Collection 3 - Year One

by LRH Balzer

  "I know they did. He'll be okay, Napoleon. Physically, he'll heal quickly, the rest is up to him -- and you. How you treat him over the next few hours and days will be vital to his recovery. Usually it's the physical well-being of my patients I'm concerned about; when this happens, it's their psychological well-being that's in greatest jeopardy."

  Lawrence went on, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. "I want you to understand some things and I'm going to be blunt: I used to work in a prison; this is nothing new, I've seen hundreds of cases like this. The lowdown? -- Illya probably spent the last twenty-four hours being repeatedly kicked unconscious, or knocked unconscious, and then brutalized. Initially he would have been trying to cope with the possibilities of being killed or being mutilated and as his resources weakened and gave out, the feeling would slowly turn to terror. Hours later, he would be too numb and in too much pain to care any longer.

  "It was a power trip for the men who did this to him. Beating him up wouldn't be enough, they wanted to degrade him, humiliate him. But regardless of whatever happened there, he managed to survive -- and that's what we concentrate on. He survived. That's what we keep telling him. We're proud of him because he survived ." The doctor laid a hand carefully on the Russian's shoulder, noting the tremor that ran through the body. "And when he opens his eyes and looks at you, that is exactly what you are going to say to him."

  "What about his injuries?"

  "These injuries aren't serious, Napoleon. Painful right now, yes, but in a day or so he'll be fine; the bruises will start to fade. The rest will heal quickly, but he'll still need you to be there for him. In most cases like this, for the first few days there is a constant fear of being left alone, but he probably won't communicate this to you, so I'm telling you now. He'll have nightmares, headaches, stomachaches, backaches -- that's the second phase -- and he probably won't tell you about them, either. The third phase varies from person to person."

  Lawrence's voice became sadder, angrier. "Jack Gurr, in Section Three, still gets nightmares and its been several months for him; but his partner was killed at the same time. Two other Section Two agents, Rhodes and Friedman, were attacked in a Thrush cell in Detroit. Both are doing fine, but they were able to talk it out with each other and had largely dealt with it before they even came to see me. Garrison Sharpe, a Section Three Enforcement agent who is built like a giant linebacker, was walking home from this office early one evening when he was jumped by a gang of hoods out for revenge of a friend's murder. It happened to John Lagto, in Section Two, about three years ago in a Middle East prison and he said the first week afterwards was the worst. He still struggles with occasional overwhelming feelings of shame for not being able to stop them, even though he knows intellectually that he was powerless to do so. Dan Montgomery committed suicide."

  Solo stared at the doctor and his mouth opened in shock as he heard the list of U.N.C.L.E. agents named. "I didn't know. I-- I had no idea. It didn't say in their reports."

  It was Lawrence's turn to be shocked and his voice, though kept to a whisper, was thin with anger. "Where have you been hiding, Napoleon Solo? You were in the Navy during the war! You've been in the espionage business for years! How many reports have you signed as Chief Enforcement Officer?? Read between the lines -- attacked, assaulted, molested, violated, tortured, brutalized, sodomized. What did you think happened to them? Rape is not a medical word. It's an emotional word and one not used easily."

  I hate this. The world stinks.

  "I didn't know they were --" He couldn't say it now. "Sharpe? Lagto? Montgomery? -- I knew Dan Montgomery. I was shocked when he committed suicide but I didn't know he had been…"

  "Dan wasn't. His partner was. Dan couldn't deal with the guilt of not being there."

  Solo glanced down at his partner's face then, and looked away. "I know how he felt."

  "Deal with it, Napoleon. For his sake, if not for your own. For whatever reasons you feel responsible for this, don't punish yourself; you'll only hurt him and it won't ease your conscience any. I know Illya. His identity isn't all caught up in his strength and masculinity like yours is. He has been through this and much worse before. The man is a tough survivor. Give him a day or so of your time and he'll regain his equilibrium. I assure you his mind will have dealt with this long before his body heals. I have complete confidence in him; Illya came to grips with this years ago."

  I haven't. Solo met the doctor's eyes briefly, knew that he knew, and forced himself to look down at his partner. If it had been me... I couldn't deal with it. I can't deal with it now, when it's Illya lying here. While this was happening to him... Damn, while this was happening to him, I was making love to the enemy. For no reason other than I wanted to. It felt good.

  "Stay with him. I'll be back in a few minutes." Lawrence shut the door to the van, walking past the security guards standing a few feet away guarding the entrance to the U.N.C.L.E. garage.

  Left with his thoughts, Napoleon thought he was going to be sick and tried not to be. Angry with himself, he deliberately placed his hand over Kuryakin's and was surprised when the Russian's grip relaxed instantly, the fingers loosening their hold, as though the urgency of his pain was diminished in the touch.

  Why the hell do you trust me?

  * * *

  He had heard the summons to Waverly's office, but when he left the infirmary he stopped by his own office first, desperate for a moment alone.

  Everything on his desk was as he had left it Saturday night. The list, all checked off, was to the right of the desk blotter. The current files were stacked neatly to his left. Two phone messages -- from Serena on Sunday evening and an hour previous -- lay front and center.

  Serena…

  Oh, God, let this be a coincidence. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nothing more.

  Serena, my love, why does loving you seem to endanger m partner's life? Little toy robots... on your orders... Then you tried to broil him. And now this.

  Is Thrush behind this? Would you tell me if they were, Serena?

  He picked up the phone to call her, then replaced the receiver without dialing. He sat for unknown minutes leaning on the desk, his head in his hands, unable to find a course of action. Where to from here? Where is here?

  Few things affected him stronger than his partner's life in danger; it surpassed even his own survival instinct. Waverly knew, was displeased, and had voiced his disapproval on several occasions.

  Three weeks ago, Solo had stolen into a Middle East palace to reclaim his 'property.' He could hear his own words now: "You have something that belongs to me."

  What gall, Napoleon Solo... that you claim ownership on another's life. But there was no denying the feeling was there. Not even a feeling -- a fact.

  Maybe ownership isn't the right word, he countered now. Perhaps it was the responsibility for another's life.

  Probably better, but that's not what I said to the prince when I demanded that Illya be returned to me.

  Even Zia had been surprised. "You would risk the entire operation to save one man?" she had asked.

  He had answered, "I know it's rather unprofessional of me, but then, I'm not perfect."

  While they were working their way toward the prince's office, Zia had asked further, "Has it occurred to you that Illya Kuryakin might already be dead?"

  His reply, "Often."

  Too often. I thought I would become jaded about it but it hits me every time. My partner. My friend. My responsibility. As Waverly says, it's dangerous, but it won't work any other way.

  Teaming with Paddy Dunn the previous year had made it abundantly clear. Dunn was one of U.N.C.L.E.'s top agents, the best there was, but even after they had been assigned for months, he still had no idea if Dunn would break left or right at a corner. With Illya, he had known from the first day. It was just how it was with some partners. Even Waverly was reluctant to tamper with the formula, despite his reservations.

  The agent's advice to Marion Raven the previous fall
had been revealing. Solo had chuckled to himself then as he walked away from them, grinning at the bemused look on her face as she scrutinized his partner. "You'll get used to Illya," he had said. "He might even grow on you."

  So ... he's your property, your responsibility, or you've simply grown used to having him at your side... Regardless, you tossed all that out the window for Serena. What now, old man?

  What now?

  "I want both. Somehow there's got to be a way. Why can't I have U.N.C.L.E. and Serena?" he asked himself out loud, but the words didn't make sense. He rubbed his forehead as the page came over the loudspeakers, repeating the summons to Waverly's office.

  He sat for a moment longer, then reached for a pen and paper.

  * * *

  "It's my fault."

  Waverly nodded, not disagreeing. "You're the Head of Section Two."

  Solo shook his head. "No, that's not what I mean. If I had been doing my job, this never would have happened. It could have been avoided."

  "What were you doing?" Waverly glanced up from his papers when there was no immediate answer.

  "I was... with a woman. A Thrush agent."

  Waverly cleared his throat, reaching for the familiarity of his pipe. "Although I seem to dictate otherwise, you must remember that you are only human, Mr. Solo. You can only handle so many cases at one time, only juggle so many assignments. If there is a problem --"

  "No. You don't understand, sir. I wasn't working on an Affair. I was having an affair." He looked up, forcing himself to meet Waverly's eyes. "It was inexcusable." He passed a handwritten letter to the U.N.C.L.E. Chief. "My resignation."

  Waverly read the brief, tersely-written note, then carefully laid it to one side and studied a spot on the surface of the desk. He said nothing for several long minutes, and when he did speak, his voice was grating. "Before I consider discussing your resignation, I require several things from you."

  Solo waited, the exhaustion starting to fray his nerves.

  "I expect you to finish the two cases you are presently supervising, including the investigation on the Thrush infiltration of Strastown. Secondly, Dr. Lawrence has advised me that Mr. Kuryakin will be needing your assistance for the next several days, at least. If you insist on leaving, I require a healthy agent to take your place. You will also need time to pass on your duties to him and train him as Chief Enforcement Officer."

  "The C.E.O.? Illya's not ready for that yet --"

  "He's Number Two, Section Two. You are supposed to be grooming him for your job, just as I have been preparing you to take over mine one day. If he's not yet ready, then you have not completed your obligations to U.N.C.L.E."

  Waverly reached for a file on his desk and opened it, withdrawing a photograph of a face only too familiar to Solo. "This is your final assignment before you leave. Ascertain Serena Malipiero's involvement in this case. I believe you know her whereabouts."

  Waverly had known, of course.

  * * *

  Solo returned to the infirmary after leaving Waverly's office, the sight of the silent form propped three-quarters prone on the bed angering him. Worse was seeing the metal bed rails in place around Illya like another prison cell, locking him in with all the pain and memories.

  Under the bruises, the face seemed strangely peaceful. One arm was pierced with an IV needle, but the other hand lay by his shoulder, the fingers half-curled and twitching as the body remembered what the drugged mind was denied.

  The safety bars continued to irritate him and Solo lowered one side abruptly, cursing himself as his partner flinched at the clanging sound of metal on metal. Crossing around the bed, he released the catch on the other side and carefully lowered the railing.

  Gray eyes fluttered, saw him, and closed again with a small sigh. He was still feeling safe, Napoleon realized, and he tried but was unable to find a reason why the Russian persisted in trusting him.

  Granted, there hadn't been much security in Illya Kuryakin's first twenty-two years, not until he came to U.N.C.L.E. His life had consisted of war and death and abandonment; then later, betrayal, manipulation, and more violent death. The past four years at U.N.C.L.E. had been a gradual thawing, learning to trust, to take initiative. His world had been flipped around; in the Soviet Union, he had always been told what to do. It was confusing for him to have the freedom to ask questions in America, to offer suggestions, or to walk and work as a free-thinking individual.

  A puppy dog, Heather had called Kuryakin months earlier, happy to be trotting at his master's heels. It was true, when they were first partnered, Kuryakin had acted more like his personal servant than an equal partner, either rushing to provide information, staring blankly at him for instructions, or fading into the background when Solo interviewed anyone, as though he had no idea what to say to these Americans around him. He probably didn't. Yet he had listened intently as his eyes peered at everything, analyzing the room and its contents, and watching his partner's face as he coaxed information out of the individual involved. Solo began to take him with him everywhere, aware this reserved, self-sufficient, enigmatic agent would not be comfortable going alone.

  He had turned out to be a quick study, but he lacked Solo's innate ability to control situations and events. Instead, Illya worked within the situations, adapting, blending in, or slowly breaking the status quo. And he succeeded.

  Well, McNabb s description no longer fit. Solo considered the changes now and was pleased. This man was his partner and friend. A patient teacher and fountain of information. He deserved better.

  When they had met, Kuryakin's peaceful compliant facade had successfully hidden a life of pain and uncertainty.

  And what of you, Napoleon, old man? What does your arrogant flippancy hide? He found it impossible to look at Kuryakin but he couldn't turn away. His gut was clenched with revulsion at –

  At what?

  Face it. You refuse to acknowledge that this happened, because he is your responsibility and you failed. And you hate to fail.

  He tried to get comfortable in the armchair beside the bed. How damned familiar this all was; he had sat in this room too many times already. If one of them was bound to be hurt, it was usually Illya: trying to do the work of three, jumping in the way to take a bullet, overextending himself, stalked by assassins from his past, or just dropping from exhaustion in a lab as he pushed himself to the end of his resources. Or maybe he was just plain unlucky.

  I have had more than my share of luck and, as usual, 1 am alive and unharmed. But this should not have happened to you, Illya. This was not an attack in the line of duty. This is pure negligence on my part. A consequence of my actions, not yours.

  As the day progressed he dozed in the chair, several times jolted to awareness by a cry from the bed beside him. Before he could respond, Kuryakin would have already been pulled back to sleep his body still jerking from the memory forced on him.

  It was early evening before Kuryakin finally opened his eyes and turned his head on the pillow. "What are you doing here, my friend?" he asked, yawning. His voice was remarkably clear. "How long have you been staring at me like that? I'm fine; I do not need a nursemaid."

  What am I supposed to say to him? "I'm sorry, Illya." That wasn't it, but it'll do for starts. It wasn't something he made a habit of saying.

  "C'est la guerre," Kuryakin said with an indifferent shrug, yawning again.

  "It didn't have to be. You called for me and I didn't come."

  "You were off duty. I should have called someone else, or asked you to. It was habit, I guess. I wasn't thinking. You weren't even my backup."

  "Don't make up excuses for me. I didn't show up."

  "You came," the Russian insisted, raising to one elbow and adjusting his pillow.

  "Even if I had come at ten in the morning when I said I would be there, I could have gotten you out before the riot happened."

  Kuryakin said nothing. His eyes closed as a ripple of pain shot up his body and he leaned back against the cushions. When it
passed, he looked back at his partner. "I've been beaten before. I heal quickly. This is nothing compared to other times; you know that."

  "This is different. You were more than just beaten." Solo stared fixedly at his hands, unable to meet the calm blue eyes.

  "Napoleon?"

  Solo didn't reply. He felt locked in place, the anger of the situation tensing his muscles. Rage at the prisoners. At the situation. At himself.

  Kuryakin tried to push up on one elbow again. "Look at me, Napoleon. It's not different. Not unless I let it be. They can't take anything from me unless I let them. Do not treat me like a fragile virgin who has just been deflowered."

  Solo's clenched fist slammed onto the table beside him. "They raped you." The harsh words were ugly -- meant to hurt. He hated the bitterness in his voice. The disgust. And that he had directed it at his partner.

  When Kuryakin didn't respond, Solo finally turned to look at him, seeing only the closed eyes and the frustration on the pale face. That was unnecessary and stupid, Solo. Why don't you just turn the knife in further?

  The Russian sighed quietly, but when he spoke his words were edged in sadness, not anger or pain. "Yes, they hurt me physically," he admitted, "but beyond that -- no. They are the ones who are infected with hate, not me. I know who I am. They may have injured me some, but they can't really hurt the me inside. Not unless I let them." And I haven't, the eyes declared firmly. Solo shook his head and turned away, his face hidden behind one hand.

  "This happens, Napoleon. Every day. All over the world -- not just in Omegar State Prison. The world is full of odious people and we must learn to survive." Kuryakin sank back to the bed and shifted slowly under the blankets, stiffly rolling to his side with a small gasp, his eyes trying to connect with his partner's. "I will be fine, my friend. Trust me."

  Solo looked at him sharply, afraid he had heard too much in the shadows of that voice. Then the doctor's words filtered through his memory. 'He's been through this and worse'... It's happened before…