Missing scenes and
Epilog to: The MAZE Affair
SPOILER
ALERT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
DEATH FORM – File
#447-3895
18 DEC 67
CLASSIFICATION OF
DECEASED:
NAME – NAPOLEON REILLY SOLO
(see Personnel Data
File # 6997112232)
SECTION -- TWO
NUMBER -- 11
RANKING – SECTION TWO NUMBER ONE
CONFIRMATION OF
DEATH – Eyewitness testimony
in lieu of recoverable body
Agent Summary:
17
DEC 67
Agent
Solo assigned to guard an experimental weapon -- the molecular disruptor. The
weapon and Mr. Solo were captured by THRUSH.
I was assigned to safeguard the inventor of the weapon, Dr. Febray.
Through
intercepted communiqués, UNCLE learned the weapon might be located in the
18
DEC 67
I arrived at Vinegar Wells to find Agent Solo under threat of death by hanging. When I rescued him I was also captured. We were taken to the nearby buttes where Mr. Solo became the first test subject for the molecular disruptor weapon.
Which
killed
Murdered
by THRUSH
Agent
Solo was executed.
The
test caused a malfunction in the weapon.
With the help of Dr. Febray (who had been captured also) I was able to
escape and recover the weapon, returning it to UNCLE HQ in
AGENT OF RECORD – Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin
SECTION -- TWO
NUMBER -- 2
RANKING – SECTION TWO NUMBER TWO
TANGLED MAZE
by
gm
December 18,19, 1967
It was a cerebral
game he played -- a strange, unfocused progression of events that had started
while imprisoned in a cellar in the dusty, hot desert. A tangled, mental maze of illusion and
self-deception. He was pretending. He managed his escape; get by the lax THRUSH
guards, steal the THRUSH weapon, and return to
On the flight back
he had busied himself with studying the weapon; with communicating to the
scientists in the lab in New York HQ, with anything he could think of to keep
his mind active, deflected and distracted.
Mind games. The moment he arrived
back the grueling public scrutiny had started.
The test against his defenses, the tug-of-war with a harsh reality he could
not comprehend or face.
Del Floria. “Sorry to hear about Mr. Solo.”
What could he
say? Nothing. Ignore the sympathy, the regret, the
precursor shower of mourning that would bury him soon enough. Maintain the invulnerable and aloof
shield. It was his only salvation now. Think about THRUSH, about anything aside from
the ghastly agony growing inside, the aching anguish that threatened to
overshadow everything else. His heart
felt shredded, yet he could not even weep because of the agony swelling the
pain within.
How could he hurt so
much and still live? How could he be
alive?
Publicly, Illya
Kuryakin would not crumble to pieces after the death of Napoleon Solo.
"Mr. Solo is dead . . . I saw him
killed."
He had spoken the
words but did everything possible to deny their validity. How could he believe it? The whole episode had started out so mundane,
so prosaic. They had been in headquarters discussing the molecular disruption
weapon. Then the alert. Then Napoleon assigned to investigate
security. Not a word passed between
them. It was just another day at the
office. Leaving
When Solo had been
captured, Illya was concerned, but not excessively. Finding the homing-beckon tie tack instead of
Napoleon had created more anxiety, yes, but still nothing extraordinary. Solo knew how to get out of tight spots. And if a little trouble developed -- well --
he would go help out his partner. He
always did. Business as usual.
When Illya tracked
the weapon to the
Bound, they were
taken to the desert hills and unsuccessfully fought, and failed, to
escape. When Napoleon was forced down
the butte, trying to outdistance death, Illya could do nothing but watch with
twisted nerves and strangled breath as his friend scurried down the mountain
amid the deadly blasts. Every fleeting step Solo took Illya agonized,
yet still believed the talented American could out maneuver the THRUSH
gunner. With every blast, he convinced
himself his friend would slip away and elude the captors, then come back and
free him. The Solo luck was better than
THRUSH. It always was. It had to be again.
Until that fatal moment when the blast hit
Solo and the agent disappeared. What was
left of him THRUSH chose to leave at the bottom of the precipice where the body
had fallen. The final hour -- the
literal rescue of Solo from a hangman’s noose, the captivity -- ridiculously normal for them. Nothing special. So, Illya Kuryakin had spent the last few
minutes with his closest friend and said nothing. When they set up Napoleon as a target, he
watched the cruel game played out, never saying a word. Doing nothing to help his friend escape.
Finally, the moment
he feared most had come and gone and he had proven to be a failure as an agent
and a partner. For years, he had told
himself his associate was more important than his own life. He would do anything and everything to keep
his friend safe, protected, alive. In
the final act of Solo's life Illya never said or did anything. He had failed to save his comrade.
***
Deep in the bowels
of headquarters in
After the excitement
over the secret device was finished, there would be complete, mind-numbing
debriefings on his actions. Not to
dissect his judgments or skill, just to fill out the files and close the case
history of agent Eleven, Section Two Number One. Not to ask how he could allow their enemies
to use an agent as a test subject for their killing machine. Only to complete the black and white forms
proving members of the organization were expendable. They worked, they died, and the rest of the
team moved on. Moved on to what
now? The future seemed nothing more
substantial than the drifting sands he that had stung his face and eyes in the
Superiors would not
interrogate or ask the condemning questions that burned in his mind. Censuring criticisms, he could never
suppress: How could he sit by and watch
his friend blown to pieces! No, they
would neither cast blame nor request an analysis of the incident. With vivid imagination, he foresaw the
attitudes; Section Two agents, after all, were on the front line of action,
peril and death. Everyone in UNCLE knew
Solo's luck had been running thin for years.
It finally ran out this time. A
shame he couldn't even go out in a heroic blaze of glory. Death found him in the ignominious role of a
Guinea Pig -- worse -- on the run and exploded with less humanity than a lab
animal would be executed.
Throat clogged with
a knot of gagging emotion, eyes blurring with burning tears, Illya pushed back
the agony that was so close to erupting.
He would not allow the façade to crack.
Not here in HQ. He had an image
to preserve. More importantly, he would
not allow his private agony to be observed and dissected by others. Few could understand the depth of importance
he held for his partner. Fewer still
could comprehend his profound dedication for the only man he called friend.
Yes, when he was
alone he would come to terms with the demons haunting him. Grief and mourning seemed too shallow of
definitions for what he felt already.
For the avalanche of sorrow that might engulf him after he had no more
strength to push back the cruel reality.
When he could leave and remove himself from the walls that held nothing
but memories -- then he would flee. To
somewhere private, where the lingering guilt and the indefinable misery would
explode as certainly as the THRUSH weapon in the
Not yet. He had a job here. He had to be imperturbable now. To show the world he was professional and
calculated and that the death of his partner was a regret not a
devastation. He was the consummate,
mysterious professional. The cool enigma
counterbalancing Solo’s hip urbanity.
The Russian who was as impassable as a Siberian ice flow. Never would he allow anyone to know that
inside his whole being raged with agony.
Why the
mystique? Most at HQ knew he and
Napoleon were a tight and dedicated team.
Why did it matter so much now to be controlled and remote? Would it not be more of a deserving tribute
to his friend to show a fraction of what he felt? To display in Solo’s passing that the world
-- his universe particularly -- was diminished.
Destroyed.
After the reports,
there would be the hundred-odd queries in the corridors of HQ. There would be the grieving women, the
disappointed friends, the secretly smug rivals who would imagine the cocky Solo
finally got what he deserved and now it was their chance to move up along the
chain of opportunity in Section Two.
Already there had
been several women staring at him with tear-filled eyes. The start of a long line of female mourners
who would miss his friend. Soon they
would approach him -- sympathy or inquiry.
It wouldn’t matter. He could not
bear to think of discussing this with anyone.
Reliving the last moments of Napoleon’s life was an agony continually
repeated in his mind. How could he speak
of it? Perhaps others would seek him out
for comfort. He could offer no solace
when there was none inside even for himself.
There would be
offers of drinks at the Mask Club so he could go over the gruesome
details. Money would change hands --
inevitably allowing someone to win the office betting pool of how or when
Solo’s blazing career finally flamed out.
There would be discussions of an off-duty memorial service. Usually, again, conducted at a nearby bar
since Section Two agents were not normally the church-going sort. So many details. They plagued him, even while they gave him an
excuse to think of something inconsequential and mundane instead of the agony
in his heart.
Inevitably, there
would be the whispered speculations of how a devoted and loyal friend could
allow this to happen. What had Kuryakin
been doing? How had he failed? What happened now that half of the
illustrious top team in UNCLE was gone?
Illya would be promoted to his partner’s old title and the insular world
of UNCLE NY HQ would move along to the next day in the life of a spy.
Days, months later,
few would give the death more than a passing thought. Soon they would forget the impression of Solo
in the corridors. Eventually the details
of his career, perhaps even his legend, would diminish and fade. Only in the minds of others, he vowed. He would never forget. Vainly striving to focus on the stolen weapon
– the instrument of his friend’s death, he noted in a macabre aside -- he could
not push the rampant speculation and barrage of self-interrogation from his
thoughts. How could he go on, he
wondered bleakly, unable to think that far ahead. Everywhere he went there would be
memories. In every corner of HQ and in
most spots around the world there would be a place, or a scent -- a scene or a
landmark -- and his imagination would fill in Solo there.
Never one to
consider the opinions of others, he knew there would be tales. Speculation
would be rampant on details: Was there a rift in the partnership? Gossips would question -- had Illya's
attitude somehow caused an imbalance in the indefinable magic that comprised
their incredible alliance? Waverly had
split them apart a little too much recently.
Had Solo been too arrogant to work within the structure of their team
any longer and somehow destroyed the delicate symmetry of the painstakingly
constructed labyrinth that was their relationship?
It had been a tough
few years. So much coming against them
and even between them. Solo’s torture
and interrogation by the station chief in
Hands shaking,
Kuryakin tried again to concentrate on the task -- the device not the
death. Like a mouse in a maze, his mind
kept going back to the shock of that moment.
He could not erase the bright light of the desert sun, the searing
explosions as they ripped apart the native rocks, as they finally toppled Agent
Number Eleven. Napoleon Solo. His closest friend.
***
Crisis had always
been a method of deflecting introspection, emotions or physical pain for
Illya. Instinctively he allowed outside
elements to overwhelm his attention -- captivate his concentration. Again he focused entirely on the weapon;
grief pushed aside until much later.
Call. Solo.
Bomb.
Kuryakin did not
miss a beat. He didn’t question the
existence of a miracle, didn’t think about anything beyond the shocking event
of hearing his dead partner’s garbled voice – a hallucination amid the
static? Other’s heard it also,
confirming Solo was not a ghost, but really alive. The nick-of-time (as usual) signal saved
HQ. Saved his life literally and
symbolically.
Napoleon was
alive!
He could not hope to
believe what was suddenly true! He could not comprehend how such a wonder could
occur. He had seen Napoleon killed! Well, he had seen what THRUSH wanted him to
see obviously, he admitted in hindsight-wisdom.
It had all been a ruse! To
destroy NYHQ. Included in the deception
had been the staged death -- by the fake super weapon -- of his partner. The famous Solo luck, however, had been
better than THRUSH and more enduring than Illya's faith, apparently. Whatever the reality, whatever the amazing
details, Kuryakin considered it a miracle.
Wildly congratulated
by his peers and superiors, Illya endured a debriefing through a misty glow of
sheer joy that was nearly mind-altering in its intensity. As soaringly
brilliant in happiness as he had recently been black with morose anguish. This time he had really -- really --
completely -- believed Napoleon dead. He
had seen the murder with his own eyes!
Already filed the paperwork! He
had better get that back from Section One before Napoleon saw it. What would his friend think about him giving
up like that?
Napoleon, even now,
was returning home alive and triumphant after saving HQ from destruction. Another miracle wrought by Section Two's most
amazing duo. No, by UNCLE’s most
incredible agent. Saving the world was a
common enough assignment. Saving HQ
brought their perilous death's-edge reality home to every secretary,
translator, clerk and janitor. They
would have all been dead if not for one field team -- one solo operative.
Upon his return
there would be a hero's welcome for Napoleon, just as Illya was being
congratulated now for his minor role in the operation. The illustrious Solo and Kuryakin team had
done it again. Another feat of
unbelievable skill to tack onto their legendary careers. Weeks worth of free drinks at the nearest
pubs and dates with the prime women in
The accolades were
guiltily accepted by the introspective agent who knew he had done nothing to
save the lives of his colleagues. He had
not even been able to save Napoleon's life.
***
Covertly, Illya
tracked Solo’s return progress; the plane, the car, his entrance into Del
Floria’s. Planning to meet his partner
in Waverly’s office, Illya couldn’t help himself, and waited in the entry foyer
for Napoleon and the girl he was bringing with him. He knew the whole story. They had been in communications several times
as Napoleon winged east. Still, he had
to be here to greet the friend he had given up for dead. Seeing his partner in the flesh might ease
the guilt that had replaced the crushing grief of yesterday. Might help him decide how he could possibly
explain his deficiency of faith -- his betrayal -- to his friend.
The attractive blond
(there were no other kinds of blonds in Solo’s sphere) entered first, her
expression one of amazement. Typical of
most visitors to the high-tech wonderland of international spying. He spared her only a brief glance. His focus was on the man behind her. Predictably,
Solo gave him a brilliant smile in greeting.
Relief at the miraculous return temporarily washed away any other
miseries. Natty and elegant, smooth and
sophisticated as always, Napoleon Solo was back from the dead. In Illya’s universe, nothing else mattered.
The receptionist
gave Solo his badge, a wink, and a visitor’s badge to the blond. Napoleon stepped over to greet his
friend. Illya wanted to hug him, but
opted for the unusual, but more subdued anomaly of a firm and affectionate
handshake, which was returned with even more vigor. They never shook hands. Typically, though, they were reading each
other as if they were connected telepathically.
There was too much sentiment on both sides to ignore, yet too much to
allow either a casual welcome or an overt greeting.
“Glad to see you’re
in one piece, tovarich.” The brown eyes
sparkled with more eloquent gratitude than the words and Illya felt in that
defining moment the sum of all they meant to each other. There were no delineations or descriptions to
match the emotions.
“And you, my
friend,” he managed to respond in a quiet, but level tone.
Smoothly, without
more than a heartbeat’s shift, Solo made the introductions. “Abbe Nelton, this is my partner, Illya
Kuryakin.”
“This is all so
amazing,” she admitted the obvious, stunned at the magical world she had just
entered. “I’m still having a hard time
believing this is happening.”
The words described
what Illya had been through the last few days.
He could not believe what had happened either; the capture, the
execution, the numb return to a universe without his friend. Then the
incredible resurrection. The reflection
of his thoughts seemed clear in Napoleon’s fond expression. Now facing his friend, his reality was coated
in an antithesis of the agony -- a buzz of relief and incredulity. Still drinking in the miracle restoration,
Illya could not take his eyes off Solo.
“I thought we could
host Abbe on a little tour of the old place.”
Occasionally,
civilians were allowed to come here in reward for helping agents. This included a brief excursion through
non-classified areas. Sometimes up to
Waverly’s office to meet the top man himself.
Saving HQ warranted such a VIP tour and Illya lead the way out the door,
preceding the visitor, with one last glance at his friend. The expected greetings began
immediately. People they didn’t know
stopped them to shake Solo’s hand or to smile and thank him. Some just patted him on the back. Illya received many of the accolades as well,
but there was no question the hero of the hour was the Chief Enforcement
Officer.
With each greeting,
Illya sank a little farther into a pit that had been a chasm in his heart since
the fateful, dusty afternoon in the Mojave.
The guilt over Napoleon’s execution was returning. A knot of self-honesty that felt like a dead
weight in his chest questioned how he could face Napoleon after allowing his
friend to be killed. The resurrection
was a blessing that did not assuage his culpability. What must Napoleon really think of him? In the crush of praise and public acclaim,
the flush of the mission’s success, this was a heady reunion. Later, privately, would Napoleon blame him? Condemn him?
Probably not as much as he reproached his lax abilities. He could save the world a dozen times a
month, but in the critical crisis failed to save his friend.
In the upper level
of Section One, Lisa Rogers met them and diverted the group to the
communications center. Briefly, Abbe met
Waverly who congratulated Solo and her on the saving of headquarters. Then he turned away, instructing them to
carry on. Sinking fast into a well of
fault, Illya stood back while Napoleon showed Abbe the view of
Then they were alone
for the first time and Illya could not abide it.
***
As Napoleon gazed at
Abbe Nelton’s retreating form, he offered her a final fond smile before she
disappeared with the Section Five boys.
The agents would escort her to a "debriefing"
where, through subtle hypnosis, they would erase her memories of UNCLE HQ and
her exciting adventure with spies. Ah,
another conquest lost. He liked Abbe and
hated to see the last of her. She had
been a brave and game companion in the danger.
Beautiful, blond and rich, he would like to contact her again next time
he was in
The senior agent
turned to his partner and offered a slight smile. It was good to be back. Aside from the slight scrapes and sprains
encountered in his little escapade as prey in the desert, Solo was feeling in
prime condition. Arriving back to HQ he had received generous
praise -- even from Waverly -- and unanimous acclaim for his part in saving the
command center from obliteration. It had
almost been embarrassing -- especially with Abbe in tow -- but Napoleon's ego
appreciated the accolades and made a note to remind certain female agents of
his intrepid prowess of heroism when it came time to find a date.
Seeing Illya alive
had warmed his heart. There had been
terrible, real fear out in the desert when he couldn’t reach HQ and thought it
was too late. Eternal suspense wracked
him until he heard the bomb had not damaged anything or anyone. Since the initial greeting, however, Kuryakin
had slipped back to his usual reserved, quiet self during Abbe's tour. No, more constrained and incommunicable than
normal. Maybe -- disapproving? Resentful?
No, impatient. As if he couldn't
wait for Abbe to leave. Perhaps hoping
to put the whole affair of the weapon/bomb behind them? Those sentiments Solo shared completely. Except for the quick exit of the rich blond
from
"You've been
rather taciturn today, even for you."
Silence. “Don’t you like Abbe?”
“She’s out of your
league. Strictly old money,” Illya
scowled and walked over to the picture window overlooking
Solo joined his
friend and looked out at the skyscrapers below.
"The conquering hero gets a cold shoulder?"
"I am not being
cold," Kuryakin tersely corrected and glanced briefly at the taller
agent. Abruptly he turned on his heel
and strode toward the door. "I
simply refuse to contribute to your already overwhelming ego."
He was through the
automatic doors before Solo could catch him.
Napoleon scurried to come astride of the brisk pace set by the
Russian. Nonplussed at the strange
reaction from his partner, he took a moment to analyze the dynamics at
work. Since his return, he had been treated with
lavish acclamation. He knew better than
to believe Illya was jealous. What he
sensed from his friend was not irritation at the attention. Then what?
Something deeper, he reasoned, and began to suspect just what was
bugging the other agent. A delayed
reaction to the mission, of course. They
were both experiencing a maze of buffeting emotions to the tense action in the
rocky hills, the bomb at HQ -- agonizing moments when both had thought the
other dead. Illya was taking it all a
little hard this time, though.
Entering an
elevator, Solo leaned on the wall and silently scrutinized his friend. Studiously ignored, Napoleon remained
knowingly mute. Kuryakin twitched his
shoulders, eyes darting toward him occasionally, but the blond head never
turned to look at him. The elevator
stopped and Kuryakin emerged first, striding swiftly and purposefully to the
Section Two offices. He brushed past the
secretaries, but Solo was ambushed.
Three women who had not yet congratulated him on his heroics snagged
him. Normally being waylaid by females
was a pleasant experience that he cultivated to the maximum affect. Today he extricated himself as quickly as
possible and followed Illya into the agent's office.
This was his natural
habitat and it had not been difficult to snap back into reality after the
harrowing, narrow escape in the Mojave.
Dashing down the mountain, dodging blasts from the molecular disrupter,
leaping over rocks and around boulders had been something he would not want to
repeat. At the time, he had focused on
survival, not on the level of danger, not on anything but staying one step
ahead of the beam.
So, he had been
mildly surprised when he regained consciousness at the bottom of a gully. Alone.
Alive. His goal, of course, was
to return to the ghost town and find Illya and the THRUSH weapon. What he had found instead was Abbe and her
out-of-petrol car. When they arrived at
the deserted town they found no Illya, but the truth about the deceptive weapon
that was really a bomb.
His skin went
suddenly cold at the memory of those awful moments after he had destroyed the
remote detonating computers for the bomb.
Had UNCLE HQ been destroyed? Had
his desperate message been received in time?
Only when he heard Waverly, then Illya's controlled, yet comfortingly
normal voice, assuring everyone was safe, did he breathe a sigh of relief. The aftermath had been mundane and
anticlimactic. Local authorities
escorted him and Abbe to a jet at the nearest airport. Immediately, they were whisked back to
As soon as he
received a decent communicator from the LA agents he had contacted Illya. Their conversations were brief and
necessarily shallow. The trip back from
the desert was spent in napping, talking to Abbe and wondering how things were
at HQ. The routine procedures -- the
consequences after a security emergency -- were not his interest. His concerns were for Kuryakin.
He had, of course,
known that Illya had temporarily suffered because of the supposed death, but he
hoped his surprise return to life had eased the pain. Obviously, judging from this reception, it
had not. While the news did his psyche
more good (and he was getting many ego boosts today) knowing how valued he was,
it was disconcerting that his partner had been suffering for nothing. He could
imagine -- had imagined on numerous occasions -- what it would be like if Illya
died.
Just yesterday, in
the desert, there had been some tense, nasty inner apprehension while he
awaited word on the fate of HQ and everyone here. He sympathized completely with his friend's
tangled emotions, but he wasn't going to let the reticent Russian brood over
the past.
"So, I guess
it's just business as usual," Napoleon sighed causally, sitting on the
edge of Kuryakin's desk.
Illya made a show of
removing his jacket, flinging it to a nearby chair, and settling in behind the
desk. When Solo started leafing through
the scattered papers Kuryakin flicked his hand away.
"Well, if
you're going to be the only person at Headquarters giving me the silent
treatment, I guess there's nothing else to do but get back to work."
With a deep,
prolonged sigh, Illya leaned back and studied his partner. Serious eye contact, Solo concluded
triumphantly. He was finally getting
through the armored Russian shell.
Sometimes it was a lot of work being Illya's friend, but always worth
it. Right now, however, he wasn't sure
what was going on inside that convoluted mind.
The blue eyes -- more than usual -- were blocking any hint of inner
thoughts.
"Yes,
congratulations. You saved us,"
Kuryakin admitted in a tone that was unreadable, with an expression equally
masked.
Not sarcastic, not
condemning. Progress of sorts, he
decided.
"You disarmed
the bomb. I'm always willing to share
the glory --"
"I don't want
--" Kuryakin waved away the subject with a sharp slice of his hand. "Please stop."
"What?"
"Being -- being
generous."
Solo's laugh blurted
out automatically and only when he received a glare from his friend did he
struggle to sober his expression.
"That's a first. Usually you
blame me for hogging all the honor!"
Clearing his throat, he settled into a more serious composure. "What's wrong, Illya?"
Illya shook his
head. "I am . . . ." He
shrugged and surrendered a weary, anguished sigh. Then, with some difficulty, denied his
turmoil. "Nothing."
"Illya!"
"I am
fine," he tersely, unconvincingly insisted. "I was -- upset. Now I am fine, Napoleon. Please leave it at that."
Truly perplexed and
a bit concerned, Solo tried to read behind the veiled blue eyes. "Why the anxiety? It was a little tense there for awhile, but
all's well that ends well." His
tentative smile failed to alter Kuryakin's sulk. He switched to broad sarcasm knowing that
would jolt a reaction out of his friend.
"All the acclaim at being a champion? Again?
Comes with being my partner," he lightly quipped and tapped the
Russian's arm. "Trying to be aloof
and mysterious to attract more female attention?"
"No,"
Illya denied.
His typical teasing
was not working. Napoleon scowled,
becoming irritated he had to wrestle information out of his own partner. Coaxing a confession from the dour Russian
was worse than interrogating an enemy!
"You're not mad
that I figured out the bomb --"
"No. Can't you just accept I am -- was -- upset
and drop it?"
"Hmm. Well, then, sure, I'll leave you
alone." He pretended to mope. There was no way he was going to allow the
Russian to brood. During the brief
demise, Illya apparently forgot how good he was at pestering. "You're upset you don't get a new
partner --"
"No!"
Illya snapped, offering a withering stare at the senior agent. Noting the raised eyebrows on Solo's face he
scowled fleetingly then quickly clamped his features into an unreadable facade.
"Then
what?"
Illya's lips pressed
into a thin, firm line.
Solo surrendered a
minimal shrug and toyed with the papers on the desk. "Okay, well then, let's talk about this
interesting item on smuggling in
Illya pulled the
papers out of his grasp. He paced over
to the wall, an obvious plot to put distance between them. That meant intense inner turmoil if he knew
his Russian. And he did. Well.
"Just drop
it."
Only one thing
usually worked when Illya was in this kind of mood. Completely sincere, Solo's voice was smooth,
firm, and benevolent. "I'm not going
away, you know, so you might as well confess all."
Kuryakin's brief,
sharp glower told him he had said something that struck deeply into the
Russian's usually guarded heart. "No. I don't want you to."
"To --?"
"Go away."
Satisfaction
flickered into a near grin and Napoleon gently assured, "I won't. Now, are you going to tell me what's
wrong?" He had to read the subtle
clues barricaded behind the nearly impenetrable façade of his friend’s
defenses. It had taken a long time to
acquire such talent, but he was good at it.
Not perfect, because sometimes the cagy Russian could still puzzle and
confound him. But, this time, with a
sinking heart, he thought he had his man deciphered. “You’re feeling guilty because you left.”
Illya looked
away. "You mean I gave up."
"Ah,"
Napoleon sighed. Stepping over next to
his friend he leaned his back against the gunmetal grey wall. "I didn’t say that, you did --"
"Don't try to
analyze me! I don't want your sympathy,
either!"
Hands in pockets,
Solo tried to appear relaxed and casual, forced his voice to be calm. It was a typical image he liked to project
and hoped his partner wouldn't read through it to see the true inner anxiety
underneath the cool exterior. He hadn't
expected to come home to a crisis between them.
How did he turn this around? Years
ago when first partnered with the stubborn Russian, he would have never guessed
how much work it took to be this man's comrade.
Even now he did not put this much effort into any other relationship.
Amazing how enormously it mattered to him to be considered this crazy Russian's
ally, colleague, partner -- friend.
Sometimes, when
relations between them were complex -- as they were now -- Solo reminded
himself why he needed his friend so much.
At some obscure point over the years, he had come to depend on Kuryakin
for rescues, for intelligence, for honesty, for companionship. He came to trust the young Russian with a
wholeness that had been, up until then, an alien concept to Solo. Illya was the one and only person he could
depend upon completely. After a time he
came to understand that he fulfilled much the same role in Illya's eyes. A humbling revelation. That was probably why, after a few years of
partnership, he knew Illya was the one person on earth he would die for
willingly.
Countless perils,
endless rescues, myriad life-and-death moments had forged them into an
inseparable unit. Bonded closer than
brothers, Solo would do anything for his friend. Including drawing out the emotions that were
eating away at the brooding Russian. And
Illya would do anything for him.
Obviously, when he couldn't, it nearly destroyed him from the inside
out. In their many years together, he
had come too close to losing Illya on several occasions. Every time it tore at him like a razor to the
soul. This time Illya HAD lost him!
Now, even with a
resurrection, there was a price to pay.
They couldn't just brush this one away.
They had been through terrible dangers in the last few months, but this
one topped them all. Selfishly, Napoleon
was glad he had not been the one to suffer Illya's death. Magnanimously, he was going to do all he
could to help his friend out of this place of agony.
Their guarded
reunion had been -- abnormal -- he decided.
Fitting under the circumstances.
The handshake was spontaneous, overt, and the only thing he could think
of at the moment. But not extreme. Understated and reserved for the occasion of
a resurrection. There were rumors enough
floating around without an emotional scene.
Either agent would rather die than sink to overt feelings. Even in private, they were subdued in their
mutual gratitude. Although, Solo
reminded himself, in past years Kuryakin had been more -- vulnerable? -- in
exposing his insights to perils. After
this last episode, it only seemed natural that the Russian was cracking around
the well-controlled seams.
"You know, it
wasn't your fault --"
"I was taken in
by a confidence trick!" Kuryakin snarled.
"They made me believe --" he hissed his mouth to an abrupt
close.
"They were
clever, Illya. We were more
cunning. Smart."
"They were
better than us!" the blond countered, turning to press his back against
the wall, touching shoulders with his friend.
He stared up at the ceiling.
"You saved us. I had very
little to do with it."
Napoleon had nothing
pithy or profound to say and simply patted the shoulder touching his. "Your mind was probably --
preoccupied."
Kuryakin ran fingers
through his hair. "You are being
patronizing again."
Solo released a sigh
of frustrated irritation. "I am
not. Why make this so difficult, Illya?
No one else thought the weapon was really a bomb. Quit blaming yourself. Come on, it's over." Solo smiled, but his charm was getting no response
from the hardheaded half of the team.
The intercom
buzzed. Solo growled deep in his throat,
but Kuryakin seemed relieved and responded instantly.
“Mr. Kuryakin, is
Mr. Solo with you?” The efficient and
cool voice of Lisa Rogers, Mr. Waverly’s assistant.
“Yes.”
“Please inform him
Mr. Waverly is ready for the debriefing in his office.”
“Yes.” He clicked off the intercom. Then he crossed around to his chair behind
the desk.
Patting him on the arm as he passed, Solo straightened his jacket. "I'm sure I have a mountain of work to
catch up on after the debrief, so I may not see you for a while. Keep your evening clear.”
“Why?”
“How about we finish
this conversation over dinner?”
“I am not interested
in a double-date --“
“No. I was thinking of --“
“You don’t have a
date?”
“Dozens.” On his way to the door Napoleon turned,
grinned, and opened his arms. "What
can I say? I saved headquarters,"
he winked. "Everybody's glad to
have me back. I can only take advantage
of the situation thrust upon me."
Illya shook his
head, his mouth twitching with a smile.
"Why am I not surprised?"
“But for tonight I
will just bask from afar at my abundant riches.
I think I’d rather spend a quiet evening with my friend.”
Expectantly, he
waited for acknowledgement. Illya
nodded, appearing to share his appreciation they would have the chance to
talk. To not talk. To be together after both thought that
opportunity lost forever. Expressively
displaying the joy both felt at being alive and reunited, Napoleon’s face
brightened, broke into a dazzling smile, gratified it coaxed a sparkle into the
previously sober blue eyes. Then, he
stepped to the automatic doors, instantly assailed by the sound of female
voices.
***
Dinner turned out to
be a typically impromptu affair rather than the quiet meeting at a nice
restaurant that Solo intended.
Debriefings ran late and pressing details with organizing Section Two
kept both agents busy until nearly
Conversation during
the causal meal was low-key and pleasant.
Like so many other countless meals they had shared. Napoleon still sensed a reticence within his
partner, but decided to choose the right time and place for another touchy
confrontation. Everything was agreeable
now and he didn’t want to disrupt the mellow homecoming.
After nearly
realizing his worst fears with the threat to HQ, he valued the placid tone of
their reunion. Moments like this --
informal dinner seated at Illya’s coffee table, talking, listening -- so afraid
he had been robbed of them forever -- now he savored the companionable silence
and the mundane small talk.
Munching on the
chocolate chip cheese cake dessert, he finally asked his friend what was on his
mind. After thoughtful silence, the
Russian responded. Illya's recitation
was an uneven whisper. "Oh what a
tangled maze we weave . . . ."
"Revisionist
poetry. We're in trouble." The quip earned him another scowl. This was the moment for honesty, he
decided. Time was too precious to waste
on useless emotions. "Don't let the
guilt eat at you, Illya. Forget
it."
Imperceptibly the
blond head shook negatively. Kuryakin’s
startled gaze, turned troubled, jolted him.
Intuition and knowing his partner very well finally enabled him to piece
together the puzzle, weave through the complicated maze that was Illya
Kuryakin's psyche. His initial
supposition was wrong.
"You're not
upset about the bomb bit, are you?"
No response. Kuryakin stared at the floor.
“Illya?”
Glancing, Illya
threw his friend a few guarded looks.
Finally, the building emotions forced him to blurt out, "They
killed you. I did nothing." Then facing
Solo, the blue eyes seared into his. The
expression rippled into one of eloquent anguish, then slowly slipped into
downhearted defeat. "I watched you
die. I did nothing."
Softly, he consoled,
"You couldn't."
"I should
have! You -- died. And I left.
I didn't even go back to check -- to look -- to see about --"
"I was
supposedly blown to bits, remember?
There was no reason for you to doubt that. Besides," he offered a
gentle, knowing grin at the private joke, "you had to save the
world." The familiar quotation did
not alleviate the tense atmosphere and Solo tried again. "I don't blame you. You had a duty to UNCLE. You had to leave." Quietly, he assured, "I would have done
the same."
Kuryakin
grunted. "I doubt that. At any rate, we shall never know. That was not your trial. It was mine.
And I failed."
“No.” The blithe statement only earned a scowl from
the Russian. He was growing impatient
and upset at the insane conundrum of his friend's emotions. “I don’t believe that.”
“I failed you.” He shook his head, brow crinkling with
intensity. “The moment of Fate I had
dreaded for years was upon me. It came
and went in an instant. While I watched
and did nothing, you died.”
Softening, he tilted
his head in sympathy. “Helplessness is
the worst, isn’t it?”
Illya’s hurting blue
eyes bore into him as if he had said something incredibly profound. The comment was not overwhelming, or
brilliant, just honest.
“You were
outnumbered. There was nothing you could
do.” The senior agent shook his head, darkly recalling his own struggles. “There was nothing I could do. I waited for what seemed forever to find out
what had happened here. I was so afraid
my efforts were too late.” He drew in a
breath to ease the tremble in his voice.
Even now, the memory of the fear lingered. As he sat on the sofa in this familiar
apartment the recollection of dread was vivid.
“Everything worked out. You’re
alive, thankfully. I'm alive. I don't blame you for leaving me -- you
thought I was dead."
The blue eyes
scorched into his like fiery lances. He
had hit the target dead center and Solo's heart twinged at the realization of
another strong reaction eating at the Russian.
Abandonment. It was probably the
deepest trepidation buried at the core of Illya's shielded heart. Even after years of association, Napoleon
wondered if his friend yet harbored vestiges of doubt that he was completely
committed to their association. Maybe
Illya wondered if he would leave; transfer -- die. Illya couldn't bear that he had been the one to
abandon the field. He hoped he was not
going to alienate his friend further, but this seemed the only possible
solution. Placing hands gently on
Illya's shoulders, he quietly, but resolutely responded.
"We know that
it's a real possibility any time we leave the office that we won't come
back," he admitted deeply, his voice smooth and soft. "We're prepared for death. Sometimes inside the building," he added
wryly.
Illya snorted at the
ironic statement.
Solo patted his
shoulders. "It's something we worry
about. Something I think about every
time I send you out there on an assignment without me. Those possibilities are risks we have to
accept in this business. But I know you
would never willingly give up on me and I hope you believe I would never
abandon you."
Kuryakin did not
answer the probe directly, but slightly shook his head. In the eyes, in the slump of the shoulders,
there was vulnerability in the Russian that chilled him.
"This time it
was real." The voice was little
more than a whisper. "I didn't stop
it. I knew what it meant to have my
fears realized." Illya took a
shuddered breath. "I tried to push
it away, to ignore it, but I couldn't. I
believed you were dead."
"I'm sorry you
had to go through what seemed to be the real thing." His grip tightened.
“You died. I watched you die.”
“I wish there was
something I could do,” he admitted, his heart heavy with compassion.
Glancing up,
Kuryakin’s face brightened, the blue eyes were vivid with relief and approval. “You already have. You came back to life. Thank you.”
"I try my best
to deliver happy endings.” The words
seemed flippant, but were delivered with his utmost sincerity.
“You must promise to
always do so.”
Certain his smile
reflected the poignant futility of such a vow, he made an X over his heart.
“Promise. If you promise the
same.” Empty words to an impossible
oath. Yet, one they had to believe in
and hope would come true.
“Promise.”
“For now, that's
what we have to hold onto.” Napoleon leaned
over to stare levelly at his friend.
"Agreed?"
Kuryakin
nodded. "Yes."
***
Content, Napoleon
leaned back on the sofa, closed his eyes and put his feet on the table,
requesting to hear Illya’s latest jazz album.
Illya chatted about the music, only half thinking of the words. Mostly, he absorbed the moment, the
impressions of companionship and acceptance.
Profound truths, confessions, food, music; friendship. Treasured moments he thought lost
forever. He wanted to impress them on
his mind so they would never fade. Starting the album, he cleared away the
trash. Returning, he leaned on the
doorway from the kitchen and studied his friend as Solo twitched his stockinged
feet in rhythm to the beat.
Sighing, Kuryakin
whispered, "Welcome home, Napoleon."
He surrendered a small smile.
"Thank you, my friend. For coming back to life. For saving us again. For saving me."
thanks Ra
PRODUCTION NOTE:
Most of this was
filmed in a little community that was just about literally in my back yard back
in 1967. It's a place filled with desert
buttes, lots of sand and many Joshua trees -- called