Epilogue to the episode:
THE MASTER'S TOUCH AFFAIR
Summary
When UNCLE is protecting a defecting
THRUSH leader, a rival enemy kidnaps Illya to
distract Napoleon. Illya
is drugged and unable to escape.
Napoleon mounts a daring, one-man rescue.
THE MASTER'S RESIDUE
by
GM
OCTOBER 1967
Napoleon Solo leaned over and straightened
the black tie of his companion. "Doing okay?"
"I am fine, Napoleon."
Smiling at the hint of exasperation from his
friend, he fastidiously brushed an infinitesimal speck of foreign matter from
Illya Kuryakin's tuxedo lapel. "Just checking."
He winked. "This isn't that important --"
"It is an obligation. Which I am perfectly capable of fulfilling. Now, shall we
get going?" he shot out, spinning sharply and walking away from his
friend.
Solo released a quiet sigh and followed.
Their footfalls echoed loudly in the nearly empty UNCLE garage as they walked
from Solo's sports car to the black limousine waiting in one of the stalls.
Kuryakin opened the back door and Solo scowled.
"You are taking your role a little too
far, aren't you?"
"All part of the service." The
Russian gave a slight bow.
Hesitating, Solo stared at him for a long
moment. "You don't have to do this. I think it's classy and everything,
but not necessary. There is no obligation --"
"There is," Illya cut in sharply,
sternly, leaving no room for argument. "We are going to be late." He
swept an arm toward the interior of the car. When his partner didn't take the
hint he pushed on Napoleon's arm. "Let's not keep the lady waiting."
Scowling, Solo gave a nod and slid into the luxury car.
***
He watched the scene on the doorstep of the
apartment with growing amusement. Snickering, Illya could
easily interpret the conversation of the elegantly dressed man and woman bathed
in the pale glow of the porch light. She was thanking him politely for an
exquisite evening and delivering a chaste kiss on his cheek. He, slightly
annoyed and surprised at the brush-off, accepted the obvious conclusion of the
date with faintly wounded pride. Being ever the gentleman, however, Napoleon
Solo gave Leslie a fractional bow and a continental kiss to the hand in
farewell.
"You just never give up," Kuryakin
quietly commented to himself with a rueful chortle as he read their lips.
"She's not your type, but you can't help yourself."
Gold-diggers were not Solo's usual subjects
of pursuit. He tended toward just the opposite since he had no interest in
being tied down to any one woman at all. And he certainly had no wealth, no
worldly prestige, nor fame. He did, however, have a sense of the chivalrous,
and thus he had talked Mr. Waverly into a night on the town -- expenses paid by
UNCLE. It had been Illya's idea to check out a limo from the car pool and
provide chauffeur services. To Napoleon he left the wining and dining.
Thoughts of motives brushed a sober curtain
over his festive mood. Just days before he had been a captive
of THRUSH kingpin Stephan Valandros. Drugged,
interrogated, abandoned in a cell inside a THRUSH compound, where he was to rot
until execution. Worst of all, his stupefied condition had left him completely
helpless. A mental vegetable. His end would have been
indescribably horrific -- able to see death coming without the ability to fight
back and do anything to save himself.
Then came the
rescue. He remembered all of that, too. Incapable of doing anything to aid his
own escape, he had literally been dragged from the cell by Solo; his own
personal one man commando-rescue squad. With his usual skill Napoleon
infiltrated a top THRUSH base -- solo -- and pulled him out of harm's way. Again. All in a day's work for the American, it seemed, but
incredible to the partner who had lost faith that he would live to see the
sunset.
After the deliverance there had been the
agonizing moments when Illya did not know if he would
ever return to normal. Who was there with him then? When he was secretly,
silently aware of his imbecility -- afraid of what he might permanently become
-- who was with him? His partner, as always. Helping,
supporting. Gradually recovering, Illya had insisted on participation in the
final kill -- the conclusion of the operation -- and Napoleon had dragged him
along, shepherding him, escorting him through the conclusion of the nasty
affair.
How did one repay such a ransom? What price
could be put on saving him from a fate worse than death? By driving his friend
around on a date? Well, it was a humble start. What could he do to put into
actions the gratitude and devotion that would never be spoken? He could never
-- even with Napoleon -- be so honest and forthcoming
as to reveal the depth of his thankfulness. His profound relief and humble
appreciation that Solo was committed enough to their
partnership and friendship that he would risk everything. That he would go into
the enemy's heavily armed camp and bring out someone who -- for all Napoleon
knew -- was already dead.
This token payback was something that he
should have started years ago and this was just the beginning, Illya vowed. He
was going to make up for what he'd taken for granted all this time, he decided.
How? That was something he would have to ponder. And in the future it would
probably not be so obvious. But he would do it. How did you thank someone for
saving you -- not just this time, but routinely? He still didn't know, but he
was going to work on it for the rest of his life. Certainly there would be
opportunities where the life-guard duties would be exchanged and Kuryakin would
gladly risk his life to save his friend. They did that all the time - all too
frequently. Such expected behavior just wasn't good enough anymore. He had to
do better than that for payback.
***
Napoleon Solo stretched his legs out full
length and arched back until his shoulder blades sank into the plush upholstery
of the luxury sedan. This was life at its best. While it
lasted. It was a temporary perquisite following a particularly nasty
mission. The bitter with the sweet. He appreciated
these pleasant epilogues after a rough assignment, always considering them the
life he would like to grow accustomed to, but would probably never get the
opportunity. Grateful for the little extras in the aftermath
of some missions, because he never knew if or when the rewards would come
again. Such a lifestyle had forced him to appreciate how to live and
love for the moment. In this precarious business, there was no telling if there
would be a tomorrow, so living for today was accepted as the norm.
He stared at the back of the blond head in
front of him. Illya had volunteered to act as chauffeur to Solo and Leslie for
the evening. "He saved my life. I try to repay him as I can,"
Kuryakin had told the woman.
Since when did Illya feel they needed to
keep track of rescues? There were too many sacrifices on both sides to count
now. The comment, the attitude had disturbed Solo for
the rest of the night. So distracted, he hardly remembered the dinner, the idle
chitchat of shallow activities of the date. And he was hardly fazed when she
gave him the brush off at the door. Peculiar for him, especially since Leslie
was a beautiful, if vacuous blond. His usual type actually, but he would never
see her again. Even if she had wanted a second date there would have been none.
There was no way to look at her and see only her beauty. He would always be
reminded of her association with Mandor and Valandros. With Illya's capture and
subsequent torture.
Illya. The experience of his partner's capture and abuse
still made his skin crawl. The Russian could have been left mindless -- similar
to that episode a few years ago when drugs had transformed his friend and Illya
had been a cowering vegetable. [episode - The
Quadripartite Affair] The memory left him with an illness in his stomach like a
creeping spider trailing dread through his insides.
"I thought you would have enjoyed the
evening more."
Kuryakin's quiet comment brought him back to
the present and Solo met the blue eyes in the rearview mirror. He responded to
the bland comment with an enigmatic shrug of his shoulders under the expensive
tuxedo.
Illya grinned mischievously. "Your jaw
muscle has been twitching at intervals all evening. Obvious
boredom, Napoleon. I thought Leslie was your type." The tone could
not have been more arid. "A company car, a driver, dinner with a stunning
blond -- all on the expense account. Have you become so jaded that you've lost
your appreciation for such capitalistic excesses?"
Attention was momentarily distracted as they
pulled into the UNCLE underground garage. Solo was spared from a
counter-comment to the rhetorical question. When they emerged from the car Solo
leaned against the hood and waited as his partner locked up. The Russian
stopped a few paces from the car, alert now to the silence. His eyebrows arched
in mute inquiry.
The dark-haired partner addressed his own
doubts instead of his friend's inquiries. "Since when do you need to pay
me back? Since when do we keep count?"
Kuryakin walked back to the car and leaned
against the trunk. Solo moved to stand next to him, arms crossed,
contemplatively staring at the oily, concrete floor.
"Since Valandros." The Russian's intense blue eyes were fixed to the opposite wall, but
clearly his thoughts were caught by events days before. "I was drugged
beyond any hope of escape and marked for death." He turned to stare into
his friend's eyes. "I was -- completely helpless," his voice dropped.
"It was -- most -- unpleasant."
"Yes."
Solo had his own distasteful memories of the
terrifying state of imbecility in which he had found his partner. During the
escape Illya had been unable to offer any assistance at all. He had not even
remembered his own name. As the end of the mission unfolded Illya had slowly
regained his normal mental state.
Many times since then Solo had wondered what
he would have done if Kuryakin's mind had not been restored. Death was one fear
all field agents accepted. Disability -- a far worse spectre to most of them.
That Kuryakin's brilliant, agile mind could have been destroyed -- the alarming
tragedy was more than Solo had been able to
comprehend. Fortunately that painful fear was stopped when Illya returned to
full mental activity.
There had never been a question about going
to rescue his friend. When he had learned Illya was a ploy -- the two THRUSH
leaders toying with the UNCLE agents -- Solo had vowed to get his friend back.
Going through the formidable defenses of enemy soldiers had been tricky, but
not a deterrent.
"Illya -- you were in trouble. I had to
get you out. You don't owe me anything." He tempered the gentle rebuff
with an affectionate grin, giving a squeeze to the back of the blond's neck. "But thanks for the thought."
Kuryakin shrugged, sincerely responding,
"Acting as your chauffeur seemed a proper token of repayment." He
smiled. "And the only thing I could think of at the time."
Returning a favor. So close to repaying a threat, as Napoleon himself
had done. The defecting THRUSH leader Mandor had set
up Illya's capture by the rival criminal Valandros
and had correctly assumed that Solo would go after Illya -- rescuing the UNCLE
agent and killing Valandros in the process.
' "I'm going to repay you for this. Personally." '
Solo's heartfelt, dire threat to Mandor. It had not worked out quite that way, but both
THRUSH leaders had ended up dead. Never had revenge tasted so sweet. Repayment
-- no, not exactly. Revenge which assuaged some of Napoleon's anger and hate?
Yes.
With a skip in his heartbeat Solo thought
back to the pitiful muddled friend he had to drag through the entire escape
sequence. The normally intellectual and witty Russian had been reduced to an
addled helplessness -- degraded -- humiliated -- to a mental vegetable. There
could never be repayment for the fear and helplessness both the partner's had
known on that mission. Within their own code of justice vengeance had been
satisfied.
"I suppose I could have just said
thanks."
"The chauffeur bit is much
classier," Solo admitted with a grin.
Kuryakin straightened and with hands in his
pockets walked toward the security doors for entry into HQ proper. After only a
few steps he stopped and turned back. "No one else would have come for
me."
Only a dedicated comrade would take a life
and death risk for his partner. They had risked everything so many times for each other; no danger, no gamble was even a
surprise anymore. Even Waverly accepted it grudgingly. Solo had never doubted
his response to Kuryakin's capture. In the end their only insurance -- the only
certainly in their spy-lives -- was the partnership -- their personal guarantee
against helplessness and hopelessness.
Kuryakin gave a self-conscious shrug.
"Thank you, my friend."
It was more than they usually acknowledged.
Perhaps it was time for acknowledgment to be more obvious. Spoken.
The true gratitude was in the sincerity of the tone, the softened expression,
the warmth in the eyes. Patting his friend's shoulder, Solo's fond smile
appeared automatically, then brushed away when he
offered a casual salute.
"You're welcome. But you would have
done the same for me."
Rare sentimentality accredited, Kuryakin
gave a nod. "Of course."
Solo headed for his car. He was whistling a
snappy little tune by the time he slid into the sporty convertible. It had
turned out to be a thoroughly enjoyable evening after all.
THE END