by LRH Balzer
He reached the eighth floor landing and spun, fumbling with the handle as he peered up the stairwell for the door on the floor above to open. Still clear. He turned, stumbling into the hallway, his eyes trying to focus on the long corridor. Empty. There were two elevators at the far end of the hallway; it was unlikely he had time to summon one, but he couldn't think of anything else for the moment. With a mental shrug, he looked back over his shoulder at the stairwell door and ran.
And crashed headlong into a man who suddenly backed up from an alcove in the hallway, toppling them both over. Chest heaving; desperate for oxygen, Kuryakin rolled away from him, purchasing any space he could get. The gag was effective; his tongue strained against it, trying to let air into his lungs. If he couldn't breathe, he was doomed.
The black man stared at him, at first annoyed, and then smiling in surprised recognition. Kuryakin couldn't place the face through blurred vision and kept moving, awkwardly scrambling backwards over ice cubes that had been knocked from the bucket the man had been carrying. He couldn't get his feet under him properly, adrenaline and pain making his legs fail him.
There was the distant sound of the stairwell door being thrown open, echoing against a cement wall, then the clatter of steps on the stairs. Noticing Kuryakin's alarmed look, the tall denim-clad man's smile vanished. He spun away from Kuryakin, eyes fixed on the exit door as Freddy came tumbling through. Before the startled guard could register who this third person was, the man charged him, one leg expertly kicking the gun from his hand. His fist connected squarely on Freddy's jaw, the angle calculated and perfect, and the guard dropped to the floor, unconscious.
Winded, the stranger looked about him as he leaned on the wall flexing his right hand. "Damn, that hurt. Now why am I not surprised to see you?" he panted. "Any more after you, or just the one? And please don't tell me I just decked a Fed. That's all I need today."
Kuryakin edged away, trying to get back on his feet. The man made a grab for him, but the strong hands couldn't get a good grip on the sweat-stained torso and Illya wriggled from his grasp. Unable to breathe or stand, the Russian fell backwards, his head impacting against the wall as his legs gave way. He fought to stay conscious; he knew he was on the edge of passing out, the shock returning and now only moments away. Had he simply jumped from the cooking pot into the fire this time? Can't breathe. Can't breathe. The cloth on his mouth was suffocating his labored efforts, dark spots forming resolutely before his eyes.
"Do you understand English? Do you? You've got a bad cut on your foot––both of them, by the look of it. In my room, I've got a knife to cut your arms free and I have some bandages," the man said, gently.
No. Kuryakin shook his bead. He wanted to glance around and see what options he had, but he did not wish to risk letting this man get any closer. Who was he? The face was almost familiar, and the man acted as though they had met before. But where? Where? The answer hovered beyond his coherent thought. He watched warily, unable to pull away as one hand reached out and steadied him while the other untied the mouth gag.
"My name is Scotty. Alexander Scott. Do you remember me?" The man crouched near him using the freed cloth to dab at the sweat running down Kuryakin's forehead. "I bought a painting from you in Paris, maybe six years ago."
The memory sparked and connected as the U.N.C.L.E. agent's head swam in ever-expanding black dots. Kuryakin nodded numbly, then watched as a dark hand carefully lifted one foot and examined it, the other hand holding his ankle tightly, not allowing him to pull out of his grasp. Despite the frustration of being unable to get away, he found words coming calmly to his lips, his voice hoarse. "Others in building." The man understood, releasing him. "Then we better get you out of sight."
"You were enemy then." He knew he was fading. His head reeled dangerously from his impact with the wall and despite swallowing quickly, he wasn't sure if his stomach contents were going to regurgitate or not.
Scotty chuckled softly. "The enemy? Depends on how you look at it, I suppose. You don't look like you're seeing too clearly at the moment. That extra little knock on your head didn't help matters, did it? You're noticeably cross-eyed, my friend, and I don't recall you being that way last we met. And look at this, you've got another egg on the other side... I bet you're really not feeling too well, all things considered. Listen, I can help, man. Honest. Let's get you back to my room and get the rest of you untied." The man smiled, holding out his hands as though he were approaching a wounded animal, then moved closer and slipped one arm beneath Kuryakin's knees, the other supporting his back, and with a grunt of effort, hoisted him. "Upsy-daisy. Let Doctor Scotty patch you all up and then we'll have a nice little chat about why a dead man is all trussed up and running around half-clothed in an Atlanta hotel. We can also discuss who exactly is after you this time, and what reasons you can come up with for why I shouldn't turn you in to the police."
Scotty didn't quite see the bent head fling backwards to crash into his jaw.
*****
Kelly Robinson nodded into the hotel in-house phone, his throat uttering small sounds that the listener on the other end understood. He waved Napoleon over, put one hand over the receiver and said in a whisper designed to be heard, "I think I've got us a couple of dates." His attention went back to the phone. "Uh-huh. Fifty dollars each. Where do we meet you or do you meet us?"
The men around him roared with laughter, mocking his words, spilling beer and slapping each other on the back The place reeked of cigarettes and stale beer. A country and western band controlled the sound volume, as loud and obnoxious as the customers, while several female dancers in white cowboy hats, red bandannas, and little else, jiggled enticingly on the stage.
Beside him, Solo leaned heavily on the bar, the false smile on his face hiding little. The U.N.C.L.E. agent had received a call from his New York office thirty minutes before reporting that when the apartment building was checked out, there were clear signs his Russian partner had been abducted. The security system on the east side had been rewired and a guard was found tied in a storage locker in the apartment's boiler room. He was in critical condition in the hospital and had not regained consciousness. And it was reported that there was blood in the stairwell two floors up from Kuryakin's apartment that was being analyzed.
What made it frustrating for Napoleon was there was nothing he could do about it. The best place for him to be was where he was, in Atlanta, waiting for whoever had sent the telegram, notes, and pictures to make contact. So they sat in the hotel's bar and made themselves available. Most of the men from the reunion had by now made their way there and were having a party, celebrating their last night together.
It had to be one of four men at the table with them: Laurier, Carter, Powhatan, or Opperdorff. They had matched them drink for drink, but even the most skillful management of alcohol eventually eroded control and they were still no closer to determining whom it was. Actually, Robinson figured, after too much wine with dinner, and three or four pitchers between them in the bar, both he and Lee Solo were becoming annoyingly intoxicated. Whatever happened to nursing your drink while the bad guy got drunk and spilled his guts? These guys were just as drunk as they were, but no one was admitting to anything.
Despite the party atmosphere, Morgan's death and the strange discussion in McGuire's suite the evening before still seemed to dominate the conversation at the tables. It was readily apparent by this time that each of the ex-Rangers who had been up there had reacted differently to the announcement. Some passed it off as silliness, several seemed nervous and afraid, others had a strange fascination with the proceedings, and a few gladly joined the bandwagon out of a general thirst for revenge that dated back twelve or more years. The thinly-veiled threat against any one who backed out held the loose-kneed ones in place and only whetted the appetite of those looking for a fight and some blood.
The talk at their table had continued along the same lines as at dinner, centering around their time as POWs. For the past hour, they had dis
cussed what they had told their wives or their girlfriends and how hard it was to talk about what had happened. It wasn't something you could explain easily to others. Then Jud Carter had asked Dick Powhatan about Philip Koch, the man from their unit who had died. And he had asked Napoleon about Tommy Sorgensen. He wanted to know how their families had taken the news of their death. An innocent question—or not? Kelly wasn't sure.
Powhatan, wiping tears from his eyes, had told about calling Philip's parents when he returned to the States. How hard it had been and how guilty he had felt for being alive when Philip was dead. The family already knew, of course, but it had been a painful call. Then Powhatan had turned to Napoleon and asked about Sorgensen's family. Once again, an innocent question––or not?
Napoleon hadn't been able to speak Words choked in his throat. The table had grown silent. The men downed their drinks. Philip Koch had died quickly, a blow to the head. Tommy was different. It was something they all remembered. Tommy being tortured, then returned to them, only to be taken again and again until he was dead. Kelly had only been there near the end, but he remembered how it had eaten at Napoleon. He had watched him begin to die himself, to give up, and Kelly had broken the rules and told him they were escaping. It had given Lee a reason to eat the small bowl of rice shoved at him and to build his strength so that when they left a few days later, he went with them. He had left Tommy's body behind.
Robinson had tried to change the subject at their table, but the talk stayed stubbornly locked in Korea. He had finally called up to his room hoping Scotty would be there and it would be an excuse to pry Napoleon away from all this. Now was not the time to talk about Tommy. Not when Illya was missing. There was something about the link between them in Napoleon's mind that Kelly was beginning to worry about. The alcohol was blurring lines that Lee wasn't even aware of. The talk was bringing back memories that were superimposing on their present situation.
So he had phoned and Scotty had been in the suite. His partner's news made it even more important to get Napoleon out of the bar.
Robinson hung up the receiver and waved a piece of paper triumphantly into the air. "Sorry, gentlemen, you are on your own tonight. My main man here, Lee Solo, and I have, uh, other planes––" He stopped abruptly and shook his head. Drunker than I thought. "––have other plans involving two young ladies," he finished with a wide lopsided grin. Several men made a jump for his paper. "Uh-uh-uh. Get your own. These don't come cheap. We will see you in the morning, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and steered Solo out of the bar amid the whistles and cheers. "Seventh floor," he whispered, his voice geared now for Solo's only. "Surprise waiting upstairs."
"What? I assume that was Scotty?" Solo whispered back, the smile plastered on his face.
"Yes, it was. He found your partner, he did. Straight ahead to the elevator, Jack. Make it look good." The lobby of the large hotel was still busy at one in the morning as they wove across the glossy waxed floor, talking loudly and being largely ignored by the other guests. At least they didn't have to affect a drunk walk; the floor was obligingly tipping at a ten-degree angle as they crossed it.
The elevator door slid shut and the smile fell from Solo's face as Robinson located the number seven button. "He found him? Here in the hotel? Where is he?" Tired, reddened eyes drilled through the CIA agent.
"Scotty's got him in our room; that's the good news." Robinson leaned back against the elevator wall and scrutinized Solo, gauging the other man's control. Solo's eyes made him nervous. "Bad news is Scotty was tagged––was, uh, someone got a good look at him when he grabbed your partner. That's all I know." And Scotty's going to look at me and shake his self-righteous head. I hate when he stares at me. Worse than yelling... he just stares at me with that disappointed look.
The elevator door opened and Robinson led the way down the hall, trying to think himself sober and knowing his partner wouldn't buy it for a moment. He gave a short syncopated knock at the suite door, then slipped the key in the lock and they entered quickly.
*****
In the bedroom, Alexander Scott nodded to himself as the code tapped out, returning his Colt .45 to the back of his white denim jeans. His partner and Solo were quick in arriving; he had pulled an orange short-sleeved polo shirt on, replacing the bloodstained sweater, but hadn't had a chance to do anything else. As he heard the hotel room door open, he took a brief look at the unconscious man on the bed, then went back into the main sitting room of the luxury suite, holding an ice bag gingerly to his jaw. "Napoleon Solo. Long time, no see. How are you keeping, man?" He sauntered over, a curious glance to his own partner's averted eyes, then held out a hand in greeting to his old friend.
Solo nodded at him blankly, only seeing the hand a moment later and absently taking it. "Scotty." The dark eyes roved the room, fastening on the far door. "Is he in there?" The usually suave voice was slurred and rough.
Scott blinked at the cold response, surprised. Solo was obviously drunk, but with a hard all-business thrust of his jaw that warned Scott to bite back any comment. There was not a shred of the warm fun-loving individual he had met previously; instead, Solo looked old and wrung out. "Who are you looking for? The Russian?" Scotty asked. "Are you the one after him?" KGB agents weren't U.N.C.L.E.'s usual interests, but then, this one was a notch above the rest. It was disappointing that U.N.C.L.E. would claim him; there was something intriguing about Zadkine, a Slavic phoenix rising from the dead over and over. Unless he was twins. Or triplets.
Robinson was leaning against the wall, obviously not willing to meet Scott's eyes and the disapproval of his drinking that would be there. Good. Squirm a bit, man. It had been an ongoing point of dissension with them, one that Kelly agreed with in theory, but had trouble with in practice.
The Californian spoke up. "Our yacht painter, Zadkine, is otherwise known as Illya Kuryakin, Lee's partner."
Scotty spun back to Solo, surprised. "Zadkine's your partner? He's with U.N.C.L.E.? But where's Brownie?" That's what was strange. Seeing Napoleon Solo without Jim Brown beside him––there had been something missing. The two went together in his mind. Robinson and Scott. Solo and Brown.
"He's dead," Napoleon said, abruptly.
"What? How?" In the silence that followed, Scott wasn't sure if it was just the alcohol clouding Solo's civility, or if there was more going on than he was reading, but his questions were ignored. He could feel Kelly's eyes on him, trying to say something, but there was still the uncomfortable feeling that he had walked into the middle of a conversation where both parties were reluctant to divulge information.
Solo blinked, staring at the far door. "Where's he?" he repeated. "In there?"
"Be cool, man. It's nothing life-threatening. He's okay. He's fading in and out a bit, but your, uh, partner is a tough nut––won't let me near him. Some people don't appreciate being rescued." The U.N.C.L.E. agent pushed past him and Scott frowned at Robinson's weak shrug. "What's going on, man?" he asked trying to keep the edge from his voice.
Solo crossed to the bedroom door and flicked on the overhead light. The figure on the bed stirred and groaned at the sudden brightness, one hand rising to protect his eyes as he shivered under the covers. For a moment, Napoleon didn't move, staring; then he shook himself and dropped his jacket on a chair by the door, stumbling across the room. He took hold of the thin blanket and snapped it back to Kuryakin's waist, ignoring the man's startled response, and turned on Scott. "I thought you said he was okay? Look at 'im." Solo slipped his arm from his sling and sat on the edge of the bed, tugging Kuryakin's hands away from the guarded abdomen. "Do y'call that nothing?"
"I said it wasn't life-threatening. He's alive. He's been beaten but––" At seeing Solo's suddenly emotionless face, Scott glanced at Robinson, then back to the U.N.C.L.E. agent. "Hey, your partner's––"
"Did they drug him?" His voice flat, Solo examined the insides of his partner's arms. He pulled back the eyelids, his thumb moving to touch the blac
kened bruise below the right eye.
"I don't think he was drugged. There don't appear to be any needle marks, but they could have given him pills. He had a gag on when I met up with him; from the cuts on the side of his mouth, I'd say he'd had it on for some time."
"Are you just guessing or did they give you their game plan?" Solo pulled the covers down further, not seeing Scott glower at the sarcastic question. "How'd you find him? Was he wearing more than this?" Again, the voice hoarse and dry. Slurred words merging one into the other.
"No, just the suit pants." Concerned, Scott watched as Solo's hands checked Kuryakin's legs for injuries through the thin material. "I found him one floor up. We bumped into each other––" He broke off, realizing Napoleon wasn't listening to him.
"Remember what they did to Tommy..." The muttered whisper was said more to himself than the two CIA agents.
Still at the doorway, Robinson shifted uncomfortably at the change in Solo's voice. "I remember, Lee. Illya's okay, though."
"They broke his ankles. Broke his leg." Solo's hands reached the waistband of the pants and undid the top button, batting his partner's flailing hands away. "Lie still, Tommy. You're in shock."
Scotty saw Kuryakin's eyes open at the unfamiliar name, but they weren't focused. A shiver ran through the supine body and Illya tried to pull away from the stranger bending over him, the smell of alcohol powerful. Strong hands trapped him, holding him in place as he struggled.
"Lie still."
Kuryakin froze at the quiet order, recognizing the voice finally. Scott's anger grew as the Russian bit his bottom lip and attempted to stay motionless, allowing the examination. The injured man was not conscious enough to speak, but he did have some awareness of what was happening. And it was obvious to Scotty that Kuryakin would do nothing to defend himself from Solo. "Hey––"