by LRH Balzer
He knew there had to be casualties that night, but he was not going to apologize for being glad it was not Napoleon.
Feeling calmer and feeling secure between Napoleon and Norm, he drifted to sleep. And dreamed.
The truck rumbled to a halt. He got out and started walking after it. He was cold and wrapped his arms around his chest, trying to get warm.
A sound behind him and he turned.
She walked by, waving, and disappeared into a building. He stood in the middle of the street watching her.
Two eyes caught him, impacting against his hip, sending him flying through the air, his broken body finally coming to a stop as he hit the ground, his neck broken.
The last thing he heard was her laughter.
He woke with a start, a muffled cry bursting from his lips as they lifted him from the truck, but as he felt his body moving, he saw Norm standing, watching. Norm had seen his face and knew immediately that he'd had a nightmare. As they laid him on the stretcher, he saw Napoleon's face turn toward his, full knowledge on his partner's face as well.
It wasn't over yet.
Act Four
"And the Itsy-Bitsy Spider went up the spout again."
Nairobi International Airport, Kenya
Wednesday, December 22,1965,11:00 a.m.
"People are staring at us."
"Let them. It's a free country."
"Well, now that the Thrush nest is gone, maybe it is."
"Then what does it matter if they stare?"
"I look awful. So do you. We're both sunburned and peeling—and it generally goes downhill from there.."
"So go for the sympathy appeal. It's worked for you in the past."
"It's just so... degrading," he said, wrinkling his nose, "if women turn on the pity."
"What else would you be trying for then, if it is not pity?"
"The sympathy routine is to get their maternal instincts going. They want to take care of me. To meet my needs. All of my needs." Solo stretched carefully as they slowly moved forward in the lineup to show their outgoing boarding passes and tickets. "You have it down pat with the distant, icy appeal, tovarich. You end up looking like a sad, lost waif and they fall for it every time. Maternal types are attracted to you." They had reached the stairs to the plane and he turned back to continue his conversation with his partner, then stopped his words before he could say anything else. "Illya?"
"What?"
"Something wrong?"
"No. Keep going; you're stalling the queue." Kuryakin motioned up the stairs. "Inside."
Solo used his right hand to pull himself up the steep staircase, mindful of the sling on his left arm. Now what did I say? he thought tiredly, casting back through his words. His partner's mood had altered in just a moment. Nothing drastic, but still the subtle shift from comfort zone to no parking.
Maternal types. Ouch. Why not just tell him it was his fault Mother Fear whipped the skin off his back.
He stopped. "Listen, Illya, I didn't mean anything by that comment. It was thoughtless. It was just a—"
"Don't worry about it. I'm just tired. Keep walking."
Napoleon continued climbing the stairs. Well, with any luck, the medication would put Illya out for a while on the plane. He needed restful, uninterrupted sleep, and usually found it on long plane trips. As he reached the top of the stair, Napoleon glanced back to see Illya behind him, carefully plodding upward, holding on to the railing, looking for all the world like he had tangled with some of the local wild life and lost. The usual unemotional, blue stare he had been teasing his partner about was gone and in its place was a dull, exhausted, glazed look that spoke of too many drugs and too many nightmares.
After the attack on the Thrush compound, they had woken up within a few minutes of each other around noon the day before at the Bondolo U.N.C.L.E. clinic, their wounds cleaned and bandaged. Norm Graham had still been hanging around, presumably to handle the debriefing, but also, Napoleon suspected, to keep tabs on Illya. If the deep furrows across his forehead and the dark lines ringing the Russian's eyes were any indication, there was a reason why he had been kept drugged until noon.
Napoleon’s gunshot wound was a clean graze, creasing the outside muscle of his left biceps. His entire shoulder and arm was carefully wrapped in a sling and strapped against his torso in an effort to immobilize it. His right hip sported a bruise on it the size of his fist, just now blossoming into full ugly color. His right ankle was also taped; he was in no way looking forward to removing half the hair on his lower shin when the tape was removed.
Illya's condition was surprisingly stable, considering his initial prognosis. After twenty-four hours in the clinic, they were releasing him to return to the United States, deeming him in fit condition to make the trip. Not that he was anywhere close to being off the sick list, but he could recuperate at home rather than in Kenya. The antivenom for the funnel web spider poison was working, but the bite on Illya's shoulder was still an angry, red welt that sapped his energy. The other wounds from the darts were beginning to heal, a testament to the Russian's peak physical condition. He had sustained several gashes, one especially long one down the center of his chest from breastbone to below his navel, but none were deep enough to cause much worry and Illya was on his feet shortly after lunch the first day, restlessly pacing. After several years of working together, he still reminded Napoleon of a caged white leopard when forced to remain indoors.
He was back to Illya's leopard and tiger analogy again. My stripes haven't changed, he thought with a grim smile.
As the previous afternoon progressed, they had emerged from the clinic for a few hours, slowly walking around the compound and speaking with the other men who had been involved in the flight, many of them sporting injuries or with bullet wounds. The battle had been won, but not without cost. Four U.N.C.L.E. agents were dead, several more were badly wounded, and almost all the rest had minor injuries of one kind or another.
John Muliro walked among them, as well, offering congratulations and condolences, for it was both a victory and a time of mourning. They had been vastly outnumbered, but their skill level was far beyond that of the largely untried Thrush trainees and in the end, that won out. Thirty-two of the other side's fighters were dead, the others taken into custody, under U.N.C.L.E.'s supervision, to be handed directly to the authorities in Nairobi. Among the dead: Robert Pemberton and Peter Kawali.
Norm Graham had left shortly after dinner, a private helicopter coming to take him to the airport.
Waverly wanted a conference with him, so the Washington, D.C., chief was whisked away back to New York City. It seemed Madame Nemirovitch, a rather notorious Thrush agent, had been rumored to be in Europe and a North American Section One meeting had been called to discuss her appearance at this time and if they would be sending agents to assist the local European offices.
After Graham's helicopter departed and most of the U.N.C.L.E. agents brought in to deal with the emergency had left, returning to their home bases, the remainder of the evening was quiet for the two partners. They passed the time sitting in lounging chairs on the veranda, enjoying the stillness of the desert night and discussing the mission off the record.
That night, despite a mild sedative to help him sleep, Illya had dreamed again—although to call it just dream would be inaccurate. He had suffered from a heinous nightmare that took Napoleon and the nurse long minutes to pull him from. Napoleon had sat next to him on the side of the bed afterward, gently rubbing his friend's back as he struggled to breathe, to gain control over his pounding heartbeat. It was almost three in the morning before they fell asleep, only to wake at six a.m. to prepare for their trip to Nairobi, one Illya insisted he was able to make and the doctor had reluctantly agreed to.
Considering the intense horror of Illya's nightmares and the frustration he must be feeling about them, Napoleon was grateful his partner never pulled away from him, never closed himself off. This was still clearly not about U.N.C.L.E. nor Napoleon, so t
he lines of communication between them were open, even if tentative. Illya never went into detail about what the dreams were about other than that they dealt with the attack on Kiev in 1941 and his brother and mother's death, followed by his own death. But it was wearing Illya down, wearing them both down.
"I'm going to talk to Sam Lawrence," Illya said softly, now, as he settled into the seat and did up his seatbelt.
"About the dreams?"
Illya nodded. "It's been over twenty-four hours since I received these minor injuries, and I am still not feeling any return of energy. The dreams are holding me back. I think it is the lack of sleep."
"Don't expect an argument from me, partner." Napoleon smiled up at the stewardess who assisted him with his seatbelt, then turned back to Illya. "I'm surprised you're admitting it, though."
Illya leaned his head back, his right palm resting on his chest. "My heart is pounding from a simple walk across the tarmac and up a short staircase. Ridiculous."
"If it's any consolation to you, so is mine."
"So you are in just as useless a condition as I am. Of what good are we if we are needed? What if Alexander Waverly wishes us to go to Europe to see—"
"Wait a minute. Hold on there. Three things. First: because of our injuries, we are going to be off work for at least a week, get that straight right now," Napoleon said, ignoring the stewardess now giving her pre-flight instructions. Usually this was a highlight of his flight. "Second: we were going to be off schedule anyway from now until the end of the month, due to some sorely needed vacation time. So just sit back and relax."
Illya turned his head after a moment, to stare at his partner. "And thirdly?"
Napoleon shrugged. "Christmas and your birthday."
"Oh." Illya looked back the other way, seemingly engrossed in the landscape flitting by as the plane sped down the runway.
"Damn it, Illya," Napoleon said, half under his breath. "You'll be there for your birthday. You're not making any sense. Why are you worried about not being able to report for work, if you aren't sure you’ll live another five days?"
"For a moment, my rational mind took control from my intuitive mind." He closed his eyes as the plane left the runway. Neither man spoke until the plane reached cruising height and leveled off, then Illya said softly, "I'm going to try to get some sleep. Wake me if I have..."
"I will."
The eyes followed him as he moved down the narrow road. Twin balls of fire, they hovered three feet above the pavement, pacing his frantic race through the streets. He could hear laughter.
Standing in the middle of the field, he saw her, hair flowing in the harsh wind, blowing about her head, her arms stretched for him.
He ran toward her, glancing over his shoulder to see if the lights followed him, but they had disappeared. He looked back to where she had stood, but she was gone.
Mother Fear was there, instead, standing the same way, her arms outstretched.
He spun, racing blindly away from her. Now, the orange lighting streaked out toward him, then came the impact as it hit him, throwing him into the air, his body falling to lie crushed and broken by the side of the road, his sightless eyes forever to reflect the bombs' red glare.
* * * * *
New York
Thursday, December 23,1965,4:00 p.m.
The phone rang, unanswered, and he finally put down the receiver. Sasha Travkov, his childhood friend, wasn't home. Napoleon was Christmas shopping with April Dancer. Mark Slate had gone back to England for the holidays.
Illya stared around his apartment, absently folding his laundered clothes and placing them either in the small overnight case or in his bureau. He reached the end of the pile and realized he was staring at the bottom of the wicker basket.
From the kitchenette, the kettle whistle drew his attention and he wondered how long it had been boiling. The air felt moist. He poured what was left of the water into his glass, adding the tea bag and pushing it to the bottom of the glass with his spoon. The liquid slowly changed color, darkening, the scent released.
He left it and moved through his apartment, relocating his coat from the chair to the hook by the door, then pausing to pick up the laundry basket and put it on the floor of his closet. He closed the closet door, his hand resting on the door knob. Slowly, he opened the door again, his eyes looking upward until they rested on a small tin box barely visible behind some other boxes.
He took it down, hearing the clang of metal rolling around inside it. At the kitchen table, he relocated the books there to the floor, then placed the tin box alone on the scarred, paint-chipped surface. The box opened like a miniature treasure chest; it was an old relic he had purchased, dating from the Civil War days, lost in the dusty back room of a thrift store down the block from where he lived.
His father's ring still fit his finger. He tried it on, then left it on his hand. The thin Russian Bible was near the bottom, the photograph between the gold-filigreed pages where he had found it. His father, the ring scarcely visible, sat in a chair, his back ramrod stiff, his head raised high, eyes fixed on the photographer. Two little blond boys: himself a toddler, sitting quietly on his father's lap, and his brother Mitya standing, leaning against the chair back.
His mother stood behind his father, blonde-white hair carefully caught up into a loose bun of some sort, although curls had escaped the confines of the pins and framed her face. It was winter; she had a shawl around her shoulders. Her face looked down at his father and at the young child on his father's lap. Her eyes were sad, almost as though she could see a few months into the future, at what fate would deal her husband and her children.
Illya had no memory of her.
He remembered his father, vividly remembered Kolya's assassination when he was only ten, but he had no memory of her. His father had never mentioned her to him, nor anything about her family. For a while, he thought he had never had a mother, but as he grew and learned about life, he understood that a mother had existed, but she had died while he was very young.
He turned the photograph over, reading the inscription, the names, the dates, then turned it over again and stared at her picture. A magnifying glass brought up the details, but they were still vague and cast no light on the questions he wanted answered.
His tea had cooled, but he drank it anyway. He finished packing his suitcase and set it by the door, ready to leave the next morning, and then went to bed, hoping to find some sleep around the dreams.
Sam Lawrence had spoken with him for several hours that day, but they had not come to any conclusions as to the nature of his dreams, nor what could be done to eliminate them. Lawrence had insisted that his first assignment was to get some rest, relax, and put the past two weeks behind him.
"Down time", the doctor had called it, refusing to look any further or take any other action besides prescribing a mild sleeping tonic.
Then Alexander Waverly had called him into his office, brusquely stating that Illya should leave for the Grahams a day earlier than planned, to get some rest. A plane ticket had been reserved for that evening.
Illya had canceled the ticket, but now, as he lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, he wondered if he should have taken advantage of the offer. What difference did it make whether his flight was one day or the next? In the grand scheme of things, time was running out.
* * * * *
Washington, D.C., CIA Headquarters
Friday, December 24,1965,1:00 p.m.
Peter Baker, head of the Soviet Division Counterintelligence of the Langley-based Central Intelligence Agency, looked up from his desk as the young man entered the office. The phone call from the reception room had taken him by surprise; he had not seen, or heard of, Illya Kuryakin since the incident in the summer with the Soviet nuclear plant situation, and now an unscheduled appointment was requested on the day before Christmas, two hours before he planned on leaving.
He stood, offering his hand, surprised again when the Russian U.N.C.L.E. agent shook it. "Sit down Mr. K
uryakin," he said, gesturing to two chairs by the window, away from the massive oak desk. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Or hot tea?" he remembered.
"Thank you, but no. I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice, and I won't take much of your time." Kuryakin had a manila envelope with him, which he promptly opened, withdrawing a photograph Baker recognized. The picture was handed over, almost reluctantly, and Baker set his cigarette down in the ashtray and studied it.
"This is your family."
"So I was told."
The response was so brusque, so dismissive, that Baker looked up sharply at the young man, wondering what it was he had just been asked. "Is there a problem, Mr. Kuryakin? I'm not sure if I'm following this."
'"I would like to know where this came from. How it came to be in the possession of the CIA. Why you believe this is my family. And why you gave it to me."
Well, that was clearer. "As I recall, Mr. Johnson—Donald Johnson of our Soviet-Russia Division—found it in a file we held on your father Nikolai Kuryakin."
"But where did it come from? Who put it in the file in the first place?"
Baker frowned. "Who put it in the file? I have no idea. I suppose some records exist—"
"And how would I access them?"
The question was asked politely, but with a slight edge of desperation that was not what he had come to expect from this young man. Baker studied him carefully. "I could look into it for you." He handed the photograph back. "Do you have a concern as to its authenticity?"
Kuryakin glanced up at him then, finally meeting his eyes.
"You do. I see. I can assure you, that man is your father, or at least he is Nikolai Kuryakin."
"And the woman?"
"The inscription reads—"
"Inscriptions have been changed or forged before. Is that woman my mother? Can that be verified?" Kuryakin's voice had remained calm, but the clipped words bespoke the seriousness of his questions.