"Sometimes I get the
feeling I'm terribly expendable."
Napoleon Solo
"You are."
Alexander Waverly
THE DEADLY TOYS
AFFAIR
The
TERRIBLY EXPENDABLE
Affair
prologue
April 1974
Double-checking the wires attached to the
plastique, Napoleon Solo glanced again at his watch. Twenty-two seconds off
schedule and still no word from Kuryakin. He observed the second hand slowly
tick past each digit and when it hit thirty seconds, he connected the timer to
the detonator and laid down the whole lump of deadly explosives to extract his
communicator.
"Illya, where are you?" Silence.
"Illya, you're late."
The Russian had checked in when he opened
the underground vault buried deep under the facade of a bank in southern
Thirty-seven seconds late. He glanced at the
plastic explosive. All he needed to do was set the timer for five minutes --
no, a little more than four minutes now. Simultaneously Kuryakin’s bomb SHOULD
detonate. Then the generators and the electronics system would blow
simultaneously creating a deadly chain reaction throughout the complex. In addition, they would bring down the whole
operation. The sabotage, however, was a coordinated effort and only one
explosion would not be enough to destroy the building.
What if Illya didn't get the goods out of
the vault yet? How could he set this bomb while he was uncertain of Illya's
success? What if his partner had been caught or wounded? If he set off his explosives, the automated systems
would seal off each floor and immobilize the occupants. That would trap Illya if the Russian were not
at the rendezvous point outside.
Forty-five seconds late. Four minutes and
fifteen seconds before planned detonation. If Illya had set the timer, and he
went ahead and set his according to the prearranged plot, they would barely
make it out of here in time. If he didn't set his bomb and went in search of
his friend, would he be blown apart by his partner's bomb? Had Illya been
successful, but for some reason unable to communicate? If he set his bomb and
left, would he escape just in time and leave his partner to be captured or killed?
Four minutes and three, two, one . . . .
Illya was sixty seconds late.
Solo jumped to his feet and sprinted down
the corridor without completely thinking through his actions. There would be no
time to come back and reset the timer. Leaving the bomb unset meant the mission
was already a failure. Was he letting his anxious imagination run wild, or was
Illya really in danger? He was throwing away all professional commitment on an
unsubstantiated fear. Racing down a flight of stairs and into another silent,
empty corridor, he knew he was doing the right thing. The mission was dead. He
hoped he wouldn't have to say the same about his partner.
In the vault room, sliding to a halt, his
heart was pounding wildly in his chest; the pain a constricting coil of fear
that made the throbbing blood unnaturally loud and aching. The guards outside
the vault were down, but no sign of Illya. A red light on the panel indicating
the vault was occupied told the sickening story. Illya was inside the vault!
The security systems must have been triggered, trapping the agent.
Relieved that he had followed his instincts
and not set the detonator for his bomb, he removed his watch and magnetically
snapped it to the control panel of the thick steel door. Turning the dial, he
rapidly clicked numbers until the electronic signal selected the right
combination. The huge, metal door swung open to reveal a slumped body on the
floor.
Grabbing his friend Napoleon dragged
Kuryakin from the little room. The Russian was not breathing! Quickly he pumped
the chest on the run until the pale, still form coughed. Stumbling to the
floor, sitting his friend up, he rubbed the slender back, hastily returning
circulation with hands that trembled from raw dread.
"Illya"
"Ahhh." He greedily sucked in air.
"Did you get the microfilm?"
"Ahhh. Closed," he gasped in air.
"Door closed."
The nearby elevator hummed, indicating the change
of guards was about to take place. Again Solo had to choose; the mission or his
partner. Should he waste these last few precious seconds and try to search for
the microfilm they had been sent to retrieve?
Alternatively, should he take out the guards and get them out of there before
the whole THRUSH defense force came after them? Again making an impulsive
decision -- the only choice possible -- he stepped just inside the vault and
set the detonator. At least a portion of the mission would succeed by destroying
the information. If UNCLE couldn't have the data, then
neither would THRUSH.
The elevator doors slid open and, pistol
ready, Napoleon shot the three guards before they had a chance to draw their
weapons. Gathering Illya up, slinging him over his shoulder, Solo dashed into
the elevator and punched the button. They were nearly on the garage level when
the building rumbled, the elevator rattling from the explosion deep below.
Lights flickering, he waited, holding his breath, until the lift surged upward
again.
Dropping his burden to the floor, leaning
against a wall, Solo breathed deeply, relief settling into his nerves like cool
water over a burning fever. It had been way too close this time. He had almost
lost Illya. Again.
"Napoleon?"
Solo crouched down and checked the Russian's
pulse, somewhat heartened that Illya's color was returning to normal.
"What?"
"I don't feel so well."
"Yeah, I believe that." He patted
his friend's shoulder. "Just relax. Everything's going to be
fine." The elevator slowed. He tensed for an armed welcoming
committee.
Shaking his head, the Russian's blue eyes
began to clear. "Nooooo. We failed."
Forcing an element of optimism into the
reality of the mission outcome, Solo refuted, "Look at it this way. I
assured that a highly skilled operative will continue to be an asset to the
organization."
The lift eased to a halt and the doors slid
open. No one there, Napoleon assured,
then grabbed his partner by the arm and moved as fast as possible through the
underground garage.
"I don't think Waverly will see it that
way,” the Russian slurred, gulping in deep breaths. “We're supposed to be expendable."
"I've heard that nasty rumor."
Slipping out a side door they pounded up a
set of stairs, Solo grabbed the lethargic man under the arms and impelled him
onto the sidewalk. A getaway car was
waiting at the curb and the American shoved Illya into the passenger seat and
quickly ran around to get the car going.
Taking long, slow breaths between words,
Illya’s eyes were closed and he speculated with a
contemplative air. "Is this the
third mission we've failed this year?"
He knew Kuryakin was lightheaded and not
thinking clearly after the brush with suffocation, but he didn’t want to
address the consequences of his actions right now. Sharply turning a corner he held onto Illya’s
arm, acknowledging it was a tangible connection to the life he had saved. He would do anything for Illya. Even deliberately fail.
"Who's counting?"
"Waverly."
Solo sighed in glum acknowledgement.
"Well, you're right. Our record isn't looking very good. Too late to worry
about it now."
"Maybe we could neglect to fill in a
few details on the report."
"Like we neglected to blow up the
building."
"Yes.”
“I think Waverly would probably notice.”
He opened his eyes and stared at his
partner. “Notice -- oh -- you mean that
we didn’t blow up the building.” Kuryakin nodded resignedly, closed his eyes
and leaned against Solo’s shoulder.
“I’ll think of something. When I
feel better.”
Napoleon exhaled, slowly releasing a long,
weary sigh. They had survived. His personal mission statement had been
achieved: Illya was still alive. He
knew, though, that his superior would not see it in quite that light.
I
"I'm still on your side."
October 1974
"Mr. Hendricks is waiting for you in
communications. Conference call from
Usually Napoleon Solo felt an automatic rush
of pleasure when entering the classy foyer of UNCLE HQ Los Angeles. Disguising the secret entrance to HQ was a
clever front known as Westwood Art Rarities -- filled with exquisite
paintings, sculptures and furniture. The young, blond, California-tanned female
agents/saleswomen were even more rarified than the artifacts that surrounded
them in the outer facade. On this drizzly, late October morning, however, he
couldn't summon the energy to flirt with the vivacious reception operative.
Coming off a stakeout, chase, fistfight and
arrest of a THRUSH agent-turned-burglar, Solo didn't have the energy for much
of anything except finding the nearest bed. Dealing with Waverly and what was
certainly another imminent assignment was nearly beyond him. Forcing his
grimace into something close to his usual charming grin, he winked at Sandy,
the receptionist.
Responsively, she returned the flirt with
fervor. "I hope you are not going out of town again, Napoleon," she
purred his name in a pretty little pout. "The
rain's supposed to clear tonight. We're having a bonfire tonight near the
pier."
The social scene here on the coast was
incredibly energetic, fun and constant. In his condition, the prospect failed
to do anything but make him feel even more fatigued. The usual beach activity
seemed prosaic right now.
“Maybe,” he confirmed unenthusiastically,
not really caring about world shaking assignments or bon fires with beach
bunnies. With a slight wave, he tucked
behind the statue and into the interior of HQ.
Unbelievably, he WAS getting a little wanton
with living in LA; beach parties, hot nights in
Long hours and tough assignments no longer
held the adventure and sense of righteousness he formerly harbored about his
job. These days he felt worn out. Was it because THRUSH was all but a
historical footnote? This past year UNCLE -- Solo and Kuryakin specifically --
had managed some key successes that were crucial against the criminal
organization. THRUSH Central, the Ultimate computer and the THRUSH Council were
crumbling and expected to fall at any time. Some maverick THRUSH remnants -- a
few top leaders -- were scurrying around the world fleeing capture and
prosecution.
Normally the accolades, the victories, would
have been energizing and enhancing to Solo's ego. He had learned, however, that
failure/success, happiness/tribulation, always seemed enhanced/tempered with a
comrade. A friend. A partner. A valuable lesson he had known for years. Sadly, in official channels at least, Solo no
longer HAD a partner. The spring debacle in
Rarely the former partners ran into each
other. For the last few weeks, Illya had been in
Waverly was not pleased with their
performances in a number of affairs the last few years. He had finally decided
they were less trouble apart than together and the split had been rather final.
That Solo was the one expelled from the halls of King Arthur and Camelot had
been a huge surprise to everyone, most of all Napoleon. He wasn't sure what he
had expected when Waverly's thinning patience fused with his wrath at the
team's failure, but his imaginings had not included expulsion from the pinnacle
of UNCLE North
Withdrawing his irritated frustration to a
distant hollow in the back of his mind, Solo straightened his tie, brushed his
jacket, and entered the communications briefing room. Already seated was the
head of LAHQ, Grey Hendricks, a tall, lank Norwegian-born man with white hair
and a chiseled face. With him were two operatives Solo had come to accept --
tolerate -- in his life: Ian Gryffin-Rhys, a short, slight blond fellow from
They were new agents recently brought in
from
Apparently, they did not get Waverly's
latest memo on partnerships, Solo caustically quipped
to himself. Fracturing he and Kuryakin's bond seemed the only target for the
head of NYHQ. So there was a natural resentment from him about these agents who
were so close -- such obvious and devoted friends. It was irritating beyond
words.
"Mr. Waverly is about to come on
channel," Hendricks explained after Solo was settled.
The big video screen at the end of the room
showed an empty conference room that Solo recognized as the NY office. Then Waverly moved into the picture, his
stern, elderly, worn countenance filled the frame. He announced that there was
an urgent mission for them all. An agent was arriving in
“You are to fly to
Well disciplined in dealing with his
superior, Solo's face never reflected the surge of joy at hearing that he would
be working with his partner again. No surprise that the sly Russian was in the
middle of some dangerous scheme. Like old times. Not wanting to rob himself of
a chance to work with his friend again, Solo still asked why the codes couldn’t be dealt with in Honolulu or Hong Kong. That would certainly be safer than trying to
bring Illya across the wide Pacific.
"The
The exotic attributes of
"If Kuryakin is too hot can't he just
hand off his information to another agent?" Hendricks suggested.
Waverly explained the key for a THRUSH code
had been tattooed onto Illya with a special chemical dye. To ensure there was
no possibility of error it was non-transferable, demanding very personal
delivery. Only when it reached HQ and a special solution was applied would the
tattoo be visible under special lighting. It was, therefore, imperative that
Kuryakin safely arrive in LA.
"By the time you arrive back to
'Leave it to Illya to be exotic and
complicated,' he inwardly judged
with amusement. Abstractly he wondered what happened to his so-called
replacement -- Kuryakin's new partner. He found himself too smug to ask. 'The
kid probably got himself killed. It's not easy working with Illya.'
Hendricks assured, “We will have the airport
and the neighborhoods here in Westwood Headquarters well guarded," Waverly
assured. "We will guarantee Mr. Kuryakin's safety once he lands
here."
Waverly listed the names of several UNCLE
men and women who had been killed already safeguarding the Russian and the
vital information. Even more enemies had gone down in this final conflict.
Militant THRUSH henchmen were coming out of the woodwork to stop the
information from being decoded. The capture of these powerful THRUSH leaders
would end any serious threat of the organization remaining intact. Desperate,
they would do anything to keep the information out of UNCLE's hands, and UNCLE
had to do everything to get the codes safely to
Moments later the TV screen morphed into a
split screen with Waverly on one side and Illya, from
Kuryakin seemed to be staring right at
him. Although there was no obviously
apparent alteration in his expression, the blue eyes flickered slightly, an
imperceptible widening and narrowing. Solo winked. Illya's mouth twitched in a
near smirk -- receiving and acknowledging the private signal. Napoleon sobered again as Waverly reiterated
the importance of Solo, Gryffin-Rhys and Bakker to successfully intercepting
Kuryakin and escort him safely to LA.
"Mr. Solo, under no circumstances are
you to fail in this mission."
"No sir," Napoleon vowed
unequivocally. He had more riding on this than Waverly understood. "I'll
make sure Mr. Kuryakin is delivered safely."
Waverly glared right at him. “You, Mr. Solo, and your team are expendable.
Mr. Kuryakin is not."
Feeling a little chill of apprehension, he
sloughed it off. He didn't want to get superstitious, so he gave a confident
wink to a scowling Kuryakin. Illya didn't like those orders either, but they
were a mere formality to Solo. Every time they went out in the field, he was
ready to protect his partner with his life.
This was just another day on the job for him.
"Understood, sir."
"I don't think it will come to
that," the Russian interjected tightly, glaring at him.
Waverly's chilling command lent an ominous
shade to the intense moment. "Nevertheless, those are your orders."
The details of the arrangements were made
briskly and the communications ended a few minutes later. There had been no
personal conversation between them, but Solo felt energized and confident. His
partner, at least for a little while, would be his partner again.
***
Lurking at the arrival gate, Connor Bakker
leaned negligently against a pillar. Deftly avoiding a beautiful native girl
from draping a lei around his neck, Kuryakin gave the tall, lanky, Aboriginal
agent a curt nod. Tourists crowded the concourse and he adroitly dodged suitcases,
boxes of pineapples and tour guides as he made his way through the humid
terminal. Permeating the tropical
evening air was the sent of flowers and sea.
Happy vacationers nudged past him and Bakker, who was now following him.
If the operative was here then his constant
sidekick, Ian couldn't be far behind. And if this team was guarding him, then
where was Napoleon? Would he even see his old friend, or was the American
lurking behind the scenes invisibly protecting him? That would be just their
luck that they share the same assignment, but never see each other.
Covertly he glanced back; not really
surprised that he still had a THRUSH agent following him. Two had dogged him to
the plane in
Perhaps it was better that Napoleon was not
directly overseeing this after all. Things would be ever more dangerous the
longer he was out in the open. He would
have much greater peace of mind if his friend were not in the line of fire. As
much as he did miss having a partner, he did not miss the anxieties that
shadowed him on every assignment with Solo. When they were
separated, he worried about his friend, but never had direct on-the-spot
knowledge of danger. The relief did not compensate much for his depression at
losing his partner, but it did help.
Bakker smoothly moved in close to the THRUSH
agent. Whenever the Section Two Number One Russian saw the team from
At a particularly bleak time in his personal
life, Kuryakin was enjoying professional success from his typical skill and
acumen. THRUSH was crumbling around them. It had been months since he had been
injured. He was spending less time at the office and more time in his
apartment. Yet, he had never felt so lonely, because he no longer enjoyed the
security and joy found in his former partnership.
The separation had been forecast with forbidding
harbingers for some time. The reprimands from Waverly -- the constant lectures
about paying too much attention to the safety of the partner and not enough to
the mission. The occasional suspensions because one of them
-- mostly Napoleon -- could not let Illya remain a hostage; a prisoner, under
torture, etc., etc. . . . Waverly finally had enough of the stress and
split them. They hardly saw each other, though they did transmit on a private
channel frequency Illya had designed into their communicators.
So when he glanced at Bakker, then moved
along, he saw what he wanted out of life and what was denied him. He resented
the team he occasionally worked with, and it certainly irritated him that
within hours those two would be debriefing over dinner together. While he would
be locked in a secure room in
How different
things were now than they had been at the beginning of his career. 'Be careful what you wish for,' came a silent, caustic, unbidden warning. In the
early years of his tenure with UNCLE he had not wanted anything to do with a
partner. After a few successful missions with Solo, Illya had gradually
appreciated a working teammate. Years later he found he could not -- did not
want to -- go without having his partner beside him. Napoleon had become his
lifeline, his ally, and his brother-in-arms.
When their mission achievement rates
declined in proportion to the mutual life-saving necessities, Waverly
threatened them with dissolution. They acted as their consciences dictated and
continued putting their partner's life ahead of duty. Inevitably, the dreaded split
that they had been warned about came to pass. Knowing it was coming -- bringing
it upon them -- did not help ease the distress of the separation.
His morose, sullen traits, long dormant,
surfaced and he became a lone wolf stalking the halls of NYHQ. Rumor had it
Solo's reputation had suffered little. Constantly the
"Your connecting flight's been
delayed." Bakker walked nearby for a moment. "We have a place for you
to wait in safety."
Connor's Australian accent was thick and
casual. As handsome as a movie star, the new operative was young, ambitious,
and topped the list of most eligible bachelor down under. The senior member of
this new, hot team was also making it clear he wasn't going to stop until he
reached the heights of UNCLE hierarchy. Another threat to Solo's career. Connor
was, more importantly, a skilled operative and Illya was professionally glad to
have him in on the assist. If he couldn't have his partner as literal back up,
Bakker and Gryffin-Rhys were good seconds, but their partnership still
irritated him.
Snapping his mind back onto the mission and
not his personal grievances, he muttered, "You know I've acquired a
shadow," Kuryakin reported as he walked by the agent and continued on.
"Yes. Head for the street level."
Moments later a crash behind him startled
all those in the area and Kuryakin glanced back to see Bakker and the THRUSH
agent trailing Illya had collided with a vending cart filled with pineapple.
Smiling, the Russian weaved his way through the thick crowd toward the
escalators to the next terminal on the lower level. As he passed a maintenance
door he was suddenly grabbed and thrown into a service corridor.
Rolling, he came up in a fighting stance,
Walther drawn. He froze when he saw the man with hands raised in surrender was
his partner. No matter where they were in the world, or their official status,
Napoleon Solo would always be his partner.
The dark-haired agent grinned. "I'm
still on your side."
"Napoleon!" Impulsively he rushed
forward to shake hands, but Solo threw his arms around him in a quick, but warm
embrace.
"Good to see you, Illya." He
ruffled the blond hair. "You're looking well."
"It is wonderful to see you, my
friend." Kuryakin diverted his attention to Gryffin-Rhys for a moment to
shake the younger man's hand. Trying not to grin like a fool, he turned back to
Solo, thoroughly delighted to be reunited with his friend. "It is good to
be working together again."
"Yeah, just like Lennon and
McCartney."
Shaking his head, Illya's twitching smile
was as wry as his tone. "Are you trying to fit in with the youth crowd in
Solo waved away the trivia. "Anyway,
this is a nice surprise, isn't it?"
"When you didn't meet me out there I
thought --"
"Ah, to some, we're still too well
known as a team, tovarich. Best we aren't spotted together by our feathered
friends. Speaking of that, where's your new partner?" Derogatory sarcasm
was clear in both tone and expression.
Illya didn't bother hiding his delight.
"He did not have the nerves for field work."
"Or working with you in the
field?" the dark-haired agent grinned snidely. "I can't wait to hear
this story."
Bakker called then on the communicator. The
THRUSH agent was out and no longer a threat. Connor did, however, detect an
accomplice heading toward the gates for Illya's soon to be departing flight.
Ian suggested he help check the rest of the terminal for suspicious characters.
He and Bakker could move around more freely -- they were new to the island and
were not as well known as the two veteran agents.
Making themselves comfortable on some lounge
chairs in the maintenance office after Gryffin-Rhys left, Solo briefed his
friend. “You were booked on American
until our feathered friends showed.
Five-0 is covering the United terminal.
They think it’s clear, but Connor and Ian need to make sure.”
“Then the plane was sabotaged?”
"We don't think the mechanical
difficulties are caused by nasty birds, but just to be safe we're rerouting to
a different flight."
"WE? You're coming on the
plane?"
"All the way across the big blue
Pacific." At the Russian's frown, Napoleon insisted, "That's supposed
to make you feel more secure." Mock-injury tinged his expression and
pouting tone. "And cheer you up." He feigned injury. "I'm
wounded."
"More than anyone else, Napoleon, you
know I wish you as my back up." Subconsciously he rubbed his forearm.
"But not for this. The stakes are higher than ever. That makes our enemies
more desperate and dangerous."
Solo placed a hand over his heart. "I
believe you've lost faith in me, partner."
"No," Illya quickly reassured.
"This is so vital to the complete destruction of THRUSH. More important
than what we have handled in a long time. Everything must go right." He
rolled up his sleeve to reveal several Chinese characters tattooed on his right
forearm. "Are you aware of the process?"
"Sure, super spy stuff. Special ink,
codes, formulas," Solo shrugged, striving for nonchalance. "We've
done this a hundred times."
"Not like this. This is an amazing
breakthrough -- a complex composite of chemicals balanced with skin and sweat
and blood.”
“Yuck.”
“They could cut off my arm and it would
alter the delicate balance of chemicals.
It would be useless to them."
Napoleon gently smacked Illya's arm.
"Being on your own is bad for your mental health," he chided sharply.
"Reverting to your dark, pessimistic nature. See what happens when you're
away from me for too long?"
Illya's features darkened. "They will
use any means to destroy us." He stared at the floor, conflicting emotions
making the moment more difficult. "Perhaps, in this case, Waverly was
right about our partnership being a liability. Nothing should prevent us from
safely delivering the codes."
Sharp offense made him bark out a denial.
"You think I can't handle this --"
"On the contrary." He stared at
his friend, eyes openly reflecting anxiety. "I'm afraid you will do
anything -- everything -- to protect me."
For a moment Solo
held the gaze, and then lightened the mood by winking. "I'm going to make
sure you get to LA without as much as mussing a hair on your head. I promise
you that." He made a sign of crossing his heart.
Kuryakin's grim expression confirmed he was
not buoyed by the vow.
Making a sour face, Solo ignored the
brooding mood. "Then Waverly will owe us," he airily suggested.
"Do you know how long it's been since we've had a vacation?" His eyes
narrowed as he sternly admonished, "Now, no more negativity. I've got a
few ideas for getting you to LA without a scratch."
Solo revealed some ideas and the former
teammates chatted about the mission, going over possibilities and options.
Frequently sharing thoughts and plots, completing each other's sentences, they
both relaxed perceptibly. Talking through numerous alternatives, they finished
when Solo laughed out loud after Illya joked he would rather they give the
assignment to the other crew and make a quick dash for
Grinning contentedly, Solo leaned back on
the couch, gratified and pleased with his existence for the first time in a
while. The situation was life threatening and dangerous, but his anxieties were
minimal. This all felt so right, so natural, working with Illya again. This was
the way it was supposed to be.
"I wish this could last," the
Russian sighed, voicing his friend's thoughts.
"Me, too. It's not the same without you
around, Illya. When I work with someone else --"
"They don't have the right
timing."
"Or cunning."
"Or wit," Napoleon smiled.
"And strange partners never let me get away with anything."
The blue eyes growing dark with displeasure,
he scrutinized his friend. "Perhaps, if we ARE on our best behavior,
Waverly will put us back together after this assignment." His eyes
narrowed. "This situation is precarious. I just hope --"
"Uhuh, you aren't about to jinx our
endeavor, are you?"
"No," Kuryakin sighed, sealing his
lips tightly.
Napoleon silently ruminated that sacrifice
was a common theme reenacted once too often between them. With the downfall of
THRUSH things seemed less critical and separately Solo
and Illya had managed to stay alive and mostly complete tasks without major
problems. He expected the good luck to see them through this vital, perhaps
last mission against THRUSH. Ominous chills slithered across his shoulder
blades, a doomed foreboding of the peril ahead. Not a premonition, he hoped, of
failure or fatality. He had a lot more of living to do and he wanted his
partner to be around to share it.
"I'll be on my best behavior."
"That will be difficult,"
automatically came the wry quip. Illya sighed again.
Solo studied him closely. "What's
worrying you?"
Scoffing, Kuryakin scowled. "Strange
how defeating THRUSH has always been our primary goal." He rubbed at the
tattoos on his skin. "Now their imminent demise is a means to an
end." His face was intently somber.
"We must prove to Waverly that we are better together than separate. But
to do that we must perform this daunting and very menacing task."
Tapping his arm, Solo's casual shrug belayed
his trepidation. "Which will be no problem."
"Please try to be prudent," the
Russian urged somberly. "Don't recklessly endanger yourself."
"Promise. Anything to convince
Waverly."
Footsteps scurried toward them and Ian
rushed into the room. "We've spotted enemy birds monitoring all flights to
the mainland. That includes charters. We've got to think of something
else." He wagged his communicator. "Connor thinks we can get past one
of them quick enough to make the United flight we talked about. Leaves in
twenty minutes. "
"Try another airport?" Illya
suggested.
“Take a boat over to
“Already thought of that,” Solo
grimaced. “Five-0 says some suspicious
lurkers are watching the exits."
Solo thought fast. The imperative was to get
Kuryakin off the island quickly. The
longer they stayed the more THRUSH could marshal forces against them. Glancing at Ian Gryffin-Rhys, he instantly
formulated a plan involving the slight, blond agent. Quickly he outlined the
plot to them all and called Bakker to meet them immediately.
"You and Illya are going to need
disguises," he finished, and then signed off. He pilfered Kuryakin's dark
sunglasses from the agent's jacket pocket and gave them to Gryffin-Rhys, then
took the raincoat off of the Russian, fitting it onto the Englishman.
"We're going to make a switch."
When Bakker arrived with a small assortment
of jackets he was brought up to speed on the plot. While the agents changed
Solo explained that Connor and Illya would don disguises. Ian would impersonate
Illya, with he and Solo traveling together. The four would take the same plane.
Any THRUSH agent would automatically assume Solo and Kuryakin were teamed.
"I don't like it," Bakker
instantly refuted. "My lad will be a target."
Solo favored his partner with a smirk.
"Do you remember the little Corporal's winning strategy? Two words."
It was a rhetorical aside. The blond often teased his friend about the
historical namesake being defeated by the Czar; both knew Bonaparte’s Russian
campaigns by heart. "Divide and conquer."
"Do you remember the result of his over
confidence?" Kuryakin darkly accused without waiting for a reply.
"One word.
"Do you have a better idea?" Solo
glared at the others, ending with a speculative glance at his friend. "Our
assignment is to get the codes and the courier safely to LA."
"THRUSH could put a bomb on the plane
and kill us all."
Solo glared at the tall Australian and
countered that he doubted the enemy would do that for several reasons. One,
there wasn't the time. Two, it was so self-destructive. Three, they had to get
Illya quickly and safely across a big ocean.
They couldn’t accomplish that sitting in
The young, thin, blond Brit made a face.
"Quit being over-protective, Connor." To the senior agents he
embarrassingly admitted, "Connor thinks he's my big-brother protector. I
can handle a little role-play, mates."
"Just what Solo's trying to do, protect
his pal," Bakker insisted with an edge in his tone.
Napoleon nearly growled. "I'm trying to
close the books on the last leaders in THRUSH. What's your goal?"
"To keep my lad safe."
"He will be." Closing the
distance, Solo came right up into the face of the taller, aggravated agent,
commanding the respect natural to his position as senior agent and former head
of Section Two. "I'm trusting you to do your job to fulfill the mission
and protect my partner."
Bakker didn't flinch, didn't blink. "As
much as I trust you?"
The tall man moved away to confer with his
friend.
Illya grabbed Solo's arm and steered him out
to the hall. "I don't like this."
"Bakker is fine --"
"I'm talking about you!" he
snarled under his breath. "You're making yourself a target for me!"
Solo studied the blue eyes that were
steadfast with familiar ire. Kuryakin hated being left out, hated being
protected. Using the objective as an excuse, this was one time when Napoleon
could both fulfill his mission and personal goal -- concluding the mission and
keeping his friend safe. He wasn't worried at all that he would succeed. For
once his motivations were perfectly in tune. That it caused his friend anxiety
was understandable and he sympathized, but it didn't change his mind.
"It will be fine, Illya. We'll pull
this off and Waverly’s faith in us will be restored. I bet we can name our
price." He grinned, offering his most charming expression and tone.
"Trust me."
"To be your normal reckless self? That
is hardly comforting."
"Can you think of a better plan?"
"Yes. We all disguise ourselves and
board the plane."
"Then there's more of a chance you'll
be caught. Remember your Poe. Hide in plain sight. It's your best
security."
"This is just what I was worried
about. Protecting me at your risk. I hate it," he claimed darkly, firmly.
"It is one of your worst plans."
"Thanks. But we're going with it." Aware he
needed to smooth out the rough feelings -- he hated friction between them when
embroiled in hazards -- he calmly explained, "Look, I'd much rather play
bodyguard for you, tovarich, but we're too well known. Separate paths now will
ensure your safety."
"You will be in grave danger."
"Nothing I can't handle. Have a little
faith, partner."
Ian poked his head out of the office and
urged them to hurry, there wasn't much time. Bakker and Gryffin-Rhys had
already started the slighter man’s transformations. With the help of Ian's kit
that he had thoughtfully brought along, he was able to lighten his hair to
match Illya's exact blond shade. Then the Russian trimmed some of his hair to
make a fake mustache for himself, and broodingly folded his longish mop under a
sporty hat.
Illya and Gryffin-Rhys had exchanged their
raincoats and the Brit finished the masquerade by donning the dark glasses that
were a Kuryakin trademark. At a slight distance the switch could fool anyone
who knew the Russian. The American gave his approval and urged Bakker, then
Illya, to be on their way.
The Aussie paused to say a few quiet words
to his friend. Napoleon squeezed Illya's shoulder. "If trouble looks like
it's headed your way, call." He patted the Russian's pocket that held the
communicator. "Don't worry; I'll have my eye on you the whole
flight."
"It's not me I'm worried about,"
he confessed glumly. "Napoleon, if something goes wrong --” He grimaced,
then sighed with frustrated irritation. "Don't you understand?"
"I do," Solo replied sincerely.
"I've never been quite in your position like this, but I know I would hate
it."
Kuryakin confirmed with a tight nod.
"Don't do anything to make me feel too guilty. And I suppose it is useless
to ask you to be careful."
Genuinely touched and feeling way too
emotional for the peril they were about to face, he simply offered a reassuring
grin. He had to completely focus on the task, but felt there needed to be some
closure with his friend. "I'm always careful." Kuryakin coughed and
he ignored the rude sarcasm. "But I promise no unnecessary risks. I want
to get this over with and get back to the way life is supposed to be."
Darting a glance at the other agents, who
were now waiting at the door, Kuryakin lowered his voice and moved close to his
friend. "If you did something foolish while protecting me I --" he
sighed heavily. "I will never forgive you."
Napoleon patted his back and gently
propelled him forward. "I'm properly chastened," he whispered wryly.
"Remember to stay behind us when we get off the plane. Don't let anyone
get too close. Bakker will be your guardian angel." He backed away and
gave a nod to Illya, then the Aussie. "Good luck, gentlemen." He
brushed at the collar of his suit coat, straightened his tie, and gave Ian a
confident nod. "Show time."
They left first, the second team following a
few minutes later. When they reached the gate the flight was already
boarding. Steve McGarrett stood nearby
in the doorway of a duty free shop. He
nodded toward two men taking interest in them as they passed through the
gate. Solo acknowledged the silent
warning and proceeded, feeling chills of apprehension flitter along his spine
as he turned his back on the enemies.
Trusting completely in his old friend McGarrett was not a problem, but
it was difficult for him to relinquish his own life and Illya’s to someone
else. He was surprised Kuryakin betrayed
no sign of such anxiety. Perhaps because
the Russian was so worried about him.
Always a two-way street that dilemma.
Settling in on the plane, he noted Illya and
Bakker took their seats. Just before the doors closed one of the suspicious men
interested in Solo and his companion rushed aboard. He cast covert glances at
the American and supposed Russian several times. He never took any interest in
Kuryakin farther back on the plane. Smugly pleased with himself and his plan,
Napoleon pretended to nap as they winged their way east.
II
"Time for theatrical melodramatics."
'Appearances can be deceiving.'
The first letter of the law in the espionage
code. The phrase had never been more abundantly clear to Napoleon Solo than it
was now. Sitting in economy class on the jet speeding it's
way to the west coast; it appeared that he was sitting next to his
partner. The slight blond man with dark glasses was slumped down in the seat
pretending to be asleep. Right build, right hair, right look. Everything was
right except that it was not his partner at all.
At the end of the day Ian would return to
his partner and Napoleon would return to being a solo agent. A status he once
prized and now decried. On the same
plane, but he did not dare contact with his closest friend. Irritating. He
would like nothing more than to go confer with his comrade, catch up on news,
gossip, and share some memories. Or simply indulge in comfortable silence.
Instead, he had put his closest friend's safety in the hands of a stranger.
For some reason he thought being with a
look-alike would be a reflection of old times. He could not have been more
incorrect. Gryffin-Rhys was taciturn, sober and completely business. Very
similar to the original Kuryakin in the early years.
The facade was similar, but the counterfeit
agent was just -- different. While setting up this mission their thinking
didn't align, the approach to the job vastly different than Illya’s would be.
When he tried to initiate small talk for the sake of appearances, Gryffin-Rhys
shut him out, telling him he had no interest in conversation. So instead of
being amused or friendly, Solo was irritated.
How could this unsociable guy have an outgoing, protective friend like
Bakker?
And later?
There was little possibility that he would even be able to talk to Illya
once this was completed. They had discussed the hope of reuniting, but they
always did. Back at HQ Kuryakin would be decoding the cipher -- probably for
days with the Section Four cryptographers. By then Solo might be on another
continent. Well, maybe they'd see each other at the annual Christmas party. How
long could Waverly keep them apart?
***
Upon debarking Solo and Ian made a brisk pace
through the terminal of LAX. They picked up two THRUSH agents and possibly one
more approaching in front of them. A pincher move. From the corner of his eye
he saw Bakker and Illya. They were making their way to the exits. An UNCLE car
and security teams would be waiting for them. In just moments they would be
safe.
"All seems fine," Ian commented
easily. "Three villains approaching us."
Solo saw one of the enemy stop and study the
disguised Kuryakin. "Trouble," he muttered angrily under his
breath. Then from out of nowhere a tall,
burley man zeroed in on the Russian. Solo thought he saw the gleam of a knife
in the man's hand. "Time for theatrical melodramatics. Follow me."
He forcefully bumped into the tall man,
grabbing the knife hilt. Powerfully resistant, the man slashed out, connecting
with Solo's arm. Relaxing, he feigned serious injury and caught his opponent
off guard. With a savage twist he cracked the bones of
the foe's hand, and then shifted the knife into his heart.
It all happened in a matter of seconds. The
other three armed THRUSH were still converging on the group. Kuryakin and
Bakker were too close. Throwing down a woman loaded with luggage, Solo grabbed
Ian's arm and collided with the nearest oncoming enemy agent before the man could
aim or fire the weapon his hand.
Stumbling to his feet on the run, he grabbed Ian again and rushed toward
the exit doors. Turning, he took quick, but careful aim and popped off several
shots at the THRUSH men. With a quick glance he confirmed all remaining THRUSH
were now in pursuit of him and Ian. Four known UNCLE colleagues from Solo’s LA
office were now approaching Illya --an irate, scowling Illya.
So Kuryakin, and the codes, were in safe hands.
Satisfied, Solo ran through the crowd
without looking back. Once outside he leaped into the driver's seat of the
first taxi cab and pushed the driver out, screeching away with his decoy
associate. An LAPD officer on the
sidewalk shouted at them. Before they
reached the next lane a brown sedan chased after them. Almost instantly
Ian's communicator beeped and Gryffin-Rhys answered it. No surprise, it was an
irate Bakker on the other end. The Brit did a good job of calming down his
partner as Solo careened toward the San Diego Freeway, making sure the car tailing
them was close enough not to get lost. After
a few choice curses Bakker demanded Solo not get
reckless with his partner. It was all right to return to HQ. Kuryakin and he were fully protected.
Napoleon, clutching at his sliced arm, assured everything was under
control. He promised when he got the word that Illya was safely back at UNCLE
he would lose the tail and they would return home. Until then he would take his
decoy job seriously.
"Where is Illya now?"
"In the car ahead of me. He's safe,
Solo. Just make sure you take care of my lad."
Refusing to allow his irritation to show at
being issued demands by a junior agent, Solo merely reiterated that he was just
following through on the plan. Everything was going to be fine.
***
Entering the front door of, Westwood Art
Rarities, Illya Kuryakin released a small sigh of relief. He had no doubt
his partner's decoy plan was a good one. He never had a concern that Solo would
accomplish his duty of protection and deception. Still, considering the
incredibly vital codes he carried, it was nice to be within the safety of LAHQ.
Now, however, he had nothing else to
worry about but Napoleon's reckless tendencies to get
carried away with heroics. Perhaps he should signal his partner again and let
him know all was well. Napoleon was not answering his communicator. Did he
imagine it, or had Napoleon been hurt in the fight at the airport? Several Section Four
agents met him in the corridor and escorted him to cryptography. Surprisingly, Mr. Waverly was there to meet him.
“Hello, sir.”
“I came with the cryptography team,” he
explained tersely. “Shall we begin.”
It was not a question. Illya fractionally hesitated, longing to wait
for word on Napoleon. With the boss
caught up in the urgency of beginning on the path of destroying THRUSH, he
thought this might not be a good time to balk and publicly voice concerns about
his ex-partner. Waverly would just tell
him that Solo and Ian could take care of themselves. With an internal sigh of
frustration, Kuryakin decided not to call Solo again, but decided to wait for
Connor Bakker to arrive with the second escort team. That determined in a few seconds of
introspection, he offered his superior a curt nod.
Just as they were entering a lift Bakker
arrived.
"Everything all right?" Illya didn’t like the strained look on the
Aussie. He looked like he was about to
explode with tension. Had their partners
gotten into trouble? “Did you hear from
Napoleon?”
"They should be arriving soon."
Connor replied tightly. "A support team is intercepting them. Solo's
leading the birds on a merry chase. He better know what he's doing." He
scowled at the slighter Russian. "He refuses to end the games until he
hears you're through the doors of headquarters."
Then he was all right, Kuryakin mentally
groaned with tempered relief. The unwelcome news that his friend was still
playing fox to the baying hounds of THRUSH irritated Illya nearly as much as
Bakker, though he would never do anything but loyally defend his partner
against attack -- even from colleagues. "Napoleon knows what he's doing.
Your partner is safe."
"He better be."
Angry and unsettled by the bald threat, he
pulled out his communicator as he moved along the hall. Ignoring the glare from Waverly, using their private
channel, he tried to contact his friend again, but there was still no reply.
Refusing to reveal the extent of his concern, he slipped the silver pen back in
his pocket, assuring Bakker that they were probably too busy to respond. The
Aussie vowed to keep attempting contact.
Aware Waverly was impatiently waiting in the
elevator, Illya quickly instructed, "Let me know when they arrive.".
He wouldn't feel calm, either, until the two decoy agents were within the
protected walls of HQ.
III
"Partners!"
The process of decoding the ciphers was
surprisingly simple. The chemical rubbed on his tattoo was cool and slightly
pungent in odor. Fascinated in spite of himself, the Russian was soon caught up
with the fascinating procedure. Small,
once invisible characters that appeared like magic on his arm next to the
boldly tattooed drawings. Equally enthralled, the cryptographers were soon
absorbed in the amazingly clever coding technique, while the scientists were
excited about this wonderful new method of secreting messages on courier's
skin.
Waverly had disappeared long before to
evaluate the data and start operations on closing down THRUSH because of this
vital information. By the time he was
finished Illya was starving. It was well past time for a coffee break his
stomach told him. He checked his watch And realized he had been ensconced for
hours! How had time flown by so fast? Where was Napoleon? Why hadn't Bakker
called him when Solo arrived? Had Waverly captured the other agents in
debriefings this long? Perhaps Napoleon had been hurt -- worse than he had
thought -- by the attacker at the airport. Was he in the infirmary? He hastily
bid the others farewell and quickly went in search of his former partner.
The buzz in the halls told him more than he
wanted to know. Nerves crawling, he
understood from the murmurs -- from the looks cast his way -- that something
had gone wrong with the decoy mission. Hurrying to the main communications
center, a grave Waverly and an irate Bakker glanced at him when he came through
the doors. Waverly seemed to move
slowly, his age increasingly catching up with him. For the first time Illya wondered if the old man was going to live long enough to take down
his arch enemies.
"Someone is highly motivated to retrieve
that information you brought back, Mr. Kuryakin," He somberly reported.
Curtly cutting to the relevant facts, the
other operative shot out a scathing condemnation. "Ian and Solo are
missing. We've lost signal with Emerson and Wong, the two agents acting as
their security escort." Bakker glared at Waverly, then narrowed his eyes
and seared Kuryakin with wrath. "Ian's last transmission indicated they
were ambushed," Bakker snapped before Kuryakin had a chance to voice his
concerns. "I've been searching for hours!" The tone was harsh and
accusatory, the agent's manner boldly confrontational. "They're on the
streets somewhere wounded. Or worse! No contact!" Teeth ground together as
he attempted to leash his raging emotions. "If anything's happened to Ian
your partner is going to --"
"That will be quite enough, Mr.
Bakker." Waverly speared them both with glaring dagger-eyes.
"Partners! Your lot makes me wish to the devil I had never instituted
partnerships!" Shaking his head in true anger, he singled out the younger
operative. "Mr. Bakker, you will take a team and continue the search.
Please try to contain your emotionalism, it will do you no good in your
mission."
"Sir --" Illya was interrupted by
his superior.
"No, Mr. Kuryakin. You will remain in
headquarters."
"I could be of assistance, sir. My job
here is done."
Waverly glanced up at the heavens. "You
might very well still be a target, Mr. Kuryakin."
His resolve was certain. "I'm willing
to take that chance, sir."
"Very well. Keep in touch with communications. I don't want
the two of you missing as well. We have effectively destroyed THRUSH tonight,
gentleman. I will be sending field agents out to sweep up the last of the
leaders and their few minions. In future our jobs will be different. You are to
be congratulated. Do not let sentimentality diminish your part in this historic
occasion."
Neither agent responded, but Illya knew the
accolades were as empty to him as they were to Bakker. They weren't seeing the
big picture of destroying their long-time enemies and sparing the world from
evil. They were focused on the small universe of two missing partners. If
something had happened to those close friends then what would the rest of the
world matter tomorrow?
Stopping in the communications lab, Illya
picked up a small, hand-held receiver that should pick up a signal from
Napoleon's ring/transmitter. As they left the underground parking lot, Bakker
driving their UNCLE vehicle, he knew Bakker blamed him nearly as much as he
blamed Napoleon. In part, he supposed some of the responsibility was his. It
was because of him that the decoys had been put in the path of danger, wasn't
it? And what had happened to their respective partners? What sometimes happened
to decoys. They were doing their jobs too well.
IV
"Where else would I be?"
Another UNCLE team found the wreckage. When
Kuryakin and Bakker arrived in the run down LA suburb of
LAPD officers demanded a full explanation of
their interest in the wreckage. Offering
their ID did little to appease the police.
Officers were also interviewing the few neighborhood people. The
witnesses couldn't agree on what they saw or how many men staggered away from
the wreck. Illya didn't have time for that irrelevance. He requested they be allowed to search the
area for their comrades. .Glaring hatefully at him, Bakker curtly informed he
was going to the hospital, leaving him with the explanations. Finally Illya was released and started
scouting the area on foot.
Using the receiver to follow the ring
signal, Illya was disturbed that the transmission was weak. That might mean the
ring was damaged -- along with it's owner. Taking to the streets, Kuryakin
relied on his instincts, his knowledge of his partner, and the unflagging
optimism that he alone could find his friend better than anyone else -- find
him alive.
At the corner of one street leading into a
deserted, run-down old neighborhood, Illya spotted something shiny off to the
side of the curb. Heart cringing, he recognized it as Napoleon's pistol. It was
dark and slippery with blood and he gulped down a knot of rising fear as he
checked the clip. Nearly empty from the
light weight. Napoleon had put up a
fight. He slipped it into his pocket,
then checked the electronic signal. It started growing slightly stronger as he
cautiously entered the empty street.
Gun hand relaxed, ready for action in an
instant, Kuryakin stayed in the shadows as much as possible. The wet glistening
of blood pools; scarlet smudges shining in the dim light, confirmed his
receiver was leading him in the right direction. It impelled him to scurry on,
at once both fearful to find the end of the trail and anxious to end the search
as soon as possible.
Emotions vacillated between dire trepidation
over his friend's safety, and anger at Napoleon for his usual rash heroics. He
had never wanted Napoleon's sacrifice at his feet, yet it had happened. And they weren't even official partners anymore! He hoped beyond all reason that he would find
his partner only slightly damaged, but feared journey's end would prove he was
too late. Fleetingly it occurred to him that he was trailing an enemy agent and
at the conclusion there would be exposure. The thought of capture held no
anxiety. The prospect of a gun battle -- or hand-to-hand combat with the fiends
imperiling his friend -- lent him a surge of adrenaline.
Labored breathing caught him up short. It
seemed fanciful, but he recognized the timbre, the struggling tone of all too
familiar wheezing.
"Napoleon?"
"Illya," came the scratchy croak,
followed by a dry laugh. "About time."
Smears of red veered off the sidewalk and
down the basement steps of a lower apartment that, like the rest of the block,
was abandoned. Illya swung around and jumped down the steps. The huddled form
in the deep shadows was barely visible, but the arduous breathing, the hunch of
the shoulders was all too recognizable to the Russian.
Dropping to his knees he slid next to his
friend, tossing the receiver onto the ground. Napoleon was quietly
groaning/breathing through chattering teeth. His shoulders were trembling, his
eyes tightly shut. Solo's face was partially blackened and swollen on the right
side, lacerations trailed the hairline, covered his cheek, neck and along his
face. From what the agent could see red stained the singed white shirt under
the torn coat.
The usual tendency to quip away the grim
injuries died instantly. "You were caught in the explosion." Kuryakin
scarcely croaked the useless, obvious perception, his voice nearly inaudible.
He placed a careful hold on Solo's shivering shoulder. At least his friend was
alive, but just barely it seemed.
Solo very slowly shook his head.
"Tired." He blinked, apparently trying to focus. "Nothing
left." Again, Solo shook his head. "Hitman -- wounded -- still -- out
-- there."
Kuryakin gripped his Walther and raised to
peer up at the street level. No sign of any movement. "I don’t see
anyone." He crouched down next to his friend. "It's all right."
Illya bit his lip. His friend was in shock, possibly suffering from head
injuries due to the car explosion. Other, more serious wounds were likely.
"Why didn't you call? I had to find you through your ring transmitter.
Even that wasn't very effective."
"No time. Then -- smash up."
With slow, cautious moves he checked under
Solo's jacket to find wounds. Blood spread over most of the senior agent's
clothes so it was impossible to discern specific injuries. Just enough to know
Napoleon's condition was desperate. He didn't want to move his friend or do
anything to hurt him further, but he should see what he could do.
Caustic anger whipped out automatically.
"Where aren't you hit?"
"Don't know."
The lighting was so bad he could hardly see
anything. It seemed useless, and painful for Napoleon, to try any kind of first
aid. Blood caked Solo's right hand, obscuring his homing ring. The
instrumentation was undoubtedly damaged in the explosion. At least it worked
enough to get him here. He shivered at the thought of how near a thing it was
anyway. Their luck was running way too thin. He removed his coat, shoulder
holster and white shirt. Using the material as a wadded bandage he covered the
blood oozing from an injury on the side of Solo's torso. When he applied
pressure his friend yelped out, but Illya held it firm, using his tie to secure
the crude compress. It was impossible to know how serious the damage was.
Moving his friend slightly he checked for more wounds and noted more
lacerations.
"Too tired. Too many. Lost -- my gun.
Ran."
"I'm calling for help." Illya held
onto his friend with one hand and with the other reached into his coat for his
communicator.
Taking a deep breath, wincing, Solo blinked
his eyes open. He attempted a smile and patted Illya's hand, and the Russian
held tight to the trembling wrist. "Knew you -- would -- come."
Kuryakin cleared his throat and maintained
the connection with his comrade for a moment. "Of course. Where else would
I be?"
Napoleon gave a curt nod.
Gunshots ricocheted around them and Illya
grabbed Solo, throwing him through the broken window next to them. Dragging his
partner along the floor of the abandoned building, he returned fire in a
sporadic and inefficient resistance as he used the wall as a barricade. Shots
riddled the room, splintering the plaster and Illya dragged Solo
farther away, into a second room. This area was littered with trash, as if the
repair crews had simply left. Vandals had torn out fixtures and parts of walls.
There was no cover there.
Illya patted his pocket for his
communicator, then growled under his breath when he realized, in the impromptu
retreat, he had must have dropped it. Out on the steps where he had left his
coat containing Napoleon’s Walther, ammo clips and several hidden explosives.
Unbelievable! Sometimes he wondered how he and his partner could call
themselves professionals! At least he had remembered to bring his pistol!
Forcing his mind to work on the problem and
not allow his self-anger to cloud his reason, he determined he could wait at
the doorway and keep the assailant at bay, but that was a defensive posture.
Napoleon needed to get out of here immediately. Spying the wrecked wall at the
back of the room, Illya carried/pulled Solo through the gap and into another
apartment. The area was a warren of derelict buildings. All they had to do was
make their way through to the street and find a phone.
The hitman had the same idea. A figure
dashed past the dirty window outside. Was there more than one enemy? If there
was only one he had guessed Illya's plan. If two, there was one flanking them,
with still one pursuing them through the building. Then they were trapped.
Kuryakin found cover behind a pile of boards and construction debris as shots
from the adjacent room rained in on them. He wedged Solo into a protective
corner of stacked lumber and supplies.
"All right?" Illya whispered after
the firing stopped.
"Uggh," Solo moaned. "Let's
not -- do that -- again."
Illya peered out to the street. No sign of their
assailant, but that meant little. "Your renegade hitman just multiplied.
And neither seems very wounded."
"Didn't hit -- us."
"Mmm," the Russian scowled. A
shadow passed across the broken window. Kuryakin shot at it, then turned to
return fire to the gunman in the other room until his clip ran out. Quickly he
switched to the second and last clip and pulled back the slide of the Walther,
ready to shoot. Cornered, low on bullets, his friend bleeding and suffering.
This was not the kind of rescue he had envisioned. "We have to get you out
of here."
"Would be -- nice." A crooked grin
twitched on his lips. "At least -- together again."
"And in trouble. As usual."
Checking his friend, Kuryakin could
determine nothing useful except that Solo was in pain now intense enough to
filter past the numbness of shock. Little expiration moans of pain escaped his
blood-caked lips. The hurried escape had aggravated his injuries, perhaps
created some new problems. Searching Solo's pockets for an extra clip he found
one in the soppy right coat. When he brought his blood-covered hand out he
cringed, wiping the clip on his coat. The figure outside moved to the door and
Kuryakin splintered it with fire. More shots came in and Illya defended them,
again emptying the clip. He reloaded, then holstered his weapon.
Silence.
He waited long moments. No sign
of their assailant. No sound. Anxious,
directing some of his attention to his friend, he touched Solo's cool, clammy
forehead. "Stay with me Napoleon."
"Mmmm."
"Couldn't you get trapped in a
civilized part of town?"
"Chase."
"Yes, you led them a merry chase right
into the middle of nowhere." He growled with exasperated anger. "Next
time, drive into downtown Westwood instead of condemned neighborhoods."
Instantly remorseful for his biting sarcasm,
he sighed and studied his partner. His friend stared at him with dispassionate
resignation -- the fatigue and pain robbing him of his usual vitality. Leaving
him only with the basest instinct to survive -- to endure and wait out the pain.
Illya vowed to himself to give his friend more than that -- to make sure he
lived. To reward him with survival for
sacrificing himself all too willingly.
"Sorry. I'm not mad at you. It's just
so frustrating. You did this to protect me."
Sadly, Solo shook his head slightly.
"Now -- you -- danger. Wish -- you -- safe. Hitman after -- you."
"Don't worry about me. I'm going to get
him, then get us out of here. I promise."
Kuryakin returned to studying the window and
the doorway. It was too quiet. He wondered if he should try making a break for
another apartment. That would mean leaving Napoleon alone and unarmed while he
scouted out the next room. That was not an appealing thought. Now that he was
back with his partner he was not about to abandon the wounded man.
"All went wrong," Solo whispered.
"What happened?"
"Ambush -- took out -- front of
car." Solo's eyes remained open and he stared at his friend, but the
expression was glazed. "Emerson -- Wong. Dead. Rhys -- ran. Shot." He
shook his head and took a deep breath. "All wrong. No coordination --
doesn't work without you --"
Kuryakin felt sick inside, understanding
what his friend was trying to piece together.
Studying the suffering brown eyes he miserably admitted, "I
know."
"Rhys. Wrong moves. Not like you."
The inhalation was more labored and the words were harder to draw out.
Grimacing at the obvious pain Solo was
enduring, he brushed his fingers on the cool, scratched face. "Don't talk.
Just concentrate on breathing."
"Didn't know --" He gulped in air.
"Not -- team -- "
Illya cut him off. "Shut up, Napoleon,
please."
With a shaky hand Solo grabbed onto his
friend's fingers. "Not -- the same -- need you back."
In the crush of activity and danger, Illya
had kept his deepest fears at bay. On the search for his friend he had been in
motion; seeking, watching, hoping. Finding him alive was wonderful, but
tempered with the horrible anxiety over his appalling wounds. To endure the irritation of
the team being split. To go through the agony of the decoy mission
knowing his friend was at risk to protect him and he could do nothing! Then for
the assignment to end like this! It was all infuriating and sickening.
The partnership was the center of their lives
and Illya understood breaking up the team had probably caused this terrible
debacle. They knew each other's moves and thoughts. They kept each other alive.
Tonight, Illya had caused this. Not just because of his absence from the
partnership, but because he was the one Napoleon was duty-bound to protect!
"I should have never let you go through
with this."
The anemic shadow of a grin played on his
wan lips. "Couldn't -- stop -- me." He took a shuddering breath and
coughed, trembling with the effort to get more air. "Plan worked.”
“Divide and conquer,” the Russian scoffed
bitterly. “If this is your idea of a
success, my friend, then I shudder to think of your Waterloo.”
“I promised we'd -- be back together. I -- always -- deliver."
"Napoleon --"
"Prove -- Waverly -- wrong --"
Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth.
"We will, my friend. Just stay with
me." Chilled with dread, he gingerly touched around Napoleon's chest.
"A lung is probably hit."
Napoleon grabbed onto the younger man's
wrist. "Don't -- bother --"
Shivering with cold dread, he realized Solo
was obstructing him from discovering the extent of the injuries. His throat so
dry with denial he could hardly speak. "How bad?"
"Can't wait too -- too long." A
smile twitched on his lips and he patted Illya's hand. "Worth it -- you --
safe."
"No," Kuryakin denied, miserable.
He coughed, more blood dribbling out of his
mouth. "Do anything -- for you."
"I know," his voice cracked in a
trembling response. "But it should have never come to this."
"I'm -- expendable."
Illya's eyes burned at the terrible results
of a partnership that they had fought to save. This was their choice and it
would destroy them. "Not to me. Never to me." He leaned his head
against Solo's. "This is my fault."
He had wanted Napoleon back at his side, but
never like this. Natural pessimism
clouded his emotions and he could not condemn himself enough for causing this
tragedy.
"Then you -- better -- get us -- out --
or reputation -- ruined."
Holding tightly to his friend, he was grateful
for Napoleon's bolstering word, as he always was. He suppressed the trembling
fear nearly consuming him. Fear that he would lose his friend. He had to do
something very quickly or his friend would die. He WOULD get them out of this,
because the alternative was unconscionable. The shadow appeared at the window
again and before Illya could fire, gunshots echoed outside. Not directed at
them! The figure near the window fell with a groaning thud.
"Kuryakin? Are you in there?"
The Aussie accent was unmistakable.
"Bakker! In here! Call for an ambulance. Napoleon is badly
hurt." He nearly laughed at the
amazing rescue. Glancing at Solo he
patted his shoulder. “The cavalry has
arrived.”
“No
“No.
Not this time,” he agreed, relief flooding through the trite
acknowledgement.
A tall figure came through the broken glass.
Strangely, he stood there to the side of the window, just along the shadow
line.
"Call headquarters. My communicator is
lost. Napoleon's was damaged." Illya barked the orders as he came to his
knees. Pocketing the Walther, he paused, his senses on full alert. Something
was not right. "Bakker?"
The agent stepped a few paces closer, but
remained mostly obscured from the dim moonlight.
"What happened at the hospital? Is Ian
all right?"
"Ian?" The voice was cold.
"Oh, he's just fine. Yeah. For a dead man!” He lurched forward. “I just came from identifying the torn,
bloody body of my lad!" Coming closer, caught in a shaft of light, he
seemed a looming, avenging giant with his face contorted in grief, livid with
rage. A Walther was gripped in his right hand and pointed at Illya. "You
did it!" His voice cracking, the shout echoed in the hollow room.
"You killed Ian!"
Kuryakin could only shake his head.
Bakker stepped closer his weapon still
targeting Kuryakin. "Ian was protecting you!" He walked around until
he was within sight of Napoleon as well. "Solo was supposed to watch out
for him!" He aimed his pistol at the downed operative. "You were
supposed to keep him safe! You promised! But you saved yourself! And they
killed him!" Tears streamed down his face. "He was like my brother!
You killed the partner I loved!" Shakily the pistol swung around, aimed at
Illya's face. "Now I'll kill you." He ripped the Walther from Illya's
holster, then tried to shove him away with an angry throw, but Kuryakin slipped
out of the hold and backed closer to Solo.
"Not -- his -- fault --" Solo
groaned and struggled to sit up.
The pistol shifted to aim at Solo.
"Murderer!"
"He fought --" he gasped for air.
"Couldn’t -- save --"
"Bakker, this is insane!" Illya
gently leaned his friend against the wall, staying protectively in front of
him.
"You left him to die and you ran
away!"
Napoleon shook his head.
Bakker yanked Illya to the side and kicked
Solo, who hissed out a cry of pain. "You promised you would keep him
safe!" Illya shoved away the big man, but stopped short of another assault
when the Walther barrel was jammed against his forehead. "I'll kill you both."
"No --" Napoleon gasped.
"Nothing can save you," Bakker
insisted, tears glistening his face. He pushed Illya down to the floor and
brought the gun to rest at Solo's throat. "I'm killing you first. He went
with you and it got him killed. Then I'm killing your partner, because this was
all for him."
"No --" Napoleon gasped tightly.
"You going to beg for mercy? Ian didn't
I'll wager. He didn't have time for anything thanks to you."
"Ian -- last words -- for -- you
--"
"What ?" Bakker caught back a sob.
The pistol wavered.
Illya swiftly scrambled over. Bakker shifted the weapon toward him.
Undaunted, he scooted over to sit near his friend. Napoleon placed a hand on
Illya's shoulder and gave him a weak shove. "Let -- Illya -- go -- then --
I'll talk --"
"No," Kuryakin refused and placed
himself squarely in front of his partner. "You're not going to hurt
Napoleon --"
"He was supposed to take care of Ian!
And he let my friend die!" The weapon shook toward the Russian. "You
-- he was pretending to be you!" The Walther veered back to Solo.
"But he was there! He should have saved Ian!"
"We're on the same team," Illya
reasoned desperately. "How can you kill fellow UNCLE agents?"
"Hate," was the simple, shaky
reply. "You can't understand how I hate you for what you took from
me."
A thin tendril of calm snaked through the
horror of the moment. "I understand," Kuryakin assured in a dry
whisper. "Completely."
Napoleon leaned his head on Kuryakin's back,
drained of the extra vitality needed to stay upright. Now he was fighting just
to breathe, just to hang on to life for a few more moments. "Let Illya --
go. Only way -- hear -- last words --"
"No!" Kuryakin barked.
Placing his red-stained hand over his
friend's mouth, Solo declared, "Only way -- hurry -- don't have much --
time -- going -- gut shot -- going -- fast --"
Ignoring their enemy, Kuryakin turned
slightly, clutching the sagging agent who could only hold on in a weak grip.
"I can't leave you here to die. I won't leave you."
Bakker's quiet sobs turned to hideous
laughter. Kuryakin was violently yanked away from his friend, gun in his face.
"I really wanted you dead, Kuryakin. This is all your fault." He
glanced at Solo, who was huddled on the floor. "But this is better. You're
leaving," he commanded Illya.
"No."
"Yes," Bakker smiled. It was a
wicked leer couched in a ravaged face holding raving-mad eyes. "Yes, this
is so much better."
Tears were still streamed from his eyes. In
the half-light he was a grotesque figure -- maniacal and deranged from anger
and pain. What was really horrifying was that Illya not only empathized with
the turbulent, violent emotions, but he was feeling them himself. His friend
was dying and for what? He might be able to still save him -- but that was a
very thin hope. The man he loved like a brother was bleeding to death and what
could he do to make a difference? A man
who had lost his brother was going to compound the tragedy and he didn’t even
understand how completely ironic and senseless it all was.
"You will have to kill me, too." The
certainty, the resolution was unshakable and Illya hoped the hardness of his
resolve was reflected in his eyes.
Bakker recognized it and nodded. "I'd
love to. Solo won't allow it. But I can hurt you --"
"Not -- if -- you -- want -- dying --
words --" Napoleon grated, struggling up on his elbow to lean against the
wall. "He -- must --be -- free --" he wheezed. "Illya -- go
--"
"No." He moved to an angle where
Solo could see his face. "Do you think I would leave you here to be
murdered?"
Livid, Bakker attacked, viciously hitting
Kuryakin across the jaw with the pistol. Illya fell back, crashing into a
broken door. "Ian's dying words are all I have left!" he screamed,
clutching Illya's collar, nearly strangling him in the grip. "I'm going to
hear them! You won't keep me from hearing them!" Flinging Illya down he
stalked back and stood over the wounded agent. "You leave now, Kuryakin,
or I'll shoot him! Not kill, just wound. You run and get help and maybe by the
time you get back he'll still be alive."
Staggering to his feet, Illya stared at his
friend. Napoleon gave him a wink and a nod, motioning for him to go. He shook
his head, indicating he could not flee.
"I'll give you a count of three."
Connor stepped over and placed the tip of the barrel on Napoleon's shoulder.
"If you injure him more he won't be
able to tell you anything. He's already in shock. His lungs are filling with
blood! His stomach wound --"
"He'll tell me, believe me," his
voice hard and cruel. "Ian's words are the only thing that will keep me
from hunting you down and shooting you like the dingo you are. Solo knows
that." He glared at the downed man. "Don't you? That's your plan,
right? You and your big plans! Look where they've left us!"
"If it's any consolation, I hate this
plan, too," Illya condemned heartily, but the others ignored him.
Solo weakly gestured. "Go," he
pleaded with his partner.
Hardly able to whisper, Kuryakin stared at
him. "He'll kill you."
"Go."
Trying for a last level of sanity, he
searched Bakker's face for some sign of lingering humanity. "You'll
condemn me to what you have become. Alone. Without a chance to save the person
most important to me. Not even the comfort of being with my partner at the
end."
"That is your part of the
punishment." He glanced at the senior agent. "His will be
dying." He wiped at his damp face. "It won't bring Ian back, but it
will be a little bit of justice."
Once more the Russian tried a last,
desperate option. It might get them both killed, but they were so close to the
brink now one more risk hardly seemed to matter. They had nothing to lose. HE
had nothing to lose. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he abandoned
his friend and returned to find and Napoleon dead. "Napoleon is
lying," Illya scornfully shot back. "He's doing this to save
me."
Solo managed a weak glare at his friend.
Bakker seemed unaffected by the accusation. "Don't you think I suspect
that? But I have to take the chance and believe he's the keeper of Ian's last
words to me. It's the only piece of my mate that I have left." He pulled
the hammer back on the pistol. "I'm going to count to three."
"No --"
He couldn't overpower Connor. Couldn't rush the insane man with the
weapon. Neither could he conceive of
leaving his friend to die. But he could not stand here and watch as Bakker shot
Solo. That was the reason he had to follow. It would be fatal for Napoleon to
receive any more injuries and blood loss. On the other hand, if he could return
to the steps where he found Napoleon, he could get Solo's pistol and the ammo clips
from his coat and come back and take out Bakker. It was a slim chance, but the
only one they had.
"One."
Illya backed to the door, hatefully staring
at Bakker, alternately throwing Solo disgusted, angry looks. Always mentally
searching for a trick, a final slight-of-hand trick that would save them this
time.
"Two."
Through the doorway Illya gave his friend
one last glare. Napoleon offered a nod. Then Illya slipped out, running at top
speed for the abandoned building where he had left his jacket. If he could just
find the Walther --
A shot rang out on the still air. Before his
heart could beat again another shot echoed. Spinning around he raced back to
the old rooms, smashing through the clutter with reckless disregard. Panic
spurring his feet he tore through to the back where he had left his friend. Bakker's form was
sprawled on the floor, red smeared across his forehead, eyes staring lifelessly
at the ceiling. Illya raced past, scooping up the pistol, moving on to Solo
without hesitation. His bleeding partner was folded in the corner, still and
pale in the dim light. Still bleeding. He touched Solo's face. Cool, but still
breathing. Alive.
Numb, shaking, Illya scrambled back and
retrieved Bakker's communicator. He ordered an ambulance to come immediately.
Falling to the floor he kept his hand on Solo's stomach wound. There was
nothing he could do about the lung damage, but he kept his friend at an angle
to help the labored breathing. Detached, too shocked to feel anything, he
remained controlled and strangely calm as they waited.
What had happened during the few moments he
had left? Both Solo and Bakker were in different places. Did Napoleon try to
put up a struggle in some weak and hopeless survival effort? Did Bakker try to
kill him because he knew Napoleon was lying about the last words? Did any of it
even matter? While the blood dearest to him dripped through his fingers, he
wondered if any of it mattered at all?
Warm tears coursed his cheeks and he quietly
sobbed, afraid of what the next few moments would bring. He was all too aware
of his intimate comparison to the dead agent a few meters away.
****
"Well, I finally made it back to New
York Headquarters, didn't I?"
Kuryakin stood abruptly, surprised at the sudden
appearance of Solo in his office. The American was walking with the use of a
cane, but still managing to stay on his feet. He had only been out of the
hospital a few days and Illya had not expected to see him here at HQ so soon.
He hurried over to stand beside his friend, but offered no assistance. While
Solo's internal injuries had not been as desperate as Illya thought that
horrific night in LA, the wounds were serious enough. Two weeks in the hospital
was enough to put him back on his feet, but limited duty would not continue for
Solo for another few weeks.
"You always do things the hard
way," he reminded blandly, repressing the urge to help the wounded man to
the nearest chair.
With slow steps Solo laboriously made his
way across the office to the sofa. Easing himself down, he offered a tight
smile. "Makes more of an impression that way."
Keeping his tone dry, he replied, "Yes,
you have certainly made yourself unforgettable, Napoleon."
That was an inane understatement. Solo's
decoy methods and Kuryakin's successful courier assignment had virtually ended
the reign of THRUSH as an organized criminal unit. The coup added more
accolades to their already legendary careers.
Personally, Kuryakin felt it less than a
victory. They had endured an ugly side of human desperation that hit all too
close to home. He had come so close to losing Napoleon under the worst
imaginable circumstances. Last night, at dinner, Solo had joked that they would
be able to demand anything from UNCLE and Waverly now, but Illya hardly felt
the reward worth the terrible price. In his opinion, no mission, and no trade
off -- not even his own life -- was worth his friend's life. While all agents
had always been considered expendable, he could never accept that for Napoleon.
Solo's smug smile promised more plots and
Illya felt a cold wave of trepidation sweep over him. Sometimes their
partnership worried him. The single person on earth that he did not want to
live without was perfectly willing to throw his life away for him. How could he live with that? How DID he live with that for so many years
during their partnership? How could they
ever reunite under those circumstances? Because the benefits of the team far
outweighed the anxieties. And working
together was what he wanted more than anything else.
"You're not going to ask why I'm here
this morning?"
Illya's throat was tight and dry. "No,
you are entirely too smug."
Solo's whole demeanor slumped, then almost
instantly rebounded. "You just don't want to admit I'm right."
"About?"
"Waverly, of course." Napoleon
grinned triumphantly. "I had an appointment with him.”
“Oh.”
Illya purposely refrained from any outward
reaction. Solo’s enthusiasm meant it was
good news. Perversely, getting back into
the groove of their old tug-of-war relationship, he refused to make this easy.
“Well, don’t you want to know what
happened?”
Seemingly disinterested, Kuryakin strolled
back toward his desk. “What?”
“I'm sorry to say you're being
demoted." There was no trace of regret in his smiling countenance.
"I'm getting my old job back at the end of the month." He tapped the
cane on the floor. "As soon as I'm fit for duty." Completely
self-satisfied, he seemed energized just talking about his achievement.
"Waverly agrees we work better together so the partnership is official
again."
Illya was almost tempted to reject the
offer. After living through the horror of abject sacrifice from his friend --
the insane extremes of Bakker -- he was apprehensive about the responsibility.
Assuring his expression was a mask of calm,
he felt the weight of the solemn trust between them. Solo was recharged and
exuberant -- nearly like his old self -- from the prospect of reforming their
partnership. How could he feel that carefree after what they had been through?
Because in his own way he felt, as Illya did, that whatever they experienced --
good or bad -- it was easier when shared with a friend. In the future, however,
there had to be one proviso. He had to keep Solo in check -- protect him from
his worst weaknesses. Well, that shouldn't be difficult, he had been doing that
for many years now.
"Just one thing," Illya suggested
cagily as he leaned against the back of the chair.
"What's that?"
"No one is expendable."
"Deal," Solo agreed with a smile
and held out his hand. Illya shook. "Now, let's see if we can talk Waverly
into letting you come back to LA to help me pack."
Rolling his eyes at the absurdity, Illya
shook his head. "I think your medication has made you delirious."
Casually, Solo reminded, "Remember my
apartment at the beach? I'll be sorry to give that up. Sweet bachelor pad. I
promise it will be worth the effort if you help me move. Do you remember
Bambi? She likes you."
"The blond receptionist?"
"Exactly. Besides, Waverly owes
us."
A debt no one could ever repay, Illya felt,
after all that had transpired. "Yes, he does," he agreed, as always,
unable to resist his friend's infectious optimism.
The enthusiasm was beginning to absorb into
his dark thoughts, replacing the depression with hope. As Solo usually did. Yes, after all they had
been through they did deserve to be partners again.
THE END
Find
more fanfiction at solosojourn.com