THE PATRON SAINT OF SPIES AFFAIR

by gm

---for Lori –

-- Happy un-Birthday --

Spring 1967

Pastoral was a word reserved for classic novels written by 19^th Century elitists.  The description, however, seemed to be created for just this day, just this sky, just this vista from the grey, stone balcony of a three hundred year old English abbey.

In the distance charcoal clouds hovered over emerald hills.  The sun shone a weak, afternoon light on the foreground pastures dotted with beige sheep and brown cattle.  Shaggy dogs trotted before long-legged thoroughbreds wending their riders toward the sloping grounds of the church. 

“Illya down the rabbit hole.”

“Speak for yourself.”

Impatiently, Napoleon Solo snapped his riding crop against the fine leather of his tall riding boots.  Pacing a few steps he strolled over to a vicar, in a long black frock.  Next to the vicar was a man dressed in tweeds and a bowler hat.

“This whole setting, don’t you expect the white rabbit to come hopping through a hedge and consult you on the time?”  The suave American turned to speculatively observe his partner.  “This is just that kind of idyllic setting.  And to mar it all there are a couple of spies on the landscape.”

“And what role do we play?  The Mad Hatter?”

“Oh to be in spring now that England is here.”

“I think I’ve heard that before.”

“A wonderful day for a country fete,” Solo conversed and gave a little nod to the shorter, blond man of Holy Orders.

The blue-eyed, disguised Illya Kuryakin gave his partner a brief glance.  “Certainly,” he responded in character, then dropped his voice.  “And why am I the one in the heavy robe on a day like this?”

Solo smiled.  “Because who would ever believe me involved with religion?”

After a scoff, the shorter spy retorted, “And who would believe me?  I am the Russian, remember?”

“Ah, but you have that deep, exotic mystique about you.”  He smiled when his partner gave him the hint of a grin.

“It is said there are no atheists in foxholes,” came the momentarily serious response.  “I believe it applies to spies.  At least some of the time.”

For a moment Solo regarded him.  Illya’s gypsy/Russian-Orthodox past was something they never delved into much.  Napoleon felt his own luck was probably mostly divine intervention for some unknown reason.  He would like to think there were angels and a benevolent God watching out for the good guys.

This was not something they talked about much, and as usual, there was no time for introspection now.  “Then we’ll both have to rely on our talents as deceivers,” the senior agent offered.  He ambled over to the edge of the balustrade.  “Another party has arrived,” he announced casually.

The others joined him at the edge of the thick stone rail.  A black limo was parked at the side of the Abbey.  Three figures – two men and a woman – emerged from the back of the vehicle. 

Solo glanced at the man on the other side of Kuryakin.  Their whistle-blower, Arthur Kent, was nervous.  The bookkeeper who was going to finger an international smuggler was not hero material.  Only after UNCLE had tracked money laundering to one of Kent’s clients had the bookkeeper agreed to set a trap for the criminal.  Since that concession two days ago, Kent had been their protected companion.  Once they nabbed the criminal known as Monte, they would give Kent a new identity and turn him loose somewhere in the world where the man could live the mundane life he craved.

Kent put on a pair of dark rimmed glasses and shook his head.  “I should have never let you talk me into this.”

“Confession is good for the soul.”

Solo smirked at Kuryakin’s terse sarcasm.  “The cloth must be rubbing off on you, Father.” 

Kent coughed nervously.  “You are both going to burn in Hell,” he whispered.  “Sacrilege!  Dressing up as a vicar!  Mocking the saints.”

“All part of the job,” Solo appeased.  “Just relax.  You couldn’t be in a safer place.  Protected by professionals and angels.”

The informer tsked again.  “You are wicked.”

Illya gave a pointed look to his partner.  “However did you guess?”

A little irritated at the insults, Solo leaned his back against the rail.  Glancing up into the cloud-dotted sky, he perused the statues adorning the old chapel.  He didn’t know which saints were represented here, but he had given up believing in them a long time ago.  Blessings and miracles were transformed into the modern age now.  Luck was his charm. Not the catechisms he had learned in his boyhood.  Although he still believed in the powers of good and evil.  He battled against the dark forces every day.  He just wasn’t very holy material, as Kent so accurately pointed out.

Glancing at the front of the church, he almost smiled at the sign.  St. Christopher’s-on-the-Moor. The patron saint of travelers.  Too bad spies didn’t have a patron saint.  They could use it sometimes.

“There!” Kent gasped.  He rushed back toward the inside of the church. 

Illya was right behind him to forcefully, but covertly, strong arm him back to the rail.  “The man in the checkered jacket?”

“Yes.”  Kent turned his face away from the crowd on the church grounds.

Ambling around to the various booths of local vendors, a thin, red-haired gentleman in his twenties, average height blended in well with his country tweeds. 

“You’re sure?”  Solo demanded.

“The hair is unmistakable.  And that nose.”

Yes, the nose of Monte was sharp and Bob Hope-like, just as Kent had described. 

“Will you let me go now?”

“We must keep you safe,” Kuryakin reminded.

“Get me out of here!”

“We will,” was Solo’s smooth, cool reply.  “We’ll head out the back.  You can wait in the car while we go invite Monte to join us.”

He turned toward the church door and stopped.  Three bulky men in overcoats blocked the double doors.  No one else was on the outer walkway, so they must have felt confident that their pistols would not cause a stir.  Then they knew who the UNCLE agents were and whom they were protecting.

Start a gun battle here in a house of God?  Involve innocents in danger and lose their catch?  Obviously Monte was on to them, so the prize was no longer easy to nab.  They could at least save the informant.  One of the men moved toward Kent. 

Only a glance passed between Solo and Kuryakin.  No more than eye contact.  As with many times in the past the luxury of communication was impossible.  Knowing each other; their moves, their habits, was the edge in a situation like this. 

Illya grabbed Kent by the arm and rushed past the advancing man.  From his Walther hidden in the frock pocket he fired two shots.  The thug folded.  The other two men went after the fugitives, but Solo was on them.  One he whipped with his crop, which secreted a poison blade at the tip.  The other man turned and fired as Solo tackled him and they fell into the rectory hall.

There was no more than a fleeting image of Illya and Kent running down a winding staircase.  It was from a periphery angle of sight and mind as Solo fought for his life with the thug that was bigger up and sideways than him.  They exchanged only a few blows before Solo was able to throw the man into a display case of historical artifacts, then get enough distance between them to draw his UNCLE Special.  He fired as the thug lunged, something shiny in his hand.  Both rolled back onto the outside balcony, the wrestling match pushing them across the flagstones.  At some point his weapon slipped out of his red-slick hands.  With a slam his shoulder hit the balustrade.  There was blood everywhere and he started feeling some weakness, some pains associated with injuries.

No time to think about anything else but staying alive. The thug was still moving!  He had been shot!  Solo wedged an elbow up into the man’s nose, which distracted him enough so the UNCLE agent could wriggle out of the tight clutches.  He kicked the man, who enraged, refused to go down.  The bulky foe leaped up from his knees and threw his arms around Solo’s waist.  Then they were falling!  Over the railing!

With a numbing jar Solo crashed back-first onto a hedge of bushes.  The foliage could not support the slamming weight.  The thug rolled off him and onto the stone walkway surrounding the church.  Stunned, Napoleon slid over the prickly branches and onto the dirt.  Dazed, disoriented, he stared up at the gothic spires of the abbey.  The saints glared down at him with cold, unmerciful eyes.  His own vision was spiraling down to darkness.  And it had been such a nice, sunny, spring day.  No patron saints for spies.

***

Kuryakin hated abandoning Napoleon, wanted to fight alongside his partner, but he had ended up with Kent and was the designated guard to the whistle-blower.  He heard the crashing and groaning of the fight, but it soon receded with the running footfalls of the racing descent.  Outside, he changed immediately to a brisk walk, remaining as casual as possible.  They made their way through a back garden gate to a car waiting in the dirt lane.  Glancing around for anyone watching, he ordered Kent to stay down in the back seat.

Quickly, he rushed back to the fete.  He scanned the area of brightly decorated booths, flags and banners blowing in the gentle breeze.  No sign of Monte.  He followed the pointing of a dog-in-hand matron, who was staring up and wailing.  As his eyes raked the crowd and stopped on the upper balcony, his heart skipped.  Napoleon and one of the henchmen were struggling, dangling on the railing –

Illya gasped as they tipped over and landed in the bushes.  He raced forward, calling people to stand back.  The man on the stone path looked dead, blood streaming from the back of his head and onto the grey cobblestones.  Napoleon was in the dirt, staring up at the sky.  His eyes moved, his chest was throbbing up and down – alive!

Kuryakin knelt beside his partner.  Blood washed across the expensive hunting jacket and there were rips in the sleeves.  Not knowing how much damage had been done, or how much blood belonged to his partner, he longed to wait for medical personnel to help his friend.  They couldn’t afford to compromise the mission, though, he cursed.  He had to get them out of here!

Napoleon’s lips were moving.  He was trying to speak.  Illya leaned close to listen.  Saint? A saint for spies?”  His friend was delirious!  Then Solo’s eyes closed.  It was the medically incorrect thing to do, but he had to get his friend out of here.  Picking up the limp spy, he mumbled excuses to the crowd and hurried back to the garden path and the waiting car in the lane.

He stuffed his friend back there with Kent and sped away into the English countryside.

***

Cursing the situation, Illya drove until he could pull off on a secluded side road.  High hedges would conceal them as he stopped and assessed his friend.  Solo had not regained awareness.  He had a bump on the side of his head and a bleeding arm, and a gash in his shoulder.  There was no way to tell what injuries had occurred to the back or internal organs.  Continued unconsciousness was worrisome. 

They were running in full retreat.  Sometimes that was necessary to stay alive.  Napoleon so badly wounded, no chance for reinforcements, and Monte apparently having unknown quantities of thugs to back him up, made the odds against them.  He didn’t have any Solo luck to stretch out now.  He had to hide and find safety first.  Justice, or revenge – whichever would be needed -- could come later.

During the drive he had tried several times to contact London HQ.  No signal.  The hills and vales of this backwater district of rural England were notorious for lack of radio, TV and of course, communicator reception.  Illya shook the pen-like instrument and growled in frustration. 

He thought about stopping at one of the scarce farmhouses they passed, but he had seen no telephone lines the whole journey.  This was out of the way England.  And Kent was rightfully worried that Monte could be on their track.  They could not waste much time.  Neither could he afford to waste any time for Napoleon.  His friend was seriously injured to be out for so long.

“What are you going to do?  Monte could be watching the hospitals!”

”I know,” Illya spat out.

His mind had raced through the possibilities dozens of times in the hectic flight.  Going back for his friend had been a mistake by any rule book in any agency.  This was supposed to be covert!  How many times had Waverly emphasized that!  Trying to trap Monte at a church fete had been Illya’s idea and one that their superior had not liked one bit.  The worst possible bad luck had attended them.

For Napoleon’s sake, they had to get to medical help.  For Kent’s sake, Illya had to protect the informant.  As he had been divided so many times in the past, his heart told him one direction, while his head forced him to make the clinical, professional, hateful choice.

Without saying a word, countenance black with depression, he threw the car into gear and drove down a sheep trail to another main road.  It was almost sunset by the time they cruised through the sleepy little village.  Illya parked under a tree across the street from the doctor’s office and glanced at his still partner in the back seat.  He placed a hand on Solo’s cool neck.  Still alive. Probably in shock.  He had bound up the wounds and covered his friend with a blanket, but there was no more he could do.  Napoleon never regained consciousness.

‘How can I leave you in the care of strangers, mon brat?’

He wished his fervent, desperate thoughts could penetrate the senior agent’s blackout.  Talking, shoving, gently slapping Solo on the face had not worked.  The head wound could be extremely serious.  What kind of partner was he to abandon his friend like this?

He tried the communicator again.  This time he at least managed some static on the line.  Leaving it at the ON setting, he tucked it back in his pocket.  He stared at the doctor’s small cottage across the road.  It had to be done.  He knew it was the best thing for Solo.  Get medical attention for the wounded and get Kent to safety.

Illya went to the back seat and tried again to wake up his friend.  He was startled when Solo moaned and his eyes slowly blinked until they opened.  The Russian released a chuckle couched in a sigh.

“You’ve had a long sleep, my friend.”

Solo had a hard time focusing.  He blinked, then squinted.  He opened his mouth to say something, but only a dry croak whispered out.

“Don’t talk,” Illya advised, patting his shoulder.  “We are at a doctor’s.  He will help you.  Can you move your hands?  Your neck.”

Solo’s brow wrinkled in confusion.  At a second urging, he carefully moved his head to the side, wincing.  At Illya’s continued requests he lifted one hand, then the other, then both his feet.  A nervous laugh of relief breathed out of the Russian.

“You are not so bad off.”  He tried to make it sound casual but failed.

“That’s your opinion. You’re not inside my skin.” With an amused twitch of his lip, Solo quietly said, “Maybe we should thank the saints.”

“Perhaps,” Illya conceded unenthusiastically.  He never prayed for Divine intervention except in moments like this, when his partner was in a life-and-death struggle and all seemed bleak.  “I have often thought you had a guardian angel.  What else could explain your fortune?”  Under his breath he prayed the blessings would continue.

Checking once more to make sure the doctor’s light was still on, Illya froze.  Monte pulled up in a slick red Jaguar.  He parked down the path and walked around the corner.  The smuggler was either tracking them, or canvassing the area to find them. 

“Monte!  Cursed bad luck!  So much for plan B.”  It was a frustrated snarl.

“Plan C,” Solo whispered.  He gestured out the window.  “Sanctuary.”

Illya glanced out the side window.  A small church backed to the woods, a cemetery and a garden laid out on either side of the front walk made of uneven stones.  Monte exited the old wooden doors of the church and strolled across the street to the doctor’s office.

If ever they needed the mercy of a loving God or a sympathetic saint, it was now.  Illya nodded, agreeing that this was a good place to hide out.  He could put Napoleon and the informer in the church, then go ambush the smuggler.  Taking down Monte should be his first priority, but it was not.  He had to secure Napoleon first.

“I’ll help you inside –“

“Just go,” Solo ordered.  “Get Monte.  Then we can get back to civilization.”

Indecision, reluctance stayed his feet.  To leave would mean danger to his friend.  If he somehow failed to bag Monte and the smuggler won control, Solo and Kent were as good as dead.

“Go,” Napoleon told him, giving a weak push to his arm.  “I’ll take care of Kent.”

Kuryakin nodded.  His voice was gruff with emotion when he chastised, “You lost your pistol.  Again.”

Pointing toward his boot, Illya followed his gesture and slipped his hand inside Solo’s left riding boot.  His hand gripped around a weapon and he pulled out a silver pistol no bigger than his palm.  He placed it in Solo’s grip. 

“Stay safe,” he advised.

Solo nodded.  “You, too.”

Illya stared at Kent.  “Take care of him,” he ordered.  He kept a hold of his Walther as he crept out of the car.

***

Coming up around the side of the physician’s cottage, through an arbor matted with vines, Kuryakin flinched in surprise when a cat, crouching in the shadows, hissed at him.  As if the animal could interpret his actions, he placed a finger to his lip.  Then he crept over to a curtained window and crouched down to peer inside.  Where was Monte?  A blinding explosion smashed into the back of his head and his vision went to black.  He slumped into the damp dirt of the flower patch, realizing Monte has been behind him.

“Thank you for falling into my trap,” a thick, British voice whispered in his ear.

Illya tried to move, but unconsciousness had it’s hold on him and he was dragged unwillingly into a black pit.

***

Feeling like he was re-enacting a scene from the Mummy, Solo shuffled along the narrow garden path with a skiddish Kent close behind.  The old trees swayed in a breeze and a faint howling whispered through the headstones that guarded the rear of the small church.  Expecting the back door of the rectory to be unlocked, Solo smiled as his hand turned the knob and he gently pushed the door open.

As Kent was walking inside of the pitch black room, a shadow stretched across the threshold in the pale moonlight.  Arms, legs and shoulder aching from wounds and the fall, Solo leaned against the thick, cold wall of the old building to steady himself. 

A shift in the wind-blown branches cast a shaft of illumination on the pursuer.  Red hair. Monte.  The smuggler walked toward the door, apparently unable to see Solo in the deep shadows.  Only a few paces away and the agent sprang.

Both men fell into the room, Solo struggling to get the upper hand instantly.  If he did not Monte would overpower him quickly because of his injuries.  As the opponent struggled, Solo wrenched the red-head to the side, into what he thought was a wall.  Instead, he was surprised to feel a solid body connect with his shoulder.

Both stumbled and tumbled on and off the floor.  As Solo was pushed back he felt a porous object and grabbed onto it.  Monte was on his knees, a shiny pistol in his hand.  Solo yanked his weapon over, too late realizing it had been attached to some shelving above him.  Rolling into a ball and covering his head he waited as what seemed like most of the room crashed around him.

Before the dust settled he slowly, painfully pushed debris off his body and coughed, choked on the cloudy dirty.  What had happened to Illya?  What happened to Kent?  The pale light from the open door was blocked again, he tensed, heart sinking.  He could not go up against another opponent.   He searched around for another weapon. 

“Napoleon.  Are you all right?”

Breathing out a quiet chuckle, his despair instantly turned to relief.  “Not yet.  But I’m sure I will be once you get me out of this hole.”

The beam of a flashlight scanned the small room.  The smuggler’s lifeless eyes deflected the illumination like dead pools.  Cluttered around and atop the criminal were pieces of statuary.  Saints.

“Crazy rabbit hole indeed,” the Russian quipped.

Another inexplicable miracle.  Illya carefully helped his partner to his feet and took most of his weight as the held firmly to his friend.  This was the solid, irrefutable proof that prayers were answered.  Sometimes, in an unexpected manner.  But looking around at the broken statue, gripping onto a partner he was afraid he would lose, pressed into his heart the knowledge that he had many reasons to be grateful for whoever was watching out for him and his brother literally in arms. 

***

The last two days had been hectic.  Kuryakin had phoned UNCLE HQ in London and received helicopter support.  Napoleon was recovering in the hospital from a concussion and stitched wounds.  This was the Russian’s last chance to see him for a while.  Illya was to be Kent’s bodyguard to a safe location, where the informant would give details on Monte’s smuggling empire.  Then Kent would be given a new identity and set free on an unsuspecting world.

As Kuryakin entered the hospital room he was so surprised to see dressed Solo sitting up on the bed, he came to a complete stop.

“What –“

Gingerly protecting his slinged right arm, Solo carefully came to his feet.  “About time you showed up.  I’m releasing myself.” 

“Napoleon, you’re not –“

“I’m well enough to go hang out in a better place than this.”  With the help of a fancy wooden cane he hobbled over.  There was warmth and affection in the brown eyes and Illya felt it touch him as his partner gave a smile.  “By the way, I never had a chance to say –“

“You don’t have to.” 

No sentimentality.  Illya didn’t want to delve into the inner turmoil he had suffered when Napoleon was wounded and unconscious.  As always, the blood, the crisis, the fear of losing his friend had torn him up inside.  There was the added anguish that he had to choose between Napoleon and the success of the mission.  He wanted to forget it.  He took the offensive to shift the tone of the meeting.

“You’re not thinking of joining us –“

“No.  Waverly won’t let me know where the safe house is, and he told me in no uncertain terms the other agents were not allowing me to hitchhike.”

Illya was a little disappointed.  He hoped Napoleon would take this time to recuperate.  Still, he would miss his partner.

“But I can walk you to the car.”

Kuryakin took his steps slow as they proceeded down the corridor.  Outside, storm clouds and drizzly rain had taken over from the countryside’s pleasant sunny skies and rolling, green hills.

“Maybe this will be over soon.”

“Or I’ll recover quickly enough to be of some use in the field,” Solo finished hopefully. 

At the curb he stopped short of the guarded black sedan with tinted windows.  Out of hearing from the UNCLE agents guarding the doors, he told his friend he had something for him.  Then he pulled out of his pocket a small box and slipped it to the Russian.

“It is not my birthday.?”

“It’s your un-birthday. Like Alice.”

“Napoleon – “ 

“Just to say thanks.”

They never acknowledged a rescue unless it was a joke.  Or something particularly dangerous and near-death.  The experiences in the country were worrisome, but they had survived.  Why was Napoleon being so sentimental?  It put him on edge.

“It’s not as if this is the last time we’ll see each other,” Illya said, crossing his fingers in superstition that he had not cursed them for his rash famous-last-words.

“No.  But I wanted you to have that.  In appreciation.  But you don’t have to open it now.”  To ensure that didn’t happen, he hobbled over and opened the car door for his partner.  “Stay in touch.”

Kuryakin nodded, then slipped into the car.  Too curious to wait he opened the small box.  Inside was a pendant on a silver chain.  Looking at it closely, he saw the metal was a St. Christopher.  The Patron Saint of travelers.  Inside the box was a small note in bold print.

TO THE PATRON SAINT OF SOLO:

For protection, when I can’t be there for you.

NS

Illya turned around to wave out the rear window as the car pulled away from the curb.  Smiling, Solo waved his cane, acknowledging that his impatient partner had opened the gift as anticipated.

Leaning back in the seat Illya slipped the silver metal over his neck and under his shirt.  He would wear this when possible, place it in his wallet when necessary, but keep it close. He didn’t believe in religion or saints, but he did believe in his partner.  And the Solo luck.

The End