THE SETTING BRIDGES ON FIRE
AFFAIR
By
GM
January 1971
Shaking
his head with a
mocking sense of futility, Illya Kuryakin sighed and cast a weary eye around
the room of bedazzled party-goers.
Following a recent assignment in
He
glanced across the room and caught the eye of his partner. Resplendent in fashionable eveningwear, Solo
was positively effervescent tonight.
Truly in his element. A stunning woman on each arm, champagne in each
hand, Solo was delighted with this current assignment. He waved Illya to join the little group. Kuryakin shook his head in decline and
circulated in the other direction. He
was certain he was not up to one of Napoleon's double dates.
"All
alone? What a pity."
In
a glance, Kuryakin evaluated the woman who had come up beside him. Rich, European, sexy,
aggressive, arrogant and older than he by probably several decades -- but still
stunningly beautiful. The
thumbnail sketch took only seconds. He
had seen this type too many times to count:
Idle, rich, jet‑setting around the world with nothing better to do
than pick up younger men who hinted at an adventurous lifestyle. Somehow, these older women could scope him
out with an uncanny sixth sense. If Napoleon saw this there would be no end of
teasing about the matrons who fawned over the Russian and wanted to adopt him.
Inwardly he sighed and strove for cool civility.
"Would
you like to dance?” she smiled seductively.
“I bet you're a killer with the tango."
Interesting -- American slang with the European -- British? -- accent. "No
thank you." He vaguely gestured
toward his knee. "Old war
injury."
"What
war was that?" She winked at him,
her alluring hazel eyes deeply seductive, yet familiarly shallow. "The war between the sexes?"
He
was the target of many such meaningless encounters. Napoleon enjoyed these harmless flirtations,
but Illya did not. This woman really was
beautiful; her exotic hazel eyes, her dimpled smile ‑‑
staggering. Except for the obvious but
well concealed signs of plastic surgery to smooth the face and make it seem
years younger.
Beneath
the shallow, manufactured beauty, though, was an unnerving quality of
shallowness. An
obvious, if artful falsity which underscored every practiced gesture,
expression and movement. It was
as if she were posturing for an audience.
Illya found duplicity and layered secrets in his daily work, he didn’t seek it in social engagements. Besides, despite the artistic application of
make up and probably nips and tucks here and there, she was obviously much
older than he liked his dates.
"I
bet I could show you a few combat techniques," she whispered with a deep,
suggestive voice.
He
looked over his shoulder and caught Solo's eye again. The woman’s back was to Napoleon so he could
have no idea of her age. He probably
thought she was a stunning beauty. The
dark‑haired agent was amused at his partner's obvious discomfort at being
cornered by this vulture in feminine clothing.
Illya signaled for a rescue. With
great amusement, Solo started over.
Slowly.
"I'm
sure you'll excuse me, but I have to run," he excused as soon as Solo came to a stop just behind the woman.
Sensing
the new prey, the woman smiled. "We
can accommodate your friend, too."
She
spun around to face the American.
Kuryakin couldn't see her expression, but Napoleon's reaction was
astonishing: Solo's face turned ash‑white. His mouth opened in surprise. The glass dropped from his nerveless hand.
"Why,
Reilly dear, how clumsy of you," she greeted coldly, in stark counterpoint
to Solo's extreme reaction. "Don't
tell me this charming blond dynamo is an acquaintance of yours?"
She
had turned to include both of them in her field of vision. Illya felt chilled at the calculating frost in
her demeanor. The cold cruelty in her suddenly hard eyes. Startling him again, she ran a finger along
his jaw, then circled Illya as if she had just
captured a prized specimen.
“How
droll, dear. Your tastes have obviously
changed. Not that I can blame you, he is
so cute.”
Illya
stepped away from her touch, alarmed, unable to tear his eyes from his stricken
partner. Pale, Solo was completely off‑balance
and reeling from the encounter.
Uncharacteristically silent in the face of the crude insults, he could
not stop staring at her. A mesmerized prey in the grip of a hypnotic cobra.
"His
manners are still deplorable," she said to Illya.
The
affront jarred Solo back to a semblance of his normal aplomb. He cleared his throat then took a deep
breath. "I would introduce you,
Illya," he retorted, cuttingly caustic, "but I don't know what name
she's traveling under this year."
The
woman was angled to favor Illya. She
chose to ignore Solo's comment, her only reaction -- an infinitesimal sneer at
the corner of her mouth.
"You're
Russian? You boys can be so
exciting. My sixth husband was
Russian." She looped an arm around
his. "I've been married seven
times. We're sophisticated enough to be
adults about that, aren't we, Illya?"
The sneer returned. "At
least some of us can."
Solo
came around to face her. With an obvious
show of defiance, he removed Illya's arm from her clutches and pulled his
partner out of her reach. "Illya
and I were just leaving. Excuse
us." His voice trembled, his brown
eyes vivid with barely suppressed anger.
To his partner he offered, "I'm sorry, Illya. I apologize for this distasteful show of
incivility from – from -- her."
More
of a support to his friend than a necessary comment, he replied, "Don't
worry about it, Napoleon."
She
scoffed. "You hold such a grudge,
Reilly dear ‑‑"
"Don't
call me that. I'm not a child
anymore."
"Then
don't act like one," she snapped in return. In her own hazel eyes a fire burned; a
precursor of an eruption of volcanic proportions. "How did you ever become so rude? Certainly not from my
influence.”
“Your
influence?” he shot back brutally. “The
only lasting impression I have of you is when you burned all your bridges
behind you. You never cared who got
singed as long as you were free to live your own life. I didn’t realize it then, but I was so much
better off without you.”
Her
lip curled with distaste. “Of course,
like everything else about you, we must blame your father for your lack of
culture and respect."
"Unfortunately
accusations were the only influences you ever offered." A fathomless bitterness filtered through the
still prevalent anger. “The blame. The
insults --“
“This
is just what I would expect from you,” she accused. “Supporting your father’s
side with all those ugly rumors.”
Her expression reflected the hatred surfacing in her entire
demeanor. Then she stared at Illya. "How could such a nice boy as you put up
with such arrogant rudeness from my son?"
Kuryakin
felt his mouth drop in shock and he quickly snapped it shut. A glance at Solo indicated his partner was
miserable under the merciless onslaught of such demeaning, embarrassing, cruel
insults. The woman (he could not think
of her in terms of Mrs. Solo, or worse, Napoleon's mother!), delighted in the
suffering she was causing them both.
His
survival instinct enabled his to surface from the amazement to grab Napoleon by
the arm and tug him away. “Excuse us, we
really must be going.”
She
ignored the transparent attempt to flee. “Then, the Solo side of the family
always hated me, didn’t they Reilly, darling?” she purred viciously, ignoring
any part of the conversation that didn’t please her. “And you obviously take after that side of
your heritage. Such peasant morality.”
“Morality
of any kind was never your strong point, was it?”
“How
dare you!” she hissed. The woman bodily
blocked their progress. "Deserting
me, Reilly?" she taunted acidly.
"Just like your father! The
first sign of independent thought and you slither away to hide!” Her face colored with ire. “You talk about me burning my bridges, dear
Reilly. What do you think you and your
father did by trapping me? Trying to
stifle me with your heritage and expectations when I needed freedom?”
A
trembling Solo tried to push past her.
“You
still can't call me, Mother, can you?"
Solo
was rigid with tight control. Illya had
seen this kind of suppression before. He
knew if there weren't some kind of release, his friend would snap from the raw
emotions fighting for exposure. Yet
control was part of every agent's basic training. He thought Solo WOULD snap before he allowed
that control to slip in front of someone who so obviously, tragically, vilely,
hated him. Who, in return, was utterly
loathed by Napoleon.
"You
were a visitor who occasionally came to call until I was six," he
whispered, his voice cracking a bit.
"Before that, I don’t even remember you being in my life. You were never my mother. I'm too much of a gentleman to call you by
your true title."
The
vicious, powerful slap was swift and merciless.
It knocked Solo off balance and he slightly staggered into his
partner. A violent red mark instantly
marred his smooth face. Illya blocked a
second blow in mid‑swing. Napoleon
was either too stunned or unwilling to defend himself. The viciousness angered Kuryakin and he kept
a tighter‑than‑necessary grasp on the attacker. Without comment, Napoleon slipped behind
Kuryakin and left.
The
deathly silent room soon returned to it's normally oblivious level of
civility. Illya peripherally knew the
attack had astonished the social attendees, but they were too smooth to let it
give them more than a moment of public pause.
It would be the talk of everyone here in their whispered conversations. The last thing they needed -- everyone at the
party noticing them when they were here for an exchange with a courier! Could anything else go wrong? The mission really didn’t concern him much at
all, now, though. His focus was on his
friend and this monster who had viciously attacked
Napoleon. Illya retained his grip on
someone who had instantly made herself his enemy.
"He
never could face up to his problems."
She wriggled out of the grasp and rubbed her wrist where red finger
marks striped her white skin. "He
hasn't changed a bit. Still throwing
tantrums. I don't know how you can stand
it." She leaned close to him, her
tone conversational, as if nothing had happened. Her fingernail traced his
chin. "The evening is still
young," she said seductively.
The
facade had cracked. Her attempts at
intimacy were more shallow than ever. Even the surface beauty was gone, concealed
under an avalanche of bitterness and revulsion of life.
He
stepped away with repulsion. Kuryakin's
pity was gone. Only coldness
remained. Without a comment or backward
glance, he left the room to follow his friend.
***
The
Russian pondered the alarming event as he searched the Embassy for his
partner. Remembered snatches of Solo's
file records were barely reconcilable with the real flesh and blood apparition
he had confronted tonight.
Napoleon
never spoke of his family – in some ways as private as the Russian about his
past. What little information Kuryakin
had learned had come from reading his partner's file. The Solo parents had divorced when their only
son was a young child. Napoleon had
grown up with grandparents as guardians while his father served in the
Navy.
Napoleon
spent his youth in and out of boarding schools in the
Illya
had wondered, but never asked, about the complex family estrangement. It was a confusing relationship to someone
who lost his parents in the war. Being
violently robbed of his family, Kuryakin could not understand his partner's voluntary
separation from his mother. Even while
his father was alive, Napoleon had not seemed to have much contact with that
parent. The grandparents were all dead
and the only living relative (aside from the mother) was an Aunt Amy (paternal
aunt) who lived in
A
dark shape leaning against a corner of the back balcony caught his eye. Even in the indistinct light, he could tell
from the slope of the shoulders the lone figure was his partner. Kuryakin silently joined his friend. Both hands supporting his weight on the
balustrade, Solo's body was shaking.
Several
moments elapsed before Kuryakin was able to emerge from his own disturbing
emotions and react. Hesitantly, yet
gently, he placed both his hands on his partner's trembling shoulders; standing
close in silent support. It was not an
act he was usually comfortable with, but in this extreme instance, some kind of
silent, physical support seemed appropriate.
Gradually the tremors subsided.
Solo placed a hand on Illya's shoulder and squeezed it tightly.
"Thanks,"
was his hoarse comment of gratitude.
Uncomfortable
in the intensely personal moment, Kuryakin was unsure what to do next. His chief concern was to take care of his
partner; to ease whatever emotional burdens he could even though he
instinctively cringed at the exposure of such intimate feelings. He had no desire to intrude on personal
grief, but he sensed Napoleon needed his understanding and sympathetic support. If situations were reversed, he would never
ask for aid, but would wish for his friend to make the effort.
"Do
you want to talk about it?"
There
was an adamant shake of the dark head.
In the dim light reflected through the Embassy doors it was impossible
to read an expression, but Illya felt a momentary tension ripple across Solo's
back.
"No,
no. I can't," the American
whispered. He inhaled a deep, long
breath. "It's come back and hit me
like a lightning bolt. I wasn't
prepared." He shook his head and
rubbed at his face. “I didn’t think it
could hurt so much after so long.” He
cleared his throat and slightly steadied his voice. "For the first time in thirty years I
wish I could cry."
Illya
touched his friend's arm. It was an
attempt to give them both a boost of support.
His own hands were shaking now.
He had never seen his friend cry; never witnessed such a traumatic crack
in the usually urbane Solo emotions. To
watch, to feel, the despair, was agonizing.
“What
did she mean about the rumors?”
Napoleon
shook his head again. “There was a
terrible scandal, I can’t remember much, but it was bad. It changed our lives. You don’t want to know.”
"Let
it go," the Russian admonished without being aware of speaking. Strange advice from one who was known to hold
grudges of a deadly nature.
Desolation
edged the words. "I
can't." A dry, regretful admission
as empty as a desert dune. "Years
ago I blocked away all those weaknesses.
I promised myself I would never let anyone be so important to me that I
would cry over them. That it would hurt
me to the core if they left."
The
tone was as tight as the muscles taut under the Russian's hands. Not even Illya could pry anymore out of the
tortured American. It was a pain so deep
Solo could not even face it. In a wave
of helplessness, Kuryakin knew there was nothing he could do to ease this old
torment.
With
sudden clarity, Napoleon's attitudes were completely explained: Abandonment by a heartless, demeaning mother,
neglect by a father who was never around, shuttled from one relative to
another. Solo had buried the hurt and
used the resentment as a motivation to excel in a career that encouraged
impersonal agents with controlled emotions.
Kuryakin knew that description no longer applied to the two of them. Despite standard cautions, they had forged a
friendship which defied emotions. Yet,
in their individual pasts, they still had many ghosts they would probably never
deal with.
"It's
alright," Kuryakin whispered. He
removed his hand from the tight grip and patted his friend's shoulder.
Stiff
with constricted muscles, Solo slowly straightened. For the first time he faced his friend. In the faint illumination from the windows,
Kuryakin saw a frightening vulnerability on the distinct features.
"We
have an assignment to finish." The
voice was unsteady, but clear and strong.
It was a signal that the crisis was behind them for now.
Kuryakin
offered a nod of understanding.
"Then let's go."
Solo
took a moment to straighten his tie in a habit of comfort, not fashion this
time, then steered them back into the Embassy.
Both came to a stop when the Vice Consul and three security guards
confronted them. Just inside the
well-lit ballroom, Illya caught a glance of the former Mrs. Solo. She gave him a wink and a smile as she
drifted out of sight.
“Elisha has just informed me that you are working for the
CIA,” the Vice Consul snapped out. “I
will ask you to leave immediately.”
Warned to not reveal their association with UNCLE on this
mission -- since they were clearly violating a foreign embassy’s neutral ground
-- Solo plastered on a charming smile that Illya saw did not penetrate past the
shallow expression of tight reason.
“We
are travel show producers. We have the
documents --“
“I
have been assured they are forgeries.”
“By Elish?” Illya wondered, searching for a way to discredit his new
enemy. “A guest at a cocktail party?” he
dismissed.
“She
is an Interpol agent.”
An
exchanged glance between them confirmed their individual suspicions were in
unity. Betrayed by Napoleon’s mother who
was posing as an agent! “And you believe
HER credentials are legitimate and ours are not?” Kuryakin snapped back in
disdain.
Napoleon
glanced at him, then inside, his expression darkened. The brown eyes bespoke evil tidings. “We can prove --“
“You
will leave now,” the Consul reiterated.
“Do not make me use force.”
The
agents maintained a tight silence until they were outside the Embassy
gates.
“Why?”
Kuryakin wondered.
“Why? Spite!”
“How
does she know you’re an agent?”
“Wouldn’t take more than a guess. Family tree, remember?”
“Yes.”
As
they strolled to their car they quietly conferred, trading options and ideas as
to how to connect with the courier.
Suddenly the light mission had turned troubling. Not just personally for Solo, but for
UNCLE. The courier was carrying a
microchip containing NATO secrets. It
could not be lost.
After
several uncomfortable moments of silence, Illya reluctantly voiced an unhappy
thought floating around in the back of his mind. “Uh, Napoleon, it’s not possible that – Elisha – is that her name – is really an agent? The – uh – family tree, you know?”
“No,
she is not an agent,” he scoffed. “Among
other things, the commitment for such an occupation would be against her
nature. Besides,” he ground his teeth
for a moment in suffering consternation, “that was one of the things she hated
about the family. Among
many others.”
Just
past the Embassy compound, they spotted Elisha. When she saw them she cried out, chattering
to the Embassy guards -- something about killers and that they were after
her. Then she quickly dipped into a blue
Mercedes and sped away.
In
the dim light of a street lamp it looked like a body slumped in the gutter of
the street. One of the Embassy guards
spotted the form at the same time and called an alert. The agents ran over, standing back with
bystanders, they were relieved to see the unconscious young woman -- an UNCLE
agent -- was alive.
The
Embassy guards turned to them, shouting accusations and questions. Solo smoothly denied any involvement -- they
had obviously just exited the building!
Illya
steered his partner toward their car at a rapid pace. “She’s got to have the microchip.”
Solo,
a little slower on the uptake, allowed himself to be dragged down the street by
his elbow. “Elisha
has the chip?”
“Can
you think of another explanation? You
see, perhaps you are not the only one carrying on the family tradition.”
Confused
and disturbed, Napoleon mumbled refusals.
Illya jumped behind the wheel and they raced after the Mercedes. Shouts
and whistles echoed behind them.
Napoleon turned around to see at least two sets of headlights in
pursuit.
“Great. Framed for attacking our own agent! She’s slick, isn’t she?” he accused
loathingly.
“A
family talent,” the Russian commented.
“Nothing less than what I would expect.”
On
a curving road outside of town they lost their pursuers and caught up with the
blue Mercedes. The opponent was good,
but Illya was the better driver and Solo an accurate shot. Napoleon hit one of the rear tires and the
Mercedes skidded into the dirt.
Screeching to a halt and jumping out of their car, they ran back to intercept
her. Elishia was staggering out of the car. Napoleon holstered his weapon and roughly
grabbed her by the arm. He tossed Illya
her small evening bag.
“Search
it.”
Concerned
about his partner’s actions and reactions, Illya did a quick search of the bag
while casting wary glances at the Solos. When he did not find it immediately,
he did a more concentrated search. No
microfilm. Before he could comment,
Napoleon read the situation.
“Where
is it?” he threateningly demanded of his mother.
She
seemed unfazed by the capture, and cast an alluring smile at the Russian. “Perhaps Illya can conduct a body search?”
Disgusted,
Napoleon shoved her away and she stumbled into the car. Enraged, he paced while Illya furiously
thought of options. In the distance,
sirens echoed. The police were back on
the trail it seemed. They needed to
leave. Without the
microfilm? Better a failed
mission and escape than capture and unpleasant police questions. But what to do about Elisha? He
dared not ask his irate partner. No
telling what Solo might want to do. He
had never seen Napoleon so agitated and at a loss and Illya couldn’t blame him.
The
impending threat finally penetrated to Solo and he stared at Kuryakin for long,
somber moments. The cold, void expression chilled Kuryakin.
“You
better get going, Illya. No sense both of us ending up in jail.”
“What?”
Solo
escorted him over to the Mercedes, which was still in fair shape. “Get going.
Someone’s got to tell the truth to the authorities about Elisha. If we leave
her here on her own she’ll frame us for this mess.”
“If
you stay, I stay,” he adamantly maintained.
“You will not leave me to explain this to Waverly by myself.”
The
slightest hint of a grin played on Solo’s face.
“Point taken.”
He grimly glared at his mother.
“We better take her with us then.”
From behind the folds of her
evening gown, Elisha pulled a small revolver. “I think not, Reilly, dear.” She offered a frosty smile to Kuryakin. “You should have searched me, darling. Now, you are going to throw your weapons on
the ground at my feet. Then you are
going to watch me drive away.”
Shocked, Illya was frozen in
place. Could she possibly kill her own
son? Looking at her impassive face he
saw glints of cold mercilessness. A
survival instinct within ran deeper than anything else she could ever
feel. She would not hesitate to kill
either one of them. Glancing at his
friend, Illya’s fear escalated. While Elisha was interested only in escape, Napoleon’s emotions
were clear. Solo’s hard expression
reflected a hatred so deep it was frightening. He
might do anything to stop her from winning.
“You’re not leaving, Elisha,” Napoleon quietly promised with a deadly calm. “This ends here.”
Not sure if it was a mistake
or not, Illya carefully reached for his Walther and tossed it into the
dirt. “We do what she says, Napoleon,”
he voiced with reason and calm. He was
trying to save his friend’s life here -- suddenly a more important factor than
microfilm, old family hatreds, or police.
“We will have another chance.”
Smoothly, Napoleon’s right
hand slipped under his jacket and pulled out the Walther. Hovering near his chest, the pistol was suspended
-- a tangible object of his indecision -- as he hesitated -- pondering his next
move. Obedience and surrender, or
opposition and the chance of being shot my his own
mother. From his glacial expression, he
seemed oblivious to the closeness of death.
His hatred was far too livid to allow reason or logic or even self
preservation to play into the decision.
Frightened at what might
happen, Illya swiftly grabbed the Walther and yanked it out of Solos’
grip. Then he tossed it to the
dirt. It earned him a seething glare
from his partner.
“You ARE the smart one,” she
smiled at Kuryakin.
She aimed her pistol at Solo
and the Russian’s heart stopped. She was
going to kill them anyway! What had he
done! The only option was to correct his
mistake. He stepped in front of
Napoleon.
“Leave. You’ve won.
Isn’t that enough?”
Her smile was sad. “You are really too good for him,” she
sighed. “Perhaps I should compel you to
come with me, me darling.”
“He’s not going with you,”
Napoleon countered icily. He pushed
Illya aside and started a slow walk toward the woman. “Go ahead.
Shoot. You’ve been dying to do it
since you saw me.”
“Yes I have,” she hissed,
the pistol raised to center on Solo’s chest.
“Don’t tempt me too much.”
Illya had seen his partner
engage in the most insane dares and risks over the years. His tendency for temporary insanity while on
a mission was long known and experienced many times over by the displeased
Russian. This topped the list,
however. The mother seemed more than
willing to comply with the challenge.
Glancing in the dirt, Illya
gauged his chances at grabbing his pistol and shooting her. Shooting Napoleon’s mother! It was better than watching her murder his
friend. With the ever-nearing sirens
echoing in the hills, he knew time was running out. But he could not reach the Special in time. Again, fleetingly wondering at his logic, but
completely understanding his motivation was saving his friend’s life, Kuryakin
impulsively acted. He grabbed Napoleon’s
shoulder, spun him around and punched him in the nose.
Blindsided by the surprise
attack, Solo went down to his knees in stunning pain. Wincing at his actions -- the pain caused on
both sides with that blow -- he held onto Solo’s shoulder. Vile loathing bubbled inside and he viciously
glared at the woman.
“Go.”
Angry -- perhaps at being
robbed of her chance at shooting her son -- perhaps at being thwarted in her
plans -- she snarled at him. “I think
not. I need some insurance. You are coming with me my darling Russian.”
“No,” Solo mumbled, still
holding his face as blood trickled between his fingers. “Don’t do it, Illya.”
Deeply sorry for his
violence, Kuryakin did not regret the act.
While painful, it had saved Solo’s life.
It had, unfortunately, also put them at a terrible disadvantage. Napoleon was incapacitated temporarily, and
they were still both at her mercy. To
his regret, he knew she possessed no mercy.
Warily coming closer, she
stood a few paces behind Solo. The
hammer was pulled back on the pistol.
“There is no time to waste, Illya dear.
You are both so incredibly inept.
Cute,” she winked at him, “but terrible.
How did you live this long in the business?” She didn’t wait for a response. “You both reveal your weaknesses much too
easily. Now, Illya, dear, get in the
Mercedes and come with me or I put a bullet in the back of his head.”
“You’ve burned your bridges
this time. If you come under my power
again you will pay for this,” Napoleon vowed, the threat diminished by his
muffled voice edged with pain and his disadvantaged position kneeling in the
dirt. “If you hurt him nothing will save
you.”
Napoleon couldn’t see her
expression, but Illya could. There was a
chilling abhorrence in her face that denoted she actually relished the power --
barely restraining the urge to shoot and murder her own son.
“You are pathetic,” she
viciously spat at him. “I shouldn’t even
waste a bullet on you, except that it would eliminate something completely
worthless.”
Her insults were hurting
Illya more than Solo, it seemed. Given
the opportunity, the Russian would happily strangle her right now just to end
the harassment.
Glancing at him, she
completely changed her expression from contempt to predatory. “Your choice,” she silkily called to
Illya. “Do I pull the trigger or do you
become my companion?”
Grinding his teeth with
livid frustration, Kuryakin backed to the Mercedes. He nearly held his breath as she stood there,
the lights of the car casting an eerie glow around her and her victim kneeling
in the dirt. If she pulled the trigger
anyway he would murder her with his bare hands, he promised, afraid she would
do it no matter if they obeyed her commands or not. She was operating on pure emotion now -- old
rivalries and spite. They had no chance to win.
With a little smile of
triumph, she raised the pistol and jogged over to the car. “Get in.”
Illya complied and she
backed the car out of the brush. With a
grinding spray of dirt they sped away.
She kept the pistol trained on him.
He judged his chances of overpowering her, but decided against it. They were driving on a winding mountain road
at night. Not the best time to attack
the person behind the wheel.
“Are you going to kill me?”
he wondered conversationally.
“I admit I am tempted,” she
half-smiled. “It would destroy my poor
dear Reilly, wouldn’t it?” At his silence
she laughed -- a brittle, mirthless, hollow sound. “For professionals you are both as
transparent as glass.”
Stung at the insult, he
retorted, “You are not so clever yourself.
The ploy was good at the embassy, but who is on the run along with us
now?”
“A minor complication,” she
brushed aside. “I speak of your obvious
weaknesses. You both offered your own
lives to save the other partner. Very precious, darling, but stupid.”
It was an old argument. Waverly scolded them for it constantly. They knew it going into every mission that
their strength -- their unity -- was also their greatest vulnerability if used
by their enemies. He could not argue
with her assessment any more than he could fight against the inevitable
conundrum that their best asset was their most dangerous flaw. An insurmountable enigma.
“You surprised me with the
attack on Reilly. A
clever, but unusual way to save him from himself. Do you do that often?”
‘Too much,’
he regretfully admitted silently, but did not respond to the taunt. “Why do you address him by his middle name?”
“Reilly. Named after a
spy friend of my former father-in-law,” she scoffed. “I do it my dear to annoy him, of
course. I had no choices with the Solo
family. The name of my child, my
behavior, my – well, I won’t bore you with the unpleasant past. My life was a misery and I pay back dearest
Reilly whenever and however I can.”
Rippling with revulsion,
Kuryakin knew a fresh source of pity for his friend. The domestic picture that had suddenly appeared
of Napoleon’s childhood was depressing.
It explained several things about the American’s nature. And perhaps said much about why two similar
agents had formed the incredible bond of trust they found in each other.
“What I don’t understand is
the loyalty. Aside
from the obvious that you are Russian and he is so American. You are throwing yourself away on
rubbish. Trust me, it runs in their
family. You are really too cute to waste
your life with him.”
“You are very quick to
judgment about someone you never knew,” he snapped back, weary of the insults
to a person he valued more than anything or anyone in the world. “Your prejudices and hatred have blinded
you.”
Again, she laughed -- a
mocking, savage whiplash reaction. “What
hold does he have over you, Illya darling?
Although your care for him seems genuine, I know there is something
sinister. Blackmailing you in some way?
This is your chance at freedom. With me, my dear.”
Disgusted, he scoffed, “Even
if I explained it, you are unable to understand.”
“Oh, try to persuade me,
Illya.”
His skin crawled when she
used his name in that seductive tone. He
decided to no longer play her game.
“What is your plan? You have the
microfilm I assume?”
“Yes.”
“We cross the border? And then?”
“For you? I’m still
pondering that delightful little dilemma.
I think you are darling. With a
little persuasion I think you will succumb to my charm.”
“I doubt that.”
Her voice was as hard as her
facial planes. The hatred had
returned. “We shall see.”
Knowing he had made a
mistake to push her, he inwardly grumbled at his clumsiness and mentally
stepped back to analyze. Taking him
captive was insurance, yes. Napoleon
would do nothing to let him come to harm. But was there more? More suffering for his
partner? She indicated how much
it would destroy him if Illya was killed. Not wanting to think of capture and
torture under the control of this vengeful woman, he now saw that as a viable,
disgusting possibility. As long as she
had him she had power over Napoleon.
Worse, she could manipulate Napoleon -- even lure him to his death with
Illya as the bait.
“I will not be your pawn,”
he told her.
“You will be anything I
want, dear, because I am the one with the weapon.”
He had allowed this. Sometimes he thought he might just deserve
what he got when he acted so injudiciously.
This was completely unacceptable.
He should kill her right now. A
quick flick of his arm and he could snap her wrist. They might run into the mountain or off it,
but she would be eliminated. He might be
able to save himself. And no more threat
to his friend. There wasn’t even a hint
of regret that he would be killing his best friend’s mother. He would be in a lot of trouble with Solo,
though, if he got himself killed.
When the road straightened
out he took his chance. Elisha was concentrating on driving when he grabbed the
weapon, snapping it back toward her with a sickening sound. In automatic reaction to the jolt, her finger
pulled the trigger and a bullet shattered the driver’s door window. With his other hand, Illya had grabbed the
wheel and wrenched it across the road to a ditch running alongside the
mountain.
Screaming in pain or anger, Elisha threw herself into his chest and seized the wheel
with her good hand, throwing the car across the lane and toward the cliff
edge. Maneuvering in the front seat of
the car was difficult and Illya chose survival over a continued struggle. Just as the Mercedes skidded into the dirt
shoulder, Illya bailed out of the passenger door. Rolling with practiced skill, he minimized
his impact and injuries by protecting his head and staying in a tight
ball. His shoulder and arm ached, taking
the brunt of the hard landing, but as soon as his momentum stopped he was able
to slowly come to his feet, noting no serious injuries.
Shuffling over to the edge
of the cliff, he could not see the car through the thick trees. No fire, then, that was good. Had Elisha escaped
from the vehicle? He heard nothing -- no
cry for help, no evidence of someone staggering through the brush. What he DID hear were approaching
sirens. Sitting down on a nearby
boulder, he awaited capture by the authorities and the subsequent lecture he
would certainly receive from Waverly.
It wasn’t long before two
sets of headlights scanned across him and two vehicles screeched to a stop just
past his position. German voices
chattered as men jumped out of the first car.
In the glare of the lights, he saw one man come directly at him and he
prepared an convincing opening line that would keep
him out of jail.
“I ought to greet you the
same way you said good-bye.”
Kuryakin jumped to his feet,
wary -- defensive for a blow from his partner.
“Napoleon.
You know I hated doing that,” he quickly explained, “but you were about
to do something stupid.”
“Like save you?” the
American countered with a strange nasal quality.
As he stood next to his
partner, Illya noted Solo’s nose was swollen and still bleeding slightly -- evidence
by the stained handkerchief still tenderly blotting at the nostrils.
“Sorry.”
“So where’s the she-dragon?”
“Over the cliff,” Illya
gestured.
“That was neat,” he mumbled.
The police crowded around
and Illya started to explain the events, but was interrupted by Solo. The senior agent told his friend that the
authorities already knew Elisha Kendal – her last
name these days -- was a notorious international spy and was wanted by several
agencies, including UNCLE. She tried to
throw the police off her trail by framing her pursuers, but Napoleon -- with
the corroboration of the attacked UNCLE courier who regained consciousness
enough to go along with Solo’s story -- convinced them she was the
criminal.
As Illya told his now
altered version of his experience under her captivity, he watched with concern
as Solo paced over to the edge of the cliff. There was no sense of triumph from his
friend. None of the
usual gloating about his clever ability to manipulate others with his
combination of charm and blarney.
No comment of relief that Illya was all right and had done a good job of
extricating himself out of danger.
Well, the latter might not
be coming since Napoleon was justifiably upset about being punched. Still, it disappointed the Russian to be
robbed of one of their traditional moments.
No, it upset him that his actions hurt his friend enough that Napoleon
was so mad at him that it overpowered the relief at a happy ending. Again frustrated that his own actions had
left him in an irritating predicament, he quickly finished with the police and
walked over to join his friend.
“Napoleon, I am very sorry I
punched you. Really.”
“I know.”
The American was not making
this easy. The detached words chilled
Illya with anxiety as he realized Solo was dealing with several nasty levels of
emotional trauma here. Being punched by
his friend was only one element. There was the bitterness of the evening’s
surprise encounter. And
now, the possibility that Illya had killed his mother. A reality neither could ignore. Whether in animosity or not, the blood
connection between them was irreversible.
“I am very sorry about --
she gave me no choice, Napoleon. It was
not my intention for her to go over the cliff.
I tried to take the pistol away and take control but it -- it didn’t
work the way I planned. She could still
be alive. The police are organizing a
rescue effort.”
“I hope she’s dead.”
The numb void in the tone
proved how devastated the senior agent had been at the reunion. Illya wanted to offer comfort but could think
of nothing to say in the absurd situation.
Solo turned away from the
view and concentrated on Kuryakin. His
face was grave in the lights of the cars, his eyes dark with emotions simmering
just under the surface. It was readable
concern and unsettled regret that Illya could detect above all the other
disturbing feelings his friend probably harbored. While he hated to see his Napoleon suffer, it
was normal, it was typical after he had been endangered, and Kuryakin welcomed
the distraught emotions for once.
“Are you all right?”
Concealing his sigh of joy
at the awaited, typical question, Illya shook his head. “Just a few minor aches.”
“Did she hurt you?”
It was a serious
consideration that obviously had worried his friend. It was time to end the pain with the woman
who could cause so much for Solo. Time to get back on track. “Napoleon, you insult me,” he
delivered, obviously miffed.
The American’s expression
lightened and he almost grinned at the banter.
“You deserve it,” he countered lightly.
“No, you deserve more,” he returned slyly. “I just haven’t decided how I’m going to get
back at you.”
Uncertain how serious his
friend was about retaliation, he chose to keep silent and not antagonize the
sensitive agent – physically and emotionally.
After all, it had been a terrible night all the way around. From his demeanor, Solo was slipping into
subdued distraction.
“She deserves what she got,
Illya. Don’t let it trouble you.”
“I am only troubled at how
this affects you,” he responded truthfully.
Patting his shoulder,
Napoleon left his hand there in a tight grip.
“It will only disturb me if she lives.”
He unnerving locked gazes. “You must understand how I feel after seeing
what she is capable of -- the hatred -- the . . . .” he shook his head. “Never mind. You probably think I’m an insensitive monster
to want my mother dead. I can’t -- no --
I won’t even consider changing my attitude about her. She never wanted forgiveness for her actions
in my childhood. But tonight -- I can
never forgive her --“ he stopped, his voice thick with
torment. “She used us against each
other. She knew, as always, just where
to injure the most, just how to cause the maximum amount of pain. Whether she completed her threats or not, she
captured you to get to me and could have hurt you, even killed you. For that alone, she
deserves to die.”
It was not unnecessarily
harsh. They had faced such dangers
before, made such threats and even carried them out to save each other from
injury or death. He could not expect
less in this circumstance. As he so
often felt, Illya was chilled with trepidation at the lack of limits they
seemed to have in regards for each other’s safety.
When their enemy saw the
unity between them, they had lost ground.
Inevitably, when she threatened Napoleon, Illya had to do anything to
save his partner. And typically,
Napoleon placed himself literally in front of the gun to save him. He could not change Solo’s attitude any more
than he could change their predictable actions.
“I suggest we do not wait
around to find out,” Kuryakin offered.
“Let the authorities deal with her.
One way or the other.” He started walking toward the police
vehicles, with a push on Solo’s arm, he urged his friend to join him.
Keeping pace, Napoleon
wondered if they should check Illya in at a hospital. There was nice, familiar touch of irony and
jibing in the tone and Illya felt better.
Literally putting the crash scene behind them, they were putting this
horrible night behind them as well.
Kuryakin countered that a
hot bath and a good night’s sleep would be much better than a hospital.
“You
sure?” Solo mildly teased. “Maybe we can get you a room with the
courier. UNCLE special
rates or something. She’s kind of
cute.”
“
***
The
morning was unusually quiet ‑‑ boring ‑‑ in
A
short article on the passing of a society beauty caught his eye: International socialite Elisha
Garber died in Nice over the weekend.
Automatically his mind slid past Garber and the other last names to
arrive at the woman's more significant and first married name of Solo.
There
was no pang of remorse or regret at the news.
The former Mrs. Solo had been a vicious shrew. Napoleon had never said another word about
the infamous meeting those several months ago.
After
their return to
Months
ago, Elisha had surfaced in
In
his mind, Kuryakin reviewed the history of his friend's upbringing. Admiral Horatio Solo had been a renowned
officer in two world wars. Ambassador
Kendal had spent his State Department career in almost every nation in the
world, in the company of his Austrian wife.
Captain Nelson Solo had spent little time ashore, using his talents
building a brilliant career in the Navy until his death in World War II. Aunt Amy Carstairs
nee Solo was only on the periphery of the family. Of Elishia Kendal
Solo there was very little information except that she divorced Nelson just
before World War II. Now they were all
gone.
In
the early years of their partnership, Kuryakin had almost resented Napoleon's
lack of contact with a mother still alive and well in
Folding
the paper, Illya left it in plain sight on his desk. Eventually Napoleon would come to fetch him
for lunch. Solo would see the paper and
react in whatever way he needed to.
Illya would not say a word or blame him if he shouted for joy or broke
down in an emotional moment of despair -- which he did not expect. Contrary to what Napoleon might believe after
that terrible night, he did not think Solo a monster for wishing his mother dead.
Unconfessed, were Illya’s comparable feelings. Many others threatened them and were rewarded
with death. Both of them had burned
those bridges long ago. He thought back
to that agonizing moment when Elisha stood in the
light of the headlamps and pulled back the hammer on the pistol. His heart had stopped in fear that she would
murder his friend before his eyes while he stood by helplessly and did
nothing. No matter who
she was, in a former life, at that moment she had condemned herself in his
eyes. Given the opportunity, he would
have, without compunction, killed her to save his friend. Burning bridges --
eliminating threats -- that was what he did. Whatever necessary to honor
his partnership.
The End