THE EXTREME PREJUDICE AFFAIR
By
G M
Executions always seemed to
be staged on cold, grey, frost caked mornings when the sky and ground were both
colorless mists. Clouds clung close to the earth; as if time had paused to observe
a violent death, as if color and light and substance had been drained away.
Frosted breath dissipated slowly in the cold air. Kuryakin didn't notice the
freezing temperature. There was a colder, arctic frost clutching his heart that
was more frigid than the pre-dawn winter morn.
He checked his watch again
for the third time. Within moments the guards would emerge with their prisoner.
The transport van was already parked at the back of the prison.
With hands too shaky for a
marksman he loaded the rifle with steel-tipped shells. Each movement was
wooden, forced. Each bullet thrust into the chamber jarred him as if each
projectile hit an exposed nerve. A sleepless night had been spent devising alternatives to
this final act of duty. Illya sought to find a means to avoid the killing --
any possible rescue, any option. But, of course, a rescue was impossible
because of the overwhelming odds and the disabling injuries of the escapee.
Assassination was a
rare assignment for an UNCLE agent. The organization was a law enforcement
unit, not Murder Inc. Even rarer was the order to terminate a fellow agent.
In this case there seemed
no other choice. Kuryakin's bad luck placed him in the country as the only
Section Two operative. Luck. The elusive fates had deserted him lately. Himself
and two other UNCLE agents, he reflected darkly On this dismal morning logic
and luck was meaningless phrases. Two of his colleagues had been incarcerated
in a Mongolian prison. One had died of excruciating torture, the other was very
near death. Kuryakin's assignment was to kill the surviving agent; to protect
vital information as well as mercifully end the agent's torment.
Kuryakin rubbed the metal
rifle barrel with short, nervous strokes to still his shaking hands. Only part
of his mind focused on this morbid duty. Over the last few days he had done a great deal of thinking
about duty, loyalty, and commitment. He could now rationalize this execution by
convincing himself it was his own grisly contribution to an assignment that by
rights should have included him.
'There but for the grace
of God goes Illya Kuryakin,' he thought bitterly. The grace of God, blizzards, and UNCLE
politics had conspired to keep Kuryakin out of Mongolia for this critical
mission.
Mongolia was a hostile
country in terrain, weather, and sentiment. The People's Cultural Revolution,
like every hysterical revolution, had sent a wave of brutality and insanity
over the country. In China everyone was a suspect and Caucasians were instantly
labeled spies. Kuryakin had been assigned to the infiltration team, but was
detained by a blizzard in Helsinki. The team had been ordered to leave without
him and they had been captured and tortured. One had died the other was about
to be executed.
He was haunted by the
insidious whisperings of 'might-have-beens' and 'ifs.' For more
than two days he'd had trouble focusing on anything except the devastating fact
that while he had wasted time in an airport lounge, Napoleon Solo had died by
torture in the ice-wastes of Mongolia.
Dwelling on Solo's final
days; the torture and hopelessness, was something Kuryakin avoided. Illya had
tried, and failed to erase terrible images and questions from his mind. How
long did Napoleon live before he finally succumbed to the agony? Would a rescue
have saved his life if Illya had come sooner? In those dark hours before dawn, Kuryakin had
realized sadly that luck had finally run out for himself as well as his friend.
Some indefinable flicker of optimism, of faith, of life, had died at that
realization.
Other feelings had died as
well. Illya could no longer trust his superiors. His only motivation for
continuing with the execution was simple humanitarianism. He did not want Paul
Garson to die in lingering torment as Napoleon had died. Illya would force
himself to finish this last link in the chain. Then he would return to
headquarters with many questions to be answered. For the first time, Illya
almost was glad Solo had not survived. He had been spared the extra days of
torment, and Illya had been spared the dilemma of assassinating his closest
friend.
With rigid mental control,
Illya concentrated on his task, forcing all other thoughts from his mind. The
rifle was checked once more, the terrain surveyed with the trained eye of a
professional. When taught in the fine art of assassination techniques, the
first rule was to dispassionately view the act as a job. The target was a
nonentity. When the bead was drawn and sights focused, no personal involvement,
no emotions lingered. The hands remained steady and the trigger finger firm. This was not Kuryakin's first
assassination. Killing was part of his job as an espionage agent. He was good
at his profession -- modesty aside -- he was the best. That was why he was
here, why he was able to fulfill distasteful assignments. He could always fall
back on the justification he was on the side of the good guys.
Kuryakin recognized his
hesitation now was because he had grown soft. He had been robbed of his
professionalism by living in the decadent, easy society of America -- Americans
-- of a certain American . . . .
Kuryakin released a long,
shuddered sigh, removed his right glove, and wiped a sweaty palm on his jacket.
Not for the first time in his years with UNCLE, he wondered how he had made the
mistake of becoming so emotionally close to his partner. Theirs had been a
friendship born of common respect and affection between two disparate people.
Loners by nature, the relationship between Solo and he had been an occasional
annoyance, a mixed blessing, but a friendship he had never regretted. The
benefits of a friend who cared, whom was trusted and trusting, far outweighed
the complications such a friendship created in this profession. At least until
now.
With angry tugs Kuryakin
replaced the glove and resolutely settled the rifle onto his shoulder. 'This
is my job,' he silently repeated to himself. 'I must finish this task
before I can succumb to feelings.'
Illya keenly felt the pain
but could not yet give in to the sorrow. Once he descended to that pit of
despair, he was afraid he would never emerge again. Now, there were tasks he
had to complete and answers to find. But after his quest for justice was
finished? Would he leave UNCLE? Was there any life for him after this was over? Kuryakin gasped and shivered, a cold
intake of air chilling his throat. A chill that started from the inside and
coursed along his neck and spine. He felt confused, distraught, shredded
inside. He wanted to violently strike out at anyone remotely responsible for
his pain. He wanted to weep from the impending grief that gnawed at him, left
him at once strangely empty, and yet overwhelmed with sorrow. But he was no
longer able to weep. Nor could he control the bitterness for this job that had
become a final offering to a partner already beyond his aid.
Cold metal clanged, carried
in the crisp air with sharp clarity. The door to the prison opened and several
uniformed figures emerged.
The rifle was automatically
aimed without conscious thought. The guards made easy targets. There was a
temptation to pull the trigger and send every offending enemy to oblivion.
Vengeance would salve a certain primitive portion of his anger and hate. But no
amount of justified killing would erase the pain. The grief of loss was pushing
at his consciousness despite his best efforts to stay the anguish. Kuryakin relaxed his trigger finger.
There was no reason to kill indiscriminately. His survival instinct was too
strong to allow a dramatic, suicidal attempt to join his friend for life's
final adventure.
These thoughts flashed in a
flicker of time as he nestled his cheek against the rifle stock and
fine-focused the scope. Grimly determined to be the one to finish this mission,
Illya clutched the barrel as tightly as a throb of pain gripped his chest when
he thought of the friend who would never again be at his side. The view through the close-up sights blurred as someone stepped into
range.
Kuryakin tightened his
finger on the trigger, refocused the scope, and audibly gasped in shock. He
felt blood drain away and his whole frame trembled. The image in the cross
hairs had stopped his heart. There was no question of the identity of the
battered man dragged between two guards. Despite the mangled, tattered flesh,
there was no question the prisoner was Napoleon Solo!
Kuryakin's finger on the
trigger trembled and the dark, blood-matted head in the sights blurred. This
time from tears. Kuryakin closed his eyes, his body still shaking
uncontrollably. The trembling continued as he lowered the rifle. He blinked
his eyes clear in time to see Solo at the back of the van. The relief was almost as painful as his recent grief. Unbelievably his
friend was alive! Moments passed as Kuryakin came to grips with a sorrow that
now bubbled into an inexpressible joy.
Solo was pushed into the
armored van. The moment of truth had come and gone. Illya felt surprisingly
unrepentant at the failure of his 'duty'. He had not assassinated the wounded
agent, and he did not dwell on the omission, nor did he dwell on how close he
had come to pulling the trigger. His only thoughts were completely instinctive:
Napoleon was alive and in need of help.
Kuryakin leaped to his feet
and dashed to a waiting car. Gunning the engine to life, Kuryakin powered the fast
vehicle into pursuit. He negotiated the car through the narrow streets of the
snowbound mountain village. He discretely followed the van while he considered
options. His original escape plan could not accommodate a severely wounded
partner, so Illya would have to improvise. Difficult when they were so
obviously enemies in this hostile land.
Kuryakin briefly questioned
why UNCLE information had been wrong. Why had Napoleon been the agent reported
dead? But the answers would have to wait.
Illya was almost
lightheaded with insanity. There were no plans, no rules, he was on his own and
desperately trying to save the life of his friend: situation almost normal,
with a few variations. The adrenaline raced through his body as he maneuvered the
narrow streets. Fed by exhilaration from the danger, he suddenly felt
unbeatable and was surprised to find the hope inside had never died. Or perhaps
the hope had been resurrected along with his partner. 'Just like old times,' he
mused. Perhaps there was still some luck left for them after all.
Kuryakin followed the van
along a thin ribbon of an isolated road. The sun had not yet broken the cloud
cover and the day was still grey and misty. The small car sped around the
slow-moving van. Seconds later the van disappeared from the rearview mirror. He
sped around a few more curves and down a steep slope. He nearly lost control as
the car slid on black ice. A perfect plan sprang fully formed in his mind. He
down-changed gears and screeched to a halt just off the road.
Illya leaped from the car,
rifle in hand, and slid onto the frozen snow at the edge of the lonely highway.
The weapon was adjusted and ready by the time the rumble of the van was heard.
Another few seconds and the ponderous vehicle lumbered around the curve.
Kuryakin loosed a bullet
into one front tire. The van weaved and slid on the ice, then teetered onto its
side on a snow bank. By the time the van toppled Kuryakin had already leaped
onto the side and tossed gas pellets into the cab. The two guards were
instantly unconscious.
The lock on the van door
was quickly exploded and the door yanked open. Assured the guards were asleep
he dropped the rifle and climbed into the back. As gently as he could, Kuryakin
gathered his battered partner into his arms. He grabbed a nearby blanket before
climbing out with his bundle and hurried back to the car. It was hard to ignore
the sticky, nauseating blood that covered his nearly unrecognizable friend. But
first aid would have to wait until they reached safety.
Kuryakin folded Solo into
the little car, then ran back to the van. Using a special UNCLE incendiary,
Kuryakin set the van ablaze. The incredible heat would cook the van with such
intensity there would be no evidence of how many bodies were burned. The
authorities would have an unfortunate accident on the books. Illya would have
his partner back, hopefully alive and well.
Kuryakin ran across the
street and jumped into the car. He adjusted the blanket around his friend and
hoped his impulsive rescue would not be vain. Solo looked as if he may not live
long enough to reach safety. Illya suppressed the negativity. Solo was alive, and Illya's
life was composed of the moment to moment survival of the American. Illya raced through the winding roads. He
knew of a mountain hideout they could use. Then all he had left to do was save
his friend's life and get them both out of the country. But at this moment,
nothing seemed impossible.
***
The cabin was
dilapidated and weathered. The interior was primitive, but stocked with basic
supplies. Included in the furnishings were food, medicine, and fuel. As part of
international, inter-bureau cooperation, high-level agents of different
organizations were privy to safehouses in various locations around the world. A
CIA friend of Kuryakin's had informed him of this safehouse. Illya and Napoleon
were the only UNCLE agents who knew of the refuge.
Kuryakin prepared the cabin
for an indefinite residency. Within minutes he had made a respectable fire and
gathered medications and bandages. Then he knelt on the floor beside his
partner and started repairing the extensive damage done by the torturers. llya had to be as impersonal as any
physician or he would have been ill. He had seen agents tortured before; had
been tortured himself, had seen Napoleon suffer under grueling interrogations.
However, Kuryakin had never seen the methodical, extensive, agonizing injuries
suffered by Solo now. Illya fought to quell his queasiness though objectivity
was nearly impossible.
Once again Kuryakin
questioned how he had allowed his guard to drop; to succumb to the fatal
weakness of friendship. It was a years-old question that resurfaced in moments
like these. In the overwhelming times when his friendship and partnership with
the quixotic American were the only link to sanity in an unbalanced world, it
was the only answer Kuryakin needed. Illya fought to maintain a semblance
of a professional detachment as he tried to mend his partner's wounds.
Solo's injuries were
complicated by infection, and a few displaced, broken bones. Kuryakin thought
there was a slight concussion and he would have to monitor vital signs
carefully. Not that there was much he could really do. Any other medical
treatment would have to wait until they could leave the country.
For more than a day Illya
maintained a nervous vigil. Napoleon looked more like a mummy than a person.
But there was a definite sign of progress. Torn skin had been bandaged, bones
set in splints. The medication had taken effect and Solo's pulse was stable.
Kuryakin finally dared to believe Solo would survive.
The second evening brought
incoherent mutterings from the patient -- tortured memories of haunting
anguish. The Russian held onto his thrashing friend until the nightmares
passed. Kuryakin had to maintain a ruthlessly tight control of his emotions and
not give in to his own anger and pain over his friend's suffering. Illya
reflectedly wondered how many times they had patched each other up after a
mission. Or how many times one had stood a silent vigil beside the wounded
friend. How many more could they endure? Each emotional trauma was harder to
endure than the last.
At least he and Napoleon
now had a future. Illya guiltily recalled that microsecond of time when his
finger had been tightened on the trigger ready to obey an order that would have
been crushingly tragic. He wanted to believe sense rather than instinct had
stayed his finger. But many retrospective hours had brought haunting questions
into his mind: How close had he really come to killing Solo? The only answer
Illya knew with certainty was that if he had killed his partner, he would have
ended two futures.
As much as Illya wanted to
deny it, the truth haunted him like a clinging spectre. There had been a
moment, a brief heartbeat of time when the thought of finishing the mission
entered his mind even though he knew his target was Solo. The reaction could be blamed on professional instinct. As a proficient
agent, it was in Kuryakin's nature too successfully complete even the most
distasteful assignment. For a split second Kuryakin had considered pulling the
trigger because of compassion -- mercy. A very selfish desire to see an end to
his friend's suffering.
A different form of
compassion forced Illya to stay the execution. Killing Napoleon would have been
a self-induced hell Illya could have never escaped. More than ever before,
Kuryakin knew theirs was a true symbiotic partnership; what happened to one
happened to the other. The understanding brought a strange mixture of
discomfort and security that Kuryakin was not sure he could ever comprehend.
***
Cloudy spectres
tormented him, pinned him down, -- and touched him with agonizing pain. Sheer
determination brought him past the horrifying memories. He knew if he kept
fighting, even through the pain, he could escape the demons and be free of the
current of terror. Dulled consciousness brought both
awareness and a recollection one-step removed from reality. He remembered the
mission; the capture, the torture, the acceptance of imminent death with a
dulled detachment.
The pain was a part of him.
But it was a positive pain of aftermath and healing. He felt warm, felt the
comfort of a mattress -- sensations he thought never to know again. He was
aware of restraints from bandages and splints, felt the itchy ache of dressed
wounds, and recognized the faint odor of sterile gauze and antiseptic. Through
thoughts groggy from medication he even identified a crackling wood fire and
the feel of a course blanket. The confusing but positive images were an
interesting puzzle and he pondered them, letting his mind try to solve the
mystery before he opened his eyes.
The torture was over and he
instinctively knew he was safe. What a wonderful comfort it was to be alive and
feel so protected. Some kind of miracle had occurred, and he knew only one
person who could be responsible. Solo slowly opened his eyes. He blinked, focusing first on a
nearby blazing fire. Then focused on Illya Kuryakin, who was reading a book as
he sat cross-legged on the floor near the fire. Some indistinct motion alerted
the Russian and he glanced up. He laid down the book and moved closer to the
bed.
After several unsuccessful
croaks, and a few sips of water, Solo finally regained a hoarse voice.
"Didn't expect a reunion."
The answering smile was
filled with profound relief. Such undisguised emotions flooding the clear blue
Russian eyes were so unexpected, Solo blinked in surprise. He had never
expected this kind of response, had never seen such unbridled emotions from the
circumspect Kuryakin.
"I had to rescue you
to maintain my reputation," Illya responded with a quiet soberness
contrary to the expression still on his face. "Should I ask how you
feel?"
"I'd rather not be
reminded," Solo whispered. He grimaced. "Garson is dead." He
sighed and his expression was distant and pained from the memory.
Kuryakin nodded. "I
guessed." Illya didn't want to ask for details. He didn't really want to
know what had happened to Garson and Napoleon. He wasn't ready for that yet.
There was a space of
silence as each partner contemplated which questions took priority. The most
important inquiry -- their mutual survival -- was already answered.
"What swashbuckling
have you been up to?"
Kuryakin looked away.
"You won't like what I have to say." He stared into the fire for a
long time. He only turned back when Solo's hand briefly touched his arm.
"Whenever you're
ready," was Solo's quiet reply. His deep voice turned rueful. "I
appear to have plenty of time to listen."
There was a haunted look in
Illya's normally clear eyes. Some indefinable emotions that made them seem
opaque. Solo knew the shadow was something beyond the torture business. Both of
them had been badly injured before and by unspoken agreement never exposed the
emotional pain of seeing a friend suffer. This new expression was something
beyond the torture -- some unpleasant truth Illya harbored.
"Tell me what's
wrong."
Kuryakin shook his head,
then brushed blond bangs out of his eyes. "Not now."
"It's going to bother
both of us until you explain," Solo warned quietly, then changed to a tack
he knew Illya would respond to. "Well, it's up to you."
Illya drew in a deep
breath. Never taking his eyes from Solo, he explained the entire story. He
included all the theories and questions he had no answers for, all the dark
speculations that possibly could never be resolved. And finally he confessed
the most difficult revelation -- the order to kill Solo -- the order he had
almost obeyed.
"I wanted you to
know," he finished, his voice subdued by the guilt. At last he looked away
from the dark, probing eyes of his friend.
Solo placed his hand on
Illya's sleeve. "You would have never pulled the trigger."
Kuryakin's expression was
skeptical.
Napoleon ignored the silent
brooding and offered a small grin as he squeezed Illya's arm. "Even if
you're not sure, I am," he firmly stated. The reassurance did not seem to
ease Kuryakin's mind. The somber Russian still wore a strangely sad expression.
"Are you okay?"
"Don't you ever get
tired of asking that inane question?" Kuryakin replied darkly.
"Only if you give the
wrong answer," Solo returned quietly.
Illya's expression did not
seem to change, but when he faced Solo there was a wry twinkle in the blue
eyes. "Must you always be so nauseatingly optimistic?"
Napoleon shifted slightly
and a reaction of pain shot across his face and he gripped tightly to
Kuryakin's arm. He closed his eyes but kept his hand rested on Illya. Finally
he grinned. "One of us has to be. Besides, we've come through again with
flying colors. You engineered a miraculous rescue. I survived impossible odds.
Think of how this will enhance our reputations. Certainly we can solve any
little problems we might encounter at headquarters."
Though the grin and cheerfulness
were slightly forced, Illya knew Solo was serious. Napoleons' almost buoyant
positiveness sparked a flare of optimism in the Russian. He cautiously accepted
Napoleon's resolve and started to form a tentative plan of attack.
The vague feelings of betrayal
and anger were replaced by a quiet pride. Illya had never failed his personal
code of integrity, nor given up the faith. He could understand and share the
American's almost euphoric sense of invincibility. Their trust and dependence
on each other overcame every obstacle in their path. Threats from within UNCLE
and without, had tried and failed to destroy the partnership. Together, they
would triumph again.
In the end it came down to
old-fashioned loyalty to another person. Without that bond of commitment there
was nothing left to cling to. Kuryakin understood what Napoleon seemed to have
grasped long ago. Their friendship, their commitment to each other transcended
any other loyalty.
"Yes, I'm okay,"
he whispered to his now sleeping partner. Knowing that standard response would
ring true as long as Solo was there to ask the question.
THE END