by LRH Balzer
He tried to look at the snow, at the pine and spruce trees that lined the highway. At the rugged mountains... much like the Caucasus Mountains to the north of Georgia. That one winter he had travelled from Tbilisi across the range to Makhachkala on the Caspian Sea... The rocky mountains had looked much like these, but no highway cut through them, no railway had been built through the chain of peaks that made up the Greater Caucasus Mountains... Leningrad, the snow stacked high to each side of the road...
Skiing with Sasha and Grisha on the hills outside of Kiev, the air... Meeting Petrov in Izmailovsky Park in Moscow, taking his package, and then cross-country skiing the rest of the afternoon through the snow-laden birch trees with Sasha's sister Marya... He had proposed to her that day, as the sun glistened off the snow, blinding him... What a stupid fool he had been...
"How much farther to the border?" he asked, trying to break the thread of thought that would go nowhere. Yes, he had been blind then.
Solo looked from his partner down to the odometer. "A few more miles. It's almost noon. We should be at the local office right on schedule.—Homesick?"
"What?" Illya jerked his head around.
"Does the snow make you homesick?"
"No," he said, too quickly. "No."
Illya looked back out the window, for a moment not seeing the small patches of snow or the gray sky, but a memory, soon crowded by a montage of memories. Mindful of his partner's casual scrutiny, he remained silent as the car sped along the road to the border.
Everything makes me homesick of late. My mind has romanticized the time there. It has become easier to forget the horrors and remember the small pieces of life I snatched when they were not watching me... I have been away too long. He stared out the window, wondering why thoughts of Petrov, of all people, would make him miss Russia. Petrov did not bring good memories. But Petrov was Russia, and Russia had been home for a great deal of his life. In four years, what have I forgotten? What is no longer there, or changed forever? It will never be the same for me...
He straightened his shoulders, concentrating on the scenery. He hated these moods that would descend on him; they were so stereotypical Russian, and he had no intention of being a stereotypical anything. Or worse, of letting Napoleon know he was depressed. Illya glanced to his partner, then glanced away. It was too late; Napoleon was well aware of how he was feeling. It was obvious from the space he had been given, the companionable silence, Napoleon's gentle teasing while offering Illya the opportunity to talk about whatever was on his mind.
His partner had been careful of late. They had fought a few months before, harsh words spoken in the Chief Enforcement Agent's office, and the conversation still haunted Illya's thoughts. They had not resolved the issue, but had agreed merely to disagree. An interesting concept, but not one that sat well with the Russian. It was so alien from what he was accustomed to...
Yes, I am homesick. He knows me too well, yet that doesn't mean he would understand how I am feeling today. Even I don't understand...
Illya's head turned as they passed a bighorn sheep standing calmly at the side of the road, looking as though it were waiting for a ride, massive curling horns circling each side of the inquisitive face as they made eye contact. The ram stared through him intently and Illya blinked, caught off guard, and turned away, catching Solo observing him again, the calm hazel eyes reading more than Kuryakin wanted.
"I'm listening, if you want to talk," Napoleon said.
"You would not understand," he replied too harshly, and looked away.
They passed by a sign—two miles to the border, it announced—and Illya shivered and understood part of his tension. There was a border ahead and he would pass through it. It makes me remember too much, each time I must present papers to enter another country.
Another silent mile came and went before the Russian looked back to his partner. "There is a saying in the Soviet Union: Sest v luzhu. It means 'to sit down into a puddle' and applies when one does or says something stupid. I apologize."
Napoleon smiled, nodding his acceptance of the apology even as his half-raised eyebrows said that one had not been necessary. The Chief Enforcement Agent leaned forward and switched on the radio, the music softly playing from the dash speaker.
Illya felt the building tightness ease and looked back out the window. A dark shape above them caught his attention and he followed an eagle with his eyes, watching it ride the wind until it disappeared into the hills' shadows. "It is too free outside to be a prisoner inside."
"Another Soviet saying?" Solo asked quietly.
"No. My own invention." Kuryakin was silent for a moment, then took a chance. "I feel... tired, that is all. I do not like borders. There are many bad memories associated with them." The sun poked through a cloud and disappeared again. Frowning at the omen, Kuryakin reached for his Special, disoriented yet again to not be wearing it.
Napoleon nodded thoughtfully, but did not comment, and Illya was grateful for that courtesy. The tension level dropped but he still couldn't get the thoughts out of his head. Borders had always been a nightmare for him. Rarely had he ever had the correct papers, or legal papers. Stolen documents, false names—once, as a young teen, he had even crossed a border as a woman, with his socks precariously bunched up under his sweater. When he was seventeen he had been caught and had barely escaped with his life.
It was not like that now, but the memories remained. They reached the border and traffic was light, only two cars ahead of them. Illya calmed his tension; the guards would be watching any sign of unease.
The car before them pulled equal to the gate and the official leaned out his window and spoke with the driver. A brief nod and the car was waved through. Travel into Canada was relatively painless, or so he had been told. It was the longest open border in the world.
Napoleon stopped at the gate and the guard leaned in.
"Where are you heading?"
"Banff, then on to Calgary."
"How long do you intend to be in Canada?"
"A week," Solo answered easily.
"Citizenship?"
"I hold dual citizenship for Canada and the United States."
"And you, sir?" the guard asked, looking across at Illya. "What's your citizenship?"
"American." The word was still hard to say. It didn't seem to come naturally from his mouth. If he had been undercover, the lie would have rolled easily, but as himself alone, he had nothing to hide beneath.
Apparently, the accent alerted the official and he came out of his cubicle. "Where were you bom, sir?" he was asked, politely enough.
Kuryakin looked back at him, the slight delay of seconds damning him. "The Soviet Union." He clenched his teeth at the faint stammer in his voice. Amazing how the question still set his heart thumping in his chest. How many borders had he crossed in his life illegally, without scarcely batting an eye? How many names had he used without so much as a second thought? So why did using his own name and true identification set off this reaction?
The inevitable question. "May I see your passport please?"
He reached into his suit coat and pulled out the necessary documents. The man took them and paged through them. Solo turned to his partner and smiled, rolling his eyes at the holdup, attempting to show it was nothing to worry about.
"Thank you, sir." The passport and U.N.C.L.E. identification were handed back.
"Are you also an U.N.C.L.E. agent?" the guard asked Solo.
"Yes." Solo flipped his identification open.
"Are either of you gentlemen carrying weapons of any kind?"
"No. We are aware of the regulations."
"Have a good visit." The guard straightened and moved back into his cubicle.
Napoleon moved the car forward across the border. "Stupid regulations. I feel half-dressed."
"Our guns will be waiting for us at the Windermere," Illya said automatically. And unnecessarily, he realized. Napoleon already knew that.
"It will get better, my friend,
" Solo said.
"Yes," he nodded. And smiled.
* * * * *
Windermere U.N.C.L.E. Office
12:10 p.m.
"Time for a cuppa?"
April Dancer looked up from her reports to the cheery green eyes of her partner. "Thanks, Mark. And sugar in it this time, okay?"
He paused in the doorway, concern on his face. "Need a kip, luv? Napoleon and Illya aren't due for another hour. You've got time for a thirty minute lie-down if you want."
She massaged her temples and peered back at the stack of files. "They left earlier than they had originally planned, so they could actually be here any time. I want to get these read first. Have you finished yours already?"
"Almost. Haven't found much yet. Sinclair's earlier information seems to check out fine. And it matches what the Grand Falls office provided."
"I wonder if they'll give Napoleon any more information than they gave us. Imagine calling Mr. Waverly to see if we were really high enough ranking to get their precious little tidbits!" She had been insulted, but not because they suspected her because she was a woman. She was used to being second-guessed because of her gender. It was that they had lumped Mark in that same category because he was British that bothered her. Thrush was not American or Canadian or British or anything else. Borders and boundaries meant nothing to them, as they meant nothing to U.N.C.L.E., and Thrush could not be fought, except on a global battlefield.
"We have the report from Mr. Shertzer in Calgary, as well as Mr. Rostand in Edmonton, both confirming Sinclair's request for funds to be valid." Mark disappeared into the kitchenette of the small Windermere office.
"That's not what's concerning me," she said, her voice just loud enough for him to still hear her.
"It's what Mr. Waverly said about the mole."
"What about the mole?"
"Well, that's just it, Mark. We don't know anything about him."
Slate poked his head back in the room. "That's the whole point of having a mole, my dear. It's supposed to be a secret. You can't expect someone to survive undercover unless they are buried deep."
"What's to stop him from becoming a double agent?" she countered.
"What's to stop you from becoming a double agent?" Slate grinned at her and went back to his tea preparation.
"Point taken." Dancer tapped her pen against the table. "And Mr. Waverly seems to trust him... I wonder if Napoleon knows about him."
"You can't ask your charming Mr. Solo, you know, luv. We shouldn't even be talking about him here."
"Who? Napoleon?"
"No. The m-o-l-e. Mr. Waverly spoke of him almost as though he were backup insurance that they'll find something." Tray in hand, Slate came into the room and set it down on the low table in front of the couch. "Tea's almost ready. Just let it sit a minute or two more. Care for a biscuit? I saw a bag of them in the pantry."
"They're cookies. Yes, I'll have a cookie. Napoleon said he doesn't need to leave until three, so we can have a late lunch when he gets here."
"Isn't Illya coming with him?" Mark teased.
April smiled tolerantly. "Yes, he is. It's just that I was speaking with Napoleon on the telephone when they stopped for coffee at Wasa, so—"
"Oh, you don't have to explain yourself, luv. I understand." Mark picked up his last report and buried his face behind it. "I best leave word with Mr. Waverly though, to question you in case anything ever happens to Illya and myself..."
"If you keep this up any longer, Mr. Waverly may have to investigate your disappearance. Really, Mark. Where would Napoleon and I be without our Golden Boys?"
"I am not," Kuryakin's voice said dryly from the doorway, "nor have I ever been Napoleon's Golden Boy."
Solo appeared directly behind him. "Certainly not. He's my White Knight. It's in his contract."
"Since when?" Kuryakin asked, his brow scrunching.
"Since you rescued me in Los Angeles this summer." Solo brushed past him into the room, planting a kiss on April's cheek.
"That wasn't an assignment. It didn't count." Kuryakin pulled out his dark-rimmed glasses and flipped open one of the files piled on the table. "Anything interesting here?"
"Nothing we didn't know already," Slate said. He gestured at the files stacked on the other end of the couch from where he was sitting. "We've highlighted anything that looks pertinent. Mr. Waverly gave us the same information in our briefing, and the raw notes don't add much. I trust you had the same briefing?"
"I was not privy to what was said to you, but it seems logical that he would give us similar background information." Kuryakin looked up from the notes he was scanning long enough to nod at Slate's silent offer of tea, then he had settled in a chair, comfortably engrossed in the file.
"Where's the diplomatic pouch?" Solo asked, glancing around.
"In the safe. I'll get it." Dancer left the room and Solo took her chair.
"You may wish to look at the Edmonton and Calgary reports on Sinclair." Slate handed one to each man, surprised when Kuryakin traded files with Solo without reading his.
"Napoleon's relative works at the Edmonton office," Kuryakin said in explanation. "I'll take the Calgary report."
"In Edmonton, you say? Who's that?" Slate asked Solo. "We were just there. Worked with the new Acting Head of U.N.C.L.E. Western Canada, Mr. Rostand."
"That's him. Roz is acting head now? What happened to Melrose?" Solo glanced through the opening comments.
"We never did meet Mr. Melrose. Seems he's quite ill with the virus that hit. We ended up staying an extra week there helping out—almost half the office was out at one point. They're just getting back on track now."
"Have they isolated it yet? Regina was hit with the same thing."
"From what the medical staff could figure, it was just the local virus going around. A lot of the city was affected."
Dancer came back with the diplomatic pouch and Solo keyed it open and removed their guns, sighing with relief as he slid the Special into his holster. "That feels better."
Kuryakin nodded, undoing his suit jacket and settling the weapon in place. "It's still not the same as having my own gun though. The model may be the same, but the feel is always different."
"Where are your weapons?" Slate asked. "I was surprised when Edmonton handed these to us to bring to you."
"We left our Specials with one of our agents in Great Falls. He'll be sending them back to New York for us to pick up later."
"Why the hassle with the guns, anyway? We have ours with us." Slate patted his holstered weapon.
"I bet you both flew into Canada and went through Customs at the airport, with known U.N.C.L.E. representatives there to meet you. We had no problem flying into Montreal, but coming into Canada at a small border crossing is a different matter. While the customs officers tend to look the other way at a major international airport—when U.N.C.L.E. is there to take full responsibility—it is still against Canadian law for us to bring a weapon across the border."
"Our legal department has advised us to follow protocol on this matter," Kuryakin added, without looking up from his file. "And Mr. Waverly insisted." He shrugged, as though that settled the matter. "Napoleon, there is a picture of Sinclair included with the Calgary report, as well as a copy of his last coded letter, received two days ago." He handed the picture to his partner, then read the text outlining the proposed money drop Sinclair had requested. He glanced at his watch. "It is now twelve-thirty. We still have two hours. How far is this place from here?"
"About twenty-five miles north to the Highway 93 junction, then you go another fifteen or twenty miles. We checked it out on the way down here." Slate pulled out a map and showed them exactly where they were scheduled to meet with Sinclair, then he pulled the Canadian $10,000 from his coat pocket.
"You'll be needing this as well."
* * * * *
Kootenay National Park
2:00 p.m.
Back on the road again, Illya Kuryakin leaned forward to peer up a
t the snow-capped panorama that changed with every mile. "It's beautiful here. I've never seen this before." He pointed up to the peak almost directly ahead of them. "That one is particularly... striking. What is this called?"
"We're in the Sinclair Pass," Napoleon supplied. "And, yes, it is spectacular."
A long sigh escaped Illya's lips and the smile grew sad. "Why is it that such beauty becomes soiled by man? Those mines yesterday in Montana, scraping out the bowels of such a mountain. And Thrush—setting up shop in this... this..." He searched for a word to put to the almost-overwhelming scenery, but none came to mind."... in this area," he finished, with another shrug.
"The untouched rugged beauty of the Rockies," Napoleon quoted from the travel brochure they had glanced through in the restaurant in Eureka the night before.
Illya looked down the steep snowy slope that dropped from the road's edge, down to the tips of the lightly frosted evergreen trees below. The elevation rose as they climbed the pass. Pine and spruce trees lined the highway, the lower branches on many heavy with early winter snow. "Do you know this area?"
Napoleon glanced over at him. "When I was a teenager, I used to go skiing at Banff or near my uncle's place in Jasper. He ran a hotel up there, catering to the winter crowd."
"Banff was mentioned in our briefing," Illya said, but he appeared to have drifted back to his pondering.
"We can swing by there on the way to Calgary if we have time. And maybe stop by Lake Louise. The view from there is fantastic... Actually, Louise was pretty fantastic herself," he added, with a laugh.
Illya said nothing as he stared out the window.
"What's wrong?" Napoleon asked. "You're frowning."
A sudden exhalation. "Must you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Cheapen every conversation we have."
Napoleon's brows raised in surprise, but after a moment, he nodded. "Point taken."
Illya looked over at him, suspiciously.
"Hey, I'm not saying I agree with you, I'm just saying I'll watch how I word things."
