Collection 9 - The Changeling

by LRH Balzer

  "Depends? Depends on what?"

  "On you. And on Napoleon here."

  Solo moved closer, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Go on, Sam. What is my involvement in this?"

  Lawrence finished with the second bandage, then sat back and looked at the two men carefully, keeping Kuryakin in place by a threatening warning with his hand. "Okay, here's the deal. Illya, you have two wounds in your side, the bullet going in and the bullet going out. You've been hurt before; you know those types of wounds do not heal themselves overnight. They need time, especially if they're going to heal cleanly and effectively. I know you want to get well as soon as possible, but you also have to pace yourself and not push yourself beyond what your body is ready for. You are no good to Alexander if you do not heal properly. This is not a time to show stoicism. I judge when you're ready to leave the building, not what you tell me."

  The doctor stared at Kuryakin until he received a slight nod of acceptance. Then he turned to the Section Two Chief. "Napoleon, you need to lay low, to take each day step-by-step. You need to watch him and make sure he takes everything slow and steady. I know you're both anxious to solve this problem, but, Napoleon, I'm going to have to rely on you to set the pace. Illya will push too hard, risking his recovery time, because that's how he's been trained, and he hasn't learned anything else yet. You don't have that excuse."

  "Trained where?"

  The doctor met his stony gaze. "That's for him to tell you."

  "Okay," Solo said, staring down at Kuryakin. "Trained where?"

  Kuryakin shrugged. "It is in my file."

  "That's not an answer."

  "Then speak with Alexander Waverly. It is my answer," Kuryakin responded, with little animation.

  The doctor drew their attention back. "If you both wish to leave, you may do so. But you must agree to those rules." Both men nodded as he waited for a response. "Okay, then. I'll let you out, but for tonight, at least, you come back here for the evening. I'm putting a 10:30 p.m. curfew on you, just to make sure you're back here on time and get adequate sleep."

  "Why?"

  "Why?" Lawrence echoed, with a sharp laugh. "Are you serious, Napoleon?"

  "If the only thing wrong with us physically is that we have to keep within 6-8 feet of each other, why are we being restricted?"

  "This thing between us—we are not ill, Sam," Kuryakin added, softly.

  "In a way, you are. There is something foreign in your bodies that is causing this reaction. You will both be on the sick list while your other injuries heal, and until this is resolved."

  "And if it's not resolved?" Solo asked, reaching for his suit jacket.

  Lawrence shrugged. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. It's too early to cross that bridge."

  There was a moment of silence, then Solo spoke up again. "If he feels well enough, are we free to leave the building?"

  "I wouldn't recommend it—"

  "Why not?" Solo cut Lawrence off. "As Illya has said, we aren't really sick. We’re just—sort of stuck together for a while. What's to stop us from continuing our jobs?"

  The doctor tried to come with an answer, then grinned finally. "If you put it that way—nothing. As long as you respect that Illya has two wounds that need to heal, and you respect each other's circumstances, go ahead. Maybe, just do me a favor and let me know when you're not in the building, just so we can be prepared. I would like to alert the U.N.C.L.E. ambulance as to where to go looking for you." The sarcasm was clear.

  "I will alert you personally. Before we leave, though, I wish to go to my quarters here and get other clothes," Kuryakin said, firmly.

  "Then it's my turn," Solo continued. "I also want to leave the building and go home. I need to pack some clothes and a few other things if I'm going to be staying here at Headquarters for a short time."

  "Then we'll go to my lab and I will check the status of a few experiments."

  "Then to my office so I can gather my messages and files. I've already arranged for my calls to be transferred to his lab."

  "And there should be desk there, for you," Kuryakin added. "We must check its status before we go."

  Lawrence smiled. "Gentlemen, you've convinced me. Make yourselves scarce," he said, as Solo helped Kuryakin up, and the two men scurried past him into the hallway, walking with firm direction toward the elevator. He'd already heard their plans. They knew exactly what they’d be doing in the next few hours, at least, having spent the previous evening planning it out in detail, Solo presenting his orders, then his arguments, then his counter-arguments as Kuryakin politely and deferentially shot them down and presented his own. Both men were in for an interesting time.

  *****

  Solo unlocked the door to his apartment and turned off the security monitor, feeling himself already unwinding as he stepped into the familiar surroundings. "Be it ever so humble..."

  "This is not humble," Kuryakin mumbled, staring around at the leather couches, fireplace, and oak furniture.

  Solo smiled. "It's just an expression. Hand me your coat and I'll hang it up, then I'll give you the grand tour."

  "That isn’t necessary. Please do not trouble yourself on my account. It's not as if I will be a frequent guest here," Kuryakin said, in the self-depreciating way Solo was becoming used to. No, he wasn't sure if he would ever truly become used to it. It irked him.

  "Who says? I may ask for you in my department, and I've had briefings here before." He knew Kuryakin would have nothing to say to that, and he was right. Solo passed through the various rooms of his apartment, Kuryakin dutifully trailing behind him. He knew what it must look like to the Russian, the decadent waste of space for one man who was seldom home, but it was something he had earned the right to and enjoyed whenever he could.

  Illya's place, on the other hand, had scarcely been larger than Napoleon's closet. The small one-room apartment assigned to the young man at headquarters had little in it other than a single bed, a dresser, a table with two chairs, and a small but functional bathroom. Except for a few clothes hanging in Kuryakin’s closet, it was difficult to determine if anyone actually lived there. Even the clothes were castoffs from U.N.C.L.E.'s wardrobe department.

  "Sit down," he said, gesturing to his king-sized bed. "I'm going to have a shower, and if you wait here, that should give me just enough line to get to the shower without it hitting." They'd made a few mistakes over the past three hours, and the painful reminders to stay within six-to-eight feet of each other were draining.

  "Lie down, if you'd like. Your side must be hurting."

  "I am fine. Thank you."

  Napoleon opened one wide closet door, staring at the long row of suits hanging there in a 'business' rainbow—from navy, to black, to gray, to white, to beige, then brown. He took out a dark charcoal gray suit and lay it on the bed. He'd already worn it a few times, but it didn't require dry cleaning, so this would be a good day to get another day’s use out of it. Added to the suit, a white shirt, still wrapped in blue paper from the cleaners, and he opened another closet door to reveal a colorful display of ties, choosing a sedate striped one in various grays and reds, one that complemented the dark suit.

  "I’ll be about ten minutes; I’m going to shave, too," he said, closing the door to the ensuite. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, calming himself. The Russian boffin was handling everything extremely well, except for his unease when speaking, or being spoken to, about personal matters. At least he wasn't panicking, or acting hysterical, as others might have. It was the disregard for his own state that was distressing at times. The feeling that Kuryakin expected, actually expected, to be killed so that Solo might have more room to move around. Perhaps in an emergency they would discuss the possibility, but at this stage of the game they had no way reached that point yet.

  He showered quickly, aware of Kuryakin sitting silently on his bed waiting patiently. He shaved and dressed in twice the time the Russian had taken, but he was still moving as rapidly as he could. Packing was easy; he had packe
d often for an undetermined amount of time, so he rapidly chose the suits, shirts, ties, and underwear that he needed, adding two more pairs of shoes and his toiletry bag to the suitcase. He had learned to pack a lot in a small garment bag, saving himself from carrying a suitcase over a long distance.

  They left the apartment by noon and hailed a cab. It was a yellow U.N.C.L.E.-owned car, one usually on the ready outside the secure building where most of the agents lived. All he had to say was "Del Floria's", and the vehicle lurched into the traffic. When they arrived at the dry cleaners, he handed the suitcase to the owner, then turned to Illya. "Let's grab lunch—my treat. I hate meatloaf, and Tuesdays mean meatloaf in the cafeteria."

  "Is not so bad." Kuryakin shrugged. "As you wish."

  "We meet with Mr. Waverly at two o'clock, and I'd like to go over our report first. Where do you like to eat?" Napoleon asked, heading up the stairs at a careful pace.

  Illya stared at him blankly. "Pardon?"

  "Any favorite restaurants in the area?"

  The Russian shook his head, still looking at him as though he wasn't too sure what the agent had asked.

  Napoleon tried again. "Where would you like to go for lunch? Anything in particular? Chinese? Italian? Greek?"

  "Does not matter. It is your choice.”

  "Well, I'm asking you what you'd like."

  "But you are—" Kuryakin looked away, biting back the words. "Please, you choose. It will be good, I am sure of it."

  "Fine." Solo counted silently to ten. "Stella's Greek House it is," he muttered, turning the younger agent around and pushing him ahead of him along the sidewalk.

  *****

  Much later, the phone rang in Kuryakin's lab, and Solo picked it up—not that the science boffin had even heard it ring, his face pressed up against a microscope, peering intently at two slides of their blood. The afternoon and evening had passed quickly, moving from location to location, trying to gather together what they would need over the next few days, and trying to catch up with what had happened in their absence. Difficult to do, since they were working out of two different areas. "Solo here."

  "Napoleon ..." The word was drawn out slowly, deliberately, and with an edge of warning to it.

  Solo glanced at his watch. Almost midnight. Already? They were supposed to have been back to the infirmary by ten thirty. "Ah. Sam. Yes. Well, uh, we’re just heading your way. We came back for the phone."

  "I want to go home, Napoleon. I can't go home until you get here, and I can log you both in."

  "We’re out the door," Solo promised, catching Kuryakin’s attention and pointing to the clock on the wall.

  Kuryakin blinked a few times, then nodded and turned off his microscope. He shrugged out of his lab coat as Solo made a few more promises to Dr. Lawrence, then Kuryakin followed the older man out the door.

  "I had no idea it was this late," Solo muttered to his companion. "No wonder I was getting a headache. I haven't eaten since lunch."

  "Do you wish to stop by the cafeteria?"

  Solo paused at the elevator, punching the down button. "I’ll just have something delivered to the infirmary."

  "They do that? Deliver food?" Kuryakin asked, puzzled. "'The sign in cafeteria says that it is eat-in or take-out only."

  "If you are the Head of Section Two, they do." Solo shrugged, becoming all too aware that his status made Kuryakin uncomfortable. Kuryakin had hardly said a word during the entire briefing with Waverly, eyes fixed on the round conference table. "It’s no big deal," Solo added, trying to downplay his words. There was a phone on the wall by the elevator, so he dialed the four-digit number to the cafeteria and ordered a roast beef sandwich for himself. "Same for you?" he asked Kuryakin.

  "Yes. Please. Thank you," Kuryakin answered, slightly flustered, and Solo turned his head so Kuryakin would not see his slight smile as he hung up the phone and entered the elevator.

  Solo studied the younger man as the elevator dropped them two floors, Kuryakin staring ahead at the slit in the elevator doors. It was awkward being stuck together like this, in more ways than he would have thought. For one thing, Solo couldn't really request Kuryakin's file to study, as he would have normally. Well, there was nothing really stopping him from doing just that, but to read it in front of the Russian would be distinctly uncomfortable for both of them. And Kuryakin was reluctant to talk, other than that he was bom in the Soviet Union, was now living in the United States, and had a degree from Cambridge in England and another from Paris. As to where he learned to shoot a gun or fight, there was only a slight shrug in answer. Solo was determined that as soon as Kuryakin was feeling better, he'd drag him down to the gun range to see just how good the young man was as a sharpshooter.

  The food arrived just as Sam Lawrence was heading out the door of the infirmary, so the two men commandeered the doctor's desk to eat at. Solo handed one tray to the Section Eight agent. "I ordered juice, coffee, and dessert for both of us," he said unnecessarily, pointing to the items, suddenly feeling awkward.

  He'd been making conversation all day and was growing weary of it.

  "Thank you." Kuryakin ate quickly, neatly, and Solo duly noted that it was with the ravenous appetite of one who did not always get enough to eat at other times in his life. Another thing to add to the big question mark that was Illya Kuryakin. And Solo had always loved puzzles.

  "Did you find out anything today?" Solo tried, after a few minutes of silence. He finished off the first half of his sandwich. "In the lab there?”

  Kuryakin shook his head, wiping his mouth with the paper napkin. "I made observations only. As Dr. Lawrence findings have shown, there is a chemical compound introduced into our blood stream. It seems to work by—"

  "No vivid details, please," Solo said, holding up a hand. "I'm eating."

  Kuryakin noisily sipped at his coffee. He stared vacantly across the room, his forehead furled in thought. Twice, Solo thought Kuryakin was going to say something, but each time he looked away, resigned to silence. Perhaps he was unable to find a way to explain his findings without resorting to gory details. Overall, it had been a tedious, tense, and for Kuryakin who was growing paler as time went along, a long day.

  "Sam said we should get to bed fairly soon. How is your injury?" Solo asked.

  Kuryakin glanced to him, puzzled. "I just told Dr. Lawrence. Did you not hear me?"

  "I know what you told him. I’m just wondering if that was the truth."

  Kuryakin looked away, the frown deepening, and Solo took a deep breath and made a stab at the problem.

  "Listen, Illya, since we're obviously stuck together for a few days at least, we might as well be honest with each other about how we're feeling. When you're hungry, mention it. If you need to visit the men's room, mention it. If you need to lie down, tell me, for God's sake. You're no good to me in pain."

  Kuryakin stared down at the floor, taking a moment to carefully phrase his words before talking. "If I were to die, the situation ends."

  "Huh? What's that mean?" Solo asked, choking on his coffee.

  "The drug that is causing this, needs a live body for it to work."

  "Why?"

  Kuryakin started to answer, then glanced to Solo. "There is a medical reason in scientific terms in the report I handed to Dr. Lawrence, but is difficult to tell you in other words."

  "Suffice it to say, the drug needs a live body for it to work."

  "Yes."

  "And if one of us were to die," Solo said, glancing to him for confirmation, "it nulls the reaction for the survivor."

  "Yes. I believe this is so. If it becomes necessary, I am, of course, willing to—"

  "No," Solo said firmly, then drained the rest of his coffee cup and replaced it on his tray. He pushed the dessert aside, no longer hungry. "For the last time, Illya, I don't intend for you to die. That is not an option for me."

  "You are the senior officer. It is logical—"

  "No! It is not logical. It is never logical." Solo tried to curb the ex
asperated tone to his voice, but knew it was probably a lost cause. "I don't know about where you got your other training, but in this organization, we don't hand people guns and expect them to kill themselves, just to make it a bit easier for ourselves. Your life has value."

  Kuryakin stood as though to leave, then quickly sat down again, realizing he couldn't.

  "Let's call it a night. I'm tired, even if you aren’t," Solo added, before the other man could protest.

  *****

  Kuryakin nodded and followed him into the large restroom across the hall from the infirmary. The lavatory was just far enough away that neither man could visit it alone. He used the facilities, washed his face and hands, and brushed his teeth, then leaned against the wall of the lavatory/shower area, eyes closed in pain, willing Napoleon Solo to finish his nightly grooming routine. His head was buzzing with thoughts and words, languages mixing together until his stomach felt distinctly nauseous and he had to do some quick deep breathing to keep everything under control.

  He thought briefly of calling Norm and Trish, but he didn't know how to talk to them in front of Napoleon Solo. Norm would know already, of course. The report was out there. Maybe even Sam Lawrence would have spoken with Norm, assured him that Illya was fine for now.

  Besides what more can I say? Yes, it is true, I have failed on my first assignment for Alexander Waverly? That my very existence is crippling the New York office? That I am worth more to U.N.C.L.E. dead right now, than alive?

  And maybe if I had really been killed instead of coming to America, your baby would be alive, Norman. I am cursed, you see.

  His headache flared, and he tried to curb the thoughts, rein in his emotions. What should he do? What did Alexander Waverly and the others expect him to do? Were they waiting for him to take the situation for himself, to make the offer? Well, he had. And had incurred Napoleon Solo's anger, it seemed. "That is never an option!" Solo had said about his proposal.

  Illya covered his eyes with one hand, fingertips kneading his forehead. He took a deep breath, carefully releasing it through pursed Ups. Then what were his options? What were they waiting for him to do?