Collection 3 - Year One

by LRH Balzer

  Perhaps the direct approach. He bent his head and spoke softly. "Illya, are you sure of what you saw? I've seen the report on the fire investigation and the only casualty was the guard you said you killed."

  "I heard them. I heard them." Illya gasped again, his fists pressed into his eye sockets, trying to block the fierce headache.

  "Someone got to them. There were no other bodies found," Napoleon repeated.

  "They took them? Where?" The whispered questions sounded desperate. "It's not their fault, Napoleon." His fingers dug into his forehead, trying to stop the pounding. "They are innocent. Not their fault."

  A female voice spoke uncertainly. "Is he okay? Should I call a doctor?"

  Napoleon turned. From over the blond head against his chest he could see April Dancer standing in the doorway, her eyes wide, and he wondered how much she had heard or seen. He tightened his hold, his arms straining as they tried to contain his partner's physical pain. The need for privacy for Illya was intense, but Dancer had a right to know what was going on. That's what she was along for. It was all part of the job.

  With a nod of his head, he gestured to his backpack. "Get me a couple of pain killers from the first aid box -- the blue ones." She brought them and he forced the pills between his partner's clenched teeth, relieved when Illya swallowed them. With his free hand, Napoleon massaged the tightly corded back and neck, listening to the uneven ragged gasps as he tried to sort out what had happened at the fire.

  He realized he had ignored Dancer completely. She was standing nearby, her face anxious. "Thanks, April. Just wait a bit and then we'll talk. It'll take a few minutes for these pills kick in."

  "What's wrong with him?"

  "He's caught somewhere between a migraine and a nightmare. He just got to the end of his rope; he needs to relax a little and sleep a lot... " He tried again. "Illya had a minor head injury while we were on assignment in Paris a few weeks back and the pressure he's been under, combined with the nightmare, set off a rather severe headache. He'll be okay when he wakes up in the morning." I hope. How do I begin to explain all this to you, April? This kind of pain was never discussed in Survival School, was it?

  "I want to put on something warmer. It's cold in here." She disappeared into her room and shut the door.

  He waited for Illya's grasp on his wrist to ease and his breathing to become steadier before moving him to the bed. The powerful drugs were working; Illya was floating on the medication, his half-open eyes glazed but still apprehensive, wary. There's something you're still not telling me, my friend. What is it?

  Illya's eyes found his and focused briefly as though he heard the unspoken question. He shook his head and his eyes closed.

  Napoleon got a warm cloth from the bathroom and laid it across his partner's forehead. As the heat drew out the pain, Illya sighed softly, the relief evident as his features softened. His eyes flickered and opened; he rolled to his side, one arm reaching out to the sleeping baby, walled in with pillows, on the other side of the bed. A single touch, as though to confirm the child was truly there, then his hand withdrew and his eyes slid shut as another shudder vibrated through his limbs.

  Resisting the urge to shake the answer from him, Napoleon fought instead to put the pieces he did have together, his eyes drawn back time after time to the baby. Who are these babies? Who is Pasha, Illya? Who are his parents? What did Thrush do to him? You know, don't you? Why don't you want to tell me?

  He kept his contact firm, making sure Illya understood he was there. Comforting another agent had never been Solo's forte, but there was a time and place for everything, he was discovering. Even though it shocked Napoleon's sensibilities, Illya's offhand acceptance of being beaten and raped at Omegar Prison was typical of the Russian; to Kuryakin, a man who had lived with war and cruelty all his life, it fell in the category of physical pain or torture, something done to you without your cooperation and requiring no emotional involvement.

  This present situation was a hundred times harder for Illya to deal with; here, he felt responsible for not only those babies dying but whatever else he was keeping silent about, and he had let all the guilt and emotions rest squarely on his shoulders until it threatened to break him.

  Lying on his stomach, Kuryakin's breaths still came in short gasps, his head to one side, eyes closed. Napoleon bent over and talked quietly, reaffirming that there had been no other bodies found and somehow the babies Illya had heard had been carried to safety. Illya nodded finally, accepting intellectually what Napoleon had said, but his huddled body gave no clues to anything but the pain of the drug-covered migraine.

  There was nothing really for Napoleon to say to him. "Let it go, Illya. It wasn't your fault. Get some sleep; we have a lot to do tomorrow."

  * * * * *

  Dancer watched through the crack in the door until Solo flicked on the bed lamp and draped Kuryakin's dark T-shirt over it to dim the light. The room was crossed in shadows, broken only by the occasional flashes of lightning. She pulled a sweatshirt over her nightgown and nervously reentered the room.

  Solo glanced up as she approached, then turned his attention back to the still form on the bed. This was a different Napoleon than she had seen over the past three days. This one was quiet and sad, his one hand resting lightly on Illya Kuryakin's curled back as though allowing his own peace to flow through his fingertips and into his partner's body.

  Kuryakin was sleeping now -- or unconscious from the potent drugs -- the harsh lines on his face considerably eased from when she had last seen him. He was nothing like she had imagined. The icy man glimpsed at Headquarters who killed people with ease, who didn't need help from anybody, who had important university degrees, who was from a country that should have made him an enemy -- this man was different. He needed. He had a soul. He cared about the welfare of a little baby. He had trusted his partner completely, believing without a doubt that Napoleon would understand his message and come.

  What was she? Just an army brat who wanted to prove to the world that she could fight as well as anyone else, that she was as tough as Kuryakin. And, she admitted privately, she wanted to prove to her father that she could make him proud even if she wasn't the son he had hoped for. But he was dead now, killed months before in Vietnam. He had never received her letter saying she had made it through U.N.C.L.E.'s notorious Survival School and had been accepted as an Enforcement Agent.

  No, Kuryakin was the Enforcement agent -- she was just a glorified errand girl, a convenience for the department. Not only could she go get coffee, she could battle anyone who tried to interfere with her bringing it back.

  The blond agent shivered, gasping again, fighting off something that even the drugs couldn't stop. It was just a nightmare, Napoleon had said. Remembering what she had seen of Kuryakin in the training film, April found herself wondering what kind of memory could cause this reaction in a man who was as imperturbable as that. For a moment she was convinced she should quit U.N.C.L.E. so she would never have to deal with anything that would wake her in the middle of the night with such force. Nothing could be worth that.

  Not even proving herself to her father. I'm just a twenty-one-year-old kid who thought she knew everything about the world. I don't know a bloody thing. Maybe she could still get that degree in animal biology.

  As she stood uneasily at the foot of the bed, she could see the baby asleep with his fingers in his mouth, lying beside Kuryakin. This little child, so contented and innocent, was wanted by Thrush. What secrets could such a tiny infant possibly carry?

  Napoleon watched her wrestle with it all, watched the questions flicker across her mind. When he spoke finally, his voice was muted. "You asked earlier if Illya was responsible for the fire at the Thrush clinic -- well, he says that Thrush set it themselves. They were finished with their experiments and wanted to destroy the evidence. They set the fire, then sent a man to collect Pasha. Illya was waiting for him, then took the baby and managed to get away." Solo swallowed. "He said there were other bab
ies, though, that he couldn't rescue in time. He said he could hear them screaming."

  "But--?"

  "Correct. There were no bodies. My guess is Thrush got them out, although we have no idea where they are now."

  Her knees gave way and she sank to the edge of the bed. "How could Thrush experiment on little babies?"

  Napoleon sighed quietly and looked across at her. "That is what we're fighting, April. Men and women who have no regard for human life. It gets to you after awhile, especially when they win a hand and try as you can, you can't stop it from happening." He looked back to Illya. "So, Lesson Number One, Miss April Dancer: why do you need a partner when it seems it would be easier to do it alone? If for nothing else, your partner is there to help you remember you aren't alone in the fight. And sometimes you have to hold your hands over his ears when he hears the screams he believes he couldn't stop."

  He was quiet again for a few minutes, his one hand smoothing the tremors still cramping his partner's back. "Lesson Number Two: Take care of your partner and let him take care of you. I was joking earlier about you bathing Illya, but what if your partner is male? You would have to do just that. Patch him up in the middle of an assignment when the luxury of a doctor is not available. Hold him when it gets too much and keep your mouth shut about it afterwards. Which means, to do so you have to bring him to a position of trusting you with his heart and not just his life. Not an easy thing for this one--" he said, pulling the cover over his partner, "or any of us, but if you don't deal with the emotional garbage of a case promptly, you'll burn out very quickly."

  "He trusts you."

  Napoleon smiled ruefully. Implicitly. "I'm getting better. There have been times recently when I haven't been there for him and I swore that would never happen again. Sometimes I can swallow my pride long enough to help and yet other times I find myself saying cruel things as jokes and I drive him away unintentionally. But I keep trying. And when I've needed him, he's been there for me, offering whatever he could to this loud brash American, often uncertain of how I would respond or if he was stepping over the line."

  "But isn't all this because you're his friend as well?"

  Solo gave a little laugh, his hand gently massaging Kuryakin's furrowed brow. "No, I think it's because he is my friend. I've worked with partners successfully without being friends with them. Some I've hated. Some I've endured. The first time he called me 'my friend', I almost jumped out of my skin. Then he disappeared a short time later and we thought he was dead and I found that he really had become my friend and I missed him. The longer he was gone, the angrier I became. I'd been in the espionage game for years, buried more than a few partners and co-workers, and made it my business to keep my contact with others impersonal. Somewhere along the line, this one went from being a subordinate, to a partner, to a kid brother, to a friend."

  "Mr. Waverly says you are the best team he's ever had working for him."

  He does, does he? "Illya's certainly the best partner I've ever had," Solo admitted, then glanced over to her and grinned. "Want to try your hand at this? Your file says you took a course in massage. I promise he won't wake up and hit you -- He's out cold."

  They changed places and Dancer gingerly worked Kuryakin's knotted back and shoulder muscles, her eyes drawn to two large scars -- a star-shaped exit bullet wound just below his right shoulder blade and another gunshot wound on his right upper arm. Also scattered about the bare back were white reminders of other battles -- knife wounds, marks made from whips or barbed wire. Some had faded with the years, others were still pink and raised.

  Solo waited until she had finished, then turned his partner onto his back for her to continue. He watched carefully as she looked at the entry bullet wound on Kuryakin's chest, at the incisions where the hospital had drained the fluid from his lung and chest cavity, at the extensive burn marks on his upper chest, the jagged knife wound in his side, the scar tissue around his neck and wrists.

  Dancer bit her lip; her eyes clouded with angry tears. "What happened to him?" Her voice quavered and he could see her body trembling.

  In answer, Solo slipped his own T-shirt off and she glanced at his collection of scars, then looked away quickly.

  Reality isn't pretty, is it? He put his shirt back on. "This isn't an easy business, April. Don't think they'll go easier on you just because you're a woman. You don't become an enforcement agent because you want to prove something to someone, you do it because you believe in what you do. You believe you can help, if only a little. That's why there's a reason for everything we do, for the rules, for the regulations. That's why I expect you to jump when I say jump. It may be your life I'm saving, or mine. When I want your opinion, let me ask for it. When an option is available, and there's time, you will be offered the choice. But I don't have time to sit and listen to your view when the plan of action has already been set."

  Dancer made no move to continue the massage so Solo turned his partner back onto his stomach and covered him.

  "April, I know women can make excellent enforcement agents. I am convinced of it. I've met some of the best female agents Thrush has to offer and a few of them can outshoot me and outwrestle me. There's no reason you can't do the same for U.N.C.L.E..

  "This man is my partner. His nationality, his history, his skills, his intelligence, and his gender are second to that. One day, we'll find you a partner and maybe it will click for you and maybe it won't. But it won't be because your partner is male or female, foreign or American, whether they can shoot better or worse than you, or whether they're smarter than you or not. I have no formula for you to follow. It happens or it doesn't. When it does work, you find yourself fighting to keep it, extending yourself that much further. But meanwhile -- listen, watch, learn. Do what I tell you to do and don't argue with me. Follow directions and when the assignment is over, then ask the whys."

  He wasn't sure how close she was to crying, but it was obviously something she hadn't done in years. He gestured toward the door. "Go get some rest. You'll do fine, April, but I think you need to sort out your reasons for being in the business. It's obvious you have the skill and the brains, but there's more to it than that. We all get in over our heads, especially at first, but the trick is learning how to tread water."

  Pasha gave a little cry, waking up, and they both stared at him, then over to the drugged sleeping Kuryakin.

  "Oh oh." Suddenly, Napoleon Solo did not look so self-assured. "Go to sleep, baby," he said hopefully, leaning over Illya and looking down at Pasha.

  But Pasha wasn't tired. They tried to feed him but he wasn't hungry. Apprehensively, Napoleon undid a diaper pin, relieved to discover the diaper dry. Pasha, nevertheless, continued to scream and Napoleon picked him up, awkwardly trying to mimic Illya's previous rocking motion that had put the baby to sleep. "What's wrong, baby? Why are you crying?"

  April gave a strangled little laugh.

  "What's so funny?" Napoleon demanded, tempering his frown with a smile. "Go ahead, say what you were thinking."

  Dancer shrugged, a hint of her former confidence returning. "Pasha can't talk yet, remember?" she said, sarcastically. "Don't you know anything about babies, Mr. Solo? Or is this when we start treading water? Well, I guess I had better do as you suggested and get some sleep." She turned with a bold grin, and went back to her room.

  Pasha continued to scream as Napoleon stared at the closed door separating the two rooms. "Watch out for women like that when you're older," the agent counseled the baby. "They're fast learners. They have a way of twisting things to make you feel exceptionally stupid when you know you were just being incredibly profound a few minutes before."

  * * * * *

  10:30 a.m.

  Feeling rather fuzzy, Illya opened his eyes and looked around the room. Focusing seemed a great effort, as if he were peering through the wrong end of a pair of powerful binoculars. The mattress seemed solid enough beneath him and it occurred to him that he hadn't slept on a bed in some time. It felt good.
r />   A woman looked into his room and smiled hesitantly at him. "Good morning. How are you feeling?"

  He didn't know who she was. Ignoring her, he sat up carefully, holding his bruised head as it threatened to roll off his shoulders. His feet swung around and touched the floor. He decided against moving too quickly, and slid one hand under his pillow. No gun.

  What's happening here? His mind tried to backtrack to ascertain what case he was on, but he came up blank.

  "How is your headache?" the woman asked.

  He glanced at her again, then looked around for his clothes and realized he was in a motel room. He glanced back to her quickly. No, I don't know you. Do I? Where am I?

  She disappeared into the adjoining room. He came to his feet carefully and reached for his black T-shirt lying at the foot of the bed. His body ached, the muscles protesting as he slipped it over his head.

  Another face appeared at the door, one he knew this time. "Napoleon?" He started to move toward him shakily, groaning when his body felt suspiciously like a troika had run over him. Napoleon entered the room and Illya caught sight of the baby in his partner's arms and reeled with the onslaught of memories. "Pasha…"

  "Sit down. I'll bring him to you." Looking like he was carrying a time bomb ready to detonate, Napoleon gladly handed over the baby.

  Cuddling the tiny child, Illya tickled his pink cheek and was rewarded with a wide toothless smile.

  The baby cooed adoringly and Napoleon grimaced. "Right. For you, he smiles. For me, he howls."

  "It is your captivating personality, I suspect. Napoleon, who is this woman who stares at me?"

  "April Dancer, once again meet Illya Kuryakin." Solo urged her to come forward and she joined them, sitting carefully on the edge of Illya's bed with a puzzled look on her face. "Section Three, Enforcement. Bob Cipe's crew."