Sequel to: THIS ONE'S FOR YOU AFFAIR
THE
I BELIEVE IN YESTERDAY
AFFAIR
by
gm
Crossover: featuring
characters from --
Man from
UNCLE/Hart to Hart/Mission Impossible/Bionic Boss
Rated AA
for aangst
prologue
January 1978
. . . yesterday . . .
"Hi." Illya Kuryakin offered the weak smile, that
didn’t reach his eyes, to his friend who was sitting by the window of their
favorite pub in
“I’m having lunch.”
“Of course.”
There was a little bit of stout left in
front of Napoleon Solo, but the drink seemed ignored. The American absently
twirled the glass around on the table, gave a nod, and then returned to staring
out the window.
From outside, Kuryakin had observed his
friend's immobility; the blank gaze.
The tableau hastened his entrance into the pub. When Solo occasionally
disappeared from the office it still worried him. Admittedly, he was overly
protective and obsessively parental about his partner and he took no shame in
those weaknesses. For a little over a year, his role as Solo's friend had included
practical applications in support and solace. When Solo had been ousted from
UNCLE they had attempted to purge him of his memories in the spy trade. To a
degree, they succeeded in stripping him of some of his memory; part of his
identity, much of his confidence, and too much of the man who was his closest
friend. {fanfiction
-- THIS ONE'S FOR YOU -- I and II}
The return to near normal had been tedious,
strenuous and severe. For both of them. Travels around the world to connect
Solo again with old friends and familiar places had helped. Establishing a
routine in a new place --
Too close, Illya ruefully admitted. Being a
perfectionist, he had struggled to give back every detail to Napoleon. That,
unfortunately, included his friend's natural inclination for espionage. For the
last few months Solo dabbled in little spy jobs around the globe, dragging
Kuryakin along with him. Every mission was a duel event: on one hand he enjoyed
playing spy games again. On the other
hand, it grated on him, reliving the fears of watching his friend involved in
life-threatening situations. And for what? They were no longer saving the
world. This, now, was for fun! To eliminate boredom! And it set Illya's nerves
on edge every time they played their foolish, addictive danger-games.
Turning from the street scene, Solo offered
a slight smirk, but the mirth never warmed the distant chill in his eyes.
"I'm doing all right."
"Of course."
Illya didn't believe it. He knew these blank
zone-outs meant there were null sites in his friend’s mind. The readjustment
memory swipe had been devastating and continued to play havoc with Solo's
mental acuity. Not instability, Illya hastily assured himself. When Napoleon was experiencing trouble, he
came here, to this familiar place, to retreat and regroup and Illya soon
followed. It didn’t mean anything more
than the fact that Solo was craving the excitement of life as a secret
agent. Somehow, that theory was easier
to accept than the haunting spectre of mental flux.
"I am fine." He stared at the
glass in his hand. "Don't worry so much."
Kuryakin shrugged noncommittally. "Then
why did you leave the office?"
"I was bored with watching you play
fashion mogul."
As an excuse for them to do something
outside of the spy business, they had taken an increased interest in a fashion
business investment with some friends in
"You've got another project," the
Russian reproached, perfectly reading the subtle signs exhibited by the person
he knew as well as he knew himself. Maybe better.
With a sigh, the dark-haired man shrugged,
the troubled brown eyes really meeting his for the first time. "I need to
work, Illya. Sitting around talking with you about the latest fashions for the
well-dressed FBI agent is not meaningful. I need something important to
do." He scowled in self-depreciation. "All those years of saving the
world has tainted my ego, I suppose. Can't leave it alone now."
"Vanya's work is
important, Napoleon."
He grimaced. "You know what I mean.
Besides, what could be more fun than dodging bullets and bombs? You know you
miss the entertainment of running for your life."
"We could leave. Go somewhere."
Solo slowly shook his head. "A
permanent vacation? Sounds nice, pleasant, and boring. Just what I don't want
out of life." He looked back to the
street, his eyes distant. “You don’t
have to get involved if you don’t want.”
Irritated, Kuryakin refused to show it, or
indulge in petty recriminations. Solo needed space, but Illya could not let go
of the caretaker role he had thrown himself into for so many months. And he
would not even address the foolish attempt at exclusion from his partner. As if he would ever stay behind on an
operation. He had never abandoned his
friend while in UNCLE and he certainly would not start such a ridiculous habit
this late in life.
And -- something he would not admit to Solo
-- he DID enjoy dabbling again in the excitement of playing with danger. He just wished his friend would not play so
close to the fire.
With
effort he forced his tone to be blandly neutral, not reflecting the
misgivings. "So what is the
project?"
"McCall has a lead on a possible
mercenary training center in
"Ah. After months of errant clues it
would be nice to run him to ground."
Solo smiled at the compliance." I'm
checking out some details." He tried a more sincere smile when he looked
back. "If you’d care to, you can come along for a little jaunt in the
Illya shrugged a nod.
Solo returned to staring out the window.
"Would you like to hear something exciting?"
The tone indicated banality -- nothing of
interest at all -- but the blond played along. "What?"
"I think McCall has a hot one. Or some
old enemies are returning. I'm being
followed."
A rush of diverse emotions swept through
Illya's nerves like a tsunami. The old Napoleon would have known without a
doubt about being followed. Was this part of Solo's disintegrating mental state
-- a return to the paranoia and defensiveness clinging to him for months after
his mind wash? Was an old enemy really after him? There had been several
attempts to kill them in the last year and in only one instance had they killed
in self-defense, having a body to identify as an attacker.
Amazingly, the man had been a former UNCLE
agent. Were they being pursued out for revenge because of Solo's actions when
he was forced out of UNCLE? Was the attacker hired by someone else to silence
Solo because his memory had pretty much returned? Or were they both targets,
bringing up the question of whether or not anyone could really leave the spy
business behind?
Because of their constant habitation on the
edge of jeopardy, Illya remained on permanent alert. He had not been aware of
anyone following them. Rather than dismiss it as Solo's imagination, he
suggested a standard ploy they often used to guarantee their safety.
"Then we need to implement red herring
operation number one."
Napoleon gave a mock salute. He winked, displaying a smile close to his
old, jaunty self. Reaching over and patting his friend's arm, he assured,
"Don't worry, I'm not cracking up."
"Just the usual -- our lives in danger?
That's a comfort."
"Tread carefully."
"That's my line." Illya gripped
onto the hand holding onto him. "No risks. I've gone to entirely too much
trouble with your recovery to lose you now."
It was no joke and he made sure Solo understood that. Each time his friend placed himself in the path of hazards it became more difficult to endure the threats. He didn't know what he would do if something happened to the life he had invested his entire being to protect. He had lost Napoleon temporarily last year. If it was ever permanent he wondered how he would survive the tragedy. Today, however, was not going to be that day.
In the time he had been sitting here he saw
no evidence of surveillance. Hopefully, it was Solo's paranoia briefly flaring.
Once safely ensconced at home, assured there were no lurkers hiding in the
shadows, the American should be fine. The lingering fear was one of the sad,
residual little quirks from the brainwashing experience still plagued Solo, but
that theory left Illya undaunted. Everything would be okay.
"I'll head for Vanya's."
"I will be watching your back."
Solo nodded and held his eyes in a moment of
complete understanding. "You always
are."
***
Solo was waiting for him, and visibly sighed
with relief when he walked into his private office. More typically subdued,
Illya's internal cheer was invisible and restrained. The reason -- no one had
followed either of them. As the American went to the bar and poured drinks,
Illya assured him everything was fine. The expression in the brown eyes
indicated Solo clearly saw through his double meaning. Sometimes it was not an
asset to have a person know him so very well.
Napoleon raised his glass in a silent toast.
"So, no bad guys lurking in the bushes." He took a long drink of
scotch. "That must mean I'm just going crazy."
"You were bored," Illya replied
warily, choosing his words carefully as he took the glass of vodka prepared for
him. "Maybe we need to get away. This is a good time of year to visit
No angry retort, no brusque and adamant
promise that all was well. Solo simply stared into the bottom of his glass with
a blankness that masked his face into a placid, pale sheet lacking any sign of
interest or life. Illya's skin crawled, fear for his friend's mental health
skyrocketing. He carefully placed the glass on the bar and approached slowly.
"Napoleon." He took the drink out
of Solo's hands and set it on a table, then led his friend to the nearest
chair. He knelt on the floor, quietly trying to bring the American out of the
bewilderment. "Napoleon --"
"Don't make excuses, please, Illya.
You're afraid I'm cracking up." He closed his eyes, a sheen of sweat
filming his skin. His hands, resting on the arms of the chair, were shaking.
"I'm not."
"This is just taking time, my friend.
You can't rush rebuilding your life."
"And I can't sit around being
useless." He opened his eyes and stared at his ally. "I've got to
stay in the game." Reading the emotions bubbling within the Russian, he
forestalled objections. "Don't try to talk me out of it. I'm going to
check out the operation in
Anger rose slowly within the Russian as
realization became clear. "This isn't about boredom, Napoleon." The
American continued to gaze at him, but in his eyes there was a dawning anxiety
that belayed his neutral expression. "It's about fear."
A nervous smile of surrender played at his
mouth. "You know me too well. And you know I have to get back on the
horse."
"You've already proved yourself,
Napoleon! You've come back from the brink of oblivion! You've regrouped and
built a new life!" Illya jumped to his feet and paced away. "What
more do you have to prove? Why keep putting yourself in danger
unnecessarily?"
"To prove that I can take it," he
responded quietly, simply. "To show myself that I can handle it. That I am
not a failure."
“Let McCall handle the mercenaries. Take a different assignme --“
“What, dog catcher? You think I can handle that?”
Vainly Kuryakin debated, argued and pleaded
reason with his stubborn friend. This was a familiar theme since Napoleon's
return. Regaining confidence, memory and skill had been only part of the
picture in the long past months. Overcoming the vulnerability of a mind
violently attacked had been a victory never achieved. Perhaps that was where
the phantom shadows came from, why Napoleon believed someone was following him.
He could not free himself of the unseen terrors haunting him from the inside.
Not for the first time Kuryakin wondered
about some serious therapy for his friend, but Solo's initial foray into
analysis had been extremely unpleasant. He had abandoned the psychiatric
sessions as soon as possible. They had done little to help him deal with the
clinging susceptibility; that losing his memories had permanently altered and
diminished him as a person. Returning to the spy business seemed the only way
to cure his imagined deficiencies.
Since he failed to talk him out of this
course of action, Illya could only reluctantly support him, but the custodial
duties that normally went with the partnership were straining his
patience. He wanted his friend to be
cured, to be completely normal again.
Right now. That wasn’t
happening. Maybe it would never
happen. Maybe that was the fear that
Solo was running from and Illya tried so very hard to ignore.
True, they no longer faced daily trials of
life and death. It had been a very long
time since Solo had done anything foolish -- like risking himself to save
Kuryakin. Illya wanted to keep it that
way. Playing innocuous spy games was
challenging, even fun. The old life
stopped being fun when his friend kept insisting on throwing himself into the
path of danger. Things were different
now. They could choose assignments and
games. They were not obligated to save
the world. That was left for younger,
more foolish men.
Locking his friend into a padded cell seemed
a tempting solution, but he knew there was the very real possibility that
Napoleon was not cracking up; that there really were old enemies following
him. That despite Illya’s best efforts
they could never put the lethal spy games behind them.
Solo ran his fingers through is thick, dark
hair. "I know this is hard to understand, Illya, but what I am looking for
is peace. An inner peace that I can be the same person I was before. The only
way to do that is to challenge these threats. I am being followed, Illya, I'm
not imagining it. How can I confront that danger if I can't face a known enemy?
I have to keep stretching my courage and facing what I fear or I might as well be
dead. Can you understand that?"
Subduing his trepidation, he simply
inquired, "So when do we leave?"
Solo smiled with bittersweet emotion.
"Who do you think is crazy now?"
"Both of us."
Studying his friend, levelly reading each
other's minds, the smile faded. Napoleon's voice was coarse. "And
scared?"
Kuryakin gulped down the knot of dread
tightened in his throat. "Both of us."
"At least we're in it together."
"Of course." Kuryakin drew in
a ragged sigh. "Ireland it is. Then, we return here and we set a trap
and catch whoever is following you."
The brown eyes sparked with an optimism that was nearly heartbreaking to the once implacable Russian. "Then you trust me when I say I'm being followed?"
"I always trust you."
Solo's frowned comment chilled him to the bone. "That's what I'm afraid of."
October 1978
I
"Yesterday came suddenly."
The conference room of the luxury
When Cinnamon Carter and Rollin Hand entered
the room, the rest of the company seemed to notice. In a steady wave, media
magnets gathered around the two actors and showered them with questions. One of
the stage managers deftly extricated them from the masses and escorted the
celebrities to seats in a reserved area in the front row.
Rollin checked his watch after they settled
in and double-checked the scrawl on the back of the tickets. "
Cinnamon smiled at her husband and gave a
wave to a fellow thespian across the aisle. Carter, a former model turned
actress, her stunning figure and red-haired beauty emphasized her classic
elegance. Millions of admirers world-wide never guessed she had also managed to
fit in a successful career as a spy.
"This is wonderfully mysterious, isn’t
it, Rollin? The anonymous, preferred tickets arriving at the theatre last
night. The note was precise in the time. We were obviously invited for a
specific event, not for the complete showing of the most exclusive designers on
the planet. This is an invitation-only benefit."
"For what?"
"I don't even know, but I love
it!" she relished with enthusiasm that was award winning, but also natural
to her vibrant personality.
Several fellow colleagues and a rock star
passed by to give greetings, but none of them in the exclusive area where the
American couple was seated. A few British royals and members of the aristocracy
filled in nearby, but Carter and Hand seemed to have some of the best seats in
the house. The only better seats were just to the side.
"Isn’t that Paul McCartney over
there?"
"Yes. He brought his
family.”
"Paul was wonderfully funny last
night." The celebrated former Beatle gave them a wave and a smile.
An announcer concluded the previous showing
with some comments about the clothes designer and the models. After a brief
pause, Beatle music -- original -- not elevator-muzak copies, started playing
over the speakers. A sense of thrill and excitement rippled through the crowd.
Cinnamon grabbed onto her husband’s arm.
"Do you know who’s next?"
He shook his head.
"Vanya. The most mysterious designer in
the world. He rocketed to fame when Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr both
launched benefits to introduce his fashions. Earlier this year. He is so
exclusive he only shows at charity events. And he always plays Beatle music for
his models. They must be close friends
of Vanya's."
"Interesting," the dark, lean
actor commented. A suspicious smile lit his expressive face. "I used to
hate mysteries. But what is there to worry about here?"
He warily searched the crowd and was only partially satisfied that this was really what it seemed to be -- a fashion show. Old instincts died hard, and part of him was still on guard about the anonymous presents. As acclaimed actors, the famous husband and wife team were not strangers to gifts, but the mystery of the tickets had surfaced some old and unpleasant intuitive wariness.
Not that many years ago he and Carter were part of a high-risk organization that utilized their skills and talents in far more diverse areas than stage and film. As members of the Impossible Missions Force, they had traveled the globe as spies, and were incredibly adept and successful in their alternate, secret profession.
Some bad experiences had caused both of them
to drop out and forsake that dangerous life style, but Rollin never felt it was
completely behind them. Too many enemies around the world with long memories
made him just a bit wary of strangers. And strange gifts -- even tickets for a
fashion show -- made him slightly nervous.
The first of the Vanya models emerged. The ‘Josephine’ line of eveningwear was elegant, tasteful and refined. His fashions were never outrageous or extreme like most of the publicity-hungry French designers. Seemingly at home in any setting, culture, or era, Vanya's line was a wildly popular elite sequence of clothes.
The fashions
often draped famous professionals, heads of state and Academy Award
winners. Owners also included spouses of presidents, generals, kings, princes,
sheiks, producers, actors and plain old millionaires. The styles were the kind
that got noticed everywhere women wore them, but never flashy, out of taste or
trendy. Designs by appointment only, going public only for benefit
fund-raisers, Vanya was the mysteriously reclusive upper echelon of a celebrity
profession.
The snappy tune of A Hard Day's Night
played, followed by Help!
----
"Help! I need somebody. Help! Not just anybody. Help! You know I need someone. Help!
When I was younger so much
younger than today. I never needed anybody's help in any way. But now these
days are gone and I'm not so self assured. Now I find I've changed my mind I've
opened up the door.
Help me if you can I'm
feeling down. And I do appreciate you being round. Help me get my feet back on
the ground. Won't you please, please help me.
And now my life has changed
in oh so many ways. My independence seems to vanish in the haze. And every now
and then I feel so insecure. I know that I need you like I've never done
before.
----
As Hand and Carter watched the girls,
Cinnamon whispered several comments about designs she would be interested in
purchasing. She speculated the invitation might be for her to receive a
renowned, private session with Vanya. Consultations with the mysterious,
camera-shy Vanya were more sought after and rarer than the crown jewels. The
exclusive designer never granted interviews, never appeared at a showing and never
came out of hiding. The anonymity was worth it to the many admirers and the
mystery enhanced the legend and price of the garments. Not that anyone ever
revealed a price tag for the designer clothes -- cost seemed to be part of the
mystique as well.
"Perhaps he’ll design something for me
for the Academy Awards," Cinnamon suggested hopefully.
"Or for me from his men's line,"
Hand kidded. "There's the Harts with the McCartneys."
Jennifer Hart, a vibrant redhead, gave them
a nod. She was married to the multi-millionaire industrialist Jonathan Hart,
owner of Hart Industries. Jonathan, as handsome as any movie star, coursed
through the crowd balancing two drinks and failed to notice the actors. Hart
joined his wife, then turned to give a wave to the Hands.
"I felt so honored that Paul came last
night and stayed for the wrap party." As the rock star caught their eye
again he flashed them a boyish smile and raised a glass in a toast to them.
"Maybe he sent us these tickets."
"Maybe," his wife replied, but her
tone was doubtful.
I'm a Loser, Blackbird, Baby’s in Black,
Hey Jude and Nowhere Man, brought the tone of
the room to a dramatic sense of anticipation.
----
"I'm a loser, and I've
lost someone who’s near to me. I'm a loser, and I'm not what I appear to
be."
----
"Blackbird singing in
the dead of night. Take these broken wings and learn to fly. All your life, you
were only waiting for this moment to be free."
----
"Hey Jude, take a sad
song and make it better."
----
"He's a real Nowhere
Man, sitting in his nowhere land, making all his nowhere plans for
nobody. Nowhere Man, please listen you don't know what you're
missing. Nowhere Man, the world is at your command."
----
Vanya shows were famous for the disposition
of music and style they created, transcending the show beyond a clothing
spectacle or a fashion fad. In My Life ended the moody set with a
sense of sentimental soberness.
----
"There are places I
remember, all my life, though some have changed. Some forever not for better. Some are gone and some remain. All these places have their moments, with
lovers and friends, I still can recall.
Some are dead and some are living.
In my life, I’ve loved them all.
But of all these friends and
lovers, there is no one compares with you.
And these memories lose their meaning, when I think of love as something
new. Though I know I'll never lose
affection for people and things that went before. I know I'll often stop and
think about them. In my life I love you more.”
----
Rollin squeezed her hand. "A beautiful
song."
His wife offered a sad smile.
"Poignant," she observed, puzzled. "Messages in the songs? Maybe
our famous Mister Vanya is unhappy?"
"A tragic Russian," her husband
quipped. "Like all their plays." Thoughtfully, he nodded.
"You're right, my dear. A mysterious, tragic Russian."
"An enigma," she pondered.
Male models now accompanied the women; the
men displaying a dignified, elegant line of formal and semi-formal wear for
men. The ‘Napoleon’ styles were classic, smooth and dashing. Even rarer
than the women’s wear, the men’s clothing were said to be fitted and sold only
to those on an exclusive list. Not many Hollywood types were part of that
rarified crowd, and Rollin would be happy to add his name to the list.
"You know who these suits remind me
of?" Cinnamon whispered after a few particularly striking suits and
tuxedos were displayed.
Rollin scowled. "Must be the
name," he complained. "Not my old rival by any chance?"
Carter held onto her husband’s hand.
"Never really a rival," she assured. "Just a flirtation.
Besides, you and I weren’t married then."
"Knowing him he probably came to a bad
end anyway," was Rollin’s dark prediction.
Carter laughed. "Probably, but you got
the girl."
The last song of Beatle hits ended and there
was a pause. Two men and two women came out of the upper runner of the aisle.
All were in tasteful, understated, elegant black suits or gowns of
astonishingly sleek styles and unusual materials. Silence settled on the room.
The melancholy strains of Paul McCartney’s acoustic rendition of Yesterday
filled the large room.
----
"Yesterday, all my
troubles seemed so far away. Now it looks as though they're here to stay. Oh I
believe in yesterday. Suddenly, I'm not half the man I used to be, there's a
shadow hanging over me. Oh yesterday came suddenly . . .
Yesterday, all my troubles
seemed so far away, oh I believe in yesterday. I believe in yesterday."
----
"Now that's a sad song," Hand
labeled as he leaned over to whisper in his wife's ear.
Carter offered a thoughtful frown.
"Vanya always ends his shows with it. He must be a melancholy man.
Lonely."
Rollin smirked. "A sad, lonely Russian?
Almost too stereotypical. my lovely."
The models slowly walked down the aisle,
rhythmic and graceful with the melodic tune. By the end of the ballad all four
had coursed their way back to the starting point and finished the show by
striking dramatic poses on the last, fading notes of the poignant music.
The curtain dropped and the room exploded in
applause. The announcer came back out with some quips about Vanya and the rest
of the show, inviting people to the reception in an adjoining room, where they
could pledge generously of their earnings for the sake of charity. Rollin and
Cinnamon stood to file out with the crowd when a stage manager asked them to go
backstage to meet with one of the designers.
They were led to a small wing that held a
jumble of mannequins, racks and other supplies. Through a maze of narrow spaces
they ended at a little room piled with papers and mountains of material. From behind the curtain at the side of the
room a slight, blond man dressed in black -- turtleneck, jacket and trousers --
entered.
"Rollin, Cinnamon, thank you for
accepting my invitation," he greeted somberly.
"Illya? Illya Kuryakin?"
"Oh, Illya, what a surprise!"
Cinnamon cried and hugged him, planting a kiss on his face. "It’s been
ages!"
"Not that long. I was in the audience
last night for your closing production. Brilliant performances, both of
you."
Cinnamon pinched his cheek. "Why didn’t
you come backstage and see us?"
The slender Russian shrugged, his austere
black turtleneck accentuating his pale face, yet seemingly appropriately grave
for his dour mood. His compliments and greetings came with a contradictory
doleful tone and an enigmatic, sober expression. "I had no desire to make
a scene."
"What are you doing here? A bit
underdressed, Illya. You look like you’ve been to a funeral."
The Russian scowled at the comment, but
hardly missed a beat. "Basic black is never out of style," he
countered blandly. "Please, have a seat. I have a business proposition to
discuss with you both."
Carter took the only clean seat available.
Illya hurried to remove swaths of material from another chair.
"Wait a minute," Rollin warned,
keeping his hand on his wife’s arm. "We’re not in the business anymore,
Illya. I don't know what this is about --"
"I’m not either," Kuryakin assured
crisply and motioned for Hand to sit. He took a seat on the edge of the desk
and after Rollin settled he continued. "I am Vanya and I’d like to make
you two an offer to do some modeling for me."
"Come on," Rollin laughed.
"Illya, that’s not a very funny joke.
If the real Vanya found out --"
"I am completely serious." He
sighed knowingly, expecting the skepticism. "I left UNCLE -- left -- left
the business behind. This is my profession now. Allow me to explain."
The long story started in the early
Seventies when Kuryakin and his partner in UNCLE, Napoleon Solo, were assigned
to rescue a scientist from East Germany. The nuclear physicist, a Russian Jew,
wished to defect to the West, but only trusted UNCLE. The UNCLE agents rescued
the scientist, Irving Levinson, his brother Ira, and their families. UNCLE
refused to support the scientist in anything but specific weapons research and
Leaning on Ira’s profession as a clothier,
Illya and Napoleon (60/40% respectively) had bankrolled the brothers in
starting a clothing firm in New York. Then they sponsored Ira's daughter as a
designer for new, high profile, international fashions. The business had
succeeded beyond their wildest dreams, and with some creative and cunning input
by Illya, the majority shareholder, Vanya’s became a major fashion leader by
the middle of the decade. The name -- a spin-off of the character in Chekov's
play -- Uncle Vanya -- reminiscent of Russian 'UNCLE' Illya.
Direct involvement with fashions started
when Napoleon bemoaned the lack of stylish evening wear for men who carried
weaponry and concealed gadgets. Since Ira and Irving foolishly (a profit-loss
proposition Illya insisted) supplied Napoleon with all his suits, they took up
the challenge. (Countering -- in the interest of economy -- Napoleon suggested
some chic, skimpy dresses for women, to save on material, of course, but Ira
and Irving were too scandalized by his ideas to contemplate such designs.)
The former operatives kept a toe-hold in the
fashion business until Solo and Illya broke with UNCLE. Then they concentrated on rebuilding Solo’s
life and as a diversion took more of an interest in their investment in
Vanya's. When Solo’s health improved
they earned lucrative funds as independent, free lance spies, but never with
the committed fervency of their UNCLE career.
Dabbling in sketches in his spare time
during Solo’s recovery, Kuryakin's designs were soon adopted by the firm and
led to several famous styles. Their close friends in similar dangerous
occupations; such as industrialist Jonathan Hart, detective Steve McGarrett and
the Director of the OSI Oscar Goldman, also requested custom suits. The line
expanded to fashions for men and women, including bullet-proof clothing. Cloe
Levinson, Ira's daughter, threw herself into the projects with enthusiasm and
soon she and Illya had numerous lines focused on action-oriented professions.
The former IMF agents were incredulous and
delighted at the amazing revelation. As Kuryakin unveiled his idea to use
celebrity spokespersons for an ambitious charity showing, Hand and Carter were
anxious to help. They would be the official representatives of the company, at
top pay, plus all the formal and semi-formal wear they could ever use. Illya
had been looking for just the right man and woman to show off his unique line
and hoped these high profile celebrities would take the media attention off the
mysterious and invisible Vanya and focus more on the charities.
"I noticed Vanya's -- your -- charities
are always helping law enforcement, or their widows and orphans -- that type of
thing," Cinnamon contemplated thoughtfully. "It's because of your
background. You can't let it go, can you?"
Illya's grim blue eyes looked beyond them,
into a distant, unpalatable past. "Never." Then he gave a slight
shake of his head. "Let's discuss a few details."
It was agreed the Hands would start fittings
the next week since their
The Russian froze in mid-step. Without
looking back he replied, "No, Napoleon is not here." A deep breath
inhaled and exhaled within his chest, the hiss of air dramatic in the still
room. "It is because of Napoleon I am now so focused on this
business." With another sigh he waved away the rest of the story. "It
doesn't matter."
Carter glanced at her husband, then the
Russian. "What does all this have to do with Napoleon? You're not partners
any more?"
The blond head shook several times, silence
accentuating the ashen expression. "No." He stepped closer to the
door as if ready to flee. "He was killed on a mission in Ireland earlier
this year."
Cinnamon gasped. "Oh, no, not
Napoleon!"
"Illya, I’m very sorry," Rollin
quietly commiserated. "That’s when you left the spy business for good,
isn’t it?"
Briefly glancing back, Kuryakin gave a tight
nod, his longish blond hair falling into his eyes.
Cinnamon unsuccessfully sniffed back the
tears she couldn’t control. "Not Napoleon, too," she whispered.
"I never thought he would --" she stopped herself before her words
hit the obviously unhealed wounds of their friend. "Just like Dan. I’m so
sorry, Illya. They were both good men."
Kuryakin faced them. "Dan? Dan Briggs
was killed?"
"Yes."
"Presumed dead," Carter corrected
her husband tartly.
Rollin held up his hands in surrender.
Obviously it was an old argument. "He’s officially dead even though they
never found the body."
"My condolences. Dan was good."
Illya stepped closer; flinching with the
reawakened pain of loss that lived just under the surface. Some old wounds, too
deep to be forgotten or mended, could never heal. In this instance, Kuryakin
did not want to lose the pain because it was what made him feel like his friend
was still with him, still part of his life, even in death. Memories were all he
had left of a partnership and friendship that had defined his existence. Losing
Solo had been like losing most of himself and Kuryakin could not bring himself
to deal with life as he had known it before.
At one point immediately after Solo's death
he had not wanted to go on living at all.
His friendship and partnership was more than either of those words could
define. His relationship with Napoleon
had been a brotherhood comprised of only the two of them. A unity that thrived on mutual trust,
dependence, need and family.
What had been left for him after Napoleon
was gone? His brooding nature. Solo had warned about that even from beyond
the grave; reading Napoleon's will had set him on the right path again.
Somehow, Solo must have anticipated what Kuryakin would feel -- or perhaps it
was just coincidence -- but the Russian didn't think so. In the last testament
Napoleon had wished Kuryakin a long, safe and happy life -- to carry on doing
important work without him.
Illya couldn't imagine succeeding in any of
those vaulted expectations, and never expected true contentment again in life,
but strove to achieve his friend's requests with the first two entreaties. So,
the cloistered sphere of Vanya's had become his bastion to keep the rest of the
world out and his cherished reflections inside. Venturing as far as contact
with Hand and Carter had been a milestone for him, and he now regretted it.
"We had no idea."
"There was no funeral. Napoleon’s body
was never recovered."
"Just like Dan."
Emotions too strong to restrain carried
Cinnamon into the Russians arms and she held him close while she shook with
sorrow. Illya carefully eased her into her husband’s grasp. Fascinated,
like a prey mesmerized by a hunter, the Russian asked what had happened to the
former leader of the IMF -- the field agent they had once known. Dan Briggs had
been a top operative; slick, smart, nerveless and brave. Dan had saved his life
once {fanfiction -- DANIEL IN THE LION'S DEN AFFAIR}
and he had never forgotten.
In the spy business there was little time or
opportunity for thanks or reunions, but agents who worked together and became
friends tried to contact one another as often as their various schedules
permitted. Solo and Briggs had kept in touch for years after Napoleon had saved
Dan’s life. After their departure from UNCLE, the agents had lost contact with
most of their former collaborators. After Solo’s death Kuryakin had closed
himself away from all old colleagues.
Asking for an explanation, Illya returned to
his perch on the desk and listened to the unnerving account of Dan Briggs' last
mission. After being wounded, physically and emotionally, in 1965, Briggs had
taken a supervisory position with IMF and Jim Phelps had taken over the main
fieldwork with Carter, Hand and the rest of their usual team. In 1977, Phelps,
Paris and an operative known only as Cat, were captured in
Subdued at the bitter memories, Hand asked
how Solo had been killed.
Kuryakin brushed aside the questions, not interested in discussing the sensitive subject. Although most of a year had passed, those were remembrances Illya could not revisit without the searing stab of loss he felt sharply every time he thought of the tragedy. Not a day went by without wondering what he could have done differently, how he could have altered Fate -- before the building exploded along with the essence of his life.
Insidiously, his friendship had become his
existence, and too late he realized that was such a double-edged sword. He would not want to live without it, but now
that half of the partnership was gone, his life was so extraordinarily
empty. To his former colleagues he
mentioned only that it was in the destruction of a mercenary stronghold.
Changing the subject abruptly, Kuryakin pled business elsewhere and promised to meet with the couple the next week to discuss their future venture. Hastily he nearly pushed them out the door. For some time he sat brooding, unable to thrust away the memories, powerless to deny the old, ethereal suspicions that would never die -- that yet haunted him like clinging wraiths Determined to put the pain behind him at least for a while, he dashed off a few memos for his assistant, then packed some documents in his briefcase, prepared to leave. He found it impossible to focus on the task, however, because his mind replayed the conversation with the Hands.
Dan Briggs had been killed, no body found.
That was not the first incident he had heard of an old colleague eliminated and
no body recovered. Coincidence, certainly, but the seed of doubt was planted.
He never believed in coincidence. Especially when there could be no positive
validation of death. He and Napoleon had proven that personally on several
occasions.
Shaking off the fanciful theories he
finished packing. Soon he would be back to his posh flat and drown himself in
vodka. It never doused the reminiscences, but it dulled the pain. Some days --
like today when verbalizing the tragedy intensified the anguish -- he could
only ask for numbing the hurt. There could never be an erasure of the agony.
Tonight it would be worse than it had in many months. This time there would be
a kernel of doubt that would twist the anguish into torment. Had Napoleon
really been killed? His heart would respond that it did not want to believe in
that reality. The traitorous whisperings of hope rekindled within a soul
that was already dead.
When there was a knock at the door he swung
it open, expecting the Hands again. He drew in a breath as Jennifer Hart rushed
forward and hugged him in a tight embrace. Her husband, Jonathan Hart; urbane,
controlled, irritated watched in silence for a moment.
"Illya."
The whispered name couched in sniffling
emotion was nearly muffled against his jacket. After an awkward moment he
pushed her away. "A -- Je -- Jennifer."
It was still difficult to comfortably
connect her real name with the face he knew so well as April Dancer. Years ago
-- over a decade before -- he had known her as an UNCLE agent, a skilled
operative who had been very close to his partner. After Napoleon's expulsion
from UNCLE April had left the organization and returned to the outside world
using her real name. Not long after that she married Jonathan Hart.
Only a few years passed before Illya and
Solo reunited with Napoleon's old Naval Intelligence colleague -- Jonathan Hart
-- and his new wife. All were shocked at the amazing connection. Stunned,
embarrassed, astounded -- words didn't seem to fit the remarkable turn of Fate
that brought all of them together again. Solo's former lover had married his former
NI colleague. Kuryakin, and certainly Solo, had never expected to see April
again. And not like that. The relationship smoothed quickly when Solo was
convinced of Jennifer's intense love for her husband. His old and loyal ties to
his former Naval Intelligence comrade had also served to keep the situation
from blowing up into an ugly mess.
They had kept in contact until earlier that year. Until Napoleon's death. After the tragedy in Ireland Kuryakin tirelessly searched the local hospitals and villages for his friend. Finally convinced this time Solo really was dead (there had been incidents in the past -- for both partners -- where fatality seemed certain, yet proved otherwise). Then Illya had returned to London and notified the old friends and former NI colleagues of Solo's demise.
Telegrams were sent, nothing more personal. Kuryakin could not bear to discuss the tragedy with any of them. Mostly because thinking about it was bad enough. Discussing it aloud would have been torturous. So Oscar Goldman, Jonathan Hart and Steve McGarrett had been informed in a terse, cold piece of paper that their old NI friend had run out of luck and been killed. After accepting the death, Illya obsessed with seeking vengeance. That, too, was all too quickly satisfied. The mercenary responsible died in the fiery disaster along with Napoleon. There was nothing left to pursue; no blood-quest, no revenge to salve his anguish.
Kuryakin then buried himself in his new
career, distracted by the glitz and bustle of the wardrobe industry. In the
eera of worldwide terrorism, his fashionable, sleek line of light, bulletproof
clothing was snapped up by many enforcement agencies around the world.
Ironically, UNCLE was one of the most lucrative contracts for the SOLO
line. Vanya's became an unimagined success thanks to his driving motivation --
not for the company to succeed -- but for him to escape the past. His ideas for
promotion and his taste for elegant/chic active wear proved wildly popular and
the rest was an unequalled success story in clothing history.
In his new life Illya refused to talk to any
of the old associates who barraged him with calls. He hoped the obsession with
work would drive out the memories and the pain. It didn't. It only served to
make Vanya's one of the most triumphant design houses in the world. Illya was
interested in none of the acclaim, money or notoriety. He only wanted to
forget.
Others would not let him. Oscar Goldman was
the first to pin him down in New York and demand the details of the accident
that had taken the life of their mutual friend. Illya had divulged scant facts,
enough to satisfy Goldman that all had been done to prove (without a body) that
Solo was dead and justice had been served. Then the director of the OSI
returned to
Soon after that the Harts had arrived at his
flat to commiserate and grieve much too publicly. Illya relocated to purge the
all too pressing memories. He sold his apartment, and Solo's digs, and took up
residence in a wing of the Vanya building in London. As quickly as possible he
folded up the avenues between himself and the outside world. Within his fashion
empire he created a defensive cocoon, letting no one in and never leaving the
safety of his isolation. Alone with his only companions; guilt and pain.
With weary capitulation he accepted this
visit by the Harts as inevitable. Americans were never content to let anyone
brood and it was his misfortune to be surrounded by so many do-gooders. Thanks to them
he was now completely distracted. The
visit with the Hands had triggered something long dead inside him: suspicion.
On the heels of that, on the horizon of his psyche, there lingered the dawn of
something that had died months ago. Hope. Dare he share his wild, outrageous
conjectures with his friends?
"We haven't heard from you in a
while," Jonathan offered quietly. An attempt at a fleeting smile of
reassurance passed his lips, but it quickly faded.
Wiping her eyes, with the other hand
Jennifer held onto the Russian's shoulder. "And you never got back to us
about the benefit in Beverly Hills. I told you I wanted to plan that for the
spring."
A glance into her eyes and the facade
crumbled. Her mouth twitched and she bit her top lip to keep it still.
Kuryakin looked at Jonathan and resentment
bubbled inside. No, he would not mention any of his reawakened conjectures with
them. They would only accuse him -- in their sympathetic and sickeningly
patronizing way -- that he needed to get over the grief and move on with his
life. No, he was not going to surrender the pain or the guilt. They were part
of what kept him going.
"We all know why you're here," he
accused and disengaged from his old friend, crossing to the window.
Looking out at the misty, gray London
skyline, he found comfort in the insipid, colorless wash of the haze and
horizon. Like a fog around his world. A matching companion to the shroud around
his heart. No, he would not discuss his newly born impression with the Harts. They
would think him mad -- unable to be left alone because of his pathetic
dementia. No, he would not discuss his suspicions yet.
"Illya --" she sighed, then
regained her fortitude. "Illya, we want -- you need to rejoin the real --
You need to live again. Can't you let us help you?"
Their constant attempts to draw him out were annoying. A persistent American had done that many years ago. This was the misery he now lived with because he dared to reach out and connect with someone. This was the fruition of emotional attachment. This was the rewards of friendship, and if Napoleon were here he would have complained about the wretched unfairness of it all. Then he would have moved on.
Reluctantly, Illya admitted he would not
have traded the benefits of the friendship for anything. Even though the long dreaded threat of
abandonment, the inevitable pain, had been the final result. It had been worth
it all -- knowing the brilliant day preceding the blackness -- had been worth
all this pain. To have never been part of the magic and brightness of an
incomparable friendship -- that would have been bleakness defined.
His waspish retort was edged with open
irritation. "Please don't presume to know what I want or need. My only
request of you is to leave me alone."
"All right." Jonathan's voice came
from just behind his left shoulder. The tone was firm, but compassionate,
qualities tempered with the obvious sincerity of a man who was accepted as a
ally. "You're not doing yourself any good this way, Illya. That's your
choice. But it's not something Napoleon would want to see, I can promise you
that."
Kuryakin would not -- could not -- respond
to the unfair stab of judgment. Napoleon would be the first to rebuke him over
the self-imposed isolation, at the grief that had buried him away from the
world. Illya would give anything to receive such condemnation from his friend.
Against the silence of the grave the Russian had only his wounded heart to
focus on now.
Hart tried again. "Steve had a request
for you. You wouldn't return his calls and I happened to mention we were coming
to
Kuryakin shrugged a silent assent.
"He was looking for someone and thought
you could help."
A packet was dropped on the desk, but Illya
did not acknowledge it. "I am not a private investigator."
"You are a former spy, an
analyst," came the firm response. "I'll leave it for you to check
out. Just as a favor to an old friend." He paused, as if awaiting a
response, but Illya offered none. "We'll be at the Northumberland Hotel if
you want to get in touch."
A gentle hand pressed onto his shoulder and
Jennifer's soft voice whispered, "Call us, please, Illya."
Her tone made it clear he was not the only one hurting. Egotistically he preserved the claim that he hurt the most. Napoleon was his closest friend and to Kuryakin went the badge of chief mourner, he had decided many times over the last miserable months. Other friends grieved and regretted and felt the loss. Illya suffered the emptiness every day; acutely aware of the hollowness only he could experience.
The unique classification justified the
solitude. There was room, however, to acknowledge that Solo had touched many
lives. His closest friends were in pain also and Kuryakin accepted that,
permitted them to share part of his anguish. Occasionally pushing aside his
selfishness he recognized their right to grieve.
"I am no longer in the business."
A sharp blade of resentment flared inside. He could remind them that he would
never again have anything to do with the spy games. The stupid dance with
danger had destroyed the best part of life. Never again would he dabble in the
peril. Knowing they were clumsily trying to help, he found a momentary trace of
compassion for people who shared in a mutual grief. "But I will contact you.
Tomorrow."
Jennifer gave his shoulder a squeeze.
"Thank you."
After they left he wondered why she had
thanked him. He was providing no assistance to them in any way. He supposed it
was because it was a sign that he might renew friendly association with them again.
Doubting he would, he nonetheless vowed to keep his word and at least phone
them. Maybe it would appease them enough and they would leave him alone.
Because as the months dragged on his grief did not wan and he did not want to
see or talk to anyone from his past. No one could understand the dread and
suffering hovering around him and he was insulted that anyone tried.
For the rest of the evening Illya decided to
entomb himself in work. He went through the motions of the show’s aftermath,
attending to the myriad details of the fashion blitz. It was late before he ran
out of busywork and finally had to face the quiet of the night. Even exhaustion
could not drive him to sleep and he lay awake in his London townhouse listening
to the traffic, his nerves and thoughts unsettled.
The memories of the past haunted him more
vividly than usual. Reuniting with Jennifer and Jonathan was tumultuous.
Contacting the Hands had been a risk; he knew that going into the venture. They
asked about Napoleon and he had to explain. He did not think the pain would be
so lucid -- nearly as agonizing as when it originally happened. Finally vodka
and fatigue helped him drift into an uneasy doze.
====
Scarlet explosions,
cars and buildings erupting in shards of multicolored, dripping blood rained on
the ground around him. From out of the flames came three dark silhouettes.
Behind them were vague, dark, unformed shapes. Unafraid of the specters, he
stood his ground as they approached him. Just before he could distinguish a face
from one of the seemingly familiar figures, the dream dissolved into a black
mist and everything was gone.
====
Unable to sleep he went downstairs to work
on some frivolous business. There he glanced the forgotten packet that Hart had
delivered from Steve McGarrett. Opening the envelope he found a picture of a
man Steve was searching for. Relatives in Hawaii asked McGarrett (the head of
Hawaii Five-0) to locate the man. Illya's attention was snagged when he read
the missing person was possibly a covert agent and had disappeared --
supposedly killed -- while in the
Wild imaginings cascading in a frenzied
tumble, he called McGarrett in
II
"There’s a shadow hanging over me."
Being a cautious man, Oscar Goldman was wary
when he spotted the folded piece of paper under the door as he stepped into his
Washington apartment. Having just picked up his last three-weeks worth of post
from the manager, he knew it was not an innocent note from someone in the
building. After checking the flat and finding nothing amiss, he then carefully
picked up the message.
Oscar,
Come to the Vanya offices in NY when you return.
IK
Goldman folded the paper into his pocket and
took his bags to the bedroom to unpack. While he cleaned up he poured himself a
hefty portion of beer, sipped the brew and sorted the mail, but his mind
focused not on his task, but on the abstruse note. Why would his former
colleague, whom he hadn't talked to in months, request this mysterious meet out
of the blue?
Naturally his mind went back to the last
time he had seen Illya and Napoleon, because the two former partners always
seemed invariably linked in the minds of anyone who knew the legendary old
UNCLE team. Some joint operation in Istanbul as he recalled. The details of the
mission were a blur of distance and time. It had been a nasty case involving an
OSI agent and the KGB. Illya and Napoleon, in fact, had helped him with several
assignments after their resignation from UNCLE. An energetic campaign to
recruit them into his organization had failed, but as independent spies they
had been generous enough to aid him occasionally because of his old friendship
with Solo. They had also assisted their mutual friend Steve McGarrett out in
Hawaii a few times, he recollected.
Then in January came the telegram from
Kuryakin that Solo had been killed. He had lost touch with the ex-UNCLE agent
after that. The Russian had not returned his calls and he had given up trying
to locate Illya. At the time he couldn't spare the attention to investigate
since he had his hands full in the OSI. Work was all Goldman had in his life --
a sad commentary he shared with his fellow Korean veterans Solo and McGarrett.
Now that Solo was dead Kuryakin typically retreated as far away as possible
from the world. He wondered why the enigmatic Russian was surfacing now.
***
It was after normal shop hours the next
evening when Goldman arrived in
"Oscar, good of you to come."
"Illya. It's been a long time. How are
you?"
Assessing the expensive conference suite,
the rich furnishings and priceless art, he knew that the former spy was doing
very well indeed. Money was something
Kuryakin and Solo never seemed to lack after they left UNCLE. Knowing the Russian understood his complete
meaning emotionally, he wasn't surprised when Kuryakin brushed aside a personal
assessment.
"Well, as you can see," was the
dour reply.
"Yes," Oscar quipped sarcastically.
"I can see you're as rich as Midas. I knew Vanya's had a lot of hype, but
I thought it was just a distraction, an investment. It's more, isn't it? This is -- is
-- you." he evaluated, nodding with understanding. "Your
foxhole."
With a piercing glare, Illya confirmed the revelation. Goldman accepted the unique double-life with aplomb, understanding the need for privacy. They all had their individual ways of coping with the life and death stress of their surreptitious professions. He was, after all, in the covert business and secrecy was his byword.
"So how are you? On a personal level, I
mean."
He ignored the inquiry. "I am sure you
wonder why I have contacted you after ignoring you these past months." The
Russian offered him a seat at a long table, and a drink. "I have been
doing research and hope you can help."
There were stacks of file folders, loose
papers and photographs on the table. Illya explained they were dossiers of
colleagues, in various agencies who had died in the last decade. Of all these
operatives, none of the bodies were ever recovered and all died in some kind of
explosion where no positive identification could ever be made, even if some
parts of bodies were reclaimed. The files were arranged according to date, the
earliest ones on top. Near the bottom of the stack was a photo and file on
Napoleon Solo. Goldman stopped.
Obviously the Russian wished to avoid any
personal intrusion, but the older man would have none of the evasiveness.
"What's this all about, Illya? Don't you think you should level with me,
pal?"
The Russian couldn't take his eyes off the
black and white photo of the well-known face of his former partner. "I can
still hear his voice." The quiet, plaintive confession hung in the silent
room. "On most days he's as close to me as my shadow. As if it was
yesterday . . . "
'. . I believe in yesterday . . . .'
came the theme automatically in his thoughts. The haunting, regretful ballad
was his song, the poetry of his wounded soul. The lyrics eloquently spoke the
cries he could never voice.
Focusing on business, he flipped the photo
over and rubbed his face in his hands. "Top agents from every organization
in the free world, and a few from the KGB and NKVD, and a few -- a few independent
agents," his voice grated to a halt. Clearing his throat, he stared at the
glass of vodka in front of him. "They have died mysteriously.”
“Illya --“
“Agents with more in common than similar
deaths and missing bodies." He focused on his guest. "All of these
agents were top notch, but they were disenchanted with their organizations and
quitting, or ready to quit. In Napoleon's case, HAD quit -- thrown out -- to be
specific in his instance."
Though Oscar knew it would be painful, he turned
over the photo of Solo and stared at the familiar image. "I know your
break from UNCLE was a bad one. Napoleon was ousted from UNCLE, you resigned,
after a very nasty debacle a few years back. You're saying someone was out to
get these disaffected agents? Why not you, then? You quit."
Kuryakin gulped hard. "The last few
years in UNCLE were not easy for us -- for Napoleon." His trembling voice
barely rose above a whisper. "We were involved in some bitter assignments
-- then a final betrayal. He was so tired of the disillusionment, the death.
Napoleon was chewed up and spit out. I went with him, of course. We were very
successful in the fashion business, but Napoleon craved the peril of living on
the edge. So did I. He, however, needed to prove he still had the
talent, the nerve. Frequently we worked as free-lance operatives, you
know." A smile played, then died quickly on his lips. "Just like old
times. And he was right, it was more fun than fashions." Kuryakin turned
the picture back over to face the table. "Nothing lasts forever."
Gently his fingers tapped the upside-down photo.
Goldman cleared his throat as an overt
reminder that he was still awaiting an explanation. He knew this was tough on
Kuryakin -- tough on them both -- but he needed to know what was going on.
"I know you didn't need the money. Napoleon had that Swiss account from
the time he went undercover as an assassin."
A grim, near-smile fleeted across his pale
lips. "They paid him well to be an assassin. Did he tell you he came away
with part of the cartel's bank account, too?"
Oscar grinned fondly. "That sounds like
Napoleon. Sneaky was his middle name."
Abruptly shoving the files away, Illya
walked over to a set of windows across the room. Waving a hand, dismissing the
past, his voice cracked and he took several breaths. His shoulders shook and he
steadied himself against the windowpane. "Life was very good, very
prosperous." His eyes closed. "Very good. For such a brief time."
Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to continue. "Napoleon fought so
hard to regain his life. To prove he still had courage. And he did."
"He seemed pretty stable last time I
saw him."
Illya sobered instantly, his sigh a shudder
that coursed his whole body. "The memories of the rough times -- the
terror, the injuries, the torture -- the anguish -- time faded the sharpest
edges on those recollections from our covert past. He couldn't stop playing
with fire." Guiltily he flashed a smirk. "We couldn't
stop. I was as addicted to the adventure as Napoleon. Being independent operatives turned out to be
more fun than our time in UNCLE. We could accept or deny any assignment, earn
countless piles of money to stash in our Swiss accounts with the already
obscene amounts we had acquired." He released a withering sigh. "We
ignored the past peril, the former pain. But lived fighting the fear. It was
all such a bizarre game. Until we ran out of luck. Then I was left alone with
only the loss."
The soft, regrettable day in Ireland was
with him always, only a miserable thought away:
====
Rain pelted the
windows. They had hovered in the car most of the night, watching the castle,
expecting to sight a buyer for the mercenary weapons. Solo pulled the collar of
his coat closer around his neck. The chill was more than just the weather, and
both felt it with every moment ticking closer to the time for action.
"Maybe you're
right."
"Of course."
He scowled tartly.
"Maybe we're getting too old for this," Solo sighed, rubbing his
eyes. "I forgot how unpleasant stake outs can be."
"You said it, not
me. Does that mean after this you want to retire?"
Solo's smirk.
"And give up all this?"
"We have more
money than even you can spend. We are not as young as we used to be . . .
." He shook his head. "You know my real reasons. The risks are too
great. What is the amusement in that?"
Solo's tone and
expression grew grim. "If I can get through this, Illya, maybe it will be
enough."
Illya hardly dared to
believe it, but jumped at the possibility. He would gladly give up the
edge of excitement that came with the danger, if they could leave the constant
threat behind. Boredom for safety? As the perched on the edge of
yet another life-and-death event he eagerly accepted an alternative to this
agony. "You will have your proof?
You’ll be convinced you still have mettle or whatever it is you are
looking for? You will be content?"
"I'm not sure I
can answer that."
Illya sighed with
negativity. "You don't mean it, Napoleon. You would be bored to death in
two weeks.”
The American was
instantly defensive. “So would you.”
"We’re not
talking about me. Sometimes I wonder if
you really want any peace of mind."
"I do."
"Then prove
it."
Persuasively, Napoleon
rose to the challenge. "I will try." He attempted to lighten the
dreary mood. "You have your music, your dabbling in the Vanya clothing
business. I have my fast women, beautiful cars and stylish clothes."
Obviously feeling confident in his predictions, he laughed, the charm oozing
from his impulsive smile and the twinkle momentarily dancing in his eyes again.
"We could expand your fashion magic around the globe. Uncle Illya's
boutique in
The challenge was
crisp and curt. "If you were serious I'd take that bet."
Napoleon turned back
toward his partner, eyebrows raised in mute speculation.
He took a gamble,
hoping to bluff his live-by-luck partner. "For six months?"
"Really?"
Solo nodded. "Wager?”
“Name it.”
"That new
Aston-Martin convertible --"
Don't be too eager,
but don't let this opening pass you by. Show reluctance . . ."A car! A
year for a car."
"Deal. I'd like
mine in gun-metal grey."
"Can't let go of
the reminders of UNCLE, eh? As usual, you are overly confident, Napoleon. If
you fail, be sure to order mine in blue."
Solo's expression was
smug. "In a year I will remind you of this conversation. When we’re
sitting on a sunny beach in the South Pacific.
And you write the check for my new car."
A black Rolls Royce
drove past them and into the drive of the castle. Kuryakin gulped down the fear
that snaked up his throat. Show time. The moment of truth when they faced
down death just one last time to achieve a lasting reward. Just one more time
. . . .
“Time to go.”
Illya fished in his
pocket and removed a British crown. One more chance to remove the sharpest
danger from his friend. "Flip for who goes in to face the dragon of the
citadel and who's the back up?"
Solo’s scowl was
dark. “You know I have to do this.”
"Let me go," Kuryakin hastily volunteered, striving to keep the desperation out of his tone and expression.
Solo shook his head,
face serious, but eyes bright with anticipation, with the thrill of the chase,
with optimism and confidence for a new future. "Stop being over
protective. I need to prove I can get through this, Illya. Then I promise I'm
going to try and make peace with myself. With all my ugly doubts."
Reluctantly Kuryakin
agreed to move to the snugly warm pub and wait while his partner impersonated a
weapons dealer and made the initial foray into the castle. It was a simple
recon mission. Reconnoiter the castle, discover if Matheson and his mercenary
army of recruits were there, and leave to inform McCall. Let the CIA take out
these killers. Just make the ID, that's all. Napoleon could do it.
Solo took a deep
breath. "Okay, I play the buyer and you get to be back up. Just remember
to stay awake."
"You remember to
stay alert. All the fun has gone out of rescuing you."
====
The air was moist, the
rain clinging in the atmosphere rather than drizzling from the sky. The
temperature was cool. Kuryakin
had taken a window seat at a pub with a view of the picturesque estate. Solo drove
the rental car up to the castle to meet the contact. Alone.
The last conversation
between them was a quick communicator message. Napoleon was entering the
castle. He hesitantly admitted to a measure of trepidation, mingled with the
daring thrill of courting peril. Illya could hear it in the tight, but
playfully arrogant tone of the deep voice, but was not so insensitive as to
mention vulnerabilities aloud.
"Wish me
luck," Napoleon asked.
The quip came
naturally, impulsively. "You are already far too conceited, you don't need
me to wish you luck."
"You're just
jealous. Don't wait up for me, I might be late."
The open communicator
signal was sketchy within the depths of the castle. It lent tension to the
procedure, but nothing Illya heard caused him to believe there was a problem.
Then the channel went dead.
There had been no time
to act -- just the rumble of an explosion. Surrounded by the wail of sirens.
Kuryakin had raced along the street with the villagers and other spectators. He
watched in horror at the fiery flames and pops of detonations from the castle.
When the fires
subsided he had tirelessly joined the search and rescue teams. The local
authorities called it a tragic accident -- gas leak. Two days later, on another
soft, wet day, he had agreed with the conclusions of the officials -- no
survivors, no stragglers appearing in hospitals or morgues. No one escaped the
castle alive. No one -- not even Napoleon Solo.
====
For years his heart trembled at the thought
of losing Napoleon. Always the unspoken
torment that Solo would -- as he often did -- throw himself into the path of
danger to save Kuryakin and one day it would cause his death. Secret hauntings
gave Illya nightmares even while awake -- how could he continue to live with himself
if Napoleon died saving his life?
Then when Napoleon was murdered there was no
drama, no self-sacrifice, yet it was every bit as painful and devastating as he
had expected -- no -- worse -- nothing could be imagined as deeply, as
completely, as the pain of real death. He could blame himself for not being
more forceful --demanding Solo not indulge in the games anymore. There were
self-condemnations for choosing safety and allowing his friend to walk the path
of danger alone. He remonstrated that some magical sixth sense had not
forewarned them of disaster, or alerted him to Solo's peril. None of the
hindsight helped, not even the guilt. He berated himself for not wishing his
friend good luck, superstitious that it was his fault he jinxed the mission.
Often he wished -- prayed -- that Napoleon
would haunt him. Not in the ever-present nightmares that were his nearly
constant sleeping companions. No, a real, unearthly haunting, so the
devastation, in some small measure, could be diminished. Alas, even that had
been withheld from Illya. In the end he had only the suffering, that was at
once both desolatingly empty, yet engulfingly encompassing.
Consumed by anguish, Kuryakin spent
countless nights lying awake, occasionally allowing the depression to review methods
of his own demise. What reason was there for living? The guilt of not being
able to stop Napoleon -- stop himself -- from the adventures whispered
blame. The remorse at not turning his
friend away from that last, desperate mission, shadowed his conscience like a
phantom.
Then the culpability would fade and he would not follow through with the morbid suicide plots. He could not give up. In the back of his mind -- however ridiculous -- without Solo's body as proof -- he could not fully accept Napoleon's death. What if, by some miracle, Solo was alive, and Illya surrendered to the temptation to end the suffering? Napoleon would never forgive him.
Now, in light of these new possibilities, he
wondered if maybe his sixth sense had been working, just a little, after all.
It had not been enough to warn him of disaster, but it was enough to keep him
enduring in misery until hope returned. Until now. Was he grasping at phantoms
of ethereal optimism? Perhaps. If so, the failure would be
crushing. Not so much different than every day since Solo's death.
"Illya? Are you all right, pal?"
Coming out of his stupor, glancing again at
Goldman he shrugged. "We couldn't give up the thrill of the job, the
addiction to danger. Then that last mission to Ireland," he whispered. He
drew in a heavy breath. "As you remember, we were investigating a
mercenary arms center funded by a former British officer named Matheson. He was
suspected of running his own little private army. Such mercenaries had given us
trouble on a few missions. We thought it a good idea to eradicate the threat at
the source. I was back up, to provide a
diversion if necessary. Napoleon went in to reconnoiter under the guise of a
buyer. The fire that triggered the gas explosions was supposedly an accident, but
I knew better. There was nothing left. Of anything."
There was no comfort offered, no words to be
given that would not denigrate from the intense, poignant confession. Illya had
probably told no one this much detail, and Goldman understood the pain it cost
the Russian. Goldman never talked about his inner pain. Spies were not people
who were forthcoming with emotions. Relationships were rare, and trusted
friendships or partnerships were valued above all else. He had those bonds with
few people in his life. Illya had forged those strong bonds only with Solo.
Goldman went back to sorting through the
files, giving his friend time to recover. He confirmed what Illya had initially
told him in the telegram months ago -- that revenge was complete: Matheson killed
in the explosion along with Napoleon. End of the trail. Illya had worked with
Robert McCall, their old colleague from CIA, to discover where the mercenaries
were going, or some of Matheson's contacts, but had found nothing. Until Steve
McGarrett's missing person.
"This fellow, Winters, was from
"Interesting."
"It gets better. This is someone known
to Steve, and you know Steve is not given to fantasy. Winters was reported dead
in
Oscar recognized some of the faces in the
reports -- some of the names. He also noticed another pattern beyond the two
links Illya had mentioned. All these dead agents had been killed in the
Clouded with his own emotions at the loss of
Solo, Goldman found the suspicions obscure.
He wondered what Kuryakin was after. A conspiracy to kill former
intelligence agents? The thought seemed far-fetched, and voiced his skepticism. "I find
this hard to believe, Illya," he finally admitted after some discussion.
"Not kill," Kuryakin corrected in
a low, dangerous tone. "Capture recalcitrant, rebellious agents. Trouble operatives. Retrain them. Re-released
as hired mercenaries or assassins." He pushed some photos over. "A
few of these men and women have turned up in hot spots around the globe.
They've been spotted by old informants, but have never contacted friends.
Napoleon and I were even threatened by an ex-UNCLE agent. Doesn’t that suggest
reconditioning? Perhaps brainwashing? What does that sound like to you? And what better target than Napoleon, who
went through a very visible expulsion from UNCLE and was known to have been
involved with the assassination cartel." {fanfic -- THIS ONE’S FOR YOU AFFAIR}
"Old enemies with long
memories," Goldman offered simply.
"Organized, methodical retraining! A
re-indoctrination camp!"
"Attitude adjustment prison." Eyes
widening with comprehension and awful dread, Oscar shook his head. "No,
not Tartarus."
Sentiment and grief now pushed away, raw
threat colored the Russian's cold blue eyes. "Tartarus. The mythical Hell
of malcontent spies where rebellious agents are sent for discipline -- torture
-- reprogramming. What better place to recruit mercenaries?"
"You think the explosion of an entire
castle was rigged to cover up Napoleon's kidnapping? To take him to Tartarus?
Why?”
“I already told you, we have caused a great
deal of trouble. Napoleon was already
living out there as an assassin before.
Perhaps they thought he could be trained for their use again.”
Goldman was unconvinced. “Tartarus is a fable. A nightmare dreamed up
by superstitious operatives."
Kuryakin's lethal tone was filled with grim
resolve. "In the last months of rebuilding his life, Napoleon thought he
was being followed. What if he was targeted by the people who run Tartarus?
What if they saw how well he fit in undercover as an assassin?"
"Illya --"
The tenacious, adamant Russian overrode him.
"I believe the mercenary trail we were tracking was a conscription army of
recruits from Tartarus. They have been clever and cunning for years, but they
became greedy or sloppy. Or more likely
they panicked. We were getting too
close. Their control was slipping. Once I knew what to look for the trail
became rather obvious. Napoleon stumbled onto something there in the castle
that they couldn't allow him to reveal. Or it was specifically a trap for him."
"Illya, this is fantastic --"
"I believe it," he intently
countered with a sharp dart of certainty. “They faked his death and absorbed
him into the system. I surmise Tartarus is a very tangibly real Hell. And I
believe I will find Napoleon there."
III
"Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far
away.
Now it looks as though they're here to
stay."
The dream returned.
Because he knew it was a dream he felt in control. If desired, he could change
the dream , but he never tried anymore. More than a memory, it now served as a
precursor of purgatory. Less than a life, more than a phantasm -- a nightmare
-- his existence could only be described as residence in Netherworld.
The illusion/past/dream was a multi-colored montage of events leading
down to Hell. UNCLE had been a different abyss at the end, forcing him to
leave. Kuryakin had left with him. He thought he remembered the date --
sometime in '75 maybe -- but dates were relative now. Meaningless in a sea of
mundane greyness. Time meant something in the outside world -- the real world
-- but here in limbo dates served only to mark the past -- what had been --
what may never be again.
In full and living color he remembered his last days in reality:
Breakfast in
The person he never forgot was his only anchor for sanity.
Illya -- he was behind, in the mist. Solo had gone ahead -- big house. He
had evidence -- discovered shocking links to the man in the castle -- Then a
bright light barely preceded a numbing explosion. Memory blurred and confusion
replaced sanity.
Napoleon Solo transformed into an occasional being at that point. For a
long time he didn't know who he was or what had happened. Existence became a
grey-bland room with no windows and a sealed door. Drugs, mind conditioning,
perception distortion followed in a blur of timeless experiences. Day, night,
reality; identity slowly erased, melded and rearranged in a quasi-existence
created as his new world. After some unknown space of duration he emerged into
a manufactured town in a controlled prison populated with former spies -- some
of whom he knew from that other, former, altered dimension.
Slowly, painfully, an innate instinct for survival, or perhaps his own
strength of individuality bounced back. Napoleon Solo would not be repressed.
It was a small victory that he had retained an identity. Memories and identity fragmented back into a
semblance of a whole picture. The mental
and emotional being, however, remained splintered and incomplete. Pieces were
still missing. For some time he didn't care. None of his little victories
mattered, because Illya wasn't with him. Illya was gone. So his focus for life
shifted to another goal. Find Illya.
Occasionally he yet wondered why he was the only UNCLE agent -- former
UNCLE agent -- that he had ever seen here. Or that he remembered seeing. The
thoughts of colleagues rarely drifted through his head anymore. At first he
used them as rational barriers against the invasion of his mind. It seemed to
help -- his thoughts remained his own for a long time in captivity. Then the
disorientation overshadowed the logic. His UNCLE hypnotic blocks designed to
avert brainwashing -- or brain draining -- by enemies were crushed. After he
left UNCLE some of those blocks must have remained intact, because he had
remembered some of the others imprisoned here. No one had recognized him except
Briggs. Then the walls cracked -- never crumbled -- but damaged enough that his
identity started to slip away again. To his captors, at least, he became
something else -- not a person, just a number.
Time -- a fluid concept that no longer held significance -- slipped away
in a daze. The past held no more anchors, footholds, or even benchmarks. Only a
single light appeared at the very end of the long, thin tunnel that was his
recollection. That mainstay was the single inspiration -- a blond Russian that
he could still see within his ravaged senses.
Tartarus, he remembered was the euphemistic name for the limbo where
radical, insubordinate spies were sent for retraining, for experiments. Long
ago he had known the title of Tartarus, this hellish habitat. Perhaps years
past. Impossible to tell. With the drugs and continual monitoring it was
hopeless. Distortion of reality was a favored tool to mind control.
Many of his colleagues were mind-wiped -- nothing more than zombies. Some
were bland and colorless, hardly retaining any personality. A few, like him,
had retained some perspective, some rebellion. For them the torture never
stopped. Solo willingly accepted the harsh life as an acceptable trade for his
memories. As long as he could recall the outside world -- Illya -- he felt he
still existed. If that ever ended he would be erased and no longer live. At least his keepers did not know he
remembered something of his past. They thought he was one of the mindless
robots awaiting . . . something.
For a while the population of the town had been dwindling. At first he
suspected it was the retrained agents who were shipped out for missions as
mindless automatons used for assassinations, mercenary work, some controlled
army of killing machines. Then the absences increased, the decay of Tartarus
escalated, and he began to suspect something more sinister than what he had
been living with in this altered dimension.
Allowed outside the sterile prison cell, Solo strolled along a dirty
sidewalk. Hands in the pockets of his trousers, he shivered against the wind coming
off what he thought of as the
During his imprisonment here, Tartarus had deteriorated. Food, clothing,
medical treatment were in short supply. Torture methods were cruder. When ill
prisoners left for the infirmary they never came back. Most telling of all --
security had, literally -- gone to the dogs. Limited patrol canines were now
replacing the once incredibly high-tech perimeter defenses.
From some ethereal page in history he recollected the concentration camps
at the end of World War Two. The allies
arrived at the camps after the Germans fled and let everything unravel,
focusing on saving their own skins. He also remembered in those dark last days
of the Reich many prisoners had been executed rather than allow them to confess
the tortures suffered at the hands of their captors. Enough intellect and survival instinct
remained to alert him that his days were extremely limited if he didn't do
something quickly to gain his freedom. There had been numerous attempts, of
course, but each time he had been caught and beaten back to a level of
submission where he physically and emotionally could not make the attempt
again. Not for a while anyway.
Ahead on the walkway, a grey-haired man hunched over a broom. Solo stopped to sit on a rickety bench,
waiting for the man to sweep by his patch of the sidewalk.
"Did you save the meat?"
Solo pressed his lips together. "Mmm-huh," he sighed
affirmatively. "Ready for tonight. Anyone else coming?"
"No." Dan Briggs slowly moved on past Solo, continuing to
sweep.
"Did you tell them the signs? This place is going to fold. Any day.
I know it." He looked around,
wary of surveillance. No telling who was watching.
"Every instinct tells me the same thing," Briggs confirmed
quietly as he shuffled around the bench. "No one else can handle it,
Napoleon." Furtively he glanced around to assure no one heard him use a
real name. Names were not allowed within this camp. Only numbers; emphasizing the prisoners were no longer
Humans, just slaves. This old colleague was the only one Solo called by a real
name. The only other one he could trust. "Just five of us want to take the
risk."
During their prison stay they had both found a few others who could remember
the outside, could remember their names or pasts, but very few. And of those
who had a shred of identity left, there were hardly any who were willing to
take the risk of another escape attempt.
Solo had barely survived the punishment of his few failed attempts -- he
couldn't remember how many. For one more desperate chance he had scraped
together what inner courage he could find to make a last fight for freedom.
"Don't they understand?" His voice rang with quiet despair.
"Yes. A grave is better than
this death."
With a short nod Solo slowly came to his feet and ambled away. "
The meandering gait was no act. Every bone and muscle was sore from the
abuse handed out by the keepers. Chemical and physical torture had defined
every day of his stay here -- however many days those were. Perhaps because of
the UNCLE training -- perhaps his own innate stubbornness -- he retained a
semblance of mental and physical acuity. Hopefully there was enough instinct,
skill and passion for survival left in him to live through the escape tonight.
One more mission, that's all he needed to survive. Then it was home free, he
kept telling himself, home free. Back to Illya.
Napoleon was surprised more of their fellow prisoners wouldn't join them.
In a spy Hellhole filled with renegades, nonconformists and malcontents who had
fought the system, he would have expected more rebellion. Well, after years of
captivity, disorientation and torture some were not the same. Many could not
endure the torment exacted from the retraining. All of them here had done their
share of unraveling the fabric of the spy networks around the world, but
anarchy here was different -- so incredibly painful both physically and emotionally. Often he wondered
why the keepers did not just kill them. He no longer cared about the answer. He
had survived. Tonight he, Dan and three others
would return to whatever was left of the world outside. Was Illya still
there somewhere? Certainly his old partner must believe him dead now. Or was Kuryakin looking for him? By this time tomorrow he might know. It was
the only goal that kept him alive.
For a short time Solo stayed near the beach watching the surf. From the
corner of his eye he noted the patrol dogs and masters strolling along the
perimeter by the sea rocks to the south. It was the weakest point of the
defense. It was where they would escape tonight.
IV
"You better run for you life if you can .
. ."
Oscar spread the data sheets across the
tabletop. "I went back to the beginning, the myth, if you will, of
Tartarus." The luxurious penthouse was transformed into a
central hub of paper work, maps and manila files. Various photographs and bios
of agents littered tables, chairs and sofas. "It's quite a sordid past. A
lot of this I didn't know until you got me going on it last week."
Familiar names and faces were on some of the
pages and Kuryakin studied them with a chill of distaste. After World War Two
several top intelligence operatives split off from the
Among the names of American and British founders
-- Alexander Waverly, Jonathan and Clara Williams and -- Douglas and Emily
Thornton! --Napoleon's grandparents! Illya began to imagine terrible
conspiracies swirling around his friend. He had known for many years that
Napoleon had spying in his blood. Could it go deeper than that? He didn't even
know what he was grasping at, but felt a foreboding of more evil revelations.
Then Illya suddenly slammed his fist on a
picture of two men wearing the uniforms of the Royal Navy. One had
close-cropped grey hair. One had a distinctive scar near the left eyebrow.
"Matheson!" Illya stabbed the
image of the scar-faced man.
Goldman studied the file on the two
distinguished-looking men. "Matheson. Captain, retired. The man you
investigated in
"Yes. Matheson and Trevor. Foundation
members of MI6 and founders of Tartarus!" Illya's voice tight, his face
pale.
"Illya --"
"You see, Napoleon went into the castle
in
"Information about Tartarus?"
"Yes. He must have connected things
instantly. Perhaps Trevor was even
there. Matheson could not allow that to
get out. What more ironic and fitting punishment than to send Napoleon there!
To the purgatory he had discovered!"
Goldman was skeptical. "Matheson is
dead!"
"Deaths can be faked." Silently Illya
cursed himself for losing faith in his instincts, in Solo. He should have
known, through some sixth sense that connected him to his partner, that
Napoleon was still alive. How could he give up?
Without a body there was probably not a death. Grief had blinded him.
And skilled maneuvering. Their opponents had been very good, but now he was
onto them. "I should have never been so easily beguiled."
"They blew up a castle!" came
Oscar's incredulous retort. "Pretty extreme. And why? Why fake Matheson's
death and Napoleon's? Why still keep Tartarus? Why keep it such a secret?"
Speculating, Kuryakin offered several
theories: to keep spies in line, to have tough test subjects. Some spies could
be easily retrained to be mercenaries, to kill for the right price. And those
who didn't conform? They could be sadistically punished, tortured, broken down
so if they could not work for the system they would at least be used for the
system. And none who knew would ever
reveal the secret of Tartarus. If confronted by Matheson and Trevor in their
lair, they would have recognized Solo immediately. Napoleon would have to be killed, or became a
prime subject for capture.
"This is just too fantastic,
Illya," Oscar shook his head.
"Sickening," he countered tersely.
"After all Napoleon went through for UNCLE, he was stalked and captured by
these animals." His voice was hardly a whisper, but rang with certainty.
"And I have allowed him to stay there for almost a year. Because I was too
blind to see the clues right in front of my face."
“Sounds like you’ve convinced yourself,” he
sighed. "What do you want to
do?" Goldman asked quietly.
"We're going to find Trevor and then
Napoleon."
V
"I'm not half the man I used to be."
Too tense to sleep, Solo sat near the metal door, his ear pressed against
the coldness for most of the night, straining to hear the pattern of the guard
patrols. What worried him was the lack of activity outside. No barking dogs, no
marching feet. The defense patterns had changed and it concerned him. Had they
found out about the escape? Briggs had been badly tortured during his
captivity. Had they seen him as a weak link? Did he break? Without the pattern
of patrols, how would they know when it was midnight? When to meet? With no
windows, it would be impossible. Worse -- was it too late? Had the expected
purge come too early? Had they started executing prisoners? No! Not when he was
about to escape! Fate could not be so cruel!
The ground trembled, then shook, a wave of blasting sound and heat
ripping into the room. The door slammed into him, flattening Solo to the floor.
Dazed, reeling from the concussion, he failed to move after the next explosion.
This one sent slabs of steel and plaster raining around him but he was
protected by the door. Knowing there would be more to follow -- he had been
through this before -- he guessed the explosions would keep coming.
With agonizing effort he clawed out from under the heavy door. Then he staggered, ran from the cell,
pummeled by falling debris as he lurched through the corridor. Going through the damaged portion of the
complex, he stumbled and fell, at last finding a still free hallway leading to
the back. The next blast knocked him off his feet, trapping his leg in a
crevice.
From behind someone grabbed his shoulders. "The place is going up,
hurry!" Dan Briggs tugged him free and he limped after the fellow spy.
“Did you see -- anyone else?” Solo coughed through the dust.
“Maybe six others. They ran. Don’t know where. Couldn’t tell who they were. Too much dust.” It was a running explanation as they tripped
over partial walls and dodged collapsing ceilings. “Maybe some made it.”
Once outside they scrambled into the bushes edging the sidewalks, then
over to some rocks. From there they followed a rock-lined stream along the side
of a mountain backing the Town. Gunfire rippled behind them. Several times they
had to stop when they spotted canine patrols nearby. Verged with adrenaline and fear, they watched
in horror as the few people emerging from the fiery building were shot down,
their bodies dragged into the nearby ocean. Alert to the armed guards, they
waited until another few prisoners were shot and taken to the sea, leaving the
south rocks free.
In the flickering backdrop of flames they clamored over the rocks and
into the icy ocean. The numbing water was freezing, but they only had to stay
in it until they walked/swam over the rocks. Once on the other side they
climbed up a rocky beach and into a dense forest. Ignoring the cold; the fear
of recapture or immanent death drove them on, finding reserves they had
forgotten they harbored. They didn't stop until they came to an open field and
a sturdy stone wall. After hurtling over to the other side of the rocks, they collapsed and fell into exhausted sleep.
VI
"It's been a long time now I'm coming back
home.
I've been away now, oh how, I've been
alone."
"I think you've gone mad."
Being the head of OSI, Goldman had no
jurisdiction or time to devote to the investigation of the phantom penal colony
Tartarus. Nor to search for sightings of Solo, or others, on the presumed dead
list. Having returned to
Anyone in the spy business could have
offered an explanation for his “madness” and Kuryakin supplied it to the Harts.
Once a spy left the brotherhood they were automatically a danger to the covert
community. Some were taken out by assassination. Some were too dangerous to
tamper with and were left alone. Some were a lot of trouble and were snatched
for retraining -- to be examples to others not to be so rebellious. In these
tense cold war times a seasoned operative could be programmed, bent, into an
amoral machine to take on nasty, even suicide missions. The possibilities were
numerous.
When Napoleon, probably, stumbled onto
evidence at Trevor's castle in
Kuryakin handled the insult to his
sanity with barely a flicker of his cool
expression. Having explained the fantastic plot to Jonathan and Jennifer Hart,
Rollin and Cinnamon, he sat back in the comfortable, cushiony sofa of the
Hand's swank
Laying out the photos and the data sheets,
he pounded his audience with facts. As expected they were cynical. Hart was the
first to voice his disparagement.
"This sounds like a CIA boogie man
story," Jonathan opinioned gently. "You don't really expect us to
believe it, do you?"
"What other theory do you have to fit
the facts?" Illya countered reasonably, unaffected by the opposition.
Jennifer admitted that during her time in
UNCLE there had been rumors, but reluctantly she divulged there had never been
any stronger indication other than office gossip.
"How can we find out?" Rollin
wondered.
Cinnamon nodded her concurrence. "I'd
like to believe it's true."
A soft mantle of relief settled on
Kuryakin's nerves. He had them hooked. They would agree to his set up out of
the desire to know the truth to the tantalizing doubts he had planted. And,
because the quest for adventure never left any spy, they would be in it for the
thrill of catching the bad guys. In this case, their opponents had struck into
their very souls. Now they would not rest until justice was done and their
comrades safely back among them.
"I have a little plan . . . . "
***
"Do you remember how to pick a lock?"
Briggs shook his head. "Not without breaking the mechanism." He
held out palms that shook in the dim reflection of pre-dawn light. Longingly he
gazed down at the small cottage nestled in the rolling hills of the country in
rural
Solo folded his shivering hands into tight fists. Doubtful he still
possessed his former efficiency in breaking and entering, he didn't want his
companion to see his trembling. He had no idea where they were, but knew that
shelter, food and clean clothes were there below in the empty house. In return
for those inestimable luxuries, were the horrible threats of capture.
"We need food to survive." Briggs critically studied the former
UNCLE man. "You're not in very good shape, Napoleon."
Licking his dry, cracked lips, Napoleon pondered the escapade, weighing
the options, aware that he was taking far too long to come up with the obvious
and only answer. But he couldn't bring himself to take the risk. Capture --
arrest by the police -- might mean they
would be turned over to the Tantalus guards again. Back at the prison he had
vowed he would accept death before
recapture. He maintained that insistence.
Impatiently Briggs reminded they had seen the man and woman of the house
leave some time before. Probably commuters who were catching a train bound for
Solo bit his lip in indecision. Slowly he nodded his assent, forcing
himself to agree to prove he still had the nerve to go through with this
escapade. And impelled by the realization that the only way to find Illya again
was to survive long enough to get to civilization. Not for the first time he
recognized that he had no idea where Illya would be, how much time had passed
since his disappearance, or if they would even make it to London -- the easiest
spot to hide and make contact with friends. He knew, though, that he had to
try. Staring at his hands, he willed his nerves to steady, the mind to ignore
the cold, the misery, and the fear. He
had to see this through.
"I can get us in the door. Maybe we can find some spare change or
something, too."
"Nothing big."
"No. And when we get back to the real world we'll have Illya send
them some money."
For the first time in recent memory, Briggs smiled.
***
In their elegant box at the theatre,
Kuryakin watched the people flow into the elegant main hall. Down below, in the inexpensive seats, crowds
of patrons ambled to their seats. The boxes on the upper level were filling
with expensively dressed aristocracy and the just plain rich. Few of the
attendees would be as magnificently dressed as the people sharing his opera
box, though, he smugly admitted. With his usual attention to detail he had
assured the women accompanying him, and the men as well, were dressed in some
of his most understated, but chic clothing. They were here to be noticed; his
drama played out in the foreground of a tragic opera.
An older, but well toned, grey-haired man
with a close-cropped beard, arrived. He
was accompanied by a grey-haired, slight woman.
Several other obviously aristocratic people filed into the box behind
the couple. They stared at Kuryakin and his companions with no
effort to disguise their effrontery.
"I say, who are you?"
On cue, Rollin Hand stood up and gave a
friendly smile. "Rollin Hand, sir. Allow me to introduce my wife, Cinnamon
Carter."
The beautiful actress and her handsome
husband were elegance itself and the slight British woman stepped forward.
"Oh, the theatre actors. We saw your play twice this season. Wonderfully
done."
The larger man cleared his throat.
"Maude, we have not been introduced."
Rollin Hand gestured to Mr. and Mrs. Hart,
also introducing them. There were flickers of recognition from the British
peers. Most people in-the-money knew the famous industrialist and his
jet-setting journalist wife. Maude, however, was staring at Illya, who inside
smiled with secret satisfaction. Few would know who he was on sight, but he had
bet Lady Trevor would. Silently gloating that he was right, he remained
aloof and cool.
"And you are Mr. Vanya," she
squeaked with delight. The excitement of meeting a fashion mogul had
transcended her practiced breeding and thrown etiquette to the wind. It eclipsed meeting a millionaire or actor
celebrities. "I would know you
anywhere." She glanced at Mrs. Hart and Cinnamon Carter. "Are these
some of your latest fashions? I am overwhelmed, sir."
Standing, Kuryakin gave a nod, keeping his
expression mysteriously closed and cryptic. "Charmed."
Trevor, forced to cover for his wife's
social blunder, introduced himself as Sir Trevor and his wife Lady Maude
Trevor. Now back in control of the situation he cleared his throat and informed
them that they had the wrong box. This was his box! Before he could demand they
leave Maude intervened and asked the interlopers to stay. Graciously, Hand
accepted for all of them. Before the opera started, Lady Trevor gained promises
from all of the newcomers that they would dine at the Trevor's
When the curtain opened Kuryakin's lips twitched in a display of evil delight. Patience was a virtue that had been well practiced in his spy career. While his nerves were sizzling with anxiety to find his friend, he knew this plot could not be rushed. Time was critical in opposing directions.
There had been so little time since Napoleon's ejection from UNCLE until his arranged death. Now Solo was suffering in a prison camp and Illya had to play these games of social maneuvering. The first aria started and Kuryakin sighed. He could endure this, he promised himself. He would endure anything, even sitting through an opera and a peer’s dinner party. He could balance the urgency, the frustration, with deliberate pacing. Tonight was one step closer to finding Napoleon.
***
Huddled in a small, derelict cottage on a hill, the fugitive possessed a
commanding view of the little town below. Briggs didn’t know the name of the town.
It didn’t matter. The hamlet boasted a small railway station where several
people stood silently on the wooden platform as dark sentinels against the
foggy morning. The wanderer had arrived there before any trace of sun in the
dreary sky and had crept down to read the schedule printed on a board by the
ticket house. An early train to
Over the last few days of their escape, he and Solo had traveled slowly
and circumspectly across the English countryside. Curious psychological
patterns had emerged -- divergent, unusual traits from each former agent.
Briggs, a prisoner in the camp for numerous years, had been timid and withdrawn
about the escape plan, while Solo had been anxious to flee since his arrival at
Tartarus.
Now that they were free, Briggs emerged to his former personality --
shrewd, cunning and daring to take chances. Solo, last time Dan saw him, was
digressing into a paranoid, overly cautious survivor who was terrified of being
captured again. Thus their separation. Briggs had chosen to try the more
populated areas of this rural shire to find a faster way back to
Dan now regretted the separation. Strength in numbers, hadn't he always
believed that working for IMF? Separately the former spies were now at greater
risk. And there was the question of loyalty -- he owed Solo his life and
freedom. How could he abandon the former UNCLE man? Because even his loyalty
was not enough to counter the drive to get to safety. And safe haven was in
To survive in the wilds they had resorted to pilfering lone houses that
were obviously empty -- probably owned by weekend owners or people who traveled
to
Briggs couldn’t wait. Seeing the opportunity to catch a fast-track to
VII
"I said something wrong
now I long for yesterday."
The Trevor dinner party ended up being a
small gathering with nearly twenty of her closest friends. Obviously the
British peer could not refrain from bragging about her new acquaintance with
Mr. Vanya and some famous Americans. During the entire evening Sir Trevor eyed
him with veiled suspicion.
After dinner Illya circulated through the
wealthy, powerful and aristocratic cream of British society. Maude was never
far from his side and he manipulated the attention to his own ends. Before long
his hostess, about ten of her friends and Kuryakin, were in the upstairs
sitting room planning formal wear for Maude's upcoming night at the Queen's
Christmas party.
While Illya provided a suitable distraction
for most of the women, the men were entertained by some song and dance numbers
performed by Rollin and Cinnamon in the main drawing room. That gave Jonathan
and Jennifer Hart the chance to slip away to Sir Trevor's private study.
Jonathan had managed to secure the
blueprints of the home from the security chief of Hart Industries. His
multi-million dollar business required a security staff equal to a police force
and they were not without talent. With his background in Naval Intelligence to
draw on, Jonathan knew the right people to employ. Just the year before he
might have hired Illya and Napoleon for such information. Now he relied on his
own staff.
Without notice, Hart left the impromptu
concert and slipped upstairs, ostensibly to have a smoke. He had a Cuban cigar
in his jacket pocket just in case anyone asked. Jennifer slipped away from
Illya's fashion lecture and joined her husband in the study.
"We don't have much time,"
Jennifer whispered.
Hart was already searching the bookshelves
for a safe. "There's an alarm here," he sighed in frustration.
"What about the desk?"
When he turned, she held up a hairpin in her
hand, then quickly replaced it in her wavy hair. "Simple. The desk is an
antique. They didn't have very good locks in those days."
Quickly they shuffled through the various
drawers.
"Ah," Jonathan smiled and pulled
out the middle, side drawer. "False bottom."
They pulled out a folder with MI6 markings.
Thumbing through they quickly realized this might be the information they were
after. Trevor owned a "factory" on the coast of
They slipped into the upstairs parlor where
Illya was still dazzling the crowd with possibilities of winter gowns. He
acknowledged his partners-in-crime with a slight nod, then finished his
presentation. Excusing himself, he begged off to order a drink from the butler.
Sir Reginald Trevor had come up behind the
Harts and blocked Illya's exit. "I check everyone's credentials before
they come into my home, sir. You were very familiar to me, Mr. Vanya," he
accused in a low voice. "Because that isn't your real name, is it?"
Kuryakin's smile was mirthless and tight.
"A celebrity affectation."
"But you are Russian." He stood
intimidatingly close to the much slighter blond man. "And once you were an
uncle." Emphasis on the last word made his meaning unmistakable.
Glaring at the man, Illya bubbled inside
with a stinging retort. Maude's appearance prevented more veiled threats as she
took her husband's arm. "Mr. Vanya has deigned to create a stunning gown
for me for the Queen's ball, Reginald."
The peer's smile was vicious. "Speaking
of fashion, do you always wear black?"
Illya hoped his eyes expressed the warning,
icy glare he tried to throw at the insufferable peer. "Appropriate for any
occasion. And it goes with everything."
Trevor's smile was a grim line. "Perhaps
you're in mourning for an -- uncle."
Very still, hardly breathing, Kuryakin knew
he stood before a man who had all the answers he sought. Trevor knew him, knew
Napoleon and in all probability knew where Napoleon was at this very moment.
Unless, and his blood chilled at the thought, that Solo was already dead and
Trevor knew that as well.
Trevor’s smiled was cold. "A dead and gone brother."
Kuryakin would not take the bait. He would
not accept -- now that he had rediscovered what hope could be -- that Napoleon
was really dead. "I have only one brother." The words were clipped,
dangerous. "He's on an extended holiday. I expect him back. Safely
back. Soon."
Trevor's thin lips grimaced. "Pity we
don't always achieve what we expect. Some things are better left dead and
buried."
"What are you two talking about?"
Maude interrupted, flustered at the exchange. "Are you in mourning, Mr.
Vanya? My condolences. Did you know his brother, Reginald? You never told
me."
Trevor continued to stare at Kuryakin as he
answered, "A long time ago, dear. I had no idea Mr. Vanya was -- related
to the deceased -- until now."
"Imagine having mutual friends,"
she tsked in reproof. To the others she explained, "Most of Reginald's
friends are dreary government types. He never hinted he knew such illustrious
celebrities." She waved at someone in the corridor. "Now, you must
excuse us, Mr. Vanya, Mr. and Mrs. Hart. Some of our guests are leaving and I
must say my farewells."
"I'm afraid we must be leaving as
well," Hart bowed slightly and took Jennifer by one arm and Illya by the
other. "Mr. Vanya is working on a charity assignment for us tomorrow and
we start early in the morning."
Illya resisted, but Jonathan gripped his arm
with a crushing force and pushed him along, whispering urgent cooperation until
they were out of the house.
Jennifer bade a dramatic goodbye, Sir Trevor
keeping a circumspect eye on Kuryakin as the group left. They were hardly out
the door when Kuryakin quietly, acidly, cursed the millionaire for making him
leave. When they reached Hart's limo the Russian was still raving. Left on his own, for another few minutes, he
could have beat the information out of Trevor! The Harts cautioned that public
attacks against peers of the realm were not going to help their cause. Hand and Carter joined them at the car.
Illya simmered in sizzling anger. As soon as the guests left he would return
and apply slow torture until Trevor spilled everything! Calming the threats,
Jonathan revealed what they had learned. He assured Kuryakin they did not need
to use violence.
"I'm afraid I must," Illya
countered in a low, frosty demand. "Trevor is alerted. He could kill
Napoleon and Dan and destroy Tartarus. We must make our move now!"
Jennifer put a hand on his arm. "He made it sound as if Napoleon is already dead."
"I will not believe that."
While they argued, Rollin noticed a red
Aston-Martin pull out of the townhouse garage. Always observant of flashy cars,
he assured them that Trevor was at the wheel, and a man with a scar on his face
in the passenger seat. Matheson, Illya confirmed. He snapped on the intercom and ordered the
limo driver to follow the sports car. By the time the ponderous luxury
automobile turned around on the rain-slick street, and reached the corner, the Aston-Martin
was gone. In frustrated rage, Illya pounded on the seat and muttered Russian
curses.
Kuryakin refused to believe his friend was
dead. Matheson was alive -- Napoleon HAD to be alive as well. The castle
explosion was to destroy evidence of the mercenary headquarters and to cover
Solo's abduction. The proof warmed the Russian's cold soul, but still inwardly
shivered with fear that their efforts would be too late.
"We still know where he's going." Illya ordered
the limo driver to take them back to Vanya's. "I have sufficient supplies
there. I can be on the move within the hour."
Jonathan picked up the car phone. "I'll
get my chopper ready to go."
During the cross town drive Kuryakin
nervously tapped his fist on his knee. He was so close. Trevor had the head
start, though, and every minute could mean the difference between life and
death for his friend.
VIII
"There is no one compares with you."
Not sure how long it had been since Dan Briggs left, Solo realized time
was still a daze for him. Huddled in a tool barn he scrunched down in the straw
and muffled a cough into the sleeve of a worn jacket. Pilfering houses that
were empty during the day, he had acquired some necessities along the way. The
stolen clothes and coat didn't keep out the cold very well. Neither did the
cold food he managed to take from a few kitchens as he made his way south.
Never too much, never the same house twice. So far he had crossed a lot of
country without detection.
He should have followed Dan's example and hopped a train for
***
"There is no reason for you to
come!" Kuryakin refused to look at his guests. Packing fatigues and other
cold weather gear into a small backpack, he had no desire to face his
irritating friends. "You were not invited." He punched the bag as he
stuffed outer coats and unspecified weapons into the large canvas knapsack.
"I am the one who lost him." His voice trembled and he took a breath
to steady it, backing it with stern resolve. "This is my
responsibility."
Dressed in dark, warm clothing, the Harts
did not look any bit the socialite
Kuryakin snorted. "This is not a
game."
"In case you've forgotten, we've had
some experience at this," Jennifer countered sharply. "We know our
way around covert ops."
Throwing the backpack toward the door of his
spartan apartment overlooking
Hart made a noise of disapproval.
"We're not going to slow you down, Illya. And what about Rollin and
Cinnamon? They'll want to be in on --"
"They are ACTORS!" Kuryakin dismayed
in alarm. "They haven't been in the field in years! I am not risking their
lives on this."
"They should be included."
"This is not a garden party!"
Staring at the other two, Kuryakin nearly growled at them. "This is the
most important operation I will ever undertake. Nothing can go wrong. I will
allow nothing at all to deter me," he emphasized harshly, " or to
jeopardize Napoleon's rescue. Not even your lives." The coldness of his
heart reached his voice, his eyes. "I will not fail in this."
"We can take care of ourselves,"
Jonathan promised. "Now, we've got a company helicopter standing by at
Heathrow. Let's go."
With a sour snarl he handed Hart some maps
and charts. "Study these on the way. I assume you're flying?"
"I had planned on it."
"Good. The less people involved the
better."
Hart was incredulous. "How were you
planning on rescuing Napoleon? A lone commando against an entire prison
camp?"
"Sometimes solo --" he grimaced.
"Sometimes solitary missions are best," he stumbled, momentary emotion
clouding him. He was hardly one to talk
about professionalism. The emotions
rippling though his nerves could prove fatal to everyone concerned. It was so difficult to focus. After so much grief he was on the brink of
finding his friend alive and the cold aloof nettle of old did not completely
mask the turmoil within. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he hefted a backpack.
"I have some little surprise packages to help." His eyes narrowed at
the other two. "I do not need assistance."
"Well we're going anyway,"
Jonathan firmly insisted.
Jennifer put out a hand toward the Russian.
At his cool stare she retracted it, but the sympathy was betrayed in her eyes.
"You don't even know if Napoleon is there. If he's alive." Without
comment Kuryakin turned away and busied himself with more preparations.
"No matter what happens, Illya," Jennifer continued softly,
"we'll be here for you."
"At least Rollin and Cinnamon won't be
here." Once more he shot them a fleeting glare of disapproval. "I'm
surprised you didn't invite your whole alma mater."
Jennifer responded to the dour sarcasm with
a grin. "Steve and Oscar were busy, otherwise we could have had quite a
little party."
Kuryakin grabbed another pack and started
out the door. "Then I shall be thankful for small favors."
IX
"Now I need a place to hide away. . .
"
The helicopter droned over the low rise in
the nearly open landscape of the British countryside. There was no moon and
Hart navigated by instrumentation, occasionally straying power lines, then
dropping back down to skim the earth.
With too much time to think, his thoughts
strayed to what might be ahead.
Such cold-blooded training on an extensive
scale would take talent and money. The theory behind Tartarus was that it was a
retraining camp, funded with slush money from numerous countries and
organizations. No one knew where it might be or if it really existed. Then the
Harts found the secret papers in Trevor's desk. According to one of the maps
the installation was not a factory but an old, secret military base on the
north coast of
In some ways the tracing of Tartarus was easy once on he trail. Were the leaders getting sloppy? That boded well for him. And Napoleon. Perhaps, if they were no longer so efficient, Solo was surviving well in the camp. Again, he shied from thinking too much about his friend's condition under torture and prolonged captivity. First, he had to rescue Solo, then they would worry about recovery.
Staring out at the dark sheet of
Hart landed the expensive craft on a narrow
stretch of sand fronting a rocky beach. Over two rises, then the base. The cold night wind off the
All along Kuryakin had intended this to be a
small operation, because their need for secrecy was so great. If one word of
their suspicions slipped to the wrong people -- and Illya trusted no one --
then it could mean their deaths -- Napoleon's death. So it was agreed Illya
would handle the covert, most dangerous part of the infiltration, using the
Harts as his back up. So similar to the
plan Solo and Kuryakin had devised on that fateful day over a year before. This
time the Russian vowed to himself the outcome would be different.
Barbed wire near the top of a line of rocks
was their first positive indication that they were right this time. Crawling
forward they cautiously peered above the rise. Illya drew in a sharp breath.
Nothing. Flat land and beach stretched before him. No base. No buildings. No
people. Sitting up, he scanned the area with night-vision binoculars.
Desolation.
"What happened?" Jennifer
whispered. "Did we get it wrong again?"
Jonathan’s hand hovered near the fence. Then he threw his weapon onto the wire with
no affect. He then grabbed onto a piece
of wire to test it. "No. This is charged barbed wire without an electrical
charge. They were protecting something important here." He glanced at the
silent Russian. “Not anymore.”
The quiet pronouncement nearly faded on the
wind. The words almost drowned out by
the thunderous pounding of his heart.
Scrambling up, Kuryakin dashed over the wire and raced across the rocks.
Scanning with a flashlight he found foundations of large buildings along the
flat land beyond the beach. Cleared dirt indicated everything but the blackened
concrete slabs had been burned, then wiped away. Jennifer found some evidence
of charred plants and Jonathan found some burnt wood scraps. As far as they
could see in the former camp there was indication of the structures being
completely and deliberately destroyed.
“How did they have time?” Jennifer whispered
in stunned disbelief.
The base had been decimated -- nothing left.
Illya felt his legs go weak and he folded into the sand. Inside he felt as
crushed as the singed and splintered remnants around him. He had rebuilt his
hopes, his dreams around this fantasy. Now that expectation was as cold as the
sea. The base could have been destroyed last week or last year. It didn't
matter now. It only mattered that if his friend had been alive long enough to
be captured and imprisoned here, then Solo had met with a final end anyway.
Whether here or in
"This happened recently, but not since
Trevor fled from the dinner party," Jonathan concluded roughly. "A
few weeks maybe.” He placed a gentle
hand on Illya’s shoulder. The obvious
observation was choked with emotion.
“We're too late."
The destruction did, however, matter a great
deal to Kuryakin. Slowly the cold anguish altered to anger, to a direction that
would push away the pain. Someone was responsible for faking Napoleon's death
and sending him here to be killed. Whoever was responsible they would pay,
Illya vowed to himself. For the rest of his life he would track down and
destroy the ones guilty of this. Those
responsible for killing Napoleon twice.
He would find and kill those monsters who had made him suffer beyond
anything he could have ever imagined.
Jennifer sank down in the sand next to him.
She was shaking. Or was it him? Sniffling back the tears, she tried to console
him. He didn't understand the words. They were drowned out by the buzz of
white-hot wrath and the passion for vengeance filling his senses. He had been
too late again. Had the games with Trevor precipitated the destruction of
Tartarus? Had Trevor known, long before the meeting at the theatre, that he was
searching for Napoleon? That seemed a
strange theory, but if so, then this time he really HAD killed his friend.
Someday he might have to face that incredible torture, but not now. From this
moment on he would focus on his mission.
His friends, Napoleon's friends, would utilize their formidable skills and connections. Rollin, Cinnamon, the Harts, Oscar, McCall. The same people he trusted with Napoleon's life he would entrust with this sacred revenge. They would find those responsible -- the supporters and minions of Tartarus. He would discover what really happened to his friend. Then he would kill all those accountable for taking Solo away from him.
X
"In my life I loved you more."
November 1978
Overseeing the winter line for Vanya’s was a
formality with Kuryakin. Still acting as a figurehead for the fashion house,
Illya no longer did much of the work. Able designers, promoters and assistants
handled the mundane tasks of business. Kuryakin's focus for the last weeks had
been to find the people responsible for Tartarus. Since finding the destroyed base days
earlier, his obsession was slightly altered.
Trevor was the main target of course, but
there were others. Those shielding him. The peer had not been seen since the
night of the dinner party. Illya had interrogated Maude. He had burglarized the
townhouse. He had tapped phones. No luck. Trevor's old cronies were obviously
hiding him. The old spy must have known he was onto the destruction of Tartarus.
By deduction Reginald must have realized he would be Illya's objective now.
In the back of his mind was the crushing
guilt that if he had not buried himself away for so long he might have figured
out this convoluted plot sooner. He MIGHT have saved Napoleon. Might-haves held
no comfort.
The hope that had surged inside briefly had
been collapsed completely. Now there was a carefully shielded barrier around
his emotions. No more vain fantasies about plots and mercenaries. There was
only the focus of hunting down those enemies in his sights.
Tracking black projects and invisible
operatives was tough and slow going. Being naturally suspicious Illya had
started with some of the UNCLE people who had forced Solo out. They might be a
bit obvious, but the malice against Solo was certainly there. Illya was the
only one devoting full time to the search and destroy mission and so his
meticulous work was proceeding at a pace far too slow for him.
His
On this day, however, the strain, the lack
of sleep, the depression weighed on him like a stone about his neck. It was
difficult to concentrate and in frustration he shoved aside the mountain of
papers and crossed to the window to stare out at the bleak winter haze settled
over the metropolis. Just down the street workmen were placing a sign
proclaiming a Vanya event. The elegance of the picture struck him and he
winced, ashamed of the utter decadence he now represented with his vocation.
As a young boy enduring the cruelly bitter extremes
of Russian winters, fleeing from Nazi oppression, he had barely had enough to
keep him alive. He could not have imagined such luxury, let alone dreamed he
would one day live within it's opulent succor. Now he was rich beyond his
wildest dreams and more miserable than those dark days when he hid in the
wilderness with the gypsies and feared the German troops. All of the affluence,
prestige and comfort he would trade away instantly to relive just one minute of
his past: That dreadful, fateful moment when he and Napoleon waited in the car
outside the castle. If only he could recall that fraction of time and stop the
mission.
His executive assistant, Mrs. Woods, called
him over the intercom. Reluctantly he crossed to the desk and pushed around
masses of paper to find the speaker. He hesitated, not sure he wanted to talk
to anyone about anything. Why couldn't the world just leave him alone? Enough
responsibility seeped through his conscience to remind him that others depended
upon him. He would deal with this and then return to his cocoon
of melancholy.
"Yes?"
"An urgent call for you from Mr. Hand.
He said it's not about the commercial shoot next week --"
"I'll take it," Illya interrupted and
dashed to the nearest phone. Information about his quest perhaps. Quelling his
excitement he yanked up the receiver. "Yes?"
"Illya, get over to our flat right
now."
The urgency and emotion in Rollin Hand's
voice impelled him to obey without question. "I'll be right there."
Rushing past Mrs. Woods he told her he was
leaving for the day. Traci, a stunning, scantily clad model blocked him, nearly
throwing herself into his arms, pouting that he had ignored her too much and
owed her an intimate dinner. He pushed her aside, telling her their rendezvous
would have to wait -- indefinitely.
Running across the street toward his Jaguar,
from the corner of his eye, Illya almost-too-late noted the red sports car
speeding right toward him. He leaped the last few steps, landing on a taxi,
avoiding being hit by the car with only seconds to spare. By the time he rolled
to his feet the little car was gone.
"Blimey, that was a close one!"
The taxi driver held onto his arm and helped him to his feet. "Are you all right?"
"Fine," Illya assured after he
caught his breath. "Did you see the car?"
"Couldn't miss it. A little
Aston-Martin. Bright red, it was, mate."
Kuryakin nodded, a pleased grin snaking
across his lips. "Yes, I thought so. A good sign. I must be very close."
"What?" the confused man asked.
"Never mind."
Crossing town in record time he tossed the
Jaguar keys to the apartment commissionaire and raced to the lift. Tapping his
foot he waited for what seemed forever for the lift to reach the third floor.
Knocking at the correct door, Rollin Hand immediately answered it and pulled
Kuryakin inside.
"What happened to you?" he
wondered in alarm, fingering the rip in Kuryakin's damaged and dirty coat.
"A red Aston-Martin. We are getting
close," he grimly smiled.
Rollin cleared his throat. "Closer than
you think."
He guided the Russian into the living room.
Next to Cinnamon Carter, sitting on the sofa, was a bedraggled, nearly
unrecognizable, thin and grey-haired, grey-bearded figure.
"Hello, Illya."
Illya gasped, realizing it was really whom
he thought. The voice confirmed this wrecked man was a long lost colleague.
"Dan Briggs."
The man smiled in self-depreciation. "I
think so. For a while I wasn't sure." His face sobered and the brown,
haunted eyes turned sad. "I was lost. Then someone pulled me out of the
confusion and gave me hope." His voice faltered. "Napoleon."
After a moment Illya coughed to breathe
again. His shaking fists were tightly clenched, his muscles rigid in taut
control. He hardly dared to believe. Couldn't believe. Not yet. "He's
alive?" Weakly he fell into the nearest chair. "Alive?" Logic and
self-preservation whispered to him to deny the wild fantasy. He had endured the
agony of accepting Solo's death twice this year. Could he survive the crushing
blow if he discovered Briggs was wrong? Desperate for any possible glimmer of
hope, Illya hungrily plunged into the illusion that the former spy offered him.
"Can he be alive?"
"I hope so," Briggs nodded.
"When I last saw him he was alive. He engineered an escape. We were
prisoners for a long time." Lost for several seconds, he stared at
nothing, then finally looked back at the stunned Russian. "Escape. Na -- Napoleon -- he plotted. We escaped.
We went to ground in the countryside until we changed our appearances --
you know -- beards, stolen clothes.
Together -- we stayed together for several days. Maybe it was longer. I
can't be sure."
"Dan," Kuryakin urged, restraining
himself from shaking the man to his senses. "He was all right when you left
him? Where was he? Why isn't he with you?"
Briggs shook his head, drifting again into a
mysterious mental netherworld. "It was too dangerous to travel in tandem.
And we had different methods . . . . so
we went our separate ways."
"You left him!"
"Illya," Rollin restrained,
clutching onto his shoulder. "Calm down."
Inhaling, exhaling, Kuryakin tried to
contain his urgency. He didn’t want to
spook the poor guy, but he needed to know!
He shrugged away from the constraint. Renewed faith spurred energy into
his stunned brain and he sat on the floor near Briggs.
"Tell me everything you remember."
The detached man did not respond and Illya
moved into his line of sight. Straining to be gentle and patient, he tried
again in a relatively calm and level tone, mostly concealing the fiery
anticipation that danced through his nerves.
"Dan, tell me about Napoleon."
"Illya --"
The Russian waved away Carter's concerned
interruption.
"Where you were, what you did --"
he took a breath and tried again. "Please, Dan, you must tell me
everything. I need to find Napoleon!"
Rollin retrieved a small cassette recorder
and placed it on the coffee table. Cinnamon stopped him from starting the machine.
"Don't you think he's been through
enough? You have to let him rest."
"Napoleon is out there waiting for me
to find him!" Illya glared at her, then Briggs, with intent, with tough
resolve. "Every minute could work against us. Trevor knows we're after
him. What if he knows Napoleon is alive?" The pleading in his tone was not
masked, the desperation clearly snapping out his words. "I must find
him!"
"I want to help him," Dan offered
blearily, his hands shaking. "Let me do something to help."
Cinnamon was clearly unhappy, but deferred
to the anxious Briggs. "If you think you can assist," she frowned her
approval, then turned to Kuryakin. "But he needs some rest and a decent
meal."
"Call room service," Illya
suggested and pushed the recorder closer, setting it to start taping.
"Please, every detail you can remember, Dan."
With a deep sigh, Briggs began his story.
"We got out just in time. They were going to shut down Tartarus. We knew
that. We escaped the night they razed the place." He shook his
head. "Napoleon -- he wasn't in good shape." He connected eye contact
with the Russian. "Scared. And sick. I hope you find him soon."
Illya didn't want to think about narrow
escapes and coincidence and near misses. Too much of that already clouded his
mind. Now he focused on what he should have never lost sight of -- finding
Napoleon. Because as always, nothing mattered but getting Solo back into his
life.
XI
"The long and winding road that leads to
your door. Will never disappear
I've seen that road before. It always leads me
here,
leads me to your door."
Shivering, Napoleon sat on a bench in a deserted
park that overlooked an intersection in a quaint suburb of
The police station was across the street from the bus
stop and he made sure he sat in the farthest shadows so no one would notice
him. The police could be part of the
conspiracy and he could not trust them, could not risk being picked up. They might turn him over to his enemies. At best, they might arrest him for petty
theft or something. Jail. He couldn’t abide captivity again. The cops
must be avoided at all costs.
Digging in some trash bins last night, however,
changed things. He had found a magazine with Illya’s picture in it. Heartened that he still remembered how to
read, he had been delighted at the caption under the photo:
Mr. Vanya,
after his most recent triumphant fashion show, was hard at work on his next
project, at his
He checked the stolen watch he kept in his
pocket. Almost time for the bus to
The man in the trench coat disappeared into a sleek,
dark blue Jaguar
Leaping to his feet, Solo stumbled and tumbled down
the hill.
Within seconds the car roared to life and pulled
away from the curb. The sports car was
momentarily illuminated under the headlights of the London-bound bus that
pulled up then.
By the time he rolled onto the sidewalk he was
aching and coughing so hard he could only come to his knees.
“Illya,” he whispered, crying out in despair and
hurt.
A black sedan came to life and entered the small
road, following the Jaguar. Solo covered
his mouth with a trembling hand so no betraying sounds would escape, so his
enemies would not hear. They were
following Illya. He was here --
why? He couldn’t understand what his
partner was doing out here. But they
were following his friend. They knew he
had escaped Tantalus. He could not let Illya know he was here. He could not seek out Kuryakin as long as
they were out there looking for him. The caution and fear HAD been real! He
could not go home. But if he could not return to
***
Sipping brandy, Illya looked out the window
of his London flat, seeing beyond the blurred raindrops on the glass. In his heart
he was roaming the countryside, still pursuing traces of Napoleon's trek
through
He was so close only two days ago. Not far from
The amazing reprieve of hope was thanks to
Briggs, and Illya clutched onto the desperate faith of finding his friend
alive. It had sustained him through the
black despair that had shadowed him for so long. Harsh reality often dampened
his expectations, however, failure reminding him how impossible this task of
rescue seemed.
Dan's illness only made Illya more anxious.
Napoleon (in bad condition to begin with according to Briggs) was living rough,
stealing food and money and trying to survive as a derelict. He was out there alone and disoriented,
confused and afraid. The damp and cold
of the English winter could well kill him.
How could he find his way back alone? More afraid of recapture than
death by exposure, Briggs said they had decided on the slow sojourn through the
country as the prudent route back to civilization. Immediately after their
escape -- if they were noticed escaping -- their closest friends would be watched.
It would not be safe to contact anyone for weeks.
Illya had been watched. Often he was followed, but he made sure he
lost the tail before he went far out of
Trevor was still in hiding, but he and
Matheson must know the search for Tantalus survivors was in full force. Did those former Tantalus fiends know Briggs
and Solo had escaped? Or were they
simply following him and the Harts, hoping they did not discover the dark
secrets hidden for so long? There had
been no more attempts on his life. Trevor was nervous about Kuryakin, not about
Solo being alive.
The Harts had taken over the investigation
to find Trevor. Rollin and Cinnamon escorted Briggs on the few excursions they
took outside of London. Mostly it was Kuryakin searching on his own, vainly
trying to guess where his partner had sought refuge.
This search was made slightly easier for one
who, in his childhood, learned the deft arts of disguise, subterfuge and
elusive flight. Since he knew Napoleon better than anyone else on earth he
should have been able to second-guess his friend. But according to Briggs Solo
was not completely the same. There had been damage to his memory, his psyche,
his soul during his catastrophic tenure in Tantalus.
Worst of all, Napoleon didn't know his old
partner was trying to find him. So he yet wandered the countryside -- hopefully
-- slowly making his way to
Constantly checking hospitals and private
physicians between the coast and
Fatigued, discouraged, on this late,
miserable night he was reevaluating methods -- wasting time! here -- while
Napoleon was lost, abandoned and -- solo -- out there in the cold. Kuryakin
finished off the brandy with a quick gulp. He couldn’t question that his friend
was still alive -- he could not withstand Solo's real death now that they were
so close. He had to believe, had to maintain the faith that the American would
be found soon. Or even make it to
With a wry twitch of a near-smile Illya
gazed at the flashy billboard that he could see just down the street. It
proclaimed an upcoming charity event at Vanya's. The advertisements were
everywhere around town and if Solo made it here he would know where to find
him. So until Briggs could travel again there was little else he could do
except blindly strike out into rural
In despair he placed a palm against the cold
glass, as if trying to reach out in the darkness for inspiration. If only, by
some magic, by his will, his desperate force of resolution could find
Solo. If only he could divine the right
spot in the vast misty wilderness, or the bustling confusion of
A movement on the street caught his eye and
he saw a shadowy form on the sidewalk near the corner. Tensed with instinctive
wariness, dropping his hand, Illya drew back into the darkness of the
room. Soon he relaxed as he examined the
figure. From the looks of the man he was a derelict in a shabby coat and a
floppy hat. In the past weeks Illya had found an unusual pocket of compassion
for such vagabonds. Somewhere in the rough country his closest friend was a
wandering lost soul. He couldn't see one of these downtrodden street people and
not think of Napoleon.
He looked down at the vagrant and realized
the man was staring up at him. Then the man walked out into the street, in the
midst of the soft rain, and removed his hat. Blinking, Illya wanted to believe
the strange illusion -- the vision of what he wanted most to see. Haggard,
bearded, shaggy-haired -- the figure could have been Solo. The man smiled.
Illya's heart stopped.
"Napoleon."
In an instant he was running out the office
and racing down the stairs -- the lift would have been much too slow. His heart
pounded quicker than his legs and he flew down, erupting from the stairwell, into
the lobby, and out into the street. As he half expected the man was gone, no
longer there. A cruel delusion after all, he silently cursed -- a phantom from
his imagination.
Before he heard anything he felt the
presence beside him.
"Illya."
A thready whisper borne on the pelting rain.
A nearly unrecognized plea hissing on the night air.
Out of the shadows stepped the worn, soaked
form of Napoleon Solo, who stumbled into the arms of Kuryakin. Shaking, Illya
held his friend tight, afraid the tangible dream would vanish at any moment.
Drenching, drizzling rain washed them like cascading tears. They held the
mutual support until Solo's trembling turned to teeth-chattering shivers.
Belatedly Kuryakin realized the danger to be
out in the open like this. They made an easy target for those who did not want
survivors from Tartarus. Unable to speak yet, Illya clutched him tightly and
steered the way into the secure building and to the lift.
Unusually pale, Solo was nearly
unrecognizable -- noticeably greying hair, and a salt-and-pepper beard covered
a wan face. Napoleon's breathing was tight and rattling, accompanied by
wracking coughs. Illya didn't like the shape his friend was in but pushed aside
the diagnosis for the moment. All the way to the top floor penthouse he did not
release the shivering refugee, nor did he speak.
Twice this year he had lost Napoleon to what
he thought was death. Having him back was what he had desired most. Now that
the reality was upon him reactions were instinctive. He stared, as did Solo,
not knowing what to say, knowing there was no need for words. They simply held
onto each other -- mutual lifelines -- and reveled in the tangible miracle of
their reunion.
Once in the warm and comfortable penthouse
rooms Kuryakin regained a sense of practicality when Solo nearly collapsed.
Directing them to the sofa he plopped them down into the plush cushions. The
blazing fire in the close grate wasn't enough to ward off the soppy cold.
“It took you long enough.”
A cough nearly definable as a hoarse laugh
croaked out.
The grim reminder of Napoleon’s dire health
sobered him. "We must get you
dry." Fall back on something practical and normal he decided as he slowly
regained some semblance of reason. "I have blankets," he supplied
inanely.
Head leaning against the back of the couch,
Solo shook his head. "Tired."
"You've crossed half the country,
Napoleon! You're already sick." Numb shock shrouded the hysteria that
surged through his system. The assessment startled him. Subconsciously he realized
his friend's pallid lips, wheezing lungs and cold skin could mean pneumonia.
Alarmed, shaking, recognizing his emotions were out of control, he strove for
calm logic, for mundane routine. "Sitting around in wet clothes won't
help." He stood and mostly shoved the exhausted man from the sofa.
"Come on. Get out of those rags. You'll be a lot more comfortable. I'll
make up your old guest room."
In the spare bedroom that had been sealed
closed since the “death” Illya quickly lit a fire. Then he grabbed a blanket and a robe kept in
the wardrobe, bouncing through the tasks with agitated energy. It made him
unsettled being out of sight of his friend even though he knew Napoleon was
just on the other side of the wall. Was he going insane? He had to get a grip!
When he returned he was almost superstitiously relieved his friend was still
there -- not a phantom -- but real.
Disappointment filtered in, though, to note
the hunched, trembling Solo had not moved from his spot by the grate. In the
dripping, tattered clothes Napoleon seemed desperately ill -- lost. Kuryakin
gulped down a moan and approached his friend with gentle resolve.
"Come on, let's get you dry." Solo
didn't move. Illya thought back to that first encounter with Dan Briggs. It had
taken endurance, persistence and care to get the damaged ex-captive back to
near normal. He reminded himself he had to take his time. Napoleon was back
with him, alive, there was no need to give in to the desperation and fear
anymore. "I'll help," he offered gently. When he grabbed for the
threadbare coat Solo pulled away. "What's wrong?"
Staring down at the floor, Solo shook his
head. "No. No." His voice cracked and coughed. "I can't stay
here."
Curling his arms into the folds of the robe,
Illya suppressed the tremble of alarm dancing across his skin. "Why?"
His throat was dry with dread. What had they done to his friend? How great was
the damage that managed such a gap between two partners who had shared pain,
torture and recuperation over the years? The forced composure was balanced on
the thin edge of panic. "Whatever it is, Napoleon --" he paused,
letting his instincts guide his words. " -- you are safe here. You can
still trust me. Please, trust me."
Clutching his sides as if in pain, a snort
of a grin was surrendered. Closing his eyes, Solo bitterly laughed in a
coughing, hoarse whisper as tears seeped from the corners of his eyes.
"They won. I couldn't fight them."
"You did," Illya countered
shakily, tightly holding back the moans of anguish that surged at his tongue.
The suffering his friend had endured was unthinkable, and there had to be a way
to heal. For both of them. How could he start that when they were both so
shattered? "You're here right now," he said more firmly, allowing
honesty to guide his bolstering words.
He had to build on the positive, progress from where they were now.
"And that is the most important thing to me. I hope it's important to
you." No response. At a loss, he spoke the truth that bubbled up
from raw anxiety. “I know it is. You’re here.
You found me.”
“I wanted --“ he wheezed “-- to come -- home.”
The relief of the reality -- the winning
against incredible odds washed over him.
With a voice reflecting security and gratitude, he assured, “You are
home now.”
Solo nodded slowly. "You're all -- I have." Wincing, he
drew in a breath. "I don't want -- you can't know -- know what they
did." He rolled onto the floor and crawled toward the fire. The voice a
trembling grate. "You're -- only one -- cares." More tears coursed
down his wan face. “I’m afraid -- for
you -- too weak -- I couldn’t stay away.”
Exhaling sharply, Illya was choked with cold anguish and numbing dread. Focused on what was important, he tried to instill that faith in his tone. The compassion and loss he felt easily transmitted into the warm tenderness of his words.
"I’m glad you didn’t stay away. There is nothing to fear, Napoleon. And yes, I care about what happens to
you," he promised as he crouched down next to his friend. "Don't
think about what happened before. Whatever you went through was terrible,
Napoleon. That is over. Now is the time to take your life back. I am here to
help." To emphasize his resolve he pulled Solo toward him and wrapped him
in the large robe, hugging him tightly. "We will do that together, my
friend. I will allow nothing to pull us apart ever again."
Solo nodded.
They sat there for a long time, Illya unwilling to release the stranglehold on the friend who had been so excruciatingly missed and was now returned. Unable to find words of comfort, he let the moments tick by and allowed the security and warmth of the surroundings to penetrate the shattered escapee's nerves. His own nerves.
The shivering, unfortunately, seemed to have
less bearing on the emotional state and much on Solo's depleted physical
condition. Napoleon still needed dry clothes and rest, then some medical
attention. Without comment, slowly, Kuryakin rose to his feet and pulled his
friend up, still supporting him, then guided them toward the guest-room.
In the bright light of the room he saw
Solo's face was sunken, his eyes secluded in dark hollows of hardship. There
were scratches and a few scars on the face. From the stiff way he had moved
Kuryakin was guessing at some injuries that might be serious. What had they
done to him? In a moment Illya would find out and he steeled himself for the
harsh physical remnants of prolonged imprisonment and torture.
Staying the anxiety he focused on the
immediate. They had been through torment and pain before and drudged past it.
Usually by ignoring it. He hoped that worked this time, but he doubted they
would be able to dismiss this trauma so easily. "Let's get you warm. Then
I bet you could use a decent drink."
Napoleon smiled -- a shadow of his former
charismatic grin -- but at least a lighter expression that softened his ragged
appearance. "I could." The voice was strained, subdued, punctuated
with a cough.
Again, only a trace of the past resonance
Illya had come to depend on for decades, but the vestige of natural Solo
personality eased his anxieties. He swept aside the negatives. His friend had
just returned from the dead. For the moment there had to be only joy in this
reunion. Reality would not be ignored, but perhaps they could mask it, disguise
it until they could cope with it all.
He directed Solo to sit on the edge of the
bed. "Sit here by the fire." He started to peel off the bedraggled
jacket and the American shied away. "Napoleon, we have to get you warmed
up. You're freezing."
With an accepting nod Solo shrugged out of
the jacket with lethargic motions. Shedding the wet clothes, piece by piece, he
moved slowly with increasingly labored breathing. Illya hurried him along,
obliquely noting the scarred exhibits of wounds. Notably welts and abrasions covered
his wrists, arms, chest and ankles. Restraint injuries. Evidence of beatings --
whippings. Illya winced at the vicious, obvious evidence of merciless torture.
Self-consciously Napoleon clung to the robe and Illya wrapped him snugly.
"A lot of mileage."
"It's all right," the Russian
assured gently. "You're safe now."
Solo coughed again. "Dan? Okay?"
"Fine. He's been helping search for
you."
Solo nodded, pleased at the news, then was
wracked with paralyzing coughs.
The glowing elation of the reunion was
slipping back to severe reality very quickly. Kuryakin took charge, as he often
had, when his friend was too wounded or ill to take care of himself. Gritting
his feelings against the past torments endured by Solo -- not asking -- he
decided Solo would have to be the one to choose if he wanted to talk about the
brutal treatment. Folding the thick robe
closer around Napoleon, Illya pushed several pillows into a pile and instructed
him to rest, drying the thick, dark hair with a towel.
"I'm going to call
Rushing to his room and changing into a dry
sweatshirt, he dashed back to the sitting room and distractedly dialed a
familiar number. It was just barely after
Why was he so amazed at Napoleon's condition? For most of the year Solo had been held in a concentration camp for spies. What kind of reconditioning did he expect? Of course they would have used any physical, psychological or hallucinogenic method to achieve their means of destroying and altering minds, bodies and disciplines.
Napoleon had endured torture before and
rarely succumbed to the violent persuasions. It would be agonizing to bear the
convalescence with him. But in their shared dangers over the years, hadn't
Illya pledged his life -- vowed loyalty literally and figuratively to the wall
-- through any trial? And nothing could ever be as painful as the absence, he
reminded. Over and over again he assured
himself the same litany of promises.
Certainly they -- he -- could endure the recovery. They would get through this next, frightening
level of fortitude. Anything they needed
to do to survive.
The formal, cultured British voice that
answered the phone was a relief to the tense Russian. Without explaining
anything he asked the doctor to come to the penthouse immediately and bring
something for infection and possible pneumonia.
Gone only a few moments Illya was concerned,
when he returned, that Solo looked worse. Napoleon slumped against the
headboard, lethargically staring at his friend, still shivering, and his face
nearly colorless. What gripped the blond with supreme anxiety was the vacant
glaze in the chestnut eyes. A dangerous listlessness that was so alien to the
vibrant American. The grey in the beard
and hair accentuated the new lines in the haggard, drawn face. No question Solo
had aged -- been worn down -- by captivity. Would the hauntings inside that
once resolute mind ever fade?
Covering his distress with brusqueness,
Illya handed him a glass. "Drink this."
Napoleon obeyed and coughed, choking after
the first sip. "Vodka!"
Kuryakin sat down beside him and steadied
him with a firm grip on the shoulder. "I thought that would get your
attention."
Smirking, Solo shook his head. "Tricky
Russian." He took another drink, coughing a little less this time, then
downing the rest of the glass. "Enjoyed that -- after it -- corroded my
taste buds."
His sentence structure and vocabulary were
slowly improving, Illya noted with a modicum of relief. It also reminded him
what a long road back they would have to travel. Not just about the health, either. When Solo had “died” he had been still
precariously reclaiming his life from the amnesia and hypnotic reconditioning
wielded by UNCLE. This was going to be
much more grueling of a recovery.
“You still have no taste,” Kuryakin quipped
automatically, amazed that he could slip back into their banter so
effortlessly.
"I’m drinking this. State of my decline -- evident."
A joke! Illya smiled gratefully. Humor in the face of despair. Apparently the Napoleon of old was very close
after all. "Proof of what will
happen to you away from my good influence."
The liquor didn't help the ragged breathing
and Illya belatedly thought maybe vodka had not been the best idea. But Solo
had needed something. Settling closer on the bed, holding onto him, he stared
at his friend, still numb with elated shock that Solo was really alive and
really with him again.
Napoleon gestured out of the room. "I
didn't have -- trouble finding you." A tired grin. "The
advertisements -- all around town." He coughed. "Quite the celebrity,
Mr. Vanya." Leaning his head back he closed his eyes. "Glad you were
home. Kept the -- candle in the window."
"Always." He patted Solo's arm,
disturbed at the cool, clammy skin. "I don't think I will let you out of
my sight ever again. You always get yourself into such trouble." Another
cough rippled from Solo's grating lungs. Kuryakin held onto him. "I've
been looking for you."
One brown eye opened. "I saved you the
trouble."
"I'm glad you did." Never dreaming
his emotions could be so shredded, he shook his head in wonder. Actually having his friend back was
wonderful, but tragically tempered by Solo's condition. He HAD to pull
through, there was no other option Illya could comprehend. "What took you
so long? Dan made it back over a week ago."
Head against the backboard, energy waning,
Napoleon shook his head. "I failed." A fatigued whisper accompanying
a grimace.
"What?" He sensed more dreadful
revelations. This was so much worse than
when he had found Napoleon after UNCLE had ravaged his mind. Now Napoleon's emotions
were so brittle and raw -- HIS were raw -- did he really need
to know anything beyond the miracle that Napoleon was back in his life?
"You didn't fail, you're here."
Solo coughed, wincing at the pain.
"Stalled. Hid. Afraid." He drew in a raspy breath. "Afraid they
were watching you." He opened his eyes and stared at his old friend with a
tormented expression filled with desperation. "Can't let them take me
back." With a surprising grip, he clutched Illya's wrist. "I'd rather
die. Don't let them take me --"
Kuryakin leaned forward and pressed a hand
across the cold lips. "Don't ever say that! You're safe. I promise. I
--" He was going to pledge his life on that claim, but under the
circumstances that would be the last thing Napoleon would want to hear. After
almost a year of captivity of course Solo was drained of hope and faith. Illya
would earn that back for him. First he
needed to ease the natural trepidation. "Right now you are to concentrate
your energies on recovery. No one can hurt you here, I promise. You’re completely safe." Glaring at his
friend he released his hold over Solo's lips, but held onto the arm. "Do
you trust me?"
"With my life." The voice cracked,
strong emotions surfacing, then quickly buried. His voice toughened with
certainty. "Always." It was the most resolute Napoleon-like statement
yet. "For what it's worth."
The cryptic dejection irritated the
emotionally unstable Russian. "You've escaped with your life!"
Shivering, Solo gave a slight nod and closed
his eyes. "Not the same."
It was the tone of the whisper -- the
fleeting glance of -- fear -- living in the brown eyes that chilled the
Russian's heart to freeze in mid-beat. On one hand, he could count the times in
their shared-career that Napoleon Solo had been afraid. And ALL of those times
he had feared for Illya. Never for his own safety. Momentarily there had been a
dread in the shadowed, haunted eyes that spoke of a soul-deep haunting. What
had the monsters done to his partner?
"There is nothing to fear now, my friend."
The vow was repeated without volition. As much to reassure himself as his
partner. As always, they were in this together and Illya would never let anyone
take his friend -- hurt his friend -- again. "Trust me.” If he had to repeat the oath a hundred times,
he would. “I will protect you."
Eyes still closed, the American gave a
shivered nod and sunk farther under the blankets. "You are all -- all I
have." His teeth were clenched, subduing suffering from an internal,
not-entirely-physical pain. "In the old days -- some around the office
thought -- you carried me. That I wouldn't have been -- head of Section Two
without you." He drew in a thin breath. "True. Couldn't do it without
you. Can't do it now -- maybe not even with you."
"Stop it!" Kuryakin angrily
demanded. Aching with sympathy at Napoleon's bruised soul, Illya floundered for
words to counter the despondency in his friend and the despair within himself.
Not knowing what else to do he drew the wounded man into an embrace and held
him close. "You are back, you are
out of harm's way," Illya reminded reasonably. "Believe in me! No matter what. There is nothing to fear anymore," he
pledged.
Taking a shuddering breath, he grated,
"They beat me, Illya. They won. I've lost -- lost nerve."
Atop all the other extreme tumultuous events
of the night, Kuryakin was struck with the antithesis of the conversation.
Napoleon formerly always the optimist -- always the one fighting the Russian
pessimism and dark negativity veiling the younger man. Robbing Solo of his inner conviction was like
stealing his soul -- taking away the core of the swashbuckling senior agent.
"That is not true," Kuryakin
loyally denied with a sharp retort. He released the tight hug on his friend,
but kept a grip on him with one hand. "You lost nothing," he insisted
firmly, more with reason than flash insistence. "You escaped, Napoleon.
Dan Briggs is alive, you're alive, because of your motivation to be free.
You're with me now because you wouldn't give up. I know you. You never give up.
What did you have to do to endure the months of torture? What courage did you
summon to flee? What stamina did you master to survive and make your way
here?" He pressed the arm under his hands. "You beat them at their
own game. And they will never reach you again." His voice thickened.
"Because they can never defeat the two of us together."
Levelly matching Solo's somber stare, he
recognized emotions there paralleling his own distress. As they often had been,
they were in perfect sync, communicating on varying levels in perfect unison.
They saw in each other shared dread -- mutual anxiety for each other's safety.
Such a well-known, frequent harbinger between them. Kuryakin could not suppress
a rueful smile -- a tentative sign that things were returning to normal between
them. They were on familiar ground.
"No one can ever defeat us, Napoleon.
Please believe that." The words seemed like a quote -- an echo from their
past. There had been so much pain, mending, rebuilding between them he was sure
they had traded these reassurances before. Now the words were not just phrases,
but lifelines to their destiny. "Believe in yourself as much as I do. That
is our future."
Solo managed a mirror-image grin. "Like
old times." He settled against the pillow and stared at the walls, but his
focus was somewhere lost in a blurred infinity. "Try," he coughed.
Illya gave him a nod of approval. His tone was firmer as he slipped back into
forced -- but still attempted --banter. "Nice -- to preserve rooms. Like
Holmes."
"Just like Holmes," Kuryakin
whispered with a touch of awe. "You've returned from the dead."
With an unsteady hand Solo indicated the
mantle. "Taste in decor is unusual."
Kuryakin glanced at the wooden shelf above
the fire. A framed photo of a younger Solo and Kuryakin at
"Earthquake?" the American
wheezed.
"A fit of anger," Illya grimaced.
He didn't want to admit to his tirade a few
weeks after Napoleon's death. He had gone through the numbing sorrow and
emerged into an unstable world of anger. Directed at his dead partner! For
abandoning him, just as he had always feared. The result had been a general
smashing of Napoleon's personal property from the guest room. Until Illya had
thrown the
"Napoleon, I felt such --"
The older agent patted his arm. "No
explanations." He coughed. "Past. Think about future." He lifted
the glass from the bedside table. "Maybe more vodka would help."
"Now I know you're sick." The
downstairs bell rang and Illya gripped the cool hand on his arm. "Nothing
has changed, Napoleon. Things will never change between us. I will get
Solo nodded in assent.
Illya hurried out to meet the doctor. In the lift to the first floor he sagged against the wall in misery. What if his faltering words of encouragement did not work? What if Napoleon really HAD lost his nerve? That is how this had all started months ago, when Napoleon was afraid he could not regain his spirit. He had insisted on pushing the limit, on playing the spy games and it had resulted in Tantalus. What if he couldn’t regain his confidence now?
The irrepressible American would never be
the same. Illya would never be the same without his friend. And where did that
leave him? Them? Just where they had always been, he resolved in a silent
pledge. His bravado to his friend did not contain empty oaths. No matter what
had been done to Solo, they were a team and they would go through this perilous
journey -- horrific and desperate as it might be -- side by side.
Quietly groaning, he resolved that anything
on the path ahead would be better than this last year of desolation. Napoleon
was back from the grave. His resurrection had revived two lives, because Illya
had been dead inside for all that time. Nothing was as bad as enduring the
murder of his friend, and he would happily go through any devastating
convalescence rather than suffer with the loss again. He had not been living
these last, long months -- a prisoner in a different emotional dungeon than
Solo, but confined -- more dead than alive -- nonetheless.
He asked after the amazing circumstances of
Solo's return, about the general health of his former patient, then reserved
any judgment until he diagnosed the subject.
The physician was a trusted practitioner recommended by a colleague in
MI6. Able to keep confidences and
secretly attend questionable injuries,
"Well, then, Napoleon," he smiled
as he stood in the doorway of the bedroom, "What little mess have you
gotten yourself into this time?" He gave an encouraging wink to an anxious
Kuryakin who hovered nearby. Taking Solo's pulse and checking his eyes,
Kuryakin paced as he watched the physician,
trying to interpret the Brit's various expressions and odd mutterings. Solo was
silent during the check up, but was clearly sick and having trouble breathing.
Illya sensed with many more days of exposure Solo would have died. He wasn't going to dwell on that. Help was
here and everything was going to be fine.
"Hmm," Illya commented
impatiently. "How is he?"
"Quite ill, but nothing fatal or too
dreadful. We'll fix it up." He noted the concern on the blonde's tense
expression. "Don't worry. Modern medicine and a good rest will patch
everything. A nice tropical cruise wouldn't hurt either, of course, when he's a
little stronger." He smiled to alleviate the tension in the room.
"Consider that a prescription."
Already fearing pneumonia and other alarming
infections, Kuryakin anxiously hovered, mumbling in Russian as he impatiently
awaited further diagnosis.
After
That was not his only worry. The external menace of Trevor and the group
that masterminded Tartarus still concerned Illya. The spies would be after Solo
-- after all of them. What if Vanya’s was
watched? They would know Napoleon was
here. Well, they would be dealt with
immediately, Kuryakin decided. There would be no allowance for threats against
his friend now. Napoleon was back and nothing would rob them of their second
chance at a renewed partnership. The source of nightmares and anguish would be
eliminated.
First he should alert their friends about
the happy news of Napoleon's return. Calling Harts' hotel, he was irritated
that there was no answer. Where could they be? Jonathan had many contacts,
mostly business, in
Maybe he should try the Hands next he
considered, checking the time. After
"Jonathan Hart."
Illya breathe a sigh of relief.
"Jonathan, everything all right?"
"A-okay. We've just been touching bases
with a few important people. We've got some useful information. Shall we drop
by?"
"Yes." He wondered if he should
spring the news on them now. The imp within decided to let the surprise be most
effective. Besides, he didn't want Jonathan driving off the road. "And
bring the Hands and their -- guest. I've got something important for all of
you."
"All of us? Sounds intriguing. You want
to risk Dan --"
"Just let them know. Ring when you're
at the door and I'll open it when you arrive."
Illya stopped in at the spare bedroom to
check on his patient. Napoleon moved the oxygen mask aside. "Jennifer and
Jonathan?" he rasped. "Dan -- Cinnamon and Rollin, too?
"Yes. They've got some important
intelligence." A wry grin smirked on his face. "Not as startling as
ours. They're on their way." He crossed the room and replaced the mask on
his friend's face. "Behave or you will not recover. You don't need to say
anything, they just want to know you're safe."
Before the Russian could leave Solo grabbed
onto his arm. "Careful."
Illya pulled a Walther from behind his back.
"I'm always armed these days," he assured. Crossing to the wardrobe
he pulled a Walther out of a drawer and showed it to his friend. "Call me
sentimental, but I always kept a spare." Then placed it under Solo's
pillow. "Just so you'll feel secure.
From under the oxygen mask Solo smiled.
"Feel better already," he assured, then closed his eyes and snuggled
against the pillows. For the first time since their reunion, he looked not only
improved, but also calm.
"Rest," Kuryakin ordered and
waited there in quiet observance until he heard the buzzer for the street
entrance door of Vanya's.
Checking the security monitors, he was
puzzled to see only Jonathan Hart. Naturally suspicious, he programmed the
cameras to scan the street and saw the wreck of two cars marred the quiet
business area. Zooming in on the cars, he recognized one as the Harts' rental
Mercedes. The other was a large, old Rolls. Focusing on Jonathan, he noted the
American was upset and seemed dazed.
"Jonathan what's happened?" he asked over
the security intercom.
"Let me in," came the terse
demand.
Kuryakin hesitated, knowing there had been
an attack and he should help. But opening the secured fortress might endanger
Solo. Knowing he had to assist, Kuryakin released the remote electronic lock
and allowed Hart to enter, but locked the doors immediately, sure no one else
had entered.
"They've got Jennifer," Hart blurted
as soon as he staggered out of the lift. "It's Matheson and Trevor."
Illya took his arm and led him to the sofa.
It had been his night for harried visitors.
"They're holding her down the street.
In Sir Trevor's car."
Illya understood the situation. Jennifer was
the bait and he knew the prize. No matter who was the hostage, no force on
earth could make him submit to surrendering his friend. Not to save Mrs. Hart.
Not to save anyone. No one's life was more important than Napoleon.
"They want me."
"Napoleon!"
Illya and Jonathan jumped up, Illya racing
over to grab Solo, who was barely standing, leaning against the door of his
room. The wounded agent was trembling, his pallid face nearly as white as the
robe, his eyes wide.
Not quite so fast on the uptake, Hart
quickly crossed and grabbed Solo on the other side. "You're right, they
must know you're here. They want to trade you for Jennifer. They ran us off the
road just down the street. She's being held down in the car." He bit his
lip. "I only have a few minutes."
"Trade," Napoleon coughed,
gritting his teeth. His body shuddered, his skin void of color. "No
choice." He closed his eyes as if gathering courage.
"This is a ridiculous time to prove
your courage! No," Illya flatly refused.
Napoleon opened his eyes and stared at his
long-time friend. "Has to be this way. They'll never -- give up," he
gasped. "If we don’t -- give in -- you next. Have to go --" He pulled
the pistol from his robe pocket. "I'll end this. Be okay." Kuryakin
was about to interrupt and Solo held up his hand. "Have to do this."
His eyes reflected a sudden calm -- a resolution of the inevitable. "Trust
me."
"No I don't," Kuryakin countered
hoarsely. "You have nothing to prove!" he shouted angrily. "They
did not defeat you --"
"Not about proving --" Solo denied
weakly. "Won't let Jennifer -- you -- anyone -- get hurt because of
me."
Muttering in Russian, Kuryakin observed his
friend had not lost his nerve or his spirit. He was still the stubborn,
arrogant heroic fool he had always been. Fortunately, Napoleon still did not
understand Russian. "Sorry, Napoleon." Before anyone else could react
he slammed a fist into Solo's jaw and the older, former agent dropped into
their arms. "I can't let that happen, my friend."
They returned the recovering man to the bed
and Illya replaced the mask on the still face. His hand brushed the longish
hair away from the closed eyes. "Nothing will happen to you," he
adamantly vowed. Then he straightened and looked at Hart. "I am sorry, but
I won't let Napoleon sacrifice himself." His tone and expression were
cold, uncompromising and hard. "I'm not losing him again."
Jonathan studied their unconscious comrade.
"Yeah, he always wants to be the hero. He would have walked over and taken
out all of them that he could before they killed him."
"How long do you have?"
Hart checked his watch. "Just a few
minutes." His face brightened. "But I think I have a plan." He
touched the oxygen equipment. "Do you have any spare tanks?"
***
When the doors to Vanya's opened, Jennifer
gasped. Out the window of the Rolls she saw Illya supporting a wounded man that
looked like Napoleon in a tattered jacket and a bandage on his head. An oxygen
tank was wheeled behind them as they stood on the sidewalk. Initial elation at
Napoleon's return quickly changed. Horrified, she couldn't believe that her
husband and Illya would allow their hurt and helpless friend back into the
clutches of Trevor and Matheson.
"Come to the center of the
street."
Trevor yanked Jennifer out of the car.
"Where's Hart?"
"Unconscious. He hurt his head in the
crash."
Trevor kept a strong hand on Jennifer, but
she wriggled free and dashed across the street, throwing her arms around Illya
and Napoleon. In that instant she realized it wasn't really Solo at all, but
her husband! Illya grabbed the oxygen tank and flung it under the Rolls.
Jonathan grabbed his wife and the three rolled themselves into the shelter of
the Vanya building. A deafening explosion rocked the street.
By the time emergency crews arrived with the
police Kuryakin and the Harts were able to convincingly tell the sad tale of
Trevor's Rolls erratically careening down the street and impacting with their
Mercedes. The rolls exploded before anyone could be saved. Luckily the Harts
were a lot quicker than the men in the big car.
"There will not be enough to autopsy
thanks to the plastique I used," Illya conversationally informed once they
were in the lift up to the penthouse. "It also has the charm of leaving no
trace. Scotland Yard will come to the only possible conclusion, that the gas
tank ruptured on impact."
"Nice to work with experts,"
Jennifer countered wryly.
In the apartment they gathered in Solo's
room. Jennifer crossed to the bed and planted a light kiss on his forehead. The
touch brought the former agent to semi-consciousness. His eyes fluttered open
and closed, blinking in non-coherence.
"Welcome home, Napoleon," Jennifer
smiled.
"Home," he nodded before drifting
back to sleep.
epilogue
"you
and I have memories longer than the road that stretches out ahead . . . .
. . . on our way back home, we're on our way
home, we're going home . . . ."
Flashing images of vague, ethereal
spectres wraithed through his thoughts. Napoleon knew it was a nightmare, but
it seemed forever before the power of the mind overcame the frightening ghosts
of his haunted past. Dark waves crashed against him, submerging his being.
Logic fought to bring him to the surface of an inky sea. The insubstantial form
of Illya appeared in the clouds. When Solo reached out for him the Russian
slugged him in the face.
A gasp caught in his throat and brought Solo
instantly awake. Years of experience with drugs, pain and readjustment enabled
him to quickly assess the situation, remember where he was, along with pieces
of the recent past. Age seemed to slow the process a bit, but within moments he
remembered his interminable captivity, his escape, his refuge in the warm and
comfortable guest quarters of his friend. By the time his breath regulated and
system settled he calmed, secure in the safety of his sanctuary.
"A nightmare? You've had worse."
Kuryakin leaned into the doorway. "You look alert this time." He gave
a shake of his head. "It took you almost two days to level out this time,
Napoleon. You're showing your age."
Under the oxygen mask Solo's expression
soured. "Thanks." He removed the plastic gear. "Pneumonia?
"You've had no shortage of
visitors," Illya admitted, taking a seat on the side of the bed.
Critically studying his friend he replaced the mask on the recuperating man. "
"No." He rubbed his jaw again.
"Not really." Frustrated, he removed the mask again. "Just --
" he shrugged in confusion. "I'm grateful to be alive, to be free.
Irritated at being on that long, winding road to healing."
Kuryakin's riposte was dour. "Better
than the path to the graveyard."
"Ah, how I've missed the pithy Kuryakin
wit."
Eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise, Illya
tentatively grinned. "You're remembering things?"
Put out, Solo snapped, "Well, yes. Kind of.”
He scowled, and quietly amended, “Ah, not really much. Tantalus is like a nightmare that hovers around
my thoughts. It’s there and I’m aware of
it, but I know it’s not real anymore.”
Gently, Illya interrogated about his
friend’s recollections. Disappointingly,
Solo could remember no details of his
capture in
As with life, there were some mysteries
never answered. No certain solutions in
this matter. Illya still believed his
theories were correct -- that Napoleon had stumbled upon something sinister at
the castle. Or he had been recognized by
Matheson or Trevor and targeted for capture.
Did they hope to mold Napoleon into their trained pet assassin
squad? Or did they simply want to
cruelly abuse him? They would never
know, it appeared, but he didn’t really care any more. His friend was returned, and Tantalus was a
dark blot on their past. Firmly behind
them.
Kuryakin then mentioned that Sir Trevor and
Matheson had kidnapped Jennifer Hart and both spies were dead. Both were in the car he had blown up outside
the Vanya offices. Again, Solo had no
memory of meeting the two old veteran
Still recovering, gradually coming out of
the pain and shock of his ordeals, Solo was no fool. He stared at him with knowing suspicion. “And before you ask, I am not loony, I do
have a memory and I'm all right. Really." His demeanor softened. "I
remember your arguments. That everything
will be all right now. That I didn't
fail. Thanks."
Illya grimaced at him. "Then there will
be no more foolish comments about losing your nerve?"
The American actually blushed with
embarrassment. "Sorry. I wasn't feeling myself." Illya gave a nod of
assurance that the secret was safe with him, as were so many others they had
mutually buried. On the stare from his partner Solo raised an eyebrow.
"What?"
"I am never letting you out of my sight
again." His voice was gruff. "You do get into entirely too much
mischief."
Napoleon's face soured. "Thanks. But I
want to stay clear of danger for a while, too." Fondly he studied his
friend and smiled. At Illya's questioning eyebrow he explained. "Things
were pretty disoriented in that camp. But I always had an anchor. You were in
my head. My hook to sanity." Illya rolled his eyes and Solo laughed.
"Along with faith in your persistence and my luck. I had to believe one
day I would escape." He cleared the thick knot in his throat. "And
you would be here for me." He blinked away the mist in his eyes
threatening to embarrass him. "I just didn't expect you to still be
peddling fancy frocks."
"And you will be, too. Maybe it will
keep you out of trouble." Kuryakin replaced the mask again on his friend's
face.
"Ouch!"
"If you want to recover quickly you
must obey doctor's orders. Once you are well we can remove to a more pleasant
climate."
He stared into the unfocused distance.
"I wonder if there is a place where there are no nightmares."
"Your nightmares are over. I
promise."
Solo forced a not-quite-convincing grin on
his wan expression. "
"First you have to get well.
Rest."
Solo removed the plastic. "All right,
but I'm sick of being in bed."
"Something I never thought I'd hear you
say."
Scowling, he continued. "I'd like to
sit up. Maybe by the fire." Again Kuryakin went to replace the mask, but Solo
stopped him. "Would you quit that, please? It hurts my jaw." Tenderly
he touched his left cheek. "It's really sore." His eyes narrowed.
"You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
Kuryakin's face was completely placid.
"Of course not."
THE END
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