by LRH Balzer
Kuryakin nodded at her politely, then turned his attention back to Solo. "You said 'once again'... Am I missing time?"
"I gave you a couple of painkillers last night and they knocked you out. Do you remember yesterday at all? The helicopter, the car ride, Chinese food?"
"There's food? Where? I'm hungry." He looked around the room expectantly.
Dancer brought him some leftover spareribs from her room and Illya balanced Pasha on his lap, hungrily gnawing at the bones.
Solo pulled up a chair again. "What do you remember?"
He thought about it as he ate the food, the memories slowly crystallizing. Between bites, he asked, "How long since I escaped the clinic?"
"The clinic burned down early Wednesday morning. Today is Saturday."
He felt Solo's careful scrutiny and stopped chewing. "There was a fire."
"Yes."
"I took Pasha out... I sent you a telegram."
"I got it and found you yesterday. What happened before the fire? Last night you mentioned four other babies."
Illya felt his eyes mist over. Fire. Flames. Babies crying but I can't find them. Where are they? I can't see. Too much smoke. I can't breathe.
"Illya!" Napoleon's voice, arms shaking him gently. "Snap out of it! The babies didn't die in the fire. There were no other bodies found. Somehow they were taken out. Did you see anyone else?"
He gathered Pasha to his chest. "No." I told him about the babies? What did I tell him? How much did I tell him? Napoleon was irritated, but that couldn't be helped. I never tried to figure out what would happen once I got this far. He leaned back against the wall, drawing his feet onto the bed. His head felt congested and heavy. I need time to think. Can't take Pasha to Headquarters.
"Illya, you didn't want to return to New York so we stayed here overnight. What's the problem? I need some answers from you."
Damn. "Napoleon, I must speak to Waverly."
"I'll patch you through. What do you want to talk to him about?" Solo reached for his transceiver.
"I must speak to him alone." Please, Napoleon, he telegraphed.
Illya watched Napoleon search his face and read the confusion and the beginnings of anger in the other man. Why? What are you keeping from me? Napoleon's dark eyes asked.
"First let me speak to Waverly, then I'll try to answer your questions." Solo took a deep breath and got to his feet. "Okay. April and I will go across to the cafe and get some breakfast for you. Eggs, bacon, and toast?"
"And a pot of tea. Thank you."
"We'll come back when you signal." Solo handed him his cigarette case and they left him alone.
Kuryakin placed the baby on the bed beside him and fingered the send switch on the transceiver.
* * * * *
"I thought you demanded your subordinates to jump when you say jump. He didn't."
Solo held open the door to the cafe and followed her through. "He has earned that right, you haven't. You said he trusted me. Well, it goes both ways -- I trust him. Illya knows the rules; he knows what I expect from him and what U.N.C.L.E. expects from him. And he knows he'd better have a very good reason to do what he's doing. Much as I hate the fact that he's withholding information from me, I trust him to make the right decision."
Dancer slid into the booth, nodding absently to the waitress as she was poured a cup of coffee. "I've always believed rules were made to be broken."
"So have I." Solo grinned. "But I like to be the one breaking them, not someone else breaking my rules."
Twenty minutes later, the expected call from Waverly finally came through.
"Canadian border, Highway 201, 9:30 p.m., tonight," Solo repeated as Dancer scribbled the information down. "Anything else, sir?"
"Try to be prompt, Mr. Solo. We'll be closing down the border for an hour and we don't want to cause any more of a delay than we have to." Waverly signed off and the transceiver cut out.
"Why do we have to go there?" Dancer asked.
"I don't know."
"Is something going to happen to the baby?"
"I don't know."
"Do you expect trouble on route?"
"I don't know."
When there was no other response forthcoming, Dancer tried one more time. "So what is your plan?"
"I plan to be at the Canadian border, Highway 201 crossing, at precisely 9:30 p.m., tonight."
"Oh."
"He's my boss."
"Oh."
* * * * *
10:15 p.m.
Canadian border
Alexander Waverly stood on the Canadian side of the deserted International Border and spoke with the head of U.N.C.L.E. Eastern Canada, Claude Renault. Solo's counterpart in Canada, John McGlouster, Section Two, Number One, paced by his car, eyes anxiously watching the sky and the road leading north. In the distance, at the Canadian roadblock, the flashing lights of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police could be seen.
On the American side, a quarter mile down the highway, the Maine border patrol had stopped the traffic. The customs officers stood with them, waiting for the signal to return to their jobs. Solo wondered idly what ingenious reason had been given them for shutting down the border.
The black sky was clear and crammed with stars, far more than ever made an appearance in New York City. As Napoleon Solo walked back to their car, parked in the center of the road, he could see the light reflecting off his partner's blond-white hair, the emotionless face rigid. Illya Kuryakin stared out into the night, his eyes fixed on some other sight as he silently rocking the fussing baby.
"Are you okay?" he asked softly, moving to stand beside him.
Yes." Kuryakin nodded toward the two men conferring at the darkened customs station. "What is the delay? Are they ready yet?" he asked, his accent thick.
"Almost. Waverly wanted to talk with Renault privately. The arrangements have all been made to get the baby to safety."
"Good." Kuryakin shifted the squalling child to his shoulder.
April Dancer paced nearby, eyes darting at them, her body language full of anger. She stopped in front of Kuryakin, hands on her hips. "You're just going to hand that baby over to them? I don't understand why U.N.C.L.E. is dumping this on someone else. Thrush was after us all the way here! What's going to happen to Pasha? How can you just hand him over? What do the Canadian police know about Thrush? They're our concern. Thrush is not going to let them even make it to the nearest city. You've been with him for weeks -- don't you care about him? What kind of monster are you?"
Kuryakin eloquently turned and walked away from her. He stood with his back to them on the other side of the car and stared into the snowy wilderness.
Solo grabbed her arm to keep her from going after him. "Silence!" he hissed. "He is following orders. The decision was taken out of his hands and ours."
"I don't see how --"
"Obviously you don't. Get in the car."
She at least had the grace to look chastened. Solo sighed and leaned against the front fender, feeling her staring at him through the windshield. You can hang out the window of a speeding car and shoot at the bad guys without batting an eye, April, but this authority thing is driving you crazy, isn't it? Teamwork, girl. We've finished our lap and it's time to pass the baton and let the next group handle it.
It had been a long afternoon and evening, spent driving down highways and back roads. One wild hour-long chase ended with the other car flipping over and sliding into a telephone pole. They changed cars twice in little towns and ate at roadside cafes. As long as they were moving, the questions had not bothered him, but now, the waiting seemed endless.
He glanced to his partner, studying the determined face and watching the powerful hands gently pat the baby's back. Kuryakin had weathered the day well. He had seemed distracted, but he ate when they stopped for food and even relinquished Pasha for a few hours to take a shift at the wheel. At Waverly's request, Solo had not pressed his partner for information and had been given none voluntarily.
&nbs
p; Dancer had observed them both all day, her eyes constantly flicking from one to the other, taking in every word and action. She watched as Kuryakin immediately obeyed almost every recommendation or order Solo made without question, yet when Kuryakin did make a counter-suggestion of his own, Solo invariably accepted it. That seemed to surprise her even more. A smile came to Solo's face and he turned so she wouldn't see it. Ah, April Dancer... You remind me so much of another young agent ten years ago. What an ass I was.
He was shaken from his memories as Waverly signaled to him with a wave. They were ready for him. This is it. Napoleon moved around the car to Illya and wordlessly took the baby from his partner's arms without looking at the cold stony face. He walked quickly across the border and over to Waverly. At the old man's direction, he handed Pasha to John McGlouster and watched dispassionately as the Canadian agent got into the back of the car with the baby.
Waverly clapped Renault on the shoulder, whispered words in French passing between them, then Renault got behind the wheel, and the vehicle drove off into the blackness of the night.
Waverly and Solo returned to the American side as an U.N.C.L.E. helicopter touched down, ready to take them all back to New York.
Kuryakin said nothing during the trip, but stared silently out the window.
* * * * *
Sunday
New York Headquarters
The debriefing the following day in Waverly's office was awkward. Illya Kuryakin's clipped words described the clinic, the Thrush doctors and staff he had seen, his incarceration, and the five babies. There was no emotional involvement to his debriefing report; he merely stated facts and answered Waverly's questions as precisely as possible.
He looked almost at ease, sitting at the conference table, his hands folded in front of him. His hair had been trimmed and nails carefully manicured. Only the dark suit showed off his paleness and emphasized the circles beneath his eyes. Even April noticed he did not meet Solo's gaze.
"The babies were experiments of Dr. Weller's. They were implanted embryos, carried and borne by Thrush volunteers. They ranged in age -- at the time of the fire -- from the child I tended who was two-months-old, to the eldest who was about four months of age. I learned that there have been many others that did not survive."
"What was the nature of Dr. Weller experiments?" Waverly asked.
"Among other things, artificial insemination, fertilization, test-tube babies, asexual reproduction, identical twins, monoecism, parthenogenesis."
"I see." Waverly paged through a report already on his desk. "Why would Thrush be interested in funding Dr. Weller's experiments?"
"From what I heard before I was discovered, Thrush had already decided the short-term benefits were not enough to warrant the substantial outlay of funds and had terminated the project."
There were more questions, now focused around the identities of the Thrush agents Kuryakin had seen. Solo listened as he talked, his gaze alternating between Kuryakin and Dancer.
The female agent sat at the table, uncomfortable, hands clasped nervously on her lap. The confident air that had been about her when he had met her four days previous in this same office was gone, but it was for the best. She was working through the same problems his partner had worked through several years earlier -- and that he had wrestled with years before that. Better now than later, in the middle of an assignment or interrogation.
It was difficult finding a place to hang your independence when you were a self-sufficient person in an organization that chose you for that very qualification but yet demanded teamwork. Harder still to find a place to hang your heart among the garbage and monstrosities one encountered with U.N.C.L.E.
Watching her listen to Kuryakin's report, Solo knew Dancer was realizing the difference even one person could make to the world. One baby was safe. One child had a chance. More than anyone else she would meet, Illya Kuryakin was an example of a man who did everything in his power to win freedom, even at the risk or cost of his own life.
Solo knew that the cost had been high; he had glimpsed the other side of his partner and knew what 'might have been,' for although he appeared callous or impassive at first glance, Kuryakin was neither. Beneath the guarded tenacious exterior was a man both empathetic and supportive. Solo had seen traces of the poet, the musician, the dancer, the scholar. The gentle spirit that rarely had an outlet for expression in a world gone mad, denied a place so that the warrior could concentrate and fight.
And save the life of a baby.
Kuryakin's debriefing ended and Dancer was dismissed. Waverly waited for her to leave, then turned to Solo and asked for his report on her.
"My observations? She handled herself well the various times we were under attack. Calm, resourceful. No hesitation with a gun. A definite problem, initially, with taking orders. Thinks she knows everything, the usual. She needs to learn the chain of command, why it is there, and how it works."
He shrugged. "I have a complete report here. As for my recommendations: I suggest Miss Dancer spend at least another six months in Section Three. I realize the need for female operatives in Section Two, but it does no good if they're not ready, whether they're male or female. Given time, Miss Dancer will make a top-rated operative. She is intelligent, physically able to tackle the job, and level-headed. I also suggest she be placed with a variety of partners and that she work with each for a few assignments. When she is ready to move up to Section Two, we'll then have a better idea of whom to put her with."
Waverly nodded. "A fair evaluation. I will pass that information on to our Personnel section. Thank you, you may go, Mr. Solo. Mr. Kuryakin: you have a further report for me, I believe."
Napoleon stood and met his partner's unreadable eyes. It's okay. I don't have to know everything. I trust you with whatever it is that you can't tell me. He smiled and Illya relaxed.
Thank you.
"I'll be in my office, Illya. Join me for lunch?"
"Yes. One o'clock."
* * * * *
"This information is not on record anywhere, but the baby you called Pasha is being placed today with a couple living in Hull, Quebec. They are both former U.N.C.L.E. employees and were recommended to me by Norman Graham. They work for the U.S. embassy in Ottawa."
"Yes, sir." There was a momentary look of alarm on Kuryakin's face but it vanished before Waverly could detect what had set it off.
"We have not yet had any word on the whereabouts of the other babies. It is doubtful if we will. Thrush will have them well-hidden by this time."
"I'll find them, sir. Or Napoleon will, eventually."
Not wanting to rush Kuryakin, Waverly said nothing for several minutes, but studied the man sitting quietly before him. When he spoke, he chose his words very carefully. "Do you know the exact nature of Dr. Weller's experiment involving the five babies in the Thrush clinic?"
"Yes, sir." Kuryakin's fingers clasped before him were clenched white.
"What was it?" he prompted.
"Dr. Weller was experimenting with cloning humans." Waverly kept his countenance calm, very aware of the controlled tension in the younger agent. "Do you know who the five babies were cloned from?"
Kuryakin swallowed nervously, but did not shift his gaze. "Some of them."
"Who were they?"
"I believe four of them were cloned from top Thrush agents."
"Was Pasha also cloned from a Thrush agent?"
Kuryakin shook his head imperceptibly. "No, sir," he whispered.
Waverly debated whether to ask his final question. Was it really important to know? Did it matter? The parents would never be told the child was a cloned human. The information would never leave this office. He decided not to ask, then he glanced at Kuryakin, at the weight of the knowledge resting on the young man's bowed shoulders. Kuryakin would not volunteer the information, but Waverly knew that he was the only one Kuryakin would tell, if asked.
He asked, if only to share the burden. "Who was the baby you cared for cloned fro
m?"
Kuryakin opened his mouth, but no words came. He swallowed again and glanced away from his mentor.
"Illya?" He rarely used the first name, but it brought the pale eyes up to his. "It doesn't matter who it was. Pasha will be raised by parents who will care for him and raise him in a warm environment. He will be loved and given every opportunity. He will not be a carbon copy of whoever the donor was. He will have his own memories and own experiences." He still read fear in the eyes, but his own curiosity won over letting the secret remain unsaid. "Who was it?"
It was never voiced aloud, it was never written down, and it was never spoken of again, but Kuryakin finally mouthed two words.
Napoleon Solo.
The Little Boys Lost Affair
Alexander Waverly looked up from his desk, frowning at his assistant as she entered the office unannounced. "Yes, Miss McNabb? Have Solo and Kuryakin finally reported in?" The two agents had left on a routine investigation several hours earlier and had not been heard from since.
"Sir?" Heather McNabb sounded uneasy, obviously hesitant about bothering him. "Sir, we have a pair of unusual visitors at the Section Two Agents' Entrance."
"Are they armed or considered dangerous?"
"Uh... no, sir."
"Why can't Del Floria handle them, then? That what we pay the man -- certainly not his laundering skills," Waverly grumbled, tugging at his over-starched shirt collar.
"Sir... Mr. Waverly, could you take a look at what our security cameras are filming? It might give you an idea of what he's dealing with." McNabb looked at him hopefully, still twisting a pencil in her hands.
Waverly spun around and activated his monitor.
"But I want to go in there, Mister Feldoria. I said 'please'." The security cameras had caught the top of a little boy's head, barely visible behind the steam press.
"Go home now, bambini." Del Floria's voice was agitated. "Your mamas will be looking for you. Run along."
The retired-agent-turned-tailor tried to herd the small boy out the door and as they moved into better view, Waverly's eyebrows raised at the sight of a second child, a toddler, clinging to the little boy's hand.
