by LRH Balzer
"I can fix it," Kuryakin muttered, reaching for the box of supplies.
"No doubt you can," Grayson responded, keeping possession. "But I'll do it this time, so humor me, will you? Both of you," he added, looking over to Solo.
"Karl, we can handle this."
"I realize you're both senior to me as far as ranking goes, Napoleon, but this is my cabin, and I feel I have some sort of say here. If I make it back to New York, Mr. Waverly is going to expect me to give an accurate report on your conditions, and I can't do that with both of you acting like nothing is wrong."
Grayson ignored the agents' darting looks and removed the dressing on Illya's temple, exchanging the blood-soaked gauze for a smaller bandage. Kuryakin was sullenly allowing the man’s administrations, his head resting on the back of the coach, looking pale and queasy and wincing as Grayson carefully probed around his ribs.
The helicopter pilot glanced over his shoulder to where Solo still stood wavering by the fire. "Now listen, Napoleon. We're fighting several things here. With him: concussion and injured ribs. I don't think there are any other injuries, but if something shows up, I've got a big medical book on the shelf there."
"I'm fine," Kuryakin muttered, glowering at the big pilot, his pale eyes glowing strangely in the light from the fireplace. "This has happened to us before, you realize. Ad nauseam. We can take care of ourselves."
"Right, so Napoleon has told me." Grayson straightened up and crossed over to Solo, directed him to a chair, and checked his shoulder dressings. "As for you: You should really have some stitches there... Hmmm... If for some reason I'm delayed, and you need help, a few miles southeast of here there is a skiing resort. They'll help you get to a town. You'll have to ski there; the supplies are in the front cupboard—skis, boots, poles, everything you'd need. There are no roads around here, not even service roads—like I said, I helicopter in and out. There's a compass in the drawer here, and basically you'll be making your way down to the lake, two miles downhill, then following along the east side of it another few miles until you see the resort." Grayson paused, crouching down in front of Solo and staring into a suddenly vacant face. "Feel faint? Well, you lost a fair amount of blood. Just lean forward until it passes."
Solo felt the blackness whirl around him for a few moments, then gradually his sight cleared and he cautiously raised his head and looked around, smiling reassuringly at his partner’s anxious stare. "I'm still here."
"Where did you think you'd be?” Kuryakin cracked.
"With Evelyn, I'd hoped."
"Idiot."
"Fool."
"Jackass."
"Actually," Solo said, sitting up. "I'm feeling better now."
"So I see." Kuryakin leaned back again, closing his eyes.
Grayson checked the security panel near the door, then turned back to the two men, looking them over one last time. "I've got to get out of here before they track us down. The gun rack is loaded. There's food in the cupboards. Wood stove, and there's plenty of firewood around back. Short wave radio on the table, but put off using it for anything but the Public Warning System bands. Everyone will be using them, so they won't be able to track you. There's a fireproof vault behind the woodbox—put your parcel in there, Napoleon. The combination is: 36-24-34. Good luck." He was out the door still giving instructions and reminding them to cover the copter's tracks in the morning.
As soon as he left, Solo shrugged out of his jacket, put the cigarette package in the vault, and then headed for the kitchen area. The pantry was well stocked, as Grayson had promised. "I need some coffee. What about you? Illya? Hungry?"
"Uh... no."
Napoleon closed the cupboard and looked over at Illya. "Well, now I am worried."
"We're quite the pair," the Russian said with a short laugh, leaning back into the pillows. "You’re barely standing up, and I'm not much better."
"You're worse off than I am. I just have a little cut on my shoulder." Napoleon lit the stove, unsealed a container of ground coffee, spooned it into the coffeepot, and set the kettle to boil on the element. He was hungrier than he had anticipated. A quick scan of the canned goods revealed a tin of spaghetti, and he dumped it into another pot on the back burner, stirring it absently, needing the normalness of the chore to steady him. When the water boiled, he poured it into the coffeepot, glancing again at his partner. "Are you sure you're not hungry?"
"Positive." Illya slowly walked to the counter and eased himself onto a high stool. "I'll make some tea."
"There's water ready." Napoleon tossed him a box of tea bags and filled a brown tea pot with boiling water, let it sit for a moment, then emptied it and refilled it.
"I can't believe our luck. I had plans for tonight," Illya said, sighing, leaning on the counter and dunking his teabag in the pot.
"You had plans? A date?"
A scowl crossed the Russian's face. "Why must you assume all plans involve a date?"
"I am a healthy grown male."
"And I'm not because I don't bed everything in a skirt?"
"I don't go after everyone wearing a skirt—not in Scotland, at least," Napoleon put in. "I do have my reputation to consider." He dished the spaghetti onto a plate and frowned at it. "Hmm... not my usual fare, but it will do. So, Mr. Kuryakin, what wondrous plans were shattered?"
"I had a date."
Napoleon stopped chewing and stared at him blankly. "For that, you get to go get the firewood."
"Don't you want to know whom I had a date with?"
"I did earlier, but not anymore. It’s now a moot point. You'll never actually have the date, so it doesn't count. And with the blackout, it would have been canceled anyway. What I would like to know was what the hell hit us on the road earlier?" He held out his fork and Illya absently took a mouthful, unaware he had done so.
"I don't know what it was. I didn't get that good a look at it. Some kind of energy beam, possibly a laser focus. Xavier, Charlie, and I have been working on something similar but..." He sighed. "Napoleon, why don't we go steal Thrush's plans again, instead of them stealing ours? I'd love to see this laser in action."
"We did see it in action. Where do you think we got these bumps?"
"I mean, under better conditions." Illya sipped at his muddy-looking tea.
"I saw its big brother on top of a building a few blocks from Headquarters." Between mouthfuls, Napoleon described the large cylindrical cannon and the emerald tendril that had twisted and writhed across the graveled roof of the high rise. "You know, I've seen something like that before. Not as controlled though."
"When?"
"Can't think of it now. Remember a green burst of fire or something once?"
Illya was silent for a while, apparently hypnotized as he swung his cold wet tea bag back and forth on its string. Finally, he let it fly across the counter to land in the sink. "I can't think. Let’s save the world in the morning. Where's the wood?"
"Outside."
"Specifically?"
"Around back."
When Illya stomped back inside twenty minutes later, Napoleon looked up from under the quilt on the single bed he had claimed. The cabin was taking its time to heat up. "What took so long? Karl said it was already cut, under the tarp."
Illya dropped the chopped wood in the bin by the fireplace and walked back outside, returning a few minutes later with a second load, and then a third. He took off the parka he had worn and leaned wearily against the doorframe.
"Illya? Did you run into trouble out there?"
The Russian haphazardly dropped wood into the hearth, turned down one of the oil lanterns, and then stumbled to the couch in front of the fireplace, curling up gingerly under the blankets. "No."
"Are you okay?"
Silence, then a sigh. "Let's just say I was rudely reminded of why I didn't want to eat anything."
Napoleon grimaced in sympathy. "Did you reset the security system?"
"Yes. Now leave me alone."
"I think we should take turns sl
eeping. One of us should be awake to watch for trouble, and to make sure that you can wake up okay."
A snore answered him.
*****
The sharp crack of a log snapping in the fireplace had Solo half out of the bed before he could identify the sound. He tucked his U.N.C.L.E. Special back into its shoulder harness on the bedpost and checked the fire, throwing a few more logs on the massive hearth. It was only eleven at night; he had nodded off an hour ago, the paperback he had grabbed from the bookcase serving to put him to sleep rather than keep him awake, as was his intention.
Illya lay asleep on the sofa, numerous blankets layered over him, his pale face reddened from the heat of the fire. Napoleon listened to the soft breathing and satisfied his partner was still among the living, fired up the wood stove, reheated the coffee, and put some soup on to heat. He shook Illya’s shoulder slightly, asked a few questions, but Illya didn't seem to be suffering from concussion, so he let him go back to sleep. One of them should get some rest.
The painkiller was wearing off. He ate the hot soup slowly, his thoughts tumbling from the contents of the cigarette package in the vault, to the power outage, to the green laser ray. The soup was filling and far more satisfying than the over-processed spaghetti had been.
He debated about waking Illya up to take a shift as watchman, then decided to just keep the Special under his pillow and get some sleep. Both of them needed it. If someone were to attack them, there was nowhere really to hide anyway. He wondered briefly why he had agreed to Grayson's plan to leave them here in the cabin. Surely there would be somewhere nearer for them to stay than—than—
Actually, he didn't even know what state they were in. New York? Vermont? New Hampshire? Not that it mattered, really. Grayson was their only way out.
And if something happened to Grayson...?
Sleep seemed a long time coming.
*****
Illya woke up shivering, glancing around the cabin and trying to remember where he was. For one crazy moment, he thought he was in Maine, locked in the cold gray storage room at the Thrush medical center, and he wondered why he couldn't see Pasha or hear him breathing. He pushed the blankets back and sat up, eyes searching the darkness for the little baby, but the movement made his head throb, and he froze.
He wasn't in Maine, or anywhere on the run with Pasha. He was somewhere else. Vaguely, he drew on memories of the car chase, the helicopter, the blackout, and Karl Grayson's cabin. He lay back down carefully, and recovered himself.
Listening to the crackle of the fire, his head told him he had been dreaming, and he quickly sorted out reality from the nightmare. His watch said it was two in the morning. His stomach said to not move.
After a few minutes of cautious breathing and unpleasant swallowing, Illya groaned and tried to get comfortable on the couch. He had managed to tangle the blankets around his legs, and it was difficult to straighten them up without setting off the nausea. When he felt it safe enough to move again, he eased up to rest on his elbows and peered over to where Napoleon slept on the narrow bed. At least his partner was getting some rest.
Illya looked carefully at the fireplace and amended his verdict, deciding that Napoleon had been awake as recently as an hour ago, as someone had added wood to the fire.
Sitting upright, at this point, seemed to be a bad idea. He lay back down, trying to get his heart rate under control. His pulse beat through his veins, resounding in his skull. He didn't think he had a concussion—at least not a serious one—or Napoleon would be hovering more. Maybe a minor concussion, he realized, since he had lost consciousness for at least a brief time. Five minutes, according to Napoleon.
Damn. This was getting to be a nuisance. He wondered briefly if he had anything to use against Grayson to convince him not to report the incident. It was true that Sam was getting more than a little antsy about the number of concussions they were receiving—more importantly, the number he was receiving. It seemed if anyone looked at him sideways these days, he was laying on the floor unconscious. On the island of Circe, a few days previous, all it had taken was a sharp rap to his jaw, and he was out for the count.
I'm getting too old for this, he thought, with a rueful smile. Twenty-seven years old.
Three weeks ago he had celebrated his birthday, surprised to be alive, confused at the circumstance of his life. He had never envisioning being twenty-two, let alone twenty-seven. He was over the hill.
Okay, maybe not. According to U.N.C.L.E.'s policies, he had thirteen more years before he'd be out of a job if he stayed in Enforcement. The odds of him surviving to age forty were not great. Of course, most agents retired or switched to different departments before that, either from injuries or from promotions. Fifteen percent were killed in the line of duty. Another ten percent died of 'related causes.'
For the most part, it was carelessness that caused the greatest percentage of the deaths. With age, came a sense of recklessness, a feeling of being in control and invulnerable. It's a wonder Napoleon and I made it through that last mission. They had both made some rookie mistakes on Circe. Not paying attention to their surroundings. Not posting one as watchman while the other worked. Not disabling an opponent to keep them from coming after them later. Both agents had taken sucker punches.
Unable to sleep, Illya ran through what had happened, trying to rethink their strategy, figure out their mistakes. They had teased each other too much. Unnecessarily. Actually, he had been unmerciful to his partner, and he knew he should apologize to Napoleon for some of his remarks, even those made in jest.
He glanced over to where his partner was sleeping, watching the light from the fire flicker over Napoleon's haggard features. He vaguely remembered Napoleon saying something about one of them staying awake on guard, so it was probably his turn now.
Staring at the ceiling of the cabin, watching the feint light from the fireplace dance across the shadows of the open beams, he let his thoughts hover around Pasha, the child cloned from Napoleon Solo. What would he be like now? Probably walking. How much like Napoleon would he be? Alexander Waverly had forbidden Illya access to the child and had demanded he make no attempt to monitor Pasha or his adoptive parents. In the confusion of the moment, Kuryakin had agreed to his directives. For now, anyway.
With a soft sigh, Illya set aside his wonderings and summoned up his internal checklist of things to do.
Weapon. He turned his head and saw an U.N.C.L.E. Special on the coffee table. It wasn't his, though, and he closed his eyes and tried to remember the last time he had seen his own weapon. He recalled mumbling something about its loss to Grayson and the pilot passing on the information to the ground crew who were cleaning up the wreckage of the Thrush car.
Several minutes of careful breathing freed him to swing his feet off the couch, and he reached across to pick up the Special and checked the magazine to see if there was a round in the chamber of the redesigned Walther P-38. Because of the double action trigger, he could leave the hammer down on the loaded chamber and thus save valuable time if they were under attack.
That accomplished, he moved onto item number two on his checklist: environment He padded unsteadily across the room to the fireplace, added another two logs, then took a quick walk around the cabin, noting the doors and windows and the short wave radio.
Item three: Partner. A few strides brought Illya to Napoleon's side where he knelt to examine his friend's upper left arm, critical eyes taking in the faint red streaks on the bandage. It appeared to be the same as the last time he had examined it, so the wound had stopped bleeding. Changing the dressing could wait until morning.
Item four: Food. Illya debated whether he should eat anything or not, but decided that he should at least try. His body needed the calories if they were going to face any sort of confrontation. He moved to the kitchen area; there was a tin of tomato soup lying on the small counter, an empty pot, a large spoon, and a can opener sat beside it. He shook his head, allowing a smile to flicker at the comers of his mout
h.
What? No note, Napoleon, telling me how to make it? he grinned. Illya opened the tin, grabbed a tablespoon and returned to the couch, eating out of the can rather than wasting time heating it up.
He managed one mouthful, then spent five minutes convincing his stomach to keep it down. Only when it appeared he had won the battle did he lay back down on the couch and give in to the enveloping darkness.
*****
First light came a little after seven; Solo bundled up in Grayson's two-sizes-too-big duffle coat to go sweep the helicopter's tracks and their footprints, but an early morning snowfall and a brisk wind that filled in the indentations, had already done his job. The area was covered in two inches of fresh snow, smooth and barren. He returned to the cabin and stamped around in the frosty air, carrying in firewood and scouting their situation.
He could see the lake from where he stood in the doorway, spreading out before him like a reversed stylized letter 'c', one jut of land pushing into the center. He tried to measure distance, roughly figuring that resort Grayson had mentioned was half way around the mountain.
Illya was still sleeping on the couch, so Napoleon crawled back into his narrow bed and shivered until he warmed up enough to fall asleep.
*****
Sunshine streamed in from the cabin window when Napoleon woke hours later. He stretched slowly, lazily, willing his body to spring out from under the warm, comfortable quilt.
Illya's dry voice cut through the cabin's silence. "What time is it?"
"What's wrong with your watch?"
"Nothing. It's under the blankets."
Solo's feet hit the cold floor, and he scrambled to the meager heat of the fireplace, stoking the dying embers and rebuilding the fire. "It's almost eleven."
"Did you cover the helicopter tracks?" Illya struggled to a sitting position, one hand guardedly touching his head. "I can do it, if not."
"I checked it first thing this morning, but it snowed last night, enough so I didn't have to do anything."