by LRH Balzer
Once when he was sick, they took him away and he woke up in a little house on the river. It was quiet there. When he was stronger, he walked to the edge of the river and put his toes in the water. There were trees and many bright flowers. He had sat on the edge of the river, with his feet in the water, listening to the birds, and he closed his eyes and looked up at the sun and made it all go away. He didn't want to live in the world of colors.
The church bells couldn't ring and let Erasmus turn the page.
He sat at the base of the statue and closed his eyes and looked up at the sun and wondered what it was that Erasmus read.
He heard papers. Pages turning. A phone rang once. A voice. Disconnected words whispering into his foggy mind. Light shone through his closed eyelids, but his eyes felt locked shut.
He sniffed carefully. A hospital. No, the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary -- that was Nurse Johnson's dimestore perfume. And to his left, he could smell Napoleon's aftershave.
So, something had happened and he had been injured. Napoleon was okay or he wouldn't be wearing his aftershave. The smell hadn't faded much, so it was before noon; if it was evening, he'd be wearing his other bizarre cologne.
He sniffed again, trying to focus his awareness. Waverly had been there several hours before; the faint pipe smell lingered. Someone was drinking coffee.
The voice stopped. Napoleon's voice. The telephone receiver was replaced. Pages rustling. Napoleon doing paperwork in the infirmary?
The receiver was picked up again and the telephone dialed. He listened to the number of clicks. Napoleon was calling the Enforcement Agents' Office.
"Solo here. Put Lagto on…"
Ah, he could make out words now. Who was Lagto?
"John, it's Napoleon. Any word on the warehouse stakeout?... When is their next check in?... half an hour, hmm... Keep me in touch then… Local 528... No, not yet. Lawrence says any time now..." Solo chuckled, "I know, he's been saying that for awhile." The telephone receiver was returned to its cradle.
He drifted for a few minutes, unable to focus his thoughts. Lagto? Who was that?... Napoleon had sounded tired. Partying too late... What day is it? Thursday?... No, maybe Friday... Lagto?... Got to check the experiment in lab four... tired... Maybe Powers already checked it... what happened to me?... and who's Lagto?... Napoleon? Why are you working in the infirmary?
A chair scraped, footsteps moved across the room. Coffee being poured… Coffee?... Napoleon, I'm awake.
Besides his supposedly reassuring grin, Napoleon could be counted on to have one of three greetings in these circumstances: "Hi there, buddy. How are you feeling?" meant he was pretty bad off. "Well, welcome back to the land of the living!" meant he had been sick but was now on the mend. "It's about time. What did you find out about... ?" meant he had a minor injury and Napoleon expected him on his feet within the hour.
With surprising difficulty, Illya opened his eyes. They felt sore and weren't focusing properly. He turned his head slightly to see a fuzzy Napoleon nearby working at a small table, bent over some papers.
After a moment, the Chief Enforcement Officer glanced over at him, dropping his pencil in surprise. "Well, welcome back to the land of the living!"
Napoleon came over and sat on the edge of his bed, grinning down at him like an idiot.
Illya sighed and slowly focused on him, his eyes opening and shutting as they adjusted to the light. He attempted to speak but settled for clearing his dry throat. Napoleon poured some water for him and lifted his head so he could drink it. He felt incredibly weak. "Thank you."
The words were garbled, but Napoleon understood him. "You're welcome. How are you feeling?"
"Dizzy." Again, the word didn't sound quite right; he ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth and discovered the left side of his mouth swollen, his lip probably split. "So what happened this time?"
"What do you remember?" Napoleon asked, cautiously.
Just what he needed, twenty questions. He shook his head and instantly regretted it. What did he remember? He closed his eyes. He remembered leaving for work that morning. Walking to work in the spring air. Someone must have jumped him, or he was hit by a car or something. "Coming to work in the morning."
"Do you remember anything after leaving your apartment that morning?"
That morning? He opened his eyes again and painfully turned his head toward Napoleon. Not this morning then, or yesterday morning. "How long have I been out?" He tried to keep his eyes open, but they closed on their own.
Silence from Napoleon. Illya could feel his partner adjust his sheets and clear his throat uneasily. "It's not important, Illya. We'll talk about it later. Why don't you get some rest?"
He opened his eyes a crack to catch Solo's worried look. He'd definitely been out for a while then. He tried to think about the morning he'd left for work but it all faded out to the light coming through his eyelids, and then even that disappeared.
He opened his eyes. Erasmus was there. Frowning.
***
1:45p.m.
Solo poured his fifth cup of coffee. His head and neck ached. Dr. Lawrence had been summoned to join them and Waverly had called a needed break while they waited. The sandwich Solo had hastily eaten sat heavy on his stomach.
They had been talking in circles for three hours but the men gathered in Waverly's office simply did not have enough information. Who had abducted Kuryakin? Was that him in the photograph in Rotterdam and, if so, was he there on his own volition, or as a prisoner? Did the current problem in the Netherlands connect with Kuryakin's disappearance? How were THRUSH and Voorne involved with Kuryakin's disappearance? Waverly seemed to think the Zekering should be investigated. Why had Kuryakin been returned to U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters and why had he been returned alive?
And, what other classified U.N.C.L.E. information had Kuryakin given out besides the Inrhysec?
Dr. Lawrence arrived and they reconvened. "I assume you want to know about Kuryakin." He tossed a file on the circular table and spun the middle section to bring it around to Waverly. "We're quite undecided at this time. His actual injuries are not that serious -- he's been in far worse shape on several occasions. The mending process is progressing at an acceptable rate. He's a little weak, but should be up and around in a day or so. On a physical level, I believe my greatest concern is the long term drain on his resources. He arrived in rather poor condition, as you recall, and, aside from the superficial beating, the injuries seem to be consistent with an interrogator trying to elicit information.
"My second area of concern revolves around his brief awakening this morning, with no real memory of his abduction. Whether this is temporary or not remains to be seen. If Kuryakin still has no recollections of his abduction when we speak with him later, then the question facing me as physician is precisely how much of this memory lapse has been caused by physical injury. Then, Mr. Waverly, he should be sent to a hospital for more extensive tests than I am able to conduct here. We also must consider psychological trauma, emotional trauma, drugs, shock treatment, hypnosis -- or maybe he is simply lying."
"He's not."
"Your loyalty is admirable, Solo, but he was gone, under questionable circumstances, for four months." Vandermeer emphasized his point by placing the photos of Kuryakin back on the table.
"He's not lying."
"How do you know? In total, how long did you work together? A few months? How can you be so sure?"
"I know him."
Dr. Lawrence was studying the photograph. "When was this taken? I haven't seen this before."
"Two, almost three, weeks ago," De Witt answered.
"It hasn't yet been positively identified as Kuryakin." Dunn had been silent most of the meeting, but the Dutch agents insistence that Kuryakin was a double agent was grating him.
Lawrence pointed to Kuryakin's left hand in the photograph. "Look at this. If you examine this carefully you'll see two of his fingers are in splints. That corroborates the physical evidence of x-rays showing his mi
ddle and small proximal phalanges on his left hand recently broken. He doesn't appear to be a prisoner, though, does he?"
As both Solo and Vandermeer replied to the doctor's comments at the same time, Waverly stood up, interrupting them. "Gentlemen, if you please, we are not getting anywhere on this track. As Mr. Dunn so aptly put it, we are indeed 'chasing our tails' on several points." He puffed on the smoldering pipe, allowing them all time to calm down. "Mr. Vandermeer and Mr. De Witt will be returning to Rotterdam this evening. We will be in contact with your office and I expect several of our operatives will be joining you in a short time, as we acquire further information."
His buzzer rang and he picked up the phone, listening for a moment, then replacing the receiver. "Mr. Solo, there seems to be some sort of altercation on level two, Interrogation Room Two. A Nurse... ah… Johnson, I believe, just called for assistance. Could you see to this?"
Solo was already out the door, Dunn close behind him. The Irish agent paused only to call back in explanation, "She was watching Illya."
***
Solo raced from the elevator to crash into Nurse Johnson in the hallway. "What happened? Illya--?" Dunn moved past him running down the corridor, trying to find the source of the problem.
Johnson was fuming. "Watson! The fool! He went against Dr. Lawrence's explicit instructions. He just went ahead and ignored it."
"What happened?"
"Watson from Interrogations came in about half an hour ago, just after I went for lunch, and saw Illya was waking. Casey said he had the papers from Waverly to do it! Watson had Casey take Illya to an Interrogation Room and then the bastard pumped him with 'SpeakEasy'."
"He's allergic to that." Solo pushed by her down the hall to where Dunn was waving for him to join him. "Where is he?"
"Watson's got him locked in the room with him. Take a look at this. The guy's crazy." Dunn's freckles stood out on his ashen skin as he steered Solo ahead of him.
They were in a small room with a viewing window looking down onto the scene below. Kuryakin was on his hands and knees on the floor, wearing only a pair of thin infirmary pajamas. He had been sick -- an initial reaction to the "truth serum" drug -- and Watson was making him clean it up with a cloth. The Russian was dazed, in shock, plainly disoriented and terrorized by what was going on around him, his taped hands shaking as he struggled to wipe the floor.
Solo spun, pulled out his U.N.C.L.E. special, and shot his way through the lock on the door.
Watson looked up as he kicked in the door. "Butt out, Solo! This is my department. I handled it according to procedure! If your little commie friend can't handle his own foul-ups, that's not my concern. I'm after information about the traitor."
Solo smashed him between the eyes with his fist, not looking back as he bent down to where Kuryakin cowered near a US Postal mail bag.
Dunn stepped in to block the ex-Army sergeant's attack on Solo, holding him flat against the wall.
Watson was livid at being interrupted and even though pinned, continued his verbal rampage. "I'll get you for this, Solo! Waverly's gonna hear about this, all right! The Ruskie's withholding information, Solo! He's sold out. I know it. Two days after he disappears, a massive stakeout is fouled up because the other side is tipped off. One month later, our Jersey office is raided and we lose two men. Two months ago, our communication system had to be revamped because THRUSH had discovered our frequency. Last week, as you well know, the radar system is sabotaged. And the Inrhysec formula. Who knew about those things? You. Waverly. Me. O'Brien. Powers. Garcia. Two or three other researchers. And Kuryakin. Every single one of them."
Watson continued, "I was trying to get some indication as to the extent of his betrayal but the traitor stares at me blankly and then he makes himself sick. He says he remembers nothing of what happened. When I ask him what the word zwerver has to do with anything, he goes into convulsions. He says he's working only on the Winthrop case. When I mention Voorne, he doubles over. Your friend is useless, Solo! They've screwed up his mind. He's crazy! I've already got him down to be memory-wiped and reeducated. Waverly's gonna hear about this!"
Dunn waited until Solo had left the room carrying Kuryakin before releasing Watson and adding his own left punch into the man's abdomen. As Bulldog Watson doubled over, Dunn pulled the Interrogation Room door shut after him and locked it. "You bet Waverly's gonna hear about this."
Thirty minutes later, Dr. Lawrence took his patient's pulse, then silently removed the oxygen mask. "Make sure he gets some rest soon," he said as he left the room. "Any sign of shock, call me immediately."
"I will." Solo was still sitting on the edge of the bed where he'd been for half an hour. Now that he was alone with Kuryakin, he wasn't sure what to say. "Feeling a little better?"
Illya nodded, his eyes narrowing in pain, his nerves obviously still frayed. "Yeah. Napoleon, I'm sorry."
"For what? I should apologize to you. I wanted to talk with you first, before Watson."
Illya swallowed, feeling his hands beginning to tremble as they lay on top of the blankets. Lawrence had elected to cut the tape off them and rehooked the I.V. into his arm. "Napoleon, what did Watson mean? How long have I been... been..." He floundered, at a loss to complete his sentence.
"You disappeared on March 20th." He watched the pale face as he continued, "Today is July 9th."
"What?" Illya's eyes widened and he grabbed at Solo's sleeve. "July--?" His breathing quickened as the Chief Enforcement Officer related his arrival at U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters three days previous. "No," he said, shaking his head. "I left my apartment and walked here. I--" He broke off as he saw Solo's face. "Damn."
He walked by Goldstein's Deli and saw him sitting in the window. The man smiled at him as though he was waiting for him to come by.
"Illya?" Napoleon's voice. "Illya?"
He blinked. "It all happened? The mailbag? The bomb? The formula?"
Solo nodded, reluctantly.
Erasmus whispered not to tell them anything.
"Napoleon?" He was getting tired. "Napoleon, I don't understand. I don't know the Inrhysec formula. Not in my head. It was all on paper in my lab. I never memorized it. How could I have told them?" His voice was fading and Solo had to lean forward to catch the last words. "They must have lifted it from my subconscious. My God, Napoleon. If they can do that... what have I told them?" Illya's eyes fluttered once more and then closed, the day's stress taking its toll.
Solo could see Kuryakin's chest rise and fall in slow, natural rhythm beneath the blankets. He still had no idea what to say to him.
***
In the days that followed, Watson was ordered away from Kuryakin but was not reprimanded for his actions. Neither were Solo and Dunn for hitting him.
Illya Kuryakin was sent for tests, but there was no physical reason for his memory loss. There were still traces of chemicals in his blood, but not of sufficient number to determine their purpose. He was returned to the U.N.C.L.E. infirmary and Dr. Lawrence refused to release him. Waverly also declined Watson's attempts to prosecute him.
July went by. Rotterdam reported no progress. THRUSH Netherlands was growing. Two more bodies had been found that could be traced to the same 1947-48 group in Rotterdam, but these were men in their fifties. Both had been tortured. Illya Kuryakin did not remember them, but neither did he remember the other boys in the photo or recognize himself at age six.
The pictures of him in Rotterdam taken a few weeks before haunted Kuryakin, and Solo often found him sitting in his room in the infirmary, clutching the photograph, staring at it. Kuryakin's outer wounds had healed but he had gained no weight back and, therefore, was still weak. He had violent nightmares that left him moody and depressed. He ate sparingly; his stomach was often unable to keep anything down. He rarely slept at night.
A month went by and they fell into an uneasy pattern.
Solo would meet with Dunn early in the morning at U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters. They would compare notes, meet with Waverly, send o
ut junior agents on multi-track assignments -- mostly routine legwork checking warehouses, tracking down leads, researching library, civil, and federal documents -- and then correlating the incoming information.
Kuryakin would begin his days with physical therapy or counseling. Following that, he was allowed out of the infirmary under Dan Powers' supervision in the late morning to visit his lab and work on some minor projects permitted by Waverly. At Dr. Lawrence's encouragement, Kuryakin was also allowed out most afternoons on day leave, providing he was back in one piece by evening, so Solo would pack up his briefcase and head down to the infirmary just before noon each day, sign out Kuryakin, and they would head out for food. Following lunch, they would go to Solo's apartment and spend the afternoon pouring over papers and picking the Russian's scattered memories. By three, Illya would be exhausted and sleep until six, leaving Solo to write up the report of their progress and plan the next day's work. Solo sat alone at his dining table, day after sweltering day, his shirt sleeves rolled up in the August heat, the room silent except for the whir of fan, the constant rustle of pages, and the scrape of his pen on paper.
Dunn joined them for dinner most evenings, the three men sitting at a restaurant table intent on their assignment. Paddy had come to an uneasy truce with Kuryakin's presence. Regardless of the Russian being 'off-duty' as an agent, there was no denying that Kuryakin and his tangled memories were the case. To insist on his absence at their conferences would be defeating their assignment.
There was a sense of urgency in the New York and Rotterdam U.N.C.L.E. offices but no one knew exactly what it was they were looking for.
***
On the last Thursday of August, Dunn slowly walked the stairs to Solo's apartment. It had been a long day already, full of oppressive heat and dead ends. Voorne had a Dutch Import business whose offices disappeared without a trace the previous Tuesday; overnight the entire floor of the office building had moved, without warning and without a forwarding address. Two days of searching had brought them nothing.
Solo let him in, taking the load of files from him and motioning that Kuryakin was still asleep in the bedroom down the hall. Dunn tossed his jacket on the couch, relishing the cooler air in the apartment. His shirt lay damp against his skin and he removed his gun holster, stretching in the apartment's welcome comfort.