by LRH Balzer
"Spiders caused sixty-five deaths in the United States between the period of 1950 to 1959."
"Oh. I've changed my mind. I don't want to know why you know all this."
Illya shrugged, wondering himself where he had read it.
"Are you done here?" Napoleon asked, resealing the last crate.
"Michael's school assignment."
"What?"
"That's what I read it for. He was doing a project on spiders. Trish made a cake for his class presentation in the shape of a tarantula. We bent straws and coated them with black icing for the legs."
Napoleon shone the light in his eyes, wrinkling his face in distaste. "That's disgusting. Let's go to the car." He moved quickly through the warehouse and out the door.
"He got an A on the assignment. And the cake was good." Kuryakin trailed behind him, taking his time to return everything to its original position. The car was warmed and ready by the time he slid into it.
"Waverly called me into his office this afternoon," Solo said, staring ahead out the window as he pulled away from the curb.
Kuryakin nodded, waiting for the rest to come.
"He's a little concerned about your behavior in the last few days. So am I. Should I be?"
"No, I'll be—"
"Don't—" Solo cut him off. "The truth, my friend. How are you feeling? What's wrong?"
There were no words for what he felt. "I don't know what to say."
"Say what you were thinking just now. What you were thinking when you pulled the grappling hook loose. What you were thinking earlier tonight when you came to my apartment. What you were thinking at the shooting range this afternoon. What you were thinking when I found you drunk in your apartment. What's going on?"
It was Kuryakin's turn to stare out the window, his heart beating hard and fast against his chest. "I was thinking that I will miss my birthday this year." He could feel his partner's eyes on him.
"Your birthday is in two weeks."
"I know."
"Waverly will probably send us to Kenya, but with any luck, we'll be back by Christmas. Your birthday is two days after that."
"I know."
"Illya, why... will you miss your birthday?" Solo asked staring straight ahead out the front window.
Kuryakin closed his eyes at the question. Because I have had a dream. Over and over and over.
He took a deep breath and concentrated on steadying his breathing. He could do this. He could tell Napoleon. There was no reason why he could not be honest with his partner. Surely he owed him that. He owed him his life twenty times over.
Perhaps even his sanity.
"Illya?" Napoleon prompted softly, letting him know he was still waiting for an answer.
He looked ahead out the window, trying to sound as calm and rational as he could. "Because I believe I will be dead before my birthday."
* * * * *
New York HQ
11:00 a.m.
Napoleon Solo stared at the conference table surface, his eyes unfocused in the glare from the overhead lights. "I don't know what to say."
Across the table, Dr Sam Lawrence leaned forward. "What it all comes down to is this: do you want him to go to Kenya with you? Do you trust him right now?"
"Of course I trust him," Solo replied, too quickly, glancing from the doctor to Waverly. "That isn't the concern here. Something's wrong. But it's not with his performance of his job. It's personal. And he assures me he can and will keep it separate from his job. I believe him."
The door to the room swished open, letting in a fourth person, and Solo gave a sigh of relief. If anyone knew what to do about Illya, this man did.
Norman Graham, head of Washington, D.C., U.N.C.L.E., traded looks with Waverly and Lawrence before seating himself next to Solo. "What's happening? Where's your partner?" He looked up quickly, again gauging the looks of the other men at the table, before concluding that his adopted son was still among the living. "What happened?" he rephrased.
Alexander Waverly shook his head slowly, his hands fingering the pipe. "I hope, nothing. Perhaps we are overreacting to a series of unrelated incidents."
"Or perhaps this is the beginning of a breakdown." Lawrence got up and poured himself another cup of coffee, bringing a second cup for Graham. "God knows, he's been pushed in that direction for years. Last summer was stressful enough for anyone. He's had a lot on his plate."
"I think that could be said of any one of us," Graham responded. "What exactly are you concerned about at this time?"
Lawrence handed him the file, the report tersely documenting the unusual behavior over the past few days, since the return from Figliano.
"Where is he?" Graham asked, still trying to make eye contact with someone at the table. "Does he know about this meeting?"
"No," Solo replied. "He's in his lab. Researching arthropod bites and spider venom."
"Oh... the Kenyan incident." Graham finished the report, closed the file, and tossed it back across the table to Lawrence. "I heard about the venom in the darts. I didn't think that was possible."
"That's what Illya is investigating." Solo rubbed at his forehead. "I've suggested we go to Kenya and investigate."
"Hence this meeting discussing Illya's so-called mental or emotional breakdown?"
"Come now, Norm," Lawrence chided. "We aren't making any accusations. But we'd be foolish not to at least address these issues, though." The doctor smiled. "I think there isn't one of us here who doesn't have a great deal of respect—and affection—for Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin."
Waverly cleared his throat. "My concern, of course, is for U.N.C.L.E. and the mission itself."
"Right..." Graham muttered, loud enough for everyone else to hear. He exchanged grins with Solo and Lawrence, feeling some of the tension lift from the room. "So why go to Kenya? Did our local office there request help?"
Waverly nodded. "Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin have identified a Thrush shipment of various toxic spiders air shipped out of New York on route to Kenya."
"For what purpose?" Graham asked.
Solo shrugged. "Unknown at this time. The spiders were dead."
Dr Lawrence handed the Washington agent a copy of the latest Kenyan report. "According to our findings, the Kenyan agents died from multiple dart wounds which injected poison into their systems, not unlike a spider bite. Spider venom—and I'm quoting here from a study—contains many biologically active substances, ranging from compounds of relatively low molecular weight, such as gamma-aminobutyric acid, to those of relatively high molecular weight, such as enzymes and lethal polypeptide. The lethal effects of the venoms appear to result from the nonenzymatic peptides."
"Huh?" Graham tossed the paper back. "In English, please."
"It's not important," Lawrence said, putting down his report. "What is important is at this time, we don't have a lot of information about spider venom itself. We know how to treat it, but not necessarily how it does the damage it does."
"So Thrush is milking spiders for the venom?"
"Something like that," Lawrence answered.
Waverly gestured impatiently at the conversation. "We did not ask you to come an hour earlier to New York to talk about spider venom, Norman."
"I didn't think so. I assume that prior to our monthly meeting, we are discussing Illya. And his current competence."
"That is correct."
"And you want to know what he called me about when he spoke with me immediately after the Enciente problem."
Waverly nodded, bringing the pipe to his mouth.
"Would it matter if I said it was personal?"
"Personal to whom? You or Kuryakin?" Waverly asked.
"Both." Graham frowned, but continued, "He asked me if I knew how old his mother was when she died."
Solo glanced up. "What?"
Graham nodded. "That was it. Did I know how old his mother was when she died? I think he wanted to figure out how old she would be now, if she were still alive."
Solo shifted through a pile of pap
ers on the desk in front of him, removing a photograph of the Thrush agent known as Mother Fear. "This is the woman who interrogated Illya. According to his report, she asked him about his mother."
"Do you have a transcript?"
"Yes." Solo read off the exchange that Illya had recorded on his report. "She asked him when was the last time he told his mother that he loved her? Sent her flowers? Thanked her for all the little things she's done? Told her how much he cared?—He said he responded by telling her that he didn't have any guilt feelings for her to prey upon. Or any resentment.—She responded by saying that was nice, and remarking that he wanted to be a good boy—then she asked about the location of the conference... Mother Fear had drugged his tea, force fed him it, and the drug started working at that point. Illya was hazy about the details following that. He knows he was stripped down to his boxers at one point, and that she strapped him quite thoroughly across his back, switching to a riding crop when the strap didn't draw blood. Jenks came in and stopped her after she had taken a few swipes at Illya, but he doesn’t remember what they discussed." Solo put the report down. "He didn't remember anything else until I came into the cell he was held in."
Waverly tapped his pipe on the table, staring off across the room. "Carlo said something I thought was interesting. He mentioned that it was interesting that Mother Fear surrounded herself with blond young men."
Solo frowned. "That's right. The two henchmen were both around Illya's age and blond."
"Coincidence or something else?" Lawrence asked.
"One of them is dead, but the other is in the hospital in Geneva. I'll contact Carlo and have the office there question him about his relationship with Mother Fear." Waverly looked back at Graham. "So Mr. Kuryakin put an overseas call to your office just to ask you a trivial question about his mother?"
"That's all he asked. Said he was curious about something and wanted to know how old she was when she died."
"Maybe Mother Fear's taunts just got him wondering," Solo put in. "As he told her, he doesn't seem to have any guilt feelings or resentment about his mother."
"Well, Illya was right about that. It would be difficult for her to make Illya feel guilty about his mother, since she died when he was two years old."
"So how old would she have been?" Solo asked.
"Late forties. She must have been about twenty-one or twenty-two when he was bom. And he'll be twenty-seven years old on December 27*."
"His Golden Birthday," Lawrence said softly. "The age and the day matching."
"Except he told me that he doesn't believe he will live to his birthday."
Graham looked surprised at Solo's comment. "Why is that?"
"Beyond mentioning some dreams, he didn't say. Maybe it was something else that Mother Fear said to him."
The door hissed open and Kuryakin stood in the entrance, blinking at the men gathered around the table. He hesitated at the doorway, uncertain of whether to walk in and join them, or leave.
"Come, Mr. Kuryakin. This concerns you." Waverly gestured to the empty space beside between the Section One leader and Solo. "Do you have a report for us on the Kenyan situation?"
Kuryakin slipped into the chair, glancing to each of the men in quick succession before putting his glasses on and reading his report. "Yes, regarding the venom of these spiders, I have read of a case where the venom was extracted from 3,000 Loxoscles reclusa spiders by electrical shocks and was collected in microcapillary tubes. We can theorize that Thrush is doing the same thing."
"Why use spider venom in weapons rather than bullets?" Lawrence asked.
"Why not?" Kuryakin replied, lightly. "When have we known Thrush to be logical?" The smile on his face bordered on the grim. "In truth, I have no answers. I agree that we should follow the shipment to Kenya and see where it ends up."
"When does the Thrush shipment leave?" Graham asked.
"The cargo flight left an hour ago," Solo said, looking down at his watch. "We're booked on a flight in forty minutes." He stood to exit the meeting.
"Then that leaves just one more problem," Waverly said, motioning both Kuryakin and Solo to sit again. "And that revolves around you, Mr. Kuryakin."
"Yes, sir?"
"Is there any reason you can foresee that you should not go to Kenya?"
Kuryakin glanced to his partner, then back to Waverly. "No, sir. I believe I can be of assistance on this assignment. I would like to visit the Araneiden Research Center in Nairobi. They may have answers for this case."
"Mr. Solo, do you have any reservations regarding Mr. Kuryakin accompanying you to Kenya?"
"No, sir," Solo answered, meeting Waverly's gaze head on. "None at all."
"Dr Lawrence? Mr. Graham? Any further comments or questions?" When both men shook their heads, Waverly dismissed the meeting. "Our Section One weekly session begins in fifteen minutes," he murmured to the two senior agents as the enforcement agents left the room.
* * * * *
It was a long flight from New York to Nairobi, switching planes in Paris. Illya slept on the trans-Atlantic flight and spent the time between Paris and Nairobi paging through the briefcase full of documents he had brought with him. Both men were dressed casually, Illya in beige chinos, white shirt, and a cotton pullover, and Napoleon in a lightweight suit and white shirt. He had a tie folded in his jacket pocket, in case he needed it. Illya would be posing as a university student while canvassing one branch of their investigation, while Napoleon would be an importer from New York, looking at possible new markets.
"We're booked into the Nairobi Norfolk Hotel. Adjoining rooms," Napoleon said, breaking the long silence.
"Hmm?" Illya looked up, pulling himself from the lab reports. "Good. He glanced at his watch. "We should arrive on time, 3 p.m. local time, so there should be opportunity for me to take a cab directly to the Araneiden Research Center. I would like to set things in motion there."
"I think what I'll do is first make some inquiries with the Kenya Customs to see what their regulations are. I can certainly do that within my cover. Then I should stop by the local U.N.C.L.E. office; they are supposed to be monitoring to see if anyone has claimed the shipment of spiders. And I'd like to go over the field reports in more detail. Does that match your schedule? We could meet up there later."
"I will contact you if I am delayed. I'm uncertain what to expect at the research center, and I'm reluctant to make future commitments beyond my appointment there." Illya pushed his glasses back into place, already focused on his papers.
Taking advantage of his partner's concentration, Napoleon regarded him carefully. The slightly furrowed forehead and drawn-together eyebrows spoke of an ignored headache, as did the tight set of Illya's shoulders. But there was nothing unprofessional about Illya's manner—he appeared to be totally on top of the assignment, well-versed in the case, and ready for the cover role of American college student, as well. Sharper scrutiny revealed the dark rings under Illya's eyes, the too-coiled tenseness of his muscles, the slight restlessness, atypically manifested when usually kept under tight control.
"Are you okay?" Napoleon asked, trying to keep his voice casual.
"Yes."
"Tell me if that changes."
"Certainly."
Napoleon stared at the white clouds beneath them as the plane winged on to Kenya, his thoughts spinning slowly.
Act Two
"Down came the rain, and washed the spider out..."
Nairobi, Kenya
Thursday, December 16,1965
Nairobi glistened beneath them as the plane landed at the International Airport southeast of the mile-high city. It was three in the afternoon, which made it seven in the morning in New York. They had been traveling, including their stopover in Paris, for almost eighteen hours. It felt like it.
After the brisk New York winter weather and the air-conditioned coolness of the airplane, the warm sunshine felt soothing on his face. Napoleon paused at the top of the stairs and stretched for a moment before he exited t
he plane and walked along the hot tarmac, comfortably aware of Illya just a pace or two behind him, pale eyes hidden beneath the sunglasses. Both men had their passports and the Kenyan-required visas ready. There was a gentle breeze playing across the open runway, and he breathed in the remarkably fresh air, the oxygen at this high level a little thinner than what he was used to. No wonder the Kenyan athletes were already training for the 1968 Olympics in Mexico City. They had a distinct advantage over many of the other countries attending, as the Mexican city was at virtually the same altitude.
The line slowed down as they neared the terminal building and the passengers had to show their boarding passes. Napoleon listened to the babble of voices around him, the sing-song lilt of Swahili, the mixed accents of British and American English, other languages teasing at his linguistic memory. Smiles abounded everywhere, the glistening white teeth and sparkling dark eyes of the native Kenyans, and the more reserved smiles of the old British aristocracy, still hanging on despite Kenya's independence two years previous. So far, from what Napoleon had heard, racial tensions in the country were still under control, and the passing of batons from one form of government to the other had gone remarkably smoothly in the initial utopia of having their own country. Whether that continued, remained to be seen.
They walked into the airport terminal and were steered toward customs. Everywhere was the picture of the country's first Prime Minister—and now its first President—Jomo Kenyatta. As leader of the new Republic of Kenya, he was referred to as Myee—Old Man—a title of the greatest respect and affection. Napoleon considered briefly the times he had referred to Waverly as "the Old Man" and wondered about the similarities in moniker.
"You don't happen to speak Swahili, do you?" he asked, waiting a beat for Illya to walk up beside him.
"A spattering," Illya responded. "Enough. It is hardly necessary, though. English is an official language." He took a firmer grip on his briefcase as they eased forward in the line. The process was quick and painless once they reached the front. Their visas, passports, and other documents were processed efficiently, and a smiling attendant gestured for them to come around to the side and collect their suitcases.