by LRH Balzer
"Come over and I'll have some brought up."
He hung up the phone and left the office.
* * *
The hotel lobby was magnificent. Opulent and cultured, like her. He felt good walking through it, breathing the clean perfumed air and smelling the rich leather scent of the couches spread about the entrance sitting area.
He knew her room number; he had been here before, over a week ago after dinner and also when she had arranged for him to be abducted during the August Affair. Did she always stay in the same hotel? The same suite? Was this building controlled by Thrush? There was so much about her he didn't know. And yet I leave myself vulnerable in your hands.
She opened the door at his knock and drew him into the room and into her arms. He felt light-headed, his arms draped around her and his face pressed into her hair. It was so natural, so right. He felt alive again. Two days without you -- could I handle a lifetime?
"I have to talk to you, Serena."
"Is Illya okay? Napoleon, I was worried. You didn't come back."
He sat down abruptly, pulling her beside him on the couch. "He was hurt... He'll be okay."
Her eyes welled with tears, angry tears and sorrowful tears at the same time. "I told you I had arranged for your safety, but I hadn't done that for him. I had forgotten how much he meant to you."
"He's my partner."
She touched his cheek, a long sculptured nail tracing his jawline. "And he is your friend." Her head tilted to one side. "We don't have regular partners in Thrush, for this exact reason. Our colleagues change with each assignment. Then, if we are ordered to shoot them, there is no problem."
"You would kill your own colleagues?"
"If ordered, darling. I suspect it would be difficult for you to shoot Illya if your supervisor ordered you to."
"You suspect right," Solo said, tapping her on her nose, relaxing in spite of himself.
"It is an inefficient system U.N.C.L.E. uses."
"Only if you count loyalty and friendship as minuses."
"In our line of work, they often are. So now you are upset because of what happened to him."
Solo nodded numbly. "I am responsible for him." The words sounded shallow, even to his ears. "Did you know about his assignment?"
"What do you mean?" she asked, carefully.
"His assignment. You knew when I sent him to Washington. Did you know where I sent him this time?"
"No. I didn't ask you."
"You didn't ask me about Washington but you knew anyway."
"That information was passed on to me. I told them I didn't want to be involved further. I was on vacation."
He looked down to where his hand caressed her fingers. "Serena, you were with me when I got the call from Illya saying he was at Omegar State Prison…"
She was silent, chewing thoughtfully on her bottom lip, avoiding his eyes.
"Serena, I have to know... Were you involved somehow in what happened to him?"
She did not like being questioned, ripping her hand from his. "He's alive, isn't he? I am responsible for that."
"How?"
"We have contacts in the prison. It is a recruiting ground," she said with an offhand shrug. "When I heard where Illya was, I knew that he would be recognized there, so I phoned them while you were sleeping and told them that although Anton Dombrovsky was an U.N.C.L.E. agent, they were to make sure he stayed alive."
"You fingered him," he growled.
"I saved his life!" she spat back, getting to her feet. She was livid, shouting at him in Italian. "I love you, Napoleon Solo! I wanted to make sure your precious partner wasn't killed because I knew what that would do to you! I saved his life this time! For you!... For you..." she whispered, kneeling before him, trying to look into his eyes now. "I love you, Napoleon Solo."
His head was whirling. He reached down and enfolded her in his arms, unable to sort it all out. His mind was numb, isolated strands of thought trying to make connections. She seemed to be the only solid thing he had in his possession; his arms wrapped tightly around her, unwilling -- refusing -- to lose her. Serena…
What were the implications... What had happened? What --?
He knew what was happening now, although it seemed to be in a separate awareness. Unable to do anything but follow, he felt himself being led into her bedroom, his clothing slowly, sensually, removed by silken fingers, and then Serena back in his arms, her body pressing against him. Her warmth drowned him, her fervent kisses rekindled his passion, caught him in the whirlwind of the week before, no thoughts entertained now but those of her and the encompassing desire he was entangled in.
* * *
Insistent beeping woke him from exhausted sleep and he rolled off the bed toward the sound, pulling the top sheet with him. He found his jacket among the clothing and blankets and took the cigarette case/transceiver out of the inside pocket.
"Uh… Solo here."
"Where the hell are you, " Dr. Lawrence's voice. "It's five o'clock. I told you Illya wouldn't sleep for more than a few hours and you promised you'd be back by three. We've given him a tranquilizer but he's fighting it, insisting you are in danger."
"I got... uh... waylaid. I'll be right in. Wait -- Sam, can you let me talk to him?"
"Hang on. I've got to go back in the other room."
Solo looked around at the chaos that had descended on the bedroom. The clock showed five minutes after five. Serena lay sleeping on the bed, her head cradled innocently on one arm, unaware he had taken the covers in his grab for the transceiver.
His head felt a little clearer, but presented the dilemma before him as frightfully convoluted. A high speed freeway with no exits in sight.
"Napoleon?" Illya's voice, shaky and slurred from the drugs.
"I'm okay, Illya. Go to sleep. I'll be there soon."
"Where are you?"
Not that question. Any other. But he couldn't lie about it. "I'm at Serena's hotel suite. I'm leaving in a few minutes."
Horrified pause. "I knew something was wrong -- Are you sure everything's okay? I can come --"
He lied this time. "Everything's under control, Illya. Get some sleep. We'll talk this evening."
An abrupt change of topic, unless one knew the Russian. "Unless you are busy, I want to go home tonight."
Solo could hear the meaning and the layers of emotion in his partner's quiet voice, knowing few others could: the profound need to return to a regular schedule, the fear of his partner not returning from the spider's web, and now the dread of being alone, even at U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters surrounded by people. "Then we'll get you home. I'll be there within half an hour. I'll make the arrangements with Sam before you even wake up."
The doctor's voice now. "I'm still undecided about this, Napoleon. It may be too early."
"My responsibility, Sam. Wrap him up; I'll take him home." There was a slight static hiss as the connection was terminated and he slowly shut the case.
"You are going to be leaving? I wish you didn't have to." Serena's eyes were open, traveling up his body as he gathered his clothes.
"I have to." He disappeared into the luxurious bathroom, showered quickly and dressed even quicker, running a comb through his hair. He reached for his gun... and realized he left it under the pillow. What a farce.
"I'll call you tomorrow," he said, crossing through the bedroom, retrieving his gun, then exiting into the living room of the suite. He let himself out.
* * *
At eight that evening, Napoleon accompanied Illya to his apartment, several floors below Solo's, and smiled at the organized mess of his partner's one-room bachelor suite. Most of Illya's meager belongings were still in the boxes he had packed them in to move here a year before. Illya had not had the comfortable wealthy upbringing that dictated what furniture and other possessions were necessary components for domestic happiness. It was enough that he had space that was his own and he did not have to share it with four other people.
While Illya pulled off his c
oat, Napoleon checked and, as usual, there was no food in the fridge or cupboards. He exited the kitchenette to suggest they eat at his place, but found Illya already asleep, collapsed face down on his mattress on the floor, simply content to be home again.
He placed Illya's transceiver beside his bed and propped up a brief, carefully-worded note to let his partner know he was welcome to come up for dinner or company, then headed up the stairs to his own apartment.
It was the first time he had been there in several days, since leaving Sunday morning for the prison, and he found the silence unsettling. In two weeks, his life had changed. Her absence from his private life was disorienting; he found traces of her throughout the apartment: a rose on the table, now wilted; the remainders of a memorable dinner on Saturday night, wrapped in plastic in the refrigerator; her pale pink sweater hooked over his bedpost.
He sat alone in the apartment, unable to eat or think. He turned the radio on, then switched it off. Nothing was on television. The novel he had been reading was uninviting now. The open briefcase and files on the table --
When Illya had not made an appearance by midnight, Napoleon turned off the lights and went to bed, tossing beneath the covers as memories fluttered around the room. Voices, sighs, laughter, soft music.
Serena...
He drifted off finally, only to awaken at two in the morning to a strange buzzing in his apartment. He glanced from the clock to the security indicator by his bed, but there had been no tripping of the sensors. He pulled the gun from beneath his pillow, moved to the half-open bedroom door, and listened intently before he stepped out into the hallway.
Gray/blue light lit one corner of the room and he realized the television was on, the station's test pattern responsible for both the light and the ringing tone. As he expected, Kuryakin was asleep on the couch and Solo took a blanket from his linen closet and draped it over his partner.
Unable to get back to sleep -- or reluctant to try, he wasn't sure -- Solo wandered through the apartment to the kitchen at the far end and put the kettle on. He moved back into the dining area and stared at the disturbed files on the table, not wanting to deal with the problem, trying to find some way around it.
He had found his briefcase open when he returned to his apartment that evening. Since he had left for Omegar penitentiary on Sunday morning, someone had very carefully gone through every folder, every file, and every document in it. He knew someone had taken pictures of the more sensitive material because U.N.C.L.E. had treated the paper with a special coating that 'freckled' the documents half an hour after they were exposed to a flash.
Someone.
He had spent the evening trying to figure some way for it not to be her. Was she capable of it? She was too vivid in his memory -- and in his arms -- for him to make a valid judgment call. Could she betray him and say she loved him at the same time?
Granted, the words were easy. I love you. Easy to say; he said them all the time. I love you. But she said them with an inner fire that he knew he believed. I love you, Napoleon Solo. She would know from his eyes what he felt for her. I -- I love you, Serena…
Perhaps he did love her, but would he have gone through her briefcase if he had been left alone with it for a few hours?
Yes, I would. Of course, I would.
Not because it was hers, but because what was inside could mean life and death for U.N.C.L.E., his co-workers, and the general public.
Then how could he not expect her to look through his briefcase?
I can still make it work. He would just have to be more careful where he left things, never bringing work home from the office, watching his phone calls, installing a scrambled line. Somehow never talking in his sleep. They would keep Thrush and U.N.C.L.E. out of their relationship. He would make it work somehow.
Then his eyes lifted and saw Kuryakin curled tightly on the couch, his face, in sleep, still registering the trauma of Omegar State Prison.
The kettle threatened to whistle and he moved quickly before the sound woke his partner. Tea made, he returned to the table and set the cup down, staring again at the file.
Why, Serena? Why did you look at the file? Were you just curious or were you on assignment?
That was what Waverly wanted him to find out. His other assignment: to ascertain the intentions of Serena Malipiero. If she had read the file, she would know about their suspicions of Strastown. How could she not tell her superiors that Thrush America Northeast was in danger? He sat down, knocking the briefcase as he turned, holding his breath and grimacing as it crashed to the floor.
Across the room, Kuryakin flinched at the sound, a low cry escaping his lips. He sat bolt upright as Solo approached him quickly, eyes wide until he focused on Napoleon and saw where he was, then sleep claimed him back instantly; he was unconscious before his head hit the pillow.
Napoleon arranged the blanket over Illya's shoulders, hearing the ragged gasps of breath as his partner's racing heart tried to readjust to a sleeping tempo. He sat near him on the coffee table, his face buried in his hands.
My consequence. As my responsibility, Illya, you will always be a consequence of my actions. You shouldn't have to be.
He had few choices actually. The obvious one: he could fulfill his obligations to U.N.C.L.E. and resign. But to do what? To go where? To go with Serena and Thrush? He shivered. Well, where else was he heading? What other options did he have? If he wanted Serena, and Serena stayed with Thrush, there was no way he could stay employed with U.N.C.L.E.
Before him lay vivid proof of the consequences.
This time -- supposedly -- Serena saved Illya's life, believing he would otherwise be killed by the Thrush operatives within the prison. The two Thrush guards involved had then taken a different route to punish Kuryakin: by telling the inmates he was an undercover agent they had spawned a riot and more.
And next time?
Serena... ? Next time?
Other choices? Few. Fewer still with Serena in the picture.
And without her?
* * *
"We have to move now. We're ready. There's no time to wait."
Waverly nodded, scrutinizing the battle plans, then scrawling his signature over the papers. "Two o'clock this afternoon?"
"The first platoons have already left. I'll be leaving with the rest in twenty minutes."
"Keep me informed."
"Yes, sir." Solo gathered the signed documents and with Kuryakin, walked from the office toward the Enforcement Offices.
"I'm coming."
Solo looked at his partner's determined face and smiled. "Of course."
Five hours later, Illya Kuryakin walking stiffly at his side, Napoleon Solo came to the main entrance of the Strastown City Hall. He paused, his left hand on the brass handle, and glanced at the serious face beside him. "Ready?"
Kuryakin nodded, not meeting his eyes, but staring ahead at the swinging doors. "Ready," he said, pulling his gun, his face an angry mask of concentration.
Solo gave the signal to the U.N.C.L.E. operatives surrounding the building and the attack on Thrush America Northeast began.
Thirty minutes and a truckload of explosives later, it was over, an amazingly smooth operation. The final statistics were not yet in, but from what Solo could see through the smoke of the bombed out area, it had been a complete success. The major leaders were under arrest and the invaluable Thrush files and documents had escaped the worst of the damage. It was a major blow for Thrush, one that would set them back months, or even years, in their timetable.
Solo walked through the premises, stepping over rubble and accepting verbal reports from his platoon leaders as his eyes scanned the rooms. He checked with Dr. Lawrence and the U.N.C.L.E. medics located in the park across from the complex, stopping and chatting with each injured man or woman, passing on his thanks -- and U.N.C.L.E.'s -- for a job well done. He made his way back into the building, once more touring the damage and watching as his men completed their securing procedures.
After completing a second circuit, a frown had established itself across Solo's face and he pulled out his transceiver, homing the signal on the unit's companion.
He found him lying behind a counter, covered in dust from an explosion that came a bit too close judging by the blackened marks on the other side of the heavy wooden divider, but he was breathing and appeared uninjured.
The Thrush agent across from him was not so lucky. His neck had been snapped.
"Hey! Sleeping on the job again?"
The blue eyes opened, blinked several times, then closed. "We win?"
"We won. Complete sweep." His eyes inspected the curved body. "You hurting?"
A rueful smile. "No, Napoleon. I just got bored with the whole thing and thought I'd take a snooze." He coughed and opened his eyes, then struggled to sit up, accepting the assistance with a nod. "I set an explosive in the vault, but I don't seem able to move as fast as I usually do and then this guy wanted to see my credentials and I had to stop and chat with him… Well, I don't believe there are any new injuries but I think I've aggravated the previous damage."
Solo helped him to his feet, realizing only then that the black slacks were damp with blood. "Can you walk?" he asked casually, hiding his worry.
"Please don't call for a stretcher, Napoleon. Just get me to the car and home again and I promise I'll be good and do whatever the doctor says."
Kuryakin swayed dizzily, but looked around at the wreckage of the Thrush headquarters with something akin to delight. "We did do a good job, didn't we?"
* * *
Solo headed home that evening feeling good. The assignment had been completed to Waverly's satisfaction and more. The Head of U.N.C.L.E. North America had nodded intently as the reports came in and the names of captured Thrush agents were given, the pleasure shown in the small smile hooked to one corner of his mouth.
Two assignments completed now. His partner was peacefully asleep and mending under Sam Lawrence's care. Kuryakin would be back to work within a week, the doctor promised, provided during that time he not try to leap counters or pick fights with Thrush agents twice his size.