by LRH Balzer
"Can you get word to the underground not to send anyone else to their group? "
"Yes. Go quickly. I'll see what happened to Antoine. Maybe he escaped, or maybe I can warn him to disappear before they come."
Saturday, October 23,
1965 Rocky Mountains
The rental car was abandoned.
Mark Slate groaned as they pulled off the road just ahead of it. "Not good. Only one of them was supposed to go for the meet."
April Dancer raised her eyebrows, the faint movement hidden beneath her long bangs. "Then I'll check it out." She slipped out of the car, gently closing the door.
"Be careful, luv." Over the last two months, since they had been partnered, Slate had been repeatedly amazed how calm Dancer was, especially when faced with an unknown situation. He had been a junior Section Two agent in England for a few years before being moved to New York to partner the Maine native, yet it was obvious that Waverly respected her abilities and her skill, making them equally ranked despite her recent move up from Section Three. From her file, he knew she had even been partnered with Napoleon Solo, on not just one occasion, but several times, as cases demanded a couple. That alone showed the level of trust the Section One Head had in her.
He watched her now as she drew her gun, the small revolver gripped tight in her right hand as she peered inside the car to see if anyone was hidden in it. She had been experimenting with different weapons, and this month was testing a Smith & Wesson Chiefs Special that weighed considerably less than the U.N.C.L.E. Special. He smiled as she glanced back at him, acknowledging her silent signal that the car was indeed empty.
Both froze as gunshots echoed through the canyon, and Mark was out of the car and at her side almost before he had the key out of the ignition. One quick motion on his redesigned Walther P-38 had the hammer down on the loaded chamber.
"That wasn't a Special," he said, tightly. "Something's wrong. There's been no return fire from Napoleon nor Illya." He crouched low, stealing along the shoulder of the road, trying to see over the edge of the embankment, down to where the shots had originated.
"Let's take a closer look." She scooted down the slope ahead of him, pausing and waiting for him to catch up as she stared down at the railroad trestle bridge angling off below them. From their angle, the tracks weren't visible, tucked along the side of the mountain.
Mark moved two paces to the left, and swore, the bridge now in sight. "Illya's down. I can see him."
"Where?" April pressed against his side, moving around a tree to see where he pointed. Kuryakin lay sprawled, face-down on the edge of the track, unmoving. "Damn. Where's Napoleon?"
"I can't see him. I can't see anyone else either." He made his decision quickly. "Call our backup and see where they are. We may need help on this." Before she could argue, he shifted away, scrambling down the side of the mountain. Come on, Illya. Move, damn it.
He landed on the railroad track, and suddenly Mark could see why Illya was laying so crooked on the bridge, when it appeared he wasn't tied down. As the British agent jogged along track, the fear of his friend being dead or having a broken back vanished at the horrible sight of Solo's body suspended over the chasm, held in place from plunging to his death only by the back collar of his suit jacket clutched in another man's hand. A man who wasn't moving, his eyes squeezed shut and face distorted from the effort he was exerting.
* * * * *
A train whistled.
Illya jerked to awareness, gasping for air, his body shivering uncontrollably.
"Careful, sunshine." Strong arms steadied him, eased him back against the side of the panel van. "Sit quietly, old boy."
"Mark?" He tried to reach with his right hand, but couldn't make his fingers work. Pain clouded his vision, blinding him. "Mark?"
"We're here. Napoleon's alive. Don't move; you've dislocated your left shoulder. Brian put it back in and has shot you full of painkiller."
"Napoleon?" Illya gasped out, blinking the tears from his eyes to find Slate's concerned face squinting into his.
"Napoleon's alive and safe..."
There were more words, but Illya didn't hear them. Alive and safe.
Below them, the train thundered along the tracks, the vibration shaking the van.
Alive and...
* * * * *
He woke in time to knock the needle from the young nurse's hand. "No."
A commotion ensued while he drifted, trying to rise above the fog. Mark Slate's voice. An angry nurse. Various other miscellaneous voices of no consequence.
"No," Illya repeated for good measure, as he forced difficult-to-focus eyes to check out his surroundings. If he was correctly interpreting what he was seeing, it looked more like an inexpensive motel room than a hospital.
"He doesn't want any more drugs," Mark was contending.
"He's going to be in severe discomfort if I don't give him this," the nurse insisted.
"Maybe he likes severe discomfort."
Illya smiled fleetingly at April Dancer's sarcastic voice and tried to locate her in the distorted haze of the room. He spoke up, pleased that his voice was stronger than he felt, "Beats being dead."
"What?" The April image came over and looked down at him. "Don't talk with cobwebs in your mouth," she ordered, then helped him sit upright and drink some water, ignoring the protests of the nurse.
"Where's Napoleon?" Illya asked after draining the glass.
"He's sleeping in the other room. We're at the U.N.C.L.E. facilities at Radium. You're a hero here. Everyone's talking about what you did." Mark grinned across at him as the nurse stomped out of the small converted motel room. "Does it hurt?" he asked, solicitously, wincing as Illya tried to swing his feet off the bed.
"Yes," the Russian hissed through clenched teeth, "but don't tell her."
"Are you hungry?"
"Of course."
"Are you sure?" April asked, surprised.
Illya paused to consider his answer and realized he wasn't. The drugs were fouling up his system, another reason for stopping them. Napoleon would be appalled at his lack of appetite. "I'll pass for now. Can I see Napoleon?" The two partners glanced at each other, then both shrugged and helped him to his feet. As he tried to walk, he was shocked at how stiff his body was. Each step was excruciating, his muscles all rebelling from being exercised so viciously. "Is it still Wednesday? How long was I out?"
"Only a few hours." Mark got a better grip around his waist and hooked Illya's good right arm over his shoulder, taking more of the other man's weight as the trio moved to the next room in the motel.
The same nurse looked up from her sleeping patient, the agent's wrist beneath her fingers as she took his pulse. Napoleon's head was bandaged, the face white but peaceful against the pillow.
"Why do I feel worse than he looks?" Illya complained softly, not loud enough for the nurse to hear.
Mark laughed. "Because he just hung around and let you do all the work."
"As usual," Illya mumbled. He stood a little straighter, pulled away from Slate and Dancer's protective help, and moved to Napoleon's side. Briefly giving in to his sudden need to touch his partner and confirm his continued existence, he then fixed his eyes on the nurse and fired questions at her. It didn't take long for him to get a reluctant but detailed description of Napoleon's condition and how long it would be until he was conscious again.
The news was far more encouraging than he had even dared to hope for. Napoleon's temple was creased, but once he regained consciousness, it was unlikely the Chief Enforcement Agent would be treated for anything other than a concussion. You, my friend, are a lucky bastard. Illya waited a moment, bracing himself emotionally before he turned.
"Thank you," he said to the nurse. He started to leave, then looked back, allowing a shy cherubic smile to reach her, inwardly pleased to see her fall under its calculated charm. "Watch him carefully, please." Wide blue eyes looked trustingly for a moment, then turned.
She nodded dreamily, her eyes
following him from the room.
April snorted as they worked their way back down the hallway. "What kind of an act was that? Have you been taking Napoleon Solo Seduction Lessons?"
He turned the guileless smile on her and shut her up.
Mark, however, only groaned. "For that you get thrown in the swimming pool."
"I'll pass on that as well, thank you." He sobered quickly. "I have work to do. I'll need a map. A good road map will do." Illya frowned as they led him past his room and out into the freezing courtyard. A hot spring took up most of the space, set back against the sheer rocky mountainside. Thick steam rose from the slightly murky water, like ghostly specters in the dim early evening light.
"I don't want to go swimming," he repeated, turning to face Slate.
"I didn't ask if you wanted to go in the pool; you are going in the pool, hero or not. Being in the water is not the issue—how you get there is. Now you can fight me on this and I'll toss you in, or you can accept this graciously." Mark began peeling off Illya's white infirmary gown, carefully working around the sling and the bandages that bound his arm against his chest. "April will get your map. Now, sunshine, if you want to walk out of here tomorrow, you better let some of this hot spring water work into those complaining muscles. You're going to be stiff enough as it is. Uh-uh-uh. This is not an arguable point and batting those eyes at me won't work."
"I was not batting my eyes at you. My vision is not clear yet. All right, since you are insistent, I'll get in. I need those maps, though." When April left, Illya finished stripping down and gingerly stepped into the pool, surprised at how good it actually felt as he slid his shoulders beneath the water.
Mark waited until Illya was settled on the underwater bench before joining him, and after checking to make sure April had gone into the building, the British agent added in dramatic overtones, "I have also lined up a massage for you later. Her name is—"
"Thank you for your consideration, but I have dislocated my shoulder before. I know exactly what it entails." Illya sank lower into the water, tilting his head back so only his face remained in the chilly air. "This is—what?—an U.N.C.L.E. backwoods office?"
"Not really. According to Brian Beckett, the Western Canadian offices use it as a rest center and for short term disability treatments. They bought this motel on the edge of town and set up about five years ago. Ever since the threat of a Thrush satrapy in the vicinity, a few of the rooms were converted into office space to coordinate the information."
Kuryakin frowned, closing his eyes as the deep heat began to relax his cramped muscles. The cold air on his face was a perfect counterpoint to the mineral hot springs, the light rain refreshing as it misted his opening pores. Under the water, he slowly opened and closed his hands, amazed at the resulting pain that was apparently resident in his fingers. He raised his left hand long enough to stare at the scraped cut fingertips, then let it drop back in the soothing water. No wonder his hands throbbed, considering the extreme strain they had endured for—-
"How long did I hold him?" Illya asked suddenly.
"From what we can figure, we arrived just as the other two left. By the time we made it down to you, they were long gone. Beckett's guess was they had their truck parked on one of the access roads down below. There was no way we could catch them. How long did you hold him?... Let's see, in all, you probably supported his weight for about five to seven minutes."
The dizziness threatened again. "I don't remember you arriving..." Illya was aware of Mark's concerned stare. "How did you rescue him? How did you get him up onto the tracks?"
"April went for help and I lay down on the tracks, facing you, and managed to get my arm beneath Napoleon's armpit and then around his chest. It only partially supported your hold though. If you had let go, I wouldn't have been able to hold him alone. Brian and Pete showed up a few minutes later. They got a rope around Napoleon's waist and between us, we were able to hoist him high enough to get a better grip on him."
"I don't remember any of that—you arriving, the other men, Napoleon being rescued... None of it."
"You were..." Mark's voice trailed off as he tried to find the words he wanted. "You were there—but not there. Your entire concentration was focussed on keeping Napoleon from falling—which meant, I suppose, blocking out the considerable pain you were in, and any other distractions."
"I could have dropped him."
"Illya..." Mark paused and reached beneath the water to take the Russian's cramped hand in his. "Do you have any idea why your hand is like this? You had such a tight hold on him that Brian had to cut Napoleon's jacket from your grasp before they could move up to the road." Mark massaged the stiff fingers as he spoke, though his patient scarcely noticed.
Illya stared across the steaming water to the rocky cliff side opposite. The lone light from the side of the Radium Hot Springs U.N.C.L.E. Centre only caught the immediate area around them. The black, cloud-covered sky merged with the blackness of the mountain; snow became fluorescent in the darkness, sitting in nooks and crannies in the cliffside and offering some sense of the great height towering above them. The steam from the water rose like ghostly specters, hovering for a moment, then swirling upward before disappearing altogether into the icy coldness of the night. "The money is gone," Kuryakin whispered.
"Yes."
"Was Mr. Waverly displeased?"
"Not with you. Sinclair has obviously gone over to Thrush—or at least has left U.N.C.L.E., which means his information fed to us over the last year is suspect. New York is conferring with Calgary now, trying to figure out which information was from Sinclair, and in which areas Sinclair could have led them astray during that time."
"Baffin Bay!" Illya said suddenly. "Wasn't the information on the relocation of the Thrush Summit away from Baffin Bay from Sinclair?"
"That's the first thing Waverly said when he received our report." Mark replaced Illya's hand under the water. "He wants April and I to go straight to Calgary in the morning and look over the original transcripts of Sinclair's documents."
"Baffin Bay," Illya repeated, shaking his head. "We rerouted our agents away from that area, and over to the Dew Line in northern British Columbia, based on information available at the Montreal Conference a few weeks ago."
"Information from Sinclair, no doubt."
"No doubt." Illya swore softly, his right hand—almost in as bad condition as his left—rising from the water to rub at tired, gritty eyes.
April returned to the hot spring pool wearing a warm jacket and carrying a tray with three mugs of coffee and a stack of maps. "I forgot to ask where you need a map for."
Illya stood up to see what she had brought, shivering when the cold air hit his upper body. He dripped over the maps as his right hand shook one open and he tried to squint at the names listed in small print down one side. "Could you bring me my reading glasses, April? I think they're still in my jacket pocket. And a flashlight. Does one of these maps have-have-have-have a place c-c-c-called Big Bear on it?"
Mark tugged him back under the water, both agents scolding him as he tried to support his left arm and warm up again.
"You stay in there," April threatened. "I'll look for Big Bear for you. Your glasses will just steam up, anyway. Now, is Big Bear a town, or a lake, or a mountain, or what?"
Illya shrugged automatically, his eyes almost crossing at the resultant pain. When his vision cleared, he said, "I don't know where or what this place is. I heard one man, Sinclair, say to the other that they would be meeting their contact on Friday at Big Bear."
"It could be anywhere. In two days, you could fly—"
"No. They were driving, and they would have plenty of time to get there, the man said."
"Well, that narrows it down a little." As April scanned the maps, she found a Bear Lake in northern British Columbia, hundreds of miles away and not accessible in the less-than-two-days restriction. A town called Big Eddy was a day's drive. Great Bear Lake was well over a thousand miles north in the No
rthwest Territories.
There were all kinds of places within two days drive with names that raised the Russian's eyebrows: Bugaboo Glacier Park and Top of the World Park, Kicking Horse Pass and Crowsnest Pass, or Spillimacheen and Spookumchuck townsite. In Alberta, the bordering Canadian province, there were more unlikely names, but nothing read 'Big Bear'—either city, town, mountain, river, lake, pass, or park.
When the two men were completely wrinkled—and Illya was beginning to nod off from the heat and the sedative April had added to his coffee without his knowledge—they hoisted him up, wrapped him in towels, and shuffled him back to his room.
The nurse came in to check his shoulder and change the dressings. Mark was relieved that she didn't complain about the bandages and sling being wet, but with hot springs attached to the facilities, this was probably a common occurrence. They settled the agent back on the bed, covering him with some blankets.
"She doctored my drink..." Illya whispered, as April left the room with the nurse.
"Yes, she did, old boy. She didn't want to, but Dr. Lawrence insisted. He says you don't have enough sense to rest when you should."
"Sam Lawrence should mind his own bloody business."
"That's no way for a hero to talk," Mark chided. "What if someone hears you and they decide to cancel the parade in your honor tomorrow?" At Kuryakin's horrified stare, Slate laughed. "I'm kidding, mate." A moment later, Mark had his head out the door. "Now where is she?"
"Where is who?"
"The woman for that massage I promised you. What you need is a rubdown and a good sleep and you'll wake up feeling wonderful tomorrow. She's great—I had her practice on me earlier to make sure her credentials were legitimate."
"Don't want a massage... Send her to Napoleon. He will appreciate..."
Mark apparently saw who he was looking for and began waving for someone to join them. "She lives just north of here. She came down here straightaway when she heard Napoleon had been injured. She's actually an old friend of his, she says, and we verified it. He knew her from his skiing days, ten years ago or more."
