He drove up to the Tudor-styled front entrance, where he was met by a butler and an armed security man. With professional precision he was frisked and ushered into the manor house.

He was given tea in a sitting room decorated with Georgian antiques, where he stayed close to the blazing fire which dispelled the seeping cold of the ancient pile. He studied the various bladed weapons hung above the mantle. Old deaths. It seemed a fitting decor for his old friend. There was a deal of blood and violence in the Russian/English heritage of Ivan -- the offspring of an expatriate Czarist who had made a home with the blue bloods of London. Pride of heritage. Pride could be a double-edged sword. Ivan's had been mortally wounded in Cuba. It had driven him away from the CIA. Not immediately. They had remained partners for years afterwards, but Ivan had never been the same. Ivan distanced himself gradually from everything and everyone. Even from Hunt.

Hunt stared into the flames, their flickering orange flares were mesmerizing. For the thousandth time, he wondered what he could offer to coax his friend back from self-exile. He wondered if Ivan would even meet him today. The Russian had not answered any messages, why would he agree to a face-to-face meet with his old colleague. Stockwell brought with him all the old memories of their last terrible meeting. What positive offering could he give?

"Contemplating a duel at dawn, Hunt?"

The general spun from the hearth. Just the sight of his partner brought an automatic smile. Warm affection colored his tone. "Ivan!"

In a few strides he crossed the room and hugged his old friend. It was as if the sands of time whipped backward, as if no years had passed since they had been inseparable partners. He leaned back and studied his friend, still clinging to the Russian's shoulders. Ivan had changed little in the last decades; a few more lines, a bit of grey dusting the blond hair at the temples, but very much the same. So much like Illya Kuryakin. Even to the crisp blue eyes that, even in Ivan, were shaded by hidden terrors. Ghosts lingered for most spies. For Trigorin and Kuryakin, the hauntings were too deep.

"The years have treated you well, old friend. You've hardly changed," Stockwell marveled as he pushed Ivan to arm's length and studied his former colleague. "You look very well."

"Life is good here," was Trigorin's cryptic response. He ran a critical, but affectionate eye over his friend. "You look like an agent who's spent too long in the cold."

"It's the game I've chosen to play."

Reluctantly, it seemed, Ivan disengaged from the contact and went to a sideboard to pour drinks. "What brings you here?" The tone was wary.

Hunt walked to one of the windows and observed the bucolic countryside rolling down a gentle slope from the house. Meadows stretched down to a wooded area to the south. To the north were some old stone walls dividing fields where some kind of animals grazed. A stream ambled through the farthest pasture. Then he turned back to study his friend, unable to keep his eyes off the man he had never considered anything but his closest ally.

They were a long way from the grime and blood of espionage. After the terrible debacle of the Bay of Pigs, Ivan had escaped from the terrors of the spy business. Hunt had rarely talked to him since because there was too much hurt between them. Trigorin would never go back to the Game and Hunt would never leave it alive. Reunions between men, once so close, could only be painful reminders of what they had once shared and what they had lost. The gulf would be too wide, too hurtful, to bridge. Trigoran had refused to respond to his calls because he was not ready to face his old friend. That he had agreed to this spontaneous meet was a sign Ivan was at least willing to listen. Perhaps, he too ached for contact again, just as Hunt did.

"I need your help with something unofficial. I know you have contacts in vast areas of the world. I could use some information."

Since their separation, Trigorin had made a fortune in eclectic areas of expertise. One career was as an author and lecturer on scientific theories. While the covert community knew him as a world-wide information source. No longer out in the field himself, he had informants everywhere. He bought and sold intelligence to whoever had the money. Every organization in the world mistrusted him, but still occasionally used his resources. This was the first time Hunt had utilized his friend's information network.

Trigorin joined him at the window and handed him a glass. "General-by the book- Stockwell wants my help?" was his sarcastic, rhetorical reply. "I think I need a stronger drink."

"It's unofficial."

From an inside jacket pocket he pulled out some folded papers. It was the complete dossier available on Kuryakin and Solo. Trigorin studied them in silence. He drew in a sharp breath when he came to the pictures of the two former UNCLE agents. He glanced at Hunt for a moment. His blue eyes clouded.

"I see your interest."

"Spooky, isn't it?"

"Very." The voice trembled slightly. The eyes shaded with fear. The same fear Hunt had felt when he thought how easily this wretched story could be theirs instead of Kuryakin and Solo's. He returned the papers to Hunt and walked to the fireplace, his back to his old friend. "What do you want from me?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"No."

Even after all these years, Hunt recognized the obstinate tone. The Russian could be so stubborn. He could hurt so deeply as well. Stockwell's return was hard enough, but bringing along these tragic ghosts of Solo and Kuryakin was too much. He had to get around Ivan's fear, his refusal to face the past and present.

"I want to find Solo."

"He's reported as dead."

"No body."

Trigorin shook his head negatively. "It's none of our business."

Hunt sighed and looked out at the pastoral beauty of the countryside-prison. There were invisible walls surrounding the estate -- walls to keep the past out. He had intruded by scaling those bastions. His intrusion had brought pain and unresolved problems. He had nothing to lose by pressing his suit to the limit.

"That's what we were taught for survival. We know some things are personal."

"Not to me."

Stockwell ignored the lie. "I can't turn my back on this, Ivan. It's too close." Running fingers through his hair he glared at the old friend who was so close to him that the Russian seemed just another part of himself. The cold, unfeeling half? Didn't Ivan connect with the emotional impact of finding their eerie twins? His voice dropped to deep imploring. "I hoped you would feel the same. You do, but you're too afraid to admit it. I just wish I knew what that fear was really about."

"You mistake your own sentiments with my selfish isolationism," was Trigorin's crisp response. "A dangerous mistake, Hunt. Spies cannot risk sentiment or emotions."

'We did once', was his sad, silent thought. Trigorin could not get beyond the pain of their last mission. Hunt could not forget the close partnership they once shared. What a pair they made! He should have known something this close to home would send Ivan deeper into hiding rather than bring him out. He was getting too sentimental in his old age.

"I want only information. I'm not asking you to go on an assignment with me!" The words were sharper and harsher than he had intended.

"I do not want to be involved. There is nothing more I have to say to you."

With quick, sharp strides he crossed the distance. Grabbing onto Trigorin’s arm with a crushing grip, he stared into the blue eyes so close to his. “Come back, Ivan. You could work together again --“

“No --“

“Whatever drove you away we can fix. I can fix.”

For a moment Ivan seemed more torn than ever. Then shook his head and pulled away.

Stockwell put the glass down on a table. He hesitated, then put the papers down. Maybe Ivan's curiosity would get the better of him. More likely the papers would be tossed in the fire as soon as he left. He didn't know what he had expected from this meeting, but he was leaving feeling more disappointed and depressed than he had felt in a long time.

"Good-bye, Ivan."

"The butler will see you out."

Hunt hesitated for a few seconds, wanting to say so much more, knowing he would probably never have another opportunity to clear the air between them. He studied the stiff back of his old friend. Ivan didn't want to hear anything he had to say. Without another comment, Stockwell left the room.

***

Stockwell's jet was winging toward the States later that night. Coordinating covert activities around the world kept him tied to his desk and phone. He was nearly ready for bed when another call came through.

"Stockwell."

"I have a lead for you on Napoleon Solo."

Hunt breathed in sharply. "Ivan!"

"You are a crafty wolf, Hunt. Leaving the papers was unfair."

"I've always warned you about your deplorable curiosity," the General smiled.

"THRUSH disbanded years ago, but a few of their agents have strayed across my path. Solo was rumored to be captured, not killed, after the explosion. He was sent to some THRUSH renegades hiding behind the Bamboo Curtain. That is all I have now. I will send more in the next few days."

"Thank you, Ivan."

"Don't. This is against my better judgment. You will probably personally oversee some foolhardy rescue operation and get yourself killed. At best, you will find Solo long dead, or in worse condition than his partner. So long in captivity . . ." his words were swallowed in silent terrors. "We know what has happened to the POW's left in Southeast Asia." His voice trembled. "We know what happens in captivity."

Memories of Cuba and their capture and torture made the American shiver. Pushing away the mutual horror of the past, Hunt knew they also both speculated on the dire possibilities of Solo's fate. He would worry about them when he had to. "Let's just see if you can find him first," he advised. "And thanks anyway."

"You are not welcome."

"Ivan."

"Yes?"

"It was good to see you again."

The connection broke.

Hunt sighed and replaced the receiver. Neither the information nor the meet with Trigorin was much, but it was something. Perhaps, on both counts, there would be more in the future.

***

"General Stockwell?"

It was the A-Team's Hannibal Smith. Thirteen hours before the A-Team had disappeared behind the hostile lines of Communist Cambodia. Because of his top line status in the intelligence community, it would have been ridiculous for Stockwell to go himself. It was not a mission he wanted to personally oversee, despite what Ivan had thought. Hunt had acted on the information Trigorin had supplied, but did not want to see Solo after years as a prisoner in a labor camp. Hunt did not want to see any of the other five former UNCLE, MI6 and CIA agents who had been given to the Communists when THRUSH had dissolved. He did not want to get any closer, any more personal to this case. He would handle the reins from a distance.

"Yes, Smith. Go ahead."

"Mission accomplished. We are enroute to Honolulu now."

The prisoners would be taken to a US base under top secret conditions. The rescue, the return of these poor souls would never be publicized. They would quietly return to their families and the real world after appropriate debriefings. Stockwell didn't want to think about the detraining either. If there was much left of mind and body to 'declassify'. It was not his concern anymore. He had done all he could.

Still, he held his breath when he asked, "All prisoners accounted for?"

"All five on your list, and three POW's, I'm happy to say."

"Good news. Thank you, Smith. Pass that along to your team. You can all take some time off for a while."

"Will do. Murdock wants to know if you're meeting us in Hawaii."

"No."

There was a pause. No doubt the abrupt reply was a surprise to the men he had sent into the jaws of death.

"Murdock is coming on."

"Mister General, sir," was the crazy man's address. "What about Solo? He's not too coherent, but he's asking about his friend, Illya."

Hunt closed his eyes and rubbed at the headache that was piercing his temples. He should have known he could not divorce himself from the operation so abruptly. It was not like just slamming a door shut. He had started this and he had to finish it despite his personal emotions. He condemned Ivan for fearing to tread on this prickly trail of old nightmares. He must have the courage to finish what he started.

"Tell him Illya is fine. Don't give him details."

"It would be a real peace of mind if he could see his friend. It would be for Illya, too."

"That will have to wait until Solo is debriefed."

"The sooner you could do it the better, General. You have the power to do anything if you want to."

It was not flattery, it was fact. Hunt sighed and shook his head with reluctant acceptance. He was unprepared for the emotional strain this was continuing to exact on him.

"I'll do what I can, Murdock. Stockwell out."

***

It was difficult to know who was more uncomfortable, Hunt or Kuryakin. The second visit had been much smoother than the first. Illya had been calm enough to listen to Hunt's explanation that he was not Solo, but that Solo was alive and Hunt would take him to where the missing American was now. This course of action had not been his first choice, but considering all the options; Kuryakin's instability, the resemblance, the still secret classification of the operation, he thought it best to handle things himself. The wary Kuryakin was as doubtful of the trip as the General, but agreed to go. The mental patient probably did not believe Solo was alive and went along with the plan because he was used to acquiescing to authority. Not the best of attitudes for an overseas journey, but it seemed the best they could achieve. It would have been too cruel to allow the former agents to continue to suffer separately when their reunion could erase so much pain.

Such was the rational used to justify his presence here at Tripler Army Hospital in Honolulu as he paced the bleak white corridor. He had personalized the mission. He had not done all this so much for Kuryakin and Solo, as for himself. He accepted that he would probably never have a reunion with his best friend, his former partner, so he had gone to great lengths to create that reunion for the other team.

He glanced at Murdock, who fidgeted with a handful of marbles. Kuryakin, in another waiting room chair, sat very still, staring straight ahead. Whatever nerves were left in the former spy were well concealed and under control. A doctor exited the double doors at the end of the hall. He reported the rescued prisoners as malnourished and weak, but in generally good health. Under the special circumstances, visitors would be allowed now that the initial debriefings and treatments were underway. Kuryakin hesitated.

"Go on," Murdock urged.

"I have believed Napoleon was dead for too long to believe otherwise now."

"Seeing is believing, they say," was Murdock's sage reply.

Kuryakin nodded and slowly followed the doctor beyond the double doors.

A nurse tapped Hunt on the shoulder and reported he had a phone call.

"Stockwell," he announced into the receiver.

"You have become too sentimental if you believe in happy endings."

Ivan. "Thanks, old friend. You've made a big difference to a lot of people."

Hunt glanced around the corridor, but saw no one. Of course not. Ivan could be phoning from anywhere in the world. He WAS getting too sentimental if he thought he could turn the corner and meet with his old friend again. Some things could never be the same. All the king's men could reconstruct a world for two other spies, but, sadly, not for this partnership.

"I did a job," Trigorin replied coolly. "It is what I do. Buy and sell information."

And people, or worse, Hunt thought. There had been many nasty rumors about Trigorin's activities for all sides. Hunt didn't want to believe the worst of them. Part of him, the sentimental part, couldn't believe the worst of someone he still considered his friend. It was a potentially fatal flaw for a spy to harbor.

"Will you send me a bill?"

"Consider this part of an old debt. Don't expect anything else from me, Hunt."

Stockwell's throat was tight with the grief from the finality of Trigorin's cold dismissal. He had been a fool to think they could put the pieces back together.

"Ivan," His voice cracked. "If you ever need me --"

"I can always find you. But I won't."

The line went dead.

Hunt hung up. He walked back to the waiting area and motioned for Murdock to join him. They would return to Los Angeles now. There was nothing left for them to do here. He did not want to get more involved with the reunions. The doubles were only superficially alike. The similarity ended there. He would probably never have a resolution to his relationship with his former partner. Even after all these years that bitter reality was hard to live with. A grain of optimism in his heart hoped he could change that. They had worked together on this operation. Maybe they would unite again someday.

THE END