by LRH Balzer
He rolled Illya onto his back and yanked out the paralyzing dart, one hand wiping mud from his mouth and nose. Napoleon started to lift the Russian upright to get him in a fireman's lift but stopped abruptly, lowering him back to the ground as Illya managed to let off something resembling a scream.
It wasn't of pain, though, but a warning. The blue eyes staring at him from beneath heavy eyelids were frantically signaling, but they weren't focused and he couldn't read them.
"What's wrong?" he shouted in Kuryakin's ear, trying to be heard over the tumult behind him. There was no way Illya could answer; the neuromuscular blocking effects of the dart would not wear off enough for him to speak for at least forty-five minutes.
Napoleon glanced up to see if the Thrush agents had made an appearance, then took a closer look at his partner. Beneath the drenched blanket-poncho there was something across Illya's chest. "Is your arm hurt? Or your ribs?"
He wrestled with the poncho, unwinding it enough to see beneath, then grimaced and nodded in understanding of the warning. He raised Kuryakin to a seated position, then crouched behind him, grabbed him high under the arms and moved backwards, dragging him across the field toward the safety of the helicopter.
Flashes of gunfire from the woods alerted him that company had arrived. He paused, balancing his partner on his left hip, and pulled out his new Walther P-38, U.N.C.L.E.'s latest 'Special', took aim at the moving targets, and let the pistol fire on full-auto -- which was probably highly illegal, but Thrush was not apt to file charges.
Answering shots came from the two enemy agents he could see, then the helicopter beside him spat out automatic fire and the dark figures scattered and disappeared back into hiding.
Solo twisted the rear door handle and hoisted Kuryakin into the compact seating area behind the cockpit, maneuvered him across the three seats, and climbed in after him. He slammed the door shut, Dancer lifting off even as he locked his side door.
"Where to?" she asked, keeping her voice remarkably steady. Her eyes darted from the instrument panel to the Thrush agents piling into their cars.
He pointed west, then reached forward to take the headset from above the co-pilot seat and called into his secondary contact, an out-of-the-way airfield under contract to the army. It was situated ten minutes away and he had previously arranged to deposit the chopper and pick up a car there if they should be followed. Thrush was known to have an airbase in the vicinity and it was far safer to be hiding on the ground than in the air where they were easy targets to be shot down. The navy insignia on the chopper would only offer them protection for so long.
With a nod of satisfaction, he dropped the headset on the front seat and turned his attention to the paralyzed man wedged behind him, Illya's lungs awkwardly gasping for oxygen. Exhaustion and frustration were written all over the pale face, if one knew how to look for it.
With one hand he pulled the Russian up enough so he could worm into the vacated area behind him, gratified to see the familiar blue eyes meet his although Illya was probably seeing double or triple. Actions cumbersomely limited in the narrow space, Napoleon eased the drenched blanket-poncho off his partner, revealing the tiny baby he had seen earlier.
The drug had settled in now and the blond agent lay motionless with his back against Napoleon's chest, unable to move or talk or even swallow. Succinyicholine chloride mimicked the poison curare quite effectively and mixed with a few other chemicals by the U.N.C.L.E. researchers, had been proposed as a humane way to restrain enemy forces. It had been shunned for regular use in favor of the tranquilizing sleep darts because the latter had an immediate onset while the darts causing paralysis took a few minutes to become incapacitating, vital time wasted in a battle.
In its favor, the paralyzing drugs wore off fully in an hour, usually with little or no after effects. The individual would be conscious the entire time, aware of everything going on around him. Sleep darts knocked the victim out for several hours and Solo wanted to know as soon as possible what was happening.
No matter which drug he had used to bring Illya down, there was always a danger. With the curariform agent, the trick was to get the dosage right so the sequential effects would stop long before reaching the diaphragm, since the respiratory system was affected last. Although Solo was initially confident in the dosage he had used -- since in this particular case he happened to know the normal weight of the target -- he saw now that his partner appeared to be a few pounds lighter. Reluctantly, he modified his planned actions; he would have to monitor Illya's breathing and pulse for the next few minutes. No need to get this far and have a mishap.
Leaving Dancer to pinpoint the location of the army's auxiliary airfield on her own, Solo did a quick thorough check on his partner. Other than suffering from a mild case of hypothermia from being outside in the freezing dampness, Kuryakin seemed fine. His pulse and breathing were still a little erratic but, considering the circumstances, that was understandable. So was the weariness carved onto his face.
There was little else he could do to make either of them comfortable, so Napoleon peeled off his own jacket and wrapped it around the two fugitives. It wasn't much, but at least it would be warmer than the wet poncho was and they were out of the stormy elements.
The baby -- baby?? -- was awake and screaming. It was wet, miserable, and cold, much like the man holding him. A pacifier with a long string was pinned to Illya's T-shirt and Napoleon leaned over and tried to force the baby to take it, surprised when it did. The infant sucked for a moment, then spit it out, rage turning its tiny face red as it howled for nourishment. He stuck it back in and the baby alternately sucked urgently on the pacifier or screamed. Feeling a little like screaming himself after a few minutes of the high-pitched sound in his ear, Napoleon located the makeshift bundle that had been slung over Illya's shoulder and rummaged through it: a small glass bottle, an empty can of formula, another empty one, a can opener.
Bingo! He waved the only remaining unopened can of formula in front of Illya's face, then shrugged, quickly read the instructions on the label, opened it, and made a stab at pouring the liquid into the bottle. He ended up spilling almost a third of it as the chopper lurched suddenly. He twisted the top shut and smiled as the child latched on to it.
Ah, this isn't so difficult.
Pleased with himself, Napoleon looked up to see that April Dancer had turned in the pilot's chair and was staring wide-eyed at the baby -- her first sight of it. She had probably heard the subsonic screams above the chopper engine's roar. He shrugged, gave another thumbs-up that Illya and the baby were fine, and motioned for her to concentrate on their destination.
Then, with one hand beneath the child, flat against Illya's lower ribs and stomach, and the other supporting the bottle, he started gently asking questions into a muddy ear. The blue eyes slowly rolled back and heavy lids shut Illya off from the world around him, but his silent answers came clearly.
"Are you in any pain?"
No.
"Good. Is the baby healthy?"
Yes.
"Were you running from Thrush?"
Yes.
"Does Thrush want the baby?"
Yes.
"Dead or alive?"
Alive.
"And you? Dead or alive?"
Dead.
"Is the baby being held for ransom by Thrush?"
No.
"Has it been kidnapped?"
No.
"No? Hmm ... Who is it then? ... Is the baby important in some way?"
Emphatic yes.
"Can we go back to U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters?" There was no reply at first and Napoleon bent forward to see if he could catch a glimpse of his partner's face.
Then the answer came. No.
"No? What do we do then? Hide or go elsewhere?" Hide.
"Okay." A series of tremors vibrated through the intercostal muscles and Napoleon waited for Illya's breathing to return to normal before continuing his questions. "Is it a boy or girl?"
Boy
.
"How old? How many months?"
Two.
"Illya, you've been gone for three weeks. How many weeks have you been with the baby?"
Almost three.
"You've been taking care of the baby?" Solo asked, his voice curious.
Yes.
"Just you?"
Yes.
Solo thought about that for a few minutes. "Thrush kept you prisoner as a nanny?" he asked finally.
No answer. Illya's rhythmic breathing showed he was asleep, exhaustion taking its own prisoner. Napoleon slipped his hand away from his partner's diaphragm and took his pulse, nodding at the lower rate, now closer to the proper zone.
His arms reached around Illya to the baby, removing the empty bottle and shifting the sleeping infant to what he hoped was a more comfortable position in its sling. Best to let them both sleep now. More answers would come soon enough.
* * * * *
"He's two months old and healthy," Napoleon said in April's direction as he drove off the airfield, windshield wipers slapping at the downpour.
"Who?" she asked stupidly, then blushed, the color spreading as he saw her fight not to blush. The female agent had been trying not to stare too obviously over her shoulder at the wet, grimy, almost unconscious man propped up in the back seat of the station wagon.
"Oh, I thought you were looking at the baby, not my partner. Have you ever met Illya Kuryakin?" Napoleon asked, with a slight edge of humor in his voice. "I never did ask you that before. Don't worry, I'll introduce you later. He's not as bad as everyone makes out. Bark worse than his bite and all that."
"I know who he is," she answered, curtly. "I was looking at the baby. How old is it? What's its name?"
"As I said, he is two months old and I don't know his name; that's all Illya was able to communicate to me in the helicopter before I moved him here. That, not going back to HQ yet, and the importance of keeping the baby away from Thrush."
"I didn't realize he could talk already."
"For the third time, the baby is only two months old. He can't talk yet. Don't you know anything about babies?"
"I was talking about Mr. Kuryakin," Dancer said between clenched teeth.
A sudden memory of the expression on Illya's face at the nightclub in Paris curbed Napoleon's further jibe. Apparently his sense of humor went over their heads. He responded with a quick grin, first making sure April knew he had been teasing before answering her question.
"Speech is almost the first thing to go with a U-53b and usually the last thing to come back. After you've been working with a partner for a while, you learn to find other ways of communicating besides verbal, especially for times like this. For example, he knows that I will understand looking to the right as meaning yes and to the left as meaning no. Or one squeeze of his hand means yes, and two means no. The rest is up to me; I have to ask the right questions."
"But he still couldn't move his eyes or his hands."
"Right. But his breathing was unaffected. He signaled with small gasps I could feel on his diaphragm."
She was quiet, absorbing the information. "Why would Thrush want a baby?"
The Enforcement Chief shook his head wearily. "Why does Thrush do anything? Unfortunately, that question requires more than a yes or no answer, but we'll find out soon enough, when he's more coherent. But now, my dear, you are about to become a wife and mother in one easy step. According to Clements, the airfield manager, there are a lot of small motels along the highway and we are going to stop at one of them and rest up before we get this baby to safety. Clements gave us a map and an area telephone directory. We will need a few supplies, first, though. What names do you have credit cards in?"
She checked her purse, reaching into small zippered pockets to pull out alternate ID. "How about Mrs. Georgina Walters? Sears Roebuck card and American Express ."
"Good, Mrs. Walters. Now check the phone book beside you and see if there's a department store in Boxall. That town should be big enough for one."
April paged through the directory and came up with a Sears Roebuck. "Open until 6:00 Fridays, it says in the ad. It's just after five now," she added, glancing at her watch. She consulted a local map. "Are we almost at Boxall? Once we get into the town, turn right at the first corner and go down a couple of blocks."
"Good work. Let's see how sleeping beauty is doing; he has been shifting around a bit for a few minutes now and he should be able to talk soon… Illya?" he called out loudly, looking into his rear view mirror as his partner's eyes shot wide open, then lowered half-shut. "We're going to get some supplies. What do you need?... Illya? Concentrate for a minute, my friend. Chto bi vi khoteli?"
"Hmm... Pelyonki i..." a yawn interrupted, then Kuryakin continued in a husky voice, over-enunciating each word as he tried to control his facial muscles, "... i detskiy rozhok."
Napoleon glanced in the mirror again, smiling. "Can you try that in English? My Russian doesn't seem to extend to baby products."
Illya shook his head helplessly, leaning against the seat back. "Baby… cloth?"
"Diapers?" April ventured and then cringed as the agent's attention briefly focused on her.
He frowned as though she had spoken without his permission, but then nodded. "Yes. Diapers." He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the cobwebs. The dart seemed to have worn off, but he cleared his throat, swallowing painfully before he continued, "I don't know... how they are sold… And another bottle for Pasha's milk. Formula, at least ten cans. And I need another --" He shook his head again, irritated at his lack of vocabulary. "Soska?" he asked, and held up the pacifier.
Napoleon nodded. "A soother. Dummy."
Illya's face reddened. "I apologize, Napoleon. I did not know the name of it." He turned away, his eyes closed, and tilted his body sideways, lowering his head and right shoulder to rest on the seat cushion.
Solo watched him in the mirror, puzzled for a moment at the obvious air of dejection in Kuryakin's response. The Russian's face was pale beneath the mud and dirt, his forehead ridged in pain. Solo replayed the conversation in his mind, wondering what had happened. This was more than weariness, almost a resigned hopelessness.
Then he understood. "Illya?" Napoleon said softly, a smile pulling at the corners of a mouth that ached to laugh. He could see April choking back a laugh as well and, for the first time since they had met, they exchanged a smile. At the next red stoplight, Napoleon reached over the seat and tapped his partner on the hip to get his attention. "Illya, before you retreat too far, I think you should know that a soska is sometimes called a 'dummy' in English. Okay?"
He saw Illya's eyes flicker open and a brief smile grazed his face, then a nod of appreciation at the explanation, but he stayed withdrawn and silent, making no further attempt at communication, his eyes closed and his breathing careful.
The light changed and Napoleon pulled into the department store parking lot. "Okay, Mrs. Walters, can you also pick up some tennis shoes for Illya? I packed a change of clothes for him, but no shoes." He handed her a card from his wallet. "His size is on here."
April glanced at the writing scribbled on the back of his U.N.C.L.E. ID, her eyes widening. "Hey, you have my measurements and dress size on here as well!"
"I looked it up before we left. As Mr. Waverly is fond of saying, a good agent is always prepared. Now, away you go. Mr. Walters will stay here with 'the boys', Mrs. Walters. Try to look like you know what you're doing. Memorize the size before you go in. The baby will need some clothes, too. He is –"
"Two months old, I know. That's eight weeks in baby sizes. I went to a shower last month." She glanced at the infant and the man resting in the back seat. "I'll hurry."
"My nose thanks you. I don't know which of them smells worse."
* * * * *
Illya Kuryakin sat on the edge of one of the motel room beds, his eyes hollow and dark rimmed. The mud and rain had plastered his shirt to his chest and his lungs still labored with each breath he took. If he had s
hown more life, he would have looked miserable; instead, he only looked empty. Napoleon's jacket offered little warmth but he huddled beneath it, taking more than surface comfort from its weight on his shoulders.
Matted dirty-blond hair had been pushed back off his face revealing the wide forehead, creased now in exhaustion and worry. As Napoleon talked with Waverly on the transceiver, Illya stared bleary-eyed at Pasha lying across his lap. The infant -- blissfully unaware of his situation and caring only that he was being fed again -- sucked eagerly on the bottle Illya held.
Napoleon studied his partner as he concluded his report to Headquarters and snapped the cigarette case shut. Illya flinched at the sound but didn't look up. April Dancer hovered in the background, uncertain of what to do.
"So what happened?" he asked, pulling a chair in front of Kuryakin and straddling it.
Illya didn't answer, his shoulders slumped, his head lowered. His eyes struggled to stay open.
Napoleon realized it was unlikely he knew he had been asked a question. He tried again, his voice firm. "Illya, I need a report. Why can't we go to U.N.C.L.E. H.Q.? What happened?"
The baby sputtered, coughing, and Illya raised the infant upright to his chest, patting its tiny back. He blinked and frowned, glancing up at Napoleon.
"Illya?" Napoleon repeated patiently, his voice a little harsher. "Vi ponimayetye? Do you understand me?"
Illya looked over at April and then back to Napoleon, "Kto ehto?" he asked, with a nod in her direction.
"Her name is April Dancer. She is a Section Three Enforcement Agent assigned to this case."
Illya shrugged and ignored her then, lowering the baby back to his lap and coaxing it to take the bottle again. "Where are... pelyonki?" he asked, raising his eyes to squint around the room.
Napoleon handed him a diaper from the shopping bags and with his free hand, Illya flicked it onto the bed next to him, folded it into thirds, then transferred the baby to the dry diaper and one-handed, undressed and changed the infant while it still fed.