THE

LIGHT

AT THE END OF THE

TUNNEL

AFFAIR

May 1967

---

Morning fog obscured the emerging dawn light on the dull, grey coastline of Southern California. Running full speed through a narrow beach access between two close houses at the edge of the sand, Napoleon Solo leaped over a log of driftwood and pumped his legs harder. Kicking up sand as he sped across the empty beach, satisfaction at quickly overcoming his prey pushed his speed higher. The panicked THRUSH man ahead twisted around to fire a gun. Solo barely flinched and did not alter his speed since the desperate foe didn't even have the weapon aimed in the right direction. The shooting threw the criminal off balance and he stumbled, falling into the wet sand near the tide line. Seconds later Solo was on top of him, throwing the gun out of reach and slugged in the man in the face.

"Gottcha."

Turning the man over Solo withdrew a pair of handcuffs and secured the man's hands. As he caught his breath Napoleon scanned the beach, wondering what had become of his partner. Far up the gentle curve of the perfect surf line of Oceanside, he saw the dark outline of Illya Kuryakin, struggling in the waves with a much bigger, brawnier thug than the slight Russian. Catching his breath, Solo dragged his prize to his feet and they stumbled toward the ongoing fight up the beach.

The huge THRUSH man dealt Kuryakin a stunning blow and the slender agent fell to his knees in the water. Another hefty blow to the head sent Illya down into the rolling waves. Napoleon shoved his man to the sand, drew his Walther and fired. Before the big Thrush man could deliver another savage hit to Kuryakin, the bullet struck, throwing the big man onto the beach.

Solo raced forward to his motionless friend. "Illya!"

The inert form of the black-clad agent moved with the current as limp limbs swayed in the ebbing water. Solo made a grab for his partner and was, instead, thrown into the surf by the giant, wounded THRUSH thug. Thrashing away from the suffocating tackle, Napoleon -- still retaining a grip on his pistol -- emptied the clip into the man trying to strangle and drowned him. Gasping for air, he struggled free of the man, who now seemed dead, and let the tide deal with the criminal's remains.

Panicked, Napoleon saw Kuryakin's inert form was drifting out with the pull of the waves and he swam into the surf, dragging his partner back toward shore. His own heart stopped when he realized Kuryakin was not breathing. Falling to the sand as soon as he cleared the waves, Solo squeezed water from his friend's stomach and immediately started mouth to mouth resuscitation. Interminable moments ticked by as he alternately breathed air into his friend's lungs and pumped the still chest, savagely fighting to retrieve the life that already had slipped away.

Destruction of the dearest person in his world was upon him and only the emergency situation kept the full horror of the crisis from making a complete impact. He couldn't lose Illya, he just couldn't. They had been partners for too long and he couldn't imagine being robbed of the one person he depended on -- his only true friend.

"Breathe!" he commanded as he thumped the chest. "Live! You can't leave me, Illya! Fight! Breathe!" Desperate, he gulped in air as he returned to pushing his own life's-breaths into his friend. "Come back to me!" he choked, as he switched back to pumping the chest. "Come on, Illya!"

Kuryakin coughed. A ragged, hoarse breath scrapped in and out of his lungs and he coughed more. Trembling, Solo flipped him over, helping him to catch more air, holding tightly to the friend he had nearly lost. Fingers shaking he pulled the black turtleneck away from the white neck to help Kuryakin get more air. Weak from the panic and narrowly averted devastation, Napoleon leaned his head on top of Illya's, calming his racing heart. In their long history of near-misses, this had been the worst and he hoped he never -- never -- had a crisis even close to this again. Ever.

"Don't ever do that again," he pleaded, reprimanded, his voice strained and weak.

Kuryakin's, head, leaning against his chest, nodded in mute acknowledgement of the pact.

***

Being an efficient agent, Solo maintained a policy of seeing to his obligations immediately. He hated owing favors or responsibilities. Especially about office conciliation. Plying his charm to elicit special treatment was not above him. Morally he considered it more ethical than pressuring someone in his official capacity as head of Section Two. When he'd asked Madeline Chase to facilitate Illya's speedy release from the hospital and return to New York, she had asked for the usual -- and immediate -- payment in return: A night on the town as only Napoleon Solo could deliver. Ending, of course, with drinks and -- whatever -- at her place.

The restaurant was one of his favorites, the company entertaining, the meal excellent. The evening, however, passed in a haze of barely cognizant scenes, scarcely registering on his thoughts. His emotions were still raw from the recent experience that had been the worst moments of his life. The brief death of Kuryakin had profoundly shaken the cool and urbane Solo. They had been through good times, through capture, torture, and boring missions together. Now they had shared a terror that had previously only lived in his nightmares.

Every time he thought about Illya's still, lifeless form he felt shredded inside. The Russian was vital to him -- there was no other way to explain it. The near loss consumed his focus and what would have otherwise been a pleasant date was relegated to a distraction. At her apartment door he gave Madeline a kiss and intended to take his leave. She pouted at the attempt at an early defection and insisted he come in and fulfill his side of the bargain -- especially if he wanted any more favors from her department.

"Napoleon, would you care to pour drinks for us?"

He crossed to the small drink table and scanned the items. The bottle of vodka caught his attention -- a cheap brand that Illya wouldn’t be caught dead drinking. The morbid joke wasn’t very amusing, he self-critiqued sourly. Picking up the bottle, he was surprised to note his hand was shaking. Pouring the liquor into a glass, spilling onto the table, he watched it cascade like water -- like the waves of water washing across Illya's face. Like the flood of emotion breaking through his inner barriers.

"Illya -- "

The bottle jittered until it crashed into the glass, breaking it. A sob escaped his throat and he smashed the vodka container into the wall, beating it against the barrier as he shook with tears. Falling against the table he felt liquid and glass crash into him as he slid down the wall. Slumped on the floor he collapsed into uncontrollable weeping.

***

As he walked into the UNCLE communications center, Illya Kuryakin consulted his watch. Again. He had returned to New York just a few hours before. After a brief stop at his apartment he had come straight to Headquarters. Disappointingly, Napoleon had been in meetings all morning and was not scheduled to have any free time until nearly noon. At which time Illya planned on kidnapping him and taking him out to lunch. A decent meal was the least he could do, and the beginning of more planned pay-backs.

Used to having his partner save his life, Illya still felt extreme gratitude this time. Because the life-saving this time had been so literal. After the fact, actually, he mentally corrected. Illya had contemplated that frightful experience for several days. This would be the first chance he would have to discuss it face-to-face with his friend.

With a near-half-hour to kill he could not stand the silence and confinement of his office and had come to one of the busiest areas of Headquarters. The communications hub was filled with agents acquiring information, awaiting exchanges, or otherwise engaged in their usual work. Illya moved to the side of the room, scanning computer screens and listening in on conversations.. It seemed incongruous that these people -- most of whom he knew though did not associate with necessarily -- milled around in their everyday routine. Did they really appreciate their lives? He did. How many were ecstatic, grateful, to be alive? How many knew he had died on Thursday last? How many could cherish life as he could this fine Monday afternoon? It was an old cliché' that you didn't appreciate something until it was gone. Never did he revel in life as he did now when he had been temporarily robbed of it.

Very little memory existed of his return to life. Full consciousness returned, as usual, in a hospital. Not usual, the room had been empty, acutely absent of his partner. Usually when one of them was doing the all too frequent sick-time, the other hovered around. Slightly irritated, Illya had called (his voice incredibly hoarse) on the communicator, and found his partner on the way to Las Vegas. Unfortunately, Solo was left to clean up the mess they had started together -- tracking down some THRUSH operatives in Oceanside. Then Solo had trailed the remaining foes on to San Diego, then Las Vegas to finish the operation. From there Solo was to report to New York. Regretfully (and that was clear in his tone), he would not be able to entertain Illya in the hospital.

As usual, Illya pressed to be released as soon as possible. The young doctor attending him ordered a three-day stay, insisting on extended observation. He had never had a patient who had been revived from death. Shocked, it was then Kuryakin learned of the dramatic rescue on the beach and Solo's literal life-saving skill. And he suspected Napoleon's long-distance interference when he was released a day early to return to New York. Over the few days Illya strained to recall details. Slowly the images and impressions returned, and with them a profound sense of gratitude and emotion for the friend who had literally dragged him back to life.

"Oh, don't get me wrong, I love being spoiled by Napoleon. He knows how to treat a girl like a real lady. But he's off my list from now on."

The name of his friend startled him back to the present and Illya realized the speaker was a female operative at one of the computer consoles close to him. Women UNCLE agents discussing Solo was as common as a cold, he mused. With no desire to eavesdrop he started to leave.

"After what happened with his partner it reaffirmed my theory to stop dating Section Two agents. They're too unstable."

Arrested that the conversation now included him, Kuryakin hesitated. Well, he WAS a spy and naturally curious . . . .

"They're all crazy," a woman next to her insisted.

Illya smiled with satisfaction that his Section Two department, the field agents, gave that impression.

"Too focused on their spy games," a third female agent insisted.

The original woman came back sharply with, "And too focused on their partners. Napoleon owed me for accelerating Kuryakin’s medical clearance for duty. So I bartered. It would cost him a night out with all the trimmings. If you know what I mean.”

Several muttered comments of envy and kidding fluttered around the group. Kuryakin rolled his eyes. If they started a detailed assessment of his partner's love life he was absolutely leaving.

"We're having an after dinner drink at my place and he suddenly loses it! He smashed a bottle into the wall and started crying! There he is bleeding all over my carpet! I’ll have to pay extra to have that cleaned. My apartment manager is so strict about stains. Does Napoleon care? No, he’s bleeding and weeping and muttering about his partner! What a way to ruin a romantic evening!"

Feeling cold and weak inside, Illya made his way out of the room as quickly as he could. A knot of painful sympathy twisted his insides. He had been on the emotionally distraught edge before -- mostly because of his partner -- and knew exactly what had happened to his friend last night. The terror, the pain had pushed Solo beyond the limit of endurance. Emotions caught up with Solo at an inappropriate time and those fools were making light of it! Illya cringed, his pace ever quicker as he hurried back to the Enforcement section.

In their few conversations over the weekend Solo had seemed subdued, overly concerned with Illya's recovery and health, but had been understandably laconic. They had, after all, been talking on communicators. Not any chance at all to talk personally -- privately -- about the traumatic incident.

Illya remembered being hit and falling into the water. He recalled what it was like to be dead. Then he woke up in the hospital with a very sore chest and throat. All the important things in between had been skipped -- the things Napoleon had agonized through. Illya readily acknowledged to himself the profound gratitude and emotional ties he felt for his partner after the incident. What had Napoleon felt? Perhaps it was time to find out. Without remembering his journey through the corridors and elevators of Headquarters, Kuryakin found himself at Solo's office door and without hesitation he entered. They had to talk.

***

Unable to concentrate on his work, Napoleon gazed at the bandage on his throbbing hand and resisted the urge to groan and bury his face in his hands in frustration and anger. Anger at himself. The display last night at Madeline's was unforgivable. How could he lose control like that? What kind of a tough, aloof agent was he that he could break down -- in tears -- over something that had happened days before? And in front of one of the Section Three clerks! Oh, not much, he sighed bitterly. Just the death of your partner. Just the memory of Illya's dead face in the water, his inert weight in your arms --

He slammed an (uninjured) fist on the desk and pounded it, angry at himself for losing control. Livid at the helplessness when he had watched as an enemy had killed his partner. Scared that he could never be sure the frightening event -- Illya's death -- could be positively prevented in the future. The door opened and he was startled to see his partner saunter in. He came to his feet, releasing a little laugh of joy at seeing his friend back. The Russian seemed unusually pale in his dark suit. Death would do that to you, Solo guessed. Better the shroud-like clinging of a black turtleneck, Solo shuddered, than the vision of Illya's dead form in his arms. The reality of his friend crossing the office with a steady, if slow gait, better than the horrible memories.

"Illya."

He came around the desk, not sure what to do. Elation at seeing his friend for the first time since the California hospital warred with the tempered embarrassment of his emotional upheaval the night before. In most circumstances like this the old partners relied on quips, jokes, and clichés to provide banter. The tactic was favored for ignoring the emotionalism of what they were feeling and avoiding the chance of saying something too personal. As a super-spy it was accepted to lay down your life in the line of duty for country and code, but it was just not done to say out loud how important a partner was, or how much the life of a friend was valued above all other commodities. This time the silly banter was completely inappropriate. The death hung between them like a veil and Solo was in no mood to make light of anything to do with recovery or near misses or any jokes about who owed who more for rescues this month.

There was too much to say, as always, and no courage to form the words. They could face down bullets and torture but they couldn't say anything about what they felt inside. By the time he reached his friend he had decided on a supportive, firmly affectionate squeeze to the thin shoulder. Kuryakin sat on the desk, Solo next to him. Reveling in the joy at having Illya back, the senior agent just stared at the blond. When he realized Kuryakin was staring at the hand -- the bandaged hand -- Solo self-consciously folded it under an arm.

"Nice to have you back. I'll have you on light duty next week until you feel up to regular --"

"I am fine, Napoleon. You know that, you've read the doctor's report."

He wanted to snap back that the doctor was not on the beach that grey morning when his friend's face had been as ashen as the clouds of the pre-dawn sky. Instead he managed a shrug, pretending to be cool about the whole matter.

Kuryakin nodded toward the hand. "What happened?"

"Accident." Solo stood, not wanting to be so close. He could feel a trembling inside that felt like the precursor of an internal quake of emotion. Turning away he gestured to the sofa against the wall. "Make yourself comfortable. I was just finishing up a report."

He moved to go back to his desk, but Kuryakin grabbed his arm. "I thought we could talk." The intense blue eyes stared into his with unrelenting fervor. "Dying was quite a profound experience. I -- I'd like to -- would you like -- to talk?"

The faltering speech belayed the passionate, compelling power in the eyes. Kuryakin desperately wanted to share weighty opinions with him and Napoleon didn't want to hear what was going on in the Russian’s mind – or worse – his heart. He didn't want to know what it was like on the other side of those terrifying, life-robbing moments. Life extinguishing time for his friend and life-draining for him.

Moments ago, however, he had berated himself, his career, for separating his emotions from his ego. Now Illya was practically pleading to share the most intimate and profound experience of his life and Napoleon was afraid. Afraid to hear the pain, to face the fear, to relive the horror. Deep inside, though, he knew he was more terrified of the aloneness he had felt when robbed of his friend and this moment was the complete antithesis of that solitude. This was their friendship at its most intense and he did not want to lose this connection.

"I'd like to hear," he admitted in a quelling whisper, conquering his anxiety. "Let's talk."

Kuryakin led him to the sofa and looked into his eyes for a moment, then looked away. "I remember the fight in the ocean. And an all too familiar hit in the head." He smirked and Solo responded in kind to the light-tone. Then Kuryakin's face grew extremely sober. "There was blackness for a moment -- like all the times. Then there was a blinding splash of light." His mouth quirked. "Not a light at the end of a tunnel as many see, but an all consuming light.  My continual striving to be different," he quipped and glanced at Solo, who offered a slight, responding grin.

His voice was calm, even, and introspective. Napoleon marveled at the composure and renewed his admiration for this incredible man who had become so important to him -- the center of his life.

"Soon the light fragmented into a scene," Illya continued softly, staring across the room, focused on nothing. "I was standing there on the beach -- an empty beach -- no houses, no people, just me and the sand and the sea. I faced the ocean and noted how thin a line there was between the blue ocean and the horizon of the blue sky. To my right was an intense light, but not just light -- warmth and -- and love."

His voice wavered and Napoleon couldn't alter his eyes from the face. He thought Illya was going to cry, and he couldn't make himself turn away and give his friend some privacy. Men hated to cry publicly -- even in the presence of one other person. Most hated to cry even if alone. Tears burned in his own eyes from the emotion he could tangibly, sympathetically, feel from Kuryakin.

"To my left there was another light. From there also I could feel safety and comfort. And love." He gulped in a breath. "And something else." Another big breath. "I heard -- I felt -- a familiar voice. You were pleading, begging me to return." Tears spilled onto his face. "I turned to the left and came home." The bright blue eyes turned to him. "Thank you for saving my life. More than that, for calling me home."

Choked with his own emotions, Napoleon could not respond with anything but holding onto Illya's arm. Wordlessly he nodded, knowing his friend understood everything he could not say. The light at the end of the tunnel in his life was alive and well and he hoped Illya would stay that way for a very long time.

THE END