SOMEWHERE IN THE NIGHT
by
gm
=====================================================
SECTION ONE -- Policy and Operations -- administration/coordinating
operations
SECTION TWO -- Operations and Enforcement -- field operations/
debriefing/ counter-intelligence
SECTION THREE -- Enforcement and Communications – couriers/ information
exchange
SECTION FOUR -- Communications and Security -- communications network/
translation/ PR
SECTION FIVE -- Security and Personnel -- internal and external security/ detraining/
financial-bookkeeping
SECTION SIX – Medical
SECTION SEVEN -- Camouflage and
Deception – R&D
SECTION EIGHT -- labs -- chemical, forensic
============================================================
Sec 4 #1 -- Neil Craft
Sec 5 #2 -- Kyle Warner
Sec 4 #3 -- Kini Takamatsu
Sec 4 #4 -- Dori Price
Sec 5 team -- Ty Kalakaua
and Cyril Smith
============================================================
March 1971
PROLOGUE
“It’s a family
affair.”
Just inside the door of Illya’s
office, Napoleon Solo stopped abruptly, watching his intent partner. Illya was huddled close to a cute, pert Asian
girl. The two of them looked like teens
crowding to listen to the latest Beatle record on a small transistor
radio. No, the Beatles broke up,
Kuryakin continually lamented, he remembered.
More importantly, Illya and Kini Takamatsu, were engaged in far more
urgent matters than listening to the latest rock-and-roll 45.
She put her head against
Illya’s. Tipping one earpiece away from
his ear, she made a comment. All Solo
could hear was something about Led Zeppelin.
He smiled wryly. The senior agent
tangibly felt the generation gap from across the room.
As he ambled over to the
desk to peer over their shoulders, he appreciated the cute, young translator
and pondered how to approach her for a date.
Section Four operatives were only occasional visitors to Section Two
levels and he did not know
He had to smile at the
absorbed concentration emanating from his partner. The blond Russian focused keenly on his
task. Illya loved new challenges, and
this one was proving to be a tough one.
All he could offer was his appreciation of Illya’s tenacity and
dedication to a cause. And his eagerness to tackle tough tests. Languages were not easy for Solo. Understanding the principles of leadership,
he accepted he couldn’t know and do everything.
So he leaned on the expertise of others in the organization. Section Four handled these kinds of details
so it was not something he worried about.
Kuryakin noted his arrival
and shook his head, removing the headphones.
“It is no use, Napoleon. I can
not master it by tonight.”
The smile was cute and
appealing in a nice, kid-sister way.
Small of stature and thin, Kini’s dark, exotic, Pacific heritage,
mixed-race features gave her a striking appearance. The sympathetic look she gave his partner was
very attractive. Too bad it was directed
at Illya.
Offering her an
absent-minded expression of tolerance, Kuryakin could not overcome the
frustration of his failure. “This will
not work.”
As an excuse, Kini favored
him with eyes wide and empathetic.
“Illya is a keen study, Napoleon, but I’m afraid he’s right. Tagolag is a bit tricky. If he’s expected to converse with your
contact tonight, I don’t think he’s ready.”
To the blond, she tilted her head and smiled, “But I’ve never seen such
a fast study.”
The body language, the tone,
the expression -- signposts she already had a crush on the conquering
Russian. Inwardly sighing; all being
fair in love, war and partnerships, he pushed past the romantic fantasies with this
exotic beauty and concentrated on the mission.
“Well, we can hardly fly in an operative from the Philippines,” Solo
scowled as he sat on the edge of the desk.
“I checked for you,” she
smiled engagingly. “The nearest Section
Two operative fluent in Tagolog is in the New Mexico
office. I doubt you could fly her here
in time.”
“I hate to scrub the
mission.” He sighed.
“Let me be the contact,” she
suggested simply.
“No,” Illya instantly
refuted.
Hiding a grin at the chivalrous
attitude, knowing the cute young woman had captured more than one heart in the
room, Solo added his objections. “Sorry,
Kini. You’re not Section --“
“You boys are so
territorial,” she sniffed reprovingly with an air of superiority. “Too proud to call in an expert from another
department.”
“Too protective of your
pretty little head,” Solo corrected firmly.
He paced, in nervous habit twisting his iolite pinky ring, unhappy with
the direction the mission was going.
Time was short, and he was going to have to make hard choices. “This is a dangerous operation. That’s why they call in the tough guys like
us. No non-field operatives need apply.”
Kini stood and leaned
against the desk. “I don’t think you
have a choice.” She focused on his hands. “Nice ring.
A soul connector.”
“What?” Solo asked,
perplexed, dragging his mind from concentration on the mission to her strange
comment.
“The gem.” She took his hand and studied the blue jewel
closely. “I’m into crystal power and all
that jazz. Iolite is called the soul
connector.” She gave him a crooked
smile. “Was this a gift?”
“Yes.” He wasn’t about to reveal it had been a very
special gift from Illya. Not just a
hansom piece of jewelry, but within its facet was hidden a tiny transmitter so
whenever he was in trouble Illya would be able to track him. “A thoughtful gift.” He didn’t look at his partner, but felt
Illya’s eyes on him.
“Then you and the giver are
bonded through your souls,” she smiled.
“Profoundly accurate I
think.” With a glance at his friend,
acknowledging the bond with the Russian was as deep as if they were brothers
related by birth, he felt pleased at this added piece of trivia confirming
their link even on a mystic level. “How
appropriate.”
“Surprising what little
tidbits I can bring to a case, isn’t it?” Her smile sparkled. She turned to give a surprisingly tough look
to the Russian. “You know where I’ll be
if you change your mind.” She started to
gather up the audio equipment into a box.
Belatedly, Illya thought to help and stood to assist. “Just don’t wait too long, I have a date for
seven-thirty.” Her smile, her eyes,
glistened. “I’d hate to cancel on short
notice. I hear that’s the prerogative of
Section Two agents.”
When she left he swore Illya
sighed.
Amused, Solo just shook his
head. “You didn’t move fast enough
apparently.”
“Yes. Pity.
But I, too, already have a previous engagement.”
“You do?”
“The courier. Don’t worry, I was not going to stand you up
on this assignment. However, if I was
forced to choose between you and Kini for the evening --“
“Yeah, I know. Don’t tell me, I don’t take rejection
well.” He sighed, picking up a pencil,
tapping it on the desk -- a physical expression of his racing mind. He finally flipped the pencil into the air,
caught it, tossed it on the desk, and returned to pacing, twisting his
ring. “So, what do you suggest?”
“Asking Kini to help
tonight,” he glumly offered. “At this
short notice,” he glanced at his watch, “we have little choice.”
Solo patted his
shoulder. “You did your best. Lin is a shifty character, though, and we
can’t trust him completely with the courier.
You have to be able to understand what the courier is saying.”
“I know.”
That means at --”
“Yes, I know, at least a
passing understanding of Tagolag. which I could not
master.”
“I hate to involve office
personnel.”
“Yes. Aside from the danger, there’s that old pride
thing,” he wryly agreed.
“More Section Two insults. Goes with the job, Mr. K.”
Illya tapped the ring and
commented wryly, “At least I know you will be close by.”
“Always.” Solo studied the sparkling blue stone for a
moment. “Soul connector, huh? Well, I suppose it fits. It’s come in handy several times when you’ve
been nice enough to use it to rescue me from some terrible fate.”
“Luckily, I will not need to
do that tonight. You are the one who
will be required to make any rescues.”
“I hope not, partner. I’d rather have this operation go
flawlessly.”
Kuryakin gave a slight
salute. “By your command.”
***
After asking for and
receiving
“Is Kini really going with
you tonight?”
The concern was genuine, and
he remembered Price and Kini were friends.
Dori showed more common sense than her
colleague and never expressed any inclination toward volunteering for field
assignments. Some people were completely
content to stay behind the scenes in the relative safety of HQ. Anxiety for her adventurous friend was
natural.
“We’ll have her back in one
piece. Promise.” He crossed his heart.
Her green eyes indicated heavy
skepticism. Without comment, she nodded
a farewell and entered her department room.
When he was joined in the
corridor by Kuryakin, Solo quietly muttered that the mission had gone much too
easy so far. It almost made him
superstitious.
This earned him a glower
from the Russian. “You are jinxing the
mission,” Illya darkly warned. “What do
you mean?”
Kini, like many other agents
running UNCLE inside HQ, Solo explained, was overly anxious to be out in the
field; experience the glamour, excitement, and thrill known to Section Two
agents on a daily basis.
“Misguided,” Illya muttered
with a tsk. “They are too gullible to
believe the office gossip. If they only
knew the drudgery.”
“Not to mention the joys of
torture.”
“Or stake outs.”
Abruptly, they were
road-blocked by two men. Section Four,
communications and translations, team leader Neil Craft -- a tall, fit man with
red, wavy hair and sharp blue eyes. And
Craft’s friend, Kyle Warner, a big, beefy man older than Solo, who looked more
a linebacker than the head of Section Five.
Warner was known as the top headhunter in NYHQ. Investigating internal and external security
with an enviable record of success -- a man not to be trifled with. The glamour and high adventure reputedly belonged
to Section Two. Everyday agents
throughout the world, though, depended on the skill of Section Five operatives
for their real safety and security in keeping operatives secure.
Both men wore stormy
expressions and Solo braced himself for a verbal wrestling match. Kini was so right. Section Two was territorial, but that didn’t
compare to the defensive -- protective -- attitude of the other departments
when squaring off with Section Two.
“You have no right to ask
one of my operatives on a field assignment without clearing it through me,
Solo!” Craft nearly spat.
Down to last names. Not a good sign. Neil really was angry, and he wondered if it
was more to do with personal territorialism rather than a field operation. The thought was hardly irrelevant, but he
would not be sidetracked.
“Neil, we have a mission
that requires a specialist --“
“Too dangerous.”
Warner gestured a big, thick
hand toward Illya. “Kuryakin knows
languages --“
“But I failed to master
Tagolog this afternoon,” was his snappy, slightly defensive admission. “Thus, the need for assistance from your
department.”
“It’s a family affair,” Solo
commented mildly, trying to defuse the anger.
“I won’t sanction it,” Craft
flatly refused, daring the head of Section Two to defy him.
This was not an isolated
incident. Certainly not the first time
another section leader felt slighted because of the power and authority wielded
by Section Two. Everyone in UNCLE played
a vital role, but it was the field agents out there on the front lines who made
things happen most of the time. And took
the hits, the deaths, when things went wrong.
Thus, their almost blanket priority when in need of assistance from
other departments -- and the occasional irritation from the other section
chiefs.
“Kini volunteered,” Illya
defended.
Napoleon cut quickly to the
bottom line. “I accepted her generous
offer. We’ll have her back in time for
her date tonight.”
Craft seized onto his arm
with a punishing grip. The violence in
his eyes was burning. So startling,
Napoleon noted/felt Kuryakin, beside him, stiffen protectively. Just in case there was a brawl, the Russian
as ready to take on the over-sized opposition.
Other agents were hovering in doorways watching the quietly intense
conflict. This would be the latest fiery
gossip for the rest of the day throughout HQ.
Napoleon took it all in on a periphery level, his attention focused on his
antagonist. His eyes narrowed
shrewdly. “Back for the date with
whomever.” He snapped his arm away.
Craft held the stare for a
moment. “I’m taking this to the top.”
“Shall I come along?” Solo’s
voice was superior and cold. “Or do you
want to hear the bad news alone?” He
closed the distance, looking up into the near face of the angry counterpart. “I can’t tell you the details, but it’s a
vital mission.”
“They always are,” Warner
scoffed dismissively.
“You want to take this up
with Waverly, go ahead,” he challenged.
“If you want to apologize later I’ll be in my office.”
He stepped away and strode off,
Kuryakin beside him. He could feel the
stiff anger from his companion -- felt it himself over the confrontation.
“Bad form,” the Russian
muttered.
“Yes.” He pondered, trying to work through the
irritation quickly. He had a lot of
other duties to focus on now besides inter-departmental squabbles. “Interesting reaction.”
“The affront some people
have -- demanding they are right. Such
displays make it unpleasant for those of us who know we are right.”
Napoleon couldn’t help
smiling at the typical Kuryakin-esque tone and comment. Slighted by the aggressive insults of Craft
and Warner, Illya fought back with acid wit.
He was miffed his skills were questioned. He was protective in his own territorial
rights. Always quick to come to his
defense when attacked by others, Illya never hesitated to insult him personally
if Solo needed it. When it came to
Section Two verses other departments, though, Illya’s allegiance was
unquestioned; his protectiveness as stanch as a grumpy Russian bear. Not to mention
this operation was his brainchild. His
perfectionism demanded it come off well.
“Don’t let them get under
your skin,” he sighed as they stepped into the elevator. “Another one of your brilliant plans.”
“There is nothing wrong with
the plan,” the blond insisted unnecessarily.
“I know. Everything will be fine.”
***
“Illya, I have a confession
to make.”
“Usually when a girl tells
me that, in the dark, I am immediately suspicious.”
Laughing,
“It’s all right. Lin isn’t due here for a few more
minutes.” He put a comforting arm around
her shoulders. “More time to spend with
you in our secluded rendezvous.”
Shaking her head, she rolled
her eyes. “I never understand how you
Section Two guys can be so blithe. This
is scary.”
Waverly had sided with Solo
about the need to have a top Tagolag expert in on the meet tonight. There had never been a question that such a
request would be sanctioned. This was an
important case and at the top of the chain of command, Waverly expected all his
employees to cooperate with each other in whatever necessary degree to get the
job done. Considering he, and Solo to a
lesser degree, sent men and women out every day to face danger, frequently
death, quibbling over personnel red tape seemed trivial and ridiculous.
It was hardly trivial to
Neil Craft, who had been in HQ when they left.
Illya felt irritation at the petty maneuvering, but dismissed it
quickly. Interoffice politics was never
something he wasted time over. When it
could mean his life just walking out of his apartment, he didn’t bother with
small grievances.
She bit her lip, a fetching
and attractive trait. With her almond
eyes and exotic, Polynesian/Filipino/Japanese features, she was pleasant to study
at a distance, but even better at close range.
Her bright personality made her -- or so he heard from office gossip --
one of the most popular girls in Section Four.
Enticed to take advantage of
the situation, Kuryakin resisted. Next
time he teased Napoleon about working his hobby -- women -- while on the job,
he would remember this temptation. Focus
on the job now. Tomorrow, after the
debriefings, he could always ask her out.
He wondered why Napoleon hadn’t beaten him to the question. Craft, he suspected. Neil Craft was possessive and protective of
her. Probably not worth the conflict to
make the play. There were so many other
women for Solo to choose from at HQ.
“So what’s your confession?”
he asked to get his mind off her alluring presence.
“I told you. I’m scared.”
“Is that all?” he
dismissed. “This is a simple courier
meet. Rest assured. My plan is a good one. Napoleon’s daringly brilliant skill has
extricated us from the clutches of evil more times than I can count.”
She giggled.
“And your Uncle Napoleon is never far away,”
“He is an unreformed and
habitual voyeur. Always eavesdropping
and spying on people.”
“I think that’s our job description,” the senior agent sighed audibly. “And don’t worry, Kini, we’ve
got you covered. You are in the very
best of hands with Illya.”
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“Distracting me so I
wouldn’t be so scared.” Shivering, she
leaned against Illya. “This is sure a
lot different from home.”
“Tired of the big city already?” Napoleon sighed.
“And I thought you were smitten by
our urban charm.”
“When I left
“Join UNCLE and see the
bright spots of the world,” Illya supplied.
“A car is approaching,” Solo crisply related, his tone all business
now. “Just
do your job, Kini and we’ll take care of the rest.”
It was a simple plan. Illya and Kini would meet with the
courier. They would transact the deal
and get out of the way, letting the rest of the team handle the capture of the
dealer, Lin, and contraband. His responsibility
was to keep Kini out of the way after her role in the mission was over.
Shots echoed near Kuryakin’s
head in abrupt and fast succession.
Grabbing
The truck was upon them
before he could think. He twisted,
trying to turn their course in mid-run.
Blindly, he fired into the windshield as he ran. Gunshots poured from the open window of the
cab. He felt Kini stumble. The bumper caught both of them on the right
sides and flung them into the nearby brick building. Rolling in the grimy, wet alley, Illya tried
to catch his breath, every bit of air an agonized pressure in his chest. Vision fuzzy, he tried to focus on
***
Gunshots ringed Napoleon in
his cubbyhole on the steps of the carpet company across from the alley. He leaped to safety behind some trashcans and
returned fire amid a barrage of bullets zinging his way. The ambush was expert and deadly. For them, at least. So Lin double-crossed them. He must have been working the plan for a long
time to be this organized. Why go to the
effort, he wondered as he fought for his life?
And what happened to Illya and Kini?
He took down two opponents
before a bullet ricocheted off the brick wall and plastered the side of his
head with the shrapnel of tiny brick shards.
Running/stumbling across the street, he fired as he moved. One eye was blurred from blood, his balance off,
his vision distorted by dizziness, he managed to kill
the third gunman on the run as he nearly fell into the alley. Leaning on the building, fumbling in his
pocket, he withdrew the communicator, called for his back-up team to move in, then called HQ for a medical unit.
Breathlessly, Solo lurched
along the wall and into the alley hoping to see Illya and Kini safely ensconced
in the UNCLE coupe. When he spotted the
inert bodies on the ground, his heart nearly stopped. Falling, staggering over, he called out his
partner’s name. Kneeling at Illya’s
side, he sighed with relief when he noted Illya still breathing, his eyes open.
“Where are you hurt?”
“Side. I’m embarrassed. Hit by a truck.”
Blinking hard to focus
bleary eyes, Solo gently touched his face. “You’re going to have a nasty headache,
too.” He did a quick exam, satisfying
himself that there were no bullet holes or more obviously fatal injuries. Blood on the side of the head indicated
lacerations, but Illya could see, hear and respond. That was good. Internal injuries worried him. “Don’t move, I’ll be
right back.”
Dreading to draw closer, he
approached
***
“Hi.”
Lost in retrospection, Solo
glanced up from the intense study of the floor and gave his friend a weak
smile. He hadn’t noticed Illya coming to
consciousness. Usually, that was what he
waited for in these unwelcome vigils.
Tonight, sitting in the chair near the bed, he had so much more on his
mind.
Illya would be fine,
thankfully. He cleared his throat with a
sigh. “Hi yourself. How are you feeling?”
“I am fine. Except for the headache. You, however, are very fuzzy.”
At this droll remark,
Napoleon smiled. “You have a concussion
and two broken ribs.” He wearily came to
his feet and leaned on the side of the bed.
“You’ll be all right. They want
to keep you overnight --“
“For observation. Yes, I know the drill. Thank you for the warning.” He touched his forehead. “Stitches?”
“Only two this time.”
“Good.” He gestured to his partner’s face. The bandage on the American’s forehead, the
various cuts on the cheeks, indicated he had not emerged unscathed from the
battle. “I’m still ahead for this
month.” Illya squinted, as if trying to
see clearly. “Kini?”
Napoleon shook his head,
winced, rubbed his temple, and blinked his eyes as if having a hard time
focusing.
“Concussion?” Illya guessed,
knowing the symptoms all too well from inside and outside the injury.
“Mild. You win that contest
this time, too.” He hated moments like
this -- they had shared too many of them.
On the bright side, Illya was still around to share them. “Kini wasn’t so lucky,” came a barely
whispered sigh. “Serious head wound.”
The pain of this loss was
sharp for both of them. They had brought
her into the operation, against the fervent objections of her section
chief. They had allowed a rookie, non-field
operative -- under their care -- to be damaged.
HIS care, Napoleon silently
corrected.
Reading his mood, Kuryakin
refuted the blame. “I should have protected her, moi
brat,“ he breathed out in irritation. A comment of regret for his inability to do
his job to the fullest. An affectionate
reminder that, at times like these, Napoleon really was as a brother -- more --
sharing emotions on a level no one else could understand.
“It wasn’t your fault,” the
American snapped back quietly, but with an edge to his sympathetic tone.
“And it was yours?” Kuryakin
boomeranged the guilty condemnation. “I
was with her --“
“And I was running this
--” the shout reverberated around the
walls of the sterile room like an echoing voice of doom. Abruptly pressing his lips together, Solo
stared at the ceiling for a moment, steadying his breathing, then finally
looked back at his friend. “Get some
rest,” he quietly admonished. “There’s
nothing we can do about it now.” He
patted Illya’s arm and departed.
Kuryakin watched his slumped
shoulders as he walked out, and growled under his breath, muttering Russian
expletives as he pounded a fist on the bed.
“You wear guilt as an ill fitting cloak,” he finally spoke to the closed
door. “You bleed too much, moi brat.”
***
After an annoying medical
exam, Illya refused to be confined for overnight observation. Dressing in undamaged clothes Solo had left
him, he went in search of his partner.
The American was deeply disturbed by the fouled mission and Illya was
concerned. Although Napoleon promised to
be back and retrieve him, as always when he was in the hospital, Illya was too
impatient to wait. His friend was taking
this to heart, the guilt a pressing weight on his shoulders.
When Illya couldn’t find his
partner in the office, he immediately returned to the hospital wing. Not surprisingly, he spotted a familiar --
solo -- figure pacing the hall near Recovery.
Hands in pockets, head sunk low, Napoleon was the picture of dejected
moroseness as he slowly ambled down the corridor. Sighing, Illya
hastily strode down the quiet walkway, his shoes the only sound; clicking like
symbols in a string quartet -- loud and disturbing in the tomb-like silence of
the sterile halls.
For a moment, he stood next
to his friend, assessing the solemn expression on the worn face. Napoleon was taking this harder than
expected. Feeling responsible. There was little the Russian could offer in
the way of solace. So, for a time, he
simply stood there, nearly touching shoulders with his partner, sharing the
silent dread in this all too familiar place of shattered lives.
“You should still be in
medical,” came the subdued, troubled observation. Solo assessed him with a critical, knowing
eye. “Back to bad habits. Releasing yourself.”
“There is nothing the doctor
can do for broken ribs.” He gestured to
his partner’s bandaged forehead.
“Speaking of releasing yourself.”
“Already took my aspirin.”
“No word?” he finally asked
in little more than a whisper. His tone
conveying the empathy and distress he wanted to share.
Solo shook his head, staring
down at the bland linoleum. “Surgery
went well. Doctor Gregory thinks Kini
might live.” He sighed and rubbed a hand
across his eyes. “If she does . . . .”
he shook his head. “The skull fracture is
bad. She may not be the same . . . . “
his forlorn voice trailed away, his eyes aching with sharp sorrow. “Neil and Kyle are in there now.”
“This is not your fault, my
friend,” Illya quietly commiserated.
“You must not take it so hard.”
“She’s so bright and
funny.” He wiped away an errant tear at
the corner of an eye. “Neil wants to
kill me. I think he’s is in love with
her.”
Groaning, Illya shook his
head. “I suspected as much. Unfortunate.”
There was a reason why UNCLE
strongly discouraged fraternization between agents. There were actually strict rules covering
male and female Section Two agents.
While other sections also held specific involvement sanctions, he knew
of many casual flirtations and various liaisons. Marriage was something the administration
deterred when possible, keeping with a policy against operatives married to other
agents. Frequently this profession was
balanced in the world of life and death conflict and danger. Emotional complications made close personal
relationships too much of a risk.
The entanglement was
sobering. He knew how complex his life
was trying to balance his job requirements and his anxiety for his
partner. When Napoleon was in danger it
colored everything differently on a mission.
What must Craft feel for them since they had hurt -- possibly
permanently damaged -- the one he loved?
He sympathized with the Section Four leader, but his own loyalty here
was required for the person closest to him.
Obliquely, he recognized the ironic parallel of the situation. They were all far too entangled with personal
emotions to think clearly. Neil for a
girl he loved. Himself, concerned about
his partner. Between the two factions
feelings were running high and he wondered at an imminent blow-up between the
section heads.
This was not Napoleon’s
fault, although his American friend was shouldering the burden of the
debacle. They could not be blamed for a
mishap. If anything, HE should be the one blamed.
“This was my idea --“
Sagging against the wall, Napoleon
sighed deeply. “And you were right,”
Solo confirmed with conviction. “It was
necessary.” The words were bitter
indictments. “Funny
how we justify so much with that word.”
“Lin was my contact. I never saw a double-cross coming.”
Napoleon shrugged in
absolution.
“His Asian contacts must
have given him a better offer.” Solo
didn’t bother to respond, but continued to stare at the floor. Irritated and feeling culpable, Kuryakin
continued his speculations. “We will
know when I find Lin. And rest assured I
will compel him to reveal all.”
Solo looked at him with the
dawn of interest. “I’m sure you
will. Interrogation is one of your best
skills.”
Illya knew the banter was
not penetrating the solid film of guilt around his friend. “This is not your fault.”
Dashing a quick, but warm
lilt of a near-smile, he acknowledged, “Thanks anyway. This was my responsibility.” He leaned his head back against the wall and
stared at the ceiling. “I hate this part
of the job.”
“It is part of the risk we
face.” Hoping to ease some of his
friend’s anguish, he reminded, “Part of the work is danger. It is an outcome all must expect. Even those in the office. Those volunteering to go into the field are
usually most at risk. She was there at
her own accord, Napoleon. We didn’t
compel her to go.”
“No, we just promised to
bring her back safely.”
Unable to follow that up
with anything profound, comforting or pithy, he remained silent, slumping
against the wall to mimic his friend. It
was a nasty conclusion to a bad night.
All they could do was accept the loss and move on. Not easy.
Finally, Solo sighed
again. “There’s nothing you can do
here. Why don’t you go home?” He glanced over and wryly offered, “You look
done in.”
“I could say the same to you,”
Illya countered soberly.
“You have the broken ribs.”
“You were grazed.”
Fondly patting his arm,
Napoleon glanced back at the doors to Recovery.
“I have to stay.”
“No you don’t.”
At the stern tone, Solo
glanced over and almost smiled. “Really,
I do, mother. Debriefing.”
In the press of after-crisis
details, Kuryakin forgot about the necessary evil of post-mission
debriefs. His involvement
in the night’s events were taken care of in a verbal report -- already
delivered to Section One. Since the
serious injury of a Section Four agent had occurred, both Solo and Craft were
due in a preliminary debriefing with Ian Rawlings, the stiff, proper British
Number Two Section One of New York. In
the morning, there would be another post-mission meeting over the debacle --
this time with Waverly. For now,
Rawlings would handle the immediate situation.
Gone were the days when Waverly was required to be in the building seemingly
at all times day or night. More and
more, Rawlings took over the mission duties that did not require the personal
attention of Number One Section One.
“Thanks anyway.”
The grateful acknowledgement
in the brown eyes communicated that the compassion and regret Illya felt were
clearly understood and accepted for what they were worth. And the slight relaxation of the tense
expression told him his companionship and solace were
indeed prized. He would like to reach
over and offer something more substantial -- an arm around the shoulder, a
touch -- a physical comfort that imparted the deep ache he felt for Kini and
those who loved her. For his friend, who
was accepting the full burden of responsibility for the mission-gone-wrong. Instead, Kuryakin just
offered a nod, hoping everything he needed to say was in the expression and
inflections that would somehow be deeper and more profound than words. His chance to express more was interrupted
when the double doors of Recovery swung open and Kyle Warner and Neil Craft
strode into the hall. Both glared at
them, then seared Napoleon with unmitigated hatred singeing their eyes.
“I hope you’re happy now,
Solo,” Craft snarled. “Kini is barely
alive.”
“You know this is not what I
wanted --“
“I know anytime Section Two
is involved anybody is expendable.” He
shot a glare at Kuryakin. “Except you
and your favorite Russian. Everyone else
better be paid up on their health insurance.
Or life insurance.”
Illya would not stand for
any more of this nonsense. “We did
everything we possibly could --“
Warner, taller and more
muscled than the slender blond, threateningly leaned over Illya. “Except save Kini!”
“She’s still alive,”
Kuryakin offered.
Craft viciously turned on
him. “Kini is going to live, yeah, but
she won’t have complete function of her mind anymore thanks to the brain damage.”
While the news was
depressing and unfortunate, Illya remained neutrally composed. Solo flinched, taking the summary to
heart.
“She’ll be a mental case
thanks to you!” Craft advanced, with his
palm on Solo’s shoulder he shoved the senior agent to the wall. “I will get you for this.”
In a blur of motion,
Napoleon twisted the bigger man around, pinning him, chest against the
wall. Warner stepped forward to aid his
friend, but before he could take another stride, Illya had him by the collar
and slammed him into the opposite wall.
“I think everyone needs to
calm down,” Napoleon ordered sharply with deadly calm. “What happened to Kini is unfortunate. In a field operation, it happens. We all know that. Any member of this organization, in any section,
is at risk every day. We’re sorry it
happened to a non-field agent. Illya and
I did everything we could to protect her --“
“Shut up!” Craft
growled. “I’ve had it with your pretty
speeches, Solo. I will get you for
this! I promise!”
Napoleon yanked him away and
shoved him down the hall, then motioned for Illya to do the same with his
captive. Both operatives seemed ready to
fight, but Kyle Warner regained control of his anger and pushed his friend
toward the elevators.
Napoleon turned to Illya,
who was holding his ribs, trying not to show how much they hurt after the minor
altercation. “I’m driving you home.”
“I’m fine,” he insisted,
through clenched teeth.
“No, you’re not.” It was a stern and stubborn tone matching the
cloudy expression.
The communicator in Solo’s
pocket beeped and he responded wearily.
“Solo here.”
“Mr. Rawlings requests your
presence in briefing room three immediately,” came the voice of a Section One
secretary.
Scowling, Napoleon
responded, “I’ll be there.” He clicked
the channel closed and stared at Illya for a moment, fatigue and regret heavy
in the brown eyes. “Sorry.”
The Russian could
out-stubborn the American on most days, but he didn’t want to push it
tonight. “I’ll wait for you in my
office.”
Solo glanced at the
retreating forms of his sudden enemies.
“No, I think this is going to take a long time.” Deeply troubled, he finally tore his eyes
away from the two angry agents. Then he
looked back, his air sympathetic and sad.
His eyes softened as he studied his friend. “You go home and rest. I’ll need you beside me in fighting form
tomorrow, I’m afraid. I have a bad
feeling this operation is going to have serious repercussions.”
“I can stay --“
Solemnly, resolutely, he
shook his head. “Thanks. Always nice to have an ally. Those ranks seem to be diminishing, don’t
they?”
“Not really.”
Smiling, Napoleon patted his
shoulder and for a moment squeezed it tightly.
“I -- uh -- “ with a nervous, self-conscious
laugh, he shook his head. “Tonight has been
tragic and scary. And typically, you
would probably say, I’m thinking selfishly.”
Kuryakin shook his head, then held onto his temples regretting the natural
gesture. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve never thought I could
get close to anyone.” Solo actually
blushed and shook his head, embarrassed.
“After tonight, I’m reminded again how precarious our lives are. It just seems important to let you know this. I surrounded myself with acquaintances. I wanted everyone to be meaningless because
of something like this happening. And I
thought I needed to be strong and solo,” he almost laughed. “Now all I need is you. Thanks for always being here for me.”
Throat dry, Illya wanted to
say something -- anything in support and response. He found it impossible to counter aloud with
the profound sympathy and affection he felt for his partner. Moments like these, it came down to the two
of them against the world. He firmly
believed that was all they would ever need -- each other -- to win against
anything. How could he put that into any
kind of verbal language?
Solo’s communicator beeped
and he reluctantly responded. The moment
was broken, and Illya grew irritated when Rawlings’s commands over the
communicator ordered Napoleon to the briefing room immediately. As with so many times in this business, he
had run out of precious minutes -- no more opportunity to say things he should,
things he wanted to and usually couldn’t bring himself to declare. Napoleon was his closest friend, his North
Star and center and yet he could never really express those sentiments. On a night like this, it seemed important to
reaffirm what he felt and make sure his partner knew. Particularly when they
witnessed the loss of someone.
And Napoleon made it so clear how much he needed Illya’s support. Why couldn’t the closed Russian reveal his
own dependency? Because deep inside his
inhibitions still told him speaking of dependency admitted vulnerability? Saying such things aloud in these halls might
somehow diminish his reputation or his fierce independence?
When Solo clicked off on the
silver pen, his face reflected the dread and sorrow. “Guess my time is up.”
“I’ll go with you,” the
Russian offered, trying to buy more time between them -- offer a tangible
support in lieu of the emotional encouragement he could not voice.
“You’re going home,” Solo
insisted, taking him by the arm and walking with determination toward the
elevator.
When the doors opened,
Kuryakin held his ground. He stared at
Napoleon for a moment, knowing the tone was not right anymore, but he had to
get this out.
“I can say the same of you,”
he simply replied with deep sincerity.
“Thank you for always being here for me.” Once said, it was an admission
less than he felt, but more than he thought he could reveal. “Let me be here for you.”
“Thanks.” Momentarily, the tension and pain lifted from
the brown eyes and there was a warmth in them that few
on the planet ever saw. “There’s no
reason for you to stay. And you need
your beauty sleep. Get someone from
transportation to drive you home.”
“I am fine, Napoleon. You worry too much.”
“Partner’s prerogative.”
Illya nodded, knowing he was
guilty of the same weakness. “Now,
promise you will come by after the briefing.”
Solo hesitated. “No matter how late.”
Fondly, Solo patted him
again. “Ah, the mark of a true friend --
a listening ear and a ready bottle of something strong.” Taking in a deep breath, he looked into the
empty elevator. “I’ll be there as soon
as I can.”
Illya nodded. “And be careful. Craft is emotional and unpredictable. He wants us very dead.”
Smiling at the dramatic
interpretation, he nodded, “Yes, his threats were quite clear. And while he’d like to complete them in a
literal sense, I think he might be gearing up for a professional assassination
by tomorrow.”
“We did nothing wrong!” he
adamantly reiterated. “I should stay --“
“Go home,” he urged, pushing
Illya’s shoulder as gentle motivation.
“One of us should get a decent night’s sleep. Then you can cover for me with the paperwork
tomorrow,” he winked. The dejected tone
belayed the flippant words.
“You’re coming over as soon
as you’re done here.”
“I promise.”
Hesitating to leave his
friend alone in this mood, he recognized the logic that he had no reason to
stay. That his physical limitations
already left him worn out and of little benefit here. He would be more useful later when they would
talk and drink the night away in commiseration of the soured mission.
Stepping inside the
elevator, Kuryakin strove to think of something hopeful or profound or
uplifting to say. When they stopped at
the Section One level, Solo departed with a nod. Illya watched the doors close on the dejected,
retreating figure, depressed at the separation.
***
Weary in mind and soul,
Napoleon braked the car at the driveway of the UNCLE garage. He didn’t want to go to Illya’s and rehash
the mission on an emotional level. Nor
did he think sitting around the Russian’s living room drinking would help. Where else would he go, though? His gravitation center in times of joy or
sorrow was always the same. His partner. Turning
right, he headed for home.
When his communicator buzzed
he reluctantly responded, hoping it was not another detail about the
mission. He wanted to go home and forget
the debacle for a few hours.
“Solo here.”
“We have a message that came
in for you.” He recognized the curt,
tight voice. Neil Craft, head of Section
Four. “From someone named Lin.”
Energy perking, driving away
the fatigue and depression, Solo stopped the car. “Where is he?”
The address was given; a
public phone booth in a neighborhood not far from here. The meet was to take place immediately. Napoleon thought of offering to bring Craft
in on this -- a chance at personal vengeance against the snitch who caused Craft’s girlfriend to become a tragic
statistic. No, he didn’t trust Craft to
be beside him in the field. Only one
agent earned that badge, and Kuryakin was sidelined.
Solo accelerated and sped to
the rendezvous. He pondered for a moment
that he should probably contact Illya and summon
him. No, Illya was injured. He could handle this. The phone booth was lighted with a dull,
dirty bulb and street lights were sparse in the run down, old block with worn
houses built close together. Solo waited
in his car for a few moments to assess the area. Then he emerged, walked to the booth and
paced around. Enough
to be seen, but not presenting an easy target.
Checking his watch every few
minutes, he determined after a half-hour that this was a waste of time. Lin had chickened out. Returning to the Vette,
he gunned the muscle car to life and turned toward his own area. Too tired to do anything more tonight, he
would track down Lin tomorrow. If Illya didn’t beat him to the task. Thoughts of Kuryakin’s
vengeful nature warmed him. He wondered
if he should do as he was told and awaken the Russian when he reached their
apartment building. The idea of having
an emotional, and figurative shoulder to lean on was appealing, and decided, by
the next signal, as he cruised for home, he would stop at Kuryakin’s and see if
his partner was still awake. They lived
only a floor apart, in the same building, and they frequently loitered in each
other’s abodes after missions. This time
it was a post-stress routine he needed, he rationalized, feeling better already
about the thought of spending time with his trusted and solid ally.
Still stinging from the
briefing -- haranguing -- from Rawlings and Craft, he felt he could use al the
friends he could find. Technically,
Rawlings couldn’t help but agree with the obvious that
Turning onto a quiet street
-- a short cut to their neighborhood by the
“Need some help?”
Seeing it was him, she
glared and shook her head. “No thank
you, Napoleon.”
He pulled the Corvette ahead
and got out, determined to see this through.
Without invitation, he checked the engine. Asking what had happened, she reluctantly gave
him details of the car stopping dead.
Unable to diagnose it immediately, he offered to give her a lift
home. Reluctantly she agreed. Explaining she was apartment sitting for her
brother, she gave him directions.
The short drive was endured
in strained silence. Once he broke it to
apologize again about her closest friend, Kiki, but she would have none of
it. Pulling up at a modest apartment
building, he wasn’t in time to get around and open the door for her, but he did
insist on escorting her to the apartment.
The nearby streetlight was out -- he noticed that when he ran over the
broken glass -- so he thought it only right to stay with her until she went
inside. In the dark, she dropped her
keys and he retrieved them. Before
unlocking the door for her, he quietly tried again at amends.
“I really am sorry. I liked Kini.
I didn’t want anything to happen to her.
I wouldn’t wish this kind of thing on an enemy, even.”
“You’ve made plenty of
enemies this time, Napoleon.”
“Maybe so. That’s not important.”
“Neither was Kini to you.”
Angry, now, he heatedly
retorted, “You knew this wasn’t a safe secretary’s job when you joined. So did Kini.
We warned her --“
“That she
would be a mental deficient the rest of her life?” Dori hotly countered. “Please, Napoleon, don’t try to defend
yourself. You failed. You let my friend
get hurt. You deserve what you get.”
Angry and hurt, he scrabbled
with the key and opened the door. She
fumbled for the light for a moment, then he obligingly
stepped in and felt around for the switch.
He felt a presence behind
him just a second before his head was slammed into the wall. Blows smashed into his skull. Instinctively, if clumsily, he fought back,
struggling in disorientation and pain, head ringing, eyes blurred with vertigo
and blood. After several punches and
kicks to the opponents, he was driven into the door chest first, the air
knocked out of him. Arms forced back
behind his back with numbing pain, his face was thrown into the wall until he
felt warm liquid running into his eyes and mouth, until his world went black.
I
“They’re
coming to take me away”
Waking up again -- as he had
several times that night -- he was surprised to see his curtained windows
tinged with the light, pale glow of morning.
Blinking his eyes into focus, he lifted his head from the back of the
couch and stretched angry muscles taut from a night slumped on the sofa. The ribs protested sharply at the movement,
and Illya groaned, coming more awake.
Eight-thirteen in the
morning! Why hadn’t Napoleon come
by? Miffed, he felt slighted his friend
had not stopped in – hardly out of his way!
Last night’s terrible tragedy was depressing for both of them. Neither should be alone with those
hauntings. Why didn’t Napoleon come as
promised? Surely the meeting hadn’t
taken all night literally. No doubt it
was his friend’s misguided attempt to protect him from unpleasantness. And his misdirected
consideration for Illya to get a good night’s sleep because of his injuries.
Feeling betrayed and left
out, he clicked on his communicator and signaled Channel S -- Illya had managed to secure the frequency as their
private link. No response. Who did Napoleon think he was, denying him
the rights and privileges of a partner?
He expected to be up drinking and consoling his friend and Napoleon
cheated him out of the necessary closure of the rotten operation.
He tired the home
phone. No answer. Finally, he tried HQ -- Napoleon’s
office. No reply.
Advancing from miffed to
angry, he felt increasingly excluded.
Had his friend sought comfort in someone’s arms and failed to include
him in the healing process of the mission?
Fuming, he showered and dressed, the process a little slow because of
his aching ribs. He tried the
communicator again. No reply. Did Napoleon oversleep? Was he just in the shower? Why hadn’t he answered before? Too impatient to take the elevator up one
floor, he started up the stairs, then realized that
was a mistake because of his ribs.
Slowing, easing his pace, holding his side, he reached the fifth floor
landing and with measured tread walked the hallway leading to Solo’s place.
Nothing unusual. No telltale alert on the elaborate buzzer of
the apartment that was really a complex and sophisticated security system pad. All looked normal -- no break-in evident, no
electronic lock out (something Napoleon would use if he did not want to be
disturbed). When he had moved into the
building – at Napoleon’s suggestion since it was conveniently located to UNCLE,
comfortable, and expedient living nearby a partner -- Illya had upgraded both
their security systems.
There was no response to the
doorbell. Without waiting for the
electronically locked door to be released, he opening the door with his
key. Immediately inside, he flipped off
the security alarm and closed the door.
Standing in the quiet apartment, it felt
empty. A not fanciful assessment, a
professional one. He had no sense of
anyone else there.
Moving through the kitchen,
his hand on the stock of his Walther, he saw the dishes were clean, everything
neat and in it’s place. The same applied
to the living room. The bathroom yielded
the intelligence that the toothbrush and razor were dry -- had not been used
this morning. In the bedroom, his first
confirmation in support of his misgivings surfaced. Or, rather, didn’t surface.
Solo’s suit from yesterday
was not in the hamper. It occurred to
him he knew entirely too much detail about everything in his friend’s
life! Well, for years, through
assignments and close office work they literally lived together. Each had an intimate working knowledge in
everything about the other, from how they liked their coffee, to how they
rolled toothpaste tubes. An asset to
partnerships. Sad that
he would need those insights now to track his friend.
The good news -- no sign of
struggle or problem. That could mean
Napoleon never came home last night. Not
unusual. Right now Solo’s communicator
might be buried under discarded clothes on the floor of some woman’s
apartment. With Solo and his liaison
from last night oblivious to the constant calls. If so, this would be an
awkward morning, but months from now they would laugh it off and blame Solo’s
obsessive nature. And Illya’s. This time, though, Illya’s instincts told
him Solo was not involved in some one-night stand. Not after the tragedy of last night.
Strolling back through the
apartment, ignoring the rich furnishings, faint nautical theme, the smell of
Old Spice and leather, Illya felt beyond the surface of this was a comfortable,
tasteful bachelor pad. Napoleon put much
detail into making sure the surroundings here were comfortable and enticing to
his many dates. Now, the still, neat
rooms seemed eerily empty.
His sense of unease still
shivered along his neck. Something was
not right. Napoleon was too tired and
depressed to impulsively go out with someone last night. And it was not Solo’s
nature to be late for work because of a fling.
The senior agent was too conscientious.
If he were that distracted by his affairs he would have lost his job a
long time ago. No, something was wrong.
Pacing past the fireplace,
he checked behind the drapes, just to make sure all was secure at the
windows. The view of river was nice,
better than his own. No breach in
security, he sighed, returning to the center of the room, frustrated. He knew
his partner. Knew habits. And now was convinced something was amiss.
The next thing he covered
was the garage. No Corvette. Then Solo was
already on the road. Had he really
skipped dropping in on Illya out of consideration to let the wounded agent
sleep? Not outside of the realm of the
chivalrous American. If Napoleon had
reached HQ already this would be embarrassing.
Then why didn’t he respond on the communicator? Perhaps it was simply not functioning, then he remembered it had been working last night when
Rawlings called.
Now self-consciously
discomfited at what was probably an overreaction. Still, the nettling doubts prickling his mind
with thorny worries urged him to be thorough.
This was not like his partner and his instincts told him something was
amiss. Deeply concerned, he raced to the
office, arriving early, pleased he was overcoming the
injuries enough to competently drive on his own. He raced through the streets with more speed
than sense, anxious of what he might find at HQ. Was Napoleon still there? Perhaps there had been more repercussions
with the failed mission.
Checking the office; Solo’s
was neat and orderly, but had files there on the briefing and reports from last
night’s mission. Kuryakin read them --
finally finishing after nine-thirty. Had
his partner stayed up all night working on this? Where was Napoleon now? Calling Lisa Rogers, Waverly’s executive
assistant, he found Solo was not with the chief and
had not received any special assignments for this morning. Lisa reminded that Solo or Kuryakin were
missing the daily
After useless and morose
speculation, Illya returned to his own office.
Searching his desk, he found no note or other missive from Solo. He removed a small transceiver from his desk
drawer. His own little
tracking device for just such purposes as finding an errant partner. No signal, he disappointingly noted. That meant the ring with the homing bug, and
it’s owner, were beyond the five-kilometer radius of the tracking chip inside
the iolite gem. Where was Napoleon? He could boost the gain a little with UNCLE
equipment. Providing the pinky ring was
not damaged or underwater.
Soul connector, Kini had called
the ring. He wished it was magic -- that
it could connect him to his partner on a mystical, mental level and he would
know exactly where Napoleon was and how to get to him. Reality was not that easy or simple, he
sighed in frustration.
Unable to abide the walls
here anymore, he dropped in at Section Five.
Agent Ty Kalakaua, the department’s Number Three, noticed him come into
the reception area and walked over.
“Hey, Illya, rough night,”
he commiserated sympathetically. “You
okay?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Ty had been a good friend of Kini’s. Both from
Not wanting to add more fuel
to the rampant, amazingly fast gossip, Illya knew these two allies were
considered friends and felt he could be honest with them, if not completely
open up to their offer to help. Always
guarded as a natural state of mind, Illya did recognize he could use some
assistance today.
“I am trying to locate
Napoleon. He has not been heard from
since last night. He is not at home and
does not respond to his communicator.
When I spoke to him last, he was still in the building.”
“When?” Cyril asked, now all
business.
“Around -- “ he shrugged.
The last moments in the corridor in Medical, in the elevator, came back to
him. The emotions had been thick and
heavily clouded by his own conflict of trying to support his friend and not
reveal too much of his own concerns.
“I’m not sure. Late. After
Cyril and Ty accompanied him
to the security screening room. A small
office packed with computer and video equipment, Smith called up the security
video from the previous night. On the
large monitor set into most of one wall, the black and white silent image was
disturbingly prosaic.
A time signature at the
bottom of the big screen indicated
Solo entered his Corvette
parked in the garage. The car pulled out
and the visual on the car ended. They
switched viewpoints. External cameras
from The Mask Club at the corner, and various other locations, picked up the
street view. No loiterers, no vehicles
following. An empty street. The last sighting of his partner. No attacks within range of the HQ cameras. Then what had happened? Where did Napoleon go? Illya knew he should have stayed last
night. Should-have-beens were not
helping now.
“Looks like the last people
to see him were Dori, then and
Smith called in
He didn’t, she assured, but
she got the impression something had gone on with Dori and Napoleon just before
they entered the foyer. Price was
mad. Solo unhappy.
“We’re going to have to go
to alert status --“
“Not yet,” Illya
countered. “We don’t know if anything
happened to him.” The cautious words
countered his instincts, which told him he would like to call out the Marines. But what if the explanation was something
simple? What if this was nothing more
than a blip in communications? After
last night, they were in hot water already.
Irritated that he would worry about what people thought as opposed to
the safety of his partner, he still sided with wariness. “Let me check some things out, first.”
“Call in an hour,” Ty
relinquished. “After that, I have to
report something as vital as a section chief missing.”
Illya thanked the agents and
headed down to Section Four. He spotted
Dori right away at one of the desks in the big main office area. She scowled at him as he targeted straight
toward her.
“You left the building about
the same time as Napoleon last night,” he opened bluntly. No reason for small talk with people who
disliked you. “Did he say anything to
you?”
Her lip curled. “He tried to apologize. Again.
Tried to make everything all right by saying he was going to get the guy
who hurt Kini.”
“Get Lin?”
“Yeah. He said something about a lead --“
Alarm level spiked, he grabbed
onto her wrist. “What did he say
exactly?”
She pulled away from
him. “He had a lead on Lin. He was going to check it out and make it up
to Kini. Like all of you Section Two
cowboys, he thought some violence would even it all out. Well, Kini is still the same this
morning. If Napoleon came back with the
THRUSH man’s head to put up on the wall of his office, it still won’t help
Kini.”
“What did he say --“
“That was all. Why don’t you go check his office? Maybe Lin‘s head is up there now.”
Striding hastily through HQ,
Kuryakin returned to Solo’s office.
Napoleon had not magically appeared.
Not admitting how disturbed he was at that, Illya scrutinized every
paper and note, every file was thoroughly searched
again. If Napoleon had a lead on Lin he
would have called! They planned to meet
at his apartment. If plans changed,
Napoleon would have told him. Especially
if he had a lead on Lin!
Unless the American was
being a martyr. Overly protective of him
-- letting him rest from his injuries and keep him out of the action! Damn him!
He needed to share in the catharsis of justice and retribution as much
as Napoleon! He was the one with Kini
when everything went wrong! She was his
direct responsibility, not Napoleon’s!
He should be in on the kill!
Solo’s guilt and caring-shielding spoiled the chance to get Lin.
No clues, no notes scribbled
on anything. He called Section Four
Communications and asked for all records of incoming and outgoing calls to this
office. The last signal was earlier --
his call to check on his friend. From last night -- only routine calls. Nothing from this morning.
How had Napoleon received
information on Lin, he suddenly wondered?
Someone within HQ? That didn’t
make sense. Emotions tumbling through him
like cascading waterfalls, he left Solo’s office and went down to Section Four
himself. Neil Craft was not there,
fortunately, and he talked to a shift supervisor who double-checked the
communications logs. Solo had no calls
in or out at anytime after he left around three in the morning.
That made no sense, Kuryakin
considered, ambling back toward Section Two.
How did Napoleon come up with a lead on Lin? Over the communicator? Those calls were not monitored -- thus
Illya’s ability to hijack Channel S
for their personal use. Then the clue
must be in something Solo had already in his possession.
At loose ends, Illya
returned to what he felt was home base.
Not his own office, but Napoleon’s.
Sitting on the black leather sofa, he stared at the desk where his
friend should be. Trying to think like a
detective, instead, he found himself mentally slipping into a depressing sink
of bitterness and loss.
Something dreadful had
happened to his friend. He could feel
it, although rationally he denied such fanciful impressions. Without a good-bye, without a chance to say
or do anything to save his partner, Solo was
gone. No harbinger, no overt threat, no
warning. Vanished. And Illya was left alone to piece it all
together. And hope he would see his
friend again.
II
“Hide and Seek.”
The procedural angle of events were now out of Illya’s hands. Section Four had alerted Section One of
Solo’s “missing” status and standard operational steps were now immediately implemented. Codes changed, agents notified, alerts
issued. Stalking down to Section Four
again, Kuryakin finagled utilization of the massive communications equipment to
track the specific frequency of the ring.
The results confused him. There
was a very faint, erratic signal from the ring -- coming from
Headquarters! But, like all other
non-approved frequencies, it was dampened.
The only reason he could pick it up at all through the colossal security
blanket dampening field was that it was somewhere close and piggybacked onto a
standard UNCLE signature frequency.
No one beyond he and Solo
knew about the ring tracker Illya had given his partner. He wasn’t going to spill the secret just
yet. But if the readings were correct,
Napoleon was here! How was that
possible?
Since this was a personal
tracking signal, Illya had used something close to standard issue homing
signals, but varied enough to be Napoleon’s unique audio fingerprint. Narrowing the field, confused and thrilled at
the lead, he was nonplused when he zeroed in on the source. Infirmary. Racing to
the elevator, he impatiently waited as he descended to the all-too-well-known
medical wing. Why didn’t he think of it
before? Napoleon, consumed with guilt,
was hovering around Kini. Why didn’t he
answer his calls? Why hadn’t Security
picked him up reentering the building?
Why didn’t he call and tell Illya what he was doing?
By the time he entered ICU
he was angry. Napoleon might insist on
this lone guilt trip, but Illya would not let him. HE was the one with Kini during the
attack. HE was the one who should have
protected her. This was not Napoleon’s
fault! Entering the room in a rush, he
stopped cold, an involuntary breath sucked in at the sight of the slight,
heavily bandaged girl in the bed.
Puzzled that she was alone, he literally rocked on his heels,
off-balance that he had missed his partner.
One of the nurses came in to
shoo him away and he asked when Napoleon had left. When she answered she hadn’t seen Solo at all
since she came on at
Barely under the pillow, a
glint of silver caught his eye. He
reached carefully beneath the oblivious agent’s head and pulled out a
communicator and something else. It
fumbled in his hand. Solo’s platinum/iolite
ring.
What did this mean? Napoleon came back here after the debriefings
and left these? As tokens? Why? It
made no sense. Guilty and dejected over
the failed mission -- yes. But why leave
this kind of tribute under Kini’s pillow?
Using his own communicator,
he signaled on Channel
S and was not surprised when the silver pen he just found started
beeping. So, it was Napoleon’s
communicator. And why leave behind the
ring? Wherever his friend was, he was
out of touch and without means of tracking electronically. Holding the communicator and ring in his
hand, studying them as if the inanimate objects could tell him a story, he felt
someone behind him. Finally! His heart
sighed, relief washing through him like a warm wind to his soul. He spun around, tongue coated with barbs of
chastisement. He nearly gasped, startled
to see Kyle Warner watching him from the doorway.
“Trying to salve your
conscience like Solo?”
Disturbed and shocked it was
not his friend, words momentarily escaped him.
Angry that he seemed to be always playing catch-up this morning, Illya
snapped back, “What do you know about these?”
“Solo must have left them
out of guilt. Maybe he was going to jump
off a bridge or something. But I doubt he’d
ever come up with something so smart.
He’s too arrogant for that.”
“Don’t be absurd,” the
Russian viciously retorted. “We are
sorry this happened. Napoleon was not
responsible.”
Kyle shrugged, his big
shoulders seeming to strain the seams of his suit. Hate sizzling from his eyes, his voice was
remarkably bland as he countered that many did not believe the innocence of
Section Two’s top agents. This said with
a definite sneer.
“I heard he was missing,”
Warner shrugged. “We’re proceeding with
a yellow alert.”
Unable to think this through
enough, fighting confusing emotions, extreme anxiety and a splitting headache
and general body ache, Illya could not counter the insults. Nor did he like the procedure. Calling the alert was inevitable, but moved
this into a level he did not want to admit.
That his partner was missing, presumed captured or killed. He did not want to go there.
“You know what,” Warner
sneered. “I hope we don’t find him.”
“You won’t have to,”
Kuryakin savagely spat. “I will.”
Incensed, Illya left, again
returning to allies in Section Five.
Asking Cyril for any security tapes for the Infirmary, he was informed
those were kept on a continuous twelve-hour loop. Last night’s video tape would have run from
Smith reluctantly reminded
that they were on a headquarters-wide yellow alert. The investigation was officially in Section
Five hands now. They would take over
questioning the nursing staff and even Illya.
This was an inexplicable mystery.
Confused and apprehensive, Illya agreed to any measures as his own
interrogation started. He told all he
knew about the operation, about the last time he had seen Napoleon. Then -- what? His partner had gone out last night on a lead
about Lin and left the ring behind. Why? And where had he gone?
***
After his interview, his
next steps were standard procedure.
Illya returned to his office and made phone calls. As he twirled the silver ring in his hand, he
checked with several informants, then talked to a few agents who had assisted
in the Lin operation. They had been out
last night looking for Lin after the betrayal.
Nothing. No trace of Lin. Illya should probably concentrate on
him. What if he contacted Napoleon
somehow and lured him away?
In the afternoon Lisa Rogers
called, reminding him there was a debriefing on the Lin operation convening
now. So early? It seemed he had lived an entire lifetime in
the last few hours since discovering his friend was gone. Illya went to the
briefing himself. All the way to the
Section One conference room, he reviewed the facts as he knew them and how he
would present them to Mr. Waverly.
Craft, Warner, Waverly, Tanya Kimura from Section Four and her assistant
were already seated. If looks could kill
he would be dead. The Section Four reps
were glaring at him with murder in their eyes.
Deciding an offensive stance
was the best, Illya immediately entered into an explanation that his partner
was missing, last seen tracking a lead on Lin’s whereabouts.
Waverly offered a muttered
comment about Solo being too influenced by his name. He asked the Section Four Chief if any automatic
distress signals had been activated for Solo.
No, Craft reported. Learning a
standard Section Five search procedure was in motion, Waverly directed several
alternatives and theories, assigning Section Five numerous options, leaving
Illya feeling left out. When Kuryakin
mentioned HE should be out on the streets tracking his partner, not sitting in
this office, he was reminded there had been enough solo behavior. This yellow
alert would be conducted through channels.
Kuryakin didn’t know what Waverly
would think of their extreme independence with the ring transmitter and the
private Channel
S he had tweaked into their communicators. Best to leave everything on a standard
operational level for now. Waverly was
already in a bad mood and still muttering comments about Napoleon’s disregard
for rules and his hero complex.
“We shall forgo Mr. Solo’s
proclivity for dramatics for now, gentlemen.
Let’s finish up this matter of the unfortunate affair last night.”
“Sir, if Mr. Solo has a lead
on Lin I think that should be a priority --“
“We will send out a Section
Two team when we get an idea of where Mr. Solo might have gone. Until then it is a Section Five operation,”
Waverly assured. “As of now, Miss Rogers
is alerting our usual scouts.”
“I can --“
“I understand you are on
limited duty, Mr. Kuryakin. And your
skills can be better utilized here rather than wandering the streets of
“Mr. Solo is missing,” he
reiterated, the words tough. The
expression and tone, however, cool and neutral, completely concealing the
frustration and anxiety barely under the surface.
Waverly cleared his
throat. “We have an entire section
covering the investigation. All
available Section Two operatives are already deployed for reconnaissance. I do not take it lightly when the Chief
Enforcement agent is missing. However,
we must take into account Mr. Solo’s proclivity for getting into trouble and
getting himself out again.”
Unable to argue that last
point, Illya conceded this was neither the time nor place to quibble over the
issue. If he put up too much of a debate
he would only draw more resistance from the already short-tempered
Waverly. And from the other antagonists. They sat around him like hungry vultures;
snidely, sharply, making comments that remained barbed, but on the surface
seemed supportive of the missing agent.
Craft had been glaring at
him since he’d entered the room. His
demeanor rose to agitation when conversing about Solo. Now, his restraint broke. “Can we discuss the tragedy that was the
beginning of all this?” he snapped out.
“I request disciplinary action against Solo and Kuryakin for the botched
operation last night,” Craft aggressively began.
Waverly held up his
hand. “I have received your formal
request, Mr. Craft. I will, of course,
evaluate it. This debriefing is for the
purpose of detailing events of last night in a more complete review than the
written report submitted by agents Solo and Kuryakin.”
Since Illya was the only
Section Two member present who was in on the plan from the inception -- the
agent who had come up with the concept (he WOULD make Napoleon pay for leaving
him to handle this tedious trial), he started from the beginning. Outlining, first, their
brief association with Lin, a Thai refugee. Lin claimed inside information on drug
cartels operating out of
Lin professed knowledge of a
connection directly to the
Privately, Napoleon and
Illya agreed Lin betrayed them. Solo had
sent out some Section Two agents to search for the traitor last night while the
agents were in the Infirmary. No trace
was found of the Thai drug informer.
***
Sizzling with anger after
the briefing -- witch-hunt -- he corrected, Illya went to his office and
rechecked all status sources. No
communication from Napoleon. No
sightings by informants or scouts or other agents abroad today. Lin still not found. No one had seen Solo since he left HQ the
previous night. Again, Illya reviewed
the video surveillance tapes. No new
clues jumped out at him.
Over and over in his mind he
reviewed the last pictures of his friend. It depressed him to think the black
and white images on the monitors might be the last he would see of Solo: Tired,
Napoleon walking slowly to the Corvette, moving like a worn man with the weight
of the world on his shoulders. No, just
a disheartened agent ridden with guilt over a disastrous mission. A solo agent.
Without his partner.
Knowing he was not gifted
with clairvoyance, Kuryakin still felt he could have made a difference had he
stayed with Solo during the vigil in the Infirmary. Then they would have been together for the
rendezvous with whoever was supplying information on Lin. And whatever had happened to Napoleon might
have been altered -- or not happened at all.
Morosely, he pulled the iolite ring from his pocket. If only it WAS a soul connector. I would find you, my friend. If ever there was any person on earth bonded
to me as deep as my soul, it is you.
By lunchtime Illya was fatigued,
wondering how he was going to last the rest of the day. His ribs ached, his head throbbed and he
couldn’t remember eating. Grabbing a
quick sandwich from the cafeteria, he left to track Lin. Taking his portable transceiver with him, he
scanned as he drove searched. The usual
bars and restaurants in
Returning to his car his
communicator beeped and he quickly responded, hoping it would be the
long-awaited contact from his partner.
“Kuryakin.”
“Illya, this is
Margaret.”
Section Two Number Three
agent, Margaret Simms. She was the glue
that held field operatives together with her knack for administrative detail
and organized deskwork. Her voice sounded
funereal and Illya braced himself.
“Yes?”
“
Standard procedure for lowly
Section Five novice agents. Scan news
reports, police activity and other mundane research to make sure nothing of
interest to UNCLE slipped past their notice.
Those tasks also included police files, hospitals and morgue
entries. He should have covered that
himself, but had not even thought of it.
Did not want to admit he would need to make such a search. Napoleon was trapped in some dirty warehouse
awaiting rescue. Or held prisoner in a
holding cell with kidnapped women bound for the slave trade. Perhaps locked in jail after a raucous brawl
with Lin’s gang. Hopefully not in the
hospital. Definitely, Napoleon was not going
to be found in the morgue. It just could
not happen!
“Yes?”
“NYPD reports a Corvette
matching the description of Napoleon’s was found stripped and abandoned. Do you want me to send for the police
report?”
He leaned his head on the top
of the desk. Exhausted, discouraged,
only the thought of finding his partner kept him going. What if they found a dead body nearby instead
of a live friend? Solo, the super-spy,
victim of a mundane street crime?
No!
“No, I’ll go myself. Where?”
All the way to the small
neighborhood near the
The small police station
consisted of only a handful of officers.
Sergeant Carson met him at the front desk and directed him to a very
crowded and tiny office. The policeman
was a WWII veteran -- his US Marine certificates and pictures proudly displayed
on the walls. Hearty and still robust,
his red-ish hair was only slightly grey and his blue eyes still shone with wit
and shrewdness.
“No one in his right mind
would leave a car like that in this neighborhood,” he stated as he placed a
file in front of the agent. “You say it
belongs to one of your UNCLE people?”
“Yes.” He barely glanced at the report. No evidence of foul play inside the car frame
– like an explosion or bullet holes. No
plates recovered but the general description of the blue 1968 Corvette fit
Napoleon’s car. “I would like to see the
vehicle.”
“It’s at impound. A garage down the block. We can walk there.”
“No body? No visible signs of violence? Blood stains?”
“Not much left of it to tell
the truth.” He scrutinized Illya
carefully. “First time I’ve had dealings
with you boys. This some kind of spy
caper?”
“Perhaps.” Illya moved to the door and gestured for him
to lead the way.
The garage was in sight of
the station and
The Corvette was easy to
spot. It no longer had wheels, mirrors,
bumpers, license plates or much of the interior. Weary and slipping into depression, he had
looked on this as a tangible clue, when in fact, it
was the gutted shell of what had once been his friend’s prized possession. UNCLE agents were not collectors or
hoarders. Solo, particularly, even
rented his furniture, believing that to own too many things was to be tied
down. Move fast and free, was his motto.
Owning his own car was an
expensive, egotistical luxury since UNCLE supplied them with vehicles from the
motor pool whenever requested. Section
Two agents commonly drove cars all the time due to their need to respond to
field emergencies in an instant’s notice.
Typically, Solo wanted the flashy sports cars to impressed
the equally flashy women he liked to date.
A perfect example of Solo’s occasionally quixotic nature -- he was the
brilliant, skilled, crafty head of Section Two, a renowned espionage agent, yet
had serious trouble juggling his finances.
He rented a comfortable apartment; clothing and travel was covered in an
expense account, yet what he had left from his paycheck he used to buy a very
classy vehicle. The rest of his slight
income was used up in lavish and frequent dating. Napoleon had toyed with Jaguars and Triumphs
for a while and finally -- at Illya’s suggestion -- bought American.
Looking over the damaged,
ravaged shell of the Chevrolet, Illya did not want to imagine what shape the
owner might be in right now. He could
not fathom what brought Solo out here.
Or had someone killed him, driven out here, dumped the body in the river
and left the car to be vandalized?
Inside, many of the parts and wiring were ripped out from under the
dash. No trace of a clue that Napoleon
might have left. No personal
articles.
“No witnesses,”
“When did the last patrol go
by that street?”
“Ten-something last night.”
Checking the trunk, he found
no evidence a body had been in there. Of
course the police would have reported that obvious clue. Sighing, he informed the officer he would
have the vehicle transported back to UNCLE.
“We have a police lab. This precinct is pretty quiet, but we know
how to do our job.”
“I’m sure you do,” Illya
assured absently, still studying the car. Napoleon would be so upset when he
saw this. He really loved this car. Hopefully he was not in such bad shape
himself. Finding nothing, Illya
commented the UNCLE lab team would be by to collect it later in the day. “Our equipment is probably more updated,” he
appeased.
Taking the next phase
personally, he returned to the office and started the tedious job of studying
the Section Five report on hospitals and morgues. Nothing, he sighed with relief. Not willing to let it go at standard
procedure, he took further steps. Enlisting
some other agents in the work, he called doctor’s offices -- first in the area
where the Corvette was abandoned, then in an expanding radius farther away;
near Solo’s apartment, and near HQ. The
search circle stretched out and at the end of the day he was morosely dejected
at the negative results. Not one
clue. True, no dead or injured body, but
no leads, either. Solo could not have
just vanished. There had to be a
trace.
Illya retired to Napoleon’s
office. He rechecked all the paperwork
on Lin once more. Then called agents
assigned in the search, all reporting a lack of progress. Unable to sit still, he went out in the
afternoon and personally talked to informants and low level
information-gathering civilians UNCLE often used. Nothing. Long after dark, he returned to Solo’s office and dejectedly laid down on the black leather
couch. Somewhere, in this long and dismal night, there had to be a light -- a
spark -- to follow. There had to be a
way to bring his friend home. He just
couldn’t see it. Napoleon had been
missing for roughly twenty-four hours and there was no trace of him, no hint of
his status.
***
‘Illl-ya!’
‘Napoleon!’
He could hear the cherished, deep voice. It was strained and hurt – confused and
aching. The single sound of his name
conveyed all the hopeless emotion and fear echoing in the suffering
American. Illya responded automatically,
instinctively offering his support – letting Napoleon know he was there to
help.
The iolite ring appeared, floating in the mist, then it encircled him.
Then it floated away, as if in search of Napoleon.
Where was here? There was
darkness. Night, close and unfathomable, stretching without a horizon, without a glow of
light. Inside that trap Solo called to
him . . . .
‘Illya!’
“Napoleon!”
Breathless, Illya sat up
from the desk, disoriented. Taking a
moment, he realized he had fallen asleep and had been dreaming. Napoleon was calling for him – it was a
nightmare. But it had seemed so
real. The tortured echo of his name
still felt as if Solo had been standing here next to him . . . . No, Napoleon
was not here, but lost in darkness somewhere in a pitch, endless night.
“Hold on, moi brat, I will find you,” he whispered,
his voice shaking and hoarse from reflected terror. “I promise I will come for you.”
***
Assuming his friend was
still alive, but unable to return on his own, Illya blanketed the state with an
alert to law enforcement, medical facilities and known allies. Days mutated into weeks and he transformed
into an avenging wraith. As his physical
condition improved, his stamina increased, his energy into the obsessive quest
amplified.
His friend had to be out
there somewhere. Was Solo
even on this continent? Inquiries were
made abroad after the first few days.
Solo’s old NI contacts were alerted and their various resources extended
the tools for the quest. Still, nothing.
The dreams continued. At first, Illya was afraid to sleep, dreading
the nightmares that haunted him whenever he fell into a restless slumber. Now, he anxiously awaited the dreams and came
to cherish them as spectral visits from his friend. The pathetic, single connection left with
Solo. With each dream he felt the
suffering, the lonely confusion, the hope that Solo still held for a rescue. Over the weeks, Kuryakin convinced himself it
was more than just his imagination desperately searching for a balm amid the
pain. No, Napoleon WAS calling to
him. Was it his mystical gypsy past or
his blind despairing trauma that pushed him to believe? He did not know. He just accepted that this was some kind of
strange, subliminal communication from his friend and he sought to learn more
from each dream. A location, a place, a
room – anything would help. So far,
though, he had learned nothing constructive except that Napoleon still lived.
Kuryakin valiantly juggled
Section Two administrative duties.
Maggie covered for him whenever possible, but his ragged appearance, his frequent absences, were noted by Waverly and
The trail to the
It occurred to him it could
be the simple and old-fashioned motive of revenge. Solo quietly and effectively eliminated. Kuryakin suffering as he never had before
with the loss. Did someone hate them
that much? The list was lengthy, of course. This was not a business to promote friendship
or trust. All the more
reason to cherish his camaraderie with Napoleon. Making the loss so painful.
Stepping into the office,
Illya braced himself. He felt this way
every time he entered, expecting the worst possible news -- that Solo’s body
had been found and his friend was certainly, irrevocably dead. Waverly glanced up, pushing a folder around
on the big, circular table.
“Your official promotion to
the head of Section Two, Mr. Kuryakin.”
“Sir --“
Waverly cut of f the
protest. “It is time, Mr. Kuryakin. Mr. Solo is not coming back. Over three weeks, no clues, no body. We must assume the worst. It is time to move on.”
He wanted to fight this with
every part of his being. What could he
offer in resistance? Nothing. It was logical. Policy.
Heartbreaking. They were giving
up. He could not. Never.
“I won’t stop looking for
him,” he countered defiantly.
“It is a vain exercise in
futility.”
“Nonetheless, I must try.”
Waverly nodded, accepting it
as an expected attitude. “There is a
situation in
It would be the first time
he left the area since the disappearance.
Who would keep looking? What if
information came in during his absence?
He had not thought to make provisions for this.
“Yes, sir.”
“You will also implement
standard MIA procedures. As of this
morning, they were not completed.”
Waverly’s glare was unrelenting.
“It is time, Mr. Kuryakin. Please
see to it.”
Again, he wanted to offer a
protest. It could not end like
this! His closest -- only -- friend was
being buried not in the soil, but in the administrative paperwork of red tape. MIA file.
Next was the cold file. Then
layers of dust, like fine stacks of dirt over a
figurative coffin of neglect. He could
not allow it -- could not be a party to it -- but was there a recourse?
“He is not dead,” he
countered fervently, trying to keep his legendary cool composure. Striving for aloof objectivity, he failed,
hoping at least for a ring of sanity in his plight. “He was captured. To stop an active search is like accepting
his death!”
“This is not a time for
sentimentality, Mr. Kuryakin. If you
have proof it would be different. If
there was any evidence at all of his status we would not take this step. But you can offer nothing.”
Failure. He could not present anything to refute the
inevitable onslaught of a corporation.
Procedures had to be followed.
There was no room for an admission of his inability to save his
friend. Guilt had no place in this
office. Regret and anguish could be
catered to outside these walls, but not in the cold, hard business of espionage. Weakness for allowing emotions to seep into
his professionally flint heart -- not to be acknowledged.
“That will be all.”
Yes, he concluded, knowing
the common phrase of dismissal was like closing a steel door in his heart. Yes, this was all. The organization that was the reason and
structure to the partnership had just filed away the Chief Enforcement agent of
Section Two. He was a folder in a
computer now instead of a living, breathing friend. Yes, that would be all.
***
Returning to Section Two’s
offices, he was a little too harsh in his instructions to Simms. Aware his assistant thought him tragically
mad, Margaret agreed to keep the search going until his return. This was tedium; painful reality he had pushed
away for too long, but must bring to a close now. He did not tell Simms of his official
promotion -- office gossip would have the whole staff aware of that before
lunch. He did order her to follow
through with the standard MIA procedure.
She seemed to have a slight tear in the corner of her eye, and turned
away, but did not comment on the command.
Hiding away in his office,
Kuryakin removed a file from the desk.
It had been given him more than a week before, but he had put it away,
hoping he would never need to fill out the forms. He signed his name to authorizations for UNCLE
teams to shift Napoleon’s personnel packet to the MIA records. A special team comprised of Section Five and
Section Two operatives would close Napoleon’s apartment and place the few
personal items in boxes to be dealt with by Illya, who was the executor of
Solo’s affairs. The apartment would be
closed. The insurance settlement on the
Corvette and life insurance would be finalized and the checks would probably be
deposited in Illya’s account within a few days.
By the time he returned from
He stared at the black lines
on the white forms and they blurred.
Closing his eyes, he fought the burning behind the lids. There had been few emotions outwardly shed
throughout this ordeal. He had snapped
at people in impatience, frustration and anger, admirably controlling the
pain. He had not destroyed a single
piece of furniture, not thrashed some well-deserving Section Five cretins, nor
had he submitted to the desire to slam his fists against the unyielding
gunmetal gray walls that had become his prison.
Internalizing the despair, the misery, the hopelessness, he had kept it
all inside. Today, there was proof of
his failure, public acknowledgement that his efforts had come to naught. His partner was officially MIA, the active
case relegated to a back shelf where it would be forgotten by next month. How could he allow this? How could he prevent it? He had not.
The guilt of his stinging failure was almost as tangibly acid as his
grief.
Opening his eyes, almost
blindly from the moisture there, he signed the papers. Napoleon would really miss that car, he
thought irrelevantly, as a tear slipped down to hit his hand. He wiped it away before it smudged the paper.
***
A small suitcase in his
hand, Illya walked out of the building feeling vulnerable and alone. The first, real -- solo -- assignment since
Napoleon’s disappearance. The primary step that UNCLE and the rest of their
peers were returning to normal. He was
now the new head of Section Two.
Carrying on. The world revolving
without his partner here.
Considering his abilities
insufficient for the task, he decided to go through the motions of this
farce. He would play the games and move
along, making the rest of them think he would get on with his life. From his jacket pocket he removed the iolite
ring -- long ago a present to prevent just this horrifying search. Now, a symbol of the missing friend he hoped
to see again. He would never stop
hoping. He would never stop searching –
never forget.
****
“Dr. Vann?”
The gray-haired physician barely glanced over the tops of her
half-glasses at the intern. “What is it,
Joey?” She didn’t stop writing,
furiously scribbling on a chart and concentrating on the tedious task of
fitting her bold, oversized printing on the narrow lines provided in the
standard medical forms. “Hmm?”
“Got a new patient for you. You heard about that transfer that came into
ER a few weeks ago?”
“No.”
“Brain damage.”
“Is that the official diagnosis from Dr. Preston, or Joey-speak for
the mentally ill?” she wondered mildly, still not glancing his way.
The young man with long, dark hair and round, tinted glasses
sighed. “I’m just an intern. How could I make a diagnosis?”
The sarcasm broke through and she finished her comments on the page
and slapped the folder closed. Handing
it to a nurse, she gave her full attention to the young colleague. “A derelict with brain
damage?”
“Not really,” he sighed, handing her a chart. “He was badly beaten. Unconscious for five days. Bruised brain and skull fracture. Newest x-rays show no physical damage to the
brain itself.”
She took the chart and started scanning the material. “Complete motor functions. Amnesia. Difficulty in speaking. Comprehension level low.” She cocked her head in consideration. “Still could be brain bruising not showing on
the x-rays.” Her eyes narrowed as she
studied him. “Maybe I should take this
up with Dr. Preston. I think it’s a
little too soon for him to be transferred to psych.”
Joey shrugged. “That’s
between you two medicos, eh. I’m just
alerting you, I’m bringing the guy up.”
She would bet a month’s pay
She checked over the chart, considering the possibilities. When she looked up again, she saw Joey
bringing a man in a wheelchair toward her.
The patient indeed looked the victim of a severe beating. His head was bandaged on the top and left side. His left arm in a cast. The face was bruised and swollen. Considering the injuries were
sustained at least two weeks before it was just one indication of how serious
the injuries were. His eyes -- although
one brown eye was nearly covered by a puffy, discolored lid -- scanned
everything suspiciously, as if expecting an attack.
Growing up on the relatively rustic and isolated splendor of
In other circumstances, he might have been handsome. The ragged beard was dark and thick, growing
stubble around the terrible, stitched wounds. The brown eyes were crazed,
reflecting confusion and fear. Walking
with them to her office, she introduced herself to the patient and initiated a
standard questioning session. He did not
respond vocally to any inquiries, but seemed to be listening and even
considering what she said.
Again checking the chart, she saw his hearing tested fine and so
did his reflexes. All indications
pointed to a psychological reason for his muteness. “I’d like to talk to you. Is that all right?” Blank.
Not surprising. She continued,
undaunted. “We’ve listed you as John Doe
number four. Would you like to tell me
your real name?”
Blank.
The rest of the interview proceeded with no response -- no -- that
wasn’t accurate. He was looking around
the room -- assessing everything, including her. Like a scientist, studying and thinking. She could almost see his eyes change as
thoughts and theories must have filtered through his damaged mind. There was intelligence behind the closed and
mysterious brown eyes. And fear. Something she learned to read years ago from
the desperate and ill patients she examined.
Fear and -- furtive wariness. Not the fear of a deer caught in the
headlights – rather -- the fear of a known terror. And the distrust -- that was natural, but this
was not the paranoia of random mental insecurity. This was a mistrust of doctors or people in
authority maybe; skepticism that he could be helped by those currently around
him.
After a number of questions she noted he was slumping in the chair,
obviously fatigued. She walked to the
door and accompanied Joey who wheeled him to his new room. Up ahead, one of the orderlies emerged from
the isolation ward and opened a door for her.
Number Four leaped out of the chair and grabbed onto the blond orderly’s
shirt.
“Illl-ya!”
Startled, the orderly pushed him away, but he came back again,
clutching desperately to the employee.
“Illl-ya!”
Vann called for more assistance and three young and fit men were
finally able to detach him and without harming him, secure the patient in a
room. As soon as possible, she
administered a sedative. All the while,
he called the name to the orderly.
“That’s not your name, is it?
Is that the name of someone you know?”
Calm now, he laid on his small, narrow bed, staring at the door,
expecting -- something?
“What is your name?” Nothing. “Is Illya
the name of a friend.”
The dark eyes blinked. He
mouthed something that she could not understand. No sound emerged. He continued to stare at the door. Now that he was calm, she decided to try an
experiment. She called the blond orderly
in again. Number Four sat up, reaching
for him, calling the strange name again.
When the blond came under the light, he stopped his urgent calling of
the name. He crouched back, shaking his
head until he closed his eyes and went to sleep.
***
Upon returning from
At the top of his memo stack
was a note from Cyril Smith to contact him about a coroner’s report. Illya’s heart seemed to grind to a stop. He heavily fell back into his chair.
No! After all the work and the hopes -- no --
Napoleon couldn’t be dead!
Quickly scanning the autopsy
report, he was confused to learn Lin was killed in a traffic accident the
afternoon before their nighttime meet with
When he returned to HQ Illya
tracked down Smith and Kalakaua in the cafeteria. Joining them for coffee, he asked for updates
and all they knew about Lin’s death. It
seemed a prosaic and common traffic accident.
How did it connect to Napoleon’s disappearance? He asked what other methods they were using
and Smith reluctantly admitted he only assigned Kalakaua to the task of finding
Solo. Forestalling Illya’s angry
outburst, he assured Section Five had their hands full.
“We have a security breach
that’s taking up my whole department.”
Kalakaua leaned forward, and
across the table, whispered, “Yeah, someone is stealing the new amnesia drug
from the lab rats.”
Vaguely recalling something
about an upgraded amnesia drug that selectively erased memories for long
periods of time, Illya refocused on the subject that was really important.
“There has to be a
connection between Lin and Napoleon.”
“There is none that we can
find,” Smith assured.
Leaving, Illya muttered
under his breath severe Russian comments about incompetence. If he had known weeks ago about Lin’s death he could have made much
more productive use of his time! There
might not be any Filipino connection at all with Solo’s disappearance! Where did that leave him? Searching the rest of the
world, unfortunately.
III
“Mind Games”
Every day since Number Four’s transfer, Vann interviewed -- rather
-- talked to the new patient. Never
lucid or communicative, she sensed something intelligent and knowing behind his
condition. As if the muteness was not a
game or a façade, but an affliction beyond his ability to overcome. Something he did want to defeat, but was
unable to because of some unknown inhibition.
Most patients she helped did not have that indefinable, undefeatable
nature beneath their mental problems.
This one did, she thought.
Mysterious, she decided. The
key to his inner turmoil was whoever belonged to the odd name. Il-ya.
“I’m here to help you. You
can help me by talking. We can find out
who you are and where you belong. Maybe
this friend of yours is looking for you.
Illya?”
His eyes widened slightly and he looked at her.
“Is Illya a friend? Family? A brother?”
His face brightened.
“A brother.”
Now they were getting somewhere.
“Where is your brother now?”
Blank.
“Was he hurt in the incident when you were hurt?”
His brow crinkled in dismay at that thought. Ah, a tangible hit in an emotional area. Concern for his brother. “Was your brother there? Could he help you? Did he help you?”
The expression deepened to dismay, then
agitation as his right hand twitched. He
tried to speak, but as his lips moved no words came out.
“Is your brother looking for you?”
His eyebrows raised.
“Yes, you think he is. There
is no need to fear me. If you tell me
your name we can find your brother. Then
you won’t be alone anymore. He will come
and be with you.”
For the first time in their session, he nodded. Again, the mouth moved, this time into a form
she recognized. He could not utter the
sound, but the name was clear. Illya. Everything
centered around that missing brother.
***
“Mr. Kuryakin, just
relax. I know it’s been a while, but
these are procedural sessions. Nothing
to worry about.”
“I am not worried.”
“Of course not.”
Good. Their mutual lies were recognized. The dreaded psych evaluation was starting out
on the correct setting, Illya sighed inwardly with detached satisfaction. Under the thinly veiled ruse of a necessary
detail for his new promotion to Section Two Number One, the Russian sat here,
across the desk from the head of UNCLE Psychiatric. This was Waverly’s not-so-subtle demonstration
that he believed -- along with probably the rest of NYHQ -- that Illya was one
step away from a meltdown.
The veteran, calculated
Russian would not ever be subject to anything overt like a mental or emotional
collapse. Nor was he vulnerable to
demonstrations of histrionics. According
to Waverly, though, the man who mattered, Illya was obsessed. Unreasonably fanatical
about his missing partner. No
dispute there. All Kuryakin thought
about for over four weeks was finding Napoleon.
Still no trace of the absent operative, Waverly continued to demand he
move on. He had made a good show of
conforming with the rules. Only Miss
Simms, Kalakaua and Smith knew his continued searches, the many phone calls to
police agencies and hospitals. The late
night excursions to neighborhoods around HQ, asking questions of people who
loitered on the streets.
So far, no one remembered
noticing a dark haired man in a blue Corvette.
As time swiftly sped away from the fateful date, memories faded, people
drifted away. Every empty day left the
trail a little colder. The chances of
finding a lead grew more remote with each dark sunset. Still, he could not surrender. It would be his quest for as long as
necessary. Until he found Solo.
“I’d like to ask you
something we’ve never covered in our interviews,” Dr. Lynn Karlston
opened.
Her voice was deceptively
calm and piqued with interest. Her blue
eyes inviting, her oval face receptive.
Her shoulder-length blond hair swept back behind her ears. The picture of pleasant professionalism. The façade of a viper in
waiting to most Section Two agents.
She, next to Waverly, held the power to keep an agent in the field, or
not. To make or destroy careers. To judge the mental balance of an
operative. Several times Solo and
Kuryakin had come here -- beyond the required evaluations -- because of their
actions on assignment.
Karlston’s expert probing
seemed designed to find the flaws and exploit them. As if she hoped to prove Section Two agents
were unfit to handle the stress of spy work.
Specifically, Kuryakin and Solo were unfit to remain partners. Knowing it would sound paranoid to anyone but
he and his friend, he suspected a conspiracy to break up the partnership. Engineered by Waverly and supported by
Karlston. They had failed. But ultimately, they had their wish, didn’t
they? Napoleon was now missing. The partnership was temporarily over.
So why did they want to
evaluate him? For the all too obvious
reason of seeing if he could handle the stress of the loss of a partner. He refused to respond yet, so it forced her
to do more talking. Draw her out into
the open, maybe her hidden agenda would be revealed.
“Why did you choose to be a
field agent?”
The question was a surprise
and he fought to keep his expression completely blank.
“With your various science
degrees you would be one of the premier scientists in UNCLE.” She paused, but he did not reply. “With seven languages, your incredible
intellect, you could have gone into any section in the organization. Yet you chose to be a field operative. A very successful one.”
Naturally distrustful of
praise, he felt her drawn out enough to step into the conversation. “Your point is?”
“I wondered if you ever
thought perhaps it was because of your childhood?”
“How prosaic,” he sighed. He had not expected something so
mundane. Blame everything on his
childhood? The direction was still
obscure, but he knew now what her theoretical basis might be.
She frowned at the
analysis. “Running for
your life, hunting human prey, life and death on the edge, intrigue and
mistrust – your career. Your
childhood revisited,” she pointed out.
Illya remained cool and
controlled. “Working against THRUSH or
international criminals is hardly comparable to evading Nazis in my youth.”
“Isn’t it? Gypsies were your allies and you ran,
disguised yourself, even helped with sabotage.
Sounds like career training for UNCLE.”
“Then you have answered your
own question.”
“Your intellectual and
professional achievements prove you are motivated, talented and focused. Yet, you choose to risk your life in the high
adventure field operations department of the organization. Recapturing your childhood, or searching for
something that is lacking in your life?”
Psych sessions had never
gone in this direction before. It
puzzled him. He thought he was here
about his continued stubborn quest to prove Napoleon was still alive. Where was she going with this?
“And your point?”
“Until a decade ago, you
were predictable, Mr. Kuryakin.”
He frowned at what he
considered an unfair and inaccurate assessment.
“I am not predictable.”
“You were. Then you were assigned a partner,” she
continued sharply. “That changed you.”
His voice was admirably
level. “It didn’t,” he insisted
firmly. “Except my usual degree of
efficiency was enhanced. Usually.”
His face and voice betrayed
nothing. He could almost believe the
lies himself. Never would he admit the
truth. That ten years ago he found an
anchor of trust. A partner to connect
with -- an unimagined other-half of his soul.
Now he was obsessed with reestablishing his foundation and rescuing his
friend from whatever danger he was captured within. Reclaiming his own life in the mission. Reclaiming his brother. Because until he had Napoleon at his side
again, he was only half of a whole.
Moi brat. My brother.
He would not explain the connection, the vital necessity of Solo in his
life. The balance, the trust, the faith they shared -- it was beyond something that could
be dissected and combed through by mental doctors. And the dreams -- no -- he could never
confess that he felt and heard Napoleon in his dreams. That his friend was trapped and in agony --
tortured and confused and damaged, in pain and torment -- but alive! Calling to him -- alive! If he confessed that he might as well resign
and check into a mental ward, because no one in this cold steel building would
ever accept that he had some kind of spiritual, emotional, psychic -- maybe all
of the above -- connection with his friend and brother.
Her frown indicated she
didn’t believe a word. “I have numerous
complaints from other Sections and from Mr. Waverly himself, about your
devotion to Mr. Solo. His devotion to you. Breaking orders, defying protocol --
“I am aware of the details,”
he cut her off. “Isn’t that history?”
“Yes.” She almost smiled. “But do you believe that? I want you to understand you can go on
without your partner. There is no need
to be obsessed with guilt.”
“Guilt? Why do you say that?”
“You don’t feel that you
should have been there to save your friend?
That you could have made a difference?”
“I have no idea what
happened to him. There is no reason for
guilt,” he denied sharply.
“You tell yourself you would
have taken a bullet for him. But you
can’t handle the absence, the no-chance of a heroic effort --“
“Not true.”
“The not knowing – the
absence of a body so there can never be any proof. That is why you can’t believe Mr. Solo is
dead. Why you continue to search for him
day and night. Why you can’t accept his
death and move on.”
Hot denial and arguments
sizzled within, but he allowed the fiery emotions to be chilled by a frosty
rejection. “My feelings on this matter
are irrelevant. They do not affect my
job performance.” He stood.
“They affect you inside --“
“You are to evaluate my
ability to continue as the leader of Section Two, yes?” His voice was as cutting as his glare. “Then render your judgment. Whether I confront my emotions over this
matter or not is my own affair so long as it does not detract from my
duties. Correct?”
With too much sympathy, she
revealed the pity she felt. “This
incident could make or break you as an agent, Mr. Kuryakin. And possibly as a person.”
He wouldn’t let the words
concern him. She had no idea how close
they came to hitting the mark. If
anything could break him, it was not THRUSH or torture or facing death. It was the loss he faced now. The missing part of
himself. Living in the night now,
he searched for a dawn of hope. He could
not let go of the possibility that Napoleon still lived. What might really break him was finding that
Napoleon was dead.
Anger at the interrogation
under the guise of therapy gave him a harsh resolve. “If you consider me unfit for duty then state
your objections.”
“You have to accept the
death before you can move on.”
“Is that an order?”
“I am trying to help you
deal with your grief.”
“Thank you.” He stepped to the door. “I am already dealing in my own method. I trust you will allow me to continue.”
“You can’t go on forever
like this. One day it will hit you
hard.”
What could be harder than
thinking Napoleon would never come back?
A dead body.
Until then -- he fingered the ring in his pocket. He intended to give the present back to his
friend, in person. Without a comment he
slipped out the door.
***
“Illya. Is that your name?”
no
stranger
interrogation
don’t
break
illya
friend
save
illya
– rescue
tovarich
illya
“I’d like to help you. My
name is Dr. Vann. What’s yours?”
strange
no
illya
“I think you could help me find out who you are. Then you could go home. Do you want to go home?”
home
illya
help
The brown-eyed man stared at her as if seeing right through to the
other wall. He did not respond to the
questions in any way -- vocally, physically.
But she sensed -- through the brown eyes -- that he was thinking. That inside was a brain working on the
questions and either afraid to respond or too calculated to respond. There was no familiar look of confusion or
rejection as she had seen in so many eyes – windows to the various suffering
souls she had seen pass thorough this office.
This man was still thinking, still fighting to be someone, or maybe find
what was lost on the inside and out.
The alteration from normal mental patients intrigued her. She scheduled his sessions at the end of the
day so she could study him as long as necessary. During meals and recreation time she observed
him. On his walks around the perimeter
of the hospital, shuffling along the fence as if longing to be free – she had
observed his behavior. Always to the
edges with Number Four – the walls, the windows, the security fence, as if
seeking the farthest point away from the hospital and the nearest to the free
world.
Number Four seemed to have no problems functioning. He could care for himself, respond to
orders. He caused no trouble. She detected patterns though that further
interested her. Everything was examined
by Number Four: utensils, walls, windows, people. Even her!
Always, he seemed to be evaluating and thinking. Yet, he would never speak. Except when he saw the
blond orderly and called him by the foreign name.
Illya. It was Russian, she learned from one of the
staff doctors. Perhaps Four was Russian, but he understood English perfectly. He did not respond to a few Russian words she
tried. Then again, he did not respond to
the Queen’s English, either!
Yesterday was a good case in point:
The blond
orderly came into the rec room and announced dinner-time. Most of the patients, conditioned, stood and
shuffled toward the door. Four watched
Sam, the blond, warily scrutinized the others.
As the last patient stepped through, Four
jumped up, ran to Sam and grabbed him by the arm. The contact lasted only a moment. Startled or frightened, Four
yelped out a cry, then was sprinting down the hall and to the metal-grated gate
at the end of the ward. The commotion
excited the patients in the hall and the orderlies and even Dr. Vann. Everyone after Four.
By the time
they reached his position he had somehow opened the locked gate and sped
through -- dodging, punching and karate-chopping three other orderlies who
tried to stop him! Vann raced behind the
younger, more athletic attendants and doctors and arrived in the main lobby of
the hospital in time to see Four barge out the front
door. He wasn’t fast -- still restrained
by injuries -- but he knew how to evade and defend to get past
numerous opposition.
Almost out of
breath, she arrived on the front lawn just as two muscular guards tackled and
roughly subdued Four. Walking as fast as
her old lungs could manage, she shouted that they be careful and not harm
him. Two orderlies and Joey rushed past
with a straight-jacket and they quickly trussed up the would-be escapee. As they took him to
isolation, Vann followed, worried about Four’s physical injuries. Obviously they were not enough to inhibit
him. He defiantly struggled, fighting to resist a return to imprisonment.
“Still trying
to figure him out?” Joey asked breathlessly.
“Always.”
Studying him tonight, she quickly reviewed her assessment so far of
Number Four. She didn’t want to give him
a name -- too personal. But she cared
about him because he was different. She
saw inside him a normal person fighting to get out. There was hope that whoever he was he could
return to that man. And maybe she held
the key to curing him somehow. That
would be a tremendous success for both of them – her
because she could help cure someone, and him, because he was so desperate to
return to his former life, but just couldn’t find the right path. She had to act as his guide.
His history was unusual. The severe beating. Evidence of drugs when he came in -- unknown drugs that were never
identified. He didn’t fit the
profile of a druggie -- fit, too healthy -- unusual scars but not needle
tracks. The scars were more consistent
with battles or gunshots – perhaps a career in the military.
“Sam’s
betting a keg that he’s a spy,” Joey, the orderly told her earlier today. “This
Illya character is his arch-nemesis -- like his Moriarty. I think he’s an undercover RCMP. He was found out and attacked and now can’t
remember who he is.”
“I think you
boys have too much time on your hands.” She dismissed the imaginings with a wry
smile.
“It
fits. Especially after
what he did yesterday. This was
his second escape attempt. Got all the way to the lawn, eh. I bet next time he makes it.”
She wouldn’t take that bet, she told herself with a smile. Number Four might just make the escape. A spy? The scars were more like James Bond than a
policeman or a soldier. And the escape
attempts and furtive mental power -- yes, a spy. Not in a million years in this little hamlet,
she scoffed as she continued to question her patient and he stared at her with
active eyes.
illl-ya
help illya
putting me away
find me
illya
IV
“Basket weavers who
sit and smile”
Trying not to make it look
like he favored his shoulder too much, Kuryakin briskly popped into he main entrance
at Del Floria’s and made it through the usual check points of HQ. The thoroughly wretched mission in
In the moments he could
doze, he fell into restless sleep, dreaming -- dreaming as he always did -- as
he had since the second week after Napoleon’s disappearance. Napoleon.
He was trapped somewhere. Calling
for help. Calling for Illya. But the words, even Solo, were distorted --
strange and twisted images and sounds.
The only thing that really came through were the emotions. Napoleon was lost, confused and suffering --
pleading for Illya to rescue him.
When Illya awoke, he felt
miserable and helpless, as he always did.
Not just his sleep suffered from these disturbing episodes, but his
emotions were raw and agonized. His
friend needed him and contrary to what the Russian always promised, he was not
there this time. He failed again -- not
just another agent or a mission -- he failed his brother. Anticipating an unpleasant debriefing with
Rawlings -- Waverly probably went home by now -- he geared himself
up for the interrogation where he would be demanded to explain how he failed to
secure the vital documents proving THRUSH interference in the Paris peace
talks.
Almost relieved to be back
in the sterile confines of his office, he checked his memos and new report pile
first. Every day he steeled himself
against the disappointment, and everyday he failed in that. No news was bad news. Another few days past with no new clues on
Lin’s death or who could have killed him, or who abducted Napoleon. Reports from the Pacific/Asian theater were
all negative.
Two months ago, when trails
in New York were completely cold, he had stretched out his informants, gleaned
information from operatives in Asian, trying to track Lin’s associates,
Thinking (in one of his many wild theories) Napoleon had been kidnapped by the
smugglers. At first an appalling idea,
Illya was now disappointed that was not what happened. Even a trip to
Fully aware of the ideas,
attitudes, even the office betting pools on the subject, Illya adamantly
ignored the crass barbarism that allowed his colleagues to bet on whether
Napoleon was rotting in the
The intercom buzzer was an
annoying nuisance and he answered it without relish. The voice on the other end was Waverly
himself ordering an immediate meet in his office. Surprised, hoping there was some huge
disaster afoot so he could focus his mind on something else, Illya quickly
left. As soon as he walked in the room,
Waverly looked up and stabbed him with an unpleasant glare. He didn’t ask him to sit.
“Reports from
“Yes, sir.” He was well aware of the magnitude of the
fiasco. What else could he say?
“I am afraid,
this is not the first catastrophe in recent months.”
At first, he thought the
leader was speaking of Solo’s disappearance.
Perhaps even Kini’s injuries.
Unable to comment on either devastation, Kuryakin saw Waverly was
reviewing debriefing papers from several other Section Two missions untaken in
recent weeks. All disappointing, if not
disastrous.
“As an agent in this
organization and particularly as leader of Section Two, you must set your
priorities straight, Mr. Kuryakin.”
He had been off stride, yes. How could he not be? His other half was gone, of course he would
be off balance. It didn’t get any
better. It was, in fact, worse than that
first week of not knowing, of fear and emptiness. Now, he lived with the dreams that were
disorienting and emotionally grating.
“Yes, sir,” he automatically
responded, not sure where the boss was going with this.
Waverly stopped shuffling
papers and stared at him. “I am aware of
your energies in the Asian area. Your
efforts to draw others into your search for Solo.”
Policed in controlling his
emotions at all times, Kuryakin knew he did not give away the shock that felt
like cold water in his veins. So, the
old man was aware of everything after all.
A finger on the pulse of all agents at all times, it seemed. Moriarty or God or a little of both? Very well, then they knew where they
stood. Before he could offer any
comments of denial or agreement, came the continuation
of the onslaught.
“You will cease these
operations immediately, Mr. Kuryakin.
Mr. Solo will be officially listed as presumed dead.”
“Sir --“
“As standard procedure,
other departments in this organization will continue efforts to establish his
status,” Waverly broke in. “Alive or
dead, he is no longer your concern.”
The statement could not be
farther from the truth. Did he
passionately argue the foolishness of such a philosophy, or did he ignore it
and covertly do a better job of not just searching for his friend, but
concealing it from his superiors? That
would be impossible since he utilized so much of UNCLE personnel and equipment
to continue his quest. Give in? Impossible.
If not his conscience, then his nightmarish dreams would haunt him until
he would lose his sanity. To lose his
friend was bad enough, to accept it was his own form of death.
“He’s still alive sir,” he
risked, the response more automatic than it should have been. It was an instinctual certainty. “I cannot give up.”
“Mr. Solo’s status it not
the issue. You will abandon your
obsession, Mr. Kuryakin, or you will resign.
You either work for this organization or you do not. Which shall it be? Your resignation or your commitment?”
The ultimatum had been given
before, to both he and Solo. Their
partnership brought them into conflict too many times with the organizational
structure, with the team effort and politics of UNCLE. Now he had to make the choice. No, he could not.
UNCLE was the safety net
keeping him from falling into an abyss of hopelessness and isolation. He wasn’t sure what he would do without the
purpose and ideology that kept him going every day. More importantly, he would never find
Napoleon without the resources of the huge enforcement agency. Could he utilize the attributes of technology
and operatives covertly enough to not be detected by Waverly in the
future? He had to. Because he was not giving up his search. UNCLE was important, finding Solo was vital.
“My commitment, sir.”
Waverly nodded. “Very well.”
He looked down at the paperwork, his mind already on other matters. “You may return to the work you have
neglected for too long.”
“Yes, sir.”
Walking down the corridor, back to his office, he projected what he wanted
others to see: the aloof façade he always adopted within these walls. Occasionally, the barriers cracked in the
past -- in times of stress -- mostly, in times of humor or bantering with his
partner. That didn’t happen anymore, and
it would not until Solo walked beside him in these cold corridors.
Inside the
protection of his office -- Napoleon’s office that was still furnished and
decorated exactly the same as the night Napoleon walked out of here for the
last time -- Illya paced to the desk.
Unable to give his attention to the paperwork, to the status of missions
or probable assignments, he walked a tight circuit, expelling the depression.
“He’s not dead,”
came the quiet assurance, a whisper, a tentative speculation. Something he had believed and thought, but
never spoken aloud except in Waverly’s office.
Now, with more conviction and certainty, he felt the spider web-wisps of
emotions and memories from the dreams.
“I would feel it, I would know it,” he muttered to himself as he
walked. “Now, I can feel you, Napoleon,”
he believed. “You’re confused and in
pain -- but alive. You are somewhere calling to me. And I will find you, my friend. No matter how long it takes, or what I must
do, I will find you.” He threaded fingers through his hair and wanted to scream
with frustration. Sometimes it felt as
if Napoleon was just beside him - the presence so close he expected to turn
around and touch him. “Don’t give up,
tovarich,” he anguished. “I will come
for you.”
***
Dr. Vann arrived in the ward just in time to witness a spirited
struggle between two orderlies and Number Four.
With no sympathy for the patient’s weak arm they roughly pulled him from
a broom closet and shoved him against a wall.
Not deterred, Four wriggled out of their grasp
and made for the closet again before they could close and lock the door. With more force this time, they slammed him
to the wall and one pressed him there, holding his good limb in an arm-lock.
“What do you think you’re doing to that patient?” the doctor
shouted, appalled.
“He tried to escape again,” the tall, brought looking orderly
answered.
Considering the speaker was built like a lumber jack and the second
one like a wrestler -- roughing up a patient who was physically recovering from
serious injury and still shuffled instead of walked, she was livid.
“That’s enough.”
“He’s still got fight in him,” the spokesman said. “Third attempt at escape
this weekend. We can’t even hold
him in a straightjacket!”
Another orderly joined the fray.
Vainly Four fought against the muscled, younger
men. Vann wondered at his desperation. At the pathetic, yet
spirited defiance in the blazing eyes and the moaning against the physical pain
through gritted teeth. The
confinement was more hurting to him than the injuries, and his fortitude seemed
undaunted as he skirmished against all odds for freedom. Number Four hated captivity. As three orderlies struggled to get him into
a straight-jacket, he became more violent.
One man, Cordell, jammed an elbow into Four’s face. The resulting nose bleed slowed the patient
but did not deter him much. The blow
obviously stunned him, but he continued to fight.
Approaching with a sedative, she warned the men to hold him
steady. Four’s brown eyes widened with
anger and trepidation when he saw the syringe.
He knew what was coming. His memory,
or brain, or emotional quality might be diminished, but he was still
intelligent, still cunning, and filled with an incredible knack for
survival.
Reason and logic, however, were no longer prevalent, thus his
continued challenge for freedom. Despite
physical injury, confinement, sedation, he kept coming back. Violently he strained against the jacket he
hated with a passion.
He knew the punishment for attempted escape. Why did he persist? He was their most notorious rebel. Was it desperation? Just an instinct to escape? Or was he trying to leave here and go
home? To Illya?
Slowly, the medication took affect and he relaxed. His eyes blinked, the sharp rebelliousness
dulling into drugged apathy. Sweating,
panting, he leaned his head against the wall and stared at her. No fear.
Bitter disgust.
Did he hate her? Or was it
self-loathing that he had failed again?
“Why do you do this, Number Four?” she quietly asked, voicing her
frustrated irritation. “Why do you keep
coming back for more punishment? You
cannot win.”
His eyes fluttered. They
focused beyond her, through her.
“Are you trying to go home?”
Nothing.
“Are you trying to find Illya?”
The eyes zeroed in on hers.
Yes, that name was the trigger. The sum of everything that went on behind those eyes. He would never admit it. He still did not trust her. But whoever belonged to that magic name was
the motivation for everything he did here.
Number Four ate, slept and plotted freedom. To get outside these walls
and bars and find Illya.
***
When you
eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the
truth. If only Sherlock Holmes were here now to help
solve this puzzle. Ten weeks. With every day that passed he
felt increasingly emptied inside. The non-existent
trail was now hopelessly cold. No
witnesses helped. No evidence. Napoleon Solo had simply vanished.
Glumly doodling on the
exterior of a file folder, Illya made a list of possibilities. These scenarios played out in his mind a
thousand times over the last weeks.
Writing them down in black and white did not help anything but to give a
tangible account of where his focus was set for so long. His evidence of failure.
UNCLE officially listed Solo
presumed dead. Starting back at the
beginning, he reviewed possibilities from the last eyewitness account of anyone
talking with Solo. Receptionist. Before that, Dori. Who said Napoleon was searching for Lin. But there was no evidence to support
that. The call from Lin, supposedly,
that was not documented on any recording.
How had it come in, he wondered, for the first
time realizing there was no paper trail.
Taking his natural
suspicions to the limit, he questioned Dori’s statements. He questioned everyone who had dealings with
his partner that day. If motive meant
anything, who, besides any THRUSH operative, would want to make Napoleon
disappear? THRUSH assassins would have
made a splashy death of the Number Two UNCLE agent in
Who hated Solo enough to
quietly make him disappear -- kill or capture?
Wryly, he thought those who hated Napoleon most were right next to him
-- his own fellow agents. The top operatives
in Section Four would be his prime candidates for harming Napoleon. Price and her friends certainly threatened
Napoleon after Kini’s injury. Did they
lure him into a trap and murder him?
Absurd. But did such a scenario fit the facts? His instincts started to flush with a
familiar, warm sense of right. Was he on
the correct track at last? There were
very few facts, but now that his mind started to seriously consider this
extreme possibility, he followed it to the next logical steps. Did Price, Craft and Warner have alibis for
that night? He never checked. Were they capable of catching the Chief
Enforcement agent of UNCLE off guard enough to damage or kill him?
Yes. They were professionals. They would have the advantage of complete surprise. Napoleon would have never suspected an attack
from an ally, he knew with a chill of dread.
Motive, yes. Means, yes.
***
Craft attended the morning
Section briefing. Covertly, Illya
studied him, wondering if the man was capable of cold blooded murder of another
UNCLE agent. Craft loved Kini and gossip
had it he visited the comatose young woman every day. Kalakaua, representing Section Five, reported
there were still no clues in apprehending the amnesia drug thief. But, there were no further thefts,
either. Angus Cooper, Number Three,
covering for Section One, asked how much of the drug had been stolen. Enough for twelve
injections.
After the briefing, Illya
walked with Ty Kalakaua and asked for more time in the security archives. On a strictly personal basis. Willing to help find Napoleon, and bend the
rules a little for a good cause, Ty joined him as he reviewed the security
tapes at the exits and exterior of UNCLE HQ the night of Kini’s injury. Ensconced in the comfortable Section Five
editing office, Illya had everything he needed at his fingertips. The monitors could run three screens at a
time of video taped material. Sitting in
a cozy chair, coffee and snacks barely out of reach on the left (Section Five
operatives never wanted for anything it seemed) he had all evening to study the
tapes. The security data for that night
had been reviewed often, and Kalakaua had permanent copies set aside for the
ongoing investigation. Although Solo’s
case had been downgraded to the presumed dead file, it was standard procedure
to go through some motions. Watching the
images flicker by, Illya felt he had memorized these people and their
movements. Still, he was alert for any
tiny irregularity, an small indication that could be a clue.
Craft and Warner departed from the underground garage
before three am. Both in the same car that turned left onto the street. Dori Price exited just before Napoleon, her
vehicle also turning left. Solo’s
Corvette reached the exit driveway and turned left.
Nothing surprising or
suspicious about that. Solo’s direction
was consistent with him heading to their apartment building. Price?
He did a quick computer check of her address. Her apartment was an easier access by turning
right. Craft and Warner lived in
different neighborhoods and Craft would have saved time if he turned left, but
Warner was going out of his way by turning left. Curious, without another direction to go in,
Illya reviewed other tapes of exits by agents from the underground garage. Before the date of Napoleon’s disappearance,
it was usual for Craft, Warner, Price and Kini Takamatsu to all go to THE MASK
CLUB (UNCLE’s cover nightclub where an entrance was located) every night after
their shift.
Checking the internal security
tapes, he learned that the night of Kini’s injury, the three of them stayed at
the Infirmary for hours, when not in debriefings, then all left just before
Solo. Not unusual. Nothing suspicious. The next day, Price was late to work, citing
emotional distress. Craft and Warner
hovered at the Infirmary for much of the day.
In the succeeding days and nights, he noted that the trio gathered at
Kini’s room until about seven at night, then all would go their separate
ways.
Patterns. Before and after the incident there were
patterns. The precedent was broken the
night of Kini’s injury. Still no proof,
but Illya believed it was something. Why
did they break the pattern? Why not stay
all night in the Infirmary with their injured friend? That was what friends did, was it not? The Russian had learned that from the
best. He could not count the times
Napoleon had lurked in hospital rooms with him until Illya awoke -- and Kuryakin
had done the same for his partner when Solo was injured.
Not much to go on, but
something. At this point, even a thin
thread was more than he had already.
***
man - packages
dark clothes
blond hair
thin
wrong
approach
mean orderly
watching
narrowed dark eyes
truck
escape
illya
looking
illya
looking
delivery truck
crazy clara beating lawn
furniture
mean orderly
carry away
delivery truck
run
dash
lawn
driveway
jump
behind boxes
breathing hard
wait
so many times
illya
running
hiding
no alarm
easy
sneaky
big box
mean orderly
grab
fight
familiar pain
capture
no
not whitejacket
failure
separation
no
do not belong here
illya
help
***
As usual, Number Four was disgruntled and sullen in his expression as he
glared at her. Unreasonably, she felt
the need to explain why he was, yet again, in a straight-jacket.
“If you would stop attempting to escape we could conduct these
sessions without restraints.
Soft music played in the background. The phonograph was an experiment. She thought soothing music would help with
patient sessions. For some it did
calm. Others were oblivious. Four noticed.
When a new album clicked down the stack and onto the turntable, he
looked at the phonograph. Sometimes
recognition would flicker in his eyes as a Glenn Miller or Dean Martin song
played. Then he would glance back to her
in a blank stare.
“Why won’t you help me?”
The appeal triggered some infinitesimal emotion in his eyes. The brown eyes that seemed blank to the
casual observer, but were mostly filled with intelligence, wariness,
calculating strategy and then back to wariness.
His mood swings could be registered in his energy level, his resistance
level, but mostly in those deep, brown eyes.
She was learning to read them, and he continued to confuse her completely. At times, when the eyes indicated a lucid
astuteness, she thought she was breaking through. Then the next day it was almost as if he was
drugged -- back to the sullen trepidation and dull gaze. She had even triple checked the meds given by
the orderlies, in case he was mistakenly given too much sedative, but that was
never the case.
He glared silently now. It
unnerved her. Against the rules, she
trusted her instincts, knowing he was not violent and would not hurt her. Before she had completely thought through her
own rebellion to established procedure, she was unlatching the jacket and
freeing him.
He flexed his arms and fingers, his expression easing, his body
relaxing. He sat on the edge of the
chair, as if ready to spring out, but did not.
Watching her was his only interest.
Except he was fiddling with the loose sleeves on the
hospital-issue pajamas. Then he
played with the collar, as if adjusting a tie?
The sleeves -- shooting his cuffs? Her husband used to do that all the
time. He had been a natty, meticulous
dresser, and for a moment she transposed the image of her beloved Tom being
dressed in hospital pajamas and a straight jacket. It was a pathetic and depressing image, but
transposing that back, she knew in the real world this man, Number Four, had
been a businessman or other occupation in which he was a smart dresser.
Again, she felt so deeply the loss.
This was a once intelligent and aware man with a life outside these
walls. Some dreaded Fate had intervened
and brought him here with a diminished mind.
Why couldn’t she break through?
It was so demeaning to call him by a number and not by his proper name –
that she could not put him back together with his life. And Illya, whoever that
important person was. In her
imagination, she felt this Illya person was probably looking as hard for this
man as Four was searching and striving to locate
Illya.
“Can’t you tell me what you want?”
Curious, she leaned on the edge of the desk and touched his shirt. “You’re used to wearing a shirt and tie and
jacket,” she assessed. Tom’s perfect
knots in the ties and cuffs properly exposed beyond the jacket sleeves came to
mind again. “You’re a businessman maybe?” She touched the shaggy, thick, dark hair
behind his ear. “Maybe you would like a
haircut?”
He tugged at the hair at his neck.
The brown eyes focus on something far away. A memory? She asked, interrogated, probed, but he
remained silent. Just
toying with the hair. Then he
looked back at her and scratched his chin.
“A shave?”
So personal grooming was important to Four. She called for the proper supplies and went
through the activities herself, afraid an orderly would disrupt the sudden
trust Four was placing in her. She
snipped his hair and shaved him with an electric razor. Motioning a finger against his teeth, she
provided a better toothbrush and brand of toothpaste for him.
Then she scrounged a white shirt, sports coat and tie from Dr.
Preston. It was an ill fit, and Four knew it. He
fussed with the shoulder adjustment and cuffs, then took a long time over the
tie. His movements were slow and clumsy
due to the continued soreness from his injuries. Patting down the jacket, he looked at her,
confused.
His progress, then regression was confusing to her. In the middle of the week, he seemed sharp
and obviously thinking. By their Friday
appointment he was dulled and completely subdued. None of it made sense.
The record player clicked to the next album. Frank Sinatra. FLY ME TO THE MOON. Four shot his cuffs again, then stepped over
and took her by the hand. Without a
word, he pulled her into a natural embrace and started dancing. He was smooth, she diagnosed with
embarrassment. She had not danced with
anyone since her husband died. And Four was – natural, relaxed, firmly in control and perfectly
in step. He had done this a hundred
times, she bet.
Close, studying him in a familiar element, she knew he was indeed
someone used to a good life. Good suits,
neat appearance, cultured music, classical dance. In his former life, he must have a
girlfriend. His little finger did still
have a very faint tan line -- pinky ring -- a sign of a gentleman bachelor. No wedding ring or tan line from a ring was
on his left ring finger; there was no Mrs., but a man like this would not be
without company. The instinctive move of
invitation, his skill with the dance, was proof he did this all the time.
“You are an enigma,” she told him quietly.
It was the most poignant moment of her career, she realized, swept
with melancholy. This man – she hated to
call him Four – this man was somebody real and
significant away from here. Some
disaster had brought him to this alien place, brought him to the silent
suffering. Did she have the skill to cure
him and make sure he returned to a good life out there? A life with nice music and good clothes and
an anchor named Illya.
Easing back from his casual embrace, she told him, “Can you tell me
the last time you heard this song? Can
you tell me?” His stare was calm, but no
recognition of what she said. “Help me
break in. Help me free those memories
you have locked away.” Nothing. “If you tell
me all you know then we can find Illya for you.”
His eyes flickered with annoyance and distrust. As they always did when she
talked about the phantom name. The key to his past.
As always, it unlocked only resentment.
It was now important that she succeed. Smooth, cultured and a real charmer, she
wanted to help him. With a sinking
heart, she hoped there was something she could do. This was Wednesday night. By Friday, he would be listless and empty
again. Maybe not.
The song changed. A snappy little tune by Dean Martin. YOU’RE
NOBODY TILL SOMEBODY LOVES YOU. She
nearly groaned at the apropos irony.
A knock at the door sounded and the orderly announced she had a
phone call. The spell broken, her
patient released his comfortable hold on her waist and stepped back.
The slight progress made was still there. She could see confusion, but not defeat in
his eyes. Thinking. Plotting again? He always seemed to be plotting. Except the weekends when he was so
listless. She made a mental note to have
him monitored carefully starting Friday.
The orderly entered and grabbed Four by
the arm. She wanted to protest the tough
treatment, but knew Four’s penchant for resistance had put the orderlies on
guard. Another few sessions like this,
though, and she hoped to make a breakthrough.
***
“Normally I wouldn’t
sanction spying on colleagues,” Cyril Smith cautioned as he entered the
screening room.
Ty and Illya looked up, but
there was no hint of regret from the Enforcement Agent. “Thank you.”
“What did you find?” Smith
asked, taking a seat next to Ty.
“Dori Price is from
“Today is Tuesday.”
Smith nodded in confirmation. “There’s already a work schedule putting
Price on a vacation day on Friday.”
The black and white video of
airport security showed a recognizable Price wearing a nurse’s uniform. Checking and double checking, Kuryakin
confirmed she was not on any UNCLE related mission that would need a
disguise. She was not a field agent
anyway, and would not do anything for Section Four requiring taking on a
role. The suspicious behavior was really
nothing to go on, but he had already admitted weeks ago he was past hopeless --
past grasping at straws and on to the ridiculous and outrageous clues to find
his partner.
Returning to his office,
Illya started an investigation of the hospitals, clinics and medical related
businesses in the
What if Napoleon did not
leave the ring and communicator under Kini’s pillow? What if they were left by someone else? Then they would be trophies --
offerings. And what fate would they
demand to one they felt responsible for maiming a cherished loved one? They could have killed Napoleon outright, but
Illya was hoping not. Then what? The possibilities made his skin crawl.
***
Illya
no
delivery
escape
quiet
careful
stealth
free
run
outside
outside outside
illya
find
Illya
white
coats
no
sick-shot
no
illya
help
need
you
illya
***
Searching the office of a
Section leader was no small risk.
Various internal security monitors and members of the office staff were
dangerous blockades. It would take a
deal of planning and timing. In the
meantime, Illya took the opportunity to take an early lunch and break into
Craft’s apartment Wednesday.
When he found a small vial
of the amnesia drug (labeled and still in the original bottle) in a hidden spot
behind a book on the shelf, he was amazed.
Why would Craft be involved in the burglarizing of the labs for a new
drug? Because he needed someone to forget something. His heart raced to the conclusion that it had
to be Napoleon. No logic behind that,
but he went back to the images he saw in his dreams -- retained in his vivid
memory even now. Captured, disoriented,
searching. The Solo in his mind was one
who did not know where he was. Maybe not
even who he was.
Communicator beeping, Illya
answered it in an automatic whisper.
Even though he was alone, he was keenly aware of the violation he was
conducting.
“Yes?”
“You better get back here
now,” Kalakaua spoke urgently. “Kini’s
dead.”
V
“Trees and flowers and chirping birds.”
“You’re sure it was natural
causes?”
Even as Illya read the
chart, he knew that was what happened.
Comatose for weeks, the body gave up fighting the massive injuries to
the brain and vital organs. Illya asked
if anyone was with her when she died.
No. Craft came after he was
notified by the doctor. Emotional and
distraught, Craft left after he had some private time with the patient. Feeling a sense of urgency, Illya ran to the
elevator and paced within the small metal confine until it stopped at the
Section Four level. Racing now, he ran
to Craft’s office, not really surprised to find it empty.
Stopping to question Warner
in Section Five, the man swore he did not know where Craft went to, just that
he was upset and left. And Price? She left also.
Illya dashed to the security center and asked Smith to run
the surveillance tapes for the last hour.
Craft and Price were both on film leaving -- separately. Enlisting the help of his staff and Section
Five operatives, airlines were called for reservations in Craft or Price’s
names. Not wasting time, Illya
requisitioned a helicopter to take him to the airport. It was a wild hunch, but the only one that
made sense. Craft knew where Napoleon
was. Price went every week to administer
the amnesia drug to Solo. It was
starting to come together.
They were keeping Solo
prisoner, he pondered as he flew over the city.
Why? To make him suffer for what
happened to Kini? Why didn’t they attack
and punish Kuryakin? Napoleon was the
top agent, yes, but Illya was the one who was with Kini -- was supposed to
protect her! Why punish Napoleon and not
him? Yet, could there have been a more
agonizing torture than losing his partner?
Never discovering what happened to his friend? No, only a conclusive death would be worse. So, both had suffered for the mistake.
And if his theory was
correct, why not just kill Napoleon? To
prolong the grisly, inhuman suffering that he had imagined his friend was under
-- to equal what had been done to Kini.
Now, he was afraid that was what would happen. With Kini’s death there was no reason to keep
torturing Napoleon. Illya felt a whole
new urgency to find Solo.
Smith tapped him on the
shoulder, the man’s face grave. “Just
got a call from the lab. Another
theft. A vial of sea-snake poison is
missing. That’s the stuff that never
shows up in an autopsy. Agonizing and lethal stuff.
No antidote.”
Undetectable poison - makes
death look like a heart attack. Whoever
Price had been feeding the amnesia drug to was now going to die.
Cold with dread, Illya
snapped the intercom over to the airport, noting his hand was shaking. He ordered the UNCLE jet to be ready as soon
as he landed. As head of Section Two he
could authorize such emergency transport as helicopters and jets. It was all coming together. This was an emergency. Pieces were still missing, but he knew his
friend was going to die now. Craft was
going to murder Napoleon unless Illya stopped it.
***
Arriving in
Nervous, he pulled the
iolite ring from his pocket. Soul
connector. He was about to find out if
his connected soul-partner was still alive.
He KNEW Napoleon was alive. He
would have felt it if Solo was dead.
Logically, Price would not be making this last trip with lethal poison
if Solo was alive. But strangely, it was
his psychic connection that soothed his anxiety -- his soul connection --
rather than reason that gave him hope.
Price and Craft, in a blue
sedan, pulled out of the airport lot in
Kilometers into the country,
Illya became nervous again. Were they
leading him away from Napoleon? Did they
detect the tail? Rambling over hill and
dale was not what he expected. When the
other agents turned into the parking lot of the old, castle-like building, he
also pulled through the gates of the Pine Crest Hospital. Recovery and Mental Health Facility.
The blue sedan was
empty. Craft and Price were gone! Alarm spiking, he parked quickly and raced to
the entrance. There was a reception desk
and with strained agitation he asked about the nurse who just entered. He was directed to the elevators. What floor?
The receptionist didn’t notice. Illya impatiently checked the directory. Mental Clinic? Intensive Care? Mental. It seemed the only logical choice. Aware he had wasted precious time, he cursed
himself for not stopping them when they reached the hospital.
The doors to the Mental Ward
were locked and he proffered his ID to the receptionist. Finally convincing her to open the ward,
without more than a pause, he raced down the corridor. Dodging zombie-like patients lurking in the
halls, hoping one of the vacant faces did not belong to his partner, he jogged
along the corridor. At each room he
glanced in, looking for Price. Aware he
was wasting valuable time, knowing hospital staff were shouting at him, he
raced to find Dori.
Opening a door, in the same
motion he plunged into the room, recognizing the rogue agent and moving on her
before she could react. She was shooting
something out of a hypodermic into a water pitcher. Gasping in surprise at his arrival, she
hesitated a moment.
Drawing his Walther, he kept
a steady bead on her. “Drop it, Dori. I know what
you’re doing. You’re not going to murder
Napoleon.” He stepped forward.
Without comment, after only
the barest hesitation, she plunged the needle into her arm a microsecond before
he reached her. Dori
collapsed into his arms and he shook her violently.
“Where is Napoleon? What have you done with him?”
Her face twisted in pain,
but an evil smile played on her lips.
“You deserved it,” she gasped.
“You -- both -- deserved -- it.”
“What?” he agonized, barely
keeping his fists from throttling her.
“Where is Napoleon?”
“Dead.”
“No!”
Her eyes rolled back and her
head lifelessly flopped onto his arm.
“What is going on?” a
strident, authoritative voice demanded from the doorway.
There wasn’t time to
explain. Craft was somewhere on the
grounds killing his friend! Dori must have been the back up with the poison. No!
Napoleon could not be dead!
Spinning around, he growled
that the door was blocked. Grabbing his
ID case, he knew he had to deal with this irritation before he could move on,
but he was not going to afford it more than a few precious seconds. He couldn’t search for his friend hampered by
their interference, but would not allow it to cost him Napoleon’s life. He proffered his card to a woman wearing the
name tag of Dr. Vann, a grey-haired woman in a white physician’s coat. Hands on her hips, fire in her eyes, he knew
this was the main barrier to bypass before he would be granted access to find
Solo.
Belatedly realizing he did
not look like his ID photo -- and sensing his false mustache was flapping when
he talked (loosened in the struggle with Dori he guessed) he removed the fake
hair on face and head, revealing his true appearance. After identifying himself as an UNCLE agent,
he went through a description of his partner: height, dark hair, brown eyes,
strong chin, mole on the left jaw --
Her eyes widened and his
skin chilled.
He had found his friend.
“It is a very long story,”
he breathlessly explained. “His name is
Napoleon Solo. He is my partner. He has been missing for months. This woman wanted to kill him. Don’t let anyone touch that hypodermic or the
water in the pitcher. It is
poisoned. Her partner is loose somewhere
hunting my friend. Where is Napoleon?”
An orderly with dark, curly
hair volunteered that he knew Four was a spy.
He was always trying to escape.
He was out on the grounds for exercise now. But he was always watched because he was
tricky. Then the young man cautioned he
should maybe not believe another spy.
“I am an agent for the U. N.
C. L. E. . My name is Illya Kuryakin. I
am here --“
“Illya?” the doctor gasped.
Obviously the name was
significant and his hopes surged. “It
means something to you.”
“Yes,” she acknowledged,
critically assessing him. “Illya. Number Four -- that’s the only word he
speaks.” She paused in amazement. “And only when he sees one of our orderlies --
blond . . . . Who could pass for a
relative of yours.”
Stomach twinging
at the news of Napoleon’s trauma, ignoring the implications of his partner
spending so long in a mental institution, he pressed on. “Where is he?”
She was too surprised or
cautious to trust him completely. Illya was already running for the nearest exit, the orderly
and the doctor trailing behind.
***
familiar
search
help
red-hair
familiar
not
illya
help
“Illya!
Illya!”
need
you
you
came
no
don’t
leave
help
red-wavy-hair
blue
eyes
fight
no
hurt
fight
help
hurt
“Illya!”
need
you
“Illya!”
***
Solo was not immediately
sighted in the main yard where most of the patients ambled. Joey, the orderly, directed Kuryakin to the
likely places his friend was usually found.
Maybe Napoleon tried to escape again.
Or Craft already found him?
Sprinting through the grounds, angling toward the trees preceding the
fence, Illya spotted a man in a white coat wrestling with someone. The patient was violently struggling out of a
straight jacket. The dark hair, the
fighting --
“Napoleon!”
Craft turned toward him as
Kuryakin drew his Walther. Not stopping
to aim, he kept charging, but before he could get a bead, Craft took refuge
behind a frantic Solo. He fired without
warning and Illya went down behind a tree.
Heart in his throat, he knew Napoleon’s wrestling had spoiled Craft’s
aim and that was the only reason he was still alive.
“Illya!”
Kuryakin cringed at the
plaintive, familiar voice he thought never to hear again. A tone wrenchingly scared and desperate. He had never heard such open panic in his
friend. Clearly, Napoleon was not
himself. Unpleasant as that was, he
would have to deal with it later.
Cautiously, he peeked around the tree.
Craft was dragging a struggling Solo away. He couldn’t let Craft take Napoleon.
“Let him go, Neil! It’s over!”
“Not until you are both
dead! You killed Kini!”
“You’ve made us suffer,” Illya
viciously shot back. He tried to get a
steady aim on Craft’s head. If only he had his extended barrel and scope, this
would be a tricky, but possible shot.
Now, the risk of hitting Napoleon was too great. “You proved your point! Let him go!”
“You don’t understand
anything about suffering! Solo and his
arrogance! He always thought he was so
brilliant! The hot-shot of Section Two! And you!
You are supposed to be so clever and cunning and you let Kini die! But not before she languished for months!”
“There’s no way out,
Neil. Drop your weapon and let Napoleon
go.”
“Illya,” Solo shouted, the
look of confusion and panic sickening to see.
He fought to free himself, but Craft held him tight.
“I still have a way
out. But you and Solo go with me. Throw down your pistol and come out here.”
“No.”
“Then I’ll make you. Maybe it’s better this way. You were the one who was supposed to protect
her. You didn’t. This is your last payback.”
Craft aimed the barrel at
Solo’s chest and fired. Napoleon tried
to twist away, partially tangled in the straight jacket. Pain, surprise, flashed across Solo’s face, then he seemed to fold back against Craft.
“No!”
On his feet and running,
taking his best shot, Kuryakin fired, not caring if he was a target or
not. Bullets struck Neil at least
twice. The agent flew back. Illya charged, grabbing Solo away and shot
Craft three more times at close range, although the massive chunk taken out of
the side of his head indicated he was probably already dead.
Falling to his knees, he
cradled Solo in his arms, feeling blood on his friend’s back. Dazed, not coherent, twisted in the jumbled
straight-jacket, Napoleon leaned against him, shaking staring up with a face
crinkled in pain. But there was an
inexplicable smile on his lips.
“Illya.”
“I’m here,” he whispered
brokenly, hugging his friend tighter.
“I’m here. I found you.” He knew he was trembling. When Napoleon gripped him in a forceful
embrace he wanted to weep.
“Illya.”
Vann, Joey and others
crowded around. Still holding his
friend, he closed his eyes, trying to ward off the impending doom. His friend was dying. After all they had been through this was the
end. He wanted to die, too.
“We must get him inside and stop
this bleeding,” Vann ordered crisply.
Feeling the blood on his
hand and arm, Kuryakin was still reluctant to let go. He didn’t dare think there was hope of
anything but tragedy. “How bad?” Illya
whispered, afraid to hear the truth, but hoping for reassurance.
“It looks superficial, but
we won’t know until we get him inside.”
Finding sudden strength in
the thought all was not lost, he scooped up his friend and rushed into the
hospital.
VI
“What do
you intend to do now?”
“Open Channel D.”
“Yes, Mr. Kuryakin? I understand from Mr. Smith you are in
“Close enough, sir. I have found Mr. Solo.” The triumph was clear, the relief solid in
his intonation. “He is alive. Neil Craft and Dori Price are dead.”
“What is going on up there,
Mr. Kuryakin?”
“It’s a long story,
sir. Mr. Solo is injured and I’ll be
staying here while I clear things up. I
recommend you place Kyle Warner from Section Four under arrest until everything
is sorted out.”
At more exclamations of
surprise and demands for clarity, Illya reluctantly outlined his theory. Their colleagues had formed a conspiracy to
punish Solo and nearly kill him in revenge for what happened to Agent
Takamatsu. It would take some time for
Solo to recover. Then he would accompany
his partner back to
***
Dr. Vann stopped Kuryakin as
he was about to enter his friend’s hospital room.
“I’d like to discuss Mr.
Solo’s case,” she insisted adamantly.
He had put her off while he
saw to his friend’s medical care. Then
there was the need to explain the bizarre events to the local Mounties who had
been called in by an overzealous administrator.
Reluctantly, he had explained scant details to Vann and the hospital
Governor. They were unimpressed with his
credentials or his insistence it was not his fault spies invaded their quiet
world. By then, New York HQ had to be
brought into the equation. He was
anxious to sit by his friend; quietly, solitarily fulfilling his rites as a
partner by standing sentinel to the injured man – a duty they traded off so
many times before. He just wanted to be
there in the same room, watch over his friend, assure himself Solo was back in
his life for real.
Just like Neil Craft had
haunted Kini’s room. The parallel was
uncomfortable but undeniable. Just as
Craft intended. Love and desperation had
driven Neil to fantastic revenge and nearly murder. Illya didn’t have to guess what he might be
driven to – what he had done – to save his friend. There were no limits between them. That reality should terrify him, but it
instead gave him a foundation of security he could not explain and knew he had
never experienced before.
“Thank you for your care,”
he began with marginal civility. “While
this is not a very acceptable place to find my friend, I know you meant well.”
Her attention to Napoleon
had been evident – he didn’t look too bad considering -- but the Russian still
resented her with an
“What do you intend to do
now?”
“Take him home.” His dismissive tone clearly indicated his
opinion that the question was absurd.
“His home? He will need constant care --“
“UNCLE is fully equipped to
handle this type of situation.”
“You mean put him in an
asylum for insane spies?”
He nearly snarled, “Napoleon
is not insane.”
“I know.”
This confused him, but he
did not admit that. He hit her with
clinical logic. “Your own diagnosis is
correct. His mental state is not due to
injury. It is from the drugs
administered to him. Drugs developed by
my organization. I did not have time to
bring the antidote, but one is available.”
“You knew what happened to
him?”
He nearly flinched at the
outrage in her tone. “No. It’s very -- complicated. However, we are equipped to handle his cure. He will be taken care of, I assure you. That is really all I can tell you.”
Briefly, she outlined the
care given the agent during his recuperation at Pine Crest. She contrasted that to what she imagined
would happen to him back in the hands of his secret organization. Would he ever recover? Or would they want to bury him so he was not
a threat to them? Scoffing at her
paranoid delusions, he couldn’t keep the whispered fears from playing in the
back of his mind. What would they do at
HQ? Leave him in the hands of Dr. Lynn
Karlston?
“Leave him here,” Vann
demanded crisply. “I can promise humane
treatment until we find a cure.”
“He belongs in
He wanted to shout that
Napoleon belonged with him! This was his
partner!! He was going to watch out for
him. For months he agonized at the
loss. For all these weeks he had
suffered, too. Now reunited, there was
the familiar, unpleasant, but frequent duty of worrying over the injuries and
tending to his friend in the aftermath of trauma. This was part of their profession, the pain
and injury. From the partnership
commitment came the aftermath – the healing -- physically and emotionally. So often, that was what brought them through
the worst of times. Not the doctors, but
the partner. He would not be robbed of
his obligation, his right.
“What if he doesn’t come out
of it? Where will they put him? In a
home?”
Tantalus. The mythical graveyard of washed up, but
not-yet-dead spies came instantly to mind.
Illya wanted to counter that
he would assure that would never happen to his friend. As a loyal partner, he was willing to die for
his friend. Willing to do anything for
Napoleon. Horribly, there were
restrictions -- limits to his powers even as the head of Section Two. What if the antidote wasn’t effective after
such prolonged exposure to the amnesia drug? Would Napoleon require long-term care in a
mental facility? He might not be able to
stop UNCLE from sending Solo to Tantalus.
Alternately, he couldn’t quit UNCLE, abandon his career and livelihood to
care for Napoleon. He had limits. Not his friendship. Not his emotions. Reality forced restrictions on him and it was
devastating. He couldn’t forsake his
friend. Wouldn’t it be better to leave
Napoleon here? No, he had to assure
Napoleon had the best possible care. If
it didn’t work out, then he would think of something else.
“I will take care of him,”
he promised. “And he will be cured.”
“If he’s not?” she asked
skeptically.
“Then I know where you are,”
he surrendered, willing to admit someone else could care about his friend
enough to offer help. “And I know how to
get him back here if necessary.” His
voice turned hard. “But he will
recover.”
***
They had reenacted similar
scenes so many times before. Flip-flop,
flip-flop. He awoke in the hospital to find
Napoleon anxiously hovering over him. He
sat at the bedside, concerned and tense until Solo regained consciousness. This was terrifyingly different. When Napoleon awoke this time, what would his
mental state be? The evidence of trauma
on his face was still noticeable after many weeks. Reading the medical chart from Vann, Illya
was disgusted at the severe beating inflicted on his partner.
Viciously, mercilessly, Solo
had been brutalized, particularly in the head and face. Physically, he had been near death. The journey back from that pain and heartless
attack was bad enough. Then the institution!
Trapping him in an out-of-the-way institution where Illya would never think
to look. Keeping tabs on him and
sustaining his drug-level assured their prisoner was continually under their
thumb.
Now, looking back at the
clues, it was all obvious. Thin,
haggard, depleted, Napoleon had suffered in a torture chamber inside the walls
of his own mind. Napoleon had been aware
enough to call for Illya’s help. Was he also aware of his entrapment? His helplessness? Illya couldn’t even imaging being snared like
this and it made him weep inside that his brother had been so treated.
Craft and his friends had
ambushed, beaten and isolated Solo as a parallel revenge to what had happened
to Agent Takamatsu. They wanted him
brain damaged. When there was some doubt
he was permanently hurt, they made sure the amnesia drug was always in his
system. So there was no danger of
recovery, or of discovery for their heinous deed. When
Hating that he did not
figure this out long ago, Illya might never forgive himself. Then, beyond the guilt was the dread -- fear
of the future. The possibilities were
staggeringly awful. What if there could
be no recovery? What if Napoleon’s brain
did not bounce back? No one had
experimented with the amnesia drug to this extent of time and to a brain
already confused and damaged by severe concussion and skull fracture. What if his friend never came back
completely, but remained a mental vegetable?
How could he endure that kind of torture? It would destroy him every time he looked at
Napoleon.
The slumbering agent stirred
and Kuryakin vaulted from the wall he was leaning against. Sitting gently on the side of the bed, he
took hold of his friend’s hand. A chill
shivered through his nerves as he considered the unknown possibilities of his
friend reclaiming consciousness. The
thought of Solo never regaining his full memories, his complete mental
function, his rightful place as the head of Section Two -- as Illya’s partner
-- it was all unthinkable. He would do
everything in his power to fight it.
The brown eyes blinked open
and Illya leaned close.
“Hello,” he quietly greeted.
In agonizing silence he
waited as Solo stared at him, slowly focusing, warm and fond recognition
sweeping to replace the blank gaze.
“Say something,” the Russian
pleaded.
“Illya.”
Smiling, sighing with
relief, he sobered quickly. “How are you
feeling?” he tentatively tested.
Solo’s face scrunched in
concern or effort, or both. “Illya,” he
finally repeated, hoarse, confused.
Struggling to hide the
devastation from his tone or expression, the Russian gripped onto the languid hand
with both of his. “It’s all right,” he
lied, his voice cracking under the effort of restraining the anguish. “You’re going to be okay.” He had to fall back on the routine. Maybe some familiar cliché would catch in the
wounded memory of his friend. They had
done this so often, Napoleon had to remember!
“Craft’s shot just creased you.
You’ll be fine.” He almost held
his breath awaiting a response.
Gradually, the dark-haired agent nodded.
Illya released a painful sigh.
“Do you want to tell me anything?”
“Illya.”
Until that desperate moment,
Kuryakin never understood the soul-deep pain of a broken heart. It hurt enough to seem fatal, but there could
be no comfort or escape in dying from such anguish. The pain had to be endured.
“Illya,” Solo whispered.
Then his nerves rocketed to
relief. Maybe it was not hopeless. “Yes.
I’m here for you, Napoleon.”
“Illya.” There was
almost a smile on the chapped, pale lips.
The brown eyes momentarily sparked with a familiar, trusting light. “Moi brat.”
Illya laughed, hearing the
endearing term from his brother was like a song in his soul. “Yes, Moi brat. Tovarich.
I have missed you so much.”
“Need you.”
Laughing, Illya felt his
eyes burn with tears and he leaned over to hug his friend, hiding the sharp
pain of torment couched within the tempered relief. Maybe they would beat this after all. When Napoleon patted his back, he could no
longer control the tears as they dampened Solo’s hair.
“I need you, too.” So much, so much, he reiterated silently,
unable to verbalize the stark emotions racing wildly through his heart.
Arms circled his back and
embraced tightly for long moments. Illya
felt overwhelmed, comforted; lost, found; relieved and frightened all in a
breath. The most important, central
truth in his life, though, had returned.
That was what counted most. He
had fought and searched for his friend.
Back, literally, in his arms, Solo’s condition would not take
precedence. At least, he was alive and
with Illya.
At last releasing his hold,
Napoleon held onto Illya’s hands and stared at him for a long time. Brows knitted close, he seemed to be
concentrating-- wanting to speak, but uncertain or unable to complete the link
from cloudy thought to verbal message.
Keeping hold of Napoleon’s hand, Illya remembered something that might
help – a very important symbol. His
talisman. He withdrew the iolite ring
from his pocket and held it up for his partner to see.
“Do you remember this?”
There was no recognition, but
Illya ignored the depression that threatened and continued. “Remember.
A soul connector. I have not
forgotten.” He gave the ring a critical
study. Was it really a conduit? The dreams.
The accurate images that led him to believe Napoleon was still alive;
tortured, in pain, trapped -- all of it had been right! “It kept us connected.”
He slipped it onto Solo’s
little finger.
“This does not mean we’re
engaged,” he assured wryly.
The ring was loose due to
Solo’s weight loss, but it stayed on and Kuryakin thought it was an important
symbol that things had come full circle.
Everything was falling into it’s correct place in the universe. Solo was here with him and life would
readjust soon. A knock at the door broke
the moment and Solo warily watched as Vann opened the
door and stepped inside. Illya stared
daggers at her for the interruption.
“Excuse me. I -- oh, Num -- Mr. Solo is awake.”
There had been only brief
consultation with Dr. Vann. Illya’s
attention was with Solo when his injuries were tended. Then he stayed with his friend until this
moment. He had thought the brief
encounter with the physician had settled everything. Maybe not.
“How are you, Mr. Solo?”
Illya noted Napoleon’s eyes
were friendly when he gazed at the doctor.
So, she was considered an ally.
Or at least not an enemy. Very
generous of his friend, since she must seem like a benevolent captor in his
confused mind.
“When you get a chance,” she
spoke to Kuryakin, “I’d like to talk.”
He nodded an
acknowledgement. After she left, he sat
on the bed again and rambled. Gently, he
coaxed Solo to speak, to say anything, but the ephemeral message had exhausted
the agent’s reserves. He only repeated
the five words already spoken -- mostly just the Russian’s name. That was enough for now.
Fidgeting from inactivity,
Solo sat up, then stood and motioned he wanted to walk outside. At least his cognitive processes were
working. Cheered, Illya agreed. They slowly strolled the grounds, Solo
glancing around nervously at first. Then
he would look to Kuryakin, who would pat his shoulder, or offer a reassuring
touch on the arm. Then Solo calmed. Kuryakin was disinclined to speak, still too
shell-shocked from the whole experience.
Reveling in the companionable silence -- although now painfully poignant
-- but just being with his friend -- was a balm to his injured spirit.
Walking to the main gate,
Solo motioned for Illya to open it. The
lock was simple enough, the guard no threat, but Illya made no move to destroy
hospital property. He placed his hands
on Solo’s shoulders and turned them back toward the front drive.
“Do you want to go home,
Napoleon?”
Solo stopped at the first
car and pounded the hood. Nodding, Illya
led him to his rental car and opened the door.
Napoleon slipped in quickly, then looked around, as if worried he might
be caught.
“Illya.”
Crouching down, Kuryakin
assured all was safe. Encouraged by the
very gradual progress, but progress still, he felt all would be right. They were going home, he promised.
“I will take care of you,”
he vowed.
For the first time in this
troubled reunion, Solo really smiled. After long, black, desperate weeks, Illya
felt the first sun-burst rays of light shine into his darkened world.
***
Knowing he was completely
overprotective, Illya nonetheless took every possible precaution upon returning
his charge to HQ. Requisitioning a
helicopter from Toronto airport to UNCLE HQNY, he utilized a little used access
elevator from the roof to the Infirmary.
As expected, Illya was nearly crowded out as medical and psychiatric
doctors hovered around Solo, treating him like a new specimen for an
experiment. Taking charge was Dr.
Harper, a man the agents dealt with all too frequently as head of the medical
section. A basically kind and forthright
physician and administrator, he gently pushed Kuryakin aside as the first round
of mental dissection and physical exams began for Napoleon.
The medical team pronounced
him relatively fit, under-weight, and with no detectable physical (brain)
damage remaining from his brutal attacks.
The bullet crease was minor.
Blood tests showed the drug still in Solo’s system. The amnesia antidote was administered and lab
techs, doctors and anxious partner waited impatiently for the counter-agent to
take affect. After only twenty minutes,
the lead medico stepped over to take center stage. Illya hovered just to the side.
“Mr. Solo,” Harper
began. “Please give me your full name
and rank in this organization.”
Nothing. Solo’s stare was blank. Unnerved, Illya stepped forward and made sure
he was in Napoleon’s line of sight.
Quietly, he asked his friend to talk about where he had been for the
last few months, or anything he might want to discuss.
Blinking, Napoleon seemed to
struggle with his thoughts. “Illya.”
“I’m here.”
“Help.”
The plaintive plea was
chillingly depressing. Didn’t the
antidote work? Illya forced his
expression to remain neutral. He
couldn’t let his friend see the anguish he felt.
“Napoleon,” he whispered,
self-conscious of the crowd witnessing this torturous moment of failure. “Talk to me.
Tell me how you feel.”
Squeezing his eyes shut,
Solo pulled at his hair in frustration.
“Help!”
Illya placed his hands over Solo’s
and eased the anguished torment by holding onto his friend in a reassuring
embrace. “It will be all right,” he
promised quietly. “Just give it time, my
friend. I am here.”
Napoleon shook his
head. “Help.”
“I know. Everything is off-balance now, but we will
make it right. I promise. Trust me.”
Gradually relaxing,
Napoleon’s tension eased and he settled calmly against Illya’s chest.
Aware of the whispers and
shuffling around him, Kuryakin ignored the others. While he disliked colleagues witnessing this
intimate moment between partners, he was less concerned with their impressions
than he was about his friend. His focus
was on Napoleon. He would do whatever
necessary to help Solo out of this terrible trap, just as he had helped his
friend escape so many other threatening places.
This was different -- worse in so many ways. That this jeopardy came from within
Napoleon’s own mind was a terrible reality that scared him more than he could
admit even to himself. And that Napoleon
seemed aware that he was unwell was devastating.
***
Later in the day, Napoleon
was moved to a small room where Dr. Karlston, the top UNCLE mental specialist,
started a psychological evaluation.
Reluctantly obeying procedural rules, Illya stayed behind a glass wall
where he could observe but not interact with the measures. At some point Waverly silently entered the
observation room. He consulted with the
technicians taking notes and then moved over to join the head of Section Two.
“Mr. Kuryakin, the test
results are not promising.”
“He will come around,
sir. After all he’s been through, even
the physicians must admit this will take time.”
Gravely observing the
American, Waverly shook his head. “We
will evaluate his progress for the rest of the week, Mr. Kuryakin. This is not a long-term care facility. The doctor’s have expressed doubt he will
fully recover.”
“He will,” came the
stubborn, adamant assurance.
Irritation rippled across
Waverly’s aged and stern features. He
didn’t like rebellion and often decried the tight loyalty existing between the
top Section Two agents. Illya reminded
there had been measurable improvement since the amnesia drug had dissipated in
Solo’s system. They were working in a
new and frightening void considering the extended affects of the drug. They could not give up so easily, so soon.
“By the end of the week Mr.
Solo’s fate will be determined.”
Illya’s blood ran cold at
the pronouncement. “We need more time –“
“Mr. Kuryakin, some things
are impossible. That is not a notion
you, or Mr. Solo liked to admit, but it is a harsh reality in this world. The doctor’s believe he will not recover.”
“But –“
“I am willing to give them
to the end of the week.”
“Months of torment and drugs
after being beaten and severely injured is not going to be cured overnight,
sir! We’ve only had a week –“
“To Saturday, Mr.
Kuryakin. Then Mr. Solo will be
transferred.”
“To where?”
“
To the
funny farm. With trees and flowers and
chirping birds and basket weavers who sit and smile and twiddle their thumbs
and toes . . . . Napoleon was not
going to be dumped in some bucolic psycho pit to be forgotten by everyone but
him! Napoleon would not be happy
there! Kuryakin would not be happy! Neither would Illya condone his friend locked
away in a mental home. Yes, it was part
of the job. Yes, he had seen this happen
to others – seen worse happen. To Kini,
for example. And Craft and Price,
too. The dreaded conspiracy brought his
vengeance to a boil and he forced his voice to not reflect the hatred sizzling
beneath the skin.
“What about Warner, sir?”
“There is no evidence of
wrong-doing on the part of Agent Warner, Mr. Kuryakin. He is back at his post.”
Illya could never prove the
depth of the conspiracy. Could never
prove who was involved, but he was certain Warner had been part of the plot to
destroy Napoleon. He would deal with him
later.
***
Despite his best efforts,
Kuryakin could not focus his entire attention on his partner. Pressing duties of running Section Two
required a certain level of administrative actions that could not all be pushed off on Simms.
His presence at a conference in
Anxious to see Solo again
and hopeful that progress in his condition moved forward, he nervously awaited
the elevator ascending to the higher levels of HQ. When possible, he had called
The elevator slowed to a
stop and the doors parted. Illya stopped
his instant, driving momentum to a grinding halt. Agent Warner stood in the corridor. His blank expression instantly morphed to hot
rage when he recognized the Russian.
Equally livid, Kuryakin stepped off the elevator and came face to face
with the last surviving member of the cabal he blamed for his partner’s
condition.
“You may have convinced
Waverly of your innocence, but I know there is nothing farther from the truth.”
The big, muscular,
broad-shoulder man leaned over and looked like he was ready to snap Illya like
a twig. “I could say the same to
you. You murdered my friends.”
Seething at the misdirected
accusations, Kuryakin, was doubly enraged that the culpable fiend was using his
words against him! “Dori chose to take
her life -- the only possible choice.
She must have had a sense of what I would do to her. The same with your friend Neil. Craft chose death from my hand rather than
give up his insane obsession to kill Napoleon.
They both got what they deserved.
Warner’s fists balled and
his face reddened with hate. “You won’t
get away with it.”
“Ah, this time I will use
your words against you,” he coldly leveled.
“Keep watching over your shoulder.
Never let down your guard. One day
justice will be given back to you for what you have done.”
Warner’s smile never cracked
the ice in his eyes, or his voice.
“Justice is almost complete for Solo, in my opinion. A mental zero. Just what he did to Kini. Watching you suffer over that -- it’s almost
payback. Almost. One of these days, you’ll get yours,
Kuryakin. I promise.”
“Not if I get you first.”
Warner stepped into the
elevator and Illya watched him until the doors closed. Dire threats.
Would he be able to pull them off?
He had ample time to think of a proper and miserable fate for
Warner. First, his more important
concern was getting Napoleon back to normal.
***
Entering the observation
room adjacent to Solo’s quarters, Illya first studied the still form behind the
one-way glass. Napoleon sat motionless
on his bed, staring at a wall. Not
fidgeting, certainly not pacing. Eyes
open, Solo seemed vacant. A
disheartening picture for his return, Kuryakin considered glumly. One of Dr. Karlston’s assistants, Dr. Yin,
gave a wave to Illya when she spotted him.
Walking over to join him, she quietly brought him up to date on the
patient’s condition.
“I’m afraid there’s been no
improvement, Mr. Kuryakin.”
“None?” He stared at his friend, unable to believe
this was how Napoleon spent the last several days. His throat was so dry he could hardly speak. “Before I left he was talking. A little.”
“Six words was the
limit. Illya and help are the
two words he speaks to the staff. When
only you are with him his vocabulary expands to the words home and the Russian
phrases.”
Tovarich and moi brat. Friend and brother.
How appropriate they were the definitions stuck in Napoleon’s mind. They were the hallmarks of their friendship
and common words they exchanged only between themselves.
As he started a protest she
halted the interruption. “No improvement
for mental or physical progress since you left I’m afraid,” was the cool and
clinical report, denying she felt any fear – or any other emotion – about the
situation. She gave her head a shake, her short, dark hair flipping against her
face. Then she pushed the black-rimmed
glasses up farther on the bridge of her nose.
“I am sorry. I know you were
hoping for some kind of miracle. Those
don’t happen in medicine. And the mind
is such an unknown frontier.” She
sighed, perhaps realizing her audience was not interested in a lecture.
Illya couldn’t accept
it. “I thought he was getting better.”
“Only when you are here.”
“Well, then I can stay --“
“I’m sorry.” She seemed truly regretful. “Mr. Waverly’s order stands. Agent Solo leaves here tomorrow morning.”
To disprove the doubters,
and certain he could compel Section One Number One to rescind the edict, he
entered the room. Solo did not look up,
and Illya’s quiet calling of his friend’s name did not change the picture of
isolated detachment.
“Napoleon,” he nearly
whispered, tentatively touching Solo’s shoulder.
The patient slowly looked at
him and his eyes widened. There was a
spark of the old Napoleon there, but not the usual recognition. No smile on the face or in the eyes. There was a terrifying emptiness in the brown
depths that usually were so filled with life.
Illya sucked in a moan of
anguish. “How are you doing, tovarich?”
Solo just stared.
“I’m sorry I was called
away. I told you I was leaving,
remember?”
Blank.
“Napoleon, moi brat, it’s important that you talk to me.”
The urgency in his tone did
not register with the other agent. The
American blinked and seemed to study him carefully. “Illya.”
Kuryakin felt close to
surrendering a cry of frustration and misery.
“Illya. Yes,” he finally capitulated, heavily
plopping down on the bed beside his friend.
“Can you tell me my last name?”
A blank stare from the brown
eyes.
“You are my friend. Can you say that?”
A flicker of emotion played
on the face and the brows creased closer together. “Tovarich.”
“Yes!” The Russian gazed at the doctor, but she had
left the observation room and was not a witness to the new word in the agent’s
vocabulary. “Yes,
Napoleon, what else?”
No expression, no inflection
of emotion. “Tovarich.”
Kuryakin ruefully
laughed. He shook his head at the
irony. “You never showed any interest in
learning my native language before. Now
you want to speak it.”
“Illya,” Solo reaffirmed.
Still without any of the
warmth of old, or even the desperation from when they were reunited at the
asylum. Were they backsliding? No, not now!
It would be Warner and Craft winning if this was all that came of the
months of agony and the pain they had both suffered. It would be the end of his future -- because
what would he be here at UNCLE -- or anywhere -- without his friend at his
side. And this was not his tovarich, not
his anchor and North Star. This was a
stranger in his friend’s body. His moi brat was gone and an impostor was in
his place. Yet, he had to turn that
around by tomorrow, or one partner would be imprisoned in a living Hell for
twisted agents, and the other would be imprisoned in the past -- in an empty
shell of regret for what they had been robbed of and what would never be again. One would never be able to receive solace for
the injustice, and one would never know.
He could not allow that to happen.
“Napoleon, you are my
partner. Section Two Number One. You don’t have to remember all that. Just repeat after me. Say your name. Napoleon.”
The serious expression and
the determined eyes reflected a willingness to learn, to try. But something was blocking the intent and it
never reached the mouth. Panting with
effort, Solo rubbed his temples with his fists, frustrated beyond his ability to
cope. No sound was released but a moan
of some inarticulate emotion escaped the lips.
“Ah -- eee --“ He shook his head. Glaring at the Russian he shook his
head. “Illya,” he gasped out, now
irritated and aggravated. “Illya.” He seemed on the verge of tears.
Kuryakin squeezed his
shoulder, wondering if he was not helping, but if he was making things
worse. When Dr. Yin came in to shut down
the session, he had to argue with her to be allowed to stay in the room. He promised no more unauthorized counseling,
that he would just stay to talk with his friend. The atmosphere relaxed and Solo seemed
interested as Kuryakin chatted about
***
Computers were a wonderful
invention. Being the iron brains for
most of the world’s governments and organizations, much could be accomplished
at a desk. Heading a department in UNCLE
gave Kuryakin access to secret codes and inside information. Being a naturally devious and cunning person
offered him the imagination and his acumen gave him the skill to manipulate
events to his own ends. With any luck
(and he hoped there was some kind of residual Solo luck left over for one more
operation), he could trick the system now conspiring against Napoleon.
With what he was about to
do, he did not consider his actions as a final solution. Rather, as a way to buy much needed time.
Given a little respite, he could bring his partner back to full health. Transforming the computer requisitions was
simple. On Thursday evening, when the
tall, muscled, red-headed Section Two driver pulled up to the garage exit at
UNCLE HQ, everything was set in place.
The quiescent Solo -- bound securely in a straight-jacket -- was brought
to the transfer van by two Section Five agents.
Solo was locked down on one of the benches and the driver barely given
more than a glance. Papers were signed
with inattention and shocking disregard for checking IDs or even verbal
communications. Thankfully. Illya’s physical disguise was hardly needed
-- except for the security cameras. If
this event was ever checked. Which
probably would not happen. He had
covered all the possibilities.
Driving away, Illya sighed a
huge exhale of relief. Transforming into
a taller, bulkier person with a German accent was simplicity. Sherlock always said it was an effortless art
to add height and weight to a disguise -- and it was. No one would have suspected him underneath
this façade. Thanks to computer records
that he had manipulated, the electronic trail (if anyone bothered to follow it)
would track Solo’s transfer to a long-term care facility in Vermont. Records there -- on the computer -- would
show Solo was admitted on this date and remained in evaluation isolation and
allowed no visitors.
Ostensibly, Illya Kuryakin
had, yesterday, started an assignment in the
At the rental lot they
hurriedly transferred to a car and left
So tonight he would put into
play Plan B.
***
It was late into the night
when they arrived at the safe-house in the mountains of
If anyone could ever
untangle his convoluted trail, it would take weeks of concerted effort. Which, he was counting, never happened. Like every organization, UNCLE had it’s paper trail blind spots and Illya utilized many to
build this façade of protection. Sitting
in the cozy hunting cabin, the new fire barely taking the edge off the chill,
Illya studied his exhausted friend. Solo
had dropped his coat on the floor and crashed onto the couch, almost instantly
falling asleep. It had been a long and
exhausting day for both of them.
As a realist, he knew the
true work began when Napoleon awoke. There
was only a limited
amount of time to make this succeed. In
a few weeks he had to have his partner’s brain put back together, or all was
lost. The sobering thought kept Illya
awake far into the night, silently studying the sleeping man who had lost everything
but a very stubborn and dedicated partner.
***
Daily walks were a foreign
exercise to Kuryakin, but indulged in as part of the
therapy. Usually too impatient for such
mundane pursuits as observing nature, Illya grew to value the strolls into the
wooded countryside. It was a private,
null time they rarely shared in their busy and stressful careers, but it was
comfortable now. No urgent crisis
(except the seemingly far away deadline for Illya to get back to work within a
few weeks). No imminent threat of
capture, death or torture. Just time
together.
The knowledge that his
friend was safe and protected made each minute a treasure. While it was poignantly difficult to endure
the silence and the blankness of the normally energetic and witty Solo,
Kuryakin appreciated these sojourns into the wilderness around the cabin. Generally reticent around most people – even
his partner at first – Kuryakin was now, atypically, talkative – even
loquacious. At first, their daily walks were quiet, and Illya learned a new
form of communication with his friend.
Even in the earliest days of their partnership, they had enjoyed
companionable silences between the work and the stress. Now, perhaps simply thankful to have his
friend back, Illya felt there was no need for words sometimes. Just being here was enough.
Associating hunting and
fishing with survival techniques, Illya cultivated these new sports as methods
of drawing out his friend. Fishing
anyway. Hunting was too much of an occupational
reminder and he might save that for later in the treatment. Standing on a bank of a nearby river, they
strolled or fished away the afternoons, lethargically and half-heartedly
casting their lines and occasionally hooking trout. Illya came to look
at fishing as a parallel to the intelligence business. It required waiting. Patience; some skill and too much luck. The right equipment was required and location
was important. Above all, timing seemed
crucial. So why was he such a failure at
catching fish? It only slightly appeased
him that Solo was worse.
The plot was a double-edged
exercise in pleasantness and futility that both delighted Illya and frustrated
him. He knew they were just going
through the motions, simply marking time with no progress. Every day set a higher level of relaxation
and security -- soothing reassurance being together. The best time of all, was after the day’s
exercises in walking or fishing or discovering new trails. They would sit on the porch overlooking the
lake and watch the sun set behind the tall pines. Nearly ten days of such bucolic pastimes
would have bored him to death if not for the strange new phase of life they had
entered. Every new word, every little
sign of progress seemed like a heady accomplishment. It kept hope alive that one day Napoleon --
the friend he knew, that could interact and think and laugh -- would return
again.
As the days slowly drifted
by, Solo grew more relaxed and perhaps less threatened, and they gradually
slipped back into familiar patterns. The
thought that Kuryakin might need to take his personal therapy to another level
had occurred to him before. Now, at the
end of their first week with very little progress, he was getting worried about
the near future. What if Napoleon didn’t
improve? He couldn’t let his friend stay
here alone indefinitely. Kuryakin might
not get back here for weeks or months depending on his career demands.
What were his options? Quit UNCLE?
No, besides being a livelihood, he loved his job and would go mad
without the invigorating challenge. But,
neither could he allow Napoleon to be abandoned. Take Solo back to
“Napoleon, tell me what
happened to you,” he asked as they walked along the bank, gradually making
their way back to the cabin.
Solo acted as if he had not
heard the question. Deciding it was time
to push a little, Illya stopped in front of him. Dropping his equipment, seizing Solo’s and
throwing it to the ground, Illya stood close to him, face to face.
“Napoleon, I need to know
what happened. It is time to reveal
those secrets hiding in the deep shadows of your mind. You are not in danger. I am here to protect you. I need to know what is keeping you
buried. What are you hiding from?”
The brown eyes stared into
his with intelligence, but not comprehension.
Frustrated, Kuryakin
demanded, “Talk to me!”
Solo’s lips parted and it
seemed that he was really trying to think things through enough to speak, but
no words escaped. He shook his head in
irritation, quickly growing agitated.
Sighing, Illya patted his
shoulders and calmed him, quietly reassuring him it was all right. They didn’t need to search for answers right
now. But soon. Musing on when that would be, the Russian
determined he would press for more answers later tonight -- and every day --
until they had a breakthrough.
“You WILL talk to me soon,”
he assured darkly.
At that comment, there
seemed to be an old spark in the brown eyes.
A near smile on the lips.
Responding to sarcasm? Maybe his
old friend was closer to the surface than he guessed. They would see about that. Illya handed the gear back to Solo and
turned.
His breath shot out in a
gasp of surprise -- his only reaction -- to see a ruggedly-clothed Warner
standing in the path.
“I will talk to you, Kuryakin,”
he smiled, aiming the UNCLE Special at the Russian. “What would you like to know?”
It only took a moment to
assess the peril. A flash of wrath at
the injustice flashed through his thoughts, then the anger turned to
resolve. No, he would not let his life
and his friend’s end like this.
“How you could be so stupid
would be a good start,” he replied coldly.
With a glance, he noted Solo was flinching, as if recognizing Warner in
some disagreeable way. Warner scowled t
the insult and Illya decided to keep the pressure on -- get the gunman off
balance. It would be the only way, since
he had neglected to bring his Walther with him when fishing. An oversight he would not repeat! “Attacking Napoleon, then coming here to
finish the job. You had Waverly
believing you were innocent. You’ve made
the most simple mistake in the book.”
“Really?” he asked sharply,
carefully approaching. “Then why am I
the one with the gun?”
“I am not the only one onto
you,” Kuryakin bluffed. “You think
other’s don’t know of my evidence?”
“Theories,” Warner
corrected, taking another step closer, but there was more
bluff than cockiness in his tone.
“If you had any evidence I’d be in jail. And if you had any friends
beside Solo you would have them helping you.
But you don’t.” He laughed
edgily. “Pathetic. You and Solo.
That’s how I knew you’d try something tricky with him.”
Then Warner really focused
on Solo and Illya’s skin crawled with cold fear. Warner hated Napoleon with such a passion it
made the pale eyes shine with madness.
“He started this.” He turned the pistol on Kuryakin. “Then you finished it. You murdered my best friend!”
“Quid pro quo,” Illya lashed
back. “What you’ve done to Napoleon is
worse than death.”
Warner nodded, his smile
evil. “Yeah, I guess so. Well, you’ll be happy to know, Kuryakin, that
news flash has just saved his worthless life.”
He came closer, moving to the side of Solo that was farthest away from
Illya. With the barrel of his Walther,
Warner slide the metal along Solo’s cheek that still bore signs of the savage
beating. “I’m going to let him
live. I’m going to take him back to that
mental funny farm myself. While your dead body will be rotting right here in your little
hideaway.” He viciously
laughed. “I really like that irony,
don’t you, Kuryakin? Your last thought
will be that you couldn’t save your friend.
He’ll spend the rest of his miserable life locked behind padded walls.”
The agent took a step back,
the Walther moved to point at Kuryakin.
Before Illya could make an insane attempt to take the pistol away, Solo
slapped the fishing pole across Warner’s eyes.
Illya dove for the weapon and struggled for possession. Rolling, wrestling in the dirt and shrubs,
the stronger, bigger Warner seemed to have the advantage.
Napoleon tackled the man
from behind, trying to pry him away from Illya.
With a quick twist, the Russian angled the pistol and fired it into
Warner’s chest three times. Scrambling
away, he grabbed Napoleon by the shoulders and edged back, clearing the
distance between them and the threat.
Warner was still. Making sure his
partner was out of the way and safe, Illya returned to check for a pulse. Warner was dead. Pulling the body up to the path, he left it
there, then backtracked to collect Solo.
His partner was shaking,
sitting on the ground on his knees, face washed of color. Not knowing what to say – they had been
through this so many times, in so many places -- but in such extremely
different circumstances. The usual last minute rescue, the ever-present bold plan or action
to save the other’s life. As
always, a thanks or other inane
comment to give tribute to the common, heroic action seemed to belittle the
bravery and the commitment that such habitual acts were expected from partners. It was all so heartbreakingly altered now,
though, Illya reflected as he held onto Solo and they walked back to the
cabin. Napoleon had acted – as usual –
with disregard for his own safety and only focused on saving Illya. This time, no witty comments, no jokes about
how many rescues Solo had performed this month, or what Illya might owe him in
return. This time, Kuryakin’s life had
been saved, and he wondered at the fruition of the gallant deed. What awaited them next?
***
As they rounded path leading
into the cabin’s clearing, the Section Five team of Ty
Kalakaua and Cyril Smith raced toward them.
Illya halted, not sure of their intent, tensed to defend himself and his
partner against more attacks from supposed allies. From the looks on the faces of the agents,
however, he suspected they were indeed on his side. Naturally suspicious and guarded, however, he
angled Solo away from them, protectively keeping his friend slightly behind him
– Warner’s UNCLE Special in his hand behind Napoleon’s back – as the men jogged
to him.
“Hey, we came to warn you!” Ty shouted out.
Smith did a quick appraisal
of the two partners, and shook his head.
“You already met Warner, didn’t you?” he asked, a knowing lilt to his
tone.
Kuryakin gave a slight nod,
still waiting to see on whose side these men were aligned.
“Warner bugged your
computer,” Smith explained.
“We suspected he was still
after you,” Ty added.
“So we kept an eye on Warner, but didn’t make it here in time.”
“He’s back there,” Illya
gestured with his head, still keeping a wary watch on the two colleagues. He was afraid of what might be on the horizon
and did not wish to injure these men.
Would he come to blows if they tried to take Napoleon from this secure –
once secure -- location? “What are your
intentions now?”
Smith tensed. “I think you can guess, Illya. Waverly knows this whole scenario. We are under orders to take Napoleon into
custody and take him to a secure facility.
Somewhere that will not be revealed to you. You’re ordered to report to New York
immediately.”
The two others were poised
for a fight. Illya could take them
easily. They had no wish to harm him or
Napoleon. Then what? Flee to another location? Become a fugitive to his own organization and
associates? The
alternative? Surrender his friend
to a long, torturous lifetime in a mental facility where Illya would never see
him again? Both options were
unacceptable, but the latter was completely repugnant and inconceivable.
“They will bury him in
Tantalus!” Illya growled through clenched teeth. “You can’t take him!” Knowing it was the wrong action to take,
Kuryakin nonetheless stared at Solo.
There was no sign of comprehension, no reaction to the disaster looming
ahead.
“Sorry.” Smith nudged Ty’s
elbow. “Looks like we
have some things to tidy up with Warner.
How about you take your time sorting things out, Illya? We’ll be around to get Napoleon in a few
minutes.”
Without waiting for a reply,
the agents retreated down the dusty trail toward the stream. Illya dejectedly led Solo up to the
cabin. Napoleon sat down on one of the
chairs on the porch and Illya joined him, poignantly depressed at the habitual
custom of watching the sun set from this scenic vista. It was indeed a fitting moment, a metaphor of
their ending. The
sunset of life as they knew it.
Sitting for these last,
crucial moments was too difficult.
Nervous energy brought Kuryakin up and pacing, kept his mind racing
though the possibilities. How was he
going to explain this to Waverly? How
could he convince his superior to not put Napoleon away forever? Involuntarily, he stared at his friend again,
unable to keep from turning to him for advice, for solace – for all the things
he always looked for in his friend. The support and solid foundation that he no longer enjoyed with
Solo.
“Why couldn’t we win this
time, tovarich? It was so
important. What happened to your
luck? It cannot save us now.”
Frustrated, feeling himself
growing angry, he spun around and leaned on the rail of the porch. He was wasting valuable time. He should sabotage the Section Five- agent’s
car and escape with Solo. To where? It would be quick work for an organization
like UNCLE to find them without a good plan and plenty of resources. What was he going to do now? Aware Napoleon was staring at him, Illya glanced over and looked at his friend. In the ember of the dying sun, he saw
something -- different -- in the expression.
A light -- a life . . . .
“We ARE going to win.”
The complete sentence,
spoken in a normal, clear, fondly remembered voice jolted Kuryakin enough that
he released a slight gasp.
“What?”
Solo stared at him, the
expression serious. “I don’t want to go
back to
Tears in his eyes, quickly
sitting down next to his friend, he lightly touched the American’s
shoulder. Illya cleared his throat,
steadying his voice. “How long -- why
didn’t you talk like this before?”
“I don’t know.” Emotion filtering in now, Solo’s eyes pooled, his voice thick with sentiment. “Maybe I wasn’t ready.” He shook his head. “Or secure enough. Or Warner’s attack jolted things back into
place. I don’t know. You were in danger. As usual.”
“Or it took this long for
the drugs to wear off?” the Russian speculated, keenly studying his
friend. Kneeling next to Solo’s chair,
he released a soft chuckle. “I trust age
doth not whither nor custom stale your infinite variety, my friend.”
The dark-haired agent was
puzzled. “Shakespeare or Sherlock or
Kuryakin?”
“A little of all.” Staring into the eyes was what gave him the
greatest surge of relief. There was the
familiar spark there -- the Solo light in the brown eyes that bespoke of wry
mind and solid reliability. In the most
important sense of the definition, his friend was returned. “How are you feeling?”
“A little slow. Detached.
I’m remembering so much -- and it’s kind of overwhelming. Like a sudden clarity. Like everything was just
behind a curtain waiting to be discovered.” He leaned over and touched Illya’s
shoulder. “Except I knew you were there
-- always there.”
“I tried. I am now.
And will be.” Illya grinned,
feeling a little overwhelmed himself.
“How long have you -- when did the memories start coming back?”
“After
Warner arrived. I remember him being in that dark room . . .
.” he shuddered and Illya placed both hands on his shoulders.
“Don’t rush it,” he
advised.
Solo nodded. “Sitting here,” Solo continued with a tremble
in his tone. “Thinking. Looking at you. The sun was dropping beyond the horizon, but
in my mind it was a different symbol. I
studied you standing there. And you were
like the sun rising in a slow dawn after a long, long night. Somewhere in the night you were there – the
light inside my brain. Like you were the lens that I could see everything through. I just had to focus.”
Napoleon’s gaze was so
encompassing it was like a laser examining Illya’s thoughts and every cell
inside his being down to his soul. He
didn’t want to dwell on the picturesque metaphors and the symbolism. He just reveled in the moment that his friend
was with him again. “Thank you for
coming back.”
In a familiar and very
missed touch, Solo placed his hand on the back of Illya’s neck. “Thanks for being here.”
“Where else would I be?”
“Now, what do we do for an
encore?”
“A
startling fourth act?”
Napoleon nodded, a smirk
twitching at his lips. “Old American custom.
Hit ‘em right between the eyes.”
Epilogue
It seemed like an eternity
before the communications link was clicked through to Mr. Waverly. The partners kept glancing at each other,
neither admitting their raw nerves, but Illya tapped a rapid tattoo with his
index finger on the silver pen. Solo
tapped his right foot in a quick beat.
When Waverly’s familiar, raspy voice came over the small speaker at
last, both sighed.
“Mr. Waverly, I have an
unusual situation.”
“Yes, Mr. Kuryakin?” the
weary boss sounded his usual, distracted self.
“I wanted to request a full
investigative team from Section Two. Section Five operatives Ty Kalakaua and Cyril Smith are already on scene, but I
think we will need additional help from Section Two personnel.” He rushed on in the professional tone that
belayed his nervousness, and scrutinized Solo as he spoke. “I am at
There was a precious moment
of silence. They tried to imagine what
was happening on the other side of the country.
Holding their breaths again, they waited in strained agony.
“I see,” came the final
judgment.
Solo smirked. Typical British understatement. It was a bit of fun to leave the old man so
speechless. He shared a look with
Kuryakin -- a familiar, mutual, triumphant acknowledgement that, once again,
they had managed to come out of a tight situation on the winning side.
“Very well,” Waverly finally
sighed. “I look forward to hearing the
details in the morning. In my office, at Eight AM.”
“Yes, sir,” Illya
smiled. “Hold on, please, sir.” He stretched the silver pen to his partner.
“Mr. Waverly, I was
wondering if that order included me.”
The second silence was
longer than the first. Napoleon bit his
lip in stressed anticipation.
“Yes,” finally came the elongated word.
“It does indeed. You are partners
after all,” he almost huffed.
Illya smiled in amused
relief.
“Oh, and Mr. Solo.”
“Yes, sir?” Napoleon automatically
straightened, though the action could not be seen thousands of miles away.
“Welcome back.”
Winking and beaming a smile
at his friend, Solo gave a nod of satisfaction.
All was right with the world.
“Thank you, sir.”
***
Most agents at NYHQ were
accustomed to the surprising, even outrageous accomplishments of Section Two
operatives. The next morning, however,
seemed to top the celebrated prowess of the department in general and the top
two partners in particular. When Solo
and Kuryakin entered the gray halls from the Del Floria shop, heads turned,
hastily whispered conferences stopped, men and women halted in their tracks to
watch the men. Section Two often pulled
off incredible, legendary feats. Not
often did an agent, however, reappear from the depths of insanity.
A few operatives commented
to Solo or Kuryakin or both. Most, just
stared; laughing or smiling, giving a nod or whispering an encouragement before
the men passed them at a brisk pace. To
his colleagues Solo projected his best confident and even slightly arrogant
façade as he acknowledged them with subtle nods or a muttered, brief
greeting. Inside, his nerves danced with
agitation at what might be ahead. That
Waverly would be upset over Illya’s ruse was probable. That Waverly would want Solo checked out
until the end of the century because of his extreme exposure and reactions to
the amnesia drug was likely and distasteful.
That he might yet end up in the dreaded Tartarus was feasible. While he feigned a full recovery, there were
too many moments when he slid back into that mindless abyss he had sojourned in
for so long -- the silence, the confusion, the inability to think clearly or
verbalized the incoherent thoughts that stumbled within his confused brain.
That was not even mentioning
his accessory to the killing of UNCLE agents by Illya. And what about Illya? He was more worried about his partner’s
status than anything. He could survive
whatever Waverly wanted to throw at him -- except perhaps Tantalus. But, what if Waverly punished the Russian for
rescuing him? Maybe they would share a
cell in Tantalus? If the worst did not
happen, then realistically, what was left?
He could hardly hope for life the way it had been. How could Waverly allow him back under these
uncertain conditions? What would he do
if he was not allowed back in the fold?
The elevator opened and they
approached in tense silence the familiar gray doors at the end of the Section
One wing. Prepared to staunchly defend
his friend for acts forced upon Illya in defending him, Solo steeled himself as
they stepped into Waverly’s office. A
stern countenance met them from Waverly’s elderly, wrinkled face. Sitting behind his desk, he watched them step
in without a change of expression. Lisa
Rogers stood nearby, her face a study silent disapproval.
“Welcome back, Mr. Solo.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Waverly stared at
Kuryakin. “And you, Mr. Kuryakin. Please, be seated.”
The
agent’s complied and the superior stared at them; disconcerting, wordless, for
several moments.
“There should be no need to
expound on the dangers of agent’s taking matters into their own hands. You both have heard that precept many times,”
he huffed with irritation, staring daggers at both of them. “We are an organization fighting anarchy, not
inciting it, Mr. Kuryakin. You know
better than to secret away an agent who could be a danger to himself and this
agency.”
“He was trying to help --“
“I am well aware of his
intentions, motivations and sympathies, Mr. Solo. You have both displayed more than enough with
such behavior for far too long.”
“Illya shouldn’t be punished
--“
“Mr. Solo, I am aware you
are still recovering from your exposure to the amnesia drug. Nevertheless, I trust you have not forgotten
that I am your superior.”
“No sir.”
“Very well. You, Mr. Solo, will be evaluated by the
Medical section for the next month. Then your status as a field agent will be
reviewed.”
About to protest, Solo noted
the foreboding look on the older man’s face and swallowed his protest. There was a tactical time and place to fight
and this was a time to wait and obey.
That might change in a month’s time, but for now it was smart to
comply. “Yes sir.”
“Mr. Kuryakin, you will be
on disciplinary suspension for four weeks until this entire matter is
evaluated.”
Obviously learning from his
partner’s outbursts, the Russian offered a curt nod. “Yes sir.”
“Thanks to you, Mr.
Kuryakin, Section Five is not only readjusting with new heads of staff, it is
reevaluating the computer security. No
doubt you will be hearing from them.”
“No doubt.”
“And Section Six is waiting
for you, Mr. Solo.”
Napoleon released an audible
groan.
“THRUSH and general
international crimes move on, gentlemen.
You have duties that will require your attention by the end of the
month. That will be all.”
As the automatic door closed
behind hind them, the partners exchanged a brief look of relief, then both smiled.
They had gotten off far easier than expected.
***
Aware his partner was
staring at him, Napoleon strove to not fidget and outwardly display the
disquiet he felt. Not at the current
situation -- but -- yes -- at the current irritating stalemate. Always before, down time in the company of
his partner was frequent and spent in companionable accord. Now, it was not that they had run out of
things to say, but run out of constructive purpose.
In the back of his confused
and still mending mind, Solo was aware of black spots in his memory and
reactions -- the way he responded and thought.
It was a good reason for UNCLE’s medical psych staff to consider him
unfit for duty still. After just one
week of being back in NY and sidelined, he was frustrated with the lack of
action and the inability to be at the top of his form again. What if he could not return to complete
recovery? Illya continually assured he
could and would, but the American was skeptical.
That Illya was taking the
suspension well (better than expected for a brooding agent who thrived on
action) was an asset, but still, it irked him that it was necessary. Kuryakin was saving his life by killing the
conspirators who were out to destroy him, including Warner. The rescue was appreciated, especially the
clever ruse of the elaborate deception of hiding him in
“I want to apologize.”
He turned, not at all
surprised to see Illya staring at him, as if anticipating his mood, words and
actions.
“I wish to apologize also,”
Kuryakin replied almost instantly.
“What do you have to
apologize for?”
“You first.”
Frowning at the word play,
judging his friend’s mood to be enigmatic and contrary, Solo sighed and gave a
slight nod. He moved from the window he
had been staring out of, to sit on the arm of Illya’s sofa. The one-bedroom apartment was sparsely
furnished, but homey; quaint, unostentatious and yet comfortably livable. And, with the two of them living here
temporarily, a little on the small side.
“Your suspension. Waverly shouldn’t punish you for saving me.”
“No.” There was almost a hint of a wry smile on the
lips, but the blue eyes definitely shone with a sparkle of droll humor. “If I was punished for that on every
assignment, I would be regularly unemployed.”
With exceptional timing, he waited for Solo’s frown at the barb, then continued. “I
agree, the fault is not mine. But rogue
agents cannot be allowed to go without reprimand.”
“So why were you going to
apologize?”
A bit sheepishly, Illya
gestured around them. “I am to blame
that you no longer have a home.”
The few possessions that
were personal belongings of Solo’s were kept in boxes in Kuryakin’s closet
after Napoleon was believed dead. The
apartment upstairs could not have been kept, of course, the rent was too high
for that kind of extravagant gesture, and Solo had not expected that from the
Russian. It did not seem a lack of faith
to him, but just practical -- something intrinsic in the nature of Kuryakin.
“No hard feelings,” he
smiled. “It’s just a little cramped in
here. I could go to a hotel, you
know. I have all that back pay coming to
me.”
“Yes. But I appreciate that you are here.”
There had been too much
aloneness. The mental, physical
separation, dread and unknown surrounding them for too long was now over. Solo accepted Illya’s kind invitation to stay
here, knowing beneath the simple offer was a wealth of
emotional reasoning. They needed to
share in the recovery together since they had separately experienced the trauma
of the last months.
Solo frowned, looking around
the apartment that was as familiar as his own.
As his old one, he reminded wryly.
“It’s just a little -- small. And
there’s not much to do.” He didn’t
mention that he was still recovering his energy -- mental and physical -- from
the ordeal of the drugs. “But I
appreciate you letting me stay.”
“I WAS the one who gave up
the lease on your place,” Illya admitted ruefully. “Unfortunate the new apartment upstairs will
not be available for another month.”
“We’ll just be patient.”
“You could, of course, fall
on the mercy of any number of women at HQ who would be happy to give you a
temporary home.”
Napoleon scoffed. “Thanks.
I’ve had enough of being a kept man.
And I‘m not too trusting of our colleagues these days.”
“Reasonable,” Kuryakin
admitted.
Thoughtfully, he studied him
and Solo could see the mental wheels clicking away with inspiration.
“We could just get away,”
Illya almost smiled.
Hoping a good idea was on
the horizon -- knowing from the expression the Russian was very well pleased
with his own brilliance, he responded optimistically. “I trust in your judgment, tovarich. Warning -- I have had enough of rolling grass
lawns, chirping birds and basket weavers.
And fishing.”
Illya nodded. “I am still on suspension for two weeks. You have accrued considerable back pay. Too
bad,” he sighed, “you are still undergoing evaluations.”
“But they wouldn’t miss me
if I called in sick, right? And where
better to recover than . . . .” he held out his hand in a gesture for his
partner to fill in the blank.
“I am thinking a sunny beach
somewhere. No basket weavers in
sight. No fishing.”
Napoleon laughed. “I have always loved your clever mind, Mr.
K..” He stood, feeling energized that
they had a direction, a purpose, a change that could delineate the past from the
future. A memory-line separating what
they had endured. Preparing them for a
better time to come when they returned.
“Lots of sun and bikinis and tropical drinks.”
“I think we should pack.”
“That won’t take long since
I don’t own much anymore.”
Illya passed him with a
shake of his head as he headed for his room.
“You would think an international organization would be more expedient
with reparation when they make mistakes like declaring people dead
prematurely.”
“An international
bureaucracy means worse red tape than usual.”
Solo leaned in the doorway
as he watched Kuryakin fill a suitcase.
He liked this spontaneous idea of just packing up and leaving -- heading
for somewhere different and bright and removed from the lingering pain of the
past.
“Don’t embarrass me on the
sand, Illya. Please pack something
besides black turtlenecks.” Solo twisted
his ring absently.
“I KNOW how to dress for the
beach.” Pausing in his activity,
Kuryakin studied his partner for a moment before thoughtfully commenting,
“Thank you,”
“For?”
“Coming back.”
The deep emotion in the blue
eyes said it all -- the receding, but still lingering fears, the wandering/lost
soul reclaimed. They were reflections of
his own feelings -- lost in a long night of confusion and pain and knowing there
was one light out in the night to bring him home -- that he could rely on and
trust. “Thank you for coming after me.”
“Always. We are soul
connected, remember?”
A solemn oath. A solid trust.
Certain
knowledge. “Yes.
I do remember that.”
An assured faith that no
matter what darkness surrounded them, they would never lose each other.
THE END