THE HURT ILLYA CHRISTMAS AFFAIR
---for Lori –
December 1968
“I am miserable. I am suffering.”
“My
condolences.”
“You are not listening.”
“I am.”
“I can tell from your sarcastic tone you are not taking me seriously. As my partner you should be sympathetic.”
“I am –
“Condolence is the wrong response. You should be – more -- appropriate. You should share in my misery.”
The sigh from the other end of the communicator was deep and not without the tell-tale twinge of wry amusement that only Napoleon Solo could manage to convey in a wordless sound.
“My report will be entitled The Hurt Illya Assignment for Christmas.”
“Ho,
ho, ho. Sorry, melodramatic Mister K. I do sympathize.”
The tenor was sincere this time, but it didn’t make Illya Kuryakin feel any better. Isolated on a disagreeable assignment, he did not have the support of his partner. More importantly, he lacked Solo’s hefty rank as the Section Two chief. Those weighty credentials could be put to excellent use right now in dealing with the obstreperous authorities in this backwater Norse-rooted country of Bjorg. Number Two of Section Two was just not cutting through the diplomatic morass quick enough.
The Prime Minister of Bjorg had asked UNCLE to find the mole who was sabotaging efforts for the tiny country to join the United Nations. False reports of Nazi cooperation during World War Two had leaked to the UN. There was enough factual detail to make the documents seem real, but all those who lived through the Nazi occupation of the small country knew the papers to be fabricated to sabotage Bjorg’s efforts at being recognized as a legitimate government within the world council. The Prime Minister suspected THRUSH as being behind the underhanded efforts. Waverly was not so sure when he had assigned Kuryakin the investigation, but expected the truth to be discovered by the Russian.
Because of his nationality, and working openly with government officials, Kuryakin’s mission had hit various roadblocks engineered by sub-ministers of the little country. Self important bureaucrats -- probably the double agent for THRUSH -- worked against his non-covert status.
“Then do what you need to do and get me out of this, Napoleon! I am not suited for dealing with deputy ministers of inflated egos and delusions of grandeur!” His voice lowered. “Besides, I do not want to spend the holidays in this little country where everyone is determined to spread their Christmas cheer.”
“What kind of cheer is that?” The American’s voice brightened.
“Not what you are thinking,” was his glum retort. “Giant pine trees and local traditions of candy exchanges and carolers. It is enough to make Bob Cratchet proud.”
“Bah humbug.”
He ignored the irony in the tone. “Exactly.”
Another deep sigh. “Believe
me, my friend, I would be happy to share your
misery. A Danish holiday with all those
Nordic blonds sounds a lot better than being stuck in
“Perhaps you could have someone else assigned –“
“Waverly put you
there,” Solo snapped back in irritation. “Now that he has taken a
holiday, Rawlings won’t be switching assignments because you don’t like being
tied up in red tape.”
Rawlings. Number Two Section One.
A British snob who had little appreciation of Section
Two agents. The enmity between
Rawlings and Solo was palpable. There
would be no cooperation from the temporary leader in
“My talents are cunning and trickery, Napoleon. I am wasted out in the open!”
“All right, Illya. You want me
to come out there and help?”
“With your lack of language skills?”
“You shouldn’t insult
the person who is offering to rescue –“
“I don’t need to be rescued, Napoleon! Get me home for Christmas. Please.”
“Home
for Christmas. Yeah.
I’ll do what I can, friend.
Meanwhile, please don’t make a hash of diplomatic relations between Bjorg and UNCLE.”
“Very well,” the Russian signed off with irritation. “A hash?” Wasn’t that food? Napoleon and his American colloquialisms!
***
For the third day in a row he took up a post across from the ministry offices and waited until a corpulent little man in a tan greatcoat and matching fur hat emerged. No word from Napoleon on diplomatic improvement of the frustrating situation. So he would continued with his plan and try to speed up his progress. Not much time left before Christmas.
Why this interest in being in America for the holiday? Not so long ago he did not acknowledge Christmas or anything about the holiday season. He did not even profess to have a home. Much had changed – for the better – when he joined UNCLE, was stationed in New York, and became partnered with an American who was sentimental enough to force him into some traditions that had become important.
The evenings here were cold, snowflakes large and gentle fluttered around the street and caught on his dark trenchcoat. The scene was out of an old fashioned post card of a classic Christmas scene. Old, grey buildings dusted with winter’s blanket. An occasional window was decorated with a wreath, but this was a sober government district, removed from the bright commercial lanes of the capitol city.
Grateful for his own nondescript trenchcoat, the operative tugged the collar tight around his neck and used doorways and alleys to duck into as he trailed Minister Dannz. The course took them into more populated areas and it became easier to tail the man amid the holiday crowds.
Curious that the pudgy minister did not use a car, Illya was mildly surprised when, for the second evening in
a row, the man turned the corner leading to the border crossing. Along the divide between Bjorg
and
A fussy clerk kept her eye on Kuryakin as he wandered the maze of shelves loaded with dishes, cups and platters splashed with eye-catching patterns. Various old-world styled Father Christmas figurines were displayed with Christmas candy and crèche displays. The fuss and crush made the Russian pleased he had shopped early, before he left New York for this assignment. He bought a gift for only one person at Christmas and that simplified things tremendously. One birthday present in November, a present for Christmas, and that was the extent of his shopping sprees.
He studied the sweets display while keeping a peripheral watch on Dannz. Would Napoleon like some of this candy? Maybe he should buy some for the plane trip back to the States. What was Napoleon going to think of his gift this year? It was difficult to surprise the American who was a top-notch spy. Craftiness being his nature, Solo loved trying to guess what it was Kuryakin had purchased him. One year he should buy nothing and tell his partner just that. Napoleon would never believe him of course, and be totally surprised when he opened an empty box.
The watchful employee asked if she could help Kuryakin with something. She was nervous, as if expecting him to vandalize the delicate dishes. Politely he replied he was just shopping.
Looking up, among the dinner-for-eight sets, Illya lost sight of Dannz. Irritated, he dashed toward the back of the store. Rounding a corner, a blow to his head knocked him into the wall. As he slid down to the floor, rainbow colors spinning in a dizzy circle of disorientation swirling around him, he irrelevantly considered himself lucky to not be falling into a display case of breakable dishes.
***
Now this was misery! Tried to a stiff chair, Kuryakin regained consciousness from the pain throbbing his wrists. Blinking his eyes open, he tried to stare behind the bright light in his eyes. The sleeves of his black turtleneck were rolled back to leave his arms bare. His head pounded with pain, but he ignored that by straining to sense what was lurking in the darkness beyond the arc of illumination. There was a form back there – Dannz?
“So, you awaken,” Dannz called out in Russian. Smirking, he walked into the light.
“You speak Russian,” the agent replied in kind.
“Da.”
Even through the headache the plot easily took shape in his mind. “You are a double agent. Not for THRUSH. For the communists.”
“Mother Russia. I came over after the war. In all the confusion no one suspected.” The fat man smiled pleasantly. “You, on the other hand, have succumbed to the weaknesses of capitalism. Working for the West!” He slapped Kuryakin – a stinging, hard blow to the face.
Vision swimming, Illya pressed his lips together so no reaction, no sound of anguish would escape. Misery. Yes. Typical. How he had been caught so blindsided was embarrassing. Good thing no one else was here to witness his slip up. Especially Napoleon. He did not want his friend to see this. That seemed the height of embarrassment – messing up in front of Solo. Besides being concerned with Napoleon’s opinion of his skill there was the tease factor. Any little mistake and Solo never let him hear the end of it!
“Now you are going to tell me how much UNCLE knows.”
A needle dripping with some unknown substance came into the light and was aimed at his exposed skin. He hated shots.
***
Feeling pleased with his skilled machinations, Solo expected
a warm welcome from his partner. Flying
from
Cruising around the empty hotel room, Napoleon perused the cup of cold coffee, the unfinished coffee cake, the folded paper which he couldn’t read but guessed was a day old. A cold snack and an old paper. Illya had not been back here since yesterday when they talked. So where was Illya? The Russian had been out of touch since their last conversation. That worried Solo. By the time he landed here he was actively concerned. Now he was itching with emotions just below the fear level.
Searching the room, he found in the desk drawer a map of the
city. An area near the border was
circled and in the margin was scribbled, in Illya’s
hand, a name. Dannz. Familiar with his partner’s progress reports,
he knew Dannz was one of the minor ministers giving
his friend a hard time.
“The hurt Illya assignment,” he ruminated grimly. “I hope not, tovarisch, I hope not.”
***
The excruciating pain had passed quicker than Kuryakin expected. Whatever had been injected into his system burned on the inside like acid through his veins. Morphing along with that and well after the ache was the far worse affect – the hallucinations. Whatever psychotropic drugs he had been given warped his vision, mind and body. Aware he was strapped down, he was actually grateful for the restrains otherwise he would have toppled over in complete disorientation.
“What did you tell UNCLE! Who is working with you? What have you revealed? Do they know my name?”
The questions had come with shouts, demands and physical strikes, but Illya could not respond even if he wanted to do so. His tongue was as useless as his body. It was irritating, and painful, that he felt the ache of the blows even through the vertigo.
Dannz had been there part of the time but had left after fruitless interrogation. Alone, Illya still could not command his body. The small window in the basement of the shop had faded from dark to light for a brief time – evening at the top of the world. It was growing dimmer now, so he must have been here around twenty-four hours. How maddening to mentally understand what was happening and be trapped by his betraying body!
There was hope, though.
One, he was slowly regaining motor functions. He could wriggle his hands to stretch out the
leather straps on his wrists. And two –
the best of all – Napoleon would be worried about his silence. His partner would send help. Maybe agents from
Not willing to wait, he wrestled in the chair until he was able to bite at the straps, finally tearing enough of a gap in one to free his right hand. With his left he clumsily fought and freed himself, only to fold to the floor, his muscles not obeying the commands of his mind!
***
It seemed like hours before he was able to crawl/stumble to the door. Manipulating the locked bolt was impossible with hands turned to putty, but the vague memory of a secret weapon hammered in his brain along with a splitting headache. Scrambling around on the floor he retrieved his trenchcoat, which held some kind of special buttons – ho! – his Walther! The stupid – what was his name? – the stupid minister-double-agent had left his weapon!!
Back to the door, he tore off three buttons and scraped them against the latch. The last one sparked and exploded, singing his fingertips. Unable to coordinate them into his mouth, he blew in their general direction. The minor pain melded with all the other hurts and he ignored this newest problem and tried to kick open the door. Missing several times, he chose to throw himself against the old wood. The metal knob and bolts flew apart and he crawled, then scrambled up the old stone stairs leading from the basement of the cold building.
He should have brought his coat, he muttered, too disoriented to try finding the imprisonment room again.
He had to get out of here. Had to get help. He should have checked his coat for his communicator! Instinctive measures were coming too slowly. As he reached another door he slid against it, rubbing his head, triumphant that he could manage his motor skills enough now to kind of do what he wanted. He thought he giggled when he realized he was clutching the Walther in his hand!
Yes! Armed and dangerous. To himself as well as everyone else!
Trying again, he pushed at the door, fumbling with the knob until the door opened. Light and sound assaulted his numb senses. He poked his head around the door and almost head-hit a bearded man! Gasping, falling back and dropping to the floor, he focused on the still figure. It was a mannequin in a Nativity! The First Noel was being sung in Danish? Glittering, sparkling colors and crowded shapes . . . he was looking at such wonders . . . dishes? Cups? Holy and ivy? Wreaths? The china shop? He had followed – that minister – the pudgy Russian – yes – Russian – he was in the china shop!
Crawling on his hands and knees he avoided the display cases loaded with fragile goods. Bull in a china shop. A phrase he had heard Napoleon use. Strange that he understood the meaning better than ever before now. He crouched down when a woman passed along the next aisle. When he popped up to get his bearings again, he gasped.
The fat Russian was coming this way! Behind him in the straight line of site someone was following the man. Illya scurried behind another display case. There was the fat minister – and a man in a black trenchcoat – a man who looked very familiar. Almost like Napoleon . . . as the hunter and hunted grew closer Kuryakin’s eyes adjusted. Napoleon! It was Napoleon!
The fat man stopped to check out a dish. With speed unexpected for someone that size he spun and flicked a plate back toward the American agent. Napoleon deflected the saucer with his hand. Too late, Napoleon! The minister was going for a weapon! Illya watched it all in slow motion as his friend realized the danger too late. His right hand, which had instinctively protected his face, was reaching for the shoulder holster seconds too late!
Seeing it all unravel before his eyes was like watching disaster unfold from a distance. Eye witness, but unable to act in time. Illya’s hand was up before he remembered he was armed. He fired.
To his horror the fat man did not flinch. The soft coughs of the UNCLE special continued spraying bullets across the store. Plates, cups and all manner of crockery shattered and flew as the projectiles splattered the myriad breakables. Without control, Illya sprayed a volley of lead across the room. Finally the fat man went down!
Then Solo fell back against a display case, an expression of surprise and horror on his face. His body slid to the floor as his hands clutched his chest.
Napoleon! No!
“Napoleon?”
The name was slurred and he didn’t know if he spoke it or thought it. There was a clicking sound – his finger still pulling the trigger after the clip was empty. He had shot Napoleon! Kuryakin dropped the Special and stumbled, leaning on tables and display cases to get to his partner, tripping over Kris Kringles and sleighs as he made his way to his fallen friend. More emotion and clearer thoughts flooded into his system as coordination returned. Anguish twisted inside as he fell to his knees and crawled the last few feet to his friend.
Solo’s face was nicked red from flying shards of china, his hands bleeding. Kuryakin collapsed with his forehead against Napoleon’s. He had killed his friend! Out of control he had shot his partner!
“I thought this was the hurt Illya assignment?” came a sighed whisper in his ear.
Jumping back, he stared at the brown eyes that regarded him with wry displeasure.
“You’re alive, Napoleon!”
“No thanks to you.” Stiffly, with moans and groans, Solo sat up with the help of a clumsy Kuryakin. The American pulled long spears of china from his coat. “I don’t think I like the pattern.”
Shaking his head, Illya looked around, pleased that the fat minister was still on the ground. Then back to Solo. “I didn’t shoot you?”
“Close. I think I was saved by a set of eight dinner plates.”
***
Christmas in the airport. They had done this before. The trappings were a little more old fashioned, the soundtrack in a different language, but it was essentially the same. As he sipped his coffee and observed his friend, Kuryakin considered that this was the best present he could ever have. Yes, it would be nice to have a good dinner, a warm fire and easy companionship for the holiday. Whatever gift he received would be pleasant. The real treasure, the real prize, was sitting here next to his friend – his alive and well friend.
Regaining his wits on the floor of that shop had been more torture than he had received at the hands of his enemy. The inner anguish of thinking he had shot Napoleon was more hurt than he ever felt from any physical injury. If Solo had been damaged by his hand? If Napoleon had died? That would have been the ultimate hurt Illya could not recover from.
Slipping into the next seat, Solo reported, “The jet will be arriving in about ten minutes. The snow is getting thicker,” he observed as he stared out the big windows toward the runway, “but we should get out of here in time.” He turned and gave a level scrutiny right in the eyes. “I thought you would be happier. Christmas at home just as you wished.”
Kuryakin nodded, looking out the window instead of at the various scratches on Solo’s face. If the bullet meant for Napoleon had not been deflected by flying china plates . . . “I will be pleased to leave this forsaken spot.”
“Well, I for one am grateful for a happy end to the Hurt Illya Christmas Assignment.”
The light tease did not lift his spirits.
The tap on his shoulder brought his attention back to his partner. The brown eyes were regarding him with serious regard. “I am pleased the hurt Illya attempts did not go too far. Are you sure you’re okay?”
How flippant he had been with his banter days ago. Hurt Illya. He did not understand that phrase until he thought he had shot his friend. That was how to hurt Illya – to hurt Solo.
“I am fine.” A more complete statement than he had given in a long while. Everything was fine. He was alive, his friend was alive.
Solo studied him for a moment and seemed to understand the impact of the exchange, the mood. With a nod he raised his paper cup in offer of a toast.
“Merry Christmas, Illya.”
“Merry Christmas, Napoleon. And many more.”
MERRY CHRISTMAS