by LRH Balzer
"Hey. Hanging in there?"
Napoleon Solo's soft question breached Illya's awareness and he pushed away from the wall with a sharp nod, eyes forced open and alert.
"Take it slow," Solo cautioned, dark eyes staring at him carefully.
Illya opened the door to the restroom, holding his breath against the pain in his side as he followed Solo through.
*****
The next day passed quickly, in a maze of meetings and conferences that kept Kuryakin out of his labs and in Solo's world. Once they had negotiated a few personal matters—such as, Kuryakin was to walk beside Solo, not a few paces behind him, and Kuryakin was not to contradict Solo when the enforcement chief introduced him as a section two agent—the day progressed in an orderly fashion.
Late afternoon, Kuryakin followed Solo into Alexander Waverly's office, looking like he would somehow like to make himself invisible. Solo turned and smiled reassuringly. Kuryakin had admitted to him, in a quiet, tight voice, that this was a department head meeting that he felt he had no business attending, hearing things he should not be listening to, yet he knew that if he did not go, Solo could not go, and unfortunately, the head of Section Two was an important part of the caucus.
Waverly waved them both over to his desk. "Mr. Kuryakin, you are welcome to sit here with us. Feel free to participate as you feel comfortable."
"Thank you, sir, but I can sit off to the side. I brought some files to read."
Waverly frowned, his head giving a slight shake. "I would prefer you at the conference table."
"Of course, sir." Kuryakin sat down quickly, and Solo was aware of the eyes staring at the Russian from around the table. Of the ten men currently gathered, it was obvious several did not know about the binding chemical which afflicted Illya Kuryakin and himself.
Waverly took care of that matter, both Dr. Lawrence and the Head of Section Eight giving reports as to the current situation. When the conversation came to him, finally, Solo began his remarks by gesturing toward the hitherto silent guest at their table. "I'd like to start by thanking Mr. Kuryakin, here. He has gallantly made what could be a very difficult situation a lot easier for me to handle. He's been a real assistance to me, and from the first moment of our captivity in the Thrush warehouse, and up to the present time, his level-headed thinking and ability to keep this all together has enabled me to keep up with my own work load. And all this, despite a serious bullet wound to his side which he has endured without a word of complaint. Thank you, Illya."
The Russian blinked, looking over to him in confusion, then nodded awkwardly to the words of appreciation from the other members of U.N.C.L.E.'s top level of department heads. Solo watched his reaction, noting the level of discomfort of the Russian immigrant. He filed it away and turned his attention wholly on the agenda. We'll talk later, Kuryakin.
It wasn't until that evening, that Solo had a chance to talk again to the other man privately. They had been issued deluxe guest quarters within the New York Headquarters, consisting of two double beds and a complete bath. At Kuryakin's request, a work table had been brought in, now laden down with files and texts that Kuryakin was pouring over.
Napoleon had been working through a particularly thick stack of Thrush photos for the past hour, pausing now and again to stare thoughtfully at Kuryakin, the boffin with his pencil skimming over sheet after sheet of paper, scribbling furiously, a combination of words and formulas, occasionally stopping to use an adding machine, but more often than not, just doing the mathematics on the paper.
No doubt he was brilliant. But there was something else, something that didn't add up. Something that had bothered Solo from that first encounter with the Russian in Waverly's office over a year ago. Like why Kuryakin wore a number "2" badge. Waverly knew him, that was certain. But Kuryakin was closed, giving nothing away, hardly reacting to even his pain. With Waverly, Kuryakin had been deferential, head down, tense, withdrawn, not appearing to have some 'in' with the head of Section One. Yet Waverly had given him the number "2" badge. Interesting.
So who was he? A boffin? Yes, it was obvious he was a scientist. Yet the more Napoleon thought about what happened during their escape from the Thrush-operated warehouse, the more convinced he was that somewhere along the line, Kuryakin had trained to become an agent. Not here, not in America, or Napoleon would have heard of him before. Solo had requested Kuryakin's file, but as yet, it had not been delivered to him, which in itself was unusual.
That afternoon, on the pretense of wanting to check his gun at the shooting range on the lowest floor at Headquarters, Solo had suggested that Kuryakin requisition a weapon and try it out at the next station. Unaware he was being monitored, Kuryakin had registered a perfect score. The Russian hadn't been happy with his gun, though, and had requested a different make, repeating his performance with it.
"Have you ever considered becoming an agent?" Solo asked casually now, still paging through the books of photos.
Kuryakin looked up at him. "Pardon?"
"Have you ever considered becoming an agent?"
"What do you mean?"
"For U.N.C.L.E.? Have you ever thought about becoming a Section Two agent?"
A smile touched the comer of Kuryakin's mouth. "I have considered the possibility, yes."
"So why not?"
"Pardon?"
"Why haven't you pursued it?" Solo asked.
Kuryakin studied the table surface carefully. "Have you read my file?"
"No. To be honest, I haven't had a chance to yet. Should I?"
Kuryakin shrugged. "Maybe yes. Maybe no." He turned back to the text he was reading.
Solo scratched at his chin. He definitely had to get a hold of that file. He paused on a photo, then sat up straighten "This guy look familiar to you?" He rotated the picture so Kuryakin could see it.
Kuryakin adjusted his glasses, then nodded. "Yes. At warehouse."
Solo read the information on the back of the photo, then he paged through the stack, locating and removing three other photographs. "These all look familiar. Says here they've been seen together before, so it's a good place to start. They all have strong science backgrounds."
Kuryakin studied the pictures, agreeing. "They are not among those captured at warehouse, or whose bodies were recovered from fire."
"They managed to escape somehow. This guy in particular," Solo said, tapping one photo, "was in the lab where we were held, I think. I don't remember a whole lot about our time then."
Eyebrows furled, Kuryakin stared at the man's face. "He held me down when they administered needle to my abdomen."
Solo almost dropped the photograph. "You remember that? It wasn't in your report."
"Just now I remember it. Not before." Kuryakin turned back to his text book, still frowning at whatever he was reading.
Solo jotted down what Kuryakin had said, then looked back at the young man who was still engrossed in his book. "What do you have there?"
"This? It is idea only that I am thinking. Not to tell yet."
Solo waited, but the Russian offered nothing more. The Chief Enforcement Officer made a call to Section Four to have them follow up on the flagged Thrush agents. He flipped through the rest of the pictures, but none of the other photos looked familiar. The telephone rang, and with a weary sigh, he closed the folder and pushed it away, leaning across to answer the phone. "Solo."
"Napoleon, it’s Sam. I'm just leaving now, and you and your partner there need to call it a night. Doctor's orders. I don't want Illya hunched over a table all night reading."
"I'll pass that on to him, Sam. Good night." He hung up the receiver. "The good doctor says we should stop working and get some rest. Do you want to watch some television? The news is on soon."
"If you wish to watch television, please do. I will not hear it. I have these." Kuryakin held out his hand, palm up, two earplugs resting in the center.
Solo shrugged and flicked on the television. He tried again. "Why don't you call it a night, too?"
"If you do not object, I will read longer." Kuryakin moved across to his bed, settling on top of the mattress, immediately back to reading the thick science textbook he had requested earlier from the Headquarters' Library.
A quiet knock at the door kept Napoleon from responding. The Russian was reading, earplugs in place, and did not appear to hear the door. Napoleon shook his head and got up to answer it, stopping on route to turn down the sound on the television
He opened the door a crack and looked out, smiling at the beautiful young woman standing in the corridor "Betty! What brings you here?"
"What do you think brings me here, Napoleon? I heard you were spending the night, and I thought you might like some company." She smiled up at him suggestively.
"Now, now, Miss Betty Bright, you know the rules. No guests in the agents' quarters here."
"Like that has stopped you before, Napoleon," she said with a laugh, stepping closer.
He shrugged. So he'd smuggled a few women into these rooms before. "Betty, honey, any other night and I'd take you up on it, but I'm beat tonight. We've been working non-stop on this case and I'm just ready to turn in."
Her tone changed suddenly. "Do you have someone else in there? Is Sharon there? I thought you weren't seeing her any more."
"I'm not seeing her. I'm not seeing anyone, Betty. I'm just tired."
"A back rub then," she said, pushing past him into the room, sharp eyes searching, then, deciding they were alone, she turned back to him. "A nice, relaxing back rub." She began to tug at his shirt, drawing him closer.
Napoleon stared at the far bed. No sign of Illya. No sign the far bed had ever been sat on, not a wrinkle nor crease. He glanced to the bathroom, but the door was open and the room was obviously empty.
This was strange.
He pushed Betty away from him on the pretense of removing his shoes. He bent low, glancing under his bed, then under Kuryakin's, finally spotting the Russian underneath his own bed. Illya looked over at him, and smiled. The first smile Solo had seen on the man's face. Kuryakin pointed to the ear plugs in his ears, then ignored the other man and went back to reading his book, using a flashlight.
Betty snagged Napoleon's shirt and drew him back on his bed. There was no way he was going to let her give him a back rub when his partner was under the other bed in the same room. It just wasn't right. It just wasn't—Well...
Betty seemed to be quite insistent that he get a back rub.
What the hell.
*****
"I owe you one."
"I don't understand." Kuryakin had requested that they go down to the labs first thing in the morning, and after paging through a few other books and jotting more notes, talking on the phone to Dr. Lawrence a half dozen times, and making two calls into another lab, Kuryakin was now staring at something under his microscope.
Solo sighed. "About last night? I... well, I don't usually... You really didn't have to..."
Kuryakin looked up at him, obviously puzzled. "There was problem last night?"
"I shouldn't have let Betty into the room."
He shrugged. "Is no problem. Boys will be boys," the Russian said, looking back at his slides.
"Boys will be boys? Where did you learn that expression?"
"Is not right saying? Friend of mine. Tony. He says this." Kuryakin glanced up at him, and seemed to realize Solo was still uncomfortable about the whole thing. "Listen, Napoleon, in my country, is no big thing. Usually we share apartment, five men to one room. Women come to spend night, you look other way. If you have ear plugs, you use them. Or maybe not," Kuryakin added, with a slight grin.
"Nothing happened last night. She just gave me a back rub," Solo hastened to say.
"Either way, not my concern. To fix this is my concern." Kuryakin sat back in his chair, arms folded, his dark-rimmed glasses giving him the look of a demented scientist. "We have found something."
"A cure?"
Kuryakin's eyes dropped to his notes. "No. I have only found way to suppress the effect, not to eliminate it."
"So we can stop the effects with medication?"
Kuryakin seemed hesitant in answering. "Yes. For short term only."
"How short is short term?"
"Four hours."
"Great!" Solo's face lit up in a smile. "That's amazing. You did all this?" he asked, staring down at the stack of notes. "So what do we have to do? Take a pill every four hours?"
"One of us has to be... I do not know the right expression. Put right out? Made unconscious. The shot wears off in four hours."
The smile dropped. "Unconscious? How is this different from what Sam talked about before then?"
"There is certain component that, if added to sedative, will allow you to move without even mild discomfort felt previously when I was put under. However, there is four hour time limit. The drug should not be repeated within minimum of six hours."
"Which means two hours of 'awake' time between doses."
"Yes. Not good enough for mission." Kuryakin rubbed at his forehead, and Solo frowned at the weariness of the gesture.
"It's a good start, at least. You've done well," he said softly, wondering how to suggest they take a break.
Garcia appeared at the door of the lab. "Hey, Napoleon. We found your Thrush agent."
"Where?"
Accepting the question as invitation to enter, Garcia came in and dropped into the nearest chair. "Vermont. He was seen near Barker Mountain, a skiing area in the northeast."
"I'm familiar with Barker Mountain."
"Well, he was there, along with suspect number four. We were able to follow part of a shipment rerouted from the warehouse you blew up as far as central Vermont, then we lost the semi-trailer. They never made it as far along the highway to Canada, so they turned off somewhere in between. We did a good search of the vicinity and ended up at Barker Mountain."
"What do we have in that area?"
"Not much." Garcia nodded toward Kuryakin, then ignored him. He spread a map over the desk, and took his pen out to trace an area. "Barker Mountain Resort is a suspected Thrush area or perhaps there is simply a Thrush base near to the town, but we have no proof. Just a suspicion due to the frequent Thrush sightings in the area."
"Maybe they like to ski," Kuryakin said quietly.
"A Thrush resort?" Garcia laughed. "Sure, why not? Point is, there's a lot of them around, and right now, your main suspect and another one on your list are staying at the Barker Lodge. We've just started monitoring any trucks or larger carriers coming into the area, in case there is a base there somewhere."
"We need to draw them out somehow. Get them on our turf." Solo stared at the map.
"What if they saw you there? Alone?" Kuryakin asked. Solo started to voice his disapproval, but Kuryakin pressed on. "If we were to go there together, then they were to see you alone, without me, they would be curious, yes?"
"They would simply think we had found a cure for this." Solo closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. "You've got the right idea, though. Xavier, do you have a list of which Thrush agents have been seen in the area?"
Garcia nodded, reaching into his binder for the complete list and passing it to Solo.
The enforcement agent ran his finder down the list, stopping on one name. "There we go. Perfect."
"Who?" Garcia looked where Solo was pointing. "No way. Are you crazy? She'll kill you—or betray you at fist opportunity."
Solo smiled. "This time, Angelique's going to do us a favor."
Kuryakin stared at the name and frowned. "Who is she?"
Garcia shook his head. "Bad news, man. Bad news."
- 6 -
Late January 1964—ten days later
The mountains in Vermont in January at night. Brisk. Invigorating.
And damn cold.
The blast of frigid air that hit him when the car door opened took his breath away. Solo coughed, one leather gloved hand covering his mouth, as he got out the driver's side of the black 1963 Porsche 35
6. He stood tall, eyes taking in the view to his left and then turning and looking appreciatively at the luxury hotel to his right. Solo smiled as he motioned for the warmly muffled valet to take the keys to the sleek sports car, one recently acquired by U.N.C.L.E. and one Waverly had never before authorized for use. With a practiced nod and a twenty-dollar bill in his hand, the enforcement agent gestured for the doorman to said out a bellboy to deal with their luggage in the trunk.
The passenger side door opened and Illya Kuryakin slid from the vehicle with a powerful feline grace that he seemed to have recovered in the last few days. He stood beside the car, an expensive suede jacket resting easily on his shoulders, as though he were born to wealth. Beneath the jacket, he was wearing an ice blue and cream Nordic sweater, designer denim jeans and top of the line boots. Kuryakin didn't look cold, but then he was Russian, Solo reasoned, and this weather was probably par for the course for him. He did look properly bored, though, hardly looking around, but appearing resigned to going through the charade.
Solo shook his head ruefully. There were some roles that were meant to be enjoyed, and the money, the car, and the accommodations for this mission more than made up for the last few weeks of virtual confinement. They were staying at the Lake Halcyon Resort on Barker Mountain, a ski resort catering to the rich and famous. The Thrush lodge was a mile down the road, but the main ski village was by the Lake Halcyon Resort and Thrush agents were constantly seen in the restaurants and other facilities of the village.
Solo and Kuryakin entered the pricy resort hotel, strolling toward the reception desk. They casually kept within six feet of each other, not appearing to be making an effort to do so. For this to work, they had to keep the Thrush agents in the area guessing as to whether they had freed themselves from their forced 'partnership' or not.
Solo leaned on the counter while Kuryakin moved to the literature rack a few feet away. "The Ambassador Suite. Name is Solo."
"Ah, yes, Mr. Solo. We have your reservations. Please sign in here." A register book was turned for him to write his signature next to his name and address, already typed in.